Being Human - you can't ride the concept of the horse (Mitchell/Herrick, Mitchell/George)
This is dedicated to all you guys for your help last week. Special thanks to lazlet for beta duty.
Being Human
Mitchell/Herrick, Mitchell/George
Rated PG-13 / 12
you can't ride the concept of the horse
John is his Christian name, and in the beginning, that is who he was. What he was.
In the beginning, he was John to his mother and father, and wee John to his older sister Sally and his brother Edmund. He was even John to the girls he courted. He was only Mitchell to the boys he went to the public school with, because John was a well-bred young man and in the 18th Century you are only what you are born to be.
Most of all, John had promise. He was going to go into business; he was going to make his fortune by marrying well. As the second born, he was entitled to nothing but the family name; he had no choice.
Of course when you think you have no choice is generally when people become their most creative. For John, this is when he met Herrick.
It's just as cliché as anyone would think. A black man was a novelty in the streets of Cambridge in the 1780s. A well-dressed black man wandering the back streets of Cambridge in the evening couldn't have been more out of the ordinary.
The only thing more extraordinary was that this man knew John's name. Except he didn't call him John, he called him Mitchell, and more importantly, he made John a promise. He promised John something that his twenty-one year old mind could not even conceive of - the world. Fame and fortune and eternal life.
And second-son John, John the son who would have to make his fortune and could only give any woman his family name, was intrigued. He was besotted.
He said 'yes' and 'please,' and when Herrick laid hands on John, for a minute it was everything John had ever wanted. And then John closed his eyes and saw the men with the sticks and the ropes.
He saw that there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and he turned back. He fled.
When John woke up, Herrick called him Mitchell. John was dead. Mitchell, though, Mitchell was going to have great things. Mitchell was going to do great things.
The newly born are hungry. Newborn babies, newly born calves, newborn vampires are all the same. They want to be fed. Mitchell cut a thirteen body swath through Cambridge before he was reigned in: girls who had slighted him, boys who had bullied him at school, anyone who Herrick suggested.
Mitchell was very open to suggestion when he was young. He was very open to a lot of things with Herrick at his side. Herrick believed -- believes -- that it's important to do what you will, when you will. Vampires are the top of the food chain, everything is fair game, and this irrefutable fact was Herrick's present to Mitchell. He promised Mitchell the world, and all Mitchell had to do was everything Herrick said.
The newly born are highly impressionable that way. They aim only to please. To be cosseted and protected. To be promised love and warmth. With Herrick, Mitchell was first, no waiting, no sharing, no structure.
Nothing but freedom.
Except that after a while all the freedom got old. And after a while, all the bodies piled up. Mitchell had signed the contract without reading the small print. He couldn't see his family; he was never going to be a father; he was going to be slight and lean forever. And this was the real forever, not the forever that children dream of or that adults dread. This was much much worse.
Peterborough, Northampton, Coventry, Birmingham, Nottingham, Sheffield, Manchester, Liverpool, Blackpool, Leeds. The years add up when you're trying to keep ahead of the body count.
Except the thing is that Herrick kept his promise. In a roundabout sort of way. Herrick showered Mitchell with affection and corpses and fame amongst their set. They travelled in as much style as the late 1700's and early 1800s could offer. However, the years add up when you're with the same person, seeing the same group of people, and one day Mitchell decided it was enough. He decided he wanted a change.
It never occurred to him that Herrick would take it the way he did.
It never occurred to him that Herrick would murder what remained of Mitchell's family - his sixty-three year old sister and nieces and nephews that he'd never even met -- but when Mitchell looks back on this, he realizes he should have seen it coming. He had travelled from one end of the country to the other with Herrick. He'd seen murders in broad daylight; he'd taken part. Mitchell thought Herrick wanted a partner; he thought that Herrick cared, but caring is a human trait, and they are anything but.
There's nothing more dangerous than a vampire scorned.
Time goes much more slowly when Mitchell is on his own; he hasn't figured out the knack of distracting himself now that he has an eternity to kill. Herrick was very good with keeping Mitchell amused; he taught Mitchell how to keep food alive for weeks.
