A Pink Corner House, Bristol, Thursday Morning

[chosehumanity]

It wasn't until the sun rose high above the rooftops that Mitchell and Annie dared to look inside the house again. And honestly, opening the door whilst holding a television was somewhat harder than Mitchell had envisaged: it took a lot of jostling, and one helping ghostly hand to get it right.

The door fell open quietly. Mitchell stuck his head through it, and sucked in a breath he didn't need.

Their living room looked like someone had rigged it with a few live explosives and then had a party in it. There was no more sight of the sofa, or a good chunk of the rest of the furniture. Instead, there was a tell-tale pile of shreds and fuzz piled up near the corners of the room.

In the midst of it, covered by a few pieces of old sofa fluff, was George. Naked, curled up like a puppy dog, and snoring.

Mitchell used that unnecessary breath for a good sigh. "Come on," he said, and headed to the kitchen to find a broom.

---

A few hours of work later, and they were nearly finished with the clean-up. George had been laid to rest upstairs in his bed - it usually took him a while to sleep off a transformation.

But that wouldn't last, and now he was pounding down the stairs looking fuzzy--

"... oh my god," he whined. Mitchell looked up at him. "What did it dooo?"

Mitchell yanked on a full plastic bag. "We've salvaged what we can, but there's about ten bin bags of crap and wreckage stashed in my bedroom." He paused, looking as if a horrible thought had just struck him straight across the chin. "I'm sensing a trip to IKEA, and you know my feelings about that!"

George sighed in resignation, his shoulders slumping. "Look, why don't you two go out and leave the rest to me? It's the least I can do."

There was a quick silence. Mitchell's eyes darted to Annie's. They'd been... talking. Earlier. And then there was the thing. The horrible, horrible thing.

He rolled his eyes. It was the only thing left in his power.

"Owen rang," Annie squealed, her hands gripping the broom happily.

George's brow scrunched up in confusion. "Owen who...?"

"Your landlord!" she continued, energetically. "My fiance!" Beat. "...Ex-fiance. He's coming over!"

At... ten thirty, he'd said. Mitchell checked his watch. One hand up, the other hand down... "In about... now."

Mild panic made its home in George's expression as it often did. "He's coming here? Why?"

Mitchell shrugged, and recounted the conversation he'd had on the phone that morning. "He's over from Saudi Arabia for a few months and he wants to meet us," he said, darting another look in Annie's direction. A little help explaining this?

"You're the longest-lasting tenants he's ever had," Annie said, dutifully explaining, and beamed. In fact, she positively puffed her chest up. "The others found the place..." Another secret smile, and she was putting her broom back to the floor. "...strangely unwelcoming."

George looked like he was about to burst.

"Why didn't you put him off?!" he hissed, gesturing at the destroyed living room. (Yeah, Mitchell reflected, personally, they were going to have to buy a new CD player)

"I tried," Mitchell pointed out, "But she kicked me in the shin."

George eyed him.

How was he not getting this?

"The shin, George."

And by then, George was rubbing at his brow. "You can't be here," he told Annie.

"Of course I'll be here!" Annie shot back, utterly scandalized. "I mean, I'll hide, obviously, he won't see me!" She put the broom down and snagged a small notepad out of her pocket, extending her arm further towards Mitchell.

What was that all about?

Mitchell took it and spared it a look.

"Now then," Annie said, "I've written a list of questions for you to ask him..." She gestured fervently at Mitchell, her own way of saying read, read.

Mitchell, being the obedient sort, read.

"'Are you screwing Janey Harris?'," he quoted, frowning.

"Always fancied Owen," Annie elaborated, nodding along. "Believe me, if she knew I'd died, she'd have been here before the ambulance crew got here."

Right. Okay. Moving on to the next item on the -- "'Has my sister had a baby?'." Awwwww. "Awww."

"They’ve been trying for ages. I blame her husband. He’s called Robin and works for the Post Office."

On his manly pride, that was a little adorab--

"Oh my God," George screeched, scandalized, "Has everyone taken stupid pills?!" ... Yeah, thanks, George. Stay classy, and all that. "This is Annie's ex we're talking about. Annie's ex who buried her. She can't be here, she can't be within ten miles of here."

Annie's expression had gone from gleeful to involved to utterly, utterly pissed by the end of that. "I can't have him in the hosue and not see him," she snarled. "For Christ's sakes, we were engaged!"

George groaned again. "Can you imagine what will happen if he sees you? The effect it'll have in him, the-- the danger it'll put us all in!" He flailed pointedly.

