The Pieces of Me Are All That's Left - Being Human - George/Mitchell
Title: The Pieces of Me Are All That's Left
Pairing: George/Mitchell (established relationship)
Word Count: 4700
Rating: R
Warning: Character death
A/N: Written for 10_inspirations
Summary: He thinks later that he should have done it - that he should have given in to George's crazy ideas when he first asked.
"What would happen?" George asked, fingers threading with Mitchell's as they lazed peacefully in bed. Saturday mornings - or by this point Mitchell supposed it was Saturday afternoon - were always slow, lazy, quiet. Quiet as long as Annie didn't get bored and disturb them, in any case.
He hid his face in the crook of George's neck, nose against his hot skin. "What do you mean?"
George tussled and rolled onto his front, looking up at Mitchell. He was wearing his 'serious' expression. Not like that's unusual, Mitchell reminded himself. His fingers brushed tear-cold over the side of George's face. His jaw was completely smooth and stubble-free: the full moon was a distant worry.
"What would happen if you… y'know." He shrugged suggestively. Mitchell had to blink and crease his brow to demonstrate that he truly did not know what ideas swirled in that odd little mind of his. "If I was like you. If you made me like you."
Mitchell stared at him feigned ignorance: he couldn't acknowledge what George was asking. It was just too stupid.
George rolled over again so that he was better able to look at Mitchell. Naked, lazy, peaceful. This should have been such a simple, comfortable morning. "Y'know. A vampire and a werewolf in one body. How would that work?"
"Please," Mitchell said, "tell me you're only asking from a highly hypothetical stand-point. I don't want to have to believe you'd really be quite that dim, George."
George rolled again, huffing to the opposite side of the bed. His bare shoulders faced Mitchell, a tempting invitation to move over there and taste his skin. George was a perilous temptation for him: Mitchell should have known better. He did know better - but that didn't help him resist, not at all.
So annoyingly easy to give in… "I don't know," he answered, spidering over the bed towards him. "It's never happened before. Never been recorded as happening, anyway."
George didn't respond to that but he didn't flinch away either when Mitchell was close enough to spoon against him. It was the most Mitchell could hope for - and getting George to warm to him again always presented a pleasurable challenge, hands seeking skin they shouldn't have.
"They should make a film about it," George mumbled, his breath hitching and shuddering when Mitchell's lips traced over the back of his neck. "A werewolf-vampire? It'd be - Christ - cool."
Mitchell smiled against his skin, cold and relaxed. "George," he purred. One sentence all on its own. "Shut up and roll over - otherwise I'll have to spend the day ignoring you. I can think of several more… interesting things we could do." His hand moved under the covers, fingers brushing suggestively by the cleft of George's ass. "Can't you?"
"Fuck," George said, his hand clenching bunched material before he obediently rolled onto his front once more. Mitchell smirked: distracting George was definitely his current favourite activity.
*
The years passed - they always did - and the war edged closer. The others of Mitchell's kind grew restless, grew hungry. He felt it too though he tried not to. Telling himself that he was different, that he was better, that he was in control… When he looked at passers-by on the street like they were nothing but a quick meal he had to doubt that belief - and when he looked at George in the same way he knew he was a monster.
George was older now than he had been when they first bought this house together: not just in years. His body had aged too, years dragging at him. He was still young, still sweet, still George, but Mitchell was all too aware of time moving too fast. He himself would never age. Never wilt. Never die.
"Mitchell," Annie said, sighing at him. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Moping around. Brooding." She folded her legs onto their couch, hugging one of the scatter-cushions.
"I'm a vampire, aren't I?" He smirked. "We're supposed to brood - it's what we're known for."
She arched her eyebrows at him and let go of a frustrated puff of dead air. "I'm trying to have a conversation here, Mitchell. An actual conversation. Y'could pretend to pay attention, you know."
"Sorry," Mitchell murmured. Living with George and Annie all these years he'd grown exceptionally good at apologising. "I was thinking about George."
"Well, there's a surprise." She shuffled around as he stayed in the doorway of their living room and watched her. For a dead woman she looked startlingly alive - he didn't think that he'd ever quite get used to that. She was so different to any of the ghosts he'd met before. All the fight, all the life was still in her. "What about him, then? Are you two fighting again?"
"If we were fighting, Annie, you'd already know." George would have ranted, raved, slammed cupboards and played the television too loud. When he was angry he always made sure that every soul in hearing distance knew about it. "He asked me once… He asked me what would happen if I tried to turn him."
"And you said?"
"That it was a stupid, ridiculous idea." Mitchell would stand by that. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. "When you're turned… you change. The whole world changes for you." He only had to look at Lauren for painfully convincing proof of that.
"He's our George, Mitchell. Don't you go changing him or anything - you'll have me to answer to if you do."
"He'll die. If I don't do something…"
"Nothing wrong with being dead," Annie said with a fractured smile.
"George won't become a ghost." Dying of peaceful old age… He'd have no unfinished business. Mitchell's thoughts kept turning to the corridor with the men and their sticks at the end. The thought of George going there was enough to make his fists curl. He pretended to look at his nails. "I'm just… exploring my options."
"Might want to explore them with George instead of behind his back," Annie said. "Can you imagine the fuss he'd kick up if he found you chatting about this stuff with me instead of him?"
Mitchell's lips pressed together as he considered it. Talking to George about this was undoubtedly the next step - but the prospect of it made this all a little too real. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'll make us some tea," Annie said, getting to her feet. "Tea'll help."
Mitchell's eyebrows rose as he wondered how on Earth even tea could help with this.
