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Who: Norton Folgate and Open
When: February
Where: Various (Listed under the cut)
Open/Closed: Open
Applicable Warnings: TDM warnings apply

A. Smoke gets in your eyes: Haven Street

Norton lived through the Blitz, so smoke, checkpoints, and ~~Home Guard~~ civil defense out doesn't strike him as outrageously odd, but it does make him think there's probably something very interesting going on, especially since as far as he's aware, Sweetwater isn't being bombed or under imminent threat of invasion. He'll walk past the checkpoints daily, but doesn't try to cross. He'll strike up conversation with anyone else who might be lingering nearby, however.

And as the week goes on, with access to the market and, more importantly, the local diners cut off, Norton quickly starts to run out of food, or at least out of any food he's capable of making into something. He's never kept much on hand since his cooking skills are meagre at best. So he knocks on his neighbour's door, holding a small basket on his arm. When it opens, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries.

"I've a half cup of sugar, three tomatoes, and and a tin of condensed milk."

B. Everybody's somebody's fool: Marjorie's cocktail party

Norton knows how to dress for a cocktail party and he'll show up in a proper dinner jacket, his hair slicked with pomade. The suit he found in his closet isn't quite the cut he's used to--boxier than what he'd find at a London department store--but he thinks he makes it look good.

He smiles brightly and strikes up conversation with anyone nearby. After two cocktails, he starts to get a bit giggly besides, but his eyes stay sharp.

He's visibly a bit judgmental of people who aren't dressed well, looking them over with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips of disapproval. Just because they're trapped in a suburbia of evil, that's no good reason to be unfashionable. In fact, in a suburbia of evil where fitting in is essential to ones well-being, Norton thinks being fashionable is a survival skill.

C. Don't tell me why, kiss me goodbye: Norton's house

When the telly turns on by itself, Norton pays close attention to what's on the screen. Every strange occurrence is a clue and it's increasingly clear they aren't random. But then the woman's face shifts, becomes the face of a handsome Black man in a fedora and good suit. The sight of him makes Norton inhale sharply in surprise. After the initial shock, his lips thin and his jaw tightens and he refuses to have any further reaction than that.

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( following this exploration late in January... )

Player characters may notice, at various points in the party, that the town private practice doctor, Norman Pollock, is in attendance as well. He spends a notable amount of time interacting with Marjorie, laughing over cocktails–they certainly seem to know each other, and even appear to be friends. At some points, he can be overheard addressing her as Marge.

For all of the ominousness of his warnings to Norton, he does acknowledge his presence at the party with eye contact and a polite but not forced smile, lifting his drink slightly in greeting before returning to the conversation at hand.

When she opens the door, Agathe says nothing, only scans her eyes over the sorry sight of the man and his basket, so quick to rattle off what he's able to trade.

She jerks her head back toward the kitchen in curt invitation; on the air there's a distinct aroma of boiling root vegetables, implying she's got something in the works. He can keep his sugar.

"Danke, Frau...Marowski, was it?" He remembers her from the dinner party, although she'd kept herself to the background. He remembers the German accent, though. Even with the war nearly ten years gone, a German accent makes him wary.

Not so wary that he won't come in when there's a chance for food, however.

Norton flashes a smile back and waits for Norman to be otherwise not engaged in conversation before approaching.

"Nice to see you again, Doctor Pollock. Mrs. Taylor's really outdone herself this time. Splendid party. And perfect timing, too. I was getting terribly lonely rattling around in my big house all alone."

Leading the way to the kitchen, she stops with a quick, calculating look back at Norton.

"Du sprichst Deutsch?" she asks quietly-- what a relief it would be, to speak freely in her native tongue.

"Ja. Ich spreche Deutsch." His accent isn't very good, but he's otherwise fairly fluent.

This is reason enough for Agathe to switch over entirely as she continues toward the kitchen and takes a bowl from the cabinet.

"Marowski is correct," she begins, ladling some stew into the bowl-- somehow even this very domestic action has a sharpness to it-- "and to bring us here only to starve us is one of the crueler intricacies of this place."

She snorts derisively at some image in her head, takes a spoon from a drawer, and offers it to Norton at the same time that she sets the bowl on the table near him.

