We Are Our Own Redemption - Being Human - George/Mitchell
Title: We Are Our Own Redemption
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 2688
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Expanded from a ficlet written for comment_fic using one of 10_inspirations's prompts. Set preseries.
Summary: After a kill, Mitchell ends up at George's door.
The blood has stained his mouth red, with drying dribbles down his chin, over his neck, on his hands. Everywhere. It always gets everywhere. Why didn't he notice that before? Why hadn't he cared? Mitchell walks along the dark city street, barely registering the hammering rain that seems intent on washing him away: he'd let it, he thinks. He'd let it wipe all memory of him from the earth. All traces of what he is and what he's done. Let the rain wash it away: let his soul be clean one more time before he dies.
The wetness on his cheeks might be raindrops or might be tears. He doesn't have a clue.
The wool of his gloves is soaking and heavy, absorbing the water as it falls. He thinks of the girl that he took to his hotel room tonight; he thinks of how innocent and trusting she'd been and, most of all, he thinks of the perfect scent of fear when she'd realised that the nice young man she'd come home with wasn't so nice and wasn't so young. Even now, even while he's disgusted with himself, the hunger rumbles through him with the memory of that feeling: he'd had such power over her. He'd been a god.
And that's wrong, so wrong - he's been killing gleefully for decades, but ever since he saved that werewolf...
He should've known better. Lycans are trouble. Everyone knows that. He should've let the boys do whatever they wanted; any heat they'd attracted from the law could have been easily smoothed over. Or, well, if Seth got locked up Mitchell couldn't have said he'd miss him all that much.
Instead he'd saved him, and apparently one of the side effects of saving a werewolf is the rapid development of a conscience.
"Shit," Mitchell murmurs to himself, to the night, to the rain. With a wet hand he pulls his damp hair back from his forehead. The rain has already begun to obliterate the blood from his hands. Soon it won't be possible to see it at all - but he'll still smell it, so tempting. Calling him back for more.
He breathes deeply, lungs full of air he doesn't really need, and looks up. He's been wandering pointlessly, aimlessly, but he isn't surprised that he recognises the area he's found himself in. It's the place he left George, the new flat he set him up in. The new place to hide - and it had broken his heart, dead as it is, to leave him there alone.
He doesn't give himself enough time to think about it: he rings the buzzer, ignoring how late it is. It takes George a while to answer - and Mitchell can just imagine him tucked up in bed, dozing peacefully and waking up like a hedgehog crawling out of hibernation - but it isn't long before Mitchell is climbing the stairs. This is a terrible apartment building and the lighting flickers as he climbs, dripping water in his wake.
The door is already open when he reaches the right floor, and George is standing there in an over-large t-shirt and his underwear, looking half-asleep but still worried.
"Mitchell?" he asks. "Is everything alright? What's wrong? Is it Seth?"
Mitchell answers with his lips against George's even though he knows he'll still taste of blood, cold against warm and wet against dry. George tastes like normality - and that's absolutely ridiculous, he's a werewolf, but it makes Mitchell want to cling to him all the more; he wants to hide away with him and pretend that they're as normal as George tastes, that they're safe and they're human and they're not monsters at all.
George's lips part beneath his, the pair of them standing in his doorway, and as Mitchell shuffles inside he knows one thing alone: it isn't the rain that will cleanse him of his sins. It's George.
They pull back and George stares at him wide-eyed before stepping back inside his apartment. "Do you want to come in?" he asks awkwardly, each word standing separate from the others as if he isn't sure how to link them together. Mitchell still doesn't speak when he steps inside; he kicks the door closed behind himself and presses George against the wall, the rain water from his clothes soaking through George's t-shirt. They kiss again, but it's slower this time. Better.
"Where's your bedroom?" Mitchell breathes when their mouths part.
George's eyes are still wide as he takes Mitchell's hand and leads him through. The bed is unmade, covers freshly thrown back in George's hurry to answer the door. Mitchell's cock stirs in anticipation, though there's a part of him that says that this isn't right, that he's a vampire and he shouldn't do this with a wolf. It doesn't matter. He doesn't pay attention when he pushes George gently down onto the mattress, pulling his t-shirt off over his head and dumping it down on the ground. "Mitchell, what's going on?" George says, more insistently this time. "What's happening? Are you in trouble?"
