LGBTFEST Fic: When Everything is Remembered
Title: When Everything is Remembered
Author:
into_officeboys
Fandoms: Being Human/Torchwood
Pairing/Characters: (the werewolf) George Sands/P.C. Andy Davidson
Rating: R
Length: 11,271
Disclaimer: Being Human, Torchwood and their characters belong to the BBC.
Prompt: lgbtfest Prompt 60. Any fandom, any characters. A straight-identified and a bisexual character have a drunken conversation about their sexual preferences. The straight-identified character is astonished to find that he or she agrees with their bisexual friend on everything, and begins to re-evaluate his or her sexual identity.
Summary: George discovers he can deny what he wants, and is, only for so long. In the end, Nature always wins--whether it is of the human kind, or not.
Notes: Thanks to amproof for the beta help and her never-ending support and friendship,
blue_fjords for being my Being Human expert and beta-ing, plus her enthusiasm for my story and shared love for this amazing series more people should watch, and smirnoffmule for his knowledge of all things British and helping this poor Texan get things right. Any mistakes I make in this fic are mine and mine alone--all three helped me gain the confidence I so desperately needed to believe in this story, my first to post in either the BH or TW fandoms. I hope the person who submitted the prompt likes what I did with it.
George sat hard on the sofa. Flopping one arm over the side, he knocked into the full mugs hidden behind the lamp. One mug pushed precariously to the edge and nearly fell over. He grabbed for it, sloshing the brackish liquid over his hand. Thumping the mug down, which just spilled more he flicked his hand in disgust.
"For chrissakes, Annie," he muttered as he wiped his hand on his jeans. He'd told her to pick up all the mugs before she and Mitchell left, and she hadn't. Of course not. But then, he'd asked her again and again not to make endless mugs of tea in the first place and leave them sitting everywhere untouched, and she'd ignored that too. Don't do anything George asks, no no, why do that?
He'd even asked her nicely!
He closed his eyes, vaguely wishing he lived alone. Except he hated being alone. He couldn't bear it--too much time to think, too much time in his own head. Made it hard to keep the wolf at bay, to be normal.
To be human.
George looked up at the water-stained ceiling, ignoring the mugs, and trying to ignore the insidious inner voice that constantly mocked him, pushed him, and tantalized him.
You can never escape It.
Footsteps approached; he pushed back his annoyance with a sigh. Couldn't he ever be left alone to wallow as he wanted?
"Okay Lassie, tell me what happened," Mitchell said, as usual oblivious to the fact George didn't exactly feel sociable.
He glared up at Mitchell. His friend stood in front of him, shaking his head in mock dismay. He held a beer bottle in one hand, two of the new wine glasses with the other.
George looked away. "She didn't show up."
The wine glasses clinked. Mitchell held out a glass to George. "You're kidding. You've been planning this all week."
"I know." George hesitated before he took the wine glass. "Total waste of everything. It was going to be brilliant!"
Mitchell laughed, and George scowled. "Don't look so mopey. It's not the end of the world," Mitchell said as he sat on the couch.
"But the evening wasn't supposed to be like this!" George turned his head to look at his friend. Mitchell looked as he always did--calm, cool, dark and mysterious; gorgeous, damn him.
Mitchell never had trouble getting dates. Women flocked to him. Hell, men did too, for that matter. Of course, it could be the fact that vampires radiated sexuality even when they didn't mean to. Even the ugliest vampires did. He shuddered but was still jealous.
Mitchell clapped him on the leg, grinning. "Well, I'll happily enjoy your cooking anyway."
"Thanks. I guess."
"You're welcome."
George sighed and rubbed his face, relishing the sensation of skin against skin. He caught himself. He hated it sometimes, the hyper-sensitivity, the awareness that It gave him. He dropped his hand, shrank down into the couch. Mitchell emitted cold next to him, making him shiver a little. Annie he wouldn't have sensed all, and that was even weirder, but then again being a ghost, she wasn't anything at all.
"It's just that I'd planned this for days!" he said, gesturing. "I picked this weekend, because it isn't too near my time of the month, I picked out a wonderful Spaghetti Bolognese recipe, the closest that I could find to my mum's recipe, I even made a banoffee pie--"
Mitchell said, "Hey. "You've never made one for me. I'm jealous." He grinned. "But I'll happily eat it. Thanks."
George through his arms up in disgust. "But it wasn't meant for you." Mitchell burst out laughing making George grit his teeth. " God, I sounded whiny. I am not whining." He paused. "I'm not whining, am I?"
"I'd call that whining."
George opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut. "Yeah, me too." He groaned. "And now, she wants to come next weekend instead, but it'll be too close." He closed his eyes, shutting his mind to his disappointment, letting his inner vigilance slip.
It's impossible to put It completely out of your mind, impossible to pretend for long It doesn't exist, doesn't rule every little thing you do. Because It does.
He forced the thought away. Hard. Fought back to the present, forced himself to say something. "I bought a new table cloth."
"And flowers. I know." Mitchell patted his knee again.
"They cost me twenty quid!"
Mitchell shifted on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. He flicked his hand. "Well, you could take them to her at work tomorrow."
