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chosehumanityDay three of house-hunting.
To Mitchell, they all seemed to blur together. During the day, he let George drag him off to whatever piece of estate he'd found this time; during the night, he retreated to his hotel room, staring at the cracks in the wall and drinking tiny bottles of vodka. Thinking. Beating himself up. Thinking some more.
Pointing out to himself all the ways he shouldn't be allowed out into the public.
It was day three, though, and the house George had pulled him into this time seemed... it had some kind of quality about it. Something different. Something... not quite living, but good.
His manner was still subdued for his (although admittedly still quiet) standards, but for the first time in nearly a week, Mitchell felt like talking.
Well, talking more than just to George about his absolute refusal to deal with having a house that had a futon in it, anyway. (There was something wrong with futons - it's like they were designed to kill your spine and wrangle your body into unnatural shapes. What you needed was a proper sofa)
"...first a painter got it, then a young couple bought it," the real estate agent rattled on. "The plan was to refurbish, but the girl..." With a significant handmovement and equal statement, she said, "...died. Before they could get much done. Hence, it's very..." Another one of those pauses. "...individual decor."
Mitchell shot a glance at the ugly wallpaper, the mismatched furniture and the darkened windows. "That's... one way of putting it. I don't know." He shot the real estate agent a look that could almost be considered the first step to a smile. See, progress. "My friend's a bit picky. He took a lot of convincing to agree to this."
It would figure that Mitchell's first step back into the world of the living would be mocking the piss out of George.
Speaking of the devil, George had just shot from the stairwell like a lightening bolt. "You can see the top of the hospital from the window!" he enthused. "And it's a dinky little kitchen, we could fit a table in there! ... Maybe. Otherwise, if we have people over, they could just sit in here! And the little garden is just..."
There was a great deal of visible and not entirely manly gleeful flailing. "...Gorgeous." His smile went up several hundred watts-- and he laughed. "We could grow vegetables!"
That being said, George took off on another dead-run back into the kitchen, leaving Mitchell to stare. And chuckle, himself.
That was also progress. "Like I said, he's a difficult customer," he deadpanned. Drawn back to the reality of the moment, though, he turned back towards the agent. "The rent's pretty good," he said, "So why has it been on the market for so long?"
The real estate agent bit her lip, shuffling a little. "The back doesn't get much sunlight."
"Not a problem," Mitchell said, shrugging his shoulder. "I'm not that mad about sunlight."
"...and as you can see, the house presents certain... challenges."
... Well.
That was a polite way of putting it.
Giving in to temptation, Mitchell slumped back, landing on the sofa. Not a futon. Thank god, not a futon. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing away images of Becka's body in that alleyway, and opened them again.
"But it's close to university," he noted, "You should be able to get some students in."
"...well, to tell you the truth," she said, rubbing at her forehead, "...there have been a few people, but it hasn't-- worked out. Personally, I don't think they thought it through, but legally, I'm obliged to tell you that they thought it was..." She pulled a face. "Creepy."
"Creepy."
She threw up her hands. "They said they could detect... something." And forced a laugh. "It's ridiculous. Obviously. Can you detect anything... creepy?"
Mitchell couldn't help himself. He laughed, shallow, and maybe with the slightest hint of desperation, but his voice was steady as he noted, "We're probably not the best people to ask."
He might have even said more, but there was George again, crashing into the conversation like an especially speedy bulldozer. "I am loving this kitchen. It's like a catalogue!" He paused, taking a gander around the living room, and then pointed. "Look!" George called, ecstatic, "Your sofa!" Another pause, as if he only just realised the agent was in the room. "...Sorry, he has this thing about me and him and a sofa."
Nice phrasing, George.
The poor real estate agent took the non-existent clue for what it wasn't, and turned to face George. "It's... fine. We've catered for people in your... situation before."
(Lauren, bleeding, Kate, trapped in time, George, freaking out...)
Mitchell leaned back. "I doubt that."
"We... we found a lovely flat for two ladies in... Cotham," she stammered, "I wasn't sure at first, but then one of them said she was in the TA, and--" She shot George a helpless glance. "Well, you do the math. I mean-- don't get me wrong, they were nice and everything, just... I don't understand their world." She shot Mitchell an understanding glance. "Just, I'm like you. I like dick too much."