*
The hospital was never fully deserted, not even at night. People didn't stop falling ill or getting hurt simply because it would be more convenient for the creeping creatures of the night if they did so. Wrapped in a thick black coat and smothered with a winding scarf, Mitchell kept his head down as he walked to the long-abandoned wing of the hospital.
He had a book in his pocket to while away the ten minutes he would have to wait for the moon to disappear completely and for George to return to his own form. His headphones were already blaring music to try and drown out the sound of George's screams during transformation. He could hear the scuttle of tiny feet rushing back and forth faintly above the thud of the music. Rats, no doubt. Nothing more. Nothing but sullen, empty silence. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. There should have been growls.
"George?" he called as he walked along the black corridors. He could see the path clearly despite the dark. "George?"
And it hit him then, thick and overwhelming.
Blood. The scent of it. All around, everywhere. He had to stop, eyes black, and lean against the wall. Too much; this was too much. Food to a starving man. The smell was far too good.
George.
He knew it. He'd tasted it before on their rougher nights together.
He pushed himself from the wall and stumbled forward. All that blood had to mean something. It took more strength than he knew he possessed to make himself keep going. "George?" he called again. His voice rasped. Grated.
The door was hanging open. Mitchell's hand clenched on the frame as he stared inside. The light flickered and the furniture inside had been destroyed years ago. It was empty. The entire room… Empty. Blood marked the walls and stained the ground. Mitchell's eyes lingered on the dark, wet patches longer than he should have let them. The hunger fought with the fear - one taste, just one little taste - and warred violently inside him.
"George," he yelled to the empty room. Nothing. Nothing at all.
It was impossible to think as he turned around and left, walking blindly. There had to be something he could do - he didn't even know what had happened, what could have happened. George should have been safe in there.
There was blood on his hands, he realised once he managed to get out of this abandoned section of the hospital and into an area that was a little more populated. The light hurt his eyes and the morning sun was beginning to filter reluctantly through the wide windows. Night had been chased away: George would be human now, wherever he was.
Mitchell's fast footsteps froze when he saw a familiar figure leaning against the hospital wall. Her black clothes were a stark contrast to the sterile white wall behind her - and she smelled so strongly of George's blood.
"Where is he?" Mitchell asked as he stalked towards her, dodging nurses and other patients. "George. What did you do?"
And he wasn't scared, he didn't want to be scared, but there was something much too smug about the way Lauren smiled.
"He's been dealt with," she said.
Mitchell moved closer to her, hands grabbing her arms and shoving her hard against the wall. He only saw in shades of red. "Where is he?"
Her smile didn't fade, even as a disturbed ripple ran through the humans in the corridor. The air changed with violence. She trailed a finger - caked in George's dried blood - down the side of Mitchell's arm. "He's gone," she whispered. She punctuated it with a girlish giggle. "He's gone - so you can stop pretending you're human, stop pretending that there's a 'happily ever after' with the wolf waiting for you. The war's coming. I just helped you pick a side."
"Yes," Mitchell hissed. "You did. Now tell me where he is."
When he had the information he needed he left her rushed away, lost in a mindless, primal daze - but he knew long before he found the broken body that he was far too late.
*
"Mitchell," Annie said, staring at her untouched mug of tea. He didn't bother to look at her: he didn't want to see how the passing months had made her nervous to talk to him. "Maybe you should stay in tonight. We can watch a film or something."
He didn't answer, waiting for the sun to fall. He didn't bother going out during the way any more: the light wasn't the right place for creatures like him.
Monsters like me.
"We could call for a pizza," Annie suggested. "Be like old times."
There would be a silent, gaping, complaining gap on the sofa between them. She knew that as well as he did. He'd thrown the scatter cushions out after the funeral. There hadn't seemed to be any need for them. The arrangement had been an experiment that had failed terribly.
"Mitch," she said, shuffling forward. "I'm worried about you. I'm really worried."
"I'm fine." He wasn't. The sky was a fiery orange as he waited for the sun to set. "Don't worry."
"Where d'you go at night? Every night. What d'you do?"
He walked towards the front door and opened it. "Trust me, Annie," he said with no hint of his old, dry amusement. "You don't want to know."
The door slammed behind him and he stood on the near-dark streets. His hands plunged into his pockets and he was left looking around, wondering which way to go up the street. It probably wouldn't make a difference: either one would lead to the same place, morally. All roads… He remembered lying in a bathtub in the hospital; he remembered another old saying about Rome; he remembered when he and George had been friends and nothing more. It had been better like that. Safer. Maybe if he'd just kept his distance…
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
His hands delved into the pockets of his jacket and he turned right, walking up the long, sloped road and leaving their house behind for another night. His thoughts were elsewhere. They always were, always had to be.
The city's streets were quieter than they had been a few years ago: the news reported on a crime epidemic nightly. Bodies turned up all across the country with no readily apparent cause of death. A little anaemic, that was all. Young people. Pretty people. The bars were still stuffed full; the lure of loud music and cheap alcohol proved too great a temptation. Humanity's survival instinct had become too weak.
Mitchell entered the club and felt the thud of the music and the stench of sweat and stale beer crash into him. It was enough to chase away any thoughts that still lingered in his blackened mind. Instinct alone. Hunter and prey. A monster always knew when to strike.
She was sweet, innocent and far too nice, sitting alone by the bar with a glass in her hand. He didn't even remember her name after they'd introduced themselves, but it didn't matter. She was flattered enough by his attention that a little effort was enough to feign enough interested for her to be satisfied.
"I don't usually do this," she admitted when she'd been swirling melting ice cubes around the bottom of her glass for at least fifteen minutes, "but if you wanted to, we could go back to mine for a while. Just… just to chat."