Mitchell silences him before he starts squeaking and panicking, stealing another hungry kiss from his mouth. He climbs into George's lap, still fully clothed and damp, and presses him down against the pillows before he pulls back. George's breathing is fast and scared. Mitchell can watch his ribs rising and falling as George lies beneath him on the bed. Scared but trusting, that's his George. There's no doubt that George would rest his life in Mitchell's hands if he had to, and that terrifies him. Always will. He's not the sort of person who should be trusted like that; deep down, Mitchell knows that he's not even a person any more. Not really.
His hand traces George's cheek, his thumb stopping to brush over George's bottom lip. He can feel George's warm, hot breath spilling over his skin. Fragile. For someone so potentially dangerous, George seems like he's set to break apart under the pressure at any moment. Mitchell doesn't think that George will ever understand just how deadly he is, just how powerful the wolf is: he hopes not, in any case. He hopes George never has to realise it, because that would wipe away everything that Mitchell needs about George. It would wipe away the innocence, wipe away the hope.
Slowly, cautiously, Mitchell smiles down at him and receives a shaky smile in return.
"We don't have to do this," Mitchell says.
George's smile wavers and his eyebrows knit. "What?"
"You shouldn't think that we need to do this," he explains. "That you, I don't know, owe me something because I saved you. You don't. Really, you don't."
"Shh," George whispers. He presses his lips against Mitchell's for a moment that is far too short and far too sweet. "It's okay. It's not like that. I want you, this, all of it."
Mitchell nuzzles against his neck, his wet hair brushing against George's jaw. He can hear the thumpthumpthump of George's heart, but it doesn't call to him in the way that George's bare skin does. Maybe that means that he can truly do this.
"We can just lie here," George suggests, "if you want. I don't mind."
"I'd rather..." Mitchell presses his lips to the pulse-point of George's neck, just to feel him stiffen underneath him. "That's if you're okay with it?"
"Yeah." George laughs, and the sound of it makes Mitchell smile too. "We're utterly ridiculous, aren't we?"
"Just a little," Mitchell agrees. He's happy to be ridiculous with George, though: happy to turn his back on the darkness.
George looks up and holds his gaze as his hands reach between them, finding Mitchell's belt and unbuckling it, pulling it loose with a rushing sound of the leather pulling against denim. Mitchell swallows and feels like all the air has vanished from the room. He doesn't even need to breathe but somehow he feels breathless under George's gaze, caught. He doesn't understand how George can switch so easily from adorable to predatory.
The button of his jeans is released and they're pulled down, following his socks and shoes as they come off. After shedding his jacket and shirt, he reaches for George, pressing him down against the mattress once more. Their mouths meet and open and he drinks George in, feeling the rumble of George's moan all throughout his body.
He nudges George's legs open with his knee, able to feel that George is just as hard as he is. "Have you got anything?" he murmurs. George doesn't answer at first, looking up at him with a frown. "Protection, I mean. And, ah, lube?"
God, he hadn't imagined how awkward it might feel to say that to George. It's ridiculous, but the way George blush makes him feel a lot better again. A red flush crawls all over him, right to the tip of his ears, and Mitchell can't stop himself from leaning down to suck upon the shell of George's right ear, tracing it with his tongue.
"Under-" George yelps. "Under the bed."
His breath is shivering. Mitchell places a hand on the centre of George's chest so that he can feel it even when he pulls away from him, and he can feel the heavy beating of his heart as he leans over the side of the bed. His other hand scrambles underneath, hunting back and forth. His fingers brush against a few magazines - he's definitely going to come back to examine them later - and then hit upon what he's looking for. He draws a single condom out of the box and picks up the tube of lube there before he straightens up and pulls himself back onto the bed more fully.
He kisses George again before any more can be said or done: it scares him how much he needs this. The sense of satisfaction that floods through him when George moans and arches against him is overwhelming. George's hand presses against the back of his head, holding him close and stringing fingers through his hair.
"George," Mitchell pants against George's lips. He has to restrain a growl at the sight of George beneath him, his lips freshly kissed and red. "Christ, George, I need…"
He doesn't know what it is, doesn't know how to put it into words. He wants and he needs but it's beyond what language can convey - which is why he can only whine, an embarrassing sound from deep within him, when George takes his hand and guides it down low. "I want it too," is all he has to say.
