Disclaimer: I don't own Being Human.
Summary: UK. Annie still makes four cups of tea, just in case. MitchellAnnie, set after 3.08, oneshot
Here's my latest fic for this fandom. I decided to try my hand at writing another MitchellAnnie, set in the time after the events of the Series 3 finale. That episode just screams for fanfiction, as does the entire show, really. Anyway, please enjoy this!
Tea and Tragedy
The whole thing starts as an accident, a slip of the mind, really.
A normal morning - as normal as everything could be after it happened - that starts with Nina and George taking respite in the warm glow of their kitchen, which now only seems to bring sadness. A normal morning, with Annie making tea. A normal morning with four cups of tea, filled to the brim with the steaming liquid.
Four.
She presses her fingers to her lips, aware of her mistake. Aware of her awful, awful misstep.
No one mentions it.
No one has the heart to point it out to her, especially when they already know she is aware of just what the problem is.
She usually two cups for both George and Nina, one cup for herself - just because she can't drink it, doesn't mean she can't just enjoy the warmth in her hands the small comfort brings - and one for...
One for Mitchell.
For a moment, she doesn't know what to do with herself. She's just so, so embarrassed with herself, and she clasps her hands together in front of her before tangling them in the hem of her gray sweater. Her mind is filled with nothing except the final moments of the man she loved. She realizes that it is something that she must get over sooner or later, but right now, with the wounds so fresh, it is hard.
For a while, Annie just stares at the extra cup, eyes wide, mind whirling, until George breaks the silence.
"Oh! Why, thank you for making me two cups of tea, Annie! You know how hard the job is. I need the extra boost."
Nina punches him solidly in the shoulder, but her eyes are soft, caring. She knows that George was just trying to dispell the tension, to make Annie feel better, to make sure that no one else noticed her slip.
Annie just smiles at the two of them.
It happens a few times after that. Unthinkingly, she pulls down four cups from the cabinet and makes tea. And again and again, she realizes her mistake. Again and again, the feeling hits her in the chest.
Mitchell is gone. He's not coming back. You pathetic little ghost.
She notices that George and Nina look at her oddly when she does this, as if they thought she'd realize what she was doing. But she just keeps going on. Until one day that George gets so distressed that he has to leave the kitchen. From then on, she makes a mental note to not prepare more than three cups of tea in front of George and Nina.
But...
After they've gone off to work, she does. It's silly, she knows, but it's a small comfort for her. This way she can imagine him sitting across from her. She makes the tea for Mitchell and watches as he grasps his hands around the warm cup, the steam rising from the liquid and spiraling about his dark hair and even darker eyes. The memory is nothing compared to the real thing, but she tries to recall it nonetheless.
Some days the illusion looks so happy, smiling at her like she's the reason for his existance, and it makes her heart soar.
Some day the illusion looks on the verge of despair, all wet hair and clothes and sad eyes, and it makes her want to sob.
Both versions of the illusion of John Mitchell make her want to reach out and touch him. When she tries, however, her fingers find purchase on nothing, only the empty space in front of her.
And she feels her unbeating heart tense just the tiniest bit.
This goes on, day after day. Annie just can't help herself. She supposes that people cope in many different ways, and her making tea has always been one of her quirks. This just seems the appropriate way to mourn him, in her own way. Instead of crying every day, sobbing pitifully like she would so want to, she just makes tea, and pretends that he is sitting beside her.
This game of pretend is a comfort, but also a problem.
How is she supposed to get over her problem when she continues to play this sick little game with herself?
Annie doesn't want to know the answer. All she wants to do is be able to see Mitchell, to hear his voice. To at least be in his presence without all of the nasty, overhanging sadness.
All she wants to do is see him - the longing is so painful, so absolute that it feels as if there's a hole being torn in her transparent chest.
So until she can see him again, formally, this is what she'll do.
She'll sit at a table, lonely and forlorn, with two cups of tea and those aching memories.
End.
And there it is! Nothing exceptionally lengthy, but I really liked writing this concept. I hope that everyone liked this. I'd love to hear your opinions on this little fic of mine. Thanks so much for reading!