chosehumanity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chosehumanity) wrote2011-01-02 02:57 pm
chosehumanity) wrote2011-01-02 02:57 pm
A Hospital, Bristol, Sunday Afternoon
After kicking Hannibal off the island, Mitchell hadn't really felt much like staying. It was starting to feel like everything ever was falling back into shit on him, and he just wanted ... something. Something nice. Something good. Something that wasn't about crying teenagers, or sitting at home feeling useless, or beating up stupid fledglings with more balls than sense.
So he figured he'd go look up George at hospital, see how he was coming along, try very hard not to bring up Nina's condition... ...except George had, upon arrival, immediately informed him that he was busy, go hang about the restrooms or something, skulking's what you do best.
Which was lovely. Really.
He sighed, and pushed into the bathroom.
The girl sitting on the john looked up and stared at him. "...What are you doing here?"
Mitchell stared straight on back. His usual 'back away and leave the lady to her loo time' instincts had taken a backseat, apparently. "...Going to the loo," he said.
"This is the ladies!" she snapped. She was quite pretty, even if she was completely furious.
Mitchell startled, but his feet weren't moving yet. "It's a unisex toilet," he said, slowly. She stared back at him, as if looking him in the eye was going to make all of this go away.
"...A what," she said. Her expression did not exactly invite a slow, measured answer.
"There's a sign," Mitchell said, and found his tone matching hers without his say-so. "On the door."
"A unisex toilet," she repeated, and got up, cigarette perching between her fingers. "What are we, in a fucking kibbutz?!"
He really didn't have a clue what was going on here, or maybe his mind had just gone through a few too many spins these past few days to be properly operational. "I'll, uh," he stammered, "I'll-- come back?" He stared to back away.
And then she started crying.
Oh, hell.
"...Are you okay?" Mitchell asked, carefully. Crying women. It really was his lot this month, but at the same time... he wanted to help.
She turned around slowly, and for a moment, he was terrified she was going to try to throw something at his head - the kick Hannibal had delivered to his face still smarted a little bit. But she wasn't, apparently, about to kick off into any violence; she started talking. "I was a house officer at the Whittington in London," she said, with a little hitch in her breath. "I had a boyfriend, a goldfish, a flat with a garden. When it was someone's birthday, we'd have wine in mugs and eat Twix fingers. And you know what? It was lovely. But because I am an idiot and because it was a promotion, I gave it all up. Me and my goldfish moved here, where the doctors have an acronym for unattractive female patients, IWEJF. 'I Wouldn't Even Jizz In Her Face'."
She looked Mitchell straight in the eye, as if willing him to just let that one sink in for a moment. "And last night I got home and my goldfish was gone. No body, no note, no nothing." She took a quick breath. "So no," she said, "I am really not 'okay'."
The silence fell to the point where Mitchell knew he was expected to say something, but somehow, the words didn't quite come. Instead he settled on, "...Do you have a cat? Cos, well, chances are that's what ate the goldfish."
She gave him a look like he was the stupidest thing on Earth, and all right, maybe he kind of was, right now. "I don't, and if I did, I think I'd have made that connection," she snapped.
Right. Um. "...Cat must've gotten in somehow--"
"Yeah, actually, could you sort of piss off for a bit?" she asked, and promptly slammed the bathroom door shut in his face.
He stared at the door. He stared at it for a moment or so as he tried to make sense of what the hell just happened, and in the process of it, he felt something like rage climbing its way up. Yes, she was pretty, and it sounded like all of that had been shit, but she didn't have a fucking clue what shit was like, did she?
Five seconds later, Mitchell was pushing the door back open. "As my best friend kindly likes to point out to me on a regular basis, last time being ten minutes ago, I don't have a girlfriend. All my family are dead, I work at a cinema nobody visits, my other best friend is a fucking mess who can't stop getting into trouble every five minutes, and half of the time it's my fault and the other half of the time it's her being a complete fucking disaster, and yesterday I got into a fight with her ex, who is a teenage fuckhead and liked to tell me just how much nobody's been listening to me for fucking years, it feels like, and who kicked me in the face. So, as much as I sympathise, if we're comparing isolation and disappointment, I think I win."
Seriously.
He turned around to finally go, and that's when she spoke up. Feeble, this time, and with a lot less rage. "I'm Lucy," she said.
He sighed, and stopped walking. "I'm Mitchell."
"I keep screwing up, Mitchell," she said, and set her mouth in a wry little line.
He turned back towards her, and almost-- almost smiled. "Well," he said, "You're in good company."
---
George's shift ended about fifteen minutes later, but Mitchell was nowhere to be found. He made his way back to the house, where he took off his coat and found Nina in his bedroom, all tense nerves and ready to jump. They fought; she told him; she screamed 'You gave it to me!' and then she sank down to the ground crying and he stormed out, his feelings a whirl in his head.
Mitchell?
Well, this is what Mitchell was doing:
---
"There's a goldfish on my table."
"He's not your original goldfish. I haven't been holding him hostage."
"Um, are you even allowed to put goldfish in jars any more?"
"Who says you can't?"
"I don't know. The people? I'm sure there's a thing now that you can't put goldfish in jars."
"You just made that up."
