Once in a Blue Moon - Being Human - George/Mitchell
Title: Once in a Blue Moon
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 1337
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for ozmissage at my journal.
Summary: When George begins to lash out at his friend, Mitchell knows that the moon must be to blame.
"Something's wrong with George," Mitchell says, once he's alone in the sitting room with Annie. George has just gone upstairs, stomping the entire way. The slam of his bedroom door means that Mitchell can talk without worrying about being overheard.
Annie frowns, kneeling down to pick up the objects that George had knocked over on his way out, CDs and books scattered on the ground. "You mean he's mentaller than usual?" she asks, in a tone that suggests that she thinks that the cure for his affliction is something to do with a solid punch to the head.
"Well, yeah, exactly," Mitchell says. Annie looks up, questioning him silently. "His behaviour's a little unusual, isn't it? C'mon, he doesn't normally barge around like this."
George has a very specific way of being angry, and it does not involve storming around like a slighted toddler. George's anger is a stealth bomber, sneaking around quietly all day before it rears up and squeals sarcasm in your face.
"Not exactly like this," Annie agrees, almost mumbling it under her breath. "Do you think it's a wolfy thing, then?"
"I don't know." Mitchell hates that he has to say that: they all look to him for guidance. He's been in the supernatural world for longer than the rest of them. That's supposed to mean something, but he's as lost as the rest of them. "I'm going to look into it. Keep an eye on him, will you?"
Annie makes a strange, snorting sound, and it isn't until she nods that Mitchell realises she was agreeing to help out. They take care of each other, the three of them. Who else would?
*
He doesn't know if he's ever going to truly take to computers like the rest of the modern world, but he heads to the library all the same. Searches for information about the moon lead him to a lot of New Age sites, which aren't as helpful as he was hoping for. He doesn't think George would appreciate it much if he turned up in his bedroom with a handful of healing crystals. Considering the mood that George has been in lately, Mitchell might end up getting those crystals shoved into a lot of painful places.
It takes a while, and the library is beginning to empty, but he finds what he's looking for: an accurate site about the moon's cycles. Proper information. Useful information.
A blue moon, he writes down on the back of his hand.
The astrology site doesn't tell him any of the details about what exactly the blue moon does to a werewolf - he gets the feeling that the internet can't help him on that front. They're going to have to sort it out on their own.
*
When he gets home, Annie is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, hugging her legs. Her chin rests on her knees, and she doesn't raise her head when he walks in, nor when he takes a seat beside her. "How's he doing?"
"He called me a bitch," Annie says. "A bitch."
"That's not George," Mitchell reassures her. It's not him; it can't be. The wolf is talking now, not George. "It's the full moon tomorrow. After that, he'll be himself again. It'll be fine."
"What if it's not?" Annie whispers. "What if it's more than the moon?"
Mitchell isn't thinking that far ahead yet; he can't. It's not their George upstairs, but he needs their one back. Separation causes an ache in his chest. It's impossible to smile when he knows that something is wrong with his best friend.
"It's just the moon," Mitchell says with the energy of a true believer. "That's all."
If he says it often enough, he thinks he might believe it himself.
*
With a powerful jerk, George rips his arm out of Mitchell's gentle grasp. "I can go by myself," he growls. "I don't need your help, bloodsucker."
It's not really him, Mitchell reminds himself as he breathes calmly through his nose. "I know. I just thought I'd lend a hand."
"Don't," George snaps. "I'm not your pet, Mitchell. You think you're so much better than me. You're just a petty former-badass. Back off."
"George-"
When he takes a step forward, trying to get closer to calm him down, George shoves him back with enough force to make him stumble. "You think I don't notice it, don't you?" Hearing those words from him, Mitchell's stomach clenches in discomfort. He thinks he knows what's coming next. "The way you look at me, like you're just waiting to take a bite... Sometimes I can smell it, you know. When it's nearly the full moon, I can smell
what I do to you, the way you think about me. It's sick, isn't it? You're supposed to be my friend, Mitchell."
Mitchell swallows: he feels light-headed; he wants to hide somewhere that George can't see him, can't judge him. It's not like that, he'd say if he could. I wouldn't do anything.
Look, don't touch; want, don't have. He's lived quietly by those rules the entire time that he's known George, and he'd thought... He'd thought it was okay. He'd thought he could hide it - he was wrong.
