A Pink Corner House, Bristol, Thursday Morning

[chosehumanity]

Mitchell was cooking.

In the context of language in general, that wasn't a particularly strange sentence; in the context of this particular household, it was a bizarre aberration that would certainly lead to the apocalypse. George usually cooked, and if he didn't, then Annie did the job for him - Mitchell's dependability near a stove was questionable at best.

But Annie had spent the night guarding over the others. Kate had been granted Annie's room, and Jack the sofa-- Nina was sleeping off her own intense mental exhaustion in George's bedroom, and if you asked Mitchell, he'd say he wasn't expecting her to get up any time soon.

So, breakfast for three it was. Three malformed, droopy eggs stared back up at Mitchell, and the beans in the other pan were starting to burn just a little bit (the toast, on the other hand, was fine, but then it was impossible even for Mitchell to ruin toast), but at least he was trying.

Annie had insisted on making the coffee, though, and Mitchell wasn't going to argue. He'd have to go pick up George in another hour - the werewolf always slept late after a full moon.

[[ for those still in Bristol. ]]