strange..stranger.

Of all the people the Doctor knew named Sebastian, one was a crab and the other was an Italian ski-jumper. This left at least a bit of ambiguity when it came to the source of the text that had reached his phone – number and area code adjusted to the locale (THAT chameleon circuit worked just fine), so it wasn’t unheard of to get a wrong text. 

Still. Had to admit, tiny little town like Lima, Ohio (TARDIS had landed him here after he’d called her moody, and then she’d thrown a hissy fit when he tried to leave – whether he liked it or not, he was going to be visiting a town named for a BEAN), it was amazing someone’d managed to text the wrong number quite so quickly. Quite so INTERESTINGLY. The Doctor didn’t do domestics, but he DID do snooping. He scooped the phone up, shooting a polite smile to the waitress who had bent over his table, trying to pour him extra coffee despite the fact he hated the stuff. This was a tiny coffee shop in one of the town’s biggest shopping centres, filled to the brim with businessmen who worked the next building over and were grumpily glaring over their fine silver moustaches at the young-faced Doctor. 

Honestly, he was glad for the distraction. He’d have to find a better place for cake while he waited for his ship to calm down; he was already packing up his things to leave. 

( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) If it’s any consolation, I’m neither Sebastian nor your long-lost dog, Dalton. 
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) Wrong number. Sorry, I sort of hop around, might’ve taken your friend’s old one. Are you okay?
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) Do you know where I can find a good /carrot cake/? 

Waiting for the reply to come–Blaine’s knee began to bob up and down as his heel tapped against the floor.  He swore if Hunter was ignoring his ‘no Sebastian’ stipulation and talking it over with his friend?  The deal was off.  He’d lose the number and fight every urge in himself to go back and try to fix the horrible twisting feeling in his stomach that visiting the place he loved wrenched into his gut when he saw how things had changed so severely since he left. Sebastian was to be left out of this.  He was too good of a person to be involved in this Hunter guy’s Bond villain-ish scheme.  Great.  Now, he’d have Sam impersonating Bond in his head (Connery’s version, of course) while trying to act so self assured and make demands.  He really needed to sleep more.

The ding from his phone caught his attention from his best friend’s ‘Scottish accent’ and lowbrow delivery of iconic movie lines filling up his brain.  Blaine sat up stick straight in his chair to gather his posture and put on his game face (even though he was texting?) readying himself for the reply he was perfectly mapping out–wait.  He typed the wrong number?  Oh holy crap. Yeah–sleep was no longer an option but a necessity.

“Carrot cake,” he mouthed the words and typed in a quick reply back figuring they asked if he was okay before changing the subject to cake.  He might as well fill put him in the right direction.

( mssg » not hunter | sent ) I put in the wrong number.  I’m very sorry to bother you.  Thank you for asking but I’m okay.  Dealing with a frustrating friend situation.  That’s all.
( mssg » not hunter | sent ) The carrot cake at the Lima Bean is pretty great.  I swear it’s addicting.  The coffee’s fantastic.  Much better than Starbucks.