Bristol, Monday Morning
Mar. 1st, 2010 06:03 am"Aren't you supposed to be on a plane to this school of yours?"
Five seconds ago, Mitchell had been brooding in his room by himself, considering all the ways in which he couldn't possibly go back to Fandom or do anything like it ever again. Now, he was being spontaneously haunted by a cheerful ghost holding a cup of tea.
"It's... complicated," he muttered.
"Now I'll say that," Annie chirped, flopping down next to him. "Why's a bloke who teaches in America coming 'round to a flat in Bristol anyway? Are you working on your frequent flyer miles or something? The only place I've ever been to is Barcelona. Gorgeous, though. They have these little shops that carry all of this stuff, I thought I'd go mental!"
Mitchell chuckled despite himself. "Not complicated like that," he said, "Although that's a whole new realm of complicated. Something happened. That's all."
He didn't particularly want to talk about it.
"Like what?" she asked. "Did you insult the headmaster or something?"
"No," he said, shifting, "Nothing like that."
She offered him the tea. His phone rang.
---
George looked like a right mess all right, sitting on the curb of some random house in the middle of Henbury radiating forlorn. Mitchell shut the door of the taxi behind him, and wandered in his direction.
"Nice blouse," he opined.
George looked like he'd been dressed by a pirate. A gay pirate. Or possibly a little girl pirate; what did Mitchell know?
"Where did you leave your clothes?"
George shrugged, a little sliver of a motion, and said, "I don't know. I don't know where we are. I had to ask the operator where I was calling from."
With a sigh, Mitchell pulled his Star of David out of his pocket, holding the long chain over for George to take. "Thanks," George muttered, and glanced up to catch the expression on Mitchell's face. "You're still here," he observed. "Are you okay? You look weird."
"This from a man in culottes," Mitchell said, lightly. "You've got blood on your face."
"It's okay," George said, shrugging again. "It's only a deer's."
So he'd wound up out in the woods last night, and killed a deer. Mitchell supposed that was all right, then. No real emergency. "Come on, Lassie," he said, turning back towards the taxi. The driver was likely weirded out a bit. "Let's head back to the house, get you some clothes."
He paused, glanced over his shoulder. "Does it still hurt?"
George smiled ruefully. "Curses are supposed to hurt," he said, and hopped onto his feet.
"Yeah," Mitchell said, shook his head, and held the door open for him.
[[ nfb,nfi open to one, OOC-okay, and some dialogue taken from the Being Human pilot ]]
Five seconds ago, Mitchell had been brooding in his room by himself, considering all the ways in which he couldn't possibly go back to Fandom or do anything like it ever again. Now, he was being spontaneously haunted by a cheerful ghost holding a cup of tea.
"It's... complicated," he muttered.
"Now I'll say that," Annie chirped, flopping down next to him. "Why's a bloke who teaches in America coming 'round to a flat in Bristol anyway? Are you working on your frequent flyer miles or something? The only place I've ever been to is Barcelona. Gorgeous, though. They have these little shops that carry all of this stuff, I thought I'd go mental!"
Mitchell chuckled despite himself. "Not complicated like that," he said, "Although that's a whole new realm of complicated. Something happened. That's all."
He didn't particularly want to talk about it.
"Like what?" she asked. "Did you insult the headmaster or something?"
"No," he said, shifting, "Nothing like that."
She offered him the tea. His phone rang.
---
George looked like a right mess all right, sitting on the curb of some random house in the middle of Henbury radiating forlorn. Mitchell shut the door of the taxi behind him, and wandered in his direction.
"Nice blouse," he opined.
George looked like he'd been dressed by a pirate. A gay pirate. Or possibly a little girl pirate; what did Mitchell know?
"Where did you leave your clothes?"
George shrugged, a little sliver of a motion, and said, "I don't know. I don't know where we are. I had to ask the operator where I was calling from."
With a sigh, Mitchell pulled his Star of David out of his pocket, holding the long chain over for George to take. "Thanks," George muttered, and glanced up to catch the expression on Mitchell's face. "You're still here," he observed. "Are you okay? You look weird."
"This from a man in culottes," Mitchell said, lightly. "You've got blood on your face."
"It's okay," George said, shrugging again. "It's only a deer's."
So he'd wound up out in the woods last night, and killed a deer. Mitchell supposed that was all right, then. No real emergency. "Come on, Lassie," he said, turning back towards the taxi. The driver was likely weirded out a bit. "Let's head back to the house, get you some clothes."
He paused, glanced over his shoulder. "Does it still hurt?"
George smiled ruefully. "Curses are supposed to hurt," he said, and hopped onto his feet.
"Yeah," Mitchell said, shook his head, and held the door open for him.
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