"As if anyone with half a brain in their head would think these barricades are for anything other than control. A sick fascist power game."

She clearly has no love for fascists. Her words ease the unspoken concern that took root in Norton's mind when he heard the German accent. He thanks her for the spoon and the stew and digs in.

"To be fair, I don't think they meant to starve us. I just wasn't prepared. But they definitely mean to control us. I wonder what they want. Not our labour, they seem indifferent to whether or not we work. Test subjects for some experiment, maybe?

Norton's not the only one who knows how to dress the part; another habitual wearer of suits to begin with, it only takes Arthur a little effort to clean up enough to meet the exacting standards of the party. Even if his style seems to be slightly more dated than even Norton's; he's traded his tie for a bow, and the waistcoat seems slightly more fitted than usual - thanks to Helly the colours match, but he definitely seems like he's angling more for black tie than HOA meeting. His own curls are tamed with pomade too, giving a Clark Gable style to the meticulous coif.

Unlike Norton, he's less good about maintaining a pleasant expression, though it's clear he's trying. And it's one of the first times he's made a properly public appearance since he vanished after getting arrested for breaking and entering into Norman's house; it's lucky that gossip hasn't spread too far, but he does appear to be getting a slightly wider berth than most people, as he lingers near a wall with a drink in one hand and his cane in the other, propped against his own foot for the minute.

Norton spots Arthur early on, but doesn't approach him right away. It wouldn't do to seem too chummy. But about half an hour later, he minces up to Arthur with a bright and absolutely vacant-headed smile on his face; it's a smile designed to give the impression of a person who is both friendly and completely oblivious to gossip or to other people avoiding Arthur. And since he's been chatting with almost anyone he can, flitting from one conversation to another, he thinks he's laid the groundwork for it to not seem too suspicious for him to be seen talking to Arthur.

"Hello, Mr. Lester, lovely party, isn't it? I've heard you were under the weather. So glad to see you up and about and feeling better."

Edited 2024-02-12 01:47 (UTC)

"Mr Folgate!" He recognises the vapid tone immediately for what it is, and it's easy to fall in line to match. "Yes, I'm afraid word spread faster than I could recover to stop it. Had a bad meeting with some steak - bull's never agreed with me, really, nailed me for a week."

It's a flip of the coin whether Norton recognises the outdated slang, but any excuse to quietly insult the police who'd caught and fucking drugged him, but he'll take it.

"Hardly sure it was worth it in the end, but I suppose there's always being more selective next time." Will he stop trying? Never. "And yourself?"

"Oh yes, I've been nailed by a bull before, too." He deadpans the double-entendre while giving Arthur the sort of sympathetic expression one ought to give a neighbour who's been sick. Even if he can't see said expression.

"As for me, I'm fit as a fiddle. Even the doctor says so."

He hides the grim edge of a smirk and the threat of a blush behind his next sip of his drink.

"A perfect gentleman, I imagine," he comments, somehow managing to sound slightly bitter about the fact.

"Very professional. Still, I think we hit it off. Might have some things in common."

Norton can't get a proper read on Dr. Pollock. He wasn't hostile to Norton's strongly hinted interest, but Norton can't tell if that was just professionalism as a physician or if it was affinity. Just like he can't quite tell if Dr. Pollock's warning was a threat or advice.

If he could seduce him, that could be extremely useful blackmail.

"Really?" Well that was interesting. Not that Norton was so comfortable as to flaunt it, the man was utterly incorrigible and Arthur found himself quite fond of it despite himself, but that Norman would respond at all...

"All the best to you, in that case." And more of a dry mutter, barely shy of acidic, he adds, "God knows the man could probably use one. You'd have to tell me what he thinks of Officer Clark - they didn't seem altogether in tune the last time I saw them."

The fact that Norman was there when he was arrested is probably news for Norton; he doesn't know how much of their arrest Numbers shared.

"I haven't met Officer Clark yet. But then, I'm sure he's been terribly busy, what with all the barricades and such."

Norton knew that Arthur was tortured, and that Dr. Pollock was once again the torturer. But Clark and Pollock both being present at the same time, and being at odds, is news. Possible cracks to exploit in their captors' alliance? Definitely something to look into further.

He was going to say more about the barricades but then one of their neighbours walks by, dressed for something or another but definitely not for an evening cocktail party. Norton sniffs in disdain.

