Fic: Cages
Title: Cages
Fandom: Being Human
Pairing: Mitchell/George
Rating: R
Warnings: Drugs, dub-con, coercion
Word Count: 1660
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The last thing Mitchell remembers is carrying drinks through the pub.
AN: Written for angst_bingo for the 'cages' square.
The last thing Mitchell remembers is carrying drinks through the pub. He remembers shouldering the blurred outline of people aside and watching the slosh and trickle of beer over his fingers - no, that's not right. He remembers stumbling out into the street after they left the pub. The air had been cold and sharp, and somewhere far away in the night there'd been the smell of fish and chips. Which was always guaranteed to distract George. He remembers that George had said something, and he'd laughed....
That's it, there's nothing after that. Nothing up until now. But now is apparently a long way from then. Mitchell can see Annie's boots and the carpet, and the blurry too-close shape of what look an awful lot like bars.
What the hell? Why are there bars?
His brain picks up another gear and he realises he's in the cage in George's room and it's not only his head that hurts. His back does too. He feels like he should probably be more confused about why he's in the cage in George's room. There must be a reason. But there's nothing in his brain but a yawning gap of darkness.
"He's awake." Annie's voice sounds far away.
Mitchell rolls his head to the side to try and see her better, but all he gets is a face full of hair and the cold length of the bars against his bare back. He hisses and rolls back the other way, pressing a hand down on the floor and trying to turn over. He's wearing jeans but his feet are bare. He's not sure when exactly he lost his clothes. Possibly the same time he lost his memory. There's a solid thump in the back of Mitchell's head. It's confusing and foreign and he has no idea where it came from. He ends up slumped against the bars with the heel of his hand pressed into one eye.
Annie's more or less in focus now, a grey shape with bouncy hair and an unhappy expression. Suggesting the parts he can't remember are in some way bad. George is slightly less in focus somewhere to Mitchell's left. His left eye prickles and itches leaving the world strangely liquid.
"Are you feeling better now?" Annie asks, she looks worried too. As if she thinks the answer might be 'no.'
"Compared to what?" Mitchell manages, and he sounds like he spent all night smoking. God, it feels like he spent all night smoking. "What the hell happened? What am I doing in the cage?"
Annie and George look at each other and have some sort of confusing conversation that Mitchell apparently isn't invited to.
"We think someone put something in your drink," Annie says carefully. "At the pub."
"You were..." George seems to be floundering for a word.
"Aggressive," Annie says with her arms crossed. "And possessive."
"And really, really strong."
"Generally, a crazy person," Annie sums up.
It occurs to Mitchell, suddenly, that the familiar taste in his mouth is blood, it's clinging to his back teeth and the shallow dip under his tongue, raw and fresh. He can't stop the sudden, creeping worry that he'd killed someone last night. That that's the reason they locked him in here. But even as he thinks it he realises the taste in his mouth isn't human.
He frowns through the bars at George. "I bit you," he says quietly.
George's face does something complicated behind his glasses. He's not even sure if it's good complicated or bad complicated. "You remember that?"
"No," Mitchell says slowly. "I can still taste you." He's not sure whether it's polite to admit to that or not. But it's very distracting. "Why did I bite you?"
"I'm pretty sure you had no idea what you were doing at the time," George says, and it's odd and stilted, like he's picking his words carefully. Annie pulls a face behind him. Something disapproving and Mitchell knows that face. It's the one she always brings out when George lets people off too easily.
Mitchell presses his forehead against the bars and it's cold, but it doesn't help him remember at all.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I don't remember a thing." He leans into the metal until it starts to hurt, then shifts his head to look at them again. "I don't, I swear."
"One of your eyes is still black," George says quietly.
"It's weird," Annie agrees with a nod.
Mitchell doesn’t even have to ask which one. He lifts a hand and presses it. He's not even hungry but there's a twitch behind there, like a reflex. Something jumping inside his skull. Which isn't a comforting thought.
"Who would put something in my drink?"
"We don't know," Annie folds her arms again. "We thought it might have been another vampire, maybe it wanted you to kill us."
"Technically that would only be me," George points out.
"Yes, yes, dead already, I remember," Annie says firmly. "I meant more as a general theme."
