A/N: This will be slow going. So, to start, I'm a fan of both worlds (UK & US). This is my first Being Human fic, and I live in Texas and don't know many people from Britain, so if I fudge the dialect, please feel free to correct me and offer up advice. This is un-betta'ed, as have been all of my stories, so I own all of my mistakes. I do not, however, own, in any way, shape or form the rights to Being Human UK (or US, for that matter). I mean in no way to profit from this fan fiction's publication.
Thank you, in advance for your interest in this little story. Like I said, slow going, so I hate to promise regular updates. I'm also struggling through a bit of writer's block with my current Firefly fanfic, so... please be patient.
Much Love to you all, whether you are reading my stories for the first time, or are returning graciously. Without further delay...
Yve
Sherwood, OR, USA
Mitchell pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes as he stepped out of work and so out of the pleasant shade the building provided from the late afternoon sun. He was aching for a fag, though he knew he hadn't any with him thanks to the cursed campus regulations. Still, he patted down his pockets as he headed for his space in the car park, knowing full well he'd have to wait till he got to the flat to feed that particular addiction. The fall chilled the air as he pushed his long hair out of his face, no longer pulled back with his hair tie now that he was off work for the long weekend.
"Mr. Turner!"
He stopped just steps short of reaching his Harley Softail as he heard the shrill, young shout from behind him. He turned and squinted against the sun to identify the owner of the small voice.
"Mr. Turner," the girl panted as she approached the older man who held onto his leather satchel like it was a life raft in a treacherous body of water. "The Devil and Tom Walker." She thrust a few neatly typed pages at him in haste.
"Sorry?" Mitchell said, shaking his head lightly to clear it.
"Extra credit. I just wanted," she paused to gulp in a breath, "to make sure I was counted for the assignment before you left for the weekend… out of town, or… wherever it is you're going."
"Oh, you could'a left this on my desktop, darlin'. Won't be putting in marks for this 'till end of next week."
"Well, it'll give me a head start on reading The Dubliner," Becca smiled shyly back at her English Lit teacher.
"Joyce? I'd be guessing that's your independent reading, then? Plenty of folks'd still have a teacher thrashed for leading a student astray with The Dubliner." The young girl tilted her head to the side as if in question and it prompted Mitchell to decide that the conversation had quite gone on long enough. "Have a nice holiday, Becky," he wished as he seated himself astride his bike and started easing out of his parking space.
Mitchell paid extra each month on the flat so that he and his mate, George, could stow the bike and various other odds about in the garage on the lower floor of their unit. The garage door locked behind him, he made his way up to the first floor. It was an old Victorian house that had been converted into separate apartments. Mitchell and George rented out the first unit while their landlord occupied the top floor. There was also an attic apartment, but it remained vacant.
With only a vague thought as to how George would be displeased, Mitchel dropped his satchel on the floor promptly upon entering. Next were his boots. He hopped awkwardly on one foot and then the other as he struggled out of them, leaving them in a heap near his discarded bag. Having forgotten to drop by the shop on his way home, he rummaged around the bookshelf behind one of George's seldom-used Mandarin Dictionaries. His emergency pack – and it was only a quarter full.
He sometimes thought he would never get used to not being allowed a smoke between classes. He'd been teaching for… well, for long enough to have gotten over the sodding fact by now, you would think. He'd also had to retire all of his illustrated tee shirts to the back of his closet in favor of solid tees and cardigans, or a blazer when the infrequent formal occasion called for.
Shrugging out of his Mr. Rogers sweater, Mitchell took his cigarette and his mobile to the back door and went to sit on the little garden wall. As he perched and began to light his smoke, his mobile buzzed from where it rested on the brick next to him. It was George:
George Russell: call me when u can. need to talk about dinner.
Shaking his head and exhaling the warm smoke, he picked the phone up and dialed George.
"I was thinking of a curry tonight," George said without preamble. "Only a real Indian curry, with plump mussels, garlic and coriander naan. Oh and wine. That nice bottle of Margerum Syrah that Annie gave us when we moved in."
"That'll be good, since Annie'll probably be here for dinner…" Mitchell tried warning his friend gently.
"Oh, no, she won't, mate."
"She won't?"
"No, no. Annie will be joining you for a night out this evening."
"Then who's goin' to be eatin' this proper curry you're so keen on making?" Mitchell stood abruptly as he ashed the cherry of his fag down the front of his jeans.
"Nock, nock?"
Mitchell heard the front door creak open from the kitchen where he stood, cursing George and turning the kettle on.
"Old spinster, Miss Rath, has come to collect your rent," she spoke in an old woman's voice, only partially able to hide her signature, sing-song tone.
"And to have a biscuit?" He called around the corner at her.
"And to have a biscuit," she affirmed with a smile on her face. "And... tea. Lord help you, Mitchell. Let me make the tea," Annie instructed as she took in the sight of Mitchell preparing to do just that.