In the last sixty-plus years Mitchell's been born, died, and been reborn and he still has no idea what he's going to do with his life. There are no fathers to please, no sires to coddle him, no inheritance and reputation to live on. Mitchell has gone from the middle to the top to the bottom, and now he hasn't the means to rise again.
This sort of information is easily something to dwell on, but a little structure can make this right. When human children are little they are given a schedule to keep themselves out of trouble, it might work for young vampires too. So Mitchell spends an hour cleaning, a few hours reading, he goes hunting at night and sleeps during the day. He picks up odd jobs here and there: cleaner, tutor, footman. Anything to keep a few bills in his pocket. Anything to fund his travels. France, Italy, Greece, Egypt, India, Russia, China, Australia.
It's amazing how you can kill eighty-odd years sitting in a coach.
There are thousands of books available about vampires and vampirism by 1900. They claim that vampires are romantic and that eternal life is a blessing. These mockeries of truth promise that vampires treasure humans as pets. After all, being a vampire is tragic and only a human woman can make it right. Garlic will keep them at bay, too.
Mitchell knows it's all shite.
There's nothing romantic or poetic about living forever. There's nothing note-worthy about being cursed. Vampires don't give a shit about human beings except as food. Of course during the 19th century people tended to think consumption was romantic too.
There's only so much stupidity one being can take at a time.
Mitchell's return to England in the late-1940s isn't marked by fanfare and trumpets, nor is it marked by bodies falling from the sky. He's tried to steer clear of both world wars, although the food surplus has been a dream. Still, his homecoming isn't even marked by revenge upon the one who forced him to leave in the first place. Mitchell knows what he is; he knows what is before him. He's got an eternity to waste; he might as well get on with it.
Mitchell buys his car new. It's 1956 and cars aren't that expensive, especially when he's not wasting his money on things like food. He gets a job at a pub and rents out a room on the second floor. At the weekend he drives out of town to eat. He's trying to wean himself away from human blood, but it's not exactly easy. Deer and rabbits have four legs and Mitchell is only used to quick human sprints. Eventually, though, eventually Mitchell does what every being does -- he begins to evolve. Again.
1956 becomes 1976 becomes 1996 becomes 2006. Dover becomes Canterbury becomes Brighton becomes Bristol.
He's a bartender, a bin man, a bus driver, a hospital porter.
How the mighty have fallen from grace.
He tries to steer clear of places he knows those like him congregate, but it's not easy. There are more of them than anyone would believe and they blend somewhat seamlessly. Like most members of an elite club, they can identify each other with ease, but are completely invisible to outsiders.
Mitchell smells the interloper long before he sees him. The mix of blood and sweat and dirt wafts in through the window of Mitchell's bed-sit and wakes him. The scent is persistent, redolent; it forces Mitchell out of bed and down stairs to the kitchen. Nothing in the kitchen should smell of fresh blood; he's been on the wagon now for almost eighteen months. Like all things, the wagon comes and goes with Mitchell, nothing is perfect. Especially a vampire.
When Mitchell opens the backdoor of the kitchen, he doesn't know what he's expecting, but a naked human, covered in dirt and blood trying to wedge himself into Mitchell's jeans is not it.
Mitchell's nostrils flare at the flurry of smells: fresh blood, animal blood, dirt, sweat, panic, and something Mitchell can't even identify.
The unidentifiable is stronger than anything else, and Mitchell raises an eyebrow. Whatever he -- it -- is, it's not human. Mitchell should be concerned, but mostly he's just amused and a part of him is almost relieved. Two hundred and twenty-six years is a long time to be a solitary creature.
"Lose your own kit in a bet?" Mitchell asks curiously.
The man pauses mid-struggle as though caught in crosshairs. "I know how it looks -- it's just a gardening accident."
Mitchell can't help laughing. "You might want to come up with something a bit more believable if you're going to be running about covered in dirt and blood. Human sacrifice is always a good one."
"You're -- you're having a laugh, right?"
"I dunno, am I?"
