tampered | Log; ongoing

Log; ongoing

When; Thursday, September 24th
Rating; PG-13 simply to be on the safe side
Characters;

nobodyneedknow Dorian Gray and

worksmart Robert Chase
Summary; A case of mistaken identity, perhaps;

Dorian isn't altogether sure about this City, yet. It's not that he dislikes it - there's too much opportunity to be had here. Things he's never seen and things he's never experienced, but what he dislikes, for certain, is not knowing if his portrait is here, somewhere, or back in his locked attic.

Surely the servants wouldn't try to force the door.

Surely.

Dorian has managed to find a flat - nothing grand, that would have to be seen to - but for a few nights, it would suffice.

He's also managed to come into some money - also provided by the flat, who knew that the coins would be such a ludicrous color? - and so he's now buying himself a tea at the cafe he was introduced to by Rosella, and he is watching the citizens of this very odd place go by, one by one.

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He's also being watched, by someone currently held up by one of those baristas who can't understand an order unless it comes in cod-Italian complete with hand gestures. One of these days Chase is going to get 'just plain black' tattooed on his forehead.

He's not watching because Caspian is dressed a little strangely -- when someone still considers brocade a fashion statement, 'strange' becomes a sliding scale. No, there's someone else calling his attention. Something off, although he can't quite put his finger on it.

Sometimes, with some people, it's easier to ask than rely on guesswork, so after adding a vanilla flavoured wafer to his coffee tab, he goes to join the boy at his table, uninvited.

"Orange for your thoughts?"

Dorian is suddenly pulled from his people-watching to turn and look at the blond who sits in front of him. He looks the blond over, once. Very nice looking, a bit older than Dorian. Lovely hair. But what was that odd accent? Dorian seemed to feel like he should be able to place it, but it evaded him. Perhaps this, too, was a man from another world then.

He was certainly dressed differently enough, but then considering some of the fashion on the street, Dorian isn't sure if it's oddly or not. He seems to the be only one in a waistcoast he's seen besides Lord Hargreaves.

"I was simply thinking that this tea is rather weak," he says, his eyes flickering back to the street. "Can I help you?"

Speaking of strange accents. Chase straightens in his seat when Caspian's voice comes out plum-stone perfect. Either his boyfriend has had a sudden and unusual influence on the kid or, as he thought, something is off.

He checks his watch somewhat pointlessly, the hour of the day not giving any hint as to whether it's been troubled by curses. This is the first mistaken identity he's run into, and that tells him nothing in the scheme of things. There's no recognition in familiar brown eyes.

Tristan Thorn's father? It would solve the non-issue of paternity there (is your father Narnian? Is he Spanish? Called Caspian? Test complete), and at least seems geographically plausible in this case.

Chase raises an eyebrow, and empties the first of a small stack of sugar sachets into his coffee. "Staffed by Americans. Couldn't make a decent cup of tea if they were expecting the Queen."

He leaves the question of how he could be helped open for now, instead asking a question in his turn, "Are you... new here?"

Dorian watches the man in front of him straighten up and he flicks his eyes from the man to the street, then back to the blond in front of him. Maybe someone else looking for Caspian, whoever this man was. Dorian wanted to know, but for now, would hold off on asking. After all, he had time to investigate.

"Well, that certainly explains it," Dorian says casually, wincing slightly as he finishes his tea. The man's accent is still throwing Dorian off, because he feels as though he should be able to tell where he's from, but everytime Dorian tries to place it, it slips away. Whatever it is, it's intriguing. Certainly different, to say the least. "Is that...sugar?" Dorian wonders, casually.

He takes another moment before he addresses the question. "I arrived yesterday."

And that explains it. Curses tended to make their sufferers far more likely to claim long-term residence and their altered state always the way of things, and Chase is the last person in the city to be thrown by seeing double. Which means Caspian has a doppelganger of his own, now. Interesting.

It's not Chase's job to inform this one of the situation, of course. He hates explaining the vague insanities of the place, it's just another way of making him feel like the crazy one. Still, he might drop his Telmarine friend a memo to watch out for mistaken identities. Or he might not.