"I didn't try and -"
"No," George says. "You didn't - you didn't try and kill anyone."
"Do you feel like killing anyone now?" Annie seems compelled to ask, eyebrows drawn down like she's prepared to take decisive action if he says yes.
"No," Mitchell says firmly, leaning back, against the bars and letting the cold seep into his skin. "No, I definitely do not feel like killing anyone. I feel like shit actually."
George frowns, looks at Annie, who shrugs.
"Guys," Mitchell says. Because he has a horrible feeling they're deciding whether to let him out or not.
George eventually sighs and pulls the key out of his pocket. Mitchell unfolds himself and frowns at the world in general. They both step back when he's actually out and he squints at them in confused suspicion.
Annie throws him a shirt. "Go and have a shower. You look like hell."
George shoots him a sympathetic look.
"Is anyone going to tell me what I actually did last night?" Mitchell asks.
"No until you've suffered a little," Annie declares, and Mitchell can't help but think that, yes, whatever he did it was indeed apparently bad
"Shit."
The shower doesn't make him feel better. It makes him feet wetter - and he learns that there's blood in his hair, somewhere at the back, like someone bashed him in the head with something. Which is fantastic.
When he gets out he wipes the mirror off and stares into it. He can't see anything but the long clear space he's made on the glass. But he's fairly sure that his eyes are both fine now, though one of them still feels itchy and strange, like he'd had it open too long, like maybe it was open all night.
He finds his toothbrush, rubs at his eye again.
// "George."
"No."
"George."
Mitchell's laughing at George's expression, because it's so wounded. He ignores the disapproval, catches George's jaw in his fingers and kisses him. George flails and Mitchell can't keep kissing him while he's laughing. Can't stay close without kissing him again. But George turns his head away.
"Mitchell."
Mitchell's not sure where that surprise comes from. He can hear George's heartbeat, he can hear how fast his pulse is, and it's not fear, it's nothing like fear.
"Mitchell, you're not right."
It's the stupidest thing Mitchell's ever heard. He's not sure the world has ever been this right. It's sharp and it's hot and he can feel everything. He fucking loves how right this feels. Like he could grip the world and squeeze it, and it would crack open.
"I'm perfectly right, George." He pushes the door shut when George stretches out a hand for it. He likes the little murmuring noise George makes when he squeezes his wrist just a little too hard. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. About the two of us together. Come upstairs with me and we can do whatever you want. You can bend me over the end of your bed. You can fuck me as hard as you like. You know I can take it. I already told you I like to play rough."
"Mitchell." George's voice is breathless and far too high. "Will you please shut up."
Mitchell's thumb is already under the waistband of George's jeans and the skin is soft and it's burning hot. He can already feel how hard George is. He's practically vibrating with the need to press forward into Mitchell's body. Mitchell saves him the trouble by swaying in and pressing him back into the wall. Which gets him a jerky swallow and a shudder and a ragged exhale that sounds needy.
"Or I can fuck you, you'd like it, George, I could make you like it."
George's throat is one long curve and Mitchell can't take his eyes off of it.
"I know you want it. I've always known you want it. You're just too much of a coward to admit it."
Mitchell wants to kiss him again. But George inhales like he knows what he's thinking. He tries to tip away from Mitchell's mouth. But it just leaves his neck stretched out and smooth and its far too easy to lay his mouth there, to feel the thump of George's pulse under his tongue.
"Mitchell."
"Just this once, George. Just let me, just this once."
"Mitchell you have to stop."
It would be so easy. Mitchell could do this whether George lets him or not. Could slide his hand up and grip his jaw and turn it. George wouldn't be able to stop him.
But he wants George to say yes.
"Tell me you want it."
Mitchell's thumb is sliding back and forth across George throat and he doesn't even remember lifting it.
"Tell me you want it."
George resists and even that's good, in a way that Mitchell can indulge in freely. It's persuasion without violence.
"Tell me you love me." //
Mitchell stares into the blank bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling from his mouth. His fingers are white round the porcelain of the sink, the slow grinding creak suggesting he's holding it tighter than he should be.
"Fuck."
He drags his toothbrush free, so he can breathe.