It's clear the man has no idea how to proceed. Mitchell takes pity, because he can't think of anything else. "Are there clothes that fit you somewhere in this city, or have you been running all over the countryside starkers?"
"No -- I -- yes."
"Hmmm. Three answers to one question. I didn't think it was that difficult, but I was just about to have a cup of tea. If you fancy one, you can think about your answer while you wait."
"Really?"
"Really," Mitchell says. "Whatever your name is."
"George," the man says, giving up the ghost of wearing Mitchell's jeans. "My name is George."
Over the next several months, Mitchell learns several things about George:
1. George is a werewolf.
2. George has only recently become a werewolf.
3. George is not accepting this news very well.
4. George is Jewish.
5. George is smart.
6. 4 and 5 are not mutually exclusive.
7. When George transforms, he screams like a girl.
There's really not much Mitchell can say about 1-6. You are who you are. You are what you are. Mitchell's just not really sure how #7 fits in with the rest of the equation at all. He never paid attention in maths, and as he's grown older all that's mattered is having enough to pay for what he wants and/or needs.
Regardless, #7 is true.
Mitchell knows this, because the first time George asked him to take him to the countryside for the full moon, Mitchell was stupid enough to think he could hang about while George transformed. Mitchell's been around a long time, there's not much he hasn't seen. So, he dropped George off, drove about a half a mile away to wait the night out, pulled out his first edition of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - he's nothing if not twisted -- and then the screaming began. At first Mitchell thought someone was being killed, and then he realised that sort of was the case.
It didn't take Mitchell long to decide that retreat was the best policy, and he ended up waiting out the night back home, tucked up in bed with one of the landlady's sordid romances and a cup of tea.
The next morning, he drove back to the drop-point, parked the car, grabbed the spare bed sheet he'd thought to bring along, and followed his nose to where George was hiding in some bushes, curled up sleeping and twitching in a foetal position.
George was yet again bollock naked and had blood smeared all along his cheeks, his back and his forearms; it shouldn't have looked as good on him as it did.
When Mitchell crouched down there were scratches on George's cheeks and he smelled heavenly. He smelled like fresh blood, and Mitchell didn’t even realize he had licked George's face until George stirred underneath him.
"Um, all right?" George asked eying Mitchell's proximity curiously.
Mitchell pulled away leisurely, it wouldn't do to scare George now. "What does happen to your clothes when you change? You're going to have to budget better or put them in a rucksack at the rate you're going."
"I keep meaning to bring one along," George said, "I just forget."
Mitchell shook out the sheet and handed it over. "Yeah, well, you might want to sort that out. It's not as though this is going to go away. You're going to have to make it more efficient."
George's face screwed up and he sighed. "A more efficient transformation into a monster. Right."
The fact that George is smart tends to be precluded by the fact that George is a werewolf. It's not this way in Mitchell's eyes; Mitchell isn't judgmental, but facts are facts, and the facts are these:
George has no idea how to be a werewolf, which means he hasn't sussed out how to act around humans just yet, which makes it hard for him to keep a real job, which makes it hard for him to pay rent, which is why he's living in a hostel and runs around Bristol every 28 days stark naked.
That last bit doesn't quite add up with the first few, but it does make sense. Mitchell sort of compares being non-human to having a disease of some sort, diabetes or maybe herpes. You have it; you can't get rid of it; most people - beings- have no fucking idea you're walking around with it; you can't give it to someone else as long as you're smart about it, but you think about it all the fucking time.
All. The. Fucking. Time.
Mitchell reckoned he'd stop obsessing after the first 100 years, but after two plus centuries, he still thinks about it. There's not much else to do. Wake up. Go to work. Push the mop about. Try not to drain anyone. Try not to steal from blood storage. Go home. Maybe see if George wants to come out and play. Not that George ever wants to play, but sometimes he's up for a drink, which is good enough. Sometimes they go down to the café and have tea instead.
Every now and then, Mitchell will drag George out to the cinema as well.
It doesn't do any good to hide away, it's much better to hide in plain sight.
