invisibilitea | IC CONTACT

[She nods and squeezes his hand.]

I love you.

[Because sometimes people need reminding. She doesn't think of him as a monster because he drinks blood. She loves him.]

[He shakes his head, and doesn't say anything--but he holds tightly back to her hand in return, gripping at it like she's the last thing left in the world. It can't have come to this, to where he's sending her off to fetch him blood. His skin crawls, even under the shivers of pain and hunger--there's a grimy, dirty feeling to this, and there's the sudden urge to be sick, and he holds his jaw shut tight, his eyes open but staring fixedly at the floor as he sucks in an uneven breath.]

[She vanishes then, and comes back five minutes later, with a bag of blood in her hands. It's cold, because she's cold, and she presses it into his hand before she sits next to him.

She's not going to watch this. She ducks her head, looks away. If he doesn't want her to see, she won't.]

[Five minutes stretches on, without her there helping him to keep track of the time. He won't do it, he decides, with her gone. He won't feed. When she pops back, that strengthens his resolve--but the blood bag in his hand changes everything. It's right there. It will taste disgusting--cold and stale, too long dead. But he tightens his fingers around it, as he stares fixedly down at the matte plastic of the bag, and the ache in his teeth and in his chest are almost enough to make him tear into it right now.

But Annie is still there. The chill of her makes the hair on his arm stand on end a little, even under his shirtsleeves.]

Go in the room.

[He forces the words out. His voice sounds rough, even to his ears.]

Go and wait. Five-- [No, it won't take that long, he'll have the bag drained in a minute--] --three minutes.

[She just.

Does as she's told.

Five minutes later, really, because it's better to be safe than sorry, she appears again, her arms around her knees as she's curled up in the space next to him. She doesn't touch him. She just sits there, quietly, her mouth a line, not sure what to say.

She wants him to tell her it's all right. That he forgives her for expecting this to happen one day. To forgive her for bringing him the blood.]

Do you want some tea?

[That's the best she can do. Fight for normalcy.]

[Five minutes is better.

The minute she's gone, he tears into the bag, too savage for his weakened state, but his hunger urges him on. Blood slops into his mouth, smears on his chin, and he sucks at the bag, draining every last drop, slurping greedily--ever since the girl in the hallway, white-faced under him, he's wanted this, needed this. It tastes like shit. It tastes like shit, and he licks his fingers to get more, pries open the holes in the bag to get at more, whatever is in there--

One minute, maybe a minute and a half. And then the bag is crumpled and empty, and Mitchell slumps back against the wall, panting, the heady feeling of recent feeding fading in and out with the sick pitch of his guilt. Months, without it. And now all at once, and what's worse is he's already feeling better.

This is how it starts. It's both better and worse, when Annie pops back next to him. Mitchell stays where he is, head lolled back, staring at the ceiling. Thank God he had the good sense to clean off his face a little (but that wasn't sense, that was greed). He can't think of any fucking thing to say to her. He wants to ask her to forgive him. He wants to apologise. He wants to say nothing at all, to pretend this didn't happen--and his smile is sad, when it crosses his face at her question.]

Yeah. [No. But he has to say yeah. He doesn't reach for his hand, though he is itching to.] I do.

[She sits there for a moment, and takes his hand.]

Will you walk with me?

[She loves him. She loves him and she knew what he was when she decided to stay with him. He drinks blood. George turns into a wolf. And she's dead, deader than dead. But she loves him and it grounds her and sometimes she thinks it makes him better, it makes him happy.]

Please?

[She wants to apologize. She wants to apologize so badly.]

[He threads his fingers through hers, doesn't squeeze her hand but lets his palm rest against hers, the cold prickling up his arm. It feels as good and as clean as always, but something in him twists away, like he doesn't want it, like he doesn't deserve it.

But he answers her anyways:] Yeah.

[Because how could he say no to Annie? He needs her. The shame of asking her to be part of this doesn't outweigh that need--it should, he should feel worse than he does--but he doesn't.

The blood has already done much of its work, but it's still something of an effort to get to his feet. He manages, all the same, holding hard to Annie's hand.]

Come on.

Mitchell?