"When you put it that way..."
"Yeah, yeah. Sit down and prop ya boots up. We'll have a cup'a. When's George due?"
"Ah, later," Mitchell said and gave Annie a peck on the cheek as he passed her, heading for the small kitchen set.
"Then he shall have his cup later," she said, pulling down only two mugs.
It was bordering on criminal offense to turn down tea made by Annie. For that matter it was nearly capital murder to insist on making tea for yourself when Annie was about. That was why it had become an afternoon ritual of Annie and Mitchell to meet in his kitchen for tea every day. George found it quite annoying at first, screeching that, "She's always in our bloody flat!" when she finally went back upstairs in the evenings. He had finally come to accept her presence as part of their reality, though, after only... well, not terribly long after they had moved in.
"Why d'you always dress like that?" It was a bit out of the blue and Annie nearly spilled the milk as she turned to Mitchell in surprise.
"Sorry? Like what?"
Mitchell swept his eyes over her once more, searching for the best way of describing her style of dress. "Like, well, not like a spinster landlady." It was vague but it was the best he could come up with.
Today she was wearing a nice pair of grey denim trousers with a deep plumb colored sweater and brown leather heels (though, those were now in a heap in front of the pantry). She shuffled, barefoot, over to the table where her tenant was seated.
"And how should I dress instead?" she asked with raised brow.
"Uh, that's a trick question, isn't it," Mitchell asked sheepishly, realizing his mistake only too late.
"Hm, Mitchell? Shall I shuffle round the flat wearing crocheted booties and a frumpy jumper? Perhaps watching crap telly all day? Hm?"
"Of… Annie, of course I didn't mean that." Mitchell mustered his courage and reached his hand across the table to place it on top of Annie's apologetically. "You're just always so professionally attired, is all. Don't you ever let your hair down t'all?"
"I do." Unconsciously Annie reached up and plucked at a strand of her shoulder length locks, curly today as most days.
It was an endearing gesture and it made Mitchell grin. His smile crept into his voice as he used their current topic to segue into George's proposed – rather, imposed – plan for this evening. "Then let us go out tonight – prove me daft."
She smiled a small smile in return and a slight blush painted her cheeks. "I don't know… it could be," she mouthed the word inappropriate as if it were a curse.
"I think not. We are friends, aren't we? And it is a long weekend for me – the only for a long while. I'd like to start it off right."
"Will George join us?" Annie hedged.
"He's plans, I'm afraid."
"Oh. Oh! The Nina?"
"The very same. So you wouldn't leave a bloke to his own devices on a Friday night, Annie?"
"No. No, you're quite right. Best I come along and keep you out of trouble."
An hour later, Mitchell stood in front of the door to Annie's flat. He'd showered and changed and now felt more at ease in his vintage Kinks tee shirt and dark grey hoodie. He had the briefest thought that he resembled an older version of several of his students. Taking a calming breath – he had no inclination of why he was so bloody nervous – he knocked on the door. Almost immediately it opened to reveal a flustered Annie.
"Come in," she called as she turned her back to him.
As Mitchell stepped hesitantly through the door he heard Modest Mouse blaring from the stereo. Annie was retreating down the hall like hell on wheels, probably having to do with the fact that she was wearing a towel wrapped about her, and very little else. "Just make yourself at home," she called as she disappeared through a doorway at the end.
It wasn't the first that Mitchell had been inside Annie's flat, but they had been few and short visits. It was a cozy space, smaller than the 'boy's falt', as she called it. There was a small kitchenette and living area, crammed with bookshelves housing nick knacks, crockery and other odds and ends. There was a couch and a small telly tucked into a corner, a laptop sat next to a stack of papers atop the smallest coffee table Mitchell was sure he had ever seen, and the two doors down the hall housed what he supposed to be bedroom and washroom. Small it may have been, but tidy it was, too.
"So, where are you taking me?" Annie called from what he assumed must be the bathroom due to the echo of her voice.
"It's still early," he called back, reluctant to move further into the flat than the living room. "I thought we'd walk along a bit, grab dinner. Then you can show me how you let your hair down," he teased.
"And how is this for a start?"
Mitchell looked up from her thimble collection, neatly arranged by sizes on one particularly crowded shelf. Annie stood in the entrance to the short hall, now dressed in tightly fitted jeans rolled up at the ankle, a pair of well worn Chuck Taylors, and, on top, a loose fitting black jumper, just sheer enough to see the outline of a bra. Her hair had been straitened and tamed into full waves lain across her shoulders.
"Mitchell?" she asked with a tone of concern as she looked down at herself uncertainly.
"What?"
"Have I got two heads?"
"What? Oi, sorry. You look… brilliant."
"Well, thank you." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Shall we go, then?"
"Let's."