"I swear, you're one of the few here who can properly dress himself. A blind man quite literally has better fashion sense than some of these people."

"I wasn't always blind, you know," he points out, the dryness a bit more sincere than their aloof coded talk. "Until quite recently, I've been perfectly capable of dressing myself for events like this- I've been to them before, to some degree. Right now I just need my-" He clears his throat gently, still hating the concept but deeply protective of Helly. "My wife to help me make sure the colours aren't an awful nightmare and my tie's on straight."

"If starving is a side effect of the control, all the better," Agathe spits, and sits down in one of the chairs across from Norton, the rigidity of her posture having relaxed only slightly now that she's able to speak without the hindrance of her second language.

"Perhaps." She drums her pointed fingers on the tabletop, considering Norton's theroy. "It's clear there are consequences for struggling. In which case-- the only way we'll learn more is to play the game as intended."

"How did it happen, if you don't mind my asking?" Not exactly casual cocktail party talk, but Norton's curious and he's never been good at quashing his curiosity about anything ever.

"I read a bad book," he comments dryly, bordering snide, as if he were talking about a bad meal. "The contents of which were quite vehement about disagreeing with me."

"I hope you had an opportunity to give a poor review."

He's not sure if Arthur is joking or not. It seems like a joke, but Norton has seen a lot of very strange things in his time with Torchwood, so he can't entirely dismiss it.

"Safest way to learn more. Not necessarily the only way."

He has a habit of poking his nose into dangerous situations. It's practically part of his job description. Although he does prefer it when he can get other people to do the dangerous bits on his behalf.

Numbers is here, and appears to be somewhat inebriated. He's dressed a burgundy suit paired with a matching waistcoat and white tie--probably a step up from how Norton has previously seen Numbers. At some point during the party, he stumbles his way over to Norton, nursing a martini with a half-chomped olive on a toothpick. He clasps his free hand on the man's shoulder in an overly-friendly gesture.

"Mr. Folgate, it's great to see you here," he says, his drink sloshing about in his glass as he gestures towards him. He gives Norton a too-wide smile, shaking him slightly. "I trust you've checked in with Arthur?"

"Nice to see you, too, Norton. She sure has. Marge has always been real... she was born to be a hostess or an entertainer of some kind. Larger than life." He shifts his weight to one hip, taking a drag from his cigarette and adding offhandedly, "—You know, a man like you could really benefit from the company of a dog. I know a guy whose beagle just had puppies, if you're interested."

"Sounds as if you and Mrs. Taylor go way back."

At the mention of beagle puppies, Norton lights up, temporarily distracted from strategic flirtation.

"I had a dachshund back--" Before he was kidnapped here. But he obviously can't say that to Norman's face in the middle of a party. "--back in London. Her owner tragically passed away so I took her in." Everything about those two sentences is technically true, while leaving out so many details as to be wildly misleading, but polite conversation is often like that.

"When I first acquired her I had a roommate to help me care for her, though." His boyfriend, but they did live together so calling him a roommate is yet another true but wildly misleading statement. "What about you, Doctor? Who do you have to keep you from being lonely? Wife? Dog? Roommate?"

"Mr. Numbers. My, don't you look fetching." Norton smiles brightly at him and gives him a brief and subtle once-over.

"Yes, I made a point to check up on Mr. Lester, since he's been under the weather. Seems much recovered now. I do hope whatever he came down with doesn't spread."

"Dog." He says it conversationally: right you are, Norton. "His name is Clancy, he's a Welsh Springer Spaniel. —you know, even without a roommate, I think a dog would do fine. You set up a playpen for them when they're puppies, teach them what space is yours and what's theirs. Come home during lunch, change out the puppy pads, that sort of thing. What dois it that you do, Norton? I don't believe you've ever said."

He takes a delicate sip of his cocktail. "I recently got a job at the department store, but back in England I worked for the British government. Shop attendant is a bit of a downgrade, but worth it to live here in Sweetwater. London just isn't what it used to be ever since the war."

If pretending at happy community, pretending at perfect town is important, he'll show he can be obedient. At least publicly, which, for pretend, is all that really matters, in his opinion.

If Numbers notices the once-over, he doesn't comment. He nods somewhat lazily, loosening his grip on Norton's shoulder.

"Well, as long as we wash our hands properly, I'm sure it'll be fine," he replies. He takes another swig of his drink, leaning back slightly to catch a glimpse of Norman, across the room from them.

"The doctor didn't give you too much trouble, then? Saw you talking to him earlier, too."

"The British government. You don't say. Some kind of secret agent?" He says it like a joke, eyes crinkling at the edges—but there's a look of genuine curiosity there too as he takes a sip of his gin and tonic.

"Then I should be fine. I always keep my hands clean." Like letting Numbers and Arthur do the breaking and entering while he has a completely innocuous doctor's appointment.

"But yes, Norman and I get along swimmingly. We talked about dogs. I think we might have some things in common, but it's early to tell."

"Like Double-oh-seven? Well, I do look amazing in a tuxedo."

It isn't a yes or a no, but Norman's curiosity is itself interesting. Norton had thought the people involved would know who they're kidnapping, but if they don't...then maybe they don't quite know what's going on either and are trying to manage something not entirely in their control.

Numbers just sort of looks at Norton with a quizzical expression.

"With the dogs?" he asks. It takes him a minute to put the pieces together. He tilts his head to the side, brow furrowing deeply. "Oh. Wait. You're--uh. Y'know, um--?"

He waves his hands around in an incomprehensible manner, then gestures towards Norton. For some reason, Numbers hadn't picked up on the cues. As if Norton hadn't jokingly called him butch the other day, but listen, when you're in the mob, it's not like you get a lot of exposure to this kind of lingo. Even if Numbers, himself, prefers the company of other men.

"A gentleman who's fond of dogs?" Norton says innocently, eyebrows raised. He's not going to say anything more direct or overt that that in the middle of Marjorie's cocktail party. Wrong kind of party for that sort of thing.

"Yes, I am."

Numbers' face scrunches up in annoyance, but doesn't pursue it further. At least he knows that this is the wrong place, wrong time for that conversation.

"Right. Whatever." He lets out a low grumble, dragging his hand down his face. "Speaking of dogs, I'll have to tell you about the art the doctor keeps in his house...."

He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back slightly. That's a conversation for another time, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers.

"Well, I hope you're having fun at this party, regardless."

"I can't wait to hear all about it," he grins at the reference to Doctor Pollock's home.

Norton glances around at the chatting, largely well-behaved crowd.

"This isn't quite my style of party, but the cocktails are excellent. I wish there were room for dancing, though."

"I'm inclined to agree. You do know how to dress, Mr. Folgate. You'll give Marge a run for her money at this rate. Best not to attract too much attention, though—although it sounds like you're pretty experienced yourself in that regard."

"Oh, I'd never dream of upstaging Mrs. Taylor, especially at her own party. That would be terribly rude." He sips his cocktail with a slight smile on the edge of his lips.

"But invite me to your place for drinks some time and I could tell you all about my well-dressed work back in England."

And possibly try to seduce him, if it seems there could be a chance of it working. But even if the atmosphere stays persistently, tragically platonic, Norton's also very seriously considering telling Pollock about his work back home--protecting Britain from strange phenomena and covering it up--and see if he can have a frank discussion about what's going on in Sweetwater. Typically appearance of propriety is more important than reality, so maybe behind closed doors, where the truth won't disturb the community, he can learn something.

After all, what's the worst that could happen? (Torture. Torture is the worst that could happen.)

Norman’s eyes crinkle at the edges with a polite, understated smile. “That’s very generous of you. I might just take you up on that offer - it’s not often a man gets a chance at hosting such a distinguished guest. Though I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed to find that I’m not much of a host compared to Marjorie. She sets the standard too high for everyone else.”

"I'm sure you'd be a perfectly delightful host, doctor. Don't sell your charms short. Besides, it needn't be anything so grand at this." He gestures loosely to the large party with its perfect canapes and expertly mixed cocktails. "Just a finger of whisky and good conversation in a quiet setting."

"I'd like that. Although I'm afraid I keep gin, not whisky. How does next Friday evening sound?"

"Gin and t, then, instead of whisky and s. A liquor and a letter. Sounds absolutely dolly."

[ Continued here that very Friday... ]

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b, cw: alcohol

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