Fandom: Being Human. Title: Insight
Title: Insight
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Summary: A Nightmare is just a nightmare.
Author's Notes: This is pretty dark, it also slightly different style to what I normally write, the Point of View is different at the beginning.
Beta: madtheo
You’re standing in the middle of a shopping centre, the rains lashing against you like an invisible assailant. You take a deep breath, smelling the tang of the rain, all sweet and damp, and you take a step forward, foot splashing in a puddle. The bottom of your jeans cling to your leg, the dampness soaking through to your skin, making you shiver, yet you don’t pay it any attention. You forget the smell of the rain, the chill of the trouser leg, and you forget the drops that are showering your face, streaming through your hair. You’re here for one thing: to kill, to draw something even sweeter than the rain into your body, to stop that insistent ache at the bottom of your stomach; to feel alive. The next step you take is met with someone bumping past you. You try to ignore the urge to confront the person, to not feel the warmth linger where contact had been made. But it’s useless, the blackness (that irresistible darkness that you just wish could stay with you permanently) inside of you is screaming and clawing to get out and for one moment you let it. You spin around so quickly that the drops of rain clinging to you fall to the floor, making shimmering puddles of their own.
Your target is staring at you, looking right into your soul and they aren’t afraid, in fact you’re sure that's a sympathetic look. You notice her hair isn’t wet from the rain like yours is, rather as you give her the once over you see the rain seems to float in a luminescent nimbus around her. You find this impossible, and the darkness is fractious by your lack of lethal action so as the young woman smiles at you, it takes over. All that rage, all that hunger and hurt breaking free, thrusting itself at this woman, and as your teeth sink into her neck (where was the blood?) you hear her whisper in your ear -
“I forgive you, Mitchell.”
Mitchell woke violently, the dream breaking into reality. Sweat was clinging to him, the bed sheets tangled around his feet and he had the strongest urge to vomit. Closing his eyes only made the sensations feel stronger and he found himself rushing to the bathroom, kicking the bedstead as he did so. It had come so close to the surface, the monster inside of him barely sated from the mass killings. The bright light of the bathroom hurt his eyes, making him flinch away, making his head pound. Legs shaking, he felt himself drop down to the floor, as leaning over the toilet, hands white knuckled as he gripped the grey-ish porcelain, vicious dry heaves racked his thin frame. There was nothing to come up. His body kept rejecting real food, no matter what George or Nina placed in front of him.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been kneeling there, sweat trickling down his back - just like the rain in the dream - stomach turning itself in knots and knees sore from the hard floor. Once the heaves had finally passed, the shaking returned, forcing him to lean back against the toilet. He hated this side effect, the shaking; it was the visible proof of his withdrawal. It was what made other people stop and stare at him, whisper behind their hands.
Self-consciousness flushed through him. He hated the weakness that was shown, that proved just how much of an addict he really was. Mitchell knew it was his own fault. As soon as he’d let that rage take hold of him and gave into what he’d denied himself for so long, he knew that was the end. He’d been prepared, he’d told himself ‘this is it’, he’d killed innocent people believing that he was doing it in Annie’s name, that it would somehow bring her back; make this hurting stop. That was until George had quietly gotten through to him, sweet, still too innocent George. When no one else could even get him to listen George had stopped him completely. He couldn’t remember what was said exactly, the blood had been a howling tempest in his head, and he only vaguely recalled the comforting touch. But the tone of voice in which he was spoken to, in all the blood filled rage that had encased him for days, had finally been heard, and it was George - George that had stopped him. George the domesticated werewolf, the werewolf that saved me. The thought was almost laughable, a werewolf saving a vampire, yet he could feel the laughter curdle inside of him, even though being sat on a dirty bathroom floor laughing wouldn’t make him look any more crazy than how he already felt.
Mitchell wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, his thoughts an aimless mess of rage and humanity, when the door opened, revealing George looking concernedly in. He tried to not stare, not to look at that sleep deprived face, not to listen to the blood rushing its way through veins that weren’t his own; it was like being intoxicated. Guilt cut through his thoughts as George helped him to stand and started to clean him up - all he had to do was turn slightly and he could drink his fill. George had been so kind, so caring. There had been no sympathetic looks, no pleasantries, no ‘it’s going to be okay’, just helpfulness. He’d tried to tell him to stop, just let him be, tried pushing not only George but Nina away as well, he didn’t deserve it (so many people dead,), but George had just looked at him in that way that clearly said ‘I am not losing you as well’, and so he’d let George help him.
