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chosehumanityIt was an abysmally bright day. Mitchell didn't burn in the sunlight, but that didn't mean he thought it was the most pleasant thing in the world. So, with sunglasses on and a cap set on his head, he'd gone out for the morning groceries as quickly as he could. One thing had to be said about vampire strength: bringing home some four bags full of stuff didn't take much effort.
He stalked up the street, setting a firm pace-- just a few streets down and he'd be home, and he'd be able to settle in with tea and the telly and work on his lesson plan. A nice, quiet Sunday in a line of nice, quiet Sundays.
"Mitchell," a quiet, desperate voice croaked from the left.
His head turned on the spot. It took him a few seconds to register what he was seeing: "Annie?", sobbing in an alleyway, her clothes in disarray and her face streaked with tears. It made his stomach lurch - he pulled off his sunglasses. God, yes, it really was her.
He barely managed to get out the "What are you doing out here?" before she'd flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his body and pressing her head into his shoulder, crying. He hugged her firmly, stroking her hair. What could have possibly happened to upset her like this? She'd been fine when he'd left--
"Annie," he said, pulling back a little bit to get a good look at her face. Protective instincts churned 'round in his mind. "Tell me what's happened?"
She responded with a volley of tears, and he hugged her again, held her until she choked out the whole story, starting with "Tully--" and ending on him throwing open the door to the house, incensed beyond belief.
You didn't do that kind of thing - not to anyone, and especially not to this poor, wounded ghost who hadn't committed a crime in her life beyond daring to try and make people happy. Not unless you were a low-life scumbag with no manners. The instinct to find Tully and tear his throat out was a little more tempting than Mitchell would like to admit; wrestling it down was a trial, and only made him angrier.
He snatched Tully's hat off the sofa, the smell of him already close-- and then the werewolf clomped down the stairs and Mitchell hurled the hat of him, snarling, "Time to go."
Tully looked taken aback, and a little defensive. He caught the hat. "And I thought my ears were burning," the bastard said. "Wh-what, what if I don't want to go?"
Where did he find the gall? "I'm not giving you a choice," Mitchell said - the thought that the guy considered it a choice to begin with was even more bloody infuriating.
"George got a say in this?" Tully asked, with a challenging tilt of his head.
But Mitchell wasn't budging. Not on this one. Not with Annie standing behind him, using him like a shield. "I'll talk to him."
They stood at a silent standstill for a couple of seconds-- and then they were interrupted by the noise of keys in the door, twisting and turning and the door giving way. "Do," Tully said, smugly, and pressed his hat to his chest as he slipped straight past Mitchell and onto the couch.
Mitchell had half a mind to throw him out through the window in that moment, just to watch that smirk shatter under the force of the glass.
"What's going on?" George asked, shutting the door behind him. He could obviously sense the tension in the room.
"Tully's leaving."
George's eyes flew from one end of the room to the other. "What?" he asked, half-stepping towards his fellow werewolf. "Why?"
Playing the picture of innocence, Tully threw his hands up defensively. "Wish I could tell you, mate," he said, and gestured vaguely. As if it wasn't his fault. Behind Mitchell, Annie shifted, bringing Mitchell in between her and Tully once more.
Mitchell trained his eyes on George. "Look, I know it was my suggestion, but it was only going to be for a day or so," he said. He could see George revving up to take this badly again, but if he talked enough sense-- if he pointed out what Tully had done, he'd come around. "And instead it's been weeks," he said, pointing to Tully, "So I think that now's the time--"
"He's creepy," Annie blurted, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve before dropping it. "And-- and he frightened me." Her arms fell low by her sides, and she gave George a determined look even as her voice was shaking.
"Yeah," Mitchell said, holding up his hand placatingly - the last thing they needed was for this to get more heated than it already was. "I was building to that--"
"Creepy?" Oh, brilliant. This was everything Mitchell hoped this conversation wasn't going to turn into: George going on the seriously defensive. "You're dead."
"Look," he said, trying to get a hold of the whole thing again. "He stinks out the bathroom, he eats all the food--"
But George interrupted him again, fully walling up against him. Brilliant. Just. Brilliant. "Oh, that's nice!" he snapped, "That's generosity!"
"He's upset Annie!" Jesus Christ, George, see some fucking reason for once, will you? "He's pissing off the neighbours, he's--" He's what? He sent a bleeding girl upstairs to tempt me? No. He's-- "He's a twat," Mitchell snapped at last, in utter fucking frustration. A big bloody twat.