... ahahahahaha.
For a moment, Mitchell forgot all about Lauren, Becka's body, Jack's silent judgement or any of the lot.
"You're just like him," he said, relishing that moment. "I swear. It's relentless."
An alarm seemed to blink away in George's eyes. "...Now hang on," he managed, "We're not-- we're not... gay."
Oh, George. Always the one to dig that hole deeper. "He... hasn't told his parents yet," Mitchell said. Relishing. So, so relishing.
"I had a girlfriend!" George blurted.
"But he realised he was living a lie," Mitchell pointed out from the sofa. That affronted, disturbed look George was sending him? All part of the distraction.
"So, what shall it be, fellas?" the agent asked, before George could butt in again and make things worse, "Shall I call the landlord?"
The look George gave Mitchell was more than ecstatic. The sound he made resembled a puppy being strangled while chewing on his favorite toy. Just to top it off, George bounced.
Mitchell snorted. At least the place had finally brightened up his spirits a bit. "What the hell," he said, affably.
"Super," she said, paused, and finished with, "...I'll call from the car," before marching out.
There was a long spell of silence until the door closed. It was then that George turned back to Mitchell, confusion in his eyes. "...how could she think we were a couple?"
"Yeah," Mitchell said, thoughtfully, and spread his arms across the couch, lifting an eyebrow. "After all, I'm way out of your league."
The expression he got as a response was torn between extremely affronted and an odd kind of gratefulness. It was likely just Mitchell's mood touching on George, or something like that, but it was starting to give him ideas.
... No, not about George.
"We're actually going to do this," George said, speaking the words like he wasn't sure they were real.
"Just so you know," Mitchell said, dryly, "They think the place is creepy."
George jittered again, and then the line of his mouth transformed into a blissful smile as he said, "It bloody well will be now!"
Maybe things would be all right in the end.
Maybe.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay, and totally ripped off, tweaked some, and based on the Being Human pilot. Please don't mind me bouncing all the way around my canon ]]
To Mitchell, they all seemed to blur together. During the day, he let George drag him off to whatever piece of estate he'd found this time; during the night, he retreated to his hotel room, staring at the cracks in the wall and drinking tiny bottles of vodka. Thinking. Beating himself up. Thinking some more.
Pointing out to himself all the ways he shouldn't be allowed out into the public.
It was day three, though, and the house George had pulled him into this time seemed... it had some kind of quality about it. Something different. Something... not quite living, but good.
His manner was still subdued for his (although admittedly still quiet) standards, but for the first time in nearly a week, Mitchell felt like talking.
Well, talking more than just to George about his absolute refusal to deal with having a house that had a futon in it, anyway. (There was something wrong with futons - it's like they were designed to kill your spine and wrangle your body into unnatural shapes. What you needed was a proper sofa)
"...first a painter got it, then a young couple bought it," the real estate agent rattled on. "The plan was to refurbish, but the girl..." With a significant handmovement and equal statement, she said, "...died. Before they could get much done. Hence, it's very..." Another one of those pauses. "...individual decor."
Mitchell shot a glance at the ugly wallpaper, the mismatched furniture and the darkened windows. "That's... one way of putting it. I don't know." He shot the real estate agent a look that could almost be considered the first step to a smile. See, progress. "My friend's a bit picky. He took a lot of convincing to agree to this."
It would figure that Mitchell's first step back into the world of the living would be mocking the piss out of George.
Speaking of the devil, George had just shot from the stairwell like a lightening bolt. "You can see the top of the hospital from the window!" he enthused. "And it's a dinky little kitchen, we could fit a table in there! ... Maybe. Otherwise, if we have people over, they could just sit in here! And the little garden is just..."
There was a great deal of visible and not entirely manly gleeful flailing. "...Gorgeous." His smile went up several hundred watts-- and he laughed. "We could grow vegetables!"
That being said, George took off on another dead-run back into the kitchen, leaving Mitchell to stare. And chuckle, himself.
