Being Human Fic: Broken Strings (PG)
Title: Broken Strings
Rating: PG
Author: MyLittleStorys
Pairings: Annie/Mitchell
Summary: After years of waiting, the corridor men finally returned for her.
Authors Note: Complete AU, set after S1 finale (ignore S2)
The graveyard is too frustratingly quiet for Mitchell’s liking. Inside he is cracking, a screaming mixture of rage and misery battling against one another. On the outside, he remains impassive as the birds chirp for spring love and a couple walk respectfully hand in hand, seemingly undisturbed by their surroundings.
Back in the day, a graveyard was portrayed as a place laced with fear and the emptiness coursed shivers down racing nerve endings. To this day he never understood the tranquillity of his current location.
In fact, as a young lad, eager to prove his braveness, Mitchell accepted a dare to spend a night in the old church cemetery; his pals watching from the boundaries as Mitchell climbed the surrounding wall, grasping ivy scratching his skin. As night fall approached, his friends had scampered and the fear crept in, penetrating the protective shelter of the Willow tree he took refuge in. Imagination operating on overdrive, he ran from the dark and drizzly, unashamed of his cowardly behaviour.
Despite the media-induced horror, if you hammered passed this, a graveyard is simply a final resting place, a dedicated area of peace and happy remembrance for someone you cared for, loved.
Either way, today was glorious. A clear blue sky exposing well kept grounds and perfected crisp grass. A beautiful day; she would have liked it.
Her head stone glittered underneath the sunlight, subtly highlighting the final engraved message. Closing his eyes, Mitchell placed an ungloved hand upon the stone, accepting the false warmth under his touch. Just for a moment he allowed himself to imagine the warmth belonged to her again, not an imitator.
The familiar scent of George snaked through the breeze, swiftly knocking Mitchell's illusions back to reality, the taste scratching his throat. It’s been a while, twenty-three years in fact since he last stood with George and he took a moment to compose himself. George’s blood hummed softly, an unclean lingering sensation. Not repulsive and not exactly pleasant.
A swift drink from his hip flask aided the unaccustomed twang. It aided the gnawing empty hole piercing his stomach.
He can hear George shuffle awkwardly in the background, hesitating to interrupt. With a final push, George coughs nervously, stepping beside his old friend, leaning a small arrangement of tulips beside the stone. Purple, red and white: her favourites.
The years had aged George well. Slightly defined lines, hair touched with light grey. His dress sense had remained the same, not that this surprised Mitchell. The same old George he watched The Real Hustle with and this for some reason provided a tad of comfort.
Tucking the flask back into his jacket pocket, Mitchell rubbed his forehead wearily, refusing to remove his gaze from Annie’s headstone in fear he’d crack.
“They finally found her” said Mitchell, voice rough with anger and whiskey.
George kept his head down, nodding. He had received the call from Mitchell immediately after it happened.
And it was going to happen sooner or later. The matter of a cruel waiting game until the men with sticks and ropes finally arrived armed with revenge, returning for what belonged to them.
Watching Annie wait for her fate was an unbearable option. Both Mitchell and George could no longer stand Annie wearing holes into the floorboards. It wasn’t good for her sake, or theirs.
With Herrick out of the picture and their somewhat obscured living situation stable, Mitchell had coaxed Annie to travel the world with him. A corporal ghost as strong as Annie shouldn’t be held prisoner to one house. Mitchell had made some well developed investments over the years, George had Nina; there was nothing to hold the two immortal souls back.
The little expressions of joy as Annie absorbed the wonders of the world amazed Mitchell. Her eyes gleamed with new fascination and gradually his dormant heart grew fonder for Annie in a way Mitchell could no longer ignore or deny.
The Annie he will remember stands relaxed on the balcony of their Italian apartment, small and rusty, wedged between impossible peaks and twists. The slow sunset sank deep to illuminate the beauty of their surroundings. She wears that dimply smile flashed only for him, and he remembers why he fell for her in the first place.
With all his might, Mitchell wills this to be his last memory; not the final acceptance expressed in her eyes, fearing the unknown as she was stolen from existence.
He held her close to his chest that night, soft curls pressing into his skin, pinning down fidgeting hands, soothing apprehension and anticipation, understanding know her awareness they would soon be granted retribution.
Sleep was never a requirement for the vampire and ghost; merely a habit from their former lives. Tonight he watched her, made her laugh, sigh and moan.
They came, before the sun rose.
Annie shot upright on the bed, ripping her body from his embrace, as a door glowed in the corner; looming and pulsing. Everything happened quickly; like ripping off a plaster, the pain now forever lasting.
Mitchell watched, helplessly or shocked, he wasn’t too sure, as the door opened and a thin black rope lurched out, spinning around her waist and pulling her in. She mouthed three words to Mitchell and then she was gone, leaving him a gasping mess staring at a wall no longer possessing the door which never belonged in the first place.
Now he stood in front of her grave, wondering if this was punishment for all the terrible choices he’d made so many years before under the control of his addiction, his nature.
Reaching into his pocket once more, Mitchell froze as fingers grazed the moon stone ring she’d left. He’d lost his best friend, his lover, his Annie. The hole in his heart probably would never heal. Maybe that was a good thing.
A supporting hand squeezed Mitchell’s shoulder and he remembered George had lost his best friend too.
“Come on, let’s go for a drink, she wouldn’t want us moping about” ordered George.
Of course, she wouldn’t.
But he could always start tomorrow.