Office #26, Thursday
Unaware of anything being amiss elsewhere, Mitchell was looking towards another day of paperwork and maybe the odd student to keep himself from getting bored. Or the telly.
Poking around the local channels, skipping past all the horrible American TV shows. "What has the world come to," Mitchell mused, sinking back into his chair with the remote.
Jack Priest
Preparations for Spring Break over and done with, Jack was a bit at loose ends as he wandered around the school. He paused in Mitchell's doorway when he heard the man's voice.
"I don't know," he answered. "You tell me."
John Mitchell
"Remember back in our day?" Mitchell asked, tossing the remote onto the table. "Back when people actually still read."
Mitchell, there were days people couldn't be faulted for thinking you were going to marry a TV.
Jack
Given the first class Jack had ever had Mitchell for was devoted to the glory of teevee, yes. There was a slight skepticism in the tilt to his eyebrows.
Still. He'd play along, especially as it was an opinion he happened to share.
"No one wants to waste time with that nowadays," he said. "Why look at a book when it will all come tapdancing across a screen for your convenience someday soon?"
Mitchell
One day, a vampire called Ivan would point out that the longer you lived this life, the more you turned into a child.
Mitchell did his bit to avoid that fate, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. "And then we get ten seasons of Survivor," he complained, "If I wanted to see people stabbing each other in the back on a tropical island, I'd move to Miami or some place like that."
Jack
"Miami isn't an island, is it?" Jack asked, getting distracted by the one part of that comment he thought he had some comprehension of.
"And which one is Survivor? The one with people singing horrible songs badly is on every time I'm in the common rooms lately."
Mitchell
"No, it's the one that has this... bunch of misfits living on this island trying to win some prize. It's very--"
George Sands
There was a third person out in the hall, a third person who wasn't meant to be there. At least not by any rule you could imagine - and generally, George would be more than overly into the idea of following these rules to the letter, and only the letter, lest he spazz out and... do something.
Right now, though, he was rather more set on marching straight into the room like a man with a mission.
Mitchell
Mitchell squinted, pulling himself upright in surprise. "George. What, did we run out of bacon again--?"
Jack
"Hello, George," Jack said mildly. (Though there was something odd, there, something that had him standing up a little straighter, grateful he hadn't taken a seat. Something that had him alert.)
"I didn't know you still got up to the school -?"
George
"I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse us," George said, perfectly composed.
It was George, which made composed a warning sign if Mitchell had ever heard one. He didn't, however, seem to have the patience to wait for Jack to simply clear out.
"Guess who I saw," he snapped, and shoved Mitchell towards the wall.
Mitchell
Mitchell blinked. What in the name of-- "Yoko Ono?" he snarked, disbelieving.
George
George's fist promptly met Mitchell's face. (It stung like nobody's business. Oh god, he was going to have to go to hospital when he was done, oh god, ow, was Mitchell's face made of granite?)
"Lauren," he said, and managed not to give in to the urge to nurse his poor hand.
Jack
Jack folded his arms, glancing from man to man. Terrier reflexes, yes, but Mitchell and George went deeper than he would get simply, stupidly protective about.
Especially considering: George. He didn't know George well, but George struck him as about as threatening as a flan. So if he was punching his guardian -- well, something was very not right.
"Is there really a need for fisticuffs?" he drawled, deliberately, elaborately disinterested -- and staying exactly where he was, thank you very much.
George
"Yes, there is," George said (and it was that he was riding the edge of his fury, or he would have broke character rather suddenly to beg Jack to please just leave the room). "I manage. My condition."
Not that being near Jack would make him any more specific, mind. "I hide in a shitty bloody cellar or the middle of a forest, but you!" He took a big breath to try and regain his breathing (he'd hyperventilate ... later). "You buy a bottle of wine and a packet of condoms-- What point is there to us trying to build some kind of normality--"
His hands were shaking as he gestured at Mitchell. "--when you are attacking our friends and turning them into monsters?!"
Jack
"Oh," Jack muttered, even less inclined to leave until he was physically thrown out. Things were swirling. He asked one simple question, with the slightest crack in his tone that showed his doubts.
"Mitchell? Is he right?"
Mitchell
Mitchell's startling contribution to the conversation was no contribution at all, merely a tightening of his jaw and a pull of his shoulder. Suddenly, he didn't quite belong in the easy, human tableaux of his room. He hadn't physically moved much, but he hadn't needed to.
George
"For Christ's sake," George said, taking a step backwards. He bumped against the desk.
His own voice cracked all the worse. "We knew her. You let me--"
He suddenly seemed to remember Jack was in the room, and threw the bloke a nearly red-eyed look over his shoulder. "You let me go to her bloody memorial."
