souffle_girlek | (no subject)

"Awww, take all my fun." She rolls her eyes at him - what does she need with a bank? More to the point, she snaps her fingers and points at the floor in front of her. A minute later one of the spiderbots scuttles into view.

"Hey, you guys take care of the cat, alright? And fry anyone who tries to take him." Since Oswin didn't exactly program her bots to talk back, we're all just going to have to take it scuttling back off again as agreement.

"Picking up clothes from the Bar, I don't know what your crazy fashions are but damn am I going to rock them."

He laughs, low and brief.

"Yeah? Maybe we'll go dancing some night."

"Sold." She hops down from her car, dis-engaging the prop and letting the hood slam down behind her.

"Err... it's not... all like... snow, where you are, right?"

That could be problematic. Very problematic.

"Nah," Clint says. Once she's off the car, he starts heading for the entrance to the garage. "It's summer. I'd bring layers -- it cools off at night -- but it shouldn't get below...," he trails off, glancing over his shoulder. "Do you know Fahrenheit measurements?"

She gives him a wide-eyed look of incomprehension - she sees her oven temperatures as gas marks ~~because the future is British, doncha know~~.

"I'm good with 'not snowing' though, that's brilliant, let's stick with that."

Edited 2016-07-01 13:40 (UTC)

He laughs, still quiet. "Yeah, okay."

When they arrive at the Bar, his description is: "Probably Southern California through the Pacific Northwest. Maybe some of the Southwest, whatever. 2012."

He glances to Oswin, waiting for her to chime in with what sort of clothes she wants. Otherwise, he's just going to ask for a British passport. One fewer thing to do once they go back to his world.

From that description, Oswin assumes there's a region of his world named '2012'. To be honest, she's heard worse.

"And cute. Definitely cute." There's the decided impression that Bar is rolling her wooden eyes at the pair of them, but a packed suitcase appears, with a separate small bag packed with an outfit to leave wearing. She takes that and bolts for the bathrooms (of course she's avoiding her rooms don't be silly she doesn't want to think of a reason to not come back out).

A short while later she comes back, wearing an outfit Clint has seen before, though not on Oswin. Not... really.

"Right, so, how do I look?" She asks with a 'show off the outfit' twirl. "Did I get it all on right?"

He recognizes it. He's good at stuff like that. Still, his mouth quirks up after a moment, dismissing the weird and staying with the entertained.

"Yeah, though you might want to ditch the tights. It's n-- very not cold." He wouldn't go so far as to call ninety hot, but what can he say. He's acclimated.

She eyes her legs, scrunching her nose.

"Too bad, they're kinda cute." Oswin decides with a shrug, and heads back to the bathrooms. She's learned by now that taking them off out here might cause drama.

She's... working on anti-drama, at the moment.

Oswin's back shortly, sans tights, finishing tying her hair into a braid with a tie she found in the jacket pocket.

Clint would've dealt.

Everyone else, though... townies.

His smile quirks up at her. He's got the passport tucked into his back pocket, and her rolling suitcase propped next to him by the front door.

He pops the door open, and walks through, holding it open behind him. In front of them is his main room, from through the bedroom door. It's -- very clean. Not unlived in, by any means, but neat in a way most people don't quite manage. The living space of someone who went from the carnival to the military, and never quite figured out the art of having more than you could pack into two suitcases.

Oswin ducks through the door, her steps light, almost tentative, as befits stepping onto a new world.

Who cares if this new world looks like an apartment? She's done worse.

"So I'm on another planet." She chirps, bouncing on her toes. "I'm going to do all of the stupid touristy things, I hope you know. All of them. Get the list out."

Clint laughs, letting the door close behind them. He walks towards the kitchen, talking as he does. "I, uh -- kind of mapped out a roadtrip up the coast, then back down through the natural wonders section of this side of the country," he says. He kicks a chair out for Oswin at his kitchen table, while he swings past it towards the fridge. There's a thick guidebook open, with the start of a planned route drawn in pencil, and an open laptop. "But I figured we should Google -- do a web search -- of tourist attractions outside of San Diego. That's where we are," he adds. "But maybe we should do the city when we get back."

He's just -- itchy. He wants to move, to get the fuck out of places where people know him and look at him with concern.