But George shook his head. "No. No, what would she do with flowers at work?" He thumped the couch in exasperation. Every time he walked into the kitchen, they taunted him. Twenty pounds. Almost two hours' wages, wasted. Of course, the whole evening had cost him almost sixty. They should've just gone out. But he didn't want to go out. He wanted to be alone with her, with someone who wasn't...Mitchell. Or Annie. He just wanted to believe for a little while that he had a chance at a real life, but every single time he tried, something happened. Always always always.
What was the point, anyway? A normal life isn't for you, flowers won't disguise the truth.
Nothing will.
He chomped down on that thought. He wondered if Mitchell knew how constantly It crowded into his thoughts, but didn't want to ask. Couldn't bear letting the question slip out because then Mitchell would know, and then feel sorry for him or something. Except he suspected Mitchell already did know. Else why would they be friends? Werewolves and vampires...not usually a good mix.
"Annie will like them," Mitchell pointed out.
"Stupid waste of money," he muttered. And, he certainly hadn't bought them with Annie in mind. But he didn't voice that thought. Mitchell never said, but George knew that he wished he and Annie got on better than they did. Maybe if Annie would leave off making so much tea that no one drank and leaving the full mugs sitting about he'd have less reason to get aggravated. That would help.
He'd really blown the whole evening, and depleted his bank account. He twirled the empty wine glass in his hand. He wondered if he could take them back. He still had the receipt, of course.
Everything had been perfect. Perfect! He'd even managed to convince Annie and Mitchell to leave for the evening, just for a few hours at least so he could have time alone with Nina, show her that he really wasn't just a porter. That he had depth. And was, well, worthy of her, despite...
Not that she'd ever know about that. Could know about that. How did one explain to a date that she might think she was a beast once a month, but he really was? Complete with the teeth?
It inches along your skin, barely noticeable at first. That itch, the need to scratch, the sudden realization that the lightest touch sends nerves sizzling.... It begins yet again. Despite the hopes, the prayers, the offers of everything imaginable if only not to face It again...it begins again.
George opened his eyes. Scratched his wrist, snatching his hand back. No, he wasn't in danger of that yet. Not for another week.
Too close.
Maybe, maybe it'd been a good thing she hadn't come after all. George lay the wine glass between them. Mitchell picked it up, poured beer into it and pressed it back into his hand. The cold beer chilled the glass; he felt every precise cut of the pattern. That's why he'd liked this particular style, he realized in dismay. It felt good. Sensual. The sharp edges.
Once awareness hits, it's impossible to hide from it anymore, to deny the changes coming...the rise of the terrible beast within.
"This is a wine glass, Mitchell," he said, holding it up. "For, you know, wine?"
"Beer too lowly for you, Lassie?" Mitchell peered at his own glass. His eyebrows raised, his gaze shifted to George. "Crystal? You went out and bought crystal? Forget the flowers, this was the waste, George."
George shrugged. "Wine in coffee mugs didn't exactly fit the impression I was trying to make."
"I doubt she'd have minded."
"Well, I won't know now, will I." George tilted his head back and slammed the beer down. He started to cough as the noxious liquid hit the back of his throat. He wiped his mouth on his hand. "This is disgusting. What is it?" A quick glance at the bottle in Mitchell's hand confirmed his fears. He'd never heard of it. "How can you drink that stuff?"
Mitchell grinned, took a drink himself. "Come on, then, out with it. What happened, you still haven't told me details. Why'd she stand you up?"
He blinked, his ears twitching as a car passed by outside, two, no, three girls walking past the house, heading for Shakespeare's.
Common scents amplify, a sound made across the room is heard clearly, a bird miles away is seen swooping down on an insect in the sky...a snap of a twig beneath a booted foot startles. Fear lurches, deep and harsh. It is coming. It is unstoppable.
George cleared his throat. "She didn’t stand me up. She called and canceled because Carrie got ill and left work early, so Nina stayed late because of course there wasn't anyone else." George grimaced at the beer in his wine glass, but took another drink. Not so harsh this time. Warmth spread through him, straight to his head. It felt good, really. Maybe he'd just get pissed tonight. He closed his eyes, let the artificial numbness race through him. Maybe it was for the best she hadn't come. Maybe... He opened his eyes, and held out his glass for more.
Mitchell obliged, emptying the bottle. "I'll fetch more." He pushed off the couch, and went into the kitchen. George slammed the rest down, welcoming the burning warmth now.
Once begun, there is little time to prepare...nowhere is safe, no one is safe when the change begins in earnest. There is no stopping It. The helplessness permeates every aspect of life. But still It is denied, fought against. To not fight is to give up, to let It rule everything.
To allow that to happen would mean not being human.
He couldn't bear that, giving in easily. He would rather be dead. Sometimes, he wished he were.
The unmistakable sound of a cork popping came from the kitchen, breaking into his thoughts, and then Mitchell rejoined him, carrying the wine he'd bought in one hand, and more beer tucked under his arm. Mitchell handed him the wine bottle. He stared at it a moment as frustration hit him again. Certainly hadn't imagined sharing this with Mitchell, either.
So much for that.
"This is the third time she's cancelled on you," Mitchell pointed out unhelpfully.