"Yeah, but he's my twat!" George shot back loudly, his face full of defiance.
Oh, now that was just great. No, seriously, George? Seriously? Was that-- Did you really just say that? "I... expect that sounded better in your head," Mitchell said - he was unsure whether to be angry, frustrated, laughing at him, or any combination of the three, so it came out somewhere in the middle.
George sucked in an equally frustrated breath. "I mean," he said, pointedly, "He's my friend."
What?
"So what the hell are we?" Mitchell asked, staring at him. He wasn't honestly picking Tully's side over Annie in this, was he? Over theirs? The home they'd made here?
"I don't know, Mitchell," George said, and bit his lip. "I really don't."
Was he really saying that right now?
"Look, I don't want to cause any trouble--" Tully stretched up and tried to get up off the sofa, the wanker who really, really had no place here. It was a manipulation that worked perfectly well, though, because George was ordering him to stay where he was within seconds.
"Why haven't you helped me?" he threw at Mitchell. Because apparently everything Mitchell had done over the past two years meant nothing, or something. "Why is it Tully who's showing me how to manage my condition?"
There was a very good reason for that, George. "You can barely even admit that you have a condition."
"Why is it Tully," George shouted, spittle flying in a few directions, "Who's showing me how to talk to women?!"
Jesus bleeding Christ, did he have any idea how positively ridiculous he was sounding? "Show you how to talk to women?" Mitchell repeated, incredulously, and stole a look back at Annie to see if she was as astounded as he was. "What are you, twelve?"
He got George's finger pointed at his face. "You know the difference between you and him?!"
Right. He had enough of this. "Oh, I don't know," Mitchell snapped, sarcastically, "I don't have to shave my palms?!"
Well, at least now it seemed like George was the one who was lost for words. He might as well be the one for once. Jesus wept. "Ah-- I--" he choked out, "... I think that's actually racist!"
Racist?!
"Shut up!"
Mitchell threw up his hands and stalked away for a few paces. Jesus. Jesus!
"He wants me to be myself!" George continued, gesturing loudly. "He wants me to be strong!" Because Mitchell didn't, hadn't been trying, hadn't-- He turned around again, staring more, staring harder as George went on. "And independent!"
"Turning you into his clone doesn't make you strong and independent!"
"Oh, but I suppose you know all about turning people into monsters!" George roared, and there was that finger again. Oh what the--
"FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, GEORGE," and by now, Mitchell was the one shouting. "He pretty much assaulted Annie!"
"And I BET SHE LOVED IT!"
Silence fell harder than a ton of bricks. Silence fell harder than a hundred-pound anvil. Silence fell harder than the fucking Hindenburg. It felt like having a shovel jammed into his stomach, or a bucket of cold water.
Mitchell just stared at him. Stared, stared, stared. That--. That. It wasn't George saying that. It couldn't possibly be George, because George--
"...what's happened to you?" he whispered, studying George's features for some kind of sign that he was still the same man, that there was some trace of that vulnerable, kind sixteen-year-old-boy he'd scooped off the streets to be found. He thought he saw a passing, flitting moment of doubt in that face, but it was gone within the blink of an eye, leaving Mitchell feeling disconcerted, appalled, and unspeakably sad.
"He stays," George said, quiet, but firm, after the silence had stretched out across a solid minute. "My choice." He glanced towards the sofa, and motioned at Tully.
Mitchell was left staring: staring at George's face as he turned, staring at George's back as he went for the door, staring at the door as George left through it.
"I think I'm going to like it here," Tully said, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, and slipped on his hat before leaving the house. There was no innocence now, just triumph, dirty and disgusting.
A few more seconds, and the spell was broken - and Mitchell was left turning around, facing the empty space where a ghost had been only moments earlier.
---
It didn't take him much effort to find where Annie had gone. She'd have blinked to somewhere safe, somewhere comforting. Her room, the one where out of all his guests he'd only let Kate sleep - because it was Annie's, and he liked her to feel safe - and where right now stood only a chair.
A chair, and a despondent ghost, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she pressed herself against the back of it.
He leaned his body into the doorway, watching her wipe away her tears and look up, slowly. Right in that moment, all he really wanted to do was walk in and give her a hug, bundle her up until she felt safe again. Without George on their side, things felt... off balance, somehow.
