Being Human fic: Three Steps Toward the Graveyard
So, another fic for
tamingthemuse prompt: a fool's paradise.
warnings before reading: angst, abuse of commas, and more angst. Spoilers for epi 1.04 of Being Human. Annie-POV; George/Mitchell UST (slightly one-sided).
Three Steps Toward the Graveyard
“‘Traveling is a fool’s paradise,’” she hears Mitchell murmur; his voice is dark and low, and her mind conjures up images of snakes hiding in the grass. “You should know this, George. You should. You always say we’re the monsters. We shouldn’t be trying for normal. Aren’t you?” And Annie doesn’t know what expression is there, on Mitchell’s face--if it’s anger or weariness. Or lust. But whatever it is, it’s enough to make George lean away, farther over the stove, arms braced on the edge of it to give him balance.
“I know. I know. But--Mitchell,” the pain in George’s voice breaks her heart. His face is a study in fear (Mitchell. He’s afraid of Mitchell), but his voice is pleading, and Annie knows it isn’t for himself. “You can’t, okay, you can’t go back to them.” One of his hands lifts up, flutters up close to Mitchell’s face, then falls away, back to the stove. Annie wonders if the vampire’s eyes are black, if George is trying to appease a monster; if his humanity could work like that. “What happened to Bernie was terrible--”
“Terrible? That’s all? I made him into--I recruited him. Another predator in Bristol. It was all supposed to be harmless, George, and I killed a boy,” Annie sees Mitchell’s hands raise, and she thinks retaliation, but Mitchell’s hands do what George’s failed to--the palms touch the werewolf’s cheek, thumbs rest on cheekbones. Annie doesn’t think it’s painful, nothing like that crosses George’s face, but it draws the werewolf up, straight and close to Mitchell.
She doesn’t really know what they’re trying to say, maybe something about grief or apology or anger. They stop and start like everything’s too big, like a young boy’s death can undo the world. It can, she thinks, it can for us. She knows this is nothing like Owen, nothing like slamming cupboards and smashing plates. What Mitchell did--it can steal everything away from them. Their home; their lives--and she wants to scream, because it isn’t fair. But she doesn’t, she stays hidden in the corner between the kitchen and the living room. Watches her housemates edge closer to something.
“Why did you leave Nina’s, George?” She can see George’s consternation, even as he finally reaches out and shoves Mitchell away. “Why did you come back here?” For me, Annie thinks, couldn’t it have been for me? But she knows it’s not. She doesn’t doubt that George would come running if she needed him, if she said, but she hasn’t--not yet--and Mitchell only has to be and he’ll take up all the room. She doesn’t think she can fault George for that.
“Because you’re thinking about joining up with Herrick?” And that’s a question, too. “Isn’t that enough reason?” No, she thinks; now that George isn’t hemmed in by Mitchell, he stands close, hand on the sleeve of the vampire’s shirt. Even from where she is, the touch looks too light to even register on flesh.
Mitchell shakes his head, “No,” he says and it echoes her thoughts. “Not for this.” But he doesn’t move, and she still can’t see his face. Though she gets the impression that heartbreak isn’t a pretty look for him. “George, please--”
"You’re my friend, Mitchell,” George pulls his hand away, and for a moment she thinks Mitchell will grab for it, but the vampire stays still. Stiff. The undead are good at that, she thinks. “You’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you slip up.” George turns away, so she loses the sight of his face, too. But where Mitchell is stone, George looks like he’s one step from sinking into the floor beneath him. She tries not to think about defeat. Of surrender. But the ideas are toying with the edges of her mind.
“Don’t,” she says, stepping forward. Both men jump, but she can’t smile at the irony of being invisible to the two people who could always see her. “Don’t do this.”
And it breaks some spell. Mitchell stumbles away, out of the kitchen. George won’t look at him or her, is still turned away like he doesn’t have the strength to move. She’s torn between following or staying, but she stays. She can’t go nearer to George, but she can’t move away.
When she hears, “It’s over,” before the door slams, she isn’t surprised. She just feels like crying, but her chest is being squeezed too tight for anything to claw it’s way out.
Something like a sob escapes George, except she’s sure that it’s supposed to sound less angry. “He’ll be back, you know,” he says, and his voice is hoarse and broken. You hate him, she thinks, but when George turns his head, glances at her, she sees only exhaustion.