"Like I don't know that?" George set the wine down on the floor, and took another beer. He opened it and drank straight from the bottle. To hell with crystal glasses, expensive wine and ruined dinners. He chugged the beer down, welcoming its vile taste, the punch in his gut, the rush to his head. "This is good."
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "A minute ago you said it was disgusting." George glared at him. "You know, she may just not be interested in you."
George eyed Mitchell, amazed at how fuzzy his edges were already getting. He held the beer up, shook his head. "I know," he said. "Maybe it's for the best anyway."
Mitchell sighed. "That's a self-defeatist attitude."
"Do you blame me?" He stood and was surprised that the room appeared to be moving from left to right. Or right to left. He stared at the bottle "Actually, no."
He turned to glare at Mitchell, but one foot slid, and Mitchell grabbed him by the elbow. He found himself fighting to keep his beer from spilling as he plunked right back on the couch.
It takes hold.
George sat in silence as he finished off his beer. "Any more?"
"No. Wine."
He grimaced and picked up the wine bottle. "Well, this better be good." He topped up his glass, took a sip, and gasped as the sweetness of the wine bolted through him. He took another swallow, more this time, and screwed up his face. "Oh God." He looked at Mitchell. "This is disgusting!"
Mitchell grinned. "You said that about the beer."
"But this really is! They told me Nina would love this!"
Mitchell took the bottle and drank directly from it. He handed the bottle back, smirking. "Well. It's potent, at least." George drained his glass, wincing as it hit. "You'll be sorry in the morning, you realize."
"I don't care. I'm not wasting this too."
His stomach roiled. He could hear Mitchell chuckling, and then heard a wisp of another sound. He opened his eyes to see Annie standing in front of them, arms folded over her chest.
"Well, I certainly didn't expect this scene. What happened this time?"
George groaned. Why was he looking at two Annies? One definitely was enough. He shook his head and snapped his eyes shut. He opened them again, tentatively. One Annie now.
"Nothing dramatic. Had to stay at work." He had no desire to explain anything else.
"So," Annie said, grinning. "What are you going to do now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she said, "this is the third time she's stood you up. Maybe she's just not interested. Maybe you're not her type."
Mitchell nodded once at George. "What I said."
"Thanks. I appreciate your opinion." He sighed, and groaning, covered his face with his hands. Shaking his head only served to make him dizzy. " I'm pissed. "
"Slightly," Annie said.
George dropped his hands. "All I wanted was to have a nice evening with a pretty woman for once, and maybe--"
"Get laid?" Mitchell said.
George glared at him. "Of course not. Maybe." He paused and flicked the near-empty wine glass with one finger. "I'd kind of hoped."
Mitchell said, "Night's young, we should go out."
"No." George shook his head, more carefully this time. "I'll just stay here."
"Stay here and mope, you mean? Come on George. It'll do you good. You need to get out of the house, meet some people."
"I know people," he insisted. "I know lots of people."
Mitchell eyed him. "Yeah-- me, Annie, a couple of our neighbors because I invited them over, a few people at work who you never see outside of work."
"I don't want to see them outside of work." He paused for a moment. "Well, Nina maybe. Or at least, I did."
Mitchell smacked him on the arm. "Maybe Nina's just not the right person for you. You need to expand your horizons. See what else is out there."
"I'm not interested in what else is out there." He wasn't. Except, well, once he might've been. But nothing really happened. Liar. "I mean, I want to find someone, if not Nina but someone who I can just be with, you know? Is that asking too much? Just to have someone to-to spend time with, it doesn't have to be a forever thing, I'll never have a forever thing, who would want a werewolf?"
The wine had truly been a total waste of money. He drank more anyway. "This really is terrible. I just want not to be alone." He looked at his friends. "No offense, but I want--" He sighed. He felt overly warm, and woozy, and he definitely was getting thoroughly pissed which, probably, was not the best thing to do given his circumstances. "I just want to be loved," he finished. "I just want to be normal."
Not that normal wasn't beyond his reach now.
Mitchell placed a hand on George's shoulder. "Here now. No sulking. We could go over to Shakespeare's, have a few more beers. Annie could come too."
"Oh no, no thanks. I'll just stay here and clean up," she said. "Friday Night Project's coming on."
George sighed, and put his hands in his lap. "I'll clean up myself; I'm not going anywhere."
Mitchell eyed him. "Okay, someplace else. I know lots of places. Something to eat maybe."
"No thanks," George said. He should've eaten the damn spaghetti anyway. He held his stomach, amazed at the roiling within. He sat up straighter, which only made his head foggy. He shook it but it didn't help. Mixing alcohols, not clever. He sank back down on the couch, letting the numbness take him where it wished.
Maybe it would keep It away for a little while.
"Why not? Give me one really good reason," Mitchell said.
He turned his head and smirked at Mitchell. "Because they're your friends? And besides, vampires aren't people. No offense." He knocked into the side table as he tried getting up. He grabbed the mug before it could slide off and onto the floor, making it splatter onto his hands.
"Marvelous." He flicked his hand, sending water onto the floor. "Great." He bent down, rubbed away the droplets. "Oh for chrissakes," he muttered, nearly falling over.
Mitchell grabbed and steadied him. He pulled him back on the couch. "Such a lightweight."
"Am not!" George exclaimed, pulling away and nearly losing the mug.
