milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Ianto Jones is writing in his diary and having coffee.

There's a lot of catching up to do--things happen fast sometimes, and it wasn't but two pages ago that he was missing Jack and wondering what he'd say if Jack ever returned, and now...

Well, Ianto doesn't use a lot of exclamation points, as a general rule. But one or two may have turned up in today's entry.

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"I believe you mentioned that," says Ianto. "Good. What do you do? Clean them and feed them and play with them?"

"Pretty much," Cal says. "We work with people who come in to give up or drop off pets, too, but Elaine likes to do most of that herself, when she's around."

Elaine Yolland has very precise standards. This is something Cal is used to dealing with, only this time around, it's in a much more positive context.

"That must be difficult. Still, better than when they just abandon the animals at a roadside."

Cal nods.

"Definitely. That's why we're there."

"It's a long way from politics, isn't it," Ianto says with a slight smile. "and the better for it, I suspect."

Cal laughs.

"Hell of a lot better," he agrees. "Kittens are a lot easier to please than voters."

And even Cal, who is not much of a cat person, is willing to concede that they are also cuter.

Usually.

"Much fluffier, too," Ianto says.

"And no sexual harassment lawsuits if you try to pet them."

. . . he's just saying.

Ianto cracks up.

"No, they just bite your fingers."

Cal grins.

"And you can distract them with a tinfoil ball or something."

He pauses.

"Actually, that would work on a lot of voters, too."

"A great many people are easily distracted by shiny objects," Ianto says with a nod.

"Bet that comes in handy in your line of work, too," Cal hypothesizes.

"A little smoke, a few mirrors, some distracting gestures..." Ianto moves his hands like he's doing a card trick.

"And they forget they ever saw the alien," Cal finishes. "Or the headline about governmental pay increases."

Works like a charm.

"Actually we use something we call retcon," Ianto says. "Though we don't mess with headlines, generally."

"Retcon?" Cal asks, sipping his coffee.

"It's a nickname. Retroactive continuity. Slip it into a drink, the target falls asleep, and depending on how strong it is they forget the last hour or the last night or the last week." He sips his coffee.

"Convenient," Cal remarks. "Must save you a lot of trouble."

"It serves its purpose."

He's quiet a moment. "It's actually my least favorite part of the job. But until people are ready to deal with the reality of aliens, it's the best thing."

Cal nods, thinking of some of the truly impressive "explanations" people have come up with for the appearance of that Titanic over London.

. . . not that Cal knows what the hell aliens are doing modelling a ship after a failed voyage on Earth, but still. Still.

Which reminds him: "Are you still behind me in the timeline?"

"...Probably?" Ianto says. "How long ago did Harold Saxon die?"

"Christ, finally," Cal exclaims; only the learned instinct of the long-time Milliways patrons keeps him from slapping Bar's surface in triumph. "That happened a couple weeks before I even got there. I've been fucking dying to ask where you guys were when he was running around with his fake aliens."

"The Himalayas," Ianto says with a sigh. "He sent us on a wild goose chase."

Cal snorts.

"Asshole. That figures. You know, not only did he kill our President, he also made it fucking impossible for anyone with a fake background to get into American politics for at least the next decade. Dick."

Cal has had time to get used to this, but he's still taking it personally.

"But on the other hand, kittens."