Because Blaine was watching so closely, he saw the Doctor look up; saw him scan the crowd; saw him reach, idly, for his coat, like he intended to move despite not having found the correct person yet. He paused only to toss the half-eaten blueberry muffin into a nearby bin (unimpressed with its quality – it really was a pity he’d missed out on the carrot cake) and then he exchanged words with a passing server (”Wherever you’re getting your muffins – tell them to try a squeeze of lemon, it’ll work better,”) and slipped into the seat opposite one Blaine Anderson, despite the fact that a second ago, the Doctor had still been looking for him. Easy enough to pick out. The Doctor would know the look of boy troubles anywhere, and the way Blaine followed him ‘round the room cinched the deal.
This was Not Ariel.
“Not Ariel,” the Doctor said, and reached across the table to offer him his hand (the Doctor really did like handshakes), “I’m the Doctor. Lovely to meet you. You give some bad advice on where to find things.” He’d got his cup of tea, though, and he set it down with his free hand, completely casual: “Tell you what though, I’m starting to think finding a place to eat is no piece of cake.”
Thoroughly convinced he had ruined any hope of a good first impression, he sat back, at last. If the TARDIS was going to be fussy, the Doctor could at least enjoy a good cuppa and some conversation. “I take it Dalton’s not a dog?”
Blaine felt his cheeks go pink as the Doctor started to approach the table. Closer. Closer still. He wasn’t being overly not-obvious with how he was watching him, was he? Busted. Guilty. He’d been found out. There was no mistaking he was about to get company judging by how the strange man using him as a human version of Yelp stopped at his table then suddenly filled the chair opposite of him. A polite smile was given in spite of how the redness in his cheeks began to seep up over the bridge of his nose.
Not Ariel. That was his name now. Not Ariel. Laughter bubbled out of him, easing his nerves and bumping the anxiety of being caught staring welled up. Looking at him this close? The Doctor seemed nice enough. Intriguing from conversation alone but the accent only added to the mystery. Which was hard to find in Lima, Ohio. Where everyone knew everyone and there was rarely a face you didn’t recognize as someone who knew someone. Even the strangers looked like they belonged her. This guy? Definitely didn’t.
They shook hands and Blaine’s eyes lit up with the delight of someone new and someone to talk to. “Lovely to meet you, too, Doctor. I’m sorry my advice wasn’t the greatest. There’s really not a lot of places to choose from here. Maybe I should have told you about the bakery down the street. It’s sort of the last place in town to try if you struck out here. The muffin didn’t seem that impressive to you.
“Uh no. Dalton’s a school. My old one.” A hint of nostalgia and longing crept into his voice. He swallowed his coffee to chase it away. “Boring story, really. And you already had a bad cake experience. I’d hate to ruin the conversation part. Um.. Please tell me cake isn’t the only reason why you’re here? As in. Ohio?”
“You would not believe the distance I have travelled for a good cake.” His voice carried into the coffeeshop, easy to pick out at least in part because of the obvious accent: English tourists were not very common in Lima, Ohio. Or any sort of tourist, for that matter. The Doctor was standing at the counter, chatting back-and-forth with the overworked cashier so cheerily the young lady seemed to be (almost) waking up, pleased to have someone to talk to (if a little bit confused by his implication that he’d been roaming the countryside in search of cake). Still, a minute later the Doctor was situated at a table in the opposite corner of the cafe from Blaine, pulling bits off of a blueberry muffin because despite the supposedly fantastic carrot cake being sold here, the Lima Bean had sold out all but fifteen minutes before he’d arrived. (They were one of the few places in the USA which sold tea, though, so the Doctor had HAD to stay.)
His eyes wandered the room; after a second, the Doctor leant back in his chair and retrieved the 2008-esque flip-phone from his breastpocket, to read his new friend’s latest messages: he was enjoying the exchange. It was pleasant. Not Ariel was unabashed about his curiosity, which the Doctor appreciated.
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) could be a brain-feasting parasite. those are all over the 21st century. does he watch a lot of FOX News?
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) I dealt with one of those ‘round here just this morning. It’s why I’m here
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) don’t usually drop by Lima. My transport just sort of decided to give up on me. Fussy.
The TARDIS had probably been protesting how bored she was: generally speaking, dealing with brain parasites was not actually a very fun job. Especially in politicians in tiny American towns – half the time you got it out and you couldn’t tell the difference. The Doctor’s texting paused a minute as he went to retrieve his tea, leaving his coat and phone at the table – utterly at ease. Then, once he returned:
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) if he’s making you play guessing games though, Not Ariel, he’s probably rubbish.
Blaine couldn’t help hearing the voice ring out above all the others in the shop. Who wouldn’t? It wasn’t very often that you heard an accent like that in the middle of a coffee shop in..boring, old, never changing Ohio. Not a particularly alluring state for worldly travellers looking for a vacation. Not when other places had much more to offer than endless cornfields, cow pastures and lots of small towns speckled between a few large cities that were not nearly exciting as places like New York or Los Angeles.
A lopsided, curious smile twisted itself onto the corners of his partially open lips. The man did seem kind of odd. Did he just say he came all the way here for cake? Suddenly, his gaze darted to his phone. Holy crap! That had to be the stranger-who-wasn’t-Hunter he’d been talking to. He really did listen?? Gone from curious to stunned, Blaine blinked at the last message and looked up just in time to watch the strange stranger type onto a phone Blaine was pretty sure qualified for an upgrade about eight years or so years ago and possibly then some. Full of wonder to see if his phone would ding as soon as the man was done, he waited.. And just like that? The messages came..