"Chat?" Mitchell repeated. His mouth twisted into a smirk. "Are you sure that's a wise idea? I could be a very dangerous person to chat with."
"I can't believe that," she laughed. "You don't seem very dangerous."
He drained his glass and grinned, teasing her a little more as they left the music behind. She giggled and blushed and protested her innocence. The sound of people - music, laughter - faded until it vanished completely and they were left alone with only the street lamps for company. The curtains of every home they passed were tightly drawn; the lights were off.
Her laughing continued, but he only listened to the pounding of her heart. So loud. So tempting.
"Mitchell?" she asked as her laughter faded. She pushed some of her fluffy blonde hair from her face. "Are you okay?"
"Not really," he answered, pressing closer to her. Instincts fired: she tried to retreat but her back bumped against the building behind her. His hand pressed against the side of the wall, blocking her escape: all hint of amusement had gone now. His lips brushed over hers and he felt her tremble. "I haven't been 'okay' for a very long time."
His attention shifted past her lips and down to the temptation of her thudding pulse. His eyes closed and were pitch-black by the time he opened them again: he pierced her neck and felt the blood begin to run, life begin to fade.
He held her easily through her struggles and gave in, as he did every night, to his instinct: he'd given up fighting. There was no choice other than embracing it. He was a monster, wasn't he?
The fight faded from her fragile body as he drank.
A monster, he thought, through and through.
*
The house was silent when he let himself in. That was no surprise: Annie had left months ago. Whether she'd found somewhere else to haunt or had moved on from this world he didn't know. He'd stormed out after an argument with her - she'd brought up George - and when he'd come back she'd been gone.
Just as well, he told himself every time he started to miss her too much. She was a link to the past, to the naïve happiness he'd tried to hide himself in. Cutting those ties… It was for the best.
He slipped out of his jacket and moved to the kitchen sink, washing the specks of blood from his hands. He could still smell it, the scent filling the air. Pausing, his hands wet, he stared out the window above the sink. The sun was rising. A whole new day.
Turning away he dried his hands and walked through the living room to the stairway. There was an empty gap on the floor where their sofa should have been. He'd got rid of that when Annie had left.
There was a light shining under the door of his bedroom. Mitchell's footsteps paused thoughtfully. He tasted the air: the scent was as familiar as it could be after all these years. George, but not-George.
Moments passed and he didn't move, listening instead. It sounded like there was some kind of bird trapped in the room upstairs. He kept hearing a sound like the ruffling of feathers. It was mad, wasn't it? He forced his feet to move. There was nothing up there that could be scarier than him. What could be?
(A bigger one of me, he thought and felt his heart ache just a little bit more.)
He didn't bother to grab a weapon before he entered the room: fear was a stranger to him now. Distant.
In the bedroom, George sat peacefully on his side of the bed - hands clasped, head bowed, eyes closed. He looked exactly as he had the last time that Mitchell had seen him alive. His face did, in any case. His body…
White wings arched from his back, the perfect mockery of every religious panting that Mitchell had ever smirked at. They looked hyper-real, slotting through two slits that had been cut in the back of George's shirt and jumper. He looked so ordinary compared to them. So human. He didn't look up or stir at all when Mitchell let the door slam shut behind him. His face looked so quietly serene.
Mitchell stayed at the other side of the room, letting the bed separate them. He brushed his thumb over his bottom lip and let the surrealism of the situation drench him. "George," he said levelly when his mouth seemed able to obey once more, "you appear to have wings."
George looked up then, craning over his shoulder in order to see Mitchell properly, and - yes. God, yes. It was George in every movement. Lanky, like his body was bigger and stronger than it should have been. He'd always reminded Mitchell of an overgrown puppy, still adapting to being bigger than it was used to. It had been especially apparent near the full moon, hadn't it? Mitchell took a step across the room to him and felt the darkness that he'd let enshrine his life lifting.
"Don't," George said - the darkness dropped again. "You should…. You should stay over there, Mitchell."
George stood up and turned around, navigating the room with a surprising amount of grace considering the wings attached to his back now. Mitchell crossed an arm by his chest, hand resting on his collarbone, and leaned against the door frame. It was hard to fight the impulse to ignore all that George had said. Seeing him there… Standing on the spot felt like an impossibility.
"You've been dead for two years, George," Mitchell said when it seemed that George would rather squirm awkwardly than be the first to break their silence. "Why are you here now?"
"I don't need a reason, do I?"
"George," he purred. He'd spent so long forbidding himself from saying that name, from even thinking it. It felt so good, so warm on his lips. "You've been dead. Now you return with a gaudy set of wings, sit on my bed yet tell me I can only look… No touching." He allowed his eyes to drag slowly, deliberately over George's body. He remembered so clearly the way it had always made George blush when he'd been told how desirable he was, how much Mitchell wanted him. Mitchell had made sure to tell him and show him at every opportunity - but after all this time it wasn't sex that tempted him. He wanted to hold him. Even to touch him, one hand holding his, would be enough to convince him that this wasn't merely a hallucination.
George shifted uncomfortably and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Yeah," he murmured. "I'm sorry about that - I just… They wouldn't let me come."
"'They'?"
"The higher ups." George smiled - it was like a short-lived sun. "Management, I guess you'd say."
"Angel management," Mitchell said. He smiled too and took a step forward. He breathed deeply: George smelled a little differently now that he had when he was alive, but it was still so similar and so George that he didn't think he could get enough of it. He longed to taste him too, even if the blood tang from the girl he'd killed earlier still lingered in his mouth. He didn't need to drink. He just wanted to.