"Fuck."
Fandom: Being Human
Pairing: Mitchell/George
Rating: R
Warnings: Drugs, dub-con, coercion
Word Count: 1660
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The last thing Mitchell remembers is carrying drinks through the pub.
AN: Written for angst_bingo for the 'cages' square.
The last thing Mitchell remembers is carrying drinks through the pub. He remembers shouldering the blurred outline of people aside and watching the slosh and trickle of beer over his fingers - no, that's not right. He remembers stumbling out into the street after they left the pub. The air had been cold and sharp, and somewhere far away in the night there'd been the smell of fish and chips. Which was always guaranteed to distract George. He remembers that George had said something, and he'd laughed....
That's it, there's nothing after that. Nothing up until now. But now is apparently a long way from then. Mitchell can see Annie's boots and the carpet, and the blurry too-close shape of what look an awful lot like bars.
What the hell? Why are there bars?
His brain picks up another gear and he realises he's in the cage in George's room and it's not only his head that hurts. His back does too. He feels like he should probably be more confused about why he's in the cage in George's room. There must be a reason. But there's nothing in his brain but a yawning gap of darkness.
"He's awake." Annie's voice sounds far away.
Mitchell rolls his head to the side to try and see her better, but all he gets is a face full of hair and the cold length of the bars against his bare back. He hisses and rolls back the other way, pressing a hand down on the floor and trying to turn over. He's wearing jeans but his feet are bare. He's not sure when exactly he lost his clothes. Possibly the same time he lost his memory. There's a solid thump in the back of Mitchell's head. It's confusing and foreign and he has no idea where it came from. He ends up slumped against the bars with the heel of his hand pressed into one eye.
Annie's more or less in focus now, a grey shape with bouncy hair and an unhappy expression. Suggesting the parts he can't remember are in some way bad. George is slightly less in focus somewhere to Mitchell's left. His left eye prickles and itches leaving the world strangely liquid.
"Are you feeling better now?" Annie asks, she looks worried too. As if she thinks the answer might be 'no.'
"Compared to what?" Mitchell manages, and he sounds like he spent all night smoking. God, it feels like he spent all night smoking. "What the hell happened? What am I doing in the cage?"
Annie and George look at each other and have some sort of confusing conversation that Mitchell apparently isn't invited to.
"We think someone put something in your drink," Annie says carefully. "At the pub."
"You were..." George seems to be floundering for a word.
"Aggressive," Annie says with her arms crossed. "And possessive."
"And really, really strong."
"Generally, a crazy person," Annie sums up.
It occurs to Mitchell, suddenly, that the familiar taste in his mouth is blood, it's clinging to his back teeth and the shallow dip under his tongue, raw and fresh. He can't stop the sudden, creeping worry that he'd killed someone last night. That that's the reason they locked him in here. But even as he thinks it he realises the taste in his mouth isn't human.
He frowns through the bars at George. "I bit you," he says quietly.
George's face does something complicated behind his glasses. He's not even sure if it's good complicated or bad complicated. "You remember that?"
"No," Mitchell says slowly. "I can still taste you." He's not sure whether it's polite to admit to that or not. But it's very distracting. "Why did I bite you?"
"I'm pretty sure you had no idea what you were doing at the time," George says, and it's odd and stilted, like he's picking his words carefully. Annie pulls a face behind him. Something disapproving and Mitchell knows that face. It's the one she always brings out when George lets people off too easily.
Mitchell presses his forehead against the bars and it's cold, but it doesn't help him remember at all.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I don't remember a thing." He leans into the metal until it starts to hurt, then shifts his head to look at them again. "I don't, I swear."
"One of your eyes is still black," George says quietly.
"It's weird," Annie agrees with a nod.
Mitchell doesn’t even have to ask which one. He lifts a hand and presses it. He's not even hungry but there's a twitch behind there, like a reflex. Something jumping inside his skull. Which isn't a comforting thought.
"Who would put something in my drink?"
"We don't know," Annie folds her arms again. "We thought it might have been another vampire, maybe it wanted you to kill us."
"Technically that would only be me," George points out.
"Yes, yes, dead already, I remember," Annie says firmly. "I meant more as a general theme."
