Title: As Annie Mourns
Fandom: Being Human
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Being Human, though I will forever wish that I did!
Rating: T
Pairings: Annie centric, implied Annie/Mitchell
Genre: Angst
Spoilers: Up through the Series 3 finale
Summary: Drabbles following how Annie copes with the loss of Mitchell.
Author's Note: This is the first time I've written fanfiction in about 5 years, so I'm a bit nervous to post this and hope I didn't do too badly! I have a few more fic ideas in mind I'm looking to get out soon if this goes over well.

Since they're drabbles with a specific focus, I didn't go into any of the Tom/Wyndam/old ones aftermath. Use your imagination to fill in those parts if you really need to ;) Also, I'm not British so if anything's off, my apologies.

Reviews are always greatly appreciated!


It's only after Mitchell's death that Annie tries to sleep, claiming his empty bed as her own. The first night she tentatively rests her head on his pillow, she hopes and prays to find him somewhere in her dreams.

The disappointment she feels when she discovers she's unable to dream at all is soothed only because the nothingness still provides relief from the aching she feels during the day.


George wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, but it was just a few days after Mitchell had died that he looked up from his mug of tea, bleary-eyed and heavy-hearted, and realized Annie's outfit had turned completely black.


Annie has always failed to see the real humor behind Laurel and Hardy, but she still spends hours curled up on the couch watching the DVDs because there was something about them that Mitchell had loved and there was something about Mitchell that she had loved.


When George brings home Mitchell's favorite cereal from the market, accidentally and out of force of habit, Annie doesn't speak to him for two days.


One time she calls his mobile phone, and a little shiver of hope runs up her spine at the thought that maybe he'll pick up, maybe he'll answer it, and she'll get to hear the lilt of his charming Irish voice just one more time. But even the voicemail is automated and she curses as she slams the phone down onto its receiver.


She tells herself she hates him for the things he did, for the lies he told, and for the innocent lives he tore apart, but when she's feeling selfish she mostly hates him because he promised her eternity and in the end it didn't mean a thing.


When Annie finds a picture of herself in his wallet, one he must have snagged ages ago from her scrapbooking box back in their pink Bristol home, she sobs so hard that every window in the house cracks with grief.


She's bitter because Mitchell is dead but he's also gone and her being dead too doesn't make a bit of difference in the situation. She's here and sometimes a small part of her wishes he had just left her in purgatory to begin with because this is surely some sort of Hell.


Nina watches Annie amble about the kitchen when she slips and says curiously "I didn't know you could wear gloves."

It's a stupid thing to point out really, but the silence has become too unbearable and Nina doesn't know what's okay to talk about anymore. Annie looks up with a start, then down at the green fingerless gloves adorning her hands before she resumes filling the kettle.

"I don't remember putting them on," she mumbles quietly.


Sometimes she'll leave a mug of warm tea on his bedside table. It's predictably cold and untouched the next time she returns, and she tells herself he always liked coffee better anyway.


The day she finally decides Mitchell was right, that there is no such thing as fate, is the same day that her door reappears.