Getting George a job at the hospital is such a perfect idea that Mitchell doesn't know why he didn't think of it before, probably because Mitchell tries to keep to himself most of the time. But George is solicitous, he's impeccably clean and most of all, it's easy money. Plus, if anything happens to George, he can just come in and get cleaned up. At least that's the theory at any rate.
The only hole in Mitchell's plan is that there are currently no openings, but Mitchell will fix that. He's been on the wagon too long anyway.
It's easy for Mitchell to be with George; it's not sexual, it's not passionate, it's just being. There's no history; there are no expectations. They're different enough not to be in each other's pockets, but similar enough to have the same basic needs and desires. They complement each other.
It shouldn't surprise Mitchell when Herrick pops back up, but it does. England is a massive country and the fact that Herrick's outside of Mitchell's bed-sit, well, Mitchell hasn't been stupid enough to believe in coincidences for a long time. Plus, he can smell Herrick long before he can see him. It's Earl Grey tea and liquorice and worn leather. All the hairs on Mitchell's forearms rise to attention.
"You look good." Herrick appears from the shadows, his voice conversationally light as though they're discussing the weather.
Mitchell rolls his eyes but stays well clear. Fear will get him nowhere. "It's amazing what not-aging will do for you, isn't it?"
"You sound as though you're not happy to see me." Herrick's sing-song tone makes Mitchell twitch even as Herrick advances on him.
"I'm not."
"Oh, that's too bad, because I'm not going - what is that foul stench? Is that - I heard you'd been consorting with undesirables, but I guess I had to smell it for myself."
Mitchell's had enough. "I'm here, you're here, one of us should go. That would be me."
"Always running," Herrick mocks as Mitchell gives himself a wide berth. "I thought I'd taught you better than that."
Theoretically Mitchell could kill Herrick, but only theoretically. Mitchell can smell others out there; he's not stupid.
"No." Mitchell has his keys in his hand, but suddenly he doesn't need them. He doesn't have to put up with this. "I taught me better than that."
The people at George's hostel know Mitchell. He comes and goes, collecting George, dropping George off, and he's nice enough without being truly memorable, which is exactly as he wants it. Before Mitchell even has to ask, the Asian girl at the front desk points towards the sitting room where George is sprawled out watching QI.
George looks up briefly as Mitchell walks by him and then drops down next to him on the sofa. "Do you fancy a pint?" Mitchell asks, even as he puts his feet up on George's legs.
George looks from him to the telly and then back again. "Sure, why not."
Despite this exchange, neither one of them makes any effort to move.
Two days later is the full moon, which Mitchell hasn't seen the same way since he met George.
The morning after, George rings Mitchell's mobile a bit before nine. He sounds tired and resigned and slightly hysterical, as though the world has disappointed him by making him into what he is now, and he can't quite figure out what to do about it.
For the first time actually, George sounds as though he's not sure he's interested in even bothering to try anymore.
Mitchell remembers when he cared enough to get angry about his lot in life; he remembers how long it took to get over it. Maybe he can make it a bit less rough for George; clearly Laura was a red herring.
In fact, Mitchell makes up his mind before George has got his "Can you come and get me?" out.
In the car it all makes sense in that way that it never does, but if what Mitchell told Herrick is true and he's not running anymore, then maybe it's time to settle down. Maybe Mitchell should try and make the best of what he has. The TV and flat aren't going to make him happy in the long run, but at least with George he wouldn't have to worry about who nicked the last of his milk. At least with George he could pretend to be like everyone else for a while.
Deep down, Mitchell knows that these things aren't going to make him like everyone else, but at the moment he has George, and the two of them together will be a nice break from the solitary life he's cursed to lead.
And maybe John Mitchell will never do great things in his lifetime, despite what he thought so long ago, but maybe he can be greater than the sum of his parts and do a few okay things in the meantime.
-end-
Title taken from Andrew Bird's 'Case in Point'
Again, a huge thanks to lazlet for beta duties and listening to my babble post-pilot viewing.