It had never been this much of a struggle two years ago. He'd been off the wagon then. He'd been free from the addiction that came from what he was. Now…
"Who said I was an angel?" George asked, grinning. He sat down again on the bed, facing Mitchell. He cross his legs, his bare feet perfectly clean, and shrugged sheepishly. "Maybe I'm a devil now."
Mitchell took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and advanced, half-crawling, even though he'd been told not to. "I doubt that," he murmured when he was close enough that another inch would bring their long-waiting lips into contact. "I doubt that very much."
He kissed him then, his hand at the back of George's neck as they slammed together - hard and vicious, hungrier than he should have allowed himself to be. It lasted only a split-second. Pain rushed through his lips, through his hand, and he heard the hiss of searing flesh - like bacon thrown into a pan. He darted backwards, wincing. There was a red burn-mark on George's lips as well as his own: tiny blisters formed on the pads of Mitchell's fingertips.
"We can't touch," George gasped. He covered his mouth with his hand and swore quietly. "I'm sorry. We can't…"
Mitchell sat back and nodded slowly as he looked at his burnt had. "Because of what I am," he murmured. It hurt to talk.
"No," George answered immediately. "Not what you are. What you've done."
The shame clenched around him almost immediately. Mitchell wished he could look up nonchalantly and pretend that he wasn't bothered, but George knew. He knew what Mitchell had done since he'd died…
"Mitchell," George said. He didn't sound disgusted or angry or even stern. He sounded lost. Confused. "I don't understand…"
"There's nothing to 'understand'," Mitchell said. With a lot of effort and courage he made himself look up to meet George's eyes. George looked so earnest, like he was trying so hard to understand, to accept, to forgive. "I'm a monster. I was just… giving in to my basic instincts."
"By slaughtering hundreds of innocent people?" George snapped, suddenly angry.
Mitchell couldn't blame him. Hundreds? Had it really been so many? He didn't want to believe it.
"George, you died," he said, a defeated attempt at an explanation. "They killed you because of me. I found your body, saw what they did to you…"
"So you gave in and gave them exactly what they wanted? I thought I was supposed to be the stupid one." George shook his head and moved to lie down on his side, his head on the pillow.
After barely a moment's thought, Mitchell followed him. They laid side by side, looking into each others' eyes. There was a large gap left between them. Mitchell could so clearly remember lazy days spent together like this when he'd convinced himself that this never had to end, that he could stay lost in this bright happiness for eternity. Lies. It had just been lies.
"You have to stop," George urged quietly. "If you don't, the next time they send me here it won't just be to talk."
Mitchell felt the edges of a smirk pulling at his mouth. "Are you going to kill me, George?" he asked with playful wondered. He surprised himself with how much he liked the idea - with how fitting it seemed.
He reached for George before he could answer, his hand resting on George's hip through the denim of his jeans. While his palm heated up, it didn't burn. Minimum protection. As long as there was no bare skin-on-skin, they'd be okay. George offered only a weak and reluctant protest when Mitchell took the opportunity to roll on top of him, straddled over him.
"Bony as ever," George grumbled when his hands found their way to Mitchell's hips. His thumbs played dangerously close to the waistband of Mitchell's jeans. It made a red-hot thrill shoot through him.
He leaned down, lips dangerous millimetres from George's: he didn't want to add to the burns he'd already left on George's mouth. "And you're as stocky as ever," he challenged, letting his hand move to the centre of George's chest. Stockier, in fact, he corrected himself. His eyes drifted to the white wings now folded beneath George. Werewolf to angel. One hell of a promotion.
"Mitchell," George sighed seriously. "You need to promise me you'll stop hunting. The war's not just 'coming' any more, is it? It's started."
Mitchell's fingers skimmed over the skin of George's neck, never quite touching. "What if I don't want to pick a side?" he asked. "What if I don't want to be a part of your little war?"
George caught his wrist, hand hidden in the sleeve of his jumper as he held Mitchell's arm motionless - so much stronger than he'd ever been before his murder. He held Mitchell's gaze fiercely. "Then you'll get caught in the crossfire," he said, "and I don't want to see that happen."
Mitchell closed his eyes and breathed George's new scent. "And if I stop? Will I see you again?"
"I don't know, honestly."
"Maybe I just won't let you leave," Mitchell mused - but despite his light tone he was serious. Seeing George again left him uncertain as to whether he could let him go. "I'll just keep you here in my room."
"Mitchell-"
"You could be my captive," he suggested. "It'd be fun."
"I'm not sure if that's the kind of 'fun' I'm looking for."
"Mm," Mitchell agreed. "You always were rather vanilla."
"I'm serious!" George protested, even though he was smiling again now. "This is serious."
The world turned when George flipped them over with such ease, winding up on top between Mitchell's legs. It was too sensory a memory, this position, for Mitchell to be able to hold back a moan.
"Seriously," George said, "you have to pick a side-" He paused to sweep in and kiss Mitchell again, their burnt lips crashing together. It was so longer for that Mitchell could ignore the pain that soon flared. George broke it eventually, wincing. "You have to pick a side," he repeated. "Make sure it's the right one."
He climbed off the bed - and he was much more graceful than he used to be, much more steam-lined - and seconds later he was gone. The window was left hanging open in his wake and a feather or two lay abandoned on the ground. Mitchell stayed helplessly on the bed in his empty house: he would have laughed at the empty hopelessness of it all if he could.
He had a choice to make, an addiction to conquer and a war to fight. He brushed his thumb soothingly over the red burn marks on his mouth and tried to reassure himself that he was strong enough to do what was right.
