Bristol, Sunday
At least Cara had been true to her word: all the vampires in Bristol had packed into the Old Church. The bad end of that was that all the vampires in Bristol were packed into the Old Church, turning the place into a loud, dirty hive of less-than-civilised vampires. It almost made Mitchell miss Sebastien.
He scraped his throat, and began to talk, except no one was listening. Or rather, they were; they just didn't give a crap. So he tried again, and wound up in the middle of an argument-- about lifestyle changes, and how much they were possible. That kind of thing.
Then the rest of them started in with the yelling and the belligerence and the complete fucking lack of perspective on just how crap their situation was.
Before Mitchell knew it, he'd pushed himself up onto the stage and put his big boy voice on.
"Do you people have any fucking idea who I am? My name is John Mitchell. And I've killed more people than you've met!"
There. Now they were listening.
And so, hours later, in the dark, Mitchell dragged himself homeward to find he'd missed a house meeting. To be honest, 'check texts' had not exactly been high up on his list of things to do - you sort of got distracted from things like that when you were busy trying to keep the Bristol vampire nest together with nothing but the skin of your teeth and a few good threats dedicated to the next person to get stupid and try to kill someone.
Yeah, that kind of thing, it really ate up your brain a bit.
So it came probably as no surprise to anyone but George and Annie that Mitchell took the house meeting as an excellent excuse to finally allow his mind to snap like an old twig on the kitchen floor.
It went a bit like this:
George: You don't buy any food, you never hoover. I don't think you even know what a pair of Marigolds is!
Mitchell: I don't do Marigolds.
Annie: We need to talk. So, George, you start.
George: [to Mitchell] Are you okay?
Mitchell: I've been better. You?
George: Likewise.
Mitchell: We should just go out one night and just get hammered.
George: Yeah, that's a good idea.
Annie: That's it? That's how you share?
George: What more is there to say?
Mitchell: Yeah, he's feeling a bit down, which is pretty understandable, and I'm kind of stressed. We don't need to turn this into an episode of Oprah.
George: Exactly! File it under 'have discussed'.
Mitchell: George, do you wanna watch The Real Hustle?
George: Oh I would really like that, Mitchell. Women - think you're such authorities, like the way you deal with emotion is the only way.
Mitchell: It's not on!
George: Er, yeah it is, it's on at 10:30.
Mitchell: No, they moved it.
George: They-- what?! No, you're kidding me?
Mitchell: Oh, I don't believe it!
George: No, I was looking forward to that.
Mitchell: 10:30, Thursdays; that's 'Real Hustle time'. A fucking child knows that!
George: Could I just not have one good thing in my life...?
Mitchell: ...it just drives me insane when they move things around...
George: ...don't I deserve it, don't I deserve one bloody crumb of happiness?
Mitchell: ...this is so... what, so we're supposed to check every week! Like we don't have anything else to do! Is it our responsibility? Why's it down to us?!
George: I saw a preview, they were going to do a con about cashpoints.
Mitchell: [teary] Really? I would have loved that. [raging ] You bastards! Argh!
[George sobs.
Mitchell marches back into the living room wearing a pair of Marigolds.]
Mitchell: There, I'll do the washing-up! Is everyone happy now?!
[George sobs harder. ]
... and it ended in all three of them curled up on the sofa whimpering (George), brooding (Mitchell) or glaring (Annie) at the television set.
February was not shaping up to be a good month.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay, and half-assed from taken from Being Human 2x03 ]]
He scraped his throat, and began to talk, except no one was listening. Or rather, they were; they just didn't give a crap. So he tried again, and wound up in the middle of an argument-- about lifestyle changes, and how much they were possible. That kind of thing.
Then the rest of them started in with the yelling and the belligerence and the complete fucking lack of perspective on just how crap their situation was.
Before Mitchell knew it, he'd pushed himself up onto the stage and put his big boy voice on.
"Do you people have any fucking idea who I am? My name is John Mitchell. And I've killed more people than you've met!"
There. Now they were listening.
And so, hours later, in the dark, Mitchell dragged himself homeward to find he'd missed a house meeting. To be honest, 'check texts' had not exactly been high up on his list of things to do - you sort of got distracted from things like that when you were busy trying to keep the Bristol vampire nest together with nothing but the skin of your teeth and a few good threats dedicated to the next person to get stupid and try to kill someone.
Yeah, that kind of thing, it really ate up your brain a bit.
So it came probably as no surprise to anyone but George and Annie that Mitchell took the house meeting as an excellent excuse to finally allow his mind to snap like an old twig on the kitchen floor.
It went a bit like this:
George: You don't buy any food, you never hoover. I don't think you even know what a pair of Marigolds is!
Mitchell: I don't do Marigolds.
Annie: We need to talk. So, George, you start.
George: [to Mitchell] Are you okay?
Mitchell: I've been better. You?
George: Likewise.
Mitchell: We should just go out one night and just get hammered.
George: Yeah, that's a good idea.
Annie: That's it? That's how you share?
George: What more is there to say?
Mitchell: Yeah, he's feeling a bit down, which is pretty understandable, and I'm kind of stressed. We don't need to turn this into an episode of Oprah.
George: Exactly! File it under 'have discussed'.
Mitchell: George, do you wanna watch The Real Hustle?
George: Oh I would really like that, Mitchell. Women - think you're such authorities, like the way you deal with emotion is the only way.
Mitchell: It's not on!
George: Er, yeah it is, it's on at 10:30.
Mitchell: No, they moved it.
George: They-- what?! No, you're kidding me?
Mitchell: Oh, I don't believe it!
George: No, I was looking forward to that.
Mitchell: 10:30, Thursdays; that's 'Real Hustle time'. A fucking child knows that!
George: Could I just not have one good thing in my life...?
Mitchell: ...it just drives me insane when they move things around...
George: ...don't I deserve it, don't I deserve one bloody crumb of happiness?
Mitchell: ...this is so... what, so we're supposed to check every week! Like we don't have anything else to do! Is it our responsibility? Why's it down to us?!
George: I saw a preview, they were going to do a con about cashpoints.
Mitchell: [teary] Really? I would have loved that. [raging ] You bastards! Argh!
[George sobs.
Mitchell marches back into the living room wearing a pair of Marigolds.]
Mitchell: There, I'll do the washing-up! Is everyone happy now?!
[George sobs harder. ]
... and it ended in all three of them curled up on the sofa whimpering (George), brooding (Mitchell) or glaring (Annie) at the television set.
February was not shaping up to be a good month.
[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay, and half-assed from taken from Being Human 2x03 ]]