"I didn't try and -"
"No," George says. "You didn't - you didn't try and kill anyone."
"Do you feel like killing anyone now?" Annie seems compelled to ask, eyebrows drawn down like she's prepared to take decisive action if he says yes.
"No," Mitchell says firmly, leaning back, against the bars and letting the cold seep into his skin. "No, I definitely do not feel like killing anyone. I feel like shit actually."
George frowns, looks at Annie, who shrugs.
"Guys," Mitchell says. Because he has a horrible feeling they're deciding whether to let him out or not.
George eventually sighs and pulls the key out of his pocket. Mitchell unfolds himself and frowns at the world in general. They both step back when he's actually out and he squints at them in confused suspicion.
Annie throws him a shirt. "Go and have a shower. You look like hell."
George shoots him a sympathetic look.
"Is anyone going to tell me what I actually did last night?" Mitchell asks.
"No until you've suffered a little," Annie declares, and Mitchell can't help but think that, yes, whatever he did it was indeed apparently bad
"Shit."
The shower doesn't make him feel better. It makes him feet wetter - and he learns that there's blood in his hair, somewhere at the back, like someone bashed him in the head with something. Which is fantastic.
When he gets out he wipes the mirror off and stares into it. He can't see anything but the long clear space he's made on the glass. But he's fairly sure that his eyes are both fine now, though one of them still feels itchy and strange, like he'd had it open too long, like maybe it was open all night.
He finds his toothbrush, rubs at his eye again.
// "George."
"No."
"George."
Mitchell's laughing at George's expression, because it's so wounded. He ignores the disapproval, catches George's jaw in his fingers and kisses him. George flails and Mitchell can't keep kissing him while he's laughing. Can't stay close without kissing him again. But George turns his head away.
"Mitchell."
Mitchell's not sure where that surprise comes from. He can hear George's heartbeat, he can hear how fast his pulse is, and it's not fear, it's nothing like fear.
"Mitchell, you're not right."
It's the stupidest thing Mitchell's ever heard. He's not sure the world has ever been this right. It's sharp and it's hot and he can feel everything. He fucking loves how right this feels. Like he could grip the world and squeeze it, and it would crack open.
"I'm perfectly right, George." He pushes the door shut when George stretches out a hand for it. He likes the little murmuring noise George makes when he squeezes his wrist just a little too hard. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. About the two of us together. Come upstairs with me and we can do whatever you want. You can bend me over the end of your bed. You can fuck me as hard as you like. You know I can take it. I already told you I like to play rough."
"Mitchell." George's voice is breathless and far too high. "Will you please shut up."
Mitchell's thumb is already under the waistband of George's jeans and the skin is soft and it's burning hot. He can already feel how hard George is. He's practically vibrating with the need to press forward into Mitchell's body. Mitchell saves him the trouble by swaying in and pressing him back into the wall. Which gets him a jerky swallow and a shudder and a ragged exhale that sounds needy.
"Or I can fuck you, you'd like it, George, I could make you like it."
George's throat is one long curve and Mitchell can't take his eyes off of it.
"I know you want it. I've always known you want it. You're just too much of a coward to admit it."
Mitchell wants to kiss him again. But George inhales like he knows what he's thinking. He tries to tip away from Mitchell's mouth. But it just leaves his neck stretched out and smooth and its far too easy to lay his mouth there, to feel the thump of George's pulse under his tongue.
"Mitchell."
"Just this once, George. Just let me, just this once."
"Mitchell you have to stop."
It would be so easy. Mitchell could do this whether George lets him or not. Could slide his hand up and grip his jaw and turn it. George wouldn't be able to stop him.
But he wants George to say yes.
"Tell me you want it."
Mitchell's thumb is sliding back and forth across George throat and he doesn't even remember lifting it.
"Tell me you want it."
George resists and even that's good, in a way that Mitchell can indulge in freely. It's persuasion without violence.
"Tell me you love me." //
Mitchell stares into the blank bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling from his mouth. His fingers are white round the porcelain of the sink, the slow grinding creak suggesting he's holding it tighter than he should be.
"Fuck."
He drags his toothbrush free, so he can breathe.
"Fuck."