Pairing: George/Mitchell (established relationship)
Word Count: 4700
Rating: R
Warning: Character death
A/N: Written for 10_inspirations
Summary: He thinks later that he should have done it - that he should have given in to George's crazy ideas when he first asked.
"What would happen?" George asked, fingers threading with Mitchell's as they lazed peacefully in bed. Saturday mornings - or by this point Mitchell supposed it was Saturday afternoon - were always slow, lazy, quiet. Quiet as long as Annie didn't get bored and disturb them, in any case.
He hid his face in the crook of George's neck, nose against his hot skin. "What do you mean?"
George tussled and rolled onto his front, looking up at Mitchell. He was wearing his 'serious' expression. Not like that's unusual, Mitchell reminded himself. His fingers brushed tear-cold over the side of George's face. His jaw was completely smooth and stubble-free: the full moon was a distant worry.
"What would happen if you… y'know." He shrugged suggestively. Mitchell had to blink and crease his brow to demonstrate that he truly did not know what ideas swirled in that odd little mind of his. "If I was like you. If you made me like you."
Mitchell stared at him feigned ignorance: he couldn't acknowledge what George was asking. It was just too stupid.
George rolled over again so that he was better able to look at Mitchell. Naked, lazy, peaceful. This should have been such a simple, comfortable morning. "Y'know. A vampire and a werewolf in one body. How would that work?"
"Please," Mitchell said, "tell me you're only asking from a highly hypothetical stand-point. I don't want to have to believe you'd really be quite that dim, George."
George rolled again, huffing to the opposite side of the bed. His bare shoulders faced Mitchell, a tempting invitation to move over there and taste his skin. George was a perilous temptation for him: Mitchell should have known better. He did know better - but that didn't help him resist, not at all.
So annoyingly easy to give in… "I don't know," he answered, spidering over the bed towards him. "It's never happened before. Never been recorded as happening, anyway."
George didn't respond to that but he didn't flinch away either when Mitchell was close enough to spoon against him. It was the most Mitchell could hope for - and getting George to warm to him again always presented a pleasurable challenge, hands seeking skin they shouldn't have.
"They should make a film about it," George mumbled, his breath hitching and shuddering when Mitchell's lips traced over the back of his neck. "A werewolf-vampire? It'd be - Christ - cool."
Mitchell smiled against his skin, cold and relaxed. "George," he purred. One sentence all on its own. "Shut up and roll over - otherwise I'll have to spend the day ignoring you. I can think of several more… interesting things we could do." His hand moved under the covers, fingers brushing suggestively by the cleft of George's ass. "Can't you?"
"Fuck," George said, his hand clenching bunched material before he obediently rolled onto his front once more. Mitchell smirked: distracting George was definitely his current favourite activity.
*
The years passed - they always did - and the war edged closer. The others of Mitchell's kind grew restless, grew hungry. He felt it too though he tried not to. Telling himself that he was different, that he was better, that he was in control… When he looked at passers-by on the street like they were nothing but a quick meal he had to doubt that belief - and when he looked at George in the same way he knew he was a monster.
George was older now than he had been when they first bought this house together: not just in years. His body had aged too, years dragging at him. He was still young, still sweet, still George, but Mitchell was all too aware of time moving too fast. He himself would never age. Never wilt. Never die.
"Mitchell," Annie said, sighing at him. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Moping around. Brooding." She folded her legs onto their couch, hugging one of the scatter-cushions.
"I'm a vampire, aren't I?" He smirked. "We're supposed to brood - it's what we're known for."
She arched her eyebrows at him and let go of a frustrated puff of dead air. "I'm trying to have a conversation here, Mitchell. An actual conversation. Y'could pretend to pay attention, you know."
"Sorry," Mitchell murmured. Living with George and Annie all these years he'd grown exceptionally good at apologising. "I was thinking about George."
"Well, there's a surprise." She shuffled around as he stayed in the doorway of their living room and watched her. For a dead woman she looked startlingly alive - he didn't think that he'd ever quite get used to that. She was so different to any of the ghosts he'd met before. All the fight, all the life was still in her. "What about him, then? Are you two fighting again?"
"If we were fighting, Annie, you'd already know." George would have ranted, raved, slammed cupboards and played the television too loud. When he was angry he always made sure that every soul in hearing distance knew about it. "He asked me once… He asked me what would happen if I tried to turn him."
"And you said?"
"That it was a stupid, ridiculous idea." Mitchell would stand by that. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. "When you're turned… you change. The whole world changes for you." He only had to look at Lauren for painfully convincing proof of that.
"He's our George, Mitchell. Don't you go changing him or anything - you'll have me to answer to if you do."
"He'll die. If I don't do something…"
"Nothing wrong with being dead," Annie said with a fractured smile.
"George won't become a ghost." Dying of peaceful old age… He'd have no unfinished business. Mitchell's thoughts kept turning to the corridor with the men and their sticks at the end. The thought of George going there was enough to make his fists curl. He pretended to look at his nails. "I'm just… exploring my options."
"Might want to explore them with George instead of behind his back," Annie said. "Can you imagine the fuss he'd kick up if he found you chatting about this stuff with me instead of him?"
Mitchell's lips pressed together as he considered it. Talking to George about this was undoubtedly the next step - but the prospect of it made this all a little too real. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'll make us some tea," Annie said, getting to her feet. "Tea'll help."
Mitchell's eyebrows rose as he wondered how on Earth even tea could help with this.