Thank you to everyone who insisted that Being Human is where it's at, with special thanks to tmelange, teneagles, cassielx, random_flores, slodwick and my beta for offering up pilot assistance.
Being Human
Mitchell/Herrick, Mitchell/George
Rated PG-13 / 12
you can't ride the concept of the horse
John is his Christian name, and in the beginning, that is who he was. What he was.
In the beginning, he was John to his mother and father, and wee John to his older sister Sally and his brother Edmund. He was even John to the girls he courted. He was only Mitchell to the boys he went to the public school with, because John was a well-bred young man and in the 18th Century you are only what you are born to be.
Most of all, John had promise. He was going to go into business; he was going to make his fortune by marrying well. As the second born, he was entitled to nothing but the family name; he had no choice.
Of course when you think you have no choice is generally when people become their most creative. For John, this is when he met Herrick.
It's just as cliché as anyone would think. A black man was a novelty in the streets of Cambridge in the 1780s. A well-dressed black man wandering the back streets of Cambridge in the evening couldn't have been more out of the ordinary.
The only thing more extraordinary was that this man knew John's name. Except he didn't call him John, he called him Mitchell, and more importantly, he made John a promise. He promised John something that his twenty-one year old mind could not even conceive of - the world. Fame and fortune and eternal life.
And second-son John, John the son who would have to make his fortune and could only give any woman his family name, was intrigued. He was besotted.
He said 'yes' and 'please,' and when Herrick laid hands on John, for a minute it was everything John had ever wanted. And then John closed his eyes and saw the men with the sticks and the ropes.
He saw that there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and he turned back. He fled.
When John woke up, Herrick called him Mitchell. John was dead. Mitchell, though, Mitchell was going to have great things. Mitchell was going to do great things.
The newly born are hungry. Newborn babies, newly born calves, newborn vampires are all the same. They want to be fed. Mitchell cut a thirteen body swath through Cambridge before he was reigned in: girls who had slighted him, boys who had bullied him at school, anyone who Herrick suggested.
Mitchell was very open to suggestion when he was young. He was very open to a lot of things with Herrick at his side. Herrick believed -- believes -- that it's important to do what you will, when you will. Vampires are the top of the food chain, everything is fair game, and this irrefutable fact was Herrick's present to Mitchell. He promised Mitchell the world, and all Mitchell had to do was everything Herrick said.
The newly born are highly impressionable that way. They aim only to please. To be cosseted and protected. To be promised love and warmth. With Herrick, Mitchell was first, no waiting, no sharing, no structure.
Nothing but freedom.
Except that after a while all the freedom got old. And after a while, all the bodies piled up. Mitchell had signed the contract without reading the small print. He couldn't see his family; he was never going to be a father; he was going to be slight and lean forever. And this was the real forever, not the forever that children dream of or that adults dread. This was much much worse.
Peterborough, Northampton, Coventry, Birmingham, Nottingham, Sheffield, Manchester, Liverpool, Blackpool, Leeds. The years add up when you're trying to keep ahead of the body count.
Except the thing is that Herrick kept his promise. In a roundabout sort of way. Herrick showered Mitchell with affection and corpses and fame amongst their set. They travelled in as much style as the late 1700's and early 1800s could offer. However, the years add up when you're with the same person, seeing the same group of people, and one day Mitchell decided it was enough. He decided he wanted a change.
It never occurred to him that Herrick would take it the way he did.
It never occurred to him that Herrick would murder what remained of Mitchell's family - his sixty-three year old sister and nieces and nephews that he'd never even met -- but when Mitchell looks back on this, he realizes he should have seen it coming. He had travelled from one end of the country to the other with Herrick. He'd seen murders in broad daylight; he'd taken part. Mitchell thought Herrick wanted a partner; he thought that Herrick cared, but caring is a human trait, and they are anything but.
There's nothing more dangerous than a vampire scorned.
Time goes much more slowly when Mitchell is on his own; he hasn't figured out the knack of distracting himself now that he has an eternity to kill. Herrick was very good with keeping Mitchell amused; he taught Mitchell how to keep food alive for weeks.