Annie grabbed it from him. "I'll take that. You'll break it."
"One less mug of tea in the house," George muttered. He took another gulp of wine. He wanted this conversation over with. He wanted to disappear, wallow in his drunken misery, and think about...about...happier times. Had he ever been happy since the day he was the attacked? No, no, not really. Almost, almost once, there had been...
He hadn't thought about that in a long time and now that night had come to his mind twice. Best not to think about it again. He drained the last of his bottle, relishing the feeling of disembodiment. This was good. Very good. Even the beer was good.
He didn't want to remember.
Don't you?
"What're you guys drinking?" Annie asked.
"Wine," George said, and burped.
"Gross." Annie wrinkled her nose.
"Wine and beer in his case," Mitchell said.
Annie made a face. "That's disgusting. You're going to be sick. That I'm not cleaning up." She disappeared. George shook his head, trying to clear it. He hated when she did that, but she always did that. Just like the mug thing.
"This isn't the usual place. It's someplace different." Mitchell grinned. "Very different. A change of pace, so to speak." Mitchell stretched his legs out and crossed them, tucked his hands behind his head. He stared at George with that damned enigmatic vampire smile. "Maybe you're looking in all the wrong places." He raised one eyebrow. "Or, at the wrong sexes."
Mitchell could read his mind! "Oh no," George said, standing too fast again. This time he almost fought off the dizziness. "I'm not going to a gay bar with you! I'm not gay!"
Mitchell shrugged. "Ever been with a guy?"
"Have you?" he countered, not daring to answer Mitchell's question. He slumped as a slow, easy smile crossed Mitchell's face. "No way. I thought you were--"
"I'm not gay, I'm not straight. I'm a vampire."
Annie popped back in. "Actually, I thought you two were lovers when I first saw you that day, the way you were talking. The way you were acting," she said to George.
"How was I acting?!"
Mitchell grinned. "The real estate agent thought we were too. Maybe we should--"
"No!" George burst out. "No! No, I am not--not with you, not with--" He shook his head vehemently. "And I'm not going to a gay bar, either, thanks, and let some some hairy-chested bald-headed...creature pick me up? No!"
"George, you're not homophobic are you?" Annie asked, sounding horrified. But she was smirking at him.
"Of course not!" George said. "I know a lot of gay guys! I have no problem with gay guys! I just--" He pursed his lips. "I'm going to clean the kitchen and go to bed. End of this discussion." He headed for the kitchen, amazed that he only wavered a little bit. He didn't want to talk about this. Afraid of where it would lead, and he couldn't do that. Couldn't go back.
You could if you wanted to.
But he didn't. Life was complicated enough.
Mitchell trailed after him into the kitchen. George grabbed the unused plates off the table, the now-cold basket of rolls. The rest of the food he'd started to prepare--waiting only for that moment for when Nina provided an audience--still sat on the counter. He shoved everything into the fridge. He'd straighten it later. He was the only one who cared about being neat, anyway.
"Now come on, George." Mitchell leaned against the door jamb. "Haven't you ever just been a little curious?"
George paused. He put the plates into the sink. "No," he said, hoping he sounded convincing. He shoved two full mugs--when had she had time to make more tea?--into the sink, making the plates clatter. "Damn," he muttered, as he realized he'd chipped one. He held it up to Mitchell. "Now look what you made me do!"
"What I made you do?" Mitchell shrugged. "It's fun, George. Doesn't mean you're gay, either. Nothing wrong with experimenting, you know." He paused. "You might like it."
Annie popped in, and took the plate from George's hand. "You broke it! Out, I'll do this--"
"I made the mess, I'll clean it up. You and Mitchell go watch the telly or something." He wavered, and grabbed the counter behind him to steady himself. Mitchell and Annie were blocking him in. He suddenly felt trapped. "Please, just--I'm not going anywhere; I don't want to talk about this anymore."
Mitchell sighed, pushed away from the doorway and clasped George on the shoulder. He rubbed George's back. "Easy boy. Okay, Annie, let's leave him to it. He's flustered enough."
"I'm not flustered!" He tried to pull away but stumbled. Mitchell hauled him up, and leaned in.
"Seriously, it'd do you some good, get rid of some of that tenseness," Mitchell said, rubbing George's shoulders again. "You could use a good fucking."
George pushed Mitchell away. "I do the-- the--." He gestured, indignant.
"Okay be the top--"'
"Mitchell," he warned, but Mitchell, damn him, just smiled, and held up his hands.
"Fine, fine--let me know when you're ready."
"Out!" George said, throwing a dishtowel at him, but Mitchell just laughed as he and Annie escaped to the living room.
George yanked out a chair and thumped into it. He cradled his head in his hands, eyes closed, body swimming, stomach roiling. He wished now he'd never had a single drop of liquor. There was more than one beast inside him he tried hard to keep at bay, and he hadn't wanted anyone to know.
Mitchell especially, because if ever figured out there had been someone else in George's life, once, long ago, just after the change...
No. Mitchell would never relent. He'd push and he'd pull and he'd break George down like he always did, because when it came down to it, George was just as helpless in his friend's grip as one of Mitchell's victims. And Annie hated secrets. Especially if she didn't know them. But he wouldn't give in to either of them, not on this.
