This is How We End - Being Human - George/Mitchell
Title: This is How We End
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 963
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written with the 10_inspirations prompt, "Crumpled bits of paper filled with imperfect thought". Goes AU from 1x04.
Summary: George ignores the pleading notes for as long as he can - but Mitchell is persistent in his search for understanding.
George,
Join us.
He recognises the writing. He's read a hundred grocery lists in that terrible scrawl - and it's the third of these notes to have been shoved through his letter box since he had the locks changed and didn't give Mitchell the new key.
"What does that mean?" Annie asks at the opposite side of the table, clutching a steaming cup of tea that she can't drink. "'Join me'. Sounds like some weirdo cult."
George looks up at her without answering. She's more right than she knows - and he wishes that Mitchell, their Mitchell, was here to help. George doesn't know what to do. You've never known what to do, he thinks. Someone's always decided for you.
Generally speaking, that 'someone' has been Mitchell.
He crumples the note into a ball and flicks it at the dustbin. He misses. It falls to the floor and he doesn't dispose of it properly. Instead he sinks down further in his chair and hopes that this will sort itself out soon.
"What are we going to do?" he asks.
Annie doesn't have an answer either.
*
The next note comes the following day.
Come on. I miss you.
George sends it to live with its brother in the bin.
*
"George?" Simon, one of the nurses, calls him over at work. "There's a phone call for you. Sounds urgent."
Clutching his mop handle, George frowns. "Who is it?"
Simon shakes his head. "Someone called Ann, I think?"
"Annie."
He lets the mop fall to the ground in his haste - but when he reaches the phone at the nurses' station, it is not Annie's voice that greets him.
"George, it's me. Mitchell. God, it's good to hear your voice again."
"Mitchell," George says. He ought to slam the phone down. "You shouldn't call me here."
"You won't answer when I call the house," Mitchell says, "or your mobile. Christ, George, you won't even answer my notes. How else am I supposed to talk to you?"
"You're supposed to get the hint. I'm not answering because I do not want to answer. Not until you've sorted yourself out."
Mitchell chuckles - and it's not the warm sound of his friend. "I have sorted myself out."
"You're still drinking." George looks around the hospital ward, but nobody is paying attention to him. "You are killing people."
"Only a few…"
Mitchell chuckles again. It's the worst sound he's heard in his life.
This time, George has the strength to hang up - he tells the nurse that it's a family member with a grudge. No one at the hospital even seems to remember Mitchell working here.
When George goes, he wonders if they'll remember him.
*
George,
You won't talk to me so I'm having to write it down. You need to understand - it's not what you think. None of this is. I know it looks bad, but it's not. It's humane. We've saving people, giving them a second chance. And it's voluntary, all of it. No one's having it forced on them. You know me. I wouldn't do that.
George folds the letter in half without reading any further. He rips it clean in two.
"It'll pass," Annie promises, nodding determinedly and with a smile of false optimism. "It's just a phase. You know what Mitchell's like."
George doesn't know if he ever did.
*
He tapes a note to the front door before he leaves for work.
We want you back, Mitchell (you, real you, not the crazy, evil, biting you). The only one keeping you away is you, not us.
It's gone when he comes home but Mitchell isn't there, waiting for him. George pretends that he isn't disappointed.
*
The next note has a place and a time, scrawled plain to see and waiting for him. George snorts. "Like I'd be that stupid," he mutters to himself.
*
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets as he waits. There's a pub on the other side of the street and a gaggle of smokers gathered outside, chatting. George is standing beneath a lamppost trying to keep his teeth from shivering with the cold.
"I didn't think you'd come," Mitchell says, suddenly behind him.
George spins around quickly and tells himself that the sound he just made was absolutely not a shriek.
"I wasn't going to," he admits. "Come, I mean. I don't know why I did."
"Maybe you missed me?"
"Of course I do," George replies sullenly. Life without Mitchell feels like there's a central piece missing. "But you're not you. Not right now. You're just a… an addict. A monster. The Mitchell I know… He's better than this."
"I am the Mitchell you know. Nothing's changed." Mitchell looks away from him and the gestures at the pub. "Let me buy you a drink, at least?"
He should say no - but Mitchell's hopeful smile makes that utterly impossible.
*
He wakes up in a hotel bed, with his head pounding and his body aching. White sheets are crumpled around him, covering his naked body from the waist down like the robes of a debauched angel. He stirs his head in an attempt to throw sleep off and it's then that it hits him - a stabbing, aching pain in his neck.
He notices, belatedly, that there is blood on the sheets near the pillow and that a used condom is discarded near the bin.
"Bloody hell," George mumbles, enunciating each syllable. What did they do last night?
A note waits for him on the bedside cabinet.
I'm sorry. You're right. I can't be near you.
And the room is empty. Mitchell is gone.
Sitting alone in a strange bed feeling light-headed from the lost blood, George has the sinking, sick feeling that this time he is gone for good.
