Title: Start of the Day
Author: aFigureOfSpeech (rath_robin_rye)
Fandom: Being Human
Disclaimer: Don't own Being Human, wish I did, but I don't.
Character/Pairing(s): Annie, Mitchell
Rating: K
Word Count: 469
Summary: Some mornings are better than others. General quality has been on the rise, though. (Mitchell, Annie)
Note: This has only been sitting on my computer for forever, just waiting for me to dust it off and polish it up. It's been a while since I really wrote much, but I hope you all enjoy. :)

It's morning, or so the buzzing of his alarm clock tells him. He wakes up cold: cold lips, cold hands, cold heart, cold body. It's hardly different from most other days (lately, anyway), so he ignores it with the ease of long practice. The lingering nightmares aren't anything new either; he can ignore them almost as well as the chill clinging to his skin.

He really doesn't want to get up.

Mitchell fumbles with his clock until he finds the little button that will bring sweet respite for a few more minutes. Sighing heavily, he lets himself drift blissfully in that peaceful state of almost-but-not-quite-awake; that was the plan at least, until Annie's voice filters suddenly through his very firmly closed door.

"Come on Mitchell!" The decibel of her words is only slightly less jarring than her insistent knocking. He supposes it's better than her tendency to just poof around unexpectedly whenever she pleases, regardless of rather shrill protests from other parties (namely George).

For some odd reason, this provides only a small comfort.

"Get up or you'll be late for work!" The pounding continues, uninvited and unrelenting.

He tugs a pillow over his head and grumbles loudly. "Gimme five more minutes."

He's not sure how coherent he is, but she leaves all the same, just as suddenly as she came. He knows though, with the absolute certainty of extended proximity, that she'll only start again if he doesn't show his handsome mug soon. Through the thin walls, Mitchell can hear George snoring quite smugly down the hall, and he grouchily envies his flatmate's later shift. Lucky bastard.

He is so not a morning person. Even before he was dead.

Rousing himself with much grunting and groaning (which Annie—and, more importantly, George—may or may not have been able to hear), Mitchell dresses stiffly and descends the stairs in much the same manner. He has to squint to shield his eyes from the painful early morning brightness.

"Good morning sleepy-head!" Annie greets him, cheerful as the sunshine streaming mercilessly through the kitchen windows. (It almost surprises him sometimes that she doesn't hurt his eyes just to look at. Somehow though, she never does.) He rubs his eyes in defense against the light and the sleep that threatens to pull him back under.

"Here you go. Still warm, even." She extends a mug held at the ready in her expectant hands, just one of the multitude she's already prepared for him and for George (and, in that strange, vicarious way, for Annie too).

He can feel the corners of his mouth curving up, almost against his will. He takes the rejuvenating coffee eagerly, muttering a grateful thanks and chasing away the remaining shadows of another long and lonely night. She cradles her own mug and smiles affectionately back at him as he raises the steaming cup to his lips.

It warms his hands.