He wondered when Bristol became more of a stable, safe reality than Fandom -- which had seemed like such a find at the onset, but now simply seemed perilously far away, distant and unreal. This, though, had been real. A home away from the world, but realer for it, for what it allowed them.
"Feels like we're losing him," she said, softly. It did. "Everything's just... falling apart."
His eyes softened. "Nah," he said, shaking his head slightly. He passed gently into the room, taking a seat on the floor in front of her, blanketing her with his body. Safe. "Things... move and shift and settle again." He leaned his head against the arm of her chair. "It's like one of those... what are those snowstorm things called?" Children's things. Globes full of snow, moving a bit. He hadn't been raised with them, never had that childhood, but he knew of them.
"Snowstorms," she echoed, her mouth curling the tiniest bit.
"Yeah," he said. "They're built-- so big," and wrapped his hands around the empty space, "Glass--"
"No," she interrupted him, and her head tilted a little sideways, a little less guarded. Underneath the brittleness of her voice, there was a hint of fondness. "They're called snowstorms."
Oh. "Yeah," Mitchell said, stretching out his legs as he looked up at her. "You shake them, and it's all mad, and then it settles again." He exhaled softly. "That's what time is like." Flurries of movement and chaos, people rising up and striking others down, revolutions and evolutions all coming back down to the same steady pace. Waiting for the next little shake, another tilt of the axis: time, inexorably moving and standing still all the same.
She sighed, and shook her head. "Nothing fazes you, does it?" she asked, some of the redness fading from her eyes, a little-- life returning. "You just-- never get scared."
He smiled a little, wryly. "I wish that was true," he confessed, glancing up at the ceiling. A lot of things terrified him. Most of all, perhaps only of all, was himself. Many things. One thing. Either way: it wasn't.
Annie shifted then, clambering slowly out of her chair, pushing herself upright before slipping onto the floor. She pulled her knees towards herself within the circle of her arms. Her hip and leg pressed gently against Mitchell's body, and he edged towards her again, offering safety.
"Look, I want you to be honest with me," she said, quietly. "Um." She turned her head towards him. "Is this it...? If nothing changes... will I just stay like-- this, here, but... not here? Forever?"
There were reasons he never spoke to anyone about the realities of death, far beyond wanting to keep his-- being a secret. Because it was terrifying, and cruel, and all of those things people founded religions for-- came up with their own lies to hide from themselves as long as possible how scary it really was.
He didn't want to tell her the truth, but he told her anyway. "Yeah."
She sucked in a quiet, ragged breath, her head turning one way then the other. Not sure how to process, not sure how to respond. Terrified. "Thanks," she muttered, sounding not so much thankful as scared, and he still-- wanted to hug her, tell her it would be all right, somehow. Both of them were going to go on forever and they'd just-- have to cope with that. With what they knew.
She ducked her head in a slow nod, and then he had to, he really did. He leaned in for her cheek, intending to press a kiss to it, offer some comfort. But she turned at the same time and met his lips with hers. Just for a second. It felt like a cold wind, pressing his lips to ice, except more solid, somehow.
"Oh," she said, and pulled away, her hand coming up towards her mouth.
And somehow, that made it all okay-- silly as it was, and Mitchell's face burst into a smile as he laughed, softly, at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. She laughed with him, catching on to it, and turned her head aside.
"Oh, oh, sorry," she said, still laughing, and tapped her cheek. "I was, er--"
"Easy?" he teased.
"I was going for your cheek," Annie corrected him, turning her face back. She was grinning now, and some of the fear and worry had fled from her expression.
Mitchell brought his fingers up to his mouth, and touched the spot on his lips that still felt chilly with it. "I felt that," he said. He beamed at her-- see, everything was going to be fine.
"What did you feel?" she asked, a kind of concerned curiosity in her eyes.
"Well, it was a bit cold," he admitted. "Bit tingly. It was like... kissing someone who'd just come in from outside."
She looked at him then, and shook her head quietly, the edges of a smile still tugging on her lips. As if she was waiting for something.
"But it was nice," he added, just in case she'd been worried about that. "Did you feel anything--?"
Annie chuckled softly. "Yeah," she said, "Yeah, I felt-- something." Good. That was-- good, because she wasn't alone then, she could still do something, still be a part of it all. It'd be good for her to know that.
And the smile on her face didn't hurt. Mitchell reached over and gave her a friendly nudge in the shoulder, trying to prompt that to grow a little bigger. She chuckled and pushed back, a little less broken, a little less hurt. Things... would work out somehow.
The snowstorm would settle.
