tyndalecode: (Babs)
Kendra ([personal profile] tyndalecode) wrote2010-11-21 09:55 pm

(no subject)

Title: To Make Tea
Author: [livejournal.com profile] wrigleyfield
Fandoms: Being Human/True Blood
Characters: Sam Merlotte and Annie Sawyer
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1902
Spoilers: Between S1-S2 of Being Human, post Sam's injury last season of True Blood.
Warnings: Brief nudity
Disclaimer: True Blood and Being Human both belong to their respective creators. Just borrowing!
Summary: A small snippet of conversation between Annie and Sam as they wait for their supernatural betters to return the night of a full moon. Written for the [livejournal.com profile] xover_exchange.

The definition of insanity: To commit an action over and over hoping to yield a different result even after continuous proof that said action will continue to yield the same results.

“All I'm suggesting is that it would be nice – not that I don't feel incredibly protected by sharp teeth and whatnot-- but it would be nice to have someone to talk to.” Someone to drink all this tea...

Annie made tea when she was nervous, anxious, excited, or pleased, whether or not there was someone around to enjoy it. There was plenty of counter space, but there weren't nearly enough mugs and saucers. Well, no, to be completely fair there were plenty of mugs and saucers for the current occupant of the small space. One man living alone who –as far as Annie could tell-- wasn't much of a tea drinker, didn't particularly need more than three or four mugs, and that's just how many there were. The saucers were non existent, but then this was a single American male. He certainly hadn't had any tea, and some how she'd known that when they'd left the bar just across the way earlier that night. The packets of cheap Lipton smuggled over in her pockets spoke to how much fair she'd had in his tea ownership.

But even sans saucers and with cheap tea, Annie performed her rituals just as she would have in England. She paced the kitchen, making tea over and over, finally resorting to filling cups and containers that one would not have usually sipped any sort of liquid from, but that was fine. Tupperware containers served well as doggie bowls.

“And if you were in the way where you could talk, then I wouldn't be ruining your dishes.” she stared at the slight slope in the plastic dish filled to the brim with tea. The entire thing seemed to be steaming as she set it on the ground, hands covered in threadbare oven mitts.

That the dog in front of her turned his nose up at it yet again did nothing to phase her as she turned back away from it and looked at the stove. The kettle was steaming yet again.

She knelt over again and laid down another plastic container filled with steaming Lipton. “It's not going to kill you, and it's not chocolate, you know. And at least then I'd only be pointlessly talking to a dog who doesn't respond instead of talking to a dog that doesn't respond and making tea for a dog who won't drink it. Do you want sugar in it, is that it?

“You ought to drink it. I certainly can't.” Annie started rummaging through the cabinets. There was a part of her that recognised the irrational behavior-- there really was. But her nerves overrode any sense she might have brought to the situation. “And, you see, I just make tea. I'm always the one left behind while the boys run off to save the day, and I figure the least I can do is have something warm waiting for them when they get back. I know it's not exactly the warm liquid either of them is going to be craving, but it's going to have to do.”

Pausing, Annie leaned against the tea covered counter. Even as she looked up at the ceiling her hair fell over her eyes, thicker than ever from standing over the kettle for nearly an hour. She took one breath, and then another, fighting back the slight shudder she could hear threatening to break through. Her eyes fell to the small window above the sink in the double wide and when she caught sight of the round, milky white moon her shoulders shook. “They make fun of me for all the tea sometimes, but it's that or stare outside and wonder how bloodied they're going to come home this time. Here, I've found the sugar-- will that do it?” Annie sighed and took the top off of the small sugar pot and poured, not bothering to stoop over this time around. Barefoot as she was, the crystals that missed the bowl stuck between her toes like sand. As she turned to pad back towards the stove top it was almost like being on the beach.

Now there was something she hadn't done since her death. Who was going to take her? The vampire who only tolerated the sun, or the werewolf who couldn't help but complain about the smell of wet dog even when he did something as simple as take a shower?

Annie felt her shoulders shake again as she went to grip the kettle and the first smooth cup she could get her hand around in the cabinet above the stove. She blinked furiously as she poured, not noticing until the tinkling sounds of breaking glass that the cup she was holding was, indeed, made of glass.

Bleeding wasn't much of a tragedy for her these days. As a ghost it was more of an illusion of injury than to be fully realised.

Bruising and burns weren't much to speak of either, though before dropping the kettle on her foot in shock, she'd never had to experience it.

