bitten_notshy | Room 308, Saturday Midday

Jack had been dealing with the Mitchell situation through the immature but far easier means of ignoring it until something shoved it in his face again. It wasn't as if he had some kind of useful advice to give. Or if he trusted his temper to hold.

So: He wasn't thinking about any of that when his phone rang and he glanced up from his reading to answer it. He didn't recognize the number on the display.

"Hello?"

	That was a very firm "Hi," that greeted him. And then a long pause. And then a, "Er. Jack? This is..." Pause. "George."
	"... George?" Don't sound so shocked, Jack. "Er. Hello. Did something happen?" With Mitchell, he meant.
	"Yes, something happened." Beat. "Well, no, not as such." Beat. "I mean, it's sort of in the middle-- yes, yes, no, the thing is, I have no idea where he is, it's been three days, and he doesn't even know how to boil an egg, for christ's sakes, he's a hundred years old--" Getting your diatribes mixed up there, George.
	"... you were half a step from shoving a stake into him, and now you're concerned he's starved in three days," Jack pointed out, not without dry amusement. It made a nice cover for the way his stomach was twisting. "I'm sure he's fine. Do you think he would have gone back to Bristol?"
	"What kind of centenarian doesn't know how to boil an egg-- I don't know," George segued, "I haven't got a clue where he is, he isn't answering his mobile."
	"I'll poke around the island," Jack promised, not touching the question of Mitchell's cooking ability. He was already locating his shoes and mentally mapping out where he'd check. Of course, if Mitchell had gone rogue, he could be anywhere on the planet, but it would not be good for George's mental health to mention the obvious. "Coffee shop, bar, bowling alley. And I'll call back in a bit and let you know if he turns up, all right?"
	"All right. I'll just... keep phoning then," George said, squinting at the directory. "Thanks. Bye!" And with that, a click.