[[ NFB, NFI, OOC-okay. Warning: mentions of assault. Taken and adapted from Being Human 1x02. *draws hearts around Annie and Mitchell* ]]
He stalked up the street, setting a firm pace-- just a few streets down and he'd be home, and he'd be able to settle in with tea and the telly and work on his lesson plan. A nice, quiet Sunday in a line of nice, quiet Sundays.
"Mitchell," a quiet, desperate voice croaked from the left.
His head turned on the spot. It took him a few seconds to register what he was seeing: "Annie?", sobbing in an alleyway, her clothes in disarray and her face streaked with tears. It made his stomach lurch - he pulled off his sunglasses. God, yes, it really was her.
He barely managed to get out the "What are you doing out here?" before she'd flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his body and pressing her head into his shoulder, crying. He hugged her firmly, stroking her hair. What could have possibly happened to upset her like this? She'd been fine when he'd left--
"Annie," he said, pulling back a little bit to get a good look at her face. Protective instincts churned 'round in his mind. "Tell me what's happened?"
She responded with a volley of tears, and he hugged her again, held her until she choked out the whole story, starting with "Tully--" and ending on him throwing open the door to the house, incensed beyond belief.
You didn't do that kind of thing - not to anyone, and especially not to this poor, wounded ghost who hadn't committed a crime in her life beyond daring to try and make people happy. Not unless you were a low-life scumbag with no manners. The instinct to find Tully and tear his throat out was a little more tempting than Mitchell would like to admit; wrestling it down was a trial, and only made him angrier.
He snatched Tully's hat off the sofa, the smell of him already close-- and then the werewolf clomped down the stairs and Mitchell hurled the hat of him, snarling, "Time to go."
Tully looked taken aback, and a little defensive. He caught the hat. "And I thought my ears were burning," the bastard said. "Wh-what, what if I don't want to go?"
Where did he find the gall? "I'm not giving you a choice," Mitchell said - the thought that the guy considered it a choice to begin with was even more bloody infuriating.
"George got a say in this?" Tully asked, with a challenging tilt of his head.
But Mitchell wasn't budging. Not on this one. Not with Annie standing behind him, using him like a shield. "I'll talk to him."
They stood at a silent standstill for a couple of seconds-- and then they were interrupted by the noise of keys in the door, twisting and turning and the door giving way. "Do," Tully said, smugly, and pressed his hat to his chest as he slipped straight past Mitchell and onto the couch.
Mitchell had half a mind to throw him out through the window in that moment, just to watch that smirk shatter under the force of the glass.
"What's going on?" George asked, shutting the door behind him. He could obviously sense the tension in the room.
"Tully's leaving."
George's eyes flew from one end of the room to the other. "What?" he asked, half-stepping towards his fellow werewolf. "Why?"
Playing the picture of innocence, Tully threw his hands up defensively. "Wish I could tell you, mate," he said, and gestured vaguely. As if it wasn't his fault. Behind Mitchell, Annie shifted, bringing Mitchell in between her and Tully once more.
Mitchell trained his eyes on George. "Look, I know it was my suggestion, but it was only going to be for a day or so," he said. He could see George revving up to take this badly again, but if he talked enough sense-- if he pointed out what Tully had done, he'd come around. "And instead it's been weeks," he said, pointing to Tully, "So I think that now's the time--"
"He's creepy," Annie blurted, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve before dropping it. "And-- and he frightened me." Her arms fell low by her sides, and she gave George a determined look even as her voice was shaking.
"Yeah," Mitchell said, holding up his hand placatingly - the last thing they needed was for this to get more heated than it already was. "I was building to that--"
"Creepy?" Oh, brilliant. This was everything Mitchell hoped this conversation wasn't going to turn into: George going on the seriously defensive. "You're dead."
"Look," he said, trying to get a hold of the whole thing again. "He stinks out the bathroom, he eats all the food--"
But George interrupted him again, fully walling up against him. Brilliant. Just. Brilliant. "Oh, that's nice!" he snapped, "That's generosity!"
"He's upset Annie!" Jesus Christ, George, see some fucking reason for once, will you? "He's pissing off the neighbours, he's--" He's what? He sent a bleeding girl upstairs to tempt me? No. He's-- "He's a twat," Mitchell snapped at last, in utter fucking frustration. A big bloody twat.
"Yeah, but he's my twat!" George shot back loudly, his face full of defiance.
