A Pink Corner House, Bristol, Tuesday Late Afternoon

[chosehumanity]

He'd gotten home that afternoon, his head still full of... everything. Mitchell had just stormed up the stairs and found himself a change of clothes, sat down on his bed and just stared up at the ceiling for a few ticks.

But that was done with, now.

He came downstairs to find the floor of the kitchen covered in the remains of what had once been a plate. "Mind your feet!" Annie called, sweeping like a maniac. "I just, er, dropped a plate."

Mitchell wasn't so sure this level of plate-carnage just happened from dropping things. "Right," he muttered. He would have said more, honestly, if it wasn't for Annie reaching for the line of cups sitting just above the kitchenette-- only for a cup to fly off at random, slamming hard into the opposing wall. "What-- Did you just--"

Oh god, was she turning into a poltergeist?

More crockery shot off the shelves and buried itself in various flat surfaces. That would confirm that theory. He looked up, staring at Annie, ready to talk to her about it when George suddenly slid into the room, ignorant of anything going on, and dressed like he was about to go to a job interview at a restaurant.

"So tell me honestly," he said, "Is this too flash?"

Mitchell stared for a beat. "I can't imagine ever saying yes, but a bit of context might help." You got used to really bizarre things happening around here. Eventually.

"Right, yes, sorry," George said, as if it only just occurred to him that people couldn't actively read his mind. "Er. I'm going out with Nina later... ... Not, not, not a date. I mean, really not a date. Honestly." Did George even listen to himself talk at all?

Raising his eyebrows, Mitchell leaned back against the counter. "Not a date in a pub," he hazarded, "Not a date in a restaurant, or not a date in some other date-like situation?"

"Gastro-pub." At this point, Mitchell was wondering if George would ever get his breath back. "Not a date in a gastro-pub. Annie?"

She tilted her head critically. "You look like bar-staff," she decided.

The little noise that came out of George's throat was faintly appalled, yet agreeing. "Fair enough. Last time I wore it, someone did ask if the jalfrezi was off, so..." He glanced sideways at the doorway, and suddenly ran off, like he thought he was Road Runner or something.

Mitchell shook his head, and turned back to Annie. More important things. "Okay," he said, slowly, glancing up at all the mugs, "This mug, did it just move on its own?"

Annie rolled her eyes, though. "Yeah, right. Maybe it fell out with the other mugs and decided he needed some time on his own," she snarked, picking up the broom again. Mitchell rubbed at his face. This was going to be problematic. If he just--

--George bounced in in the worst orange monstrosity he had ever seen. "So, this non-date, are you going to break it to her you cross-dress?" Mitchell asked, without missing a beat.

"...A bit over the top? Er. Annie. You-- you agree with him?"

"It's hideous," Annie filled in, nodding. At this point, Mitchell thought he could see a little cloud of dust kicking off at George's departure.

He gazed back at Annie. They needed to get to the bottom of this. "So...?" he prompted.

She swept madly at the last remaining pieces of crockery on the floor. "Er, can we just forget about the mug and the plate?"

"...What happened with the plate?" he asked, staring. "Annie, when did this start?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "After I found out about Owen. And for all I know, this could be perfectly normal," she argued, putting the broom down against the counter. "You find out your fiance murdered you, you become a... throwing... things about ghost."

"Poltergeist," Mitchell filled in. He felt a little shocked.

"See, you know the terms, you understand how this works," she said, beaming at him. "D'you think I can channel it?" She pointed past him. "I have been dying to pull that fridge out and clean behind it."

Oh, God. "Annie, you're still dealing with the fact that you were killed by Owen," he said, carefully, feeling a little out of his depth about it. "Maybe cleaning the kitchen isn't the best way to go about it...?"

As he said it, a plate shot straight past his head and embedded itself in the opposite wall. Annie looked contrite. Christ. She was getting powerful, wasn't she--? "You really can't control it, can you?" he asked. God. If she couldn't--

He was interrupted again by the sound of George dashing back into the kitchen, dressed in a grey shirt with black trousers, and--

"Oh, that just looks like you can't be arsed."