The ghost crossed her arms and paced a few steps until she was in front of him. "This isn't about our safety, this is about you," she said, giving him a distinctly ugly look. "You lost your lover, so you can't bear the thought of me seeing mine."

... Oh, ow, Annie. Mitchell winced in a brief flash of sympathy.

"That's-- that's totally," George flailed, weakly. "She was just my high school girlfriend!"

Right. This was just going to get worse and worse unless Mitchell intervened. "Okay, look, as long as she stays upstairs, what's the worst that can happen?" he tried, holding up his hands. Come on. Come on--

"I'll remind you of that as the crowds gather outside with torches and pitchforks," George said, primly. "No, I'm sorry, but we have to protect the household!"

The words oh, come off it could be read off of Annie's face. "You've just smashed up the household!"

That took the last bit of wind out of George's wings. He fidgeted. "That wasn't me."

Thank fuck the doorbell rang before this could get any worse.

"That's settled," Mitchell said, nearly giddy with the relief of being out of this argument. "Annie!"

She waved a hand at him. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Remember: Janey Harris," she said, pointing a finger - and then she spun on her heel and began to stomp up the stairs.

He glanced towards George. Right. They could do this, no problem. George shrugged in turn: sure, he could handle it. Mitchell nodded. He reached for the door--

"Oo! Ask him about the clanky tap." Beat. "No, I will!" George corrected. "In fact," he continued, getting ready for another round of prim, "Leave all the talking to me. Remember, we’re just two guys renting a house, the most natural thing in the world. We just have to be totally and completely normal."

Oh Jesus Christ, George...

"Yeah," Mitchell snarked, "Good luck with that."

He pulled the door open. On the other side was a young guy, in his twenties, with a slightly Middle-Eastern appearance. By a few generations in England, by the looks of it. "Hi," Mitchell said, offering him a hand. "I'm Mitchell. This is George."

He stepped out of the way to let the guy in.

"Hi," Owen returned, striding into the room. "How are you?"

"Yes," George answered. Immediately.

Yes?

Mitchell was... having a bad feeling about this.

The landlord peered past the both of them into the living room, and frowned. "Where's all the furniture?" he asked, confused.

Right. Mitchell'd just tell him they were repainting the h--

"We decided we wanted a more, uh, minimalist lifestyle!" George provided. Oh, God. He was going in for a ramble-- "It's so easy to get... seduced, by all the clutter and debris of 21st century living. To think having this sofa, or that, uh, chair will bring you happiness, when, really--" He gave it a bit of a cheer - a physical cheer - "Shouldn't we all be looking for something a little bit more spiritual?"

Oh, christ, this was going to be a disaster.

"...Oh," Owen said, and Mitchell could practically read the word 'weirdo' straight off of his head. Christ. "...I thought maybe you were going to redecorate and didn't want to get the furniture all painty..."

Mitchell heroically fought the urge to facepalm.

"Yes," George said, after a beat, "That would have made more sense."

Oh for fuck's sake!

He could see the moment George started revving up for another rant and-- oh god-- that was the exact moment that God or whatever decided to grant them some providence (actually, it was probably Annie) in the form of a loud thump upstairs.

He couldn't dally again this time.

He took the opportunity ."George, why don't you go see what that was?"

George stared at him, uncomprehending for a minute. A quick gesture, and then he got it - and went scurrying up the stairs. "Right!"

Okay. Good.

Now they could manage.

"Can I get you a drink, Owen?" he asked, finding a more genuine smile somewhere in his repertoire. "Tea, coffee... there's a couple of beers in the fridge?"

And in turn, he got an appreciative look, and a guy chuckle. "Actually, I wouldn't mind a beer," Owen shared, "I think I'm still on Saudi time."

Mitchell gave him a nod, grinning. "I know, timezones, right?" he said, and stole into the kitchen. "Anyway, we were wondering if you could take a look at the tap," he called, pulling two beers out of the fridge. "Sometimes it just doesn't go. I mean, most of the time it’s fine. You just let it run and eventually the water comes through. But it’s kind of driving George nuts."

He offered Owen the beer upon reentry, and the man took it gratefully. Good: they could work this out yet.

"No worries," Owen said, peering about for somewhere to sit. With all the chairs ruined, there was little left to sit on beyond a few discarded boxes. "I'll take a look at it. Like I said, it's such a relief having you guys here."