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 963
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written with the 10_inspirations prompt, "Crumpled bits of paper filled with imperfect thought". Goes AU from 1x04.
Summary: George ignores the pleading notes for as long as he can - but Mitchell is persistent in his search for understanding.
George,
Join us.
He recognises the writing. He's read a hundred grocery lists in that terrible scrawl - and it's the third of these notes to have been shoved through his letter box since he had the locks changed and didn't give Mitchell the new key.
"What does that mean?" Annie asks at the opposite side of the table, clutching a steaming cup of tea that she can't drink. "'Join me'. Sounds like some weirdo cult."
George looks up at her without answering. She's more right than she knows - and he wishes that Mitchell, their Mitchell, was here to help. George doesn't know what to do. You've never known what to do, he thinks. Someone's always decided for you.
Generally speaking, that 'someone' has been Mitchell.
He crumples the note into a ball and flicks it at the dustbin. He misses. It falls to the floor and he doesn't dispose of it properly. Instead he sinks down further in his chair and hopes that this will sort itself out soon.
"What are we going to do?" he asks.
Annie doesn't have an answer either.
*
The next note comes the following day.
Come on. I miss you.
George sends it to live with its brother in the bin.
*
"George?" Simon, one of the nurses, calls him over at work. "There's a phone call for you. Sounds urgent."
Clutching his mop handle, George frowns. "Who is it?"
Simon shakes his head. "Someone called Ann, I think?"
"Annie."
He lets the mop fall to the ground in his haste - but when he reaches the phone at the nurses' station, it is not Annie's voice that greets him.
"George, it's me. Mitchell. God, it's good to hear your voice again."
"Mitchell," George says. He ought to slam the phone down. "You shouldn't call me here."
"You won't answer when I call the house," Mitchell says, "or your mobile. Christ, George, you won't even answer my notes. How else am I supposed to talk to you?"
"You're supposed to get the hint. I'm not answering because I do not want to answer. Not until you've sorted yourself out."
Mitchell chuckles - and it's not the warm sound of his friend. "I have sorted myself out."
"You're still drinking." George looks around the hospital ward, but nobody is paying attention to him. "You are killing people."
"Only a few…"
Mitchell chuckles again. It's the worst sound he's heard in his life.
This time, George has the strength to hang up - he tells the nurse that it's a family member with a grudge. No one at the hospital even seems to remember Mitchell working here.
When George goes, he wonders if they'll remember him.
*
George,
You won't talk to me so I'm having to write it down. You need to understand - it's not what you think. None of this is. I know it looks bad, but it's not. It's humane. We've saving people, giving them a second chance. And it's voluntary, all of it. No one's having it forced on them. You know me. I wouldn't do that.
George folds the letter in half without reading any further. He rips it clean in two.
"It'll pass," Annie promises, nodding determinedly and with a smile of false optimism. "It's just a phase. You know what Mitchell's like."
George doesn't know if he ever did.
*
He tapes a note to the front door before he leaves for work.
We want you back, Mitchell (you, real you, not the crazy, evil, biting you). The only one keeping you away is you, not us.
It's gone when he comes home but Mitchell isn't there, waiting for him. George pretends that he isn't disappointed.
*
The next note has a place and a time, scrawled plain to see and waiting for him. George snorts. "Like I'd be that stupid," he mutters to himself.
*
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets as he waits. There's a pub on the other side of the street and a gaggle of smokers gathered outside, chatting. George is standing beneath a lamppost trying to keep his teeth from shivering with the cold.
"I didn't think you'd come," Mitchell says, suddenly behind him.
George spins around quickly and tells himself that the sound he just made was absolutely not a shriek.
"I wasn't going to," he admits. "Come, I mean. I don't know why I did."
"Maybe you missed me?"
"Of course I do," George replies sullenly. Life without Mitchell feels like there's a central piece missing. "But you're not you. Not right now. You're just a… an addict. A monster. The Mitchell I know… He's better than this."
"I am the Mitchell you know. Nothing's changed." Mitchell looks away from him and the gestures at the pub. "Let me buy you a drink, at least?"
He should say no - but Mitchell's hopeful smile makes that utterly impossible.
*
He wakes up in a hotel bed, with his head pounding and his body aching. White sheets are crumpled around him, covering his naked body from the waist down like the robes of a debauched angel. He stirs his head in an attempt to throw sleep off and it's then that it hits him - a stabbing, aching pain in his neck.
He notices, belatedly, that there is blood on the sheets near the pillow and that a used condom is discarded near the bin.
"Bloody hell," George mumbles, enunciating each syllable. What did they do last night?
A note waits for him on the bedside cabinet.
I'm sorry. You're right. I can't be near you.
And the room is empty. Mitchell is gone.
Sitting alone in a strange bed feeling light-headed from the lost blood, George has the sinking, sick feeling that this time he is gone for good.