He would never tell them about Cardiff.
Part Two
Author:
into_officeboys
Fandoms: Being Human/Torchwood
Pairing/Characters: (the werewolf) George Sands/P.C. Andy Davidson
Rating: R
Length: 11,271
Disclaimer: Being Human, Torchwood and their characters belong to the BBC.
Prompt: lgbtfest Prompt 60. Any fandom, any characters. A straight-identified and a bisexual character have a drunken conversation about their sexual preferences. The straight-identified character is astonished to find that he or she agrees with their bisexual friend on everything, and begins to re-evaluate his or her sexual identity.
Summary: George discovers he can deny what he wants, and is, only for so long. In the end, Nature always wins--whether it is of the human kind, or not.
Notes: Thanks to amproof for the beta help and her never-ending support and friendship,
blue_fjords for being my Being Human expert and beta-ing, plus her enthusiasm for my story and shared love for this amazing series more people should watch, and smirnoffmule for his knowledge of all things British and helping this poor Texan get things right. Any mistakes I make in this fic are mine and mine alone--all three helped me gain the confidence I so desperately needed to believe in this story, my first to post in either the BH or TW fandoms. I hope the person who submitted the prompt likes what I did with it.
George sat hard on the sofa. Flopping one arm over the side, he knocked into the full mugs hidden behind the lamp. One mug pushed precariously to the edge and nearly fell over. He grabbed for it, sloshing the brackish liquid over his hand. Thumping the mug down, which just spilled more he flicked his hand in disgust.
"For chrissakes, Annie," he muttered as he wiped his hand on his jeans. He'd told her to pick up all the mugs before she and Mitchell left, and she hadn't. Of course not. But then, he'd asked her again and again not to make endless mugs of tea in the first place and leave them sitting everywhere untouched, and she'd ignored that too. Don't do anything George asks, no no, why do that?
He'd even asked her nicely!
He closed his eyes, vaguely wishing he lived alone. Except he hated being alone. He couldn't bear it--too much time to think, too much time in his own head. Made it hard to keep the wolf at bay, to be normal.
To be human.
George looked up at the water-stained ceiling, ignoring the mugs, and trying to ignore the insidious inner voice that constantly mocked him, pushed him, and tantalized him.
You can never escape It.
Footsteps approached; he pushed back his annoyance with a sigh. Couldn't he ever be left alone to wallow as he wanted?
"Okay Lassie, tell me what happened," Mitchell said, as usual oblivious to the fact George didn't exactly feel sociable.
He glared up at Mitchell. His friend stood in front of him, shaking his head in mock dismay. He held a beer bottle in one hand, two of the new wine glasses with the other.
George looked away. "She didn't show up."
The wine glasses clinked. Mitchell held out a glass to George. "You're kidding. You've been planning this all week."
"I know." George hesitated before he took the wine glass. "Total waste of everything. It was going to be brilliant!"
Mitchell laughed, and George scowled. "Don't look so mopey. It's not the end of the world," Mitchell said as he sat on the couch.
"But the evening wasn't supposed to be like this!" George turned his head to look at his friend. Mitchell looked as he always did--calm, cool, dark and mysterious; gorgeous, damn him.
Mitchell never had trouble getting dates. Women flocked to him. Hell, men did too, for that matter. Of course, it could be the fact that vampires radiated sexuality even when they didn't mean to. Even the ugliest vampires did. He shuddered but was still jealous.
Mitchell clapped him on the leg, grinning. "Well, I'll happily enjoy your cooking anyway."
"Thanks. I guess."
"You're welcome."
George sighed and rubbed his face, relishing the sensation of skin against skin. He caught himself. He hated it sometimes, the hyper-sensitivity, the awareness that It gave him. He dropped his hand, shrank down into the couch. Mitchell emitted cold next to him, making him shiver a little. Annie he wouldn't have sensed all, and that was even weirder, but then again being a ghost, she wasn't anything at all.
"It's just that I'd planned this for days!" he said, gesturing. "I picked this weekend, because it isn't too near my time of the month, I picked out a wonderful Spaghetti Bolognese recipe, the closest that I could find to my mum's recipe, I even made a banoffee pie--"
Mitchell said, "Hey. "You've never made one for me. I'm jealous." He grinned. "But I'll happily eat it. Thanks."
George through his arms up in disgust. "But it wasn't meant for you." Mitchell burst out laughing making George grit his teeth. " God, I sounded whiny. I am not whining." He paused. "I'm not whining, am I?"
"I'd call that whining."
George opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut. "Yeah, me too." He groaned. "And now, she wants to come next weekend instead, but it'll be too close." He closed his eyes, shutting his mind to his disappointment, letting his inner vigilance slip.
It's impossible to put It completely out of your mind, impossible to pretend for long It doesn't exist, doesn't rule every little thing you do. Because It does.
He forced the thought away. Hard. Fought back to the present, forced himself to say something. "I bought a new table cloth."
"And flowers. I know." Mitchell patted his knee again.
"They cost me twenty quid!"
Mitchell shifted on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. He flicked his hand. "Well, you could take them to her at work tomorrow."
