a couple of off-the-cuff Being Human drabbles
Their blood sang through him, a cacophony of discordant notes, wild and terrifying and exhilarating in a way he hadn’t known in decades. Sights, smells, sounds, sensations, all were sharp and clear, etched indelibly in his memory and imagination. The metallic tang of the blood in his nostrils, the salt of it across his tongue and at the back of his throat, the glorious carmine of it coating his hands and soaked into his clothes.
Mitchell felt her before he looked up from the table into her dark eyes.
“Annie,” he whispered as he tumbled into the depths of despair.
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Annie smiled as she walked into the room, fingers wrapped round a warm mug of tea she couldn’t drink. George and Mitchell lay asleep on the couch, heads propped on either end, legs tangled up in the middle. Her werewolf had been watching Bargain Hunt (why, she didn’t know) while her vampire had faded out ostensibly reading a magazine, but she knew the latest issue of Conan the Cimmerian was hidden within.
She leaned against the door jamb and simply watched them sleep. Her boys. They’d somehow become her family and she’d do anything for them, if they’d let her.