In the last sixty-plus years Mitchell's been born, died, and been reborn and he still has no idea what he's going to do with his life. There are no fathers to please, no sires to coddle him, no inheritance and reputation to live on. Mitchell has gone from the middle to the top to the bottom, and now he hasn't the means to rise again.
This sort of information is easily something to dwell on, but a little structure can make this right. When human children are little they are given a schedule to keep themselves out of trouble, it might work for young vampires too. So Mitchell spends an hour cleaning, a few hours reading, he goes hunting at night and sleeps during the day. He picks up odd jobs here and there: cleaner, tutor, footman. Anything to keep a few bills in his pocket. Anything to fund his travels. France, Italy, Greece, Egypt, India, Russia, China, Australia.
It's amazing how you can kill eighty-odd years sitting in a coach.
There are thousands of books available about vampires and vampirism by 1900. They claim that vampires are romantic and that eternal life is a blessing. These mockeries of truth promise that vampires treasure humans as pets. After all, being a vampire is tragic and only a human woman can make it right. Garlic will keep them at bay, too.
Mitchell knows it's all shite.
There's nothing romantic or poetic about living forever. There's nothing note-worthy about being cursed. Vampires don't give a shit about human beings except as food. Of course during the 19th century people tended to think consumption was romantic too.
There's only so much stupidity one being can take at a time.
Mitchell's return to England in the late-1940s isn't marked by fanfare and trumpets, nor is it marked by bodies falling from the sky. He's tried to steer clear of both world wars, although the food surplus has been a dream. Still, his homecoming isn't even marked by revenge upon the one who forced him to leave in the first place. Mitchell knows what he is; he knows what is before him. He's got an eternity to waste; he might as well get on with it.
Mitchell buys his car new. It's 1956 and cars aren't that expensive, especially when he's not wasting his money on things like food. He gets a job at a pub and rents out a room on the second floor. At the weekend he drives out of town to eat. He's trying to wean himself away from human blood, but it's not exactly easy. Deer and rabbits have four legs and Mitchell is only used to quick human sprints. Eventually, though, eventually Mitchell does what every being does -- he begins to evolve. Again.
1956 becomes 1976 becomes 1996 becomes 2006. Dover becomes Canterbury becomes Brighton becomes Bristol.
He's a bartender, a bin man, a bus driver, a hospital porter.
How the mighty have fallen from grace.
He tries to steer clear of places he knows those like him congregate, but it's not easy. There are more of them than anyone would believe and they blend somewhat seamlessly. Like most members of an elite club, they can identify each other with ease, but are completely invisible to outsiders.
Mitchell smells the interloper long before he sees him. The mix of blood and sweat and dirt wafts in through the window of Mitchell's bed-sit and wakes him. The scent is persistent, redolent; it forces Mitchell out of bed and down stairs to the kitchen. Nothing in the kitchen should smell of fresh blood; he's been on the wagon now for almost eighteen months. Like all things, the wagon comes and goes with Mitchell, nothing is perfect. Especially a vampire.
When Mitchell opens the backdoor of the kitchen, he doesn't know what he's expecting, but a naked human, covered in dirt and blood trying to wedge himself into Mitchell's jeans is not it.
Mitchell's nostrils flare at the flurry of smells: fresh blood, animal blood, dirt, sweat, panic, and something Mitchell can't even identify.
The unidentifiable is stronger than anything else, and Mitchell raises an eyebrow. Whatever he -- it -- is, it's not human. Mitchell should be concerned, but mostly he's just amused and a part of him is almost relieved. Two hundred and twenty-six years is a long time to be a solitary creature.
"Lose your own kit in a bet?" Mitchell asks curiously.
The man pauses mid-struggle as though caught in crosshairs. "I know how it looks -- it's just a gardening accident."
Mitchell can't help laughing. "You might want to come up with something a bit more believable if you're going to be running about covered in dirt and blood. Human sacrifice is always a good one."
"You're -- you're having a laugh, right?"
"I dunno, am I?"
It's clear the man has no idea how to proceed. Mitchell takes pity, because he can't think of anything else. "Are there clothes that fit you somewhere in this city, or have you been running all over the countryside starkers?"