Jack
Jack reached to put a hand on George's shoulder, keeping his own rising nausea and fury firmly packed down. Whatever Mitchell had done -- and the silence gave him an idea -- nothing would be helped if this turned into a scene that summoned half the staff. Then things would be like they were after Raven's bite two weeks ago -- only a few million times worse.
"Sit down," he told George. It wasn't quite a command, but only because the situation had him off-balance. "Do you want to get him thrown out of the school?"
Mitchell
It was now Mitchell's time to go on the offensive, though he did Jack's effort a favour by keeping his own anger tightly locked at a lower volume. "How do you think I've survived for the last hundred years?" he hissed.
George had sunken down into that chair, at least. Mitchell threw a look at the wall before his eyes fell back on Jack, then to George. The anger faded back somewhat. "I'm not like-- it's not like what you have. I don't have days off. This..."
And back to Jack, again. It became more complicated when there were several of them milling about his life. "This is what I am."
George
"Then why are we even trying?"
The cycle was round, then, as George managed a shaky sob, sprawled in that chair.
Jack
When Jack was king, he was going to pass a law: Vampires were forbidden from self-pity.
He wasn't king at the moment, though, just a sick-feeling teenage boy who had taken his own precise place in a chair with only a slight, curious glance to George.
"I know what you are," he informed Mitchell in a quiet, deadly voice. "You're endangering yourself and everyone who cares about you" -- and the other vampires on the island, if this got out, but he'd leave that out for the moment -- "because you were hungry. And you didn't finish the kill."
He didn't know if he was more disturbed or grateful about that. Murder was worse on an absolute level, but one more vampire in the world was far harder to clean up than a corpse.
George
With the adrenaline of the moment gone (and the tears setting in) George was left shaking his hand numbly to chase off the heavy onset of real pain. "Why even bother?" he asked again.
Maybe-- he should just leave.
Mitchell
"I don't expect either of you to understand," Mitchell said, evasively. "But fine."
With that word, his attention was trained firmly on George.
Fine. Why bother, indeed.
Jack
"That's not an answer to any of it," Jack pointed out. "Fine, what?"
Fine, he'd turned someone? Fine, George shouldn't try?
Mitchell
"Fine," Mitchell snapped, again, "What do you want me to do? Leave?"
He'd be more composed if George wasn't in the room, but he made keeping distance more difficult.
Jack
Jack ran a hand through his hair. "If that would be the only thing that would help you stay on your -- diet, or whatever you call it," he said.
Which he still didn't understand, but Mitchell would know more than he did.
"Apologize to George. Find this Lauren and help her. You don't need me to tell you any of that, though. You just want permission to feel sorry for yourself."
Seriously. Passing a law.
George
"No, you heard him, you did--"
George was reentering the conversation, and getting on to his feet. "He thinks it's fine. Well, that's it then. Nice to give up the effort, as it were."
He scowled through his still somewhat reddish face and said, "Do try and clean off the blood before you enter the house, will you?"
Mitchell
"Yeah," Mitchell shot back, "I'll do that after you make sure not to shed on the carpet."
Jack
Jack hadn't fully known that George was a lycanthrope -- and if that wasn't what Mitchell was implying, he should get points for misdirection -- but it almost seemed beside the point at the moment.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, clearing his throat to break up what was sounding a lot like a lover's spat.
Mitchell
Jack was just lucky he hadn't said that aloud in George's earshot.
"George is going home," Mitchell said, shooting him a look, "I'll see about Lauren."
George
"I just-- what-- racist!"
George's contribution. Ladies and gentlemen.
Jack
Well, if George hadn't started babbling on about his condition and shacks ... let's just say this wasn't one of Jack's more wild leaps of logic.
"What does racism have to do with it?" Jack asked, starting to leave his chair with a vague notion toward walking George to the causeway before he hurt himself or anyone else.
He was still angry at Mitchell, but -- given that he lacked any inclination to charge at him with a stake -- that seemed like it would keep.
George
"He just--"
George made a noise more applicable to a puppy than a human being and suddenly had at the door, practically flinging himself at the hallway. Nursing his hurting hand.
Jack
Jack gave Mitchell an appalled glance and tumbled out of his chair to follow George.
"I'll see you later," he said, making the commonplace a promise. Right then, there was puppysitting to do.
Mitchell rubbed his forehead as Jack left. A few minutes later, he was placing a call to Max - if he wanted to get out and go out tonight - and sank back in his seat.
Fuck.