Clint pulls the fridge open, grabbing a can of beer. "You want anything? I've got water and juice, too."

Her fingers itch to explore his computer, but she resists. She hopes Bar packed her tablet - she supposes Bar would, Bar is highly sensible most of the time.

"You're the native, I'm following your lead here. Oh, is it near Christmas? I heard there's an avenging spirit that people leave cookies out for as offering so it won't take their children in the night." She reports with a sort of cheerful fascination. "And, um... juice?" Earth juice!

In another mood, Clint would splutter theatrically. Still, he's grinning as he comes back out of the fridge with a jug of pineapple-orange juice.

"Christmas is during the winter, here," he says, pulling a clean glass out of the dishwasher and pouring the juice as he speaks. "Santa Claus -- well, I guess he's kinda creepy, and who knows what happens to the story between my time and yours -- but mostly he just has flying reindeer and goes around giving kids toys. It's a good excuse to send the kids to bed early, so the parents can wrap them in secret."

Or so he hears.

"I guess we could just go without a plan," he says, handing her the juice. "Maybe hit the major national parks, and if we see any roadstands or interesting signs we can take off to check them out."

"I'm excellent without a plan, tend to do my best work without a plan." Oswin agrees cheerfully, taking the juice. It's... welp, she doesn't exactly know what kind of fruit this came from, but it's tasty and she can stand by that. "The last time I was on an Earth I pretended I was a French teacher at a German school. Somehow that worked."

"-- Really? How'd you make that work?"

Is Oswin magic?

"I have a French patch - it was a bit out of date for the time, but it worked well enough. And I just said I was new to Germany, so my German could be as horrible as I liked. Which is good, because it is. Horrible, I mean."

She shrugs, sipping her juice.

"... Wait, you don't think I actually grew up speaking Earth English, do you?"

"I'm realizing that was really stupid of me," Clint says, and rubs his hand over his face. He's embarrassed, but leans against the counter with something like real relaxation. "In my defense, Dee's the linguist."

"Pretty soon after moving to the Bar I got a patch for the most common form of English spoken there - I figured it'd come in handy if for some reason the translating field broke down." Or, as it turns out, in case of dinosaurs. Sometimes paranoia is useful.

"I got the French patch for Carmen."

"We still have to learn languages the old fashioned way," Clint says. "How do patches work?"

"Well, I'm not a scientist, so I'm probably wrong on the details, but it's like the mood patches that were so popular for a while - you put them on and the thing you want changed... does? It can last a few days to a few years, depending on which one you get." She explains, sort of. "They're really popular with tourists, obviously, and I hear the Time Agents use them a lot."

Not that she knows many Time Agents.

Tragically.

They're pretty much all adorable.

Patches that actually reprogram you -- that's clicking in unpleasant ways with Clara's brain-hacking software she mentioned...

But he swallows that, and lets himself be distracted by the new concepts. (He tucks the rest into a mental back pocket, for later.)

"What, do they keep people from killing Hitler?"

"... I... imagine they would?" She hasn't the foggiest what he's talking about, but is now putting 'Hitler' on the list of things to not talk about until she figures out if he was someone who deserved a lot of killing or someone who's killing would cause a lot of problems. "You don't hear much about what they do, really. I imagine if you ran into them on a professional basis it'd be a pretty bad day."

"You usually want to avoid cops," Clint says, and hesitates. He hasn't quite grasped that a culture could remember Carmen and Jane Austen, and forgotten WWII. But he's already been proven wrong on one thing about Oswin's world today. "Dictator, killed a few million people. Not the most of anybody, but he was... memorably horrible, and was a driving force in the war that shaped the world to be how it is now. Kind of known for being a likely target of hypothetical time travelers."

He crosses over to close his laptop down, and put it in his backpack, slung across the back of the seat. His ~~go-bag~~ ~~duffel~~ go-bag is already in the trunk.

"Huh, yeah, bad dude." She... neglects to mention her own kill count. Besides. No one cares about a bunch of dead Daleks. They'd probably give her a medal.

Right?

Oh look, she's going to go with 'so not thinking about it' as a tactical choice.

"Is that all you're taking? Because while I'm all for a steadily diminishing wardrobe...

What? No one said she can't look, and hot damn he's got a body worth looking at.