Once George had half-carried him back to his room - really, where had his strength gone? - and he was sat back on the edge of the bed, Mitchell watched George fuss around the room, picking up discarded clothes from where they’d been thrown in a fit of temper.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d watched George, tracked him back and forth from one side to another of the room, before he finally spoke. “George, stop.”
It had been so long since he’d spoken aloud that the sound felt foreign to him, as if it were somebody else who had broken the silence. It had the desired effect as George did stop tidying up, yet refused to turn around; they hadn’t spoken to each since he’d nearly killed the professor. There was that uncomfortable silence hanging around them both and Mitchell could almost taste the tension that had been mounting between them, something that quite rightly thrilled and terrified him. To know that he could still scare people had his own heart beat quickening, that blackness swirling tightly in his chest, and all he had to do was stand up and reach out. He could feel the anticipation of feeding rise up in him, his eyes going black, could hear George breathing, the sound deafening, could feel the heartbeat pounding in time with his own and all he had to do was stand up. Stand up. Before he knew what he’d done a hand was curling against George’s head as he pushed the smaller man back dust coating them as they slammed into the wall. He buried his face in the crook of George's neck, smelling the fear mixed with blood. All he had to do was take that last step, to bring that metallic liquid rush across his tongue, to feel the heat in his stomach just one last time. Just once more, please.
Yet he couldn’t, couldn’t finish what he’d started, he couldn’t move that final inch to where he wanted. He didn’t know what had stopped him, whether it was the hand on his shoulder holding him steady as he shook, or the whispered words that were oddly soothing. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there just clinging to George like some kind of life line, his shakes getting worse before they started to mercifully ease. The blood lust left him feeling exhausted as humanity gained the upper hand once again and he could feel himself start to go lax against George.
“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling as much as his body was.
“Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Mitchell didn’t bother correcting George; he’d already had a second, a third and hell, even a fourth chance already. If George wanted to try to save him, he wasn’t going to stop him, he just wasn’t sure how much there was left of him to save. Nothing else was spoken between them as he was led back to his bed, George straightening out the tangled covers as though Mitchell was a small child. He held onto George’s arm as he closed his eyes, not wanting the younger man to leave him just yet, and he felt George sit next to him on the bed, a warm hand running through his hair. Trust George to be this affectionate when someone was ill. As sleep started to creep back up on him, the vague thought drifted in that maybe the next time he woke he could try to eat something normal, take another step towards being human again. Maybe.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Summary: A Nightmare is just a nightmare.
Author's Notes: This is pretty dark, it also slightly different style to what I normally write, the Point of View is different at the beginning.
Beta: madtheo
You’re standing in the middle of a shopping centre, the rains lashing against you like an invisible assailant. You take a deep breath, smelling the tang of the rain, all sweet and damp, and you take a step forward, foot splashing in a puddle. The bottom of your jeans cling to your leg, the dampness soaking through to your skin, making you shiver, yet you don’t pay it any attention. You forget the smell of the rain, the chill of the trouser leg, and you forget the drops that are showering your face, streaming through your hair. You’re here for one thing: to kill, to draw something even sweeter than the rain into your body, to stop that insistent ache at the bottom of your stomach; to feel alive. The next step you take is met with someone bumping past you. You try to ignore the urge to confront the person, to not feel the warmth linger where contact had been made. But it’s useless, the blackness (that irresistible darkness that you just wish could stay with you permanently) inside of you is screaming and clawing to get out and for one moment you let it. You spin around so quickly that the drops of rain clinging to you fall to the floor, making shimmering puddles of their own.
Your target is staring at you, looking right into your soul and they aren’t afraid, in fact you’re sure that's a sympathetic look. You notice her hair isn’t wet from the rain like yours is, rather as you give her the once over you see the rain seems to float in a luminescent nimbus around her. You find this impossible, and the darkness is fractious by your lack of lethal action so as the young woman smiles at you, it takes over. All that rage, all that hunger and hurt breaking free, thrusting itself at this woman, and as your teeth sink into her neck (where was the blood?) you hear her whisper in your ear -
“I forgive you, Mitchell.”
Mitchell woke violently, the dream breaking into reality. Sweat was clinging to him, the bed sheets tangled around his feet and he had the strongest urge to vomit. Closing his eyes only made the sensations feel stronger and he found himself rushing to the bathroom, kicking the bedstead as he did so. It had come so close to the surface, the monster inside of him barely sated from the mass killings. The bright light of the bathroom hurt his eyes, making him flinch away, making his head pound. Legs shaking, he felt himself drop down to the floor, as leaning over the toilet, hands white knuckled as he gripped the grey-ish porcelain, vicious dry heaves racked his thin frame. There was nothing to come up. His body kept rejecting real food, no matter what George or Nina placed in front of him.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been kneeling there, sweat trickling down his back - just like the rain in the dream - stomach turning itself in knots and knees sore from the hard floor. Once the heaves had finally passed, the shaking returned, forcing him to lean back against the toilet. He hated this side effect, the shaking; it was the visible proof of his withdrawal. It was what made other people stop and stare at him, whisper behind their hands.