It didn't take a lot of effort to drag the boxes out to sit on.

"It didn't work out with the last lot of people," Owen started, settling down on his box-- "Oh, and cheers."

They clinked bottles.

"I think they heard about what happened and let their imaginations run away with them," he continued, and took a sip of his beer. "You... know? About my fiancee."

More than you'd imagine, Mitchell wanted to say, but it was neither his place nor anything useful, really. Instead he said, "A little. Just what the estate agent said."

"I've hardly been back since," Owen admitted. "You can imagine, it's still kind of weird being here."

Mitchell bobbed his head, smiling a little. When he spoke again, he'd lowered his voice. Maybe a bit odd to Owen, but the last thing he needed was for Annie to hear some of this.

"What happened, exactly?" he asked. "If you don't mind me asking.

Owen shrugged a little. "We'd literally just moved in, we were still living out of boxes. It was dark, I hadn't sorted out the wiring yet," he recounted, slowly. "She was at the top of the stairs and..." He made a vague gesture with his beer. Having trouble with it. "They said she... must have fallen awkwardly. Or... something."

Mitchell nodded again, and sat forward.

"What was she like?"

The question seemed to take Owen aback a bit: he blinked, and shifted his stance, and looked uncomfortable for a second or two before he gave in.

"Annie?" he asked, slowly. "She was... extraordinary. She was kind. And funny. Cleverer than she thought she was..." He trailed off again. Smiled to himself, sad, and a little tragic. "And she was mine."

Mitchell took a sip of his beer, then set it down on the floor. "I believe people can leave an echo, in a place where they were," he said. More solidly than you'd know. "I know the tennants before us said they could detect something. Maybe that's what it was."

"They said it was creepy," Owen interjected.

A genuine, honest smile blossomed on Mitchell's face, and he was, in whatever twisted way, speaking the truth here: "It's not, it's not creepy," he said, "It's good. It's happy. We like it."

After a long beat, Owen took another swig.

And nodded.

They sat there in companionable silence for a few seconds before George came stumbling back down the stairs, and Owen's head snapped up: the moment lost.

"What was it?" he inquired.

"What?" George asked, paused, thought about it, and blurted, "Oh, a... pigeon!"

"...a pigeon?"

Owen did a frightfully excellent job of voicing everything that went through Mitchell's mind.

"...Must have left a window open," George said, primly.

Owen gestured at him with his beer, confused. "Have you got rid of it?"

"..."

Oh, god George--

"I killed it!"

...What?

"...You killed it?" Mitchell asked, slowly.

George nodded fervently. "With a shoe," he said.

Mitchell couldn't take it any longer. He threw up his arms. That was it. He gave up. End game. Thank you, George.

Owen opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again. "You know what? I... should be going. Yes. I should be going."

Eager to salvage at least some of it, Mitchell leapt up onto his feet. "It was lovely to meet you," he said, quickly, and offered a hand - which Owen shook. "It's great."

That got him a nod, and Owen's swift departure towards the door. "Thanks for the drink," he said, "Any problems, you've got my number."

"Cool," Mitchell said, and swiftly shut the door behind him. And turned around. And eyed George.

"How'd you do that, stay so calm?" he snarked, pulling a face at him. Seriously, he deserved it.

"Shut up," George said, feebly.

"You're a spy, aren't you?" Mitchell asked. "I mean, you've clearly had training. Because the way you held it together out there?" Ohhh. He pulled a distinct face. "...It was chilling."

A creak of the stairs.

Mitchell glanced up.

It was Annie. She was pacing into the living room, very slowly, drifting almost. Looking paler than usual. Looking stricken. God... what this must have done to her.

"He loved you very much," Mitchell tried, softly. "The way he talked about you... You made him very happy."

"Did you ask about the tap?"

... SDFDKJFKWEFIOjdsfkdanklsvn.

He shot George a look that firmly established that he had the worst sense of timing in the history of everything and if he didn't stop talking right now--

"Is this his?"

That was Annie's voice.

"What?" Mitchell asked, blinking away from George again.

"This bottle," she murmured, and leaned down to pick it up off the floor. "Was it his?"

His heart ached for her. For the lost look in her eyes. The delicate way she cradled the bottle.

"Yeah," he said, softly.

And watched as she brought it close to her face, and kissed the edge of it. Her lips on the imprint of his.

The ghost closed her eyes. And sighed.


[[ part 3 of 3. Taken from Being Human episode 1x01, NFB, NFI and OOC-okay! ]]