milliways_bar | (no subject)

The table's probably a more comfortable choice than standing at the bar, or at least it would appear that way from the weird look on Sam's face.

Of course, that's probably due to the hat he's staring at.

Ianto looks at the hat.

Looks at Sam.

Looks at the hat again.

No, that is not him singing, "Killt he wabbit, kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit . . ."

Perish the idea.

"... you've gotta be kidding me."

"Not my doing, mate," Ianto says, holding up his hands.

"Yeah, I know."

Wry. Very wry.

"If you care to tell the tale I'll certainly listen," Ianto says, trying hard not to be amused. He holds out a hand. "I'm Ianto."

"I'd be glad to, if I had more than a guess myself," he replies, and leans over to shake hands.

"Sam. Winchester."

Ianto shakes his hand. "So someone just have you a hat out of nowhere?"

"Left it as a present with the bar," he explains.

"I have a pretty good idea who it was."

"Someone who doesn't like you?" He looks at the hat again. "No, more like someone who's quite fond of you, I think."

Only friends can make friends look silly.

"I guess-- listen, can I ask you kind of a weird question?"

Sam's eyeing the hat.

"Why would anyone think that saying a person looked like a yak was a good thing?"

". . . I suppose that would depend . . . on the yak."

"... I guess."

"Did someone call you a yak or did you call someone a yak? Because culturally, perhaps a yak is a highly valued . . . thing. To other people."

"Definitely to other people," Sam agrees.

"She called me one; said it was something about my hair."

He sounds more than a little bemused by this.

"Oh," Ianto says, the picture becoming a little clearer. "Well." He peers at him thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I can see that. Hair in your eyes and so on."

A little self-consciously, Sam runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

"It's not that bad."

Ianto chuckles, perfectly aware he looks like an accountant for a very stuffy firm. "It's all a matter of perspective, yeah? Anyway, I wouldn't fret about it. I doubt your friend meant it as an insult."

"Yeah."

Sam sighs, and stuffs the hat in his jacket pocket.

"I'm getting a beer; want anything?"

"I could do a pint. Thank you.

"What's your where and when, Sam?"

"America, basically -- December, 2006."

A pint glass appears on the bar next to a brown longnecked bottle.

"You?"

"Ta." He has a pull. "Cardiff, Wales, also 2006. I think you're the first person I've met who's from my year."

"How about that?" Sam sounds surprised, and lifts his own bottle in turn.

"I know one person who's only a little ahead, a couple who are only a little further back, but -- "

He shrugs.

"Nature of the place, I guess."

"Time is a lot more fluid than we tend to think," Ianto observes.

"A lot of things are, around here."

Sam gives him a quizzical look, though, and glances over the suit.

"What's your line of work?"