He takes his time with him, slick and easy as his fingers work George to ease him open. He's done this before - when you're immortal it seems silly not to try everything - but he gets the feeling that maybe George hasn't, that maybe this is his first time with a man. The mere thought of it nearly makes him growl and he has to bite his bottom lip as he watches George beneath him, squirming. "C'mon," George pants, "please, c'mon."
His eyes close and Mitchell leans over, pressing his mouth to George's for a soft, fleeting second. George moans and presses tight against him, and Mitchell is trying not to rush when his hand, between them, aligns himself with George's entrance. With a slow stroke he enters him, pressing just inside. Not deep, not powerful, not like the hunger in him screams to do.
His breathing chokes, unneeded air clogging his lungs. Between him, he can hear George's heart thrashing like a trapped insect. "You 'kay?" he gasps, because speaking is far too hard when all he can think about is how tight George feels wrapped around him and about how very, very much he wants to slam inside and takes all that he wants from the body beneath him. The predator inside him cries out that this is what needs to be done: that George, nothing but a lycan, is beneath him, is designed to be used and cast aside. He fights against it, but he can hear the strained whimpers that are escaping his lips.
"Fine..." George's breathing is heavy as if he's just run several marathons. "I'm fine. Just - keep going. Just keep going, Mitch…" The rest of his name fades away to a moan as Mitchell's hips tilt forward - and he pushes deeper - and George's head falls limply back against the pillow. His strong legs clench around Mitchell's slim waist and heat emanates from his skin, so warm, so alive. Mitchell feels like he's drowning in this, in him.
George is growling - actually growling, which is hilarious but Mitchell can't help moaning in return - by the time that Mitchell moves, his hips snapping in short staccato bursts as he loses whatever self-control he may have had. Tight, he's so tight, and Mitchell can't believe that they're doing this; a vampire and a werewolf, it's too wrong, but the way he clicks here, right here, with George, the way he knows just how to make George lose control is perfect.
With George's head fallen against the pillow his neck is a pale column that Mitchell can't ignore. As he drives in and out of George's twisted body he leans over George's chest and his lips find the skin of George's neck. He can breathe him in here, feel George's scent feeling his lungs, so human and supernatural at once. George has no reason to trust him - a vampire, a monster, a killer - but he does, he does and that is so dizzying, so intoxicating.
Between them, Mitchell's hand reaches for George's cock because he's close, so close, and he doesn't want to come and leave George behind. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be fair. His rhythm as he jerks George off is loose and uncoordinated, but they're lucky he can think right now. "God, George," he mutters. "This is… You're…"
"Yeah," George agrees, like he knows what Mitchell is thinking and Mitchell thinks that maybe, just maybe, he does. He thrusts hard like he's trying to lose himself in the impossible heat of George's body and George cries out - howls - as he hits something deep inside harder than before. Mitchell feels George's entire body tensing around him and he pulls back from the warmth of George's neck, watching in fascination as George comes. His come splatters between them, spurting over their stomachs, and Mitchell finds himself smiling wider than he has in years.
Panting, George falls limp against the bed. "Keep going," he says, hips writhing with Mitchell still inside him though it causes an over-sensitive whimper to erupt. "Please. You need to… as well."
He can't say it. Fuck, George is underneath him, naked, with Mitchell's cock inside him and he can't say something so simple. It's laughable, adorable and heart-warming and Mitchell thinks that he never wants to leave George's bed again. He leans down and kisses George's lips, clumsy and badly aimed, as he rocks inside George, each second of friction bringing him closer to completion.
When his climax comes it is like the entire world whiting out: his past fades away, every bad deed and every life he's taken until it's just him and George in the world, just them, and he thinks that maybe they could do this, they could be something more than monsters, they could be human if they really tried. He feels like he's breaking, like the vampire within him is disintegrating, and when he collapses on top of George he is spent emotionally as well as physically.
George's arms wrap around him, holding on tightly, and George hushes him, holds him. "We're alright," he assures him. "We're alright."
"Can I stay here tonight?" Mitchell asks without moving. Softening, he is still inside of George and he knows he needs to move soon.
George's laugh is something of a squeak. "Like I'd let you leave," he mumbles, shoving at Mitchell's shoulder. It's a comfortable gesture as if they've known each other for years. That's George all over for Mitchell: comfortable, comforting, comfort. George lets him be human.