"You should go," he admits, a rasping whisper. "The moon's almost up."
George (not George) rolls his eyes at him and leaves without another word. The front door slams, loud enough that Mitchell feels it throughout his entire body.
"It's okay," Annie promises, standing at his side. He's not sure when she appeared there; he's too scared to ask. "It's going to be okay."
It's times like this, with her cool, calming presence next to him, that he feels like the luckiest man in the world for moving in to this particular house.
*
The next morning, with a heavy heart, he goes to the hospital like normal. He slips into the abandoned area, unnoticed and uncared for, and he makes his way to the door that George hides behind. He doesn't want to open it: he doesn't want to have to face him again.
When he opens the door, there is no rage waiting for him. There is a naked man curled on the floor, and there are tears falling slowly.
"Hey, George," he says, alarmed and worried and so, so relieved. He props the door open and walks in further, kneeling down on the ground beside him. "It's over now. It doesn't matter."
George's breathing shakes as he struggles to suck air into his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispers without looking up at Mitchell. "I didn't mean it. Any of it."
Mitchell reaches out to take hold of his hand. It's covered with dirt and scratches, and there's blood around his fingernails. Mitchell takes shallow breaths, determined to ignore the scent. "I know, George. Me and Annie, we know."
George is quiet for a long while, the rhythm of his chest beginning to settle, until Mitchell thinks that he might have gone to sleep. After a night like the one that he just had, he must be exhausted. He holds his hand, thumb stroking back and forth against his skin, and thinks that he would be content to wait there for as long as George needs.
"I don't think you're sick," George says eventually, turning his head to look up at Mitchell's face. The rims of his eyes are red and raw with crying and his face is a mess with clear train-tracks through the dirt where the tears have fallen.
Mitchell can't help but smile anyway.
"I don't think I'm sick either," he says. Falling for George had been the most natural thing in the world; he hadn't realised it had happened until he was too far gone.
George nods and they don't say much further on the topic, not in words - but, after George changes into the clothes that Mitchell brought for him, they stay down in this private room for a little while longer, George cuddled in at Mitchell's side as he dreams away a month of nightmares.
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 1337
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for ozmissage at my journal.
Summary: When George begins to lash out at his friend, Mitchell knows that the moon must be to blame.
"Something's wrong with George," Mitchell says, once he's alone in the sitting room with Annie. George has just gone upstairs, stomping the entire way. The slam of his bedroom door means that Mitchell can talk without worrying about being overheard.
Annie frowns, kneeling down to pick up the objects that George had knocked over on his way out, CDs and books scattered on the ground. "You mean he's mentaller than usual?" she asks, in a tone that suggests that she thinks that the cure for his affliction is something to do with a solid punch to the head.
"Well, yeah, exactly," Mitchell says. Annie looks up, questioning him silently. "His behaviour's a little unusual, isn't it? C'mon, he doesn't normally barge around like this."
George has a very specific way of being angry, and it does not involve storming around like a slighted toddler. George's anger is a stealth bomber, sneaking around quietly all day before it rears up and squeals sarcasm in your face.
"Not exactly like this," Annie agrees, almost mumbling it under her breath. "Do you think it's a wolfy thing, then?"
"I don't know." Mitchell hates that he has to say that: they all look to him for guidance. He's been in the supernatural world for longer than the rest of them. That's supposed to mean something, but he's as lost as the rest of them. "I'm going to look into it. Keep an eye on him, will you?"
Annie makes a strange, snorting sound, and it isn't until she nods that Mitchell realises she was agreeing to help out. They take care of each other, the three of them. Who else would?
*
He doesn't know if he's ever going to truly take to computers like the rest of the modern world, but he heads to the library all the same. Searches for information about the moon lead him to a lot of New Age sites, which aren't as helpful as he was hoping for. He doesn't think George would appreciate it much if he turned up in his bedroom with a handful of healing crystals. Considering the mood that George has been in lately, Mitchell might end up getting those crystals shoved into a lot of painful places.
It takes a while, and the library is beginning to empty, but he finds what he's looking for: an accurate site about the moon's cycles. Proper information. Useful information.
A blue moon, he writes down on the back of his hand.