"It's very possible. So what's his name?"
"Trevor."
"Trevor? Hm-hm. Hello, Trevor!"
---
It could be argued that Mitchell's day was a bit better than George's, on the whole.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay, and taken from Being Human S2E01! ]]
So he figured he'd go look up George at hospital, see how he was coming along, try very hard not to bring up Nina's condition... ...except George had, upon arrival, immediately informed him that he was busy, go hang about the restrooms or something, skulking's what you do best.
Which was lovely. Really.
He sighed, and pushed into the bathroom.
The girl sitting on the john looked up and stared at him. "...What are you doing here?"
Mitchell stared straight on back. His usual 'back away and leave the lady to her loo time' instincts had taken a backseat, apparently. "...Going to the loo," he said.
"This is the ladies!" she snapped. She was quite pretty, even if she was completely furious.
Mitchell startled, but his feet weren't moving yet. "It's a unisex toilet," he said, slowly. She stared back at him, as if looking him in the eye was going to make all of this go away.
"...A what," she said. Her expression did not exactly invite a slow, measured answer.
"There's a sign," Mitchell said, and found his tone matching hers without his say-so. "On the door."
"A unisex toilet," she repeated, and got up, cigarette perching between her fingers. "What are we, in a fucking kibbutz?!"
He really didn't have a clue what was going on here, or maybe his mind had just gone through a few too many spins these past few days to be properly operational. "I'll, uh," he stammered, "I'll-- come back?" He stared to back away.
And then she started crying.
Oh, hell.
"...Are you okay?" Mitchell asked, carefully. Crying women. It really was his lot this month, but at the same time... he wanted to help.
She turned around slowly, and for a moment, he was terrified she was going to try to throw something at his head - the kick Hannibal had delivered to his face still smarted a little bit. But she wasn't, apparently, about to kick off into any violence; she started talking. "I was a house officer at the Whittington in London," she said, with a little hitch in her breath. "I had a boyfriend, a goldfish, a flat with a garden. When it was someone's birthday, we'd have wine in mugs and eat Twix fingers. And you know what? It was lovely. But because I am an idiot and because it was a promotion, I gave it all up. Me and my goldfish moved here, where the doctors have an acronym for unattractive female patients, IWEJF. 'I Wouldn't Even Jizz In Her Face'."
She looked Mitchell straight in the eye, as if willing him to just let that one sink in for a moment. "And last night I got home and my goldfish was gone. No body, no note, no nothing." She took a quick breath. "So no," she said, "I am really not 'okay'."
The silence fell to the point where Mitchell knew he was expected to say something, but somehow, the words didn't quite come. Instead he settled on, "...Do you have a cat? Cos, well, chances are that's what ate the goldfish."
She gave him a look like he was the stupidest thing on Earth, and all right, maybe he kind of was, right now. "I don't, and if I did, I think I'd have made that connection," she snapped.
Right. Um. "...Cat must've gotten in somehow--"
"Yeah, actually, could you sort of piss off for a bit?" she asked, and promptly slammed the bathroom door shut in his face.
He stared at the door. He stared at it for a moment or so as he tried to make sense of what the hell just happened, and in the process of it, he felt something like rage climbing its way up. Yes, she was pretty, and it sounded like all of that had been shit, but she didn't have a fucking clue what shit was like, did she?
Five seconds later, Mitchell was pushing the door back open. "As my best friend kindly likes to point out to me on a regular basis, last time being ten minutes ago, I don't have a girlfriend. All my family are dead, I work at a cinema nobody visits, my other best friend is a fucking mess who can't stop getting into trouble every five minutes, and half of the time it's my fault and the other half of the time it's her being a complete fucking disaster, and yesterday I got into a fight with her ex, who is a teenage fuckhead and liked to tell me just how much nobody's been listening to me for fucking years, it feels like, and who kicked me in the face. So, as much as I sympathise, if we're comparing isolation and disappointment, I think I win."
Seriously.
He turned around to finally go, and that's when she spoke up. Feeble, this time, and with a lot less rage. "I'm Lucy," she said.
He sighed, and stopped walking. "I'm Mitchell."
"I keep screwing up, Mitchell," she said, and set her mouth in a wry little line.
He turned back towards her, and almost-- almost smiled. "Well," he said, "You're in good company."
---
George's shift ended about fifteen minutes later, but Mitchell was nowhere to be found. He made his way back to the house, where he took off his coat and found Nina in his bedroom, all tense nerves and ready to jump. They fought; she told him; she screamed 'You gave it to me!' and then she sank down to the ground crying and he stormed out, his feelings a whirl in his head.
Mitchell?
Well, this is what Mitchell was doing:
---
"There's a goldfish on my table."
"He's not your original goldfish. I haven't been holding him hostage."
"Um, are you even allowed to put goldfish in jars any more?"
"Who says you can't?"
"I don't know. The people? I'm sure there's a thing now that you can't put goldfish in jars."
"You just made that up."
"It's very possible. So what's his name?"
"Trevor."
"Trevor? Hm-hm. Hello, Trevor!"
---
It could be argued that Mitchell's day was a bit better than George's, on the whole.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay, and taken from Being Human S2E01! ]]