Author Note: Hi everyone. :) I'm relatively new to Being Human and thought I'd see what I could do with the storylines before series two comes around. I found the characterisation quite difficult at first, but I did begin to establish their 'voices' after a while; let me know if you think I did OK. Thanks for reading.

Mitchell sighed and flicked on the kitchen light. "I know sleep isn't really your thing, Annie, but you could at least try to be considerate."

Annie's arm paused mid-air. A stack of plates clattered noisily back onto the bench top. "I'm practicing."

"You told us that you blew – what was it, eight? – vampires out of your way at the hospital. I didn't think cutlery would pose much of a threat after that."

"It's all about precision," she insisted, squinting at a scatter of spoons laid out by the sink. "It's something to work at."

"Fair enough." Mitchell took a tentative few steps towards the kitchen table, wary of any airborne frying pans. "Precisely put the kettle on, then."

Annie rolled her eyes and, with a very pointed stride, she switched the kettle on manually. "There."

"But that water's been in there for days –"

"—serves you right for interrupting my time of quiet contemplation."

Mitchell's gaze landed on a shabby self-help book lying open on the table. He groaned. "Please say you haven't been reading that again."

"It's therapeutic."

"It's ridiculous." He swiped up the book before she could grab it or – more likely – propel it through the air. He thumbed disapprovingly through the first few pages. "Tell me... is there a chapter on poltergeists?"

The book was tugged from his hands by an invisible force and within seconds Annie had tucked it tidily behind the breadbin. "I'm not a poltergeist," she said indignantly, burying her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. "That's stereotyping. How would you feel like if I called you a... a..."

Mitchell's eyebrows arched expectantly.

Annie frowned. "...alright, well, there's not really anything else you can be called. But still." The kettle clicked off and she gladly poured a very murky cup of tea, grateful for the distraction. "How do you think Nina's doing? And George, of course."

Mitchell accepted the cup of tea and gave a muffled reply as he took a cautious sip. "Probably wide awake after all that 'quiet contemplation you've been doing."

Annie's brow furrowed. "Mitchell."

"OK, OK." He swallowed thickly and set down his mug. "To be honest, I don't know."

"I think they're doing alright considering what happened," Annie said sympathetically, taking a seat. "He seems calmer than usual, actually. And Nina doesn't seem too freaked out – I mean, obviously she is, she must be –"

"—Annie." Mitchell's face had darkened. He had started to stir his tea needlessly. "When Nina ran in and George – well, the werewolf – pushed her aside..." He looked up from the mug's grainy contents. "She had a scratch, Annie. I was holding her up and I felt it."

Annie stared back blankly. "I'm sure she could've treated it herself. She's a nurse, isn't she? It mustn't have been anything major – she was fine afterwards, it's probably nothing to worry about."

"Annie." Mitchell had leaned slightly further across the table and there was a new urgency in his lowered voice. He spoke very slowly. "All it took for George to get infected was a scratch."

Annie looked away very suddenly. Her eyes seemed to be searching the kitchen for a distraction – Mitchell was sure he saw her glance pleadingly at the kettle for a moment, as if begging it to boil itself and provide some sort of interruption.

Mitchell clicked his tongue in frustration. Finally, she spoke. "Do you think that's enough? A scratch?"

He got up and carelessly washed out his half-empty mug in the sink, finally replacing it on the mug tree with unnecessary force. "It's plenty."

"But George would never forgive himself. It would kill him –"

"I know."

"And... and they'd never be able to be normal, like he wanted –"

"I know."

Their voices had been steadily escalating. Mitchell was hunched over the kitchen sink, unmoving even when Annie came to stand behind him.

"How are we going to tell him?" Annie's voice had become a whisper. She cleared her throat. "We are going to tell him, aren't we?"

"I don't know." Mitchell straightened, his eyes narrowing against the amber street light filtering in through the window. "No," he said decisively. "We're not."

"Mitchell, we have to!" Her voice shook into an odd sort of laugh, as if this conclusion was obvious and he was being deliberately contrary.

"We have to tell Nina." Mitchell conceded. "But she's a smart girl. She's probably figured it out. It's up to her to tell George."

Annie scoffed. "Oh, that's fair. 'You're a werewolf now, by the way. Feel free to tell your highly sensitive boyfriend all on your own.'" Her hands, clenched into fists, came to rest on her hips. "I think she'll have enough on her plate, never mind breaking the news to George."

"She doesn't have to tell him," Mitchell interjected, trying to be casual. "They can go on as normal, at least until the next full moon –"

"They can't start a relationship lying to each other."

Mitchell's lips curled into a very bittersweet smile. "Come on, Annie. Our relationships – people like us... we're never going to have relationships based on honesty, are we?"

Annie glared fiercely. "Fine." She snapped, the kitchen chairs overturning as she swept past. "I think you're wrong, though, Mitchell," she continued, her voice becoming ragged. She turned to face him in the kitchen doorway. "I think you know you're wrong, too. I think you know you're just afraid of hurting him."

Mitchell bit his tongue as Annie stormed away upstairs. "So you're finished contemplating, then?" he yelled after her.

The light bulb above him fused and exploded.

He had his answer.