All Great Neptune's Ocean - Being Human - George/Mitchell
Title: All Great Neptune's Ocean
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 1100
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for the "washing/cleaning" square of my kink_bingo card, but this is genish. The title is taken from a line in Macbeth, because I'm a nerd.
Summary: George wakes after a full moon covered in blood. He doesn't know how it got there or who it belonged to. Mitchell has to calm him down.
Blood and dirt coat his skin, sprinkled over it like glitter. His hands are shaking as he makes his way towards the bathroom, avoiding the mirror and hiding from the reflection that waits for him.
(monster monster he looks like a monster)
The pipes squeal as he runs the cold water and scrubs at his hands, again and again. The basin fills with muddy pink; the colour makes him ill.
He can still taste it in his mouth.
He won't be hungry for days.
He picks up the soap and rubs it over his hands, turning it to a thick lather under the water. Creamy and bubbled, the soap steals the dirt from his skin, washes away the blood - it's as if he's wearing gloves, the clean skin of his hands a contrast to the rest of him.
He needs to shower. He'll need to get undressed for that.
He looks down at the buttons of his shirt as if he's never seen them before. The shirt itself is stained and dirty now, just from contact with his skin. He was naked when it happened. He's always naked when it happens.
The hinges of the door squeal. He doesn't look up.
Can't.
"George," Mitchell says, but George flinches at the sound of his name. That can't be him. Shouldn't be him. He's a monster, not a man. The blood has written it all over his skin. "C'mon, into the shower. Come on, George."
He can't move and he keeps looking down at his shirt, at the blood stains and the marks of what he's done. "I can't take it off," he says. Every word sounds like a separate sentence. He breathes in through his nose and hates the way that it shakes. "I can't touch it."
"It's okay; I'm here," Mitchell promises, as he reaches out to undo the buttons for him, peeling it off inch by inch. The blood is hard and dusty by now, dried on and flaking with every movement. "There - it comes off. Don't worry. It's animal blood; it's just animal blood."
"What if it's not?" George asks. God, he wants to be sick. His stomach feels bloated: what will come up if he vomits? What will he see? "Mitchell, what if I killed someone?"
"Vampire, remember," Mitchell says, undoing his jeans for him as well after a tap to the side of his nose. "If it was human blood, I would smell it."
"If it was human, would you even tell me?" George asks.
Mitchell pulls his jeans down for him and makes him step out of them. There's nothing strange or awkward about being naked in front of Mitchell. It's such a frequent occurrence that George hardly even notices any more.
"Mitchell," he insists. "Would you tell me?"
"Yeah, yes - of course I would," Mitchell answers. He leaves George's side for a moment to fiddle with the taps. The shower bursts to life, steam rising in the cool air, but it takes Mitchell's careful handling to make George move again, to lead him under the water. George flinches when the first drops touch his skin, but Mitchell hushes him quietly, soothing him like he's a child.
Mitchell is still dressed and his clothes are getting soaked through, but he stays in the shower with George and helps him to fight the grit and blood covering his skin. He's rough and efficient; the water runs a greyish pink down the drain.
George's skin turns red under the heat of the water and the force of their combined scrubbing. Mitchell's hands are business-like and efficient; George has had wounds cleaned like this in hospital before. It's how they dealt with the claw marks on his shoulder in the beginning, clinical and efficient.
The water is overpowering enough to mask the tears on his face that join the shower; nothing should show up, but there's a whine that escape from the back of his throat, a sound like a scared animal. Isn't that what he is now? An animal?
Mitchell's head shoots up from where he had been scrubbing his wrist clean. His hands shoot up to George's face, thumbs chasing lines of tears and water away at once. "Don't, George." His voice breaks half-way through George's name, as if this is the hardest thing he's ever done. "You can't do this to yourself every month. You can't."
"I could've killed someone," George says. "Every month, I could kill someone."
"You don't. You wouldn't."
"It would." He can feel it inside him, prowling and hungry. He can feel it because it's him. "If it had a chance, if someone got too close, I could - I would..."
"It won't happen," Mitchell assures him, water dripping from his nose. His hair is plastered against his face and his eyes have that dark, violent glint to them, the kind of look no one would challenge. "We won't let it happen, George."
He doesn't deserve this, he thinks as he finds himself crushed against Mitchell's chest, his face planted against wet, wrinkled material. Mitchell's soaked curls of hair tickle against his nose and he's not even sure if he's crying any more. He can't tell the difference between the shower and his own tears.
"You have to trust me," Mitchell urges. "We can fight this. We will, I promise."
Promises mean nothing, George knows this - he's broken enough of them in the past that he shouldn't listen to them at all. Standing with Mitchell, allowing the shower to wash the full moon away, he wants so badly to believe him.
Mitchell's hand curls against the back of his neck, his fingers stroking the wet fuzz at his nape. He's still talking, still promising everything that George needs to hear, still acting as the only rock he has.
When George is clean and the tremors have stopped, they leave the shower and sit side by side in George's bedroom, smothered in fluffy towels. "You're not in this alone," Mitchell reminds him. It makes George want to fall to pieces again. "I'll look after you, watch your back. You don't need to worry any more."
That isn't true. He needs to worry all the time; if he lets his guard down, ever, someone could get hurt.
He leans his head against Mitchell's shoulder and feels the wolf inside him howl: waiting, eager, ready for its next kill.
