Being Human Fic: Unquenched, Unquenchable
Title: Unquenched, Unquenchable
Fandom/Pairing: Being Human, George/Mitchell established
Rating: PG
Genre: Um, a little angst? Hurt/comfort?
Wordcount: 644
Warnings: None, really, unless you can't stand people being sick.
Notes: First foray into the fandom, mainly because I really wanted a fic about Mitchell throwing up. Weird, I know. Anyway, hope you enjoy. :)
Summary: Oh God, Mitchell, you didn't , you didn't, you didn't.
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It’s a normal night. A warm, pleasant, peaceful night. The end of summer. The full moon isn’t for two more weeks, and the air is still and calm.
But George is more terrified than he can ever remember being.
It had been quiet, the sound. That sound. It woke him up, strange yet familiar, and he meets Annie on the stairs as he races down them, her eyes wide and scared. Her bottom lip is quivering, and George almost slips on the last stair in his haste to get to the kitchen, to get to the man he loves.
It’s dark, and Mitchell is throwing up blood all over the floor.
And the sound. That sound of him heaving, the blood splattering against the ground, his hand scrabbling for purchase on the counter so he doesn’t end up face-first in it-
George can’t tell if his eyes are black, but he thinks he catches the sharp, wet flash of fangs in the weak moonlight before Mitchell’s head ducks again to spit more dark red onto the tile.
And George’s heart is cold and heavy, and he can’t move.
“Mitchell,” he thinks he says, but he isn’t sure if he ever really speaks, because that can’t be his voice (strained and pleading and trembling), “please. Please tell me you didn’t. Mitchell. Mitchell.”
Mitchell’s head snaps up, all soulless black eyes and glistening fangs bared at him before dropping again to dry-heave, fingernails scoring the counter as his hand spasms. He sounds awful-he sounds like he’s choking-but George’s mind can’t focus on that. Not after all the successful months, after the whole bloody successful year, after all of Mitchell’s declarations of love and good intentions and promises. All George can do is think oh God, Mitchell, you didn’t, didn’t, you didn’t.
And Annie stands behind him and cries, quietly.
Mitchell’s voice is raspy and harsh when he speaks, full of pain and misery, but not guilt. “I-” he says, coughing to clear his throat in a way that sends him into another round of heaves, “can’t. I couldn’t-I tried. George. Please. I feel-” He doesn’t finish before his left leg gives out, and it’s only his death-grip on the counter that stops him from falling into the leisurely spreading dark pool on the floor. Instead he sinks slowly down the cabinets until he’s sitting ungracefully on the floor, his face turned away from his friends, his expression hidden.
“I tried,” he says again, quietly. “I was so hungry. But I couldn’t-I can’t stomach it. I’d rather be hungry than this.”
Annie is pressing her face into George’s shoulder, and George hasn’t moved because things can never be the same. Somewhere out there, there is someone-
“I can’t eat deer.”
And suddenly George’s heart has thawed, and his limbs have broken free from the ice that held them. He is across the room, next to Mitchell, wrapping one of Mitchell’s arms around his shoulders as Annie goes to get the mop. He manages to settle the vampire into a chair and grab the waste bin before Mitchell rocks forward again and spits up more saliva-diluted animal blood.
“I’m sorry about this,” Mitchell murmurs, resting his head back against George’s shoulder as the werewolf starts to rub his back. “I thought it would help. I didn’t try before because I’d never-well, I never wanted it before. I didn’t know it would-I sure as hell want it even less now.”
“Oh,” George says, and stops because he doesn’t know what else to say, but his mind finishes with I’m sorry. I thought you’d gone crazy and erased everything we’ve tried to do. I love you. I didn’t trust you.
Instead he unbuttons Mitchell’s blood-covered jacket, throws it haphazardly over a chair, and sits up with him for the rest of the night.
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So, there it be. I like it well enough, I guess. Title and text cut is from the poem The Giaour by George Gordon Byron.