The astrology site doesn't tell him any of the details about what exactly the blue moon does to a werewolf - he gets the feeling that the internet can't help him on that front. They're going to have to sort it out on their own.
*
When he gets home, Annie is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, hugging her legs. Her chin rests on her knees, and she doesn't raise her head when he walks in, nor when he takes a seat beside her. "How's he doing?"
"He called me a bitch," Annie says. "A bitch."
"That's not George," Mitchell reassures her. It's not him; it can't be. The wolf is talking now, not George. "It's the full moon tomorrow. After that, he'll be himself again. It'll be fine."
"What if it's not?" Annie whispers. "What if it's more than the moon?"
Mitchell isn't thinking that far ahead yet; he can't. It's not their George upstairs, but he needs their one back. Separation causes an ache in his chest. It's impossible to smile when he knows that something is wrong with his best friend.
"It's just the moon," Mitchell says with the energy of a true believer. "That's all."
If he says it often enough, he thinks he might believe it himself.
*
With a powerful jerk, George rips his arm out of Mitchell's gentle grasp. "I can go by myself," he growls. "I don't need your help, bloodsucker."
It's not really him, Mitchell reminds himself as he breathes calmly through his nose. "I know. I just thought I'd lend a hand."
"Don't," George snaps. "I'm not your pet, Mitchell. You think you're so much better than me. You're just a petty former-badass. Back off."
"George-"
When he takes a step forward, trying to get closer to calm him down, George shoves him back with enough force to make him stumble. "You think I don't notice it, don't you?" Hearing those words from him, Mitchell's stomach clenches in discomfort. He thinks he knows what's coming next. "The way you look at me, like you're just waiting to take a bite... Sometimes I can smell it, you know. When it's nearly the full moon, I can smell
what I do to you, the way you think about me. It's sick, isn't it? You're supposed to be my friend, Mitchell."
Mitchell swallows: he feels light-headed; he wants to hide somewhere that George can't see him, can't judge him. It's not like that, he'd say if he could. I wouldn't do anything.
Look, don't touch; want, don't have. He's lived quietly by those rules the entire time that he's known George, and he'd thought... He'd thought it was okay. He'd thought he could hide it - he was wrong.
"You should go," he admits, a rasping whisper. "The moon's almost up."
George (not George) rolls his eyes at him and leaves without another word. The front door slams, loud enough that Mitchell feels it throughout his entire body.
"It's okay," Annie promises, standing at his side. He's not sure when she appeared there; he's too scared to ask. "It's going to be okay."
It's times like this, with her cool, calming presence next to him, that he feels like the luckiest man in the world for moving in to this particular house.
*
The next morning, with a heavy heart, he goes to the hospital like normal. He slips into the abandoned area, unnoticed and uncared for, and he makes his way to the door that George hides behind. He doesn't want to open it: he doesn't want to have to face him again.
When he opens the door, there is no rage waiting for him. There is a naked man curled on the floor, and there are tears falling slowly.
"Hey, George," he says, alarmed and worried and so, so relieved. He props the door open and walks in further, kneeling down on the ground beside him. "It's over now. It doesn't matter."
George's breathing shakes as he struggles to suck air into his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispers without looking up at Mitchell. "I didn't mean it. Any of it."
Mitchell reaches out to take hold of his hand. It's covered with dirt and scratches, and there's blood around his fingernails. Mitchell takes shallow breaths, determined to ignore the scent. "I know, George. Me and Annie, we know."
George is quiet for a long while, the rhythm of his chest beginning to settle, until Mitchell thinks that he might have gone to sleep. After a night like the one that he just had, he must be exhausted. He holds his hand, thumb stroking back and forth against his skin, and thinks that he would be content to wait there for as long as George needs.
"I don't think you're sick," George says eventually, turning his head to look up at Mitchell's face. The rims of his eyes are red and raw with crying and his face is a mess with clear train-tracks through the dirt where the tears have fallen.
Mitchell can't help but smile anyway.
"I don't think I'm sick either," he says. Falling for George had been the most natural thing in the world; he hadn't realised it had happened until he was too far gone.
George nods and they don't say much further on the topic, not in words - but, after George changes into the clothes that Mitchell brought for him, they stay down in this private room for a little while longer, George cuddled in at Mitchell's side as he dreams away a month of nightmares.