Why would he ever let that go?
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 2688
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Expanded from a ficlet written for comment_fic using one of 10_inspirations's prompts. Set preseries.
Summary: After a kill, Mitchell ends up at George's door.
The blood has stained his mouth red, with drying dribbles down his chin, over his neck, on his hands. Everywhere. It always gets everywhere. Why didn't he notice that before? Why hadn't he cared? Mitchell walks along the dark city street, barely registering the hammering rain that seems intent on washing him away: he'd let it, he thinks. He'd let it wipe all memory of him from the earth. All traces of what he is and what he's done. Let the rain wash it away: let his soul be clean one more time before he dies.
The wetness on his cheeks might be raindrops or might be tears. He doesn't have a clue.
The wool of his gloves is soaking and heavy, absorbing the water as it falls. He thinks of the girl that he took to his hotel room tonight; he thinks of how innocent and trusting she'd been and, most of all, he thinks of the perfect scent of fear when she'd realised that the nice young man she'd come home with wasn't so nice and wasn't so young. Even now, even while he's disgusted with himself, the hunger rumbles through him with the memory of that feeling: he'd had such power over her. He'd been a god.
And that's wrong, so wrong - he's been killing gleefully for decades, but ever since he saved that werewolf...
He should've known better. Lycans are trouble. Everyone knows that. He should've let the boys do whatever they wanted; any heat they'd attracted from the law could have been easily smoothed over. Or, well, if Seth got locked up Mitchell couldn't have said he'd miss him all that much.
Instead he'd saved him, and apparently one of the side effects of saving a werewolf is the rapid development of a conscience.
"Shit," Mitchell murmurs to himself, to the night, to the rain. With a wet hand he pulls his damp hair back from his forehead. The rain has already begun to obliterate the blood from his hands. Soon it won't be possible to see it at all - but he'll still smell it, so tempting. Calling him back for more.
He breathes deeply, lungs full of air he doesn't really need, and looks up. He's been wandering pointlessly, aimlessly, but he isn't surprised that he recognises the area he's found himself in. It's the place he left George, the new flat he set him up in. The new place to hide - and it had broken his heart, dead as it is, to leave him there alone.
He doesn't give himself enough time to think about it: he rings the buzzer, ignoring how late it is. It takes George a while to answer - and Mitchell can just imagine him tucked up in bed, dozing peacefully and waking up like a hedgehog crawling out of hibernation - but it isn't long before Mitchell is climbing the stairs. This is a terrible apartment building and the lighting flickers as he climbs, dripping water in his wake.
The door is already open when he reaches the right floor, and George is standing there in an over-large t-shirt and his underwear, looking half-asleep but still worried.
"Mitchell?" he asks. "Is everything alright? What's wrong? Is it Seth?"
Mitchell answers with his lips against George's even though he knows he'll still taste of blood, cold against warm and wet against dry. George tastes like normality - and that's absolutely ridiculous, he's a werewolf, but it makes Mitchell want to cling to him all the more; he wants to hide away with him and pretend that they're as normal as George tastes, that they're safe and they're human and they're not monsters at all.
George's lips part beneath his, the pair of them standing in his doorway, and as Mitchell shuffles inside he knows one thing alone: it isn't the rain that will cleanse him of his sins. It's George.
They pull back and George stares at him wide-eyed before stepping back inside his apartment. "Do you want to come in?" he asks awkwardly, each word standing separate from the others as if he isn't sure how to link them together. Mitchell still doesn't speak when he steps inside; he kicks the door closed behind himself and presses George against the wall, the rain water from his clothes soaking through George's t-shirt. They kiss again, but it's slower this time. Better.
"Where's your bedroom?" Mitchell breathes when their mouths part.
George's eyes are still wide as he takes Mitchell's hand and leads him through. The bed is unmade, covers freshly thrown back in George's hurry to answer the door. Mitchell's cock stirs in anticipation, though there's a part of him that says that this isn't right, that he's a vampire and he shouldn't do this with a wolf. It doesn't matter. He doesn't pay attention when he pushes George gently down onto the mattress, pulling his t-shirt off over his head and dumping it down on the ground. "Mitchell, what's going on?" George says, more insistently this time. "What's happening? Are you in trouble?"