---

"Oh, no, no, no... it's just occurred to me I was on the jaws of a change when me and Nina..."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You know, I had the wolf in me."

"So did Nina."

"Mitchell! Stop sniggering, this is not a joke. I really, really like Nina and I thought that... well, I hoped that she liked me. But what if she's only interested in the wolf?"

"...Ah. Yeah. That could be a problem."

"...Oh, oh, thank you for, 'Oh, no, George, how could that be possible?'!"

---

He escaped from the pandemonium of the house a little before sunset. Mitchell stepped outside, and glanced up, listening to the ravens that always clustered around the house. He reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, feeling the need to see the world properly, even if the sunlight hurt his eyes like nobody's business.

"Nobody wants you here! Why don't you just piss off?"

His mind snapped away from the path it had been about to meander off on. He located the source of the noise quickly enough: a few boys, right opposite his house, looking a little younger than his students but not by much. Two of them were advancing on the third, looking menacing.

Bullies. Mitchell hated bullies.

"Oi, lads," he called, his feet moving before he'd even thought about it. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Piss off!" the biggest of them shouted, trying to look menacing. Which was, frankly, hilarious.

"What was that?"

"You heard!" the other boy called, cajoling. "Look at this man! He reckons he can take us!"

This time, Mitchell did snort out loud. "You're about three," he scoffed.

"This your boyfriend?" the first boy asked of the third, who shook his head violently. That was about it, as far as Mitchell was concerned. Fuck it all.

"Leave him alone."

The second boy thought he could start something, apparently. "Fuck off, Goth boy," he hissed at Mitchell. Honestly. Kids these days. No respect for their elders.

"Don't push your luck," he said, simply, narrowing his eyes. The boys laughed it off, like it was ridiculous. What did they know? "Don't," said Mitchell, again, with distinct memories of twisting someone's neck but three days ago. "You don't wanna know what I can do."

"Yeah, I do. Why I asked," said the bigger boy, puffing himself up.

"No, really," Mitchell replied, and turned his head, slipping easily into gameface, black eyes and all. "You don't."

They ran screaming.

Letting the black seep away from his eyes, Mitchell turned 'round to face the third boy. The boy was keeping himself big, even if he was visibly smaller than the others. "I could have seen them off myself," he muttered.

Mitchell took a breath, and laughed a little, leaning up against the wall behind him. "I couldn't at your age," he shared. "That was payback for all the little bastards who used to try to take a pop at me."

"Yeah?"

"Between you and me," Mitchell said, leaning in, "I was the dorkiest of dorks." Chalk that up as something he'd never admit to Kate, just because she'd have too much fun with it.

The boy's mum arrived, then, and they chatted a bit. Fleur, her name was, and her son was Bernie, and she was incredibly grateful to him for helping out. "So you're a neighbour, then? That's modern living for you. They could have Osama bin Laden stashed away at number six and I wouldn't know!" she said, grinning, and absolutely insisted that Mitchell come in for a cuppa.

And after the past few days, who was he to argue with that?

(As it turned out, he should have argued, because all she had in the house was camomile, and that crap was rancid. Not that he'd say so)

She insisted that her son was better than those 'little shits', that he was sensitive - much to Bernie's vehement denial, because he thought that made him sound 'gay', and Fleur took offense to that - "I'll tell Uncle Frank and Uncle Paolo that you said that! There's nothing wrong with being sensitive, is there, Mitchell?"

"Not at all," he said.

"No, we're not born arseholes," she said, wistfully. And then she followed it up with the most amazing thing, the most wonderful, stupid, insane, completely untrue but hopeful thing anyway.

"And you," is what she said, smiling at Mitchell from the counter, "Are one of the good guys."

And he could allow himself to pretend again.

[[ nfb, nfi, OOC-okay, and taken from Being Human 1x04 ]]

Comments

[thatsamilkshake]

[...Oh Mitchell. THIS WILL NOT END WELL.]

[bitchprince]

[[ It's Mitchell. Does anything he does ever? ]]