Carl hated the quiet of Mitchell and George's house while they were away at work. It reminded him of the quiet - the utter silence - that followed Dan's killing. Dan, the one person he'd loved above all else, so much he'd thought it could conquer anything.
He wandered the house to keep his mind off of Dan. It was strange, being in Mitchell's home, mostly because it was nothing like the home they'd once shared. It was cosy and filled with little things, the kind of tchotkes he considered nothing but dust-magnets. There were books and games and mugs of cold tea all around the house. It was more cluttered than he liked, but remarkably straight, other than Mitchell's disaster area of a room. George, it seemed, liked to keep a clean house - he'd lived with Mitchell long enough to know that he wasn't the one keeping it tidy - but it was almost as if a compromise had been made, the kind Carl wouldn't have agreed to, and it made him realize that Mitchell had probably felt uncomfortable when they'd shared a his minimalist flat. Carl recognized some of Mitchell's things - his saxophone, his appallingly kitschy Laurel and Hardy statue - things that had been stored away in closets so as not to clash with his style.
He felt kind of bad about that. Then again, Mitchell had found George, and as odd as it was to think of Mitchell living with a wolf, they seemed more compatible than he and Mitchell ever were.
And he had found Dan.
The front doorknob clicked, making Carl jump. His relief at having some company was tempered by an unfamiliar young woman stepping into the house. He watched her from the kitchen, readying himself to say something, but who was she? As he watched, she tilted her head, dark curls falling to her shoulder, a look of deep concern on her face.
"Who's there?" she called out. Before he could answer, Carl caught her eye through the kitchen door. In a flash, she was in front of him, staring at him with violet eyes that almost seemed glow.
"I'm a friend of Mitchell's," he said, stepping back. "My name's Carl."
"Mitchell's friend?" Her gaze softened slightly.
"Yes," he said. "He's invited me to stay here for a few days."
She stepped toward him and touched his arm, making him flinch.
"You're vampire?" Her demeanor relaxed. "Well, he must have invited you." She smiled. "I'm sorry, things have been crazy lately. I haven't been home much."
"So you live here, too?"
"I came with the place," she laughed.
He nodded slowly. "Well, I'm sorry to have startled you." He watched her as she walked over to the counter and put the kettle on. She was a ghost - she had to be, the way she'd popped into the kitchen from the hall, but she hardly looked like one. "I don't mean to stare," he said. "But I've never seen a ghost quite like you."
"Oh?" she said, turning to him with a smile.
"You look so... solid."
"Oh," she said. "I'm in one of my solid phases."
He nodded. "It's... remarkable."
"Mitchell says ghosts shouldn't be corporeal... but here I am!"
Carl smiled. He'd always found ghosts unnerving, but there was something bright and comforting about her. "So how long has Mitchell lived here?"
"Oh, god," she said, looking at the ceiling in thought, tea tin in hand. "I'm so bad with time nowadays... a year? Almost two, I think." She dropped a tea bag into each of the four mugs she'd lined up on the counter. "Tea?" she asked, finally.
"Thank you, yes," Carl said. He paused, eyeing the mugs. "Is there someone else here?"
"Just us," she said. After a couple of minutes of silence, the kettle boiled, and she set to fixing the tea. "Oh," she said, looking at him. "Where are my manners? You take milk, yes?"
Carl nodded.
"It's just better that way," she said. "Some people like a splash of cold water, but it just seems like something is missing to me... it's not my..." she paused and laughed brightly, "well, it's not my cup of tea!"
She carried the mugs to the table, two in each hand, and set them in front of him. "Whichever you like," she said. After he chose one, she took one herself and held it contentedly in both hands with a sigh. "So," she said, "your name is Kyle?"
"Carl."
"Carl, right, sorry," she said. "Well, I'm Annie, Mitchell and George's resident ghost." She smiled.
Carl nodded slowly. "Mitchell's never mentioned me, then?"
She thought for a moment. "I don't think so. How do you know each other?"
"We lived together for several years." He took a sip. "On and off."
"Oh..."
"I helped him kick the blood in... it must have been 2000. But we go back to... oh, the '70s or '80s? The years start to blur together."
She sat down across from him, still clutching her mug. "You must be dear friends," she said. "I wonder why he never said?" She blew into her mug as if she was going to take a sip, then set it on the table. "It's funny, I can hardly imagine him living with anyone else."
"Well, he seems comfortable here, I think."
