invisibilitea | IC CONTACT

[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.

[She just goes quiet, and holds his hand]

I still wish I had met you then.

[She doesn't like being dead. She knows she doesn't have as much to complain about, but she doesn't like it.]

[Then I would have killed you, or gotten her killed, maybe--and he should just say it, but he can't. Fucking coward that he is. He can't say it to her, not right now.

Instead, he touches his other hand against her cheek, far more carefully--and then he leans in, all at once, and kisses her. It's a good kiss, more sweet than hungry. He's so tired of being hungry anyways.]

[She kisses him back like he's air, and she can breathe him in and survive, and runs her fingers through his hair.]

I love you, I love you so much-

I know--

[He mumbles that, between kisses--not that either of them really need to take breaths, but the instinct is there anyways--]

I know, I love you too, Annie--

[So much so that just saying the words seems somehow inadequate, like there's something else that can prove it to her. Everything he's said has been true. He needs her, just like this, just her--and George, too, but that's nothing like this. When he kisses her, it's cold and steadying; when he's with her, and there aren't any threats, there's no one else--just them--then he hardly thinks of feeding, of hunger, because she's everything. He can put it all to her instead, and he kisses her again, his fingers clenched in her hair.]

[His fingers are in her hair and knotted in her curls and her hands are in his, cupping his skull, and finally, finally, she just leans her forehead against his.]

Please, please trust me, please trust me to stay for you-

[His breath, when he lets it out, is long and ragged; he leans against her, hard, clutching at her, like that's going to be enough to make her stay, to keep her here.]

I can't.

[It comes out low and miserable. He squeezes his eyes shut, his teeth set together. He trusts Annie and George, more than anyone--almost more than he's ever trusted anyone--but in the end, when it all falls away, it will only be Mitchell. Because it will fall away. And there are things they don't know, things that he has to protect them from--both of them--]

I can't, Annie, there's always some part of me-- God, I want to. I want to. I can try.

You have to trust me, Mitchell.

You have to.

[She says it with a need - she needs it, she needs him to do it, because Owen didn't trust her and it killed her - literally - and she can't go through it again, she can't.]

Then you have to help me.

[He doesn't pull away, at all, he holds tightly to her, his eyes still shut. God, what is wrong with him? When did it get to be like this.]

I can try, but I can't-- I can't do any of it alone, Annie. Just tell me what to do. Please.

First, let go, Mitchell.

[She means that she can't do this with him attached to her, and also, she wants to look him in the eye.]

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