[[ details of the conversation nfb, please. with great thanks to the awesome bitten_notshy for coding and appearing in this plot. some dialogue taken from Being Human 1x01. open after this! ]]
Poking around the local channels, skipping past all the horrible American TV shows. "What has the world come to," Mitchell mused, sinking back into his chair with the remote.
Jack Priest
Preparations for Spring Break over and done with, Jack was a bit at loose ends as he wandered around the school. He paused in Mitchell's doorway when he heard the man's voice.
"I don't know," he answered. "You tell me."
John Mitchell
"Remember back in our day?" Mitchell asked, tossing the remote onto the table. "Back when people actually still read."
Mitchell, there were days people couldn't be faulted for thinking you were going to marry a TV.
Jack
Given the first class Jack had ever had Mitchell for was devoted to the glory of teevee, yes. There was a slight skepticism in the tilt to his eyebrows.
Still. He'd play along, especially as it was an opinion he happened to share.
"No one wants to waste time with that nowadays," he said. "Why look at a book when it will all come tapdancing across a screen for your convenience someday soon?"
Mitchell
One day, a vampire called Ivan would point out that the longer you lived this life, the more you turned into a child.
Mitchell did his bit to avoid that fate, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. "And then we get ten seasons of Survivor," he complained, "If I wanted to see people stabbing each other in the back on a tropical island, I'd move to Miami or some place like that."
Jack
"Miami isn't an island, is it?" Jack asked, getting distracted by the one part of that comment he thought he had some comprehension of.
"And which one is Survivor? The one with people singing horrible songs badly is on every time I'm in the common rooms lately."
Mitchell
"No, it's the one that has this... bunch of misfits living on this island trying to win some prize. It's very--"
George Sands
There was a third person out in the hall, a third person who wasn't meant to be there. At least not by any rule you could imagine - and generally, George would be more than overly into the idea of following these rules to the letter, and only the letter, lest he spazz out and... do something.
Right now, though, he was rather more set on marching straight into the room like a man with a mission.
Mitchell
Mitchell squinted, pulling himself upright in surprise. "George. What, did we run out of bacon again--?"
Jack
"Hello, George," Jack said mildly. (Though there was something odd, there, something that had him standing up a little straighter, grateful he hadn't taken a seat. Something that had him alert.)
"I didn't know you still got up to the school -?"
George
"I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse us," George said, perfectly composed.
It was George, which made composed a warning sign if Mitchell had ever heard one. He didn't, however, seem to have the patience to wait for Jack to simply clear out.
"Guess who I saw," he snapped, and shoved Mitchell towards the wall.
Mitchell
Mitchell blinked. What in the name of-- "Yoko Ono?" he snarked, disbelieving.
George
George's fist promptly met Mitchell's face. (It stung like nobody's business. Oh god, he was going to have to go to hospital when he was done, oh god, ow, was Mitchell's face made of granite?)
"Lauren," he said, and managed not to give in to the urge to nurse his poor hand.
Jack
Jack folded his arms, glancing from man to man. Terrier reflexes, yes, but Mitchell and George went deeper than he would get simply, stupidly protective about.
Especially considering: George. He didn't know George well, but George struck him as about as threatening as a flan. So if he was punching his guardian -- well, something was very not right.
"Is there really a need for fisticuffs?" he drawled, deliberately, elaborately disinterested -- and staying exactly where he was, thank you very much.
George
"Yes, there is," George said (and it was that he was riding the edge of his fury, or he would have broke character rather suddenly to beg Jack to please just leave the room). "I manage. My condition."
Not that being near Jack would make him any more specific, mind. "I hide in a shitty bloody cellar or the middle of a forest, but you!" He took a big breath to try and regain his breathing (he'd hyperventilate ... later). "You buy a bottle of wine and a packet of condoms-- What point is there to us trying to build some kind of normality--"
His hands were shaking as he gestured at Mitchell. "--when you are attacking our friends and turning them into monsters?!"
Jack
"Oh," Jack muttered, even less inclined to leave until he was physically thrown out. Things were swirling. He asked one simple question, with the slightest crack in his tone that showed his doubts.
"Mitchell? Is he right?"
Mitchell
Mitchell's startling contribution to the conversation was no contribution at all, merely a tightening of his jaw and a pull of his shoulder. Suddenly, he didn't quite belong in the easy, human tableaux of his room. He hadn't physically moved much, but he hadn't needed to.
George
"For Christ's sake," George said, taking a step backwards. He bumped against the desk.
His own voice cracked all the worse. "We knew her. You let me--"
He suddenly seemed to remember Jack was in the room, and threw the bloke a nearly red-eyed look over his shoulder. "You let me go to her bloody memorial."