*
The hospital was never fully deserted, not even at night. People didn't stop falling ill or getting hurt simply because it would be more convenient for the creeping creatures of the night if they did so. Wrapped in a thick black coat and smothered with a winding scarf, Mitchell kept his head down as he walked to the long-abandoned wing of the hospital.
He had a book in his pocket to while away the ten minutes he would have to wait for the moon to disappear completely and for George to return to his own form. His headphones were already blaring music to try and drown out the sound of George's screams during transformation. He could hear the scuttle of tiny feet rushing back and forth faintly above the thud of the music. Rats, no doubt. Nothing more. Nothing but sullen, empty silence. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. There should have been growls.
"George?" he called as he walked along the black corridors. He could see the path clearly despite the dark. "George?"
And it hit him then, thick and overwhelming.
Blood. The scent of it. All around, everywhere. He had to stop, eyes black, and lean against the wall. Too much; this was too much. Food to a starving man. The smell was far too good.
George.
He knew it. He'd tasted it before on their rougher nights together.
He pushed himself from the wall and stumbled forward. All that blood had to mean something. It took more strength than he knew he possessed to make himself keep going. "George?" he called again. His voice rasped. Grated.
The door was hanging open. Mitchell's hand clenched on the frame as he stared inside. The light flickered and the furniture inside had been destroyed years ago. It was empty. The entire room… Empty. Blood marked the walls and stained the ground. Mitchell's eyes lingered on the dark, wet patches longer than he should have let them. The hunger fought with the fear - one taste, just one little taste - and warred violently inside him.
"George," he yelled to the empty room. Nothing. Nothing at all.
It was impossible to think as he turned around and left, walking blindly. There had to be something he could do - he didn't even know what had happened, what could have happened. George should have been safe in there.
There was blood on his hands, he realised once he managed to get out of this abandoned section of the hospital and into an area that was a little more populated. The light hurt his eyes and the morning sun was beginning to filter reluctantly through the wide windows. Night had been chased away: George would be human now, wherever he was.
Mitchell's fast footsteps froze when he saw a familiar figure leaning against the hospital wall. Her black clothes were a stark contrast to the sterile white wall behind her - and she smelled so strongly of George's blood.
"Where is he?" Mitchell asked as he stalked towards her, dodging nurses and other patients. "George. What did you do?"
And he wasn't scared, he didn't want to be scared, but there was something much too smug about the way Lauren smiled.
"He's been dealt with," she said.
Mitchell moved closer to her, hands grabbing her arms and shoving her hard against the wall. He only saw in shades of red. "Where is he?"
Her smile didn't fade, even as a disturbed ripple ran through the humans in the corridor. The air changed with violence. She trailed a finger - caked in George's dried blood - down the side of Mitchell's arm. "He's gone," she whispered. She punctuated it with a girlish giggle. "He's gone - so you can stop pretending you're human, stop pretending that there's a 'happily ever after' with the wolf waiting for you. The war's coming. I just helped you pick a side."
"Yes," Mitchell hissed. "You did. Now tell me where he is."
When he had the information he needed he left her rushed away, lost in a mindless, primal daze - but he knew long before he found the broken body that he was far too late.
*
"Mitchell," Annie said, staring at her untouched mug of tea. He didn't bother to look at her: he didn't want to see how the passing months had made her nervous to talk to him. "Maybe you should stay in tonight. We can watch a film or something."
He didn't answer, waiting for the sun to fall. He didn't bother going out during the way any more: the light wasn't the right place for creatures like him.
Monsters like me.
"We could call for a pizza," Annie suggested. "Be like old times."
There would be a silent, gaping, complaining gap on the sofa between them. She knew that as well as he did. He'd thrown the scatter cushions out after the funeral. There hadn't seemed to be any need for them. The arrangement had been an experiment that had failed terribly.
"Mitch," she said, shuffling forward. "I'm worried about you. I'm really worried."
"I'm fine." He wasn't. The sky was a fiery orange as he waited for the sun to set. "Don't worry."
"Where d'you go at night? Every night. What d'you do?"
He walked towards the front door and opened it. "Trust me, Annie," he said with no hint of his old, dry amusement. "You don't want to know."
The door slammed behind him and he stood on the near-dark streets. His hands plunged into his pockets and he was left looking around, wondering which way to go up the street. It probably wouldn't make a difference: either one would lead to the same place, morally. All roads… He remembered lying in a bathtub in the hospital; he remembered another old saying about Rome; he remembered when he and George had been friends and nothing more. It had been better like that. Safer. Maybe if he'd just kept his distance…
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
His hands delved into the pockets of his jacket and he turned right, walking up the long, sloped road and leaving their house behind for another night. His thoughts were elsewhere. They always were, always had to be.
The city's streets were quieter than they had been a few years ago: the news reported on a crime epidemic nightly. Bodies turned up all across the country with no readily apparent cause of death. A little anaemic, that was all. Young people. Pretty people. The bars were still stuffed full; the lure of loud music and cheap alcohol proved too great a temptation. Humanity's survival instinct had become too weak.
Mitchell entered the club and felt the thud of the music and the stench of sweat and stale beer crash into him. It was enough to chase away any thoughts that still lingered in his blackened mind. Instinct alone. Hunter and prey. A monster always knew when to strike.
She was sweet, innocent and far too nice, sitting alone by the bar with a glass in her hand. He didn't even remember her name after they'd introduced themselves, but it didn't matter. She was flattered enough by his attention that a little effort was enough to feign enough interested for her to be satisfied.
"I don't usually do this," she admitted when she'd been swirling melting ice cubes around the bottom of her glass for at least fifteen minutes, "but if you wanted to, we could go back to mine for a while. Just… just to chat."