But George shook his head. "No. No, what would she do with flowers at work?" He thumped the couch in exasperation. Every time he walked into the kitchen, they taunted him. Twenty pounds. Almost two hours' wages, wasted. Of course, the whole evening had cost him almost sixty. They should've just gone out. But he didn't want to go out. He wanted to be alone with her, with someone who wasn't...Mitchell. Or Annie. He just wanted to believe for a little while that he had a chance at a real life, but every single time he tried, something happened. Always always always.
What was the point, anyway? A normal life isn't for you, flowers won't disguise the truth.
Nothing will.
He chomped down on that thought. He wondered if Mitchell knew how constantly It crowded into his thoughts, but didn't want to ask. Couldn't bear letting the question slip out because then Mitchell would know, and then feel sorry for him or something. Except he suspected Mitchell already did know. Else why would they be friends? Werewolves and vampires...not usually a good mix.
"Annie will like them," Mitchell pointed out.
"Stupid waste of money," he muttered. And, he certainly hadn't bought them with Annie in mind. But he didn't voice that thought. Mitchell never said, but George knew that he wished he and Annie got on better than they did. Maybe if Annie would leave off making so much tea that no one drank and leaving the full mugs sitting about he'd have less reason to get aggravated. That would help.
He'd really blown the whole evening, and depleted his bank account. He twirled the empty wine glass in his hand. He wondered if he could take them back. He still had the receipt, of course.
Everything had been perfect. Perfect! He'd even managed to convince Annie and Mitchell to leave for the evening, just for a few hours at least so he could have time alone with Nina, show her that he really wasn't just a porter. That he had depth. And was, well, worthy of her, despite...
Not that she'd ever know about that. Could know about that. How did one explain to a date that she might think she was a beast once a month, but he really was? Complete with the teeth?
It inches along your skin, barely noticeable at first. That itch, the need to scratch, the sudden realization that the lightest touch sends nerves sizzling.... It begins yet again. Despite the hopes, the prayers, the offers of everything imaginable if only not to face It again...it begins again.
George opened his eyes. Scratched his wrist, snatching his hand back. No, he wasn't in danger of that yet. Not for another week.
Too close.
Maybe, maybe it'd been a good thing she hadn't come after all. George lay the wine glass between them. Mitchell picked it up, poured beer into it and pressed it back into his hand. The cold beer chilled the glass; he felt every precise cut of the pattern. That's why he'd liked this particular style, he realized in dismay. It felt good. Sensual. The sharp edges.
Once awareness hits, it's impossible to hide from it anymore, to deny the changes coming...the rise of the terrible beast within.
"This is a wine glass, Mitchell," he said, holding it up. "For, you know, wine?"
"Beer too lowly for you, Lassie?" Mitchell peered at his own glass. His eyebrows raised, his gaze shifted to George. "Crystal? You went out and bought crystal? Forget the flowers, this was the waste, George."
George shrugged. "Wine in coffee mugs didn't exactly fit the impression I was trying to make."
"I doubt she'd have minded."
"Well, I won't know now, will I." George tilted his head back and slammed the beer down. He started to cough as the noxious liquid hit the back of his throat. He wiped his mouth on his hand. "This is disgusting. What is it?" A quick glance at the bottle in Mitchell's hand confirmed his fears. He'd never heard of it. "How can you drink that stuff?"
Mitchell grinned, took a drink himself. "Come on, then, out with it. What happened, you still haven't told me details. Why'd she stand you up?"
He blinked, his ears twitching as a car passed by outside, two, no, three girls walking past the house, heading for Shakespeare's.
Common scents amplify, a sound made across the room is heard clearly, a bird miles away is seen swooping down on an insect in the sky...a snap of a twig beneath a booted foot startles. Fear lurches, deep and harsh. It is coming. It is unstoppable.
George cleared his throat. "She didn’t stand me up. She called and canceled because Carrie got ill and left work early, so Nina stayed late because of course there wasn't anyone else." George grimaced at the beer in his wine glass, but took another drink. Not so harsh this time. Warmth spread through him, straight to his head. It felt good, really. Maybe he'd just get pissed tonight. He closed his eyes, let the artificial numbness race through him. Maybe it was for the best she hadn't come. Maybe... He opened his eyes, and held out his glass for more.
Mitchell obliged, emptying the bottle. "I'll fetch more." He pushed off the couch, and went into the kitchen. George slammed the rest down, welcoming the burning warmth now.
Once begun, there is little time to prepare...nowhere is safe, no one is safe when the change begins in earnest. There is no stopping It. The helplessness permeates every aspect of life. But still It is denied, fought against. To not fight is to give up, to let It rule everything.
To allow that to happen would mean not being human.
He couldn't bear that, giving in easily. He would rather be dead. Sometimes, he wished he were.
The unmistakable sound of a cork popping came from the kitchen, breaking into his thoughts, and then Mitchell rejoined him, carrying the wine he'd bought in one hand, and more beer tucked under his arm. Mitchell handed him the wine bottle. He stared at it a moment as frustration hit him again. Certainly hadn't imagined sharing this with Mitchell, either.
So much for that.
"This is the third time she's cancelled on you," Mitchell pointed out unhelpfully.
"Like I don't know that?" George set the wine down on the floor, and took another beer. He opened it and drank straight from the bottle. To hell with crystal glasses, expensive wine and ruined dinners. He chugged the beer down, welcoming its vile taste, the punch in his gut, the rush to his head. "This is good."
