OOM: Building a new life
Most people, on finding themselves with a Door to the new world they were going to be living in, would open it right away, even just for a peek. Cal hasn't touched his since it appeared. The last time he had a Door, it was waiting for him to make one final visit to his home world; when he was done, it disappeared, permanently cutting him off from his home. Even after all the months he's had to deal with his losses, and the realization he's come to that his world was a cruel place in comparison to a lot of others, he still wants very badly for this Door to lead him home. But it won't. And so, rather than open it onto whatever half-familiar sight will be on the other side, in a New York he's never set foot in before, Cal has left his Door alone.
He can't put it off any longer, though. He has the paperwork for his new identity from Ianto, and Bela is finally here and ready to help him find an apartment and put that paperwork to use setting up his new life. He'd like to tell her maybe next time, but he can't, not when he's pushed himself to this point and not when she's so looking forward to it. (And not when she has minimal time left to spend on his problems before her own start coming down to the wire.)
So, with Bela's hand in his, Cal takes a breath and finally opens his Door. He almost closes his eyes as he does it, to buy himself one last second before he has to face the fact that it isn't opening to a hallway in the Chandler compound, that Grahame's study isn't just across the way and he won't find a small bathroom behind him if he should close the door and open it again, but he doesn't. His hand tightens convulsively on Bela's, but his eyes stay open.
What they see, before they step through, is wholly unremarkable - it's a relatively quieter area in Manhattan, foot traffic thin enough so they can pause to get their bearings without being slammed into. It shatters that last bit of hope Cal had been pretending he wasn't holding, and his heart drops.
Bela can tell tell this is not the easiest thing for Cal to do, even as she glances around the street, taking in as much of their surroundings as she can. So far, so good. Nothing too different. No aliens walking down the street, at any rate.
She squeezes his hand. "Hey. One step at a time gets you there, yeah?"
A woman passing by gives her an ugly look. As she and Cal walk along, with Bela doing most of the talking, chattering away trying to take his mind off as much as she can, more people stare daggers at her. How - bizarre. Bela begins to wonder whether there's a doppelganger of her somewhere on this world. Maybe a bitch diva or something.
Then she passes a newspaper stand. As she pauses to take a look at the New York Times stack closest to them - a specific date is a useful thing to have - all becomes clear:
UK REFUSES TO GROUND VALIANT
In Wake of President's Assassination by British Prime Minister, Valiant Allowed to Remain Skyborne
Interim Prime Minister cites expense
Ah. That explains it. How funny. She switches to a flawless American accent. "So we need a pawn shop first. I'll sell a piece of jewelry for enough cash to get your bank account and debit card - please let them have those here - and then we can check into a hotel. I'll take care of everything from there."
". . . what?" Cal, accustomed to Bela's accent and only half-aware of the looks she's been getting, gives her a blank stare. She raises an eyebrow and taps the front page. He scans the headline and says,
"Holy shit." Then, after a shocked pause, ". . . right. No accent. Uh. Good call."
Well. He's certainly distracted now.
"What an exciting surprise," she says with a wicked gleam in her eye. The excitement of this challenge begins to build. Bela loves this part. "I trust we'll have at least a couple more. But don't worry. You're in good hands. Let's find that pawn shop." Bela seriously doubts if there is too much this world can throw at her that she can't handle. Besides, she's got a designing job to do. Nothing is getting in the way of that.
There is, most conveniently, a pawn shop nearby. Bela pawns a diamond necklace for some quick and ready cash; Cal wanders aimlessly around the shop while she haggles. The rest of the afternoon is spent opening a bank account with the money, and finding a decent hotel. Milliways dropped them too late in the day to get much else done, so they have dinner and work up an itinerary for the next few days. There's a lot of work to do.
He can't put it off any longer, though. He has the paperwork for his new identity from Ianto, and Bela is finally here and ready to help him find an apartment and put that paperwork to use setting up his new life. He'd like to tell her maybe next time, but he can't, not when he's pushed himself to this point and not when she's so looking forward to it. (And not when she has minimal time left to spend on his problems before her own start coming down to the wire.)
So, with Bela's hand in his, Cal takes a breath and finally opens his Door. He almost closes his eyes as he does it, to buy himself one last second before he has to face the fact that it isn't opening to a hallway in the Chandler compound, that Grahame's study isn't just across the way and he won't find a small bathroom behind him if he should close the door and open it again, but he doesn't. His hand tightens convulsively on Bela's, but his eyes stay open.
What they see, before they step through, is wholly unremarkable - it's a relatively quieter area in Manhattan, foot traffic thin enough so they can pause to get their bearings without being slammed into. It shatters that last bit of hope Cal had been pretending he wasn't holding, and his heart drops.
Bela can tell tell this is not the easiest thing for Cal to do, even as she glances around the street, taking in as much of their surroundings as she can. So far, so good. Nothing too different. No aliens walking down the street, at any rate.
She squeezes his hand. "Hey. One step at a time gets you there, yeah?"
A woman passing by gives her an ugly look. As she and Cal walk along, with Bela doing most of the talking, chattering away trying to take his mind off as much as she can, more people stare daggers at her. How - bizarre. Bela begins to wonder whether there's a doppelganger of her somewhere on this world. Maybe a bitch diva or something.
Then she passes a newspaper stand. As she pauses to take a look at the New York Times stack closest to them - a specific date is a useful thing to have - all becomes clear:
UK REFUSES TO GROUND VALIANT
In Wake of President's Assassination by British Prime Minister, Valiant Allowed to Remain Skyborne
Interim Prime Minister cites expense
Ah. That explains it. How funny. She switches to a flawless American accent. "So we need a pawn shop first. I'll sell a piece of jewelry for enough cash to get your bank account and debit card - please let them have those here - and then we can check into a hotel. I'll take care of everything from there."
". . . what?" Cal, accustomed to Bela's accent and only half-aware of the looks she's been getting, gives her a blank stare. She raises an eyebrow and taps the front page. He scans the headline and says,
"Holy shit." Then, after a shocked pause, ". . . right. No accent. Uh. Good call."
Well. He's certainly distracted now.
"What an exciting surprise," she says with a wicked gleam in her eye. The excitement of this challenge begins to build. Bela loves this part. "I trust we'll have at least a couple more. But don't worry. You're in good hands. Let's find that pawn shop." Bela seriously doubts if there is too much this world can throw at her that she can't handle. Besides, she's got a designing job to do. Nothing is getting in the way of that.
There is, most conveniently, a pawn shop nearby. Bela pawns a diamond necklace for some quick and ready cash; Cal wanders aimlessly around the shop while she haggles. The rest of the afternoon is spent opening a bank account with the money, and finding a decent hotel. Milliways dropped them too late in the day to get much else done, so they have dinner and work up an itinerary for the next few days. There's a lot of work to do.