invisibilitea | IC CONTACT

[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?

I didn't--

[He steps closer still--not too close, but close enough, close enough that the distance between them is nearly closed.]

It was a lot at once. And I was drunk, Annie, I wasn't thinking-- ah, Christ, it's not you. It's never you. You're the best thing that's ever happened t' me, I've said it, already, but I'm saying it again. You are. There wasn't anything that was really good, before you, but it's-- this ship, these people, it makes me feel like I'm losing my mind sometimes, and I can't-- lose you, I can't ever lose you.

That's what hurts, Annie. Not you.

I don't care about werewolves or private investigators or...or...I don't know, other vampires! I care about you! But these people have been kind to me, but don't you think if I felt threatened I would't come to you?

That you wouldn't be my very first line of defense?

[She reaches for his hand, and it's cold, cool, a little island of something that isn't this oppressive heat.]

Mitchell-

[He doesn't say anything, then. He grabs back at her hand, and that's enough, for now--to just hold onto her. The tingling that her grip sets off spreads through his glove, over his hand, up his arm a little--a chilly feeling, pins-and-needles, like plunging your arm in icy water. It's good, it's a relief, a reprieve from the cold, but it's not better than what he's really craving, and that's just Annie, herself. Annie.

He holds onto her hand, it's like a drowning grip, and he can't make it any less desperate. Being without her has been hard, it's put him on edge. Hardly any time at all, but time enough to regress, a little; it's fucking pathetic and there's not a thing he can do about it.]

[She turns and reaches for him, and holds onto him, her arms around his neck. She loves him, she does, sometimes she feels without him she would just float away, vanish into air, and it scares her, but it's not him, it's never him.

She presses her nose into his neck, holding on.]

Mitchell, Mitchell-

[He puts his arms around her in return--of course he does; he puts his arms around her waist, wraps them tightly around her, his fingers digging in as he holds to her. It's cold, but it's such a relief, such a bloody relief--]

I know. I know, I'm sorry--

[He's pressed close to her, he's mumbling it against her shoulder, her neck, whatever.]

I'm sorry, Annie, I just can't think straight, I can't--

[Can't lose her, he's said it a hundred times, but it never feels like enough. Because every time he thinks of it--even if she went off on her own, even if she chose it--Christ, it would be selfish, but just the thought of that makes him feel fucking unglued. He can't.]

Please, Mitchell.

[She holds onto him, tight. She knows. She knows he needs her. She thinks sometimes that he needs too much of her, but that's not true, that would imply there isn't enough of her to give, and there's more than enough, at least for him.]

I forgive you, all right? I don't forgive George but I forgive you.

[George isn't apologizing, after all.]

[He huffs something like a damp laugh, still pressed close to her, his eyes shut tightly.]

That's a little unfair.

[But the protest is really more--for the sake of protesting, than anything else, like that's going to get back some sense of normalcy. Which is pretty stupid, considering he's still holding desperately to her.]

I'm sorry, Annie.

[This back and forth, this string of apologies, she's going to get tired of it eventually. She can't get tired of it. Sometimes it all still feels so unreal.]

He hasn't apologized, how is it unfair?

[She's not letting go of him, because some days this is as close as she can get, she wishes maybe if she had met him when she was alive, maybe things would be different, maybe she could be everything for him instead of just this remnant.]

Can we figure out something? Something that doesn't upset either of us?

[He doesn't say anything to that, at first. His hand goes to the back of her head, his fingers in her hair--that's a grip, too, but more one that presses her a little closer. He doesn't say anything, but stares fixedly at the wall just over her shoulder, letting that silence hang between them a moment.]

I just want t' know where you are. So I don't--have to think about it, Annie, so I don't have to worry.

You can always call me if you're worried. I always take my device with me.

[It's a possible solution but probably not the one he wants to hear.]

Yeah, and if you don't answer?

[Totally not going to work. That's such a picky answer, isn't it--and what's the alternative? She just never goes anywhere? And he knows that it's unreasonable, he knows that it's fucking controlling, but he's started this now, so the rest spills out of him--]

Annie, it's not just these people, it's this ship, this whole fucking ship. It doesn't matter who you are, or what you are--what we are--it can get us, still, any of us. You, or George, if you just go off and--you could be friends with the nicest people, you could be meetin' up with Jesus Christ himself, and something could happen, on your way, and I can't-- I can't, Annie, I can't lose you again, not after everything. And then these people, on top of it all-- Christ, I just keep thinking of it, I can't stop thinking of it.

Mitchell, you can't possibly ask me to stay with you all the time! It would drive us both mad!

[She knows all too well what that kind of isolation can do to a person. It's not feasible, to not have some time apart.]

Don't you think I worry about you?

I know, I know.

[She tried that before--or she will try it--sort of, anyways, following him around. It was grating, to say the very least. And there will be times he has to go off alone too, right--for reasons he doesn't necessarily want to consider, but who knows what the hell will happen--

(And it's not a good sign, to already be making those sorts of provisions and allowances. Thinking that way damns him before he starts. But it's a thought that's always there, at the back of his mind, and he can't shake it.)]

And I know you do, I know, I just-- God, Annie. I don't know-- what would happen, I don't.

Haven't I rescued you before, too?

[She holds onto his hand, then, moving away just a little, to look him in the eye. Sometimes she thinks his intensity is driven by his fear, but then other times she thinks, no, he's just like that, intense all the time, that's just how God must have made him, if there is a God.]

[He studies her face, almost feverishly. After a second, he reaches out to touch his fingertips against her cheek, and then it's his hand, on her cheek, less carefully, like he can't help himself.]

You saved me. More than anyone.

[And that's why he needs her so badly.]

Then don't you think I can rescue myself?

[She watches him, careful. She lets him touch her even if he is wearing those ridiculous gloves]

I wish I had met you before I died.

It doesn't work that way. You can't always see, what's a threat, and what isn't, you're-- [Too good, sometimes, in a way that he wants and admires and needs, Christ, he needs it from her, to balance him out, to give him something--] It can happen so quickly, Annie. Believe me. I know. You don't even know, until you're in it, and then you can't rescue yourself.

[His eyes flick over her face again. He smooths his thumb against her cheek, almost a compulsive gesture, and a little trickle of cold travels up his arm--but his face twists a little, when she says that, and it's nothing to do with the cold.]

Don't say that. Don't.

I'm not going to lie to you, Mitchell. I wish I had met you when I still had a life. When I was still...

[She pauses, because she doesn't know the word for it. Solid? Actual? Sturdy?]

...real.

[That's not the right word either but it's the word that fits the best just at this moment. When she was still real, back when she still felt solid. Before Owen.]

Annie.

[He shifts his hand a little, so it's more of a grip.]

You're real. Jesus, Annie, you're more real than anyone I've ever-- I've never had anything like this. It's never been about love, it's come close, but it was never like this. This, this, and you, this is what I need. It's all real.

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