"No -- I -- yes."
"Hmmm. Three answers to one question. I didn't think it was that difficult, but I was just about to have a cup of tea. If you fancy one, you can think about your answer while you wait."
"Really?"
"Really," Mitchell says. "Whatever your name is."
"George," the man says, giving up the ghost of wearing Mitchell's jeans. "My name is George."
Over the next several months, Mitchell learns several things about George:
1. George is a werewolf.
2. George has only recently become a werewolf.
3. George is not accepting this news very well.
4. George is Jewish.
5. George is smart.
6. 4 and 5 are not mutually exclusive.
7. When George transforms, he screams like a girl.
There's really not much Mitchell can say about 1-6. You are who you are. You are what you are. Mitchell's just not really sure how #7 fits in with the rest of the equation at all. He never paid attention in maths, and as he's grown older all that's mattered is having enough to pay for what he wants and/or needs.
Regardless, #7 is true.
Mitchell knows this, because the first time George asked him to take him to the countryside for the full moon, Mitchell was stupid enough to think he could hang about while George transformed. Mitchell's been around a long time, there's not much he hasn't seen. So, he dropped George off, drove about a half a mile away to wait the night out, pulled out his first edition of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - he's nothing if not twisted -- and then the screaming began. At first Mitchell thought someone was being killed, and then he realised that sort of was the case.
It didn't take Mitchell long to decide that retreat was the best policy, and he ended up waiting out the night back home, tucked up in bed with one of the landlady's sordid romances and a cup of tea.
The next morning, he drove back to the drop-point, parked the car, grabbed the spare bed sheet he'd thought to bring along, and followed his nose to where George was hiding in some bushes, curled up sleeping and twitching in a foetal position.
George was yet again bollock naked and had blood smeared all along his cheeks, his back and his forearms; it shouldn't have looked as good on him as it did.
When Mitchell crouched down there were scratches on George's cheeks and he smelled heavenly. He smelled like fresh blood, and Mitchell didn’t even realize he had licked George's face until George stirred underneath him.
"Um, all right?" George asked eying Mitchell's proximity curiously.
Mitchell pulled away leisurely, it wouldn't do to scare George now. "What does happen to your clothes when you change? You're going to have to budget better or put them in a rucksack at the rate you're going."
"I keep meaning to bring one along," George said, "I just forget."
Mitchell shook out the sheet and handed it over. "Yeah, well, you might want to sort that out. It's not as though this is going to go away. You're going to have to make it more efficient."
George's face screwed up and he sighed. "A more efficient transformation into a monster. Right."
The fact that George is smart tends to be precluded by the fact that George is a werewolf. It's not this way in Mitchell's eyes; Mitchell isn't judgmental, but facts are facts, and the facts are these:
George has no idea how to be a werewolf, which means he hasn't sussed out how to act around humans just yet, which makes it hard for him to keep a real job, which makes it hard for him to pay rent, which is why he's living in a hostel and runs around Bristol every 28 days stark naked.
That last bit doesn't quite add up with the first few, but it does make sense. Mitchell sort of compares being non-human to having a disease of some sort, diabetes or maybe herpes. You have it; you can't get rid of it; most people - beings- have no fucking idea you're walking around with it; you can't give it to someone else as long as you're smart about it, but you think about it all the fucking time.
All. The. Fucking. Time.
Mitchell reckoned he'd stop obsessing after the first 100 years, but after two plus centuries, he still thinks about it. There's not much else to do. Wake up. Go to work. Push the mop about. Try not to drain anyone. Try not to steal from blood storage. Go home. Maybe see if George wants to come out and play. Not that George ever wants to play, but sometimes he's up for a drink, which is good enough. Sometimes they go down to the café and have tea instead.
Every now and then, Mitchell will drag George out to the cinema as well.
It doesn't do any good to hide away, it's much better to hide in plain sight.