Self-consciousness flushed through him. He hated the weakness that was shown, that proved just how much of an addict he really was. Mitchell knew it was his own fault. As soon as he’d let that rage take hold of him and gave into what he’d denied himself for so long, he knew that was the end. He’d been prepared, he’d told himself ‘this is it’, he’d killed innocent people believing that he was doing it in Annie’s name, that it would somehow bring her back; make this hurting stop. That was until George had quietly gotten through to him, sweet, still too innocent George. When no one else could even get him to listen George had stopped him completely. He couldn’t remember what was said exactly, the blood had been a howling tempest in his head, and he only vaguely recalled the comforting touch. But the tone of voice in which he was spoken to, in all the blood filled rage that had encased him for days, had finally been heard, and it was George - George that had stopped him. George the domesticated werewolf, the werewolf that saved me. The thought was almost laughable, a werewolf saving a vampire, yet he could feel the laughter curdle inside of him, even though being sat on a dirty bathroom floor laughing wouldn’t make him look any more crazy than how he already felt.
Mitchell wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, his thoughts an aimless mess of rage and humanity, when the door opened, revealing George looking concernedly in. He tried to not stare, not to look at that sleep deprived face, not to listen to the blood rushing its way through veins that weren’t his own; it was like being intoxicated. Guilt cut through his thoughts as George helped him to stand and started to clean him up - all he had to do was turn slightly and he could drink his fill. George had been so kind, so caring. There had been no sympathetic looks, no pleasantries, no ‘it’s going to be okay’, just helpfulness. He’d tried to tell him to stop, just let him be, tried pushing not only George but Nina away as well, he didn’t deserve it (so many people dead,), but George had just looked at him in that way that clearly said ‘I am not losing you as well’, and so he’d let George help him.
Once George had half-carried him back to his room - really, where had his strength gone? - and he was sat back on the edge of the bed, Mitchell watched George fuss around the room, picking up discarded clothes from where they’d been thrown in a fit of temper.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d watched George, tracked him back and forth from one side to another of the room, before he finally spoke. “George, stop.”
It had been so long since he’d spoken aloud that the sound felt foreign to him, as if it were somebody else who had broken the silence. It had the desired effect as George did stop tidying up, yet refused to turn around; they hadn’t spoken to each since he’d nearly killed the professor. There was that uncomfortable silence hanging around them both and Mitchell could almost taste the tension that had been mounting between them, something that quite rightly thrilled and terrified him. To know that he could still scare people had his own heart beat quickening, that blackness swirling tightly in his chest, and all he had to do was stand up and reach out. He could feel the anticipation of feeding rise up in him, his eyes going black, could hear George breathing, the sound deafening, could feel the heartbeat pounding in time with his own and all he had to do was stand up. Stand up. Before he knew what he’d done a hand was curling against George’s head as he pushed the smaller man back dust coating them as they slammed into the wall. He buried his face in the crook of George's neck, smelling the fear mixed with blood. All he had to do was take that last step, to bring that metallic liquid rush across his tongue, to feel the heat in his stomach just one last time. Just once more, please.
Yet he couldn’t, couldn’t finish what he’d started, he couldn’t move that final inch to where he wanted. He didn’t know what had stopped him, whether it was the hand on his shoulder holding him steady as he shook, or the whispered words that were oddly soothing. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there just clinging to George like some kind of life line, his shakes getting worse before they started to mercifully ease. The blood lust left him feeling exhausted as humanity gained the upper hand once again and he could feel himself start to go lax against George.
“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling as much as his body was.
“Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Mitchell didn’t bother correcting George; he’d already had a second, a third and hell, even a fourth chance already. If George wanted to try to save him, he wasn’t going to stop him, he just wasn’t sure how much there was left of him to save. Nothing else was spoken between them as he was led back to his bed, George straightening out the tangled covers as though Mitchell was a small child. He held onto George’s arm as he closed his eyes, not wanting the younger man to leave him just yet, and he felt George sit next to him on the bed, a warm hand running through his hair. Trust George to be this affectionate when someone was ill. As sleep started to creep back up on him, the vague thought drifted in that maybe the next time he woke he could try to eat something normal, take another step towards being human again. Maybe.