It's probably just as well Dorian can't place his accent. Back in his time Australians were still thought of more as descendants of the great penal colonies than anything else.

"This? It's sugar," he confirms, tipping a second, third, fourth sachet into his drink. It's a double jolt of energy, and offsets the bitterness that threatens to remind him that he doesn't, truthfully, like coffee. "Can't complain about the espresso being weak."

He lifts the cup, sips, and winces, setting it down to add another two helpings of the sweet stuff. "You're looking less panicked than most of the greenhorns. How are you settling in?"

Dorian watches this odd man with the odd accent pour more and more sugar into his coffee. How absolutely absurd. And yet Dorian feels the odd urge to try, if only to see what it would be like. He shrugs at the mention that he doesn't seem panicked, however, brushing the idea off. "I've already been here a day. Some aspects of this City have been explained to me," he says, casually. "That's not absurdly sweet?"

Maybe it's an odd thing to fixate on. But Dorian find the notion of obsession, in and of itself, and interesting one. And while this is only sugar, it is quite a bit of sugar.

He changes the subject anyway. Might as well get to know who this person is. "What do you do in the City? Besides approach strange men and ask them mildly random questions?"

He's hardly obsessed with sugar. This fix is his main concession to the white poison, a relatively harmless habit picked up from all-nighters in med school and continued long enough to be something required to keep him sharp and on his feet. Of course, he doesn't usually take it neat, but asking coffee shops to pour half a bear's worth of honey in his cup was in no way worth the funny looks.

Kind of like that one he's getting from Dorian, now. Another sip. "Just sweet enough."

No, he's not offering to let him try. He snaps off half his vanilla wafer and takes a bite before using the broken end to gesticulate as he answers the question. The building he works in is just in view through the windows here. "I'm a doctor. You'd be surprised how much of my job involves asking strange men mildly random questions."

And, because it's at least polite, and he went to the kind of school that instilled a basic level of manners as nothing more than routine, he adds, "Robert Chase."

Dorian realizes the look he's giving Robert Chase and stops, and gives him a smile, as if to say he's been caught. "Well, I'm sure it's fine," he adds after a moment, and nods. "So should I get ill or wounded, I should come to you?" he asks.

Dorian nods at his name. "Dorian Gray, of London," he states pleasantly. "I do have to admit that this place has an odd sort of charm," he says, fixing his eyes to the street.

Of course he doesn't mean simply the architecture. He means the way the women dress, with their legs and arms bare, the way they are not confined by a corset. He means the way the men dress. He's eager to try something out, some part of this fashion, if only to try. However the soaring buildings, the way everything is so clean, and the perfect gaslight - surely it could not be gaslight it must have been electricity - it all made for something novel for a man from 1891.

"If you get sick or hurt, you can head to that building," Chase says, gesturing once again, "and someone will see you right."

He's not promising to be a personal physician for anyone, there are few enough breaks in his day as it is. The pay has been excellent, holding down two jobs over three departments, but the work is bloody hard and all too often it feels like he's back working a residency, expected to be six places at once with at least four arms to carry everything.

He casts a glance over his shoulder as if the 'odd charm' mentioned might reveal itself, heaving into view across the street to make Chase wonder why he'd never noticed it before.

Nope, still the same city.

"Maybe if you predate sliced bread. For the rest of us, this place is pretty far from being the best thing since."

"Good to know." Dorian doesn't anticipate needing to see a physician, but there's no need not to give some kind of pretext. While he doesn't know the full powers of his portrait, he does know that it heals him, and that is enough for Dorian to understand that getting ill isn't particularly likely.

"Sliced bread?" There's a pause. Dorian isn't sure what he means. Does he mean bread that one slices? Bread that is baked in slices? He's fairly sure that his maid slices the bread for him, in London, but then he's never paid much attention to the maid's kitchen chores. Dorian has met people from the future; that is to say from times like the year 1998 or 2009, and it's a bit bizarre. But he hasn't heard this expression, and he's not quite sure what sliced bread is, so he assumes he does, in fact, predate it. He shakes that particular saying off. "Well, I think so. At the very least, it isn't boring."

The country was boring. This place is certainly not.

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