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "A minute ago you said it was disgusting." George glared at him. "You know, she may just not be interested in you."
George eyed Mitchell, amazed at how fuzzy his edges were already getting. He held the beer up, shook his head. "I know," he said. "Maybe it's for the best anyway."
Mitchell sighed. "That's a self-defeatist attitude."
"Do you blame me?" He stood and was surprised that the room appeared to be moving from left to right. Or right to left. He stared at the bottle "Actually, no."
He turned to glare at Mitchell, but one foot slid, and Mitchell grabbed him by the elbow. He found himself fighting to keep his beer from spilling as he plunked right back on the couch.
It takes hold.
George sat in silence as he finished off his beer. "Any more?"
"No. Wine."
He grimaced and picked up the wine bottle. "Well, this better be good." He topped up his glass, took a sip, and gasped as the sweetness of the wine bolted through him. He took another swallow, more this time, and screwed up his face. "Oh God." He looked at Mitchell. "This is disgusting!"
Mitchell grinned. "You said that about the beer."
"But this really is! They told me Nina would love this!"
Mitchell took the bottle and drank directly from it. He handed the bottle back, smirking. "Well. It's potent, at least." George drained his glass, wincing as it hit. "You'll be sorry in the morning, you realize."
"I don't care. I'm not wasting this too."
His stomach roiled. He could hear Mitchell chuckling, and then heard a wisp of another sound. He opened his eyes to see Annie standing in front of them, arms folded over her chest.
"Well, I certainly didn't expect this scene. What happened this time?"
George groaned. Why was he looking at two Annies? One definitely was enough. He shook his head and snapped his eyes shut. He opened them again, tentatively. One Annie now.
"Nothing dramatic. Had to stay at work." He had no desire to explain anything else.
"So," Annie said, grinning. "What are you going to do now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she said, "this is the third time she's stood you up. Maybe she's just not interested. Maybe you're not her type."
Mitchell nodded once at George. "What I said."
"Thanks. I appreciate your opinion." He sighed, and groaning, covered his face with his hands. Shaking his head only served to make him dizzy. " I'm pissed. "
"Slightly," Annie said.
George dropped his hands. "All I wanted was to have a nice evening with a pretty woman for once, and maybe--"
"Get laid?" Mitchell said.
George glared at him. "Of course not. Maybe." He paused and flicked the near-empty wine glass with one finger. "I'd kind of hoped."
Mitchell said, "Night's young, we should go out."
"No." George shook his head, more carefully this time. "I'll just stay here."
"Stay here and mope, you mean? Come on George. It'll do you good. You need to get out of the house, meet some people."
"I know people," he insisted. "I know lots of people."
Mitchell eyed him. "Yeah-- me, Annie, a couple of our neighbors because I invited them over, a few people at work who you never see outside of work."
"I don't want to see them outside of work." He paused for a moment. "Well, Nina maybe. Or at least, I did."
Mitchell smacked him on the arm. "Maybe Nina's just not the right person for you. You need to expand your horizons. See what else is out there."
"I'm not interested in what else is out there." He wasn't. Except, well, once he might've been. But nothing really happened. Liar. "I mean, I want to find someone, if not Nina but someone who I can just be with, you know? Is that asking too much? Just to have someone to-to spend time with, it doesn't have to be a forever thing, I'll never have a forever thing, who would want a werewolf?"
The wine had truly been a total waste of money. He drank more anyway. "This really is terrible. I just want not to be alone." He looked at his friends. "No offense, but I want--" He sighed. He felt overly warm, and woozy, and he definitely was getting thoroughly pissed which, probably, was not the best thing to do given his circumstances. "I just want to be loved," he finished. "I just want to be normal."
Not that normal wasn't beyond his reach now.
Mitchell placed a hand on George's shoulder. "Here now. No sulking. We could go over to Shakespeare's, have a few more beers. Annie could come too."
"Oh no, no thanks. I'll just stay here and clean up," she said. "Friday Night Project's coming on."
George sighed, and put his hands in his lap. "I'll clean up myself; I'm not going anywhere."
Mitchell eyed him. "Okay, someplace else. I know lots of places. Something to eat maybe."
"No thanks," George said. He should've eaten the damn spaghetti anyway. He held his stomach, amazed at the roiling within. He sat up straighter, which only made his head foggy. He shook it but it didn't help. Mixing alcohols, not clever. He sank back down on the couch, letting the numbness take him where it wished.
Maybe it would keep It away for a little while.
"Why not? Give me one really good reason," Mitchell said.
He turned his head and smirked at Mitchell. "Because they're your friends? And besides, vampires aren't people. No offense." He knocked into the side table as he tried getting up. He grabbed the mug before it could slide off and onto the floor, making it splatter onto his hands.
"Marvelous." He flicked his hand, sending water onto the floor. "Great." He bent down, rubbed away the droplets. "Oh for chrissakes," he muttered, nearly falling over.
Mitchell grabbed and steadied him. He pulled him back on the couch. "Such a lightweight."
"Am not!" George exclaimed, pulling away and nearly losing the mug.
Annie grabbed it from him. "I'll take that. You'll break it."