“Yeah,” she says, and now she can go to him. Cold comfort, she thinks as she wraps her arms around his chest, and rests her head against his back. She feels him shiver before he leans towards her. “Yeah, I know.”
fin
*The quote is from Emerson (“Traveling is a fool's paradise... I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there besides me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.”)
tamingthemuse prompt: a fool's paradise.
warnings before reading: angst, abuse of commas, and more angst. Spoilers for epi 1.04 of Being Human. Annie-POV; George/Mitchell UST (slightly one-sided).
Three Steps Toward the Graveyard
“‘Traveling is a fool’s paradise,’” she hears Mitchell murmur; his voice is dark and low, and her mind conjures up images of snakes hiding in the grass. “You should know this, George. You should. You always say we’re the monsters. We shouldn’t be trying for normal. Aren’t you?” And Annie doesn’t know what expression is there, on Mitchell’s face--if it’s anger or weariness. Or lust. But whatever it is, it’s enough to make George lean away, farther over the stove, arms braced on the edge of it to give him balance.
“I know. I know. But--Mitchell,” the pain in George’s voice breaks her heart. His face is a study in fear (Mitchell. He’s afraid of Mitchell), but his voice is pleading, and Annie knows it isn’t for himself. “You can’t, okay, you can’t go back to them.” One of his hands lifts up, flutters up close to Mitchell’s face, then falls away, back to the stove. Annie wonders if the vampire’s eyes are black, if George is trying to appease a monster; if his humanity could work like that. “What happened to Bernie was terrible--”
“Terrible? That’s all? I made him into--I recruited him. Another predator in Bristol. It was all supposed to be harmless, George, and I killed a boy,” Annie sees Mitchell’s hands raise, and she thinks retaliation, but Mitchell’s hands do what George’s failed to--the palms touch the werewolf’s cheek, thumbs rest on cheekbones. Annie doesn’t think it’s painful, nothing like that crosses George’s face, but it draws the werewolf up, straight and close to Mitchell.
She doesn’t really know what they’re trying to say, maybe something about grief or apology or anger. They stop and start like everything’s too big, like a young boy’s death can undo the world. It can, she thinks, it can for us. She knows this is nothing like Owen, nothing like slamming cupboards and smashing plates. What Mitchell did--it can steal everything away from them. Their home; their lives--and she wants to scream, because it isn’t fair. But she doesn’t, she stays hidden in the corner between the kitchen and the living room. Watches her housemates edge closer to something.
“Why did you leave Nina’s, George?” She can see George’s consternation, even as he finally reaches out and shoves Mitchell away. “Why did you come back here?” For me, Annie thinks, couldn’t it have been for me? But she knows it’s not. She doesn’t doubt that George would come running if she needed him, if she said, but she hasn’t--not yet--and Mitchell only has to be and he’ll take up all the room. She doesn’t think she can fault George for that.
“Because you’re thinking about joining up with Herrick?” And that’s a question, too. “Isn’t that enough reason?” No, she thinks; now that George isn’t hemmed in by Mitchell, he stands close, hand on the sleeve of the vampire’s shirt. Even from where she is, the touch looks too light to even register on flesh.
Mitchell shakes his head, “No,” he says and it echoes her thoughts. “Not for this.” But he doesn’t move, and she still can’t see his face. Though she gets the impression that heartbreak isn’t a pretty look for him. “George, please--”
"You’re my friend, Mitchell,” George pulls his hand away, and for a moment she thinks Mitchell will grab for it, but the vampire stays still. Stiff. The undead are good at that, she thinks. “You’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you slip up.” George turns away, so she loses the sight of his face, too. But where Mitchell is stone, George looks like he’s one step from sinking into the floor beneath him. She tries not to think about defeat. Of surrender. But the ideas are toying with the edges of her mind.
“Don’t,” she says, stepping forward. Both men jump, but she can’t smile at the irony of being invisible to the two people who could always see her. “Don’t do this.”
And it breaks some spell. Mitchell stumbles away, out of the kitchen. George won’t look at him or her, is still turned away like he doesn’t have the strength to move. She’s torn between following or staying, but she stays. She can’t go nearer to George, but she can’t move away.
When she hears, “It’s over,” before the door slams, she isn’t surprised. She just feels like crying, but her chest is being squeezed too tight for anything to claw it’s way out.
Something like a sob escapes George, except she’s sure that it’s supposed to sound less angry. “He’ll be back, you know,” he says, and his voice is hoarse and broken. You hate him, she thinks, but when George turns his head, glances at her, she sees only exhaustion.
“Yeah,” she says, and now she can go to him. Cold comfort, she thinks as she wraps her arms around his chest, and rests her head against his back. She feels him shiver before he leans towards her. “Yeah, I know.”
fin
*The quote is from Emerson (“Traveling is a fool's paradise... I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there besides me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.”)