Annie fell to the floor, hitting the linoleum with a thump. Instinctively she set her hand down to steady herself, but yanked it up sharply again when she felt the sharp pain of glass sliding through her palm. Her eyes squeezed shut.

Dear God, what are we doing here? What are we doing in bloody Louisiana on a full moon? George and I have only been telling him for months that this was a horrid idea, and we were obviously right. Politics. They're bad enough when mortals are involved, aren't there? Fighting and screaming at each other in parliament. It's worse when they're not human, isn't it? Politics that spread 'cross the world. How bleeding healthy can that be? And George, running off after Mitchell like they're in some cowboy movie. It's America, is what it is. No wonder Mitchell's gotten himself into trouble and this whole silly idea is--

Annie blinked back tears. She'd found Merlotte's bar so cozy earlier, so charming and distinctively American. The syrupy melt of Southern voices peppered with regional colloquialisms, the over fired and often over spiced food, the crunchy looking fake died hair on the waitresses that hung down almost to the bottoms of their shorts that were about two inches shorter than propriety would have dictated back home, and the way everyone was just as sweet as they were attractive and nice to look at... she'd loved the place at first. When it was just the American South with just American Southerners. It was only after they'd added the vampires, the werewolves, the fairies, and the bloody politics into the mix that the entire thing had become entirely disenchanting. The Gothic ambiance of the place had become all too realistic once Mitchell had gone off, running after some blonde waitress who was said to be half faerie at the behest of some other gorgeous blonde who happened to be a vampire.

Something wet pressed against the crook of her elbow, and while she thought at first that it was more of the blood-that-was-not, a tentatively glance to her side indicated the presence of the dog that wouldn't drink her tea. But she closed her eyes again, ignoring him as she struggled to control the tears that had started to slowly spill.


No one was around to hear her scream in the double wide, but Annie let one rip despite it all. It was wonderfully ear shattering, and in retrospect perhaps it wasn't so bad that the being with sensitive ears was no longer such and that the glass had already broken.

There was a moment before she noticed the liquid seeping through her grey leggings, turning them brown. And wasn't that unfortunate, what with those being the only leggings she had since she'd died. Honestly, she had no idea if they could even go through a washer.


No scream this time, but she the tears were flowing freely now, because what else was one to do when sitting in broken glass on the floor with a naked man who smelled faintly of dog attempting to wrap his arm around her. Funnily enough, Annie had little problem with the nudity combined with the faint smell of canine. Sad as it was, it was par for course in her life, especially when the moon hung fat in the sky. Sometimes she even shed a few tears on George's behalf, though nothing like this.

She let herself lean back into Sam's arms, even managing to hold back a sob when he fully engulfed her.

“They're gonna be fine,” he murmured, after a cough and a sputter, almost as if to get rid of the bark in his voice. “How much tea'd you steal from the bar anyway?”

"You startled me." Her cheeks were too blotchy from the crying to show the blush that snuck up on her from the question. It wasn't even that she was in pain now, she'd overcome the shock of the fall and the phantom pain. Only the fear for her friends' safety remained. “I didn't steal--” she started, but stopped with a sigh. “Not much.”

“And you know dogs don't--”

Annie interrupted with a quick nod. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “I know. It's-- it's a thing that I do. Enough mugs or not,” she admitted sheepishly, “Doesn't matter if there's someone around to drink it. Whenever they're out. I don't usually have someone to stay with.” And she wouldn't have that night if it weren't for the cast wrapped around his leg.

“You've got nothing to worry about, Annie.” The hold turned more into a hug. “As much as it hurts me to say it... you've gotta trust Eric Northman.”

“That would be more comforting if I knew Eric Northman further than seeing the back of his head in your bar.” That it had been an attractive head really told her nothing in the long run.

Sam shook his head and smiled slightly. “Naw, trust me. You'll feel better after all this not knowing him.”

The face she made indicated that perhaps she'd not needed to hear that in the least. “We should get up. These are my death pants... I'm not sure if I can wash them. And you're-- you're not wearing pants.”

She had to help him up in the end. The combination of a cast and a slippery floor couldn't lead to anything positive between a ghost and a partially incapacitated shifter. He hobbled into his room to put on pants and she attempted to blot the tea stains from her leggings before beginning her shuffle back to the stove where she'd left the kettle on and steaming.

Nothing had changed despite the tea and conversation as she wiped her cheeks a bit and caught herself looking through the small window again. The moon was still full, the floor was a mess, her friends were still out playing hero, and Annie was back home waiting.

She rummaged through the cupboards and found a deeply welled bowl. She dropped a tea bag inside and lifted the kettle to pour.