Fandom/Pairing: Being Human, George/Mitchell established
Rating: PG
Genre: Um, a little angst? Hurt/comfort?
Wordcount: 644
Warnings: None, really, unless you can't stand people being sick.
Notes: First foray into the fandom, mainly because I really wanted a fic about Mitchell throwing up. Weird, I know. Anyway, hope you enjoy. :)
Summary: Oh God, Mitchell, you didn't , you didn't, you didn't.
---------
It’s a normal night. A warm, pleasant, peaceful night. The end of summer. The full moon isn’t for two more weeks, and the air is still and calm.
But George is more terrified than he can ever remember being.
It had been quiet, the sound. That sound. It woke him up, strange yet familiar, and he meets Annie on the stairs as he races down them, her eyes wide and scared. Her bottom lip is quivering, and George almost slips on the last stair in his haste to get to the kitchen, to get to the man he loves.
It’s dark, and Mitchell is throwing up blood all over the floor.
And the sound. That sound of him heaving, the blood splattering against the ground, his hand scrabbling for purchase on the counter so he doesn’t end up face-first in it-
George can’t tell if his eyes are black, but he thinks he catches the sharp, wet flash of fangs in the weak moonlight before Mitchell’s head ducks again to spit more dark red onto the tile.
And George’s heart is cold and heavy, and he can’t move.
“Mitchell,” he thinks he says, but he isn’t sure if he ever really speaks, because that can’t be his voice (strained and pleading and trembling), “please. Please tell me you didn’t. Mitchell. Mitchell.”
Mitchell’s head snaps up, all soulless black eyes and glistening fangs bared at him before dropping again to dry-heave, fingernails scoring the counter as his hand spasms. He sounds awful-he sounds like he’s choking-but George’s mind can’t focus on that. Not after all the successful months, after the whole bloody successful year, after all of Mitchell’s declarations of love and good intentions and promises. All George can do is think oh God, Mitchell, you didn’t, didn’t, you didn’t.
And Annie stands behind him and cries, quietly.
Mitchell’s voice is raspy and harsh when he speaks, full of pain and misery, but not guilt. “I-” he says, coughing to clear his throat in a way that sends him into another round of heaves, “can’t. I couldn’t-I tried. George. Please. I feel-” He doesn’t finish before his left leg gives out, and it’s only his death-grip on the counter that stops him from falling into the leisurely spreading dark pool on the floor. Instead he sinks slowly down the cabinets until he’s sitting ungracefully on the floor, his face turned away from his friends, his expression hidden.
“I tried,” he says again, quietly. “I was so hungry. But I couldn’t-I can’t stomach it. I’d rather be hungry than this.”
Annie is pressing her face into George’s shoulder, and George hasn’t moved because things can never be the same. Somewhere out there, there is someone-
“I can’t eat deer.”
And suddenly George’s heart has thawed, and his limbs have broken free from the ice that held them. He is across the room, next to Mitchell, wrapping one of Mitchell’s arms around his shoulders as Annie goes to get the mop. He manages to settle the vampire into a chair and grab the waste bin before Mitchell rocks forward again and spits up more saliva-diluted animal blood.
“I’m sorry about this,” Mitchell murmurs, resting his head back against George’s shoulder as the werewolf starts to rub his back. “I thought it would help. I didn’t try before because I’d never-well, I never wanted it before. I didn’t know it would-I sure as hell want it even less now.”
“Oh,” George says, and stops because he doesn’t know what else to say, but his mind finishes with I’m sorry. I thought you’d gone crazy and erased everything we’ve tried to do. I love you. I didn’t trust you.
Instead he unbuttons Mitchell’s blood-covered jacket, throws it haphazardly over a chair, and sits up with him for the rest of the night.
----------
So, there it be. I like it well enough, I guess. Title and text cut is from the poem The Giaour by George Gordon Byron.