invisibilitea | IC CONTACT

[This is a few hours later, about eight, like maybe she was sleeping, you know.

If she slept.]

I'm not telling you.

[Well, at least she's answered, which is better than he was expecting.]

Yeah, yeah, all right. Fine.

[It's not, but. Whatever.]

You're all right?

I'm not injured.

You know what I mean.

No, I'm not all right.

[He sighs, again, sharply.]

So where are you.

I'm not saying.

Oh, Annie, come on!

I don't want to see either of you!

Yeah? And for how long? Because you're going t' see us, eventually--this ship isn't that big--and I'm not going t' stop looking for you.

You can't even admit it, that you and George, you're the ones - if you had done it when you were sober, if George hadn't said that I would-

[She stops, she stops talking]

-you have George, you can go and get pissed and spend as much time as you like with him, he'll be thrilled I'm sure, as he can't-

[She can't say it.

He can't hurt you, but apparently I can-]

[He's still angry--but something in her voice quiets that feeling, a little, at least enough that he holds his silence, even after she's stopped talking.

After a pause, quietly:]

Annie. Where are you?

[She's quiet for a long, long moment.]

In the kitchen. On the 25th floor.

[He breathes out, a sigh, relieved.]

All right. Stay there, I'll-- be there, in a minute.

[She does stay there. When he gets there she's making tea, but it's not her tea, it's the bad space tea, because her tea is down on their floor, not up here, and she didn't feel like going down to get it.

And maybe it's a little bit of revenge, too. Hot bad tea on a sweltering ship, even though Annie doesn't really feel the heat and she's a mini cooler.]

[It's far too fucking hot for tea, but there's something grounding about stepping into a kitchen with Annie doing tea. It could be the shittiest tea in the world, but it's still Annie, it's still tea. It's nearly like being home, which never, before, meant much to Mitchell. Living with George, and with Annie--that changed it.

He stops in the doorway and studies her, first, almost cautiously. Down to just jeans and tank top, still wearing his gloves (of course), his hands loose at his sides. He doesn't know what the hell to say to her.]

Can I come in?

[Somehow it's easier, it's an old habit, familiar and comfortable - making tea, setting it in front of him, even if he doesn't drink it. Her making tea has never been about drinking it, or even about making it for her flatmates, but something reassuringly normal, something about home.

It takes her home.

She doesn't look at him, at first. She holds her head down, her fingers around the handle of the kettle. It's a good sign that she can hold it.]

Yes, you can.

[It's not like he has to be invited in to the kitchen--but it feels like a vote of confidence to be asked in, however small. Stupid, right. He goes and leans against the counter just behind her, a little ways off, so she doesn't feel closed in or anything--which is equally stupid, because she's capable of just rentaghosting away.

There's another few beats of silence.]

Look, I'm-- sorry, all right. It got-- out of hand.

[She looks up at him, and she knows - she knows they mean well, that they don't want her to be hurt. And she knows that Mitchell loves her.

She knows it otherwise she would just dissolve into air.]

Yeah, it did. You both cocked it up.

[She pauses, and looks back down at the kettle]

You, less.

[He smiles, thinly, at that exception--and doesn't disagree, but then again, he doesn't agree, either. Instead he steps over, just a little closer to her, staring at the floor between them.]

It was meant t' be just to you. We really are worried for you, Annie. I'm-- God. [He huffs something that could nearly be a laugh, a short, sharp sound.] I don't know. It got all-- cocked up. You're right about that.

[She takes a moment, and set her hand between them. How can she explain it? That she can't hurt him, and that George suggesting - she was hurt, she knows what it's like, to be afraid of someone you loved, he killed her, and then Mitchell didn't speak up for her, he didn't defend her-

She takes a breath]

I'm not Owen.

[He looks at her hand instead. It looks substantial, lying there, pressed to the countertop. If he took her hand, it would feel cold; it would be there, but it wouldn't be there, too.]

I'm not either.

I never said you were!

[Other people have said it, other people have implied it, but she told him, didn't she? She told him, why isn't that loyalty?]

But George said I was, Mitchell! He said I would hurt you!

What? He didn't say you were Owen! He said--

[They were all talking and angry, and Mitchell and George were pissed--and like your judgement's any good whilst pissed, you just say whatever. George more so than other people, probably.]

Look, I don't know why he said that, all right, I can't control, what he says. I didn't tell him t' say it. If you want an apology for that, you're going to have t' talk to him about it, because I didn't say it. I don't think of it that way. But he's worried for you too, I know he is.

Why didn't you defend me?

[She feels small, but her voice isn't, she's not quite yelling but she's not shrinking, either.]

Have I? Have I lost my temper, has something hit you and I didn't say? Mitchell, have I hurt you?

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