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 1100
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for the "washing/cleaning" square of my kink_bingo card, but this is genish. The title is taken from a line in Macbeth, because I'm a nerd.
Summary: George wakes after a full moon covered in blood. He doesn't know how it got there or who it belonged to. Mitchell has to calm him down.
Blood and dirt coat his skin, sprinkled over it like glitter. His hands are shaking as he makes his way towards the bathroom, avoiding the mirror and hiding from the reflection that waits for him.
(monster monster he looks like a monster)
The pipes squeal as he runs the cold water and scrubs at his hands, again and again. The basin fills with muddy pink; the colour makes him ill.
He can still taste it in his mouth.
He won't be hungry for days.
He picks up the soap and rubs it over his hands, turning it to a thick lather under the water. Creamy and bubbled, the soap steals the dirt from his skin, washes away the blood - it's as if he's wearing gloves, the clean skin of his hands a contrast to the rest of him.
He needs to shower. He'll need to get undressed for that.
He looks down at the buttons of his shirt as if he's never seen them before. The shirt itself is stained and dirty now, just from contact with his skin. He was naked when it happened. He's always naked when it happens.
The hinges of the door squeal. He doesn't look up.
Can't.
"George," Mitchell says, but George flinches at the sound of his name. That can't be him. Shouldn't be him. He's a monster, not a man. The blood has written it all over his skin. "C'mon, into the shower. Come on, George."
He can't move and he keeps looking down at his shirt, at the blood stains and the marks of what he's done. "I can't take it off," he says. Every word sounds like a separate sentence. He breathes in through his nose and hates the way that it shakes. "I can't touch it."
"It's okay; I'm here," Mitchell promises, as he reaches out to undo the buttons for him, peeling it off inch by inch. The blood is hard and dusty by now, dried on and flaking with every movement. "There - it comes off. Don't worry. It's animal blood; it's just animal blood."
"What if it's not?" George asks. God, he wants to be sick. His stomach feels bloated: what will come up if he vomits? What will he see? "Mitchell, what if I killed someone?"
"Vampire, remember," Mitchell says, undoing his jeans for him as well after a tap to the side of his nose. "If it was human blood, I would smell it."
"If it was human, would you even tell me?" George asks.
Mitchell pulls his jeans down for him and makes him step out of them. There's nothing strange or awkward about being naked in front of Mitchell. It's such a frequent occurrence that George hardly even notices any more.
"Mitchell," he insists. "Would you tell me?"
"Yeah, yes - of course I would," Mitchell answers. He leaves George's side for a moment to fiddle with the taps. The shower bursts to life, steam rising in the cool air, but it takes Mitchell's careful handling to make George move again, to lead him under the water. George flinches when the first drops touch his skin, but Mitchell hushes him quietly, soothing him like he's a child.
Mitchell is still dressed and his clothes are getting soaked through, but he stays in the shower with George and helps him to fight the grit and blood covering his skin. He's rough and efficient; the water runs a greyish pink down the drain.
George's skin turns red under the heat of the water and the force of their combined scrubbing. Mitchell's hands are business-like and efficient; George has had wounds cleaned like this in hospital before. It's how they dealt with the claw marks on his shoulder in the beginning, clinical and efficient.
The water is overpowering enough to mask the tears on his face that join the shower; nothing should show up, but there's a whine that escape from the back of his throat, a sound like a scared animal. Isn't that what he is now? An animal?
Mitchell's head shoots up from where he had been scrubbing his wrist clean. His hands shoot up to George's face, thumbs chasing lines of tears and water away at once. "Don't, George." His voice breaks half-way through George's name, as if this is the hardest thing he's ever done. "You can't do this to yourself every month. You can't."
"I could've killed someone," George says. "Every month, I could kill someone."
"You don't. You wouldn't."
"It would." He can feel it inside him, prowling and hungry. He can feel it because it's him. "If it had a chance, if someone got too close, I could - I would..."
"It won't happen," Mitchell assures him, water dripping from his nose. His hair is plastered against his face and his eyes have that dark, violent glint to them, the kind of look no one would challenge. "We won't let it happen, George."
He doesn't deserve this, he thinks as he finds himself crushed against Mitchell's chest, his face planted against wet, wrinkled material. Mitchell's soaked curls of hair tickle against his nose and he's not even sure if he's crying any more. He can't tell the difference between the shower and his own tears.
"You have to trust me," Mitchell urges. "We can fight this. We will, I promise."
Promises mean nothing, George knows this - he's broken enough of them in the past that he shouldn't listen to them at all. Standing with Mitchell, allowing the shower to wash the full moon away, he wants so badly to believe him.
Mitchell's hand curls against the back of his neck, his fingers stroking the wet fuzz at his nape. He's still talking, still promising everything that George needs to hear, still acting as the only rock he has.
When George is clean and the tremors have stopped, they leave the shower and sit side by side in George's bedroom, smothered in fluffy towels. "You're not in this alone," Mitchell reminds him. It makes George want to fall to pieces again. "I'll look after you, watch your back. You don't need to worry any more."
That isn't true. He needs to worry all the time; if he lets his guard down, ever, someone could get hurt.
He leans his head against Mitchell's shoulder and feels the wolf inside him howl: waiting, eager, ready for its next kill.