Oh, now that was just great. No, seriously, George? Seriously? Was that-- Did you really just say that? "I... expect that sounded better in your head," Mitchell said - he was unsure whether to be angry, frustrated, laughing at him, or any combination of the three, so it came out somewhere in the middle.
George sucked in an equally frustrated breath. "I mean," he said, pointedly, "He's my friend."
What?
"So what the hell are we?" Mitchell asked, staring at him. He wasn't honestly picking Tully's side over Annie in this, was he? Over theirs? The home they'd made here?
"I don't know, Mitchell," George said, and bit his lip. "I really don't."
Was he really saying that right now?
"Look, I don't want to cause any trouble--" Tully stretched up and tried to get up off the sofa, the wanker who really, really had no place here. It was a manipulation that worked perfectly well, though, because George was ordering him to stay where he was within seconds.
"Why haven't you helped me?" he threw at Mitchell. Because apparently everything Mitchell had done over the past two years meant nothing, or something. "Why is it Tully who's showing me how to manage my condition?"
There was a very good reason for that, George. "You can barely even admit that you have a condition."
"Why is it Tully," George shouted, spittle flying in a few directions, "Who's showing me how to talk to women?!"
Jesus bleeding Christ, did he have any idea how positively ridiculous he was sounding? "Show you how to talk to women?" Mitchell repeated, incredulously, and stole a look back at Annie to see if she was as astounded as he was. "What are you, twelve?"
He got George's finger pointed at his face. "You know the difference between you and him?!"
Right. He had enough of this. "Oh, I don't know," Mitchell snapped, sarcastically, "I don't have to shave my palms?!"
Well, at least now it seemed like George was the one who was lost for words. He might as well be the one for once. Jesus wept. "Ah-- I--" he choked out, "... I think that's actually racist!"
Racist?!
"Shut up!"
Mitchell threw up his hands and stalked away for a few paces. Jesus. Jesus!
"He wants me to be myself!" George continued, gesturing loudly. "He wants me to be strong!" Because Mitchell didn't, hadn't been trying, hadn't-- He turned around again, staring more, staring harder as George went on. "And independent!"
"Turning you into his clone doesn't make you strong and independent!"
"Oh, but I suppose you know all about turning people into monsters!" George roared, and there was that finger again. Oh what the--
"FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, GEORGE," and by now, Mitchell was the one shouting. "He pretty much assaulted Annie!"
"And I BET SHE LOVED IT!"
Silence fell harder than a ton of bricks. Silence fell harder than a hundred-pound anvil. Silence fell harder than the fucking Hindenburg. It felt like having a shovel jammed into his stomach, or a bucket of cold water.
Mitchell just stared at him. Stared, stared, stared. That--. That. It wasn't George saying that. It couldn't possibly be George, because George--
"...what's happened to you?" he whispered, studying George's features for some kind of sign that he was still the same man, that there was some trace of that vulnerable, kind sixteen-year-old-boy he'd scooped off the streets to be found. He thought he saw a passing, flitting moment of doubt in that face, but it was gone within the blink of an eye, leaving Mitchell feeling disconcerted, appalled, and unspeakably sad.
"He stays," George said, quiet, but firm, after the silence had stretched out across a solid minute. "My choice." He glanced towards the sofa, and motioned at Tully.
Mitchell was left staring: staring at George's face as he turned, staring at George's back as he went for the door, staring at the door as George left through it.
"I think I'm going to like it here," Tully said, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, and slipped on his hat before leaving the house. There was no innocence now, just triumph, dirty and disgusting.
A few more seconds, and the spell was broken - and Mitchell was left turning around, facing the empty space where a ghost had been only moments earlier.
---
It didn't take him much effort to find where Annie had gone. She'd have blinked to somewhere safe, somewhere comforting. Her room, the one where out of all his guests he'd only let Kate sleep - because it was Annie's, and he liked her to feel safe - and where right now stood only a chair.
A chair, and a despondent ghost, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she pressed herself against the back of it.
He leaned his body into the doorway, watching her wipe away her tears and look up, slowly. Right in that moment, all he really wanted to do was walk in and give her a hug, bundle her up until she felt safe again. Without George on their side, things felt... off balance, somehow.
He wondered when Bristol became more of a stable, safe reality than Fandom -- which had seemed like such a find at the onset, but now simply seemed perilously far away, distant and unreal. This, though, had been real. A home away from the world, but realer for it, for what it allowed them.
"Feels like we're losing him," she said, softly. It did. "Everything's just... falling apart."
