"Get your rest. It's like...seven p.m. here." He draws the curtains closed to she has some darkness and tucks her in, like a weird reversal of how she used to adjust his blankets whenever she'd pass his couch in the night. She's not going to actually suffocate on that pillow she's sleeping in, is she? He hovers around for a little while just in case.
There isn't really much to do in the hotel room, especially since he doesn't want the light on as it might wake her. He tries to write in the dim light, but after a while he gives up. He checks to make sure she's still sleeping soundly, checks that he has a room key and has left one for her, and then slips out into the San Francisco day.
He went to San Francisco a few times as a kid - his aunt and uncle lived in Sacramento, and his mother always said it was a shame to go so far up north and not do some vacationing. Most of his memories revolve around the cable cars and the wharf, and he knows both of those existed in this time period. The Hard Rock Cafe is probably still just a cafe, not a shrine to the Who and Eric Clapton.
It really hits him, then, that he's back in America. He's been living in the UK for five years, and it's never felt even a little bit like home to him. California's the homeland, with all its memories and all its nightmares. For a moment he just closes his eyes and breathes in the salt air of the bay, trying to decide whether the air just tastes different or if it's all in his head.
He doesn't want it to be difficult to leave. And as such, he doesn't want to consider either option for when he meets his grandparents. If they reject him, how will he cope with that? And worse, if there's instant chemistry, a connection, a family lore he can tap into, how can he go back to Britain? There's nothing for him there. There's Ian and Barbara, and his cats, there's love and support but there's no future for him.
And yet he knows that maybe it's all an excuse, and there's no future for him anywhere. The anomaly, the displaced kid, the paradox, condemned to float forever and mark off his time until he dies.
He tries not to think too hard about it as he jogs down to the wharf. He doesn't remember what he and his parents used to do there, but there's an arcade, he remembers, one of the old-timey ones with creepy dummies and dolls that told your future. It's more interesting than anything else, and a flyer on a lamppost advertises free entrance, so he heads that way.
He spends about an hour browsing through the arcade, then goes back to the hotel to make sure Barbara's still okay, then comes back, then repeats the process. The third time he returns, the arcade is closed, but the security is easy enough to get by. A few picked locks and a jammed window and he's in the darkened building, marveling at the fact that he's finding it kind of thrilling. He remembers parts of this place terrifying him as a child. Laughin' Sal the dummy starts whooping, and he barely jumps.
The coinstampers are still working, so he gets a penny stamped with an image of the bridge and slips it into his pocket. He sneaks out the building, avoiding the police officers who patrol the wharf, and runs back to the hotel. Barbara's still there, still sleeping, and he places the penny on top of her purse on the bedstand before slumping into the other bed. He can tell he's exhausted, but he still feels electric, invigorated now with anticipation and something else. Not fear, exactly, and not really excitement, but a sense of escape he hasn't had in the UK.
As such, he's awake and pacing around when Barbara wakes.
no subject
There isn't really much to do in the hotel room, especially since he doesn't want the light on as it might wake her. He tries to write in the dim light, but after a while he gives up. He checks to make sure she's still sleeping soundly, checks that he has a room key and has left one for her, and then slips out into the San Francisco day.
He went to San Francisco a few times as a kid - his aunt and uncle lived in Sacramento, and his mother always said it was a shame to go so far up north and not do some vacationing. Most of his memories revolve around the cable cars and the wharf, and he knows both of those existed in this time period. The Hard Rock Cafe is probably still just a cafe, not a shrine to the Who and Eric Clapton.
It really hits him, then, that he's back in America. He's been living in the UK for five years, and it's never felt even a little bit like home to him. California's the homeland, with all its memories and all its nightmares. For a moment he just closes his eyes and breathes in the salt air of the bay, trying to decide whether the air just tastes different or if it's all in his head.
He doesn't want it to be difficult to leave. And as such, he doesn't want to consider either option for when he meets his grandparents. If they reject him, how will he cope with that? And worse, if there's instant chemistry, a connection, a family lore he can tap into, how can he go back to Britain? There's nothing for him there. There's Ian and Barbara, and his cats, there's love and support but there's no future for him.
And yet he knows that maybe it's all an excuse, and there's no future for him anywhere. The anomaly, the displaced kid, the paradox, condemned to float forever and mark off his time until he dies.
He tries not to think too hard about it as he jogs down to the wharf. He doesn't remember what he and his parents used to do there, but there's an arcade, he remembers, one of the old-timey ones with creepy dummies and dolls that told your future. It's more interesting than anything else, and a flyer on a lamppost advertises free entrance, so he heads that way.
He spends about an hour browsing through the arcade, then goes back to the hotel to make sure Barbara's still okay, then comes back, then repeats the process. The third time he returns, the arcade is closed, but the security is easy enough to get by. A few picked locks and a jammed window and he's in the darkened building, marveling at the fact that he's finding it kind of thrilling. He remembers parts of this place terrifying him as a child. Laughin' Sal the dummy starts whooping, and he barely jumps.
The coinstampers are still working, so he gets a penny stamped with an image of the bridge and slips it into his pocket. He sneaks out the building, avoiding the police officers who patrol the wharf, and runs back to the hotel. Barbara's still there, still sleeping, and he places the penny on top of her purse on the bedstand before slumping into the other bed. He can tell he's exhausted, but he still feels electric, invigorated now with anticipation and something else. Not fear, exactly, and not really excitement, but a sense of escape he hasn't had in the UK.
As such, he's awake and pacing around when Barbara wakes.