Fic: Seclusion
Title: Seclusion
Fandom: Being Human
Characters: Mitchell, George, Annie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which it's no easier to socialise once you're dead.
AN: Written for the 'social phobia' square, for hc_bingo
The living room floor is just big enough for the three of them to sprawl out on the floor in an untidy flower. Their heads are resting together on the carpet, more than close enough to hear each other if they whisper.
All the lights are off, the TV's unplugged, the doors and windows are all shut and locked. Much as George would like to protest that they're just being security minded, the gang of Wraiths that are roaming the streets trying to eat anything supernatural definitely has something to do with it.
Hence the new arrangement on the floor.
George can feel the cold tickle of Annie's hair to his left. The faint static charge she gives off when she's nervous, when she fidgets restlessly.
Mitchell's a contrast of stillness to his right, legs propped up on the sofa, arms stretched out either side of him. He's still annoyed about the decision to hide from this new and unexpected menace. Annoyed but not arguing against the necessity of it.
"I vote we stay in forever," Annie offers.
"We can't stay in forever," Mitchell's voice is a rumble in the dark. He's making less of an effort to whisper. Though it's close enough to the full moon that George's hearing is probably better than his.
"Why not?" Annie says stiffly. "Every time we go out someone gets eaten, or possessed, or falls into some sort of other dimension full of dead people."
"That doesn't happen every time." George feels compelled to point that out. Because it doesn't. Not every time.
"It happens often enough," Mitchell adds under his breath. George can feel him turning his head, the slow brush of his hair against the curve of his ear.
"You're supposed to be helping," he accuses. Because it's clear Annie's having a moment here.
"What, it does?" Mitchell's boots are jiggling now.
Annie turns her head far enough that George knows her and Mitchell's faces are touching. "See, everything outside is a seething mass of danger and unnecessary excitement."
"Annie, you're dead," George says carefully.
"Doesn't mean the worst has already happened to me, and God knows I never thought I'd say that." There's a shuffle on carpet that tells him Annie has just crossed her arms.
"Well the Wraiths can't eat you at least," Mitchell offers.
"Oh, so I just have to worry about watching you two being eaten, or otherwise horribly mutilated, that's really comforting, thank you, Mitchell"
There's a scrape of something on the road outside and they all stop talking at the same time, breath held.
George can't help but picture the ordinary people out there in the dark, brushing past the tall raincoat wearing figures with no clue that there's a face full of teeth under the hair, or the hat, or the scarves.
"Why don't they eat humans anyway?" George asks when the noise doesn't come again.
He feels Mitchell shrug next to him. "Not enough energy maybe?"
"Or maybe they just don't like the taste," Annie offers
"Humanity should be glad either way."
George makes a noise in his throat. "Sort of like the vampire's vampire."
"Thank you for that comparison, George." Mitchell would clearly rather be anywhere else.
"I used to be afraid to go outside for far simpler reasons than 'I might get eaten by something otherworldly,'" Annie says and George isn't sure whether she intends it to sound wistful but it does. "If people knew how much was out there they'd probably decide, quite rightly, to never leave the house again."
They're quiet again, quiet until the sound of heavy footsteps go past without pausing outside the house.
"Yeah but you - ah." George shuts his mouth.
"I did what?"
"You did die in this house," Mitchell finishes, like he knows George doesn't want to put the rest of his foot in his mouth, but just can't help himself.
"Yeah, but not by anything supernatural. He was a monster but he was an ordinary one. One you don't have to invite in. Just your ordinary garden-variety bastard."
"I prefer the things with teeth," Mitchell says slowly. "At least they're honest, at least you can see them coming."
George and Annie are both quiet, because they've been through too much together not to agree.
Fandom: Being Human
Characters: Mitchell, George, Annie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which it's no easier to socialise once you're dead.
AN: Written for the 'social phobia' square, for hc_bingo
The living room floor is just big enough for the three of them to sprawl out on the floor in an untidy flower. Their heads are resting together on the carpet, more than close enough to hear each other if they whisper.
All the lights are off, the TV's unplugged, the doors and windows are all shut and locked. Much as George would like to protest that they're just being security minded, the gang of Wraiths that are roaming the streets trying to eat anything supernatural definitely has something to do with it.
Hence the new arrangement on the floor.
George can feel the cold tickle of Annie's hair to his left. The faint static charge she gives off when she's nervous, when she fidgets restlessly.
Mitchell's a contrast of stillness to his right, legs propped up on the sofa, arms stretched out either side of him. He's still annoyed about the decision to hide from this new and unexpected menace. Annoyed but not arguing against the necessity of it.
"I vote we stay in forever," Annie offers.
"We can't stay in forever," Mitchell's voice is a rumble in the dark. He's making less of an effort to whisper. Though it's close enough to the full moon that George's hearing is probably better than his.
"Why not?" Annie says stiffly. "Every time we go out someone gets eaten, or possessed, or falls into some sort of other dimension full of dead people."
"That doesn't happen every time." George feels compelled to point that out. Because it doesn't. Not every time.
"It happens often enough," Mitchell adds under his breath. George can feel him turning his head, the slow brush of his hair against the curve of his ear.
"You're supposed to be helping," he accuses. Because it's clear Annie's having a moment here.
"What, it does?" Mitchell's boots are jiggling now.
Annie turns her head far enough that George knows her and Mitchell's faces are touching. "See, everything outside is a seething mass of danger and unnecessary excitement."
"Annie, you're dead," George says carefully.
"Doesn't mean the worst has already happened to me, and God knows I never thought I'd say that." There's a shuffle on carpet that tells him Annie has just crossed her arms.
"Well the Wraiths can't eat you at least," Mitchell offers.
"Oh, so I just have to worry about watching you two being eaten, or otherwise horribly mutilated, that's really comforting, thank you, Mitchell"
There's a scrape of something on the road outside and they all stop talking at the same time, breath held.
George can't help but picture the ordinary people out there in the dark, brushing past the tall raincoat wearing figures with no clue that there's a face full of teeth under the hair, or the hat, or the scarves.
"Why don't they eat humans anyway?" George asks when the noise doesn't come again.
He feels Mitchell shrug next to him. "Not enough energy maybe?"
"Or maybe they just don't like the taste," Annie offers
"Humanity should be glad either way."
George makes a noise in his throat. "Sort of like the vampire's vampire."
"Thank you for that comparison, George." Mitchell would clearly rather be anywhere else.
"I used to be afraid to go outside for far simpler reasons than 'I might get eaten by something otherworldly,'" Annie says and George isn't sure whether she intends it to sound wistful but it does. "If people knew how much was out there they'd probably decide, quite rightly, to never leave the house again."
They're quiet again, quiet until the sound of heavy footsteps go past without pausing outside the house.
"Yeah but you - ah." George shuts his mouth.
"I did what?"
"You did die in this house," Mitchell finishes, like he knows George doesn't want to put the rest of his foot in his mouth, but just can't help himself.
"Yeah, but not by anything supernatural. He was a monster but he was an ordinary one. One you don't have to invite in. Just your ordinary garden-variety bastard."
"I prefer the things with teeth," Mitchell says slowly. "At least they're honest, at least you can see them coming."
George and Annie are both quiet, because they've been through too much together not to agree.