Mitchell silences him before he starts squeaking and panicking, stealing another hungry kiss from his mouth. He climbs into George's lap, still fully clothed and damp, and presses him down against the pillows before he pulls back. George's breathing is fast and scared. Mitchell can watch his ribs rising and falling as George lies beneath him on the bed. Scared but trusting, that's his George. There's no doubt that George would rest his life in Mitchell's hands if he had to, and that terrifies him. Always will. He's not the sort of person who should be trusted like that; deep down, Mitchell knows that he's not even a person any more. Not really.
His hand traces George's cheek, his thumb stopping to brush over George's bottom lip. He can feel George's warm, hot breath spilling over his skin. Fragile. For someone so potentially dangerous, George seems like he's set to break apart under the pressure at any moment. Mitchell doesn't think that George will ever understand just how deadly he is, just how powerful the wolf is: he hopes not, in any case. He hopes George never has to realise it, because that would wipe away everything that Mitchell needs about George. It would wipe away the innocence, wipe away the hope.
Slowly, cautiously, Mitchell smiles down at him and receives a shaky smile in return.
"We don't have to do this," Mitchell says.
George's smile wavers and his eyebrows knit. "What?"
"You shouldn't think that we need to do this," he explains. "That you, I don't know, owe me something because I saved you. You don't. Really, you don't."
"Shh," George whispers. He presses his lips against Mitchell's for a moment that is far too short and far too sweet. "It's okay. It's not like that. I want you, this, all of it."
Mitchell nuzzles against his neck, his wet hair brushing against George's jaw. He can hear the thumpthumpthump of George's heart, but it doesn't call to him in the way that George's bare skin does. Maybe that means that he can truly do this.
"We can just lie here," George suggests, "if you want. I don't mind."
"I'd rather..." Mitchell presses his lips to the pulse-point of George's neck, just to feel him stiffen underneath him. "That's if you're okay with it?"
"Yeah." George laughs, and the sound of it makes Mitchell smile too. "We're utterly ridiculous, aren't we?"
"Just a little," Mitchell agrees. He's happy to be ridiculous with George, though: happy to turn his back on the darkness.
George looks up and holds his gaze as his hands reach between them, finding Mitchell's belt and unbuckling it, pulling it loose with a rushing sound of the leather pulling against denim. Mitchell swallows and feels like all the air has vanished from the room. He doesn't even need to breathe but somehow he feels breathless under George's gaze, caught. He doesn't understand how George can switch so easily from adorable to predatory.
The button of his jeans is released and they're pulled down, following his socks and shoes as they come off. After shedding his jacket and shirt, he reaches for George, pressing him down against the mattress once more. Their mouths meet and open and he drinks George in, feeling the rumble of George's moan all throughout his body.
He nudges George's legs open with his knee, able to feel that George is just as hard as he is. "Have you got anything?" he murmurs. George doesn't answer at first, looking up at him with a frown. "Protection, I mean. And, ah, lube?"
God, he hadn't imagined how awkward it might feel to say that to George. It's ridiculous, but the way George blush makes him feel a lot better again. A red flush crawls all over him, right to the tip of his ears, and Mitchell can't stop himself from leaning down to suck upon the shell of George's right ear, tracing it with his tongue.
"Under-" George yelps. "Under the bed."
His breath is shivering. Mitchell places a hand on the centre of George's chest so that he can feel it even when he pulls away from him, and he can feel the heavy beating of his heart as he leans over the side of the bed. His other hand scrambles underneath, hunting back and forth. His fingers brush against a few magazines - he's definitely going to come back to examine them later - and then hit upon what he's looking for. He draws a single condom out of the box and picks up the tube of lube there before he straightens up and pulls himself back onto the bed more fully.
He kisses George again before any more can be said or done: it scares him how much he needs this. The sense of satisfaction that floods through him when George moans and arches against him is overwhelming. George's hand presses against the back of his head, holding him close and stringing fingers through his hair.
"George," Mitchell pants against George's lips. He has to restrain a growl at the sight of George beneath him, his lips freshly kissed and red. "Christ, George, I need…"
He doesn't know what it is, doesn't know how to put it into words. He wants and he needs but it's beyond what language can convey - which is why he can only whine, an embarrassing sound from deep within him, when George takes his hand and guides it down low. "I want it too," is all he has to say.
