Under his Thumb - Being Human - George/Mitchell
Title: Under his Thumb
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 4162
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood-drinking, dub-con, spoilers for the S2 finale.
A/N: Written for the "humiliation (in public)" square of my kink bingo card.
Summary: Mitchell has to demonstrate that George is under his control - whether he wants to or not.
Mitchell bites his tongue so that he doesn't apologise the moment he's done it, his hand still stinging from the impact. George's right cheek is beginning to tinge red and his eyes are wide, shocked, even if they both knew this was coming.
They'd talked about this. They had decided that it was what was for the best - but there's something different about actually doing it. There's something different about seeing the pain in George's eyes.
"Did I say that you could speak?" Mitchell asks him, raising his eyebrows. The candles flicker as if fire itself wants to escape from the coldness in his voice. I'm sorry, he wants to say. You know I don't mean it.
But they are being watched with dozens of greedy, curious eyes. There is a room filled with vampires casually watching their every move, and if Mitchell doesn't put George in his 'place' then someone else here will - and, for them, that place will be several feet below the ground. Mitchell won't allow that. Not with George. Not with anyone, of course, but especially not with George.
George raises his hand to press the back of his fingers against the burning red of his cheek, and Mitchell snaps again: "Did I say that you could speak? Answer me."
After swallowing, George answers. "No," he says - and his voice is high and scandalised. He clenches his jaw the moment that he closes his mouth again. Once they are done here, Mitchell decides that George has free reign to punch him as much as he likes for an entire evening. He can beat the hell out of him if it will even the score, but he isn't even sure if it is a matter of trading bruises.
"Exactly. So stay quiet. No one wants to hear your voice."
It's not true. It's really, really not true, and the way that the other vampires in the room are watching them says as much - they want to hear George. He's fascinating: a captive wolf. They want a taste as badly as Mitchell does.
George drops his gaze and stares at the ground, and on instinct Mitchell reaches out to stroke his hand over the top of George's head, feeling the fuzz of hair there. It prickles against his palm before he drops his hand to George's shoulder and focuses his attention elsewhere, even if George stays in the over-active back of his mind, worrying. There should always be a level of fear present when dealing with a group of vampires, but in this case it is more pressing than ever: there are banners up inside the room, welcoming Herrick back to the land of the unliving. The only reason that Mitchell is here, the only reason that either of them is still alive, is because Daisy vouched for him. She told the story of his return to the fold: blood-splattered trains and a hunt for revenge.
Herrick had been impressed. So impressed.
Mitchell drops his hand from George's head to his shoulder instead, and looks around at their observers. He meets their eyes with no small hint of defiance: don't you know who I am? his expression sneers.
They know. They all know.
Mitchell's hand tightens on George's shoulder as he senses Herrick descending upon them. "Mitchell!" Herrick says, as warmly, blandly delighted as he always is. "You made it!"
Mitchell smiles too, and tries to remember when he was good at this: the memories of blood and violence come easily. Thoughts of old friendships are far more distant. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world." It is an historic occasion: a vampire brought back from the dead. He hasn't ever heard anything like it before.
He can hear the hammering of George's heart and makes sure to tighten his hand on his shoulder: reassurance or restraint, he isn't quite sure. They've already discovered that Herrick can be resurrected from even a werewolf mauling. Mitchell doesn't fancy their chances if they make any more attempts at getting rid of him. They need to be more clever than that.
Herrick's gaze flickers towards George, and his smile doesn't falter: it stays right in place, his blue eyes otherworldly. "I see you brought your little dog along," Herrick observes. Mitchell tries hard not to think of Seth - he tries even harder not to think of Lauren. "Is he behaving himself?"
Mitchell nods. His jaw aches. "He's doing what he's told."
Herrick's eyes linger for a moment longer on George; Mitchell knows that there is very little that Herrick would like to do more than rip George limb from limb. Luckily for them, rules of etiquette would advise against such actions. "Good. Make sure it stays that way." If Mitchell doesn't keep George in line, Herrick will do it for him - and neither of them would be fond of Herrick's methods. Suddenly, Herrick's attention is back on him, blue-eyed and friendly. "Come and sit with me at the head table, Mitchell. There's so much to catch up on, isn't there?"
They both know the exact details of what the other has been up to since their last encounter: it would be foolish to come to another encounter without doing their background research. Herrick is a lot of things, but 'foolish' is the furthest thing from it.
Mitchell follows obediently, and George trails after him. Mitchell has to take for granted that George will know how to behave and how to handle himself. He's too focused on keeping them both alive to bother paying attention to the ins and outs of George's behaviour. When they sit at the table, Mitchell at Herrick's side, he has to clear his throat so that George knows that he is not invited to sit with them: faced with a choice between kneeling at his feet or leaning against the wall behind them, George opts for the latter option, the least humiliating of the pair.
"I have to say that I never thought I would see the day you were drinking again," Herrick says, with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle around the edges. "Oh, at first I thought it was going to happen. Giving up is a phase we all go through. With you, though..."
It hurts to think about it, although he knows that it shouldn't: he remembers how strong he had been and for how long, but ever since his betrayal by Lucy he has been able to think of nothing but the blood. Every single dry day is torture. It's like starting all over again. This time, he doesn't think that he is strong enough to hold out.
"It was those friends of yours. The ghost and the wolf." Annie. Mitchell's heart breaks silently at the thought of her fate, and he can only cling with white knuckles to the hope that they will get her out of here. What has happened to her will not last forever. "Such distractions. Dangerous, really. That's why our kind should stick together, Mitchell. You see what happens now when we don't."
Isolation from other vampires is what is needed if anyone wants to go clean - and yet, before the explosion, before Ivan's sacrifice, before the end, they had been doing alright. His plan, it had almost been working. Sometimes, with a mournful clench of his heart, Mitchell wonders what might have been different if events had been allowed to take the right course.
The other vampires in the room have taken their seats at the various white-spread tables around the room, wine glasses in hand. Chattering conversation dies as the doors to the kitchen opens, and the waiters and waitresses stream inside.
Mitchell's heart sinks. He knows, instantly, that it isn't food that is on the menu tonight.
The short sleeves and exposed necks of the staff confirms as much. Their shirts are a crisp white, to better show off the blood that will spill. His eyes flick nervously towards Herrick at his side, who looks positively gleeful at the sight. "I thought everyone deserved a treat," Herrick says