Rating: R for violence and nastiness
Pairing: none. George and Mitchell
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they're Toby Whithouse's. But I don't think he would ever treat them so badly.
Warnings: Where to begin... This is a horrible fic. Contains character death, violence, intimidation. Very dark AU. Also spoiler for the beginning of ep6.
Summary: What might have happened at George and Mitchell's first meeting, if Mitchell had had a really bad day.
A/N 1: I'm really sorry! Writing this made me a bit upset at times, so maybe don't read if you're feeling shaky...
A/N 2: For some reason I've had the Nick Cave song "are you the one that I've been waiting for" going through my head the whole time I've been writing this, it kind of fits, in a twisted way.
George is bewildered as the men crowd around him, circling, menacing, sensing his weakness. Their taunts are confusing and his normally sharp mind is fogged by fear, and he can see no way out of this. When the first punch comes, straight to the stomach, swift and sickening, it’s almost a relief, because at least now he knows how this is going to go. He sags forward and gives himself up to the beating.
Striding towards the cafe, Mitchell is in a foul mood. He’s hungry. Two months now without feeding, and two months of enduring Seth’s ridiculous jibes. Two months of hanging on by the tips of his fingers, the abyss of his own cruelty gaping beneath him. He aches to let go.
If he’d thought about it at all, George would have thought that you’d get used to the pain after a while. But it turns out that every new kick to his torso is a fresh agony. He’s probably crying, but it’s hard to tell through all the blood.
From his desperate foetal position on the cold tarmac, he hears footsteps approaching, and then a voice-
“Whoa! Whoa!”- and suddenly, miraculously, beautifully, the men stop kicking him. Salvation.
Mitchell looks at the sorry crew of vampires in front of him and curls his lip. He’s been waiting for a chance to lord his authority over Seth, to remind him exactly where they stand in relation to one another, and here it is.
“He’s a lyco, man,” one of Seth’s cronies protests. Mitchell knows that, he can smell it, but he argues them down, getting into Seth’s space. Even with his hands still in his coat pockets he radiates menace. He wonders if the others can feel the desperation pouring off him.
George doesn’t dare raise his head until the men have gone. Blinking up at his saviour, he wonders dimly what sort of a man this is, to scare away such connoisseurs of violence. He wipes a hand over his face and shakily pushes up to a sitting position.
Mitchell steps closer and stands over the battered body sprawled in a pitiful heap on the ground. He breaths in and can smell the tainted blood. Poor bastard, he thinks coldly.
He holds the guy’s glasses out to him, just beyond reach, and pale blue eyes blink at him, pathetically grateful.
“They were going to kill me,” the guy half yelps, and Mitchell nods.
Mitchell snorts and waggles the glasses impatiently. “Why not?”
The boy on the floor reaches tentatively for his specs and Mitchell pulls his hand back, smirking.
George watches as this beautiful, terrifying man drops his glasses to the floor and grinds them under his boot. Somehow he still believes that everything will be ok; this stranger rescued him, didn’t he?
“Get up,” the man tells him, and it’s not a request. He finds his legs stumbling to obey, despite the pain.
Mitchell can’t stand the hope in the lyco’s eyes. How stupid can he be? He takes a pace forward and the guy stumbles back against the wall.
“What do you want? Who are you?” His voice is shaky and hoarse from the beating.
“Vampire,” says Mitchell, keeping his voice cool. The guy splutters, looks disbelieving, and then Mitchell smiles, slow and tired, and shows his fangs.
George can’t help it; he wets himself. The man looming over him looks disgusted and contemptuous, as though George is just making things difficult for him. Something in the back of George’s mind is screaming that this can’t be happening, that yes obviously werewolves exist but what about Occam’s Razor, surely it’s more likely that this bloke is just a psycho with a liking for fancy dress? But one look into those deep, dark eyes is all the convincing he needs.
The vampire reaches out to George’s lip and dips a finger in his congealing blood. He moves it to his own mouth and sucks. It’s faintly obscene.
“Ugh, Jesus,” Mitchell grimaces as he tastes the werewolf blood. His voice drops to a snarl. “You’re disgusting, do you know that?”
But deep down he’s grateful for the taint, for the opportunity it presents to him. This is an animal cowering before him, not a human with a life and people left behind to mourn. And though the blood might make him sick to his stomach, he’ll tell himself he’s just putting this poor dumb beast out of its misery.
The guy whimpers, a beaten, primal groan that to Mitchell’s ears only makes him sound more in need of euthanasia. “But... but you saved me!”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, suddenly bored of all this, and steps in close to pin the guy against the wall. He bares his fangs and bites down hard.
After a few seconds George stops struggling. He remembers reading that drowning is a pleasant death, if there can be such a thing, because once you surrender to the inevitable and inhale the water, you feel a great rush of euphoria as all that dissolved oxygen hits your brain. He knows, dimly, that this pleasure fizzing through his veins is all wrong, but he can’t quite find the will to fight it. He feels like he’s been waiting for this his whole life. And then it all goes black.
Mitchell drops the body and steps back, chest heaving. Bile rises in his throat.
His footsteps ring out down the alleyway, but there’s no one left to hear them.
- Current Location:hiding
- Current Mood: guilty