"Chat?" Mitchell repeated. His mouth twisted into a smirk. "Are you sure that's a wise idea? I could be a very dangerous person to chat with."
"I can't believe that," she laughed. "You don't seem very dangerous."
He drained his glass and grinned, teasing her a little more as they left the music behind. She giggled and blushed and protested her innocence. The sound of people - music, laughter - faded until it vanished completely and they were left alone with only the street lamps for company. The curtains of every home they passed were tightly drawn; the lights were off.
Her laughing continued, but he only listened to the pounding of her heart. So loud. So tempting.
"Mitchell?" she asked as her laughter faded. She pushed some of her fluffy blonde hair from her face. "Are you okay?"
"Not really," he answered, pressing closer to her. Instincts fired: she tried to retreat but her back bumped against the building behind her. His hand pressed against the side of the wall, blocking her escape: all hint of amusement had gone now. His lips brushed over hers and he felt her tremble. "I haven't been 'okay' for a very long time."
His attention shifted past her lips and down to the temptation of her thudding pulse. His eyes closed and were pitch-black by the time he opened them again: he pierced her neck and felt the blood begin to run, life begin to fade.
He held her easily through her struggles and gave in, as he did every night, to his instinct: he'd given up fighting. There was no choice other than embracing it. He was a monster, wasn't he?
The fight faded from her fragile body as he drank.
A monster, he thought, through and through.
*
The house was silent when he let himself in. That was no surprise: Annie had left months ago. Whether she'd found somewhere else to haunt or had moved on from this world he didn't know. He'd stormed out after an argument with her - she'd brought up George - and when he'd come back she'd been gone.
Just as well, he told himself every time he started to miss her too much. She was a link to the past, to the naïve happiness he'd tried to hide himself in. Cutting those ties… It was for the best.
He slipped out of his jacket and moved to the kitchen sink, washing the specks of blood from his hands. He could still smell it, the scent filling the air. Pausing, his hands wet, he stared out the window above the sink. The sun was rising. A whole new day.
Turning away he dried his hands and walked through the living room to the stairway. There was an empty gap on the floor where their sofa should have been. He'd got rid of that when Annie had left.
There was a light shining under the door of his bedroom. Mitchell's footsteps paused thoughtfully. He tasted the air: the scent was as familiar as it could be after all these years. George, but not-George.
Moments passed and he didn't move, listening instead. It sounded like there was some kind of bird trapped in the room upstairs. He kept hearing a sound like the ruffling of feathers. It was mad, wasn't it? He forced his feet to move. There was nothing up there that could be scarier than him. What could be?
(A bigger one of me, he thought and felt his heart ache just a little bit more.)
He didn't bother to grab a weapon before he entered the room: fear was a stranger to him now. Distant.
In the bedroom, George sat peacefully on his side of the bed - hands clasped, head bowed, eyes closed. He looked exactly as he had the last time that Mitchell had seen him alive. His face did, in any case. His body…
White wings arched from his back, the perfect mockery of every religious panting that Mitchell had ever smirked at. They looked hyper-real, slotting through two slits that had been cut in the back of George's shirt and jumper. He looked so ordinary compared to them. So human. He didn't look up or stir at all when Mitchell let the door slam shut behind him. His face looked so quietly serene.
Mitchell stayed at the other side of the room, letting the bed separate them. He brushed his thumb over his bottom lip and let the surrealism of the situation drench him. "George," he said levelly when his mouth seemed able to obey once more, "you appear to have wings."
George looked up then, craning over his shoulder in order to see Mitchell properly, and - yes. God, yes. It was George in every movement. Lanky, like his body was bigger and stronger than it should have been. He'd always reminded Mitchell of an overgrown puppy, still adapting to being bigger than it was used to. It had been especially apparent near the full moon, hadn't it? Mitchell took a step across the room to him and felt the darkness that he'd let enshrine his life lifting.
"Don't," George said - the darkness dropped again. "You should…. You should stay over there, Mitchell."
George stood up and turned around, navigating the room with a surprising amount of grace considering the wings attached to his back now. Mitchell crossed an arm by his chest, hand resting on his collarbone, and leaned against the door frame. It was hard to fight the impulse to ignore all that George had said. Seeing him there… Standing on the spot felt like an impossibility.
"You've been dead for two years, George," Mitchell said when it seemed that George would rather squirm awkwardly than be the first to break their silence. "Why are you here now?"
"I don't need a reason, do I?"
"George," he purred. He'd spent so long forbidding himself from saying that name, from even thinking it. It felt so good, so warm on his lips. "You've been dead. Now you return with a gaudy set of wings, sit on my bed yet tell me I can only look… No touching." He allowed his eyes to drag slowly, deliberately over George's body. He remembered so clearly the way it had always made George blush when he'd been told how desirable he was, how much Mitchell wanted him. Mitchell had made sure to tell him and show him at every opportunity - but after all this time it wasn't sex that tempted him. He wanted to hold him. Even to touch him, one hand holding his, would be enough to convince him that this wasn't merely a hallucination.
George shifted uncomfortably and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Yeah," he murmured. "I'm sorry about that - I just… They wouldn't let me come."
"'They'?"
"The higher ups." George smiled - it was like a short-lived sun. "Management, I guess you'd say."
"Angel management," Mitchell said. He smiled too and took a step forward. He breathed deeply: George smelled a little differently now that he had when he was alive, but it was still so similar and so George that he didn't think he could get enough of it. He longed to taste him too, even if the blood tang from the girl he'd killed earlier still lingered in his mouth. He didn't need to drink. He just wanted to.