He takes his time with him, slick and easy as his fingers work George to ease him open. He's done this before - when you're immortal it seems silly not to try everything - but he gets the feeling that maybe George hasn't, that maybe this is his first time with a man. The mere thought of it nearly makes him growl and he has to bite his bottom lip as he watches George beneath him, squirming. "C'mon," George pants, "please, c'mon."
His eyes close and Mitchell leans over, pressing his mouth to George's for a soft, fleeting second. George moans and presses tight against him, and Mitchell is trying not to rush when his hand, between them, aligns himself with George's entrance. With a slow stroke he enters him, pressing just inside. Not deep, not powerful, not like the hunger in him screams to do.
His breathing chokes, unneeded air clogging his lungs. Between him, he can hear George's heart thrashing like a trapped insect. "You 'kay?" he gasps, because speaking is far too hard when all he can think about is how tight George feels wrapped around him and about how very, very much he wants to slam inside and takes all that he wants from the body beneath him. The predator inside him cries out that this is what needs to be done: that George, nothing but a lycan, is beneath him, is designed to be used and cast aside. He fights against it, but he can hear the strained whimpers that are escaping his lips.
"Fine..." George's breathing is heavy as if he's just run several marathons. "I'm fine. Just - keep going. Just keep going, Mitch…" The rest of his name fades away to a moan as Mitchell's hips tilt forward - and he pushes deeper - and George's head falls limply back against the pillow. His strong legs clench around Mitchell's slim waist and heat emanates from his skin, so warm, so alive. Mitchell feels like he's drowning in this, in him.
George is growling - actually growling, which is hilarious but Mitchell can't help moaning in return - by the time that Mitchell moves, his hips snapping in short staccato bursts as he loses whatever self-control he may have had. Tight, he's so tight, and Mitchell can't believe that they're doing this; a vampire and a werewolf, it's too wrong, but the way he clicks here, right here, with George, the way he knows just how to make George lose control is perfect.
With George's head fallen against the pillow his neck is a pale column that Mitchell can't ignore. As he drives in and out of George's twisted body he leans over George's chest and his lips find the skin of George's neck. He can breathe him in here, feel George's scent feeling his lungs, so human and supernatural at once. George has no reason to trust him - a vampire, a monster, a killer - but he does, he does and that is so dizzying, so intoxicating.
Between them, Mitchell's hand reaches for George's cock because he's close, so close, and he doesn't want to come and leave George behind. Wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be fair. His rhythm as he jerks George off is loose and uncoordinated, but they're lucky he can think right now. "God, George," he mutters. "This is… You're…"
"Yeah," George agrees, like he knows what Mitchell is thinking and Mitchell thinks that maybe, just maybe, he does. He thrusts hard like he's trying to lose himself in the impossible heat of George's body and George cries out - howls - as he hits something deep inside harder than before. Mitchell feels George's entire body tensing around him and he pulls back from the warmth of George's neck, watching in fascination as George comes. His come splatters between them, spurting over their stomachs, and Mitchell finds himself smiling wider than he has in years.
Panting, George falls limp against the bed. "Keep going," he says, hips writhing with Mitchell still inside him though it causes an over-sensitive whimper to erupt. "Please. You need to… as well."
He can't say it. Fuck, George is underneath him, naked, with Mitchell's cock inside him and he can't say something so simple. It's laughable, adorable and heart-warming and Mitchell thinks that he never wants to leave George's bed again. He leans down and kisses George's lips, clumsy and badly aimed, as he rocks inside George, each second of friction bringing him closer to completion.
When his climax comes it is like the entire world whiting out: his past fades away, every bad deed and every life he's taken until it's just him and George in the world, just them, and he thinks that maybe they could do this, they could be something more than monsters, they could be human if they really tried. He feels like he's breaking, like the vampire within him is disintegrating, and when he collapses on top of George he is spent emotionally as well as physically.
George's arms wrap around him, holding on tightly, and George hushes him, holds him. "We're alright," he assures him. "We're alright."
"Can I stay here tonight?" Mitchell asks without moving. Softening, he is still inside of George and he knows he needs to move soon.
George's laugh is something of a squeak. "Like I'd let you leave," he mumbles, shoving at Mitchell's shoulder. It's a comfortable gesture as if they've known each other for years. That's George all over for Mitchell: comfortable, comforting, comfort. George lets him be human.
Why would he ever let that go?