Annie smiled and blew into her mug again. After a moment, she looked up and over her shoulder suddenly, as if she'd heard the door. "Speak of the devil," she said, getting up and returning to the counter. She pulled another mug and a jar of coffee crystals from the shelf.
Carl watched, fixated, as she fixed a mug of black coffee, humming lightly to herself. As she set the spoon in the sink, the front door opened.
Mitchell stepped inside and paused. A look of relief crossed his face. "Annie," he said, "we have to talk."
Carl watched Mitchell walk into the kitchen, straight past where he sat at the table and over to Annie, who held out the mug of coffee to him. Mitchell hadn't even noticed him there. He was beginning to feel like a fly on the wall.
"I'm sorry if I -"
"It's OK, Mitchell," she said, handing him the mug and crossing her arms. "But I'm not a child." She glanced at Carl, then back to Mitchell. "And I'm not going to discuss this with you now. Not in front of our guest."
"What?" He looked at Carl, looking genuinely surprised to see him in the room. His demeanor changed slightly. He looked less at ease.
Carl started to get up. "I'll go back to my room," he said.
"Don't be silly," Annie said. "Have another cup of tea." She looked at Mitchell. "If anything, I'm in the way. You two must have loads of catching up to do."
Mitchell watched her as she walked out of the room and up the stairs. He turned to Carl, looking slightly guilty.
"She's lovely," Carl said, taking a sip from his second, now-lukewarm mug of tea. "You didn't tell me you had a ghost."
"I don't 'have a ghost,'" Mitchell said, taking a seat across from him. "We're housemates."
Carl nodded. "How long have you two been -"
Mitchell stopped mid-sip. "No, it's not like that," he said. "We're just friends."
"Mitchell," Carl said, leaning forward, "I may be many things, but judgemental about relationships is not one of them. It's a bit unusual, but -"
"She's my friend, Carl. If we were together, I'd tell you." He sighed. "She's met someone anyway. Some vapid prettyboy..."
Carl laughed. "Oh, I know the type."
"Shut up," Mitchell said. "I just don't want her to get hurt." He took a sip of coffee. "Besides, I've met someone, too. A human woman. And she's not like other women, it could really work out."
"I remember when you used to tell me it would never work with a human," Carl said. He set his mug on the table. "And I suppose you were right, in the end."
"But you were happy. For twenty years, you were happy..."
"And I would give up every second of my own happiness all those years if I could change what I've done." He looked at Mitchell. "We're not meant to live with humans. We're far too dangerous."
Mitchell glared back at him, lost for words. "You made a mistake -"
"It wasn't a mistake. A mistake is when you put a red shirt in with the white washing."
Mitchell looked down, wishing he could rewind the conversation. He looked at Carl. "So, what did you and Annie talk about?"
Carl shrugged. "Tea, mostly."
"Did you tell her why you're here?"
Carl shook his head. "She didn't ask. She seemed satisfied that you'd invited me."
Mitchell nodded. "That's good."
"Why?"
"She doesn't need to know the details," Mitchell said.
Carl sighed. "So, what, does Annie think you've been clean for 100 years?"
"No, of course not," Mitchell said. "But I've changed. I really have. And if she knew that you..." he paused. "If she knew the kind of person you are..."
"What kind of person am I?"
Mitchell paused. "You're good."
Carl looked at him. He wasn't in any frame of mind to be called good.
Mitchell rubbed his forehead. "And everything is just shit. That coroner thinks he doesn't have to answer to me -"
"He doesn't." Carl leaned back. He didn't like this side of Mitchell. "Look, I'm not going to be the one to turn you into the new Herrick. Let Ivan do it, or -"
"Ivan's not a leader."
"Jesus, Mitchell, will you listen to yourself?" Carl set the mug on the table more loudly than he'd intended. "I thought you were doing better."
"I am doing better. I'm trying to help you."
"Playing Herrick is not doing better."
"I'm not playing Herrick."
"Then get away from them. They're not your responsibility. Get away from the hospital."
Mitchell looked at him, and thought for a moment. He and Carl had been good together once. "You and me..."
Carl shook his head. "No."
"We could go somewhere far away..."
"Mitchell." Carl let out an exasperated sigh. "For god's sake, you haven't changed at all. Still grabbing at straws, making impulsive choices. That's why you can't stay clean, I've told you that. When has running away ever helped you? You need this house. Away from other vampires, with people you clearly care about but can't drink. This is a gift, Mitchell."
"You make it sound like this is uncomplicated," Mitchell said. He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. "Do you really think this won't end badly?"
Carl leaned forward. "That's really up to you, isn't it?"