"One less mug of tea in the house," George muttered. He took another gulp of wine. He wanted this conversation over with. He wanted to disappear, wallow in his drunken misery, and think about...about...happier times. Had he ever been happy since the day he was the attacked? No, no, not really. Almost, almost once, there had been...
He hadn't thought about that in a long time and now that night had come to his mind twice. Best not to think about it again. He drained the last of his bottle, relishing the feeling of disembodiment. This was good. Very good. Even the beer was good.
He didn't want to remember.
Don't you?
"What're you guys drinking?" Annie asked.
"Wine," George said, and burped.
"Gross." Annie wrinkled her nose.
"Wine and beer in his case," Mitchell said.
Annie made a face. "That's disgusting. You're going to be sick. That I'm not cleaning up." She disappeared. George shook his head, trying to clear it. He hated when she did that, but she always did that. Just like the mug thing.
"This isn't the usual place. It's someplace different." Mitchell grinned. "Very different. A change of pace, so to speak." Mitchell stretched his legs out and crossed them, tucked his hands behind his head. He stared at George with that damned enigmatic vampire smile. "Maybe you're looking in all the wrong places." He raised one eyebrow. "Or, at the wrong sexes."
Mitchell could read his mind! "Oh no," George said, standing too fast again. This time he almost fought off the dizziness. "I'm not going to a gay bar with you! I'm not gay!"
Mitchell shrugged. "Ever been with a guy?"
"Have you?" he countered, not daring to answer Mitchell's question. He slumped as a slow, easy smile crossed Mitchell's face. "No way. I thought you were--"
"I'm not gay, I'm not straight. I'm a vampire."
Annie popped back in. "Actually, I thought you two were lovers when I first saw you that day, the way you were talking. The way you were acting," she said to George.
"How was I acting?!"
Mitchell grinned. "The real estate agent thought we were too. Maybe we should--"
"No!" George burst out. "No! No, I am not--not with you, not with--" He shook his head vehemently. "And I'm not going to a gay bar, either, thanks, and let some some hairy-chested bald-headed...creature pick me up? No!"
"George, you're not homophobic are you?" Annie asked, sounding horrified. But she was smirking at him.
"Of course not!" George said. "I know a lot of gay guys! I have no problem with gay guys! I just--" He pursed his lips. "I'm going to clean the kitchen and go to bed. End of this discussion." He headed for the kitchen, amazed that he only wavered a little bit. He didn't want to talk about this. Afraid of where it would lead, and he couldn't do that. Couldn't go back.
You could if you wanted to.
But he didn't. Life was complicated enough.
Mitchell trailed after him into the kitchen. George grabbed the unused plates off the table, the now-cold basket of rolls. The rest of the food he'd started to prepare--waiting only for that moment for when Nina provided an audience--still sat on the counter. He shoved everything into the fridge. He'd straighten it later. He was the only one who cared about being neat, anyway.
"Now come on, George." Mitchell leaned against the door jamb. "Haven't you ever just been a little curious?"
George paused. He put the plates into the sink. "No," he said, hoping he sounded convincing. He shoved two full mugs--when had she had time to make more tea?--into the sink, making the plates clatter. "Damn," he muttered, as he realized he'd chipped one. He held it up to Mitchell. "Now look what you made me do!"
"What I made you do?" Mitchell shrugged. "It's fun, George. Doesn't mean you're gay, either. Nothing wrong with experimenting, you know." He paused. "You might like it."
Annie popped in, and took the plate from George's hand. "You broke it! Out, I'll do this--"
"I made the mess, I'll clean it up. You and Mitchell go watch the telly or something." He wavered, and grabbed the counter behind him to steady himself. Mitchell and Annie were blocking him in. He suddenly felt trapped. "Please, just--I'm not going anywhere; I don't want to talk about this anymore."
Mitchell sighed, pushed away from the doorway and clasped George on the shoulder. He rubbed George's back. "Easy boy. Okay, Annie, let's leave him to it. He's flustered enough."
"I'm not flustered!" He tried to pull away but stumbled. Mitchell hauled him up, and leaned in.
"Seriously, it'd do you some good, get rid of some of that tenseness," Mitchell said, rubbing George's shoulders again. "You could use a good fucking."
George pushed Mitchell away. "I do the-- the--." He gestured, indignant.
"Okay be the top--"'
"Mitchell," he warned, but Mitchell, damn him, just smiled, and held up his hands.
"Fine, fine--let me know when you're ready."
"Out!" George said, throwing a dishtowel at him, but Mitchell just laughed as he and Annie escaped to the living room.
George yanked out a chair and thumped into it. He cradled his head in his hands, eyes closed, body swimming, stomach roiling. He wished now he'd never had a single drop of liquor. There was more than one beast inside him he tried hard to keep at bay, and he hadn't wanted anyone to know.
Mitchell especially, because if ever figured out there had been someone else in George's life, once, long ago, just after the change...
No. Mitchell would never relent. He'd push and he'd pull and he'd break George down like he always did, because when it came down to it, George was just as helpless in his friend's grip as one of Mitchell's victims. And Annie hated secrets. Especially if she didn't know them. But he wouldn't give in to either of them, not on this.
He would never tell them about Cardiff.
Part Two