His eyes softened. "Nah," he said, shaking his head slightly. He passed gently into the room, taking a seat on the floor in front of her, blanketing her with his body. Safe. "Things... move and shift and settle again." He leaned his head against the arm of her chair. "It's like one of those... what are those snowstorm things called?" Children's things. Globes full of snow, moving a bit. He hadn't been raised with them, never had that childhood, but he knew of them.
"Snowstorms," she echoed, her mouth curling the tiniest bit.
"Yeah," he said. "They're built-- so big," and wrapped his hands around the empty space, "Glass--"
"No," she interrupted him, and her head tilted a little sideways, a little less guarded. Underneath the brittleness of her voice, there was a hint of fondness. "They're called snowstorms."
Oh. "Yeah," Mitchell said, stretching out his legs as he looked up at her. "You shake them, and it's all mad, and then it settles again." He exhaled softly. "That's what time is like." Flurries of movement and chaos, people rising up and striking others down, revolutions and evolutions all coming back down to the same steady pace. Waiting for the next little shake, another tilt of the axis: time, inexorably moving and standing still all the same.
She sighed, and shook her head. "Nothing fazes you, does it?" she asked, some of the redness fading from her eyes, a little-- life returning. "You just-- never get scared."
He smiled a little, wryly. "I wish that was true," he confessed, glancing up at the ceiling. A lot of things terrified him. Most of all, perhaps only of all, was himself. Many things. One thing. Either way: it wasn't.
Annie shifted then, clambering slowly out of her chair, pushing herself upright before slipping onto the floor. She pulled her knees towards herself within the circle of her arms. Her hip and leg pressed gently against Mitchell's body, and he edged towards her again, offering safety.
"Look, I want you to be honest with me," she said, quietly. "Um." She turned her head towards him. "Is this it...? If nothing changes... will I just stay like-- this, here, but... not here? Forever?"
There were reasons he never spoke to anyone about the realities of death, far beyond wanting to keep his-- being a secret. Because it was terrifying, and cruel, and all of those things people founded religions for-- came up with their own lies to hide from themselves as long as possible how scary it really was.
He didn't want to tell her the truth, but he told her anyway. "Yeah."
She sucked in a quiet, ragged breath, her head turning one way then the other. Not sure how to process, not sure how to respond. Terrified. "Thanks," she muttered, sounding not so much thankful as scared, and he still-- wanted to hug her, tell her it would be all right, somehow. Both of them were going to go on forever and they'd just-- have to cope with that. With what they knew.
She ducked her head in a slow nod, and then he had to, he really did. He leaned in for her cheek, intending to press a kiss to it, offer some comfort. But she turned at the same time and met his lips with hers. Just for a second. It felt like a cold wind, pressing his lips to ice, except more solid, somehow.
"Oh," she said, and pulled away, her hand coming up towards her mouth.
And somehow, that made it all okay-- silly as it was, and Mitchell's face burst into a smile as he laughed, softly, at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. She laughed with him, catching on to it, and turned her head aside.
"Oh, oh, sorry," she said, still laughing, and tapped her cheek. "I was, er--"
"Easy?" he teased.
"I was going for your cheek," Annie corrected him, turning her face back. She was grinning now, and some of the fear and worry had fled from her expression.
Mitchell brought his fingers up to his mouth, and touched the spot on his lips that still felt chilly with it. "I felt that," he said. He beamed at her-- see, everything was going to be fine.
"What did you feel?" she asked, a kind of concerned curiosity in her eyes.
"Well, it was a bit cold," he admitted. "Bit tingly. It was like... kissing someone who'd just come in from outside."
She looked at him then, and shook her head quietly, the edges of a smile still tugging on her lips. As if she was waiting for something.
"But it was nice," he added, just in case she'd been worried about that. "Did you feel anything--?"
Annie chuckled softly. "Yeah," she said, "Yeah, I felt-- something." Good. That was-- good, because she wasn't alone then, she could still do something, still be a part of it all. It'd be good for her to know that.
And the smile on her face didn't hurt. Mitchell reached over and gave her a friendly nudge in the shoulder, trying to prompt that to grow a little bigger. She chuckled and pushed back, a little less broken, a little less hurt. Things... would work out somehow.
The snowstorm would settle.
[[ NFB, NFI, OOC-okay. Warning: mentions of assault. Taken and adapted from Being Human 1x02. *draws hearts around Annie and Mitchell* ]]