That was also progress. "Like I said, he's a difficult customer," he deadpanned. Drawn back to the reality of the moment, though, he turned back towards the agent. "The rent's pretty good," he said, "So why has it been on the market for so long?"
The real estate agent bit her lip, shuffling a little. "The back doesn't get much sunlight."
"Not a problem," Mitchell said, shrugging his shoulder. "I'm not that mad about sunlight."
"...and as you can see, the house presents certain... challenges."
... Well.
That was a polite way of putting it.
Giving in to temptation, Mitchell slumped back, landing on the sofa. Not a futon. Thank god, not a futon. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing away images of Becka's body in that alleyway, and opened them again.
"But it's close to university," he noted, "You should be able to get some students in."
"...well, to tell you the truth," she said, rubbing at her forehead, "...there have been a few people, but it hasn't-- worked out. Personally, I don't think they thought it through, but legally, I'm obliged to tell you that they thought it was..." She pulled a face. "Creepy."
"Creepy."
She threw up her hands. "They said they could detect... something." And forced a laugh. "It's ridiculous. Obviously. Can you detect anything... creepy?"
Mitchell couldn't help himself. He laughed, shallow, and maybe with the slightest hint of desperation, but his voice was steady as he noted, "We're probably not the best people to ask."
He might have even said more, but there was George again, crashing into the conversation like an especially speedy bulldozer. "I am loving this kitchen. It's like a catalogue!" He paused, taking a gander around the living room, and then pointed. "Look!" George called, ecstatic, "Your sofa!" Another pause, as if he only just realised the agent was in the room. "...Sorry, he has this thing about me and him and a sofa."
Nice phrasing, George.
The poor real estate agent took the non-existent clue for what it wasn't, and turned to face George. "It's... fine. We've catered for people in your... situation before."
(Lauren, bleeding, Kate, trapped in time, George, freaking out...)
Mitchell leaned back. "I doubt that."
"We... we found a lovely flat for two ladies in... Cotham," she stammered, "I wasn't sure at first, but then one of them said she was in the TA, and--" She shot George a helpless glance. "Well, you do the math. I mean-- don't get me wrong, they were nice and everything, just... I don't understand their world." She shot Mitchell an understanding glance. "Just, I'm like you. I like dick too much."
... ahahahahaha.
For a moment, Mitchell forgot all about Lauren, Becka's body, Jack's silent judgement or any of the lot.
"You're just like him," he said, relishing that moment. "I swear. It's relentless."
An alarm seemed to blink away in George's eyes. "...Now hang on," he managed, "We're not-- we're not... gay."
Oh, George. Always the one to dig that hole deeper. "He... hasn't told his parents yet," Mitchell said. Relishing. So, so relishing.
"I had a girlfriend!" George blurted.
"But he realised he was living a lie," Mitchell pointed out from the sofa. That affronted, disturbed look George was sending him? All part of the distraction.
"So, what shall it be, fellas?" the agent asked, before George could butt in again and make things worse, "Shall I call the landlord?"
The look George gave Mitchell was more than ecstatic. The sound he made resembled a puppy being strangled while chewing on his favorite toy. Just to top it off, George bounced.
Mitchell snorted. At least the place had finally brightened up his spirits a bit. "What the hell," he said, affably.
"Super," she said, paused, and finished with, "...I'll call from the car," before marching out.
There was a long spell of silence until the door closed. It was then that George turned back to Mitchell, confusion in his eyes. "...how could she think we were a couple?"
"Yeah," Mitchell said, thoughtfully, and spread his arms across the couch, lifting an eyebrow. "After all, I'm way out of your league."
The expression he got as a response was torn between extremely affronted and an odd kind of gratefulness. It was likely just Mitchell's mood touching on George, or something like that, but it was starting to give him ideas.
... No, not about George.
"We're actually going to do this," George said, speaking the words like he wasn't sure they were real.
"Just so you know," Mitchell said, dryly, "They think the place is creepy."
George jittered again, and then the line of his mouth transformed into a blissful smile as he said, "It bloody well will be now!"
Maybe things would be all right in the end.
Maybe.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay, and totally ripped off, tweaked some, and based on the Being Human pilot. Please don't mind me bouncing all the way around my canon ]]