( mssg » not hunter | sent ) A brain-feasting parasite? LOL! ( mssg » not hunter | sent ) I think he’d be the brain-feasting parasite if I’m being honest. Or if he caught one? It might make him a nicer person.
A grin that wasn’t even a little guilty for letting that out unconsciously turned that smile a little more devious than Blaine would have intended it to be. Still, he continued typing and looking over the top of his phone at the man to see what his reactions would be.
( mssg » not hunter | sent ) If you’re stuck here? I know a good mechanic. Could have you back on the road by tomorrow depending on what the problem is. ( mssg » not hunter | sent ) You’re right. Hunter is sort of rubbish. I’m only trying to work things out before a problem escalates beyond any kind of recovery. ( mssg » not hunter | sent ) You don’t have to sit alone over there, you know? I mean..unless you’d like to?
Granted, if one absolutely had to set up a coffee shop in the middle of Lima, Ohio, he didn’t see any reason not to name it ‘the Lima Bean’. Other than the sheer number of people who would outright refuse to visit it. Then again – if it had good carrot cake…
The Doctor actually had been sitting in the middle of an old Starbucks, which was distasteful for one of a variety of reasons, namely that they could not make a cup of hot chocolate if their life depended on it, let alone spell his name (’Dr’, they had written; ‘Drew’, he had been called). He stood up the chuck out the drink he’d taken only-one-sip-of, being eyed the whole way by old men in rumpled suits who were displeased with his distaste for their regular spot. Maybe he would have to venture to the Lima Bean. If nothing else, he would have actual, photographic evidence the place existed – it was the sort of thing the Doctor liked to keep a good supply of, actually, horribly-named shops that nobody he spoke to would believe existed, unless he had evidence.
“The Lima Bean?” he asked of the barista, and earnt himself a surly scowl and directions to ‘walk out these doors, down the street a bit, get in a taxi, and ask the driver, mate’. He did precisely this and was told it was two streets over, so he might as well walk.
( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) frustrating friend situation, though? I’m good at friends. Once I befriended a wasp. ( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) Well, a hivemind. ( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) Well, a planet-shaped – ( mssg » Not Ariel | sent ) my point is, you can complain at me. be as waspish as you like.
( mssg » not hunter | sent ) I know. It’s a pretty kitchy name but you have to admit, it sort of sticks in your head. ( mssg » not hunter | sent ) Hard to forget since..you know..Lima, Ohio.
Texting the wrong person was usually a one time answer sort of thing. If any hey, wrong number was even bothered to be texted back. However? This conversation was starting to pique his interest too much to give it up. Anyone who admits to befriending a hivemind has to be a rather interesting character, right? Especially if it was a planet of some sort they didn’t want to explain?
Now, either this person was crazy? Or pretty cool enough that they were messing with him in complete sci-fi geek terms. Either way.. Why not indulge himself a little longer? Especially when his next conversation wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.
The offer to complain to the interesting stranger was sweet enough. Blaine gave the phone a small smile before sipping more of his coffee and plucking out his reply. He couldn’t help a squinted, thoughtful look given towards the door before hitting send. Half expecting some stranger walking in that he’d just given the carrot cake pitstop suggestion to. Hopefully, it wasn’t the crazy option of who would talk about making friends with an entire world. Might make for an awkward duck to the counter for a refill before sneaking out. Nah. He wasn’t going to go anywhere just yet.
( mssg » not hunter | sent ) That sounds like a story I’d love to hear. Anyone who befriends planets is way too peculiar to not be curious about. ( mssg » not hunter | sent ) I appreciate that. Just.. Some people are frustrating beyond words, you know? Sometimes.. I wonder what makes this person think the way he does. No one will ever know.
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.
Blaine couldn’t keep his mind focused on a single line of thought if it was going to save his life. Coming to the Lima Bean alone was a brilliant idea to tune out glee club and the mess at Dalton so he could get some homework done. Two coffees in and he still wasn’t feeling it. His pen hit the page of his open textbook and rolled into the center crease. A frustrated grunt and he closed the cover shutting the pen inside. His hand–now pen free–was absentmindedly drawn to the pocket of his sweater without something to occupy it.
Inside was the fraying edges of the reason why he couldn’t get more than a paragraph of anything read before his mind wandered home to Dalton. A business card that’d been slipped inside his pocket without him noticing. Sebastian must have done it during his unceremonious and rather surprising tug into a one arm hug after walking him to his car. Blaine didn’t notice it was there until he was getting ready for bed the same night two nights ago. His reminder (like he needed on) of him. Hunter Clarington and his ultimatums, his place at the head of the Warbler council and what in the hell was he turning them into that they’d agree to any of this? “Fine. Whatever,” he mumbled to himself and typed in the wrong number firing off a text message that was three days coming and he finally couldn’t hold in anymore.
( mssg » wrong # | sent ) As you can see? I’m breaking the promise I made to myself of not contacting you. You’re wrong about a lot of things. But one thing you’re right about is what Dalton means to me and always will. We need to talk. ( mssg » wrong # | sent ) Theatricality aside, please? You and me. Keep Sebastian out of this.
pianokeysandbowties back up 