Jack
Jack reached to put a hand on George's shoulder, keeping his own rising nausea and fury firmly packed down. Whatever Mitchell had done -- and the silence gave him an idea -- nothing would be helped if this turned into a scene that summoned half the staff. Then things would be like they were after Raven's bite two weeks ago -- only a few million times worse.
"Sit down," he told George. It wasn't quite a command, but only because the situation had him off-balance. "Do you want to get him thrown out of the school?"
Mitchell
It was now Mitchell's time to go on the offensive, though he did Jack's effort a favour by keeping his own anger tightly locked at a lower volume. "How do you think I've survived for the last hundred years?" he hissed.
George had sunken down into that chair, at least. Mitchell threw a look at the wall before his eyes fell back on Jack, then to George. The anger faded back somewhat. "I'm not like-- it's not like what you have. I don't have days off. This..."
And back to Jack, again. It became more complicated when there were several of them milling about his life. "This is what I am."
George
"Then why are we even trying?"
The cycle was round, then, as George managed a shaky sob, sprawled in that chair.
Jack
When Jack was king, he was going to pass a law: Vampires were forbidden from self-pity.
He wasn't king at the moment, though, just a sick-feeling teenage boy who had taken his own precise place in a chair with only a slight, curious glance to George.
"I know what you are," he informed Mitchell in a quiet, deadly voice. "You're endangering yourself and everyone who cares about you" -- and the other vampires on the island, if this got out, but he'd leave that out for the moment -- "because you were hungry. And you didn't finish the kill."
He didn't know if he was more disturbed or grateful about that. Murder was worse on an absolute level, but one more vampire in the world was far harder to clean up than a corpse.
George
With the adrenaline of the moment gone (and the tears setting in) George was left shaking his hand numbly to chase off the heavy onset of real pain. "Why even bother?" he asked again.
Maybe-- he should just leave.
Mitchell
"I don't expect either of you to understand," Mitchell said, evasively. "But fine."
With that word, his attention was trained firmly on George.
Fine. Why bother, indeed.
Jack
"That's not an answer to any of it," Jack pointed out. "Fine, what?"
Fine, he'd turned someone? Fine, George shouldn't try?
Mitchell
"Fine," Mitchell snapped, again, "What do you want me to do? Leave?"
He'd be more composed if George wasn't in the room, but he made keeping distance more difficult.
Jack
Jack ran a hand through his hair. "If that would be the only thing that would help you stay on your -- diet, or whatever you call it," he said.
Which he still didn't understand, but Mitchell would know more than he did.
"Apologize to George. Find this Lauren and help her. You don't need me to tell you any of that, though. You just want permission to feel sorry for yourself."
Seriously. Passing a law.
George
"No, you heard him, you did--"
George was reentering the conversation, and getting on to his feet. "He thinks it's fine. Well, that's it then. Nice to give up the effort, as it were."
He scowled through his still somewhat reddish face and said, "Do try and clean off the blood before you enter the house, will you?"
Mitchell
"Yeah," Mitchell shot back, "I'll do that after you make sure not to shed on the carpet."
Jack
Jack hadn't fully known that George was a lycanthrope -- and if that wasn't what Mitchell was implying, he should get points for misdirection -- but it almost seemed beside the point at the moment.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, clearing his throat to break up what was sounding a lot like a lover's spat.
Mitchell
Jack was just lucky he hadn't said that aloud in George's earshot.
"George is going home," Mitchell said, shooting him a look, "I'll see about Lauren."
George
"I just-- what-- racist!"
George's contribution. Ladies and gentlemen.
Jack
Well, if George hadn't started babbling on about his condition and shacks ... let's just say this wasn't one of Jack's more wild leaps of logic.
"What does racism have to do with it?" Jack asked, starting to leave his chair with a vague notion toward walking George to the causeway before he hurt himself or anyone else.
He was still angry at Mitchell, but -- given that he lacked any inclination to charge at him with a stake -- that seemed like it would keep.
George
"He just--"
George made a noise more applicable to a puppy than a human being and suddenly had at the door, practically flinging himself at the hallway. Nursing his hurting hand.
Jack
Jack gave Mitchell an appalled glance and tumbled out of his chair to follow George.
"I'll see you later," he said, making the commonplace a promise. Right then, there was puppysitting to do.
Mitchell rubbed his forehead as Jack left. A few minutes later, he was placing a call to Max - if he wanted to get out and go out tonight - and sank back in his seat.
Fuck.
[[ details of the conversation nfb, please. with great thanks to the awesome bitten_notshy for coding and appearing in this plot. some dialogue taken from Being Human 1x01. open after this! ]]