Hi! Mitchell's a little pervy in this one. Imagine it to be set in series 2. This was kinda inspired by Ladymond's wonderful fic 'you saved me'. Enjoy!

He used to dream about her.

Not at first. It was the unexpected glimpse of her bare shoulder that set him off one normal, routine morning.

Everything moved in slow motion, all sounds echoing in the background.

He struggled to concentrate on anything else but that fraction of skin exposed from the grey, not the tea she kindly served or the complaints from George.

Suddenly a switch had been flicked. The flood gates had opened.

That's when it started.

The sick bastard that he was imagined peeling back grey; layer after layer.

A bare shoulder soon became an exposed collarbone, a bare neck, a naked breast.

Over time patient peeling turned to frantic pulling and ripping.

Her skin would be soft, delicate and glowing.

Sometimes she would be really alive, heart pounding in her rib cage, blush sweeping her face and neck.

She would smell of tea and rose, sweet, like the blood rushing through her veins.

He would taste her, inhale her, and drain her dry.

She would be the most enticing drink of his vampire life.

The thought sent him into dizzying spells of ecstasy.

As did imagining her as she was, dead and frozen without a firm grip on the world.

She would be cold, lips uncomfortably icy against his neck, body not quite solid in his arms but growing more so with every breath and stroke.

Cold enough to leave goosebumps across his chest, numbing him into oblivion.

Touching Annie, fucking her would be like diving into ice water; painful, sensory overload until the initial shock wore off, and all inhibitions were released.

His fantasies kept him ticking by, distracted him from self loathing and blood.

It became an obsession.

When the clocks struck past midnight, he listened for her, blocking out the silent snores from George.

He waited for the gentle scuffles and mumbles downstairs; difficult to pick up, but he became accustomed to her night antics, trained his ears to hear only her.

Her sighs and moans kept him purposely silent and still.

And when she did venture to the upstairs landing, hovering close to his door, he could feel her.

There was no need for her to make a sound because he knew she was there, silently listening to their sleep.

A dangerous pull and it takes his might to hold back the urge to call her, lure her into his wicked daydream and turn it into reality.

Always after a stretch of anticipation, she leaves, satisfied all is well, unknowingly escaping his clutches.

Soon the clink of china becomes his nightly routine before vivid imagination succumbs to sleep.

It was a matter of time before the inevitable happened, not intentional, it just happened.

In a sense they where doomed to be together, tragic existences entwined.

This twisted, beautiful nightmare began as an act of desperation.

Naturally they had drawn to one another, searching for an escape.

They combined when everything became too much.

For him; when the desire for blood rampaged and consumed every cell of his body, screaming to unleash glorious destruction.

And Annie – when mascara bled a blackened tear as voices taunted her into a slow madness, ensuring she knew exactly what she lost.

She didn't hear the voices with him.

His room became a cruel sanctuary.

In his bed, there was no need to talk, no need for their usual day to day banter.

Here was an escape from the hauntings that lurked outside.

He would just lie and watch her, still and deadly silent, entirely different from their Annie, all smiles and tea.

Her eyes paler, lost in thoughts never to be voiced.

She doesn't smile here, or put on a brave face as she does when he and George are around.

He likes that.

Here she can finally reveal what she hides behind that shattering smile when they're at work, or during endless nights.

She can remove her mask; release those demons that scare her.

She knew all sorts of darkness, experienced them at the hands of her fiancé – she isn't as completely naïve as one would believe.

He never prompts her, and she never sheds a tear.

So yeah, he likes that she doesn't smile or giggle.

It makes the genuine occasions when she does even more glorious and wonderful.

She's his dark angel and allows him to be the damned creature he is.

Like this, she never questions him, not what he's done.

In a sick, perverse way, he enjoys it all.

It's wrong; he's using her for his own benefit, a half-hearted attempt to prove he is worth something.

Partly to lull the vampiric monster he is.

He could reason it was the vampire in him; the predator enjoyed it, found it fascinating.

In all honesty though, he danced to the same thrilling beat as the vampire.

He fed from the pureness she radiated, that naive innocence.

He takes it with his mouth, his teeth and hands, clawing her skin.

He enjoyed intertwining her with his darkness and impulses.

She was too bright, too much of everything.

She oozed colours and goodness through every pore.

Sometimes he wanted to distort her, make her ugly, steal that light from her and claim it as his own, brighten the burden of his life for just a second.

Big bad John would have stomped it out, tainted her delicious ignorance.

No, he – Mitchell – didn't want that.

He was fascinated by her, loved to watch her strengthen and grow as a spirit.

Obliviously stronger and powerful than she gave herself credit and not just on a spectre level, but as Annie.

She fought to prove her death was not a life sentence and with him she proves that, defeats the voices of manipulation with prowling hands, stealing his essence.

She commands his attention and he obeys without faltering.

She becomes increasingly corporal on each occasion, electric under his palms, and Mitchell swears she vibrates and pulses life into him.

The taste of a ghostly echo vanishes, dissipates on his tongue; it's all her now and he consumes her, wanting everything she had for himself.

She allows him so – she's stealing more from him anyway.

And they are spiralling deeper into a black hole.

The dark cells of their torment closing in tighter and tighter until breaking point.

It was like a sordid affair.

He half expected the colour to drain from the room into a black and white silent film, Annie smoking a cigarette wearing nothing but pearls.

They were too intune with each other, always had been, knowing exactly when they needed to escape, using each other to do so.

That scared him, but not enough to stop.

They had both accepted what this was.

It happens too often now, becomes a habit and he wants more, aches for it.

He needs her, is becoming too attached and too addicted to Annie.

Soon she is his drug.

He doesn't like not using excuses to have her, can't blame the blood lust, because now he wants her entirely, her smiles and fears.

George isn't as hopelessly oblivious as Mitchell gives him credit for.

He figures it out; when the thin border between their bedroom escapes fringed dangerously with normal existence.

Mitchell relishes that look of disapproval in his eyes.

It keeps him human, just as much as Annie keeps him breathing.

"What are you doing Mitchell?" George had sighed, primarily concerned for Annie.

George is right to be concerned about Annie, but he doesn't comprehend it is Annie who is the danger.

Annie is more than capable of crushing Mitchell if she wanted.

She is the only thing keeping him sitting where he was.

She was using him just as much as he used her.

And he is more than happy to oblige.

"It's under control" he had replied, too abruptly as George raised his eyebrows sceptically.

"I need her" he finalised, his voice dropping an octave, gaining a silent nod ok from George.

Nothing more was said and he made sure that never happened again.

He controlled himself until the sight of Annie staring absently into a cold mug of tea, dark circles under her eyes, had him hooked back in again for another hit.

One day she would leave them, when her door finally appeared and her time to cross arrived.

He feared that day, didn't want her to leave them, him.

She missed her first door, for them, and deep down he abused that, used it to demonstrate maybe his soul was worth saving.

It didn't dawn on him, how much she meant to him, until one late afternoon, the three of them sharing laughs in the living room.

He really studied her, watched the delicate crinkle of her nose at something George said.

Despite whatever shit they were in, she just had that aura to make everything better.

And without her, he was an empty man but he dares not whisper love to tempt fate.

She could save him and he hoped there would be no other doors.

Because life without her did not bare thinking.

Thanks for reading!