It had never been this much of a struggle two years ago. He'd been off the wagon then. He'd been free from the addiction that came from what he was. Now…
"Who said I was an angel?" George asked, grinning. He sat down again on the bed, facing Mitchell. He cross his legs, his bare feet perfectly clean, and shrugged sheepishly. "Maybe I'm a devil now."
Mitchell took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and advanced, half-crawling, even though he'd been told not to. "I doubt that," he murmured when he was close enough that another inch would bring their long-waiting lips into contact. "I doubt that very much."
He kissed him then, his hand at the back of George's neck as they slammed together - hard and vicious, hungrier than he should have allowed himself to be. It lasted only a split-second. Pain rushed through his lips, through his hand, and he heard the hiss of searing flesh - like bacon thrown into a pan. He darted backwards, wincing. There was a red burn-mark on George's lips as well as his own: tiny blisters formed on the pads of Mitchell's fingertips.
"We can't touch," George gasped. He covered his mouth with his hand and swore quietly. "I'm sorry. We can't…"
Mitchell sat back and nodded slowly as he looked at his burnt had. "Because of what I am," he murmured. It hurt to talk.
"No," George answered immediately. "Not what you are. What you've done."
The shame clenched around him almost immediately. Mitchell wished he could look up nonchalantly and pretend that he wasn't bothered, but George knew. He knew what Mitchell had done since he'd died…
"Mitchell," George said. He didn't sound disgusted or angry or even stern. He sounded lost. Confused. "I don't understand…"
"There's nothing to 'understand'," Mitchell said. With a lot of effort and courage he made himself look up to meet George's eyes. George looked so earnest, like he was trying so hard to understand, to accept, to forgive. "I'm a monster. I was just… giving in to my basic instincts."
"By slaughtering hundreds of innocent people?" George snapped, suddenly angry.
Mitchell couldn't blame him. Hundreds? Had it really been so many? He didn't want to believe it.
"George, you died," he said, a defeated attempt at an explanation. "They killed you because of me. I found your body, saw what they did to you…"
"So you gave in and gave them exactly what they wanted? I thought I was supposed to be the stupid one." George shook his head and moved to lie down on his side, his head on the pillow.
After barely a moment's thought, Mitchell followed him. They laid side by side, looking into each others' eyes. There was a large gap left between them. Mitchell could so clearly remember lazy days spent together like this when he'd convinced himself that this never had to end, that he could stay lost in this bright happiness for eternity. Lies. It had just been lies.
"You have to stop," George urged quietly. "If you don't, the next time they send me here it won't just be to talk."
Mitchell felt the edges of a smirk pulling at his mouth. "Are you going to kill me, George?" he asked with playful wondered. He surprised himself with how much he liked the idea - with how fitting it seemed.
He reached for George before he could answer, his hand resting on George's hip through the denim of his jeans. While his palm heated up, it didn't burn. Minimum protection. As long as there was no bare skin-on-skin, they'd be okay. George offered only a weak and reluctant protest when Mitchell took the opportunity to roll on top of him, straddled over him.
"Bony as ever," George grumbled when his hands found their way to Mitchell's hips. His thumbs played dangerously close to the waistband of Mitchell's jeans. It made a red-hot thrill shoot through him.
He leaned down, lips dangerous millimetres from George's: he didn't want to add to the burns he'd already left on George's mouth. "And you're as stocky as ever," he challenged, letting his hand move to the centre of George's chest. Stockier, in fact, he corrected himself. His eyes drifted to the white wings now folded beneath George. Werewolf to angel. One hell of a promotion.
"Mitchell," George sighed seriously. "You need to promise me you'll stop hunting. The war's not just 'coming' any more, is it? It's started."
Mitchell's fingers skimmed over the skin of George's neck, never quite touching. "What if I don't want to pick a side?" he asked. "What if I don't want to be a part of your little war?"
George caught his wrist, hand hidden in the sleeve of his jumper as he held Mitchell's arm motionless - so much stronger than he'd ever been before his murder. He held Mitchell's gaze fiercely. "Then you'll get caught in the crossfire," he said, "and I don't want to see that happen."
Mitchell closed his eyes and breathed George's new scent. "And if I stop? Will I see you again?"
"I don't know, honestly."
"Maybe I just won't let you leave," Mitchell mused - but despite his light tone he was serious. Seeing George again left him uncertain as to whether he could let him go. "I'll just keep you here in my room."
"Mitchell-"
"You could be my captive," he suggested. "It'd be fun."
"I'm not sure if that's the kind of 'fun' I'm looking for."
"Mm," Mitchell agreed. "You always were rather vanilla."
"I'm serious!" George protested, even though he was smiling again now. "This is serious."
The world turned when George flipped them over with such ease, winding up on top between Mitchell's legs. It was too sensory a memory, this position, for Mitchell to be able to hold back a moan.
"Seriously," George said, "you have to pick a side-" He paused to sweep in and kiss Mitchell again, their burnt lips crashing together. It was so longer for that Mitchell could ignore the pain that soon flared. George broke it eventually, wincing. "You have to pick a side," he repeated. "Make sure it's the right one."
He climbed off the bed - and he was much more graceful than he used to be, much more steam-lined - and seconds later he was gone. The window was left hanging open in his wake and a feather or two lay abandoned on the ground. Mitchell stayed helplessly on the bed in his empty house: he would have laughed at the empty hopelessness of it all if he could.
He had a choice to make, an addiction to conquer and a war to fight. He brushed his thumb soothingly over the red burn marks on his mouth and tried to reassure himself that he was strong enough to do what was right.