"I always thought the nightlife in Sherwood was quite tame. Oh, but I never minded. Tame was what I needed at the time." Annie nodded at her words as if to convince herself it was true.
"Owen?" Mitchell asked. He had the barest of details from Annie about her ex-fiancé and it had come haltingly at best.
"Another coffee?" Annie asked as she stood with her cup, retreating from the topic.
"Let me," Mitchell offered, taking the cup from her hand. He left his sitting on the tabletop, deciding it was time for a beer instead. They had walked, and stopped at a food truck for some greasy street burgers and fries, and walked some more, before deciding to duck into the small café for a coffee. It was a bit of a hipster joint, serving a mixed bag of bakery items, coffee and tea, bar food and alcohol. Annie was right, there wasn't much to do in Sherwood, day or night. If he had really planned this better, they would have gone to Portland to a club, maybe heard a band play.
Next time, he thought as the bartender passed their drinks across the bar. Then he shook his head wondering where that thought had come from.
Mitchell returned to the table with Annie's coffee and his Newcastle. "So," he began. "How long do you reckon we should give them?"
"Who? George and Nina?"
"Aye."
"Oh let's give them time. New love needs time," Annie smiled warmly down into her coffee. "Besides, I haven't been out of the little pink house after dark in ages!"
"I fear it's not going to be an exciting night. Not unless you fancy heading to Portland, and that only if you don't mind taking the motorcycle."
"Oh, no! I'm having a brilliant time."
An awkward silence fell over them for a few moments as Mitchell sipped his beer and Annie rubbed at a coffee stain on the table with her thumb. "Oh!" she suddenly started. "Tell me what you know about Nina!"
"Well," Mitchell leaned in conspiratorially, prompting Annie to do the same. "It seems that Miss Nina Hagar is a restaurant and hospitality manager by trade. She's been called in by George's boss to supervise the running of the place while he opens his second location. They knocked heads a few times before she realized George is more suited to running the kitchen, and she let him do his thing. Never thought he'd work up the courage to ask her out, mind."
"Where is she from?"
"England, if you can believe it," Mitchell let out a half laugh. "Who'd imagine so many brits would congregate in Sherwood, Oregon?"
"Yeah, funny," she nodded hesitantly. "So… What do you think of her?"
"She'll be good for George. If she sticks 'round." Annie frowned at his doubt. "She's firm and confidant, which he could use more of in his life. If she doesn't intimidate him, I think they'll work well together. He's tougher than he lets on, though. Who knows?" Mitchell took another pull of his beer, growing bored of talking about this topic. He was happy to see his mate finally show a real interest in a relationship, but it wasn't his style to meddle with any of that shite. Better to let them work it out on their own.
"Now all we need is to find you a lady-friend, Mitchell."
That drew his attention back, front and center. "No. No, I'm crap at relationships. I left my last girlfriend in a heap o' ashes before I came over the pond. No, none a that for me, Annie."
"Oh, it can't have been that bad! Really! You're a good person, Mitchell. I mean you're an English teacher for goodness' sake. How evil could you really be?"
"I come with baggage." He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes as he muttered it into his bottle.
"Well… who doesn't, eh?"
Mitchell checked his watch, not liking the bearing of this conversation. "Yeah," he answered shortly.
"Sorry," Annie whispered.
"No, I am. I'm just really tired all of a sudden. Let me walk you home?"
"No need to go out of your way," she teased with a smile, trying to forget his out-of-the-blue moodiness.
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes and she noticed. "I think I'm headed that direction."
"Well, all right then. I accept."
"I'll just pay the tab and meet you outside, yeah?"
"You cold?" he asked as they walked back toward the pink house. Annie had been chaffing her hands against her arms for a few minutes already.
"We're almost home, now," she replied cheerily.
Tired of the awkwardness and the distance that had crept between them on their quiet walk home, Mitchell unzipped his hoodie and moved closer to Annie so he could drape it across her shoulders.
"Oh, Mitchell!" she protested.
"I'm not taking no for an answer."
They stopped walking so Annie could slip her arms into the sleeves. She looked down as she zipped the already warm jacket closed. Mitchell leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek. At the same moment Annie turned her head to say 'thank you', but her words were cut off as Mitchell's lips met hers askew.
"Oh!" Annie said in surprise as Mitchell chuckled quietly. "I was just…"
"Easy?" he supplied, mirthfully.
"Going to say thank you!"
"Well you should. That felt…"
"What did it feel like?" Annie asked, almost urgently, cutting him off.
"A bit cold," he grinned. "But, nice."
They continued their walk home in silence, though closer to one another now. "Shall I walk you to your door, Miss Rath?" Mitchell asked with a little bow.
"That's quite alright, Mr. Turner," Annie declined as she handed over his jacket.
"Are you sure you won't freeze on the way up?"
"It's one flight, Mitchell. I'll see you for tea tomorrow, yeah?"
"Tea tomorrow."