Getting George a job at the hospital is such a perfect idea that Mitchell doesn't know why he didn't think of it before, probably because Mitchell tries to keep to himself most of the time. But George is solicitous, he's impeccably clean and most of all, it's easy money. Plus, if anything happens to George, he can just come in and get cleaned up. At least that's the theory at any rate.
The only hole in Mitchell's plan is that there are currently no openings, but Mitchell will fix that. He's been on the wagon too long anyway.
It's easy for Mitchell to be with George; it's not sexual, it's not passionate, it's just being. There's no history; there are no expectations. They're different enough not to be in each other's pockets, but similar enough to have the same basic needs and desires. They complement each other.
It shouldn't surprise Mitchell when Herrick pops back up, but it does. England is a massive country and the fact that Herrick's outside of Mitchell's bed-sit, well, Mitchell hasn't been stupid enough to believe in coincidences for a long time. Plus, he can smell Herrick long before he can see him. It's Earl Grey tea and liquorice and worn leather. All the hairs on Mitchell's forearms rise to attention.
"You look good." Herrick appears from the shadows, his voice conversationally light as though they're discussing the weather.
Mitchell rolls his eyes but stays well clear. Fear will get him nowhere. "It's amazing what not-aging will do for you, isn't it?"
"You sound as though you're not happy to see me." Herrick's sing-song tone makes Mitchell twitch even as Herrick advances on him.
"I'm not."
"Oh, that's too bad, because I'm not going - what is that foul stench? Is that - I heard you'd been consorting with undesirables, but I guess I had to smell it for myself."
Mitchell's had enough. "I'm here, you're here, one of us should go. That would be me."
"Always running," Herrick mocks as Mitchell gives himself a wide berth. "I thought I'd taught you better than that."
Theoretically Mitchell could kill Herrick, but only theoretically. Mitchell can smell others out there; he's not stupid.
"No." Mitchell has his keys in his hand, but suddenly he doesn't need them. He doesn't have to put up with this. "I taught me better than that."
The people at George's hostel know Mitchell. He comes and goes, collecting George, dropping George off, and he's nice enough without being truly memorable, which is exactly as he wants it. Before Mitchell even has to ask, the Asian girl at the front desk points towards the sitting room where George is sprawled out watching QI.
George looks up briefly as Mitchell walks by him and then drops down next to him on the sofa. "Do you fancy a pint?" Mitchell asks, even as he puts his feet up on George's legs.
George looks from him to the telly and then back again. "Sure, why not."
Despite this exchange, neither one of them makes any effort to move.
Two days later is the full moon, which Mitchell hasn't seen the same way since he met George.
The morning after, George rings Mitchell's mobile a bit before nine. He sounds tired and resigned and slightly hysterical, as though the world has disappointed him by making him into what he is now, and he can't quite figure out what to do about it.
For the first time actually, George sounds as though he's not sure he's interested in even bothering to try anymore.
Mitchell remembers when he cared enough to get angry about his lot in life; he remembers how long it took to get over it. Maybe he can make it a bit less rough for George; clearly Laura was a red herring.
In fact, Mitchell makes up his mind before George has got his "Can you come and get me?" out.
In the car it all makes sense in that way that it never does, but if what Mitchell told Herrick is true and he's not running anymore, then maybe it's time to settle down. Maybe Mitchell should try and make the best of what he has. The TV and flat aren't going to make him happy in the long run, but at least with George he wouldn't have to worry about who nicked the last of his milk. At least with George he could pretend to be like everyone else for a while.
Deep down, Mitchell knows that these things aren't going to make him like everyone else, but at the moment he has George, and the two of them together will be a nice break from the solitary life he's cursed to lead.
And maybe John Mitchell will never do great things in his lifetime, despite what he thought so long ago, but maybe he can be greater than the sum of his parts and do a few okay things in the meantime.
-end-
Title taken from Andrew Bird's 'Case in Point'
Again, a huge thanks to lazlet for beta duties and listening to my babble post-pilot viewing.
Thank you to everyone who insisted that Being Human is where it's at, with special thanks to tmelange, teneagles, cassielx, random_flores, slodwick and my beta for offering up pilot assistance.