[As they're walking, she's nudging closer to him, stepping in just a little closer, as if she has to take up as little space as possible.]

I love you, all right? I don't-

I love you.

[He stops walking at that, with a quiet noise--something that's halfway between a scoff and a sharp intake of breath. His grip on her hand goes a little tighter, but he doesn't look at her.]

Annie. You shouldn't--

[But he can't say it, because he needs her. He should tell her to go, he should tell her not to trust him, to never do what he asks because he always drags her down--but he can't bring himself to say the words, because he needs her so badly.]

You shouldn't, you shouldn't--I mean, Jesus, Annie--what I just asked you to do-- I made you a part of this. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have asked for it at all, but I never should have asked you. So how can you say that? How the hell can you--

[Miserably, he cuts himself off, and doesn't finish that. He doesn't want to finish.]

[She turns, reaches for him, to hug him, to hold onto him.]

You're not a monster, Mitchell. You didn't kill anyone. You didn't hurt anyone. I just-

Please don't say that, please.

[And he knows that he should tell her: about the girl in the hallway, how ready he was to kill her, and she was only a child--and before that, too, the pirate that he killed, almost a year ago, but he's never forgotten--and before the ship, Lia, and the train, the blood smeared on the walls and the sticky heat of it on his face, on his hands--on Daisy's face, and he'd licked it off of her, kissed every place of her he could find, half for the blood and half because he wanted to--

But he doesn't say it. He bites back his confession, because he's a fucking coward, because he'd take the easy comfort over confession any day. He turns against her and grabs hold of her, just like he always does, pressing his forehead into her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her--]

I love you, Annie. I love you so much, so-- I can't ever lose you. I've done such things, such-- terrible things-- but it's different now. It's different, and it has to stay different.

I love you. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

[What she sees are the parts of him that are safe, but she's always been that way, myopic when it comes to the men in her life. When it comes to who she chooses to love (or who love burdens her with), she cuts away the filthy parts of them, even when it's looking her in the face.

But who can compare to Owen? Mitchell drinks blood but he doesn't hurt her.]

Let's get tea, all right? We'll fix it. You'll be fine.

[She smiles, see? It's all right.]

[He holds tightly to her a moment longer, and against her shoulder he manages a miserable little smile. We'll fix it, she says, but there's nothing that fixes him. But she forgave him, and keeps forgiving him, and she loves him. And that's what matters. That's what comes closest to fixing him.

He pulls away, finally, and reaches to smooth his thumb over her cheek as he studies her smile. There's a little blood under his thumbnail. He tries to ignore it. When he drops his hand, he'll lick the blood away first, he knows he will--but for now he only looks at Annie.]

I love you.

[Once more, like he's got to confirm it. And then all right, tea--he doesn't smile back, but her smile has lifted something off of him, no matter how small.

It's as they're walking again that he adds--] Annie--we can't tell George. Please.

[She smiles at him, like that has made the entire world, even the world aboard this horrible ship, so much better, and nods, her hand firmly in his.]

I don't think there's anything to tell. You came back from engineering, that's all.

[And a pause.]

I'm sorry I got lost, Mitchell.

[He should feel bad about that, too--at least a little--how easy it is, to get her to lie for him. Her smile eases some of the guilt, enough so that when she adds that apology, he can tug at her hand to get her attention.]

Hey. Don't be. It wasn't anything t' do with you, it was this ship. None of us had a choice.

[She wants to curl around him, to make everything better, and she doesn't know how so she just presses a kiss to his cheek.]

I know. But you worry.

[It's cold, like always, but it at least gets a little smile out of him--even if his guilt is lingering on the edge of all of this.]

Only 'cause I care about you.

I know.

[She does know. She worries about him, too. More than he knows, more than she'll ever admit.]

Well, then, good.

[And finally he's starting to feel better. Part of that is the blood: the warm spread of it working over him, the easy way it floods his system and makes everything feel a little better. But part of it is just Annie, and he grabs a firmer hold of her hand and tugs at her, pulling her on to the kitchen.]

Come on. I'll feel even better after tea.

[Or it will be easier to forget, for now, what happened. The taste of blood will be out of his mouth, and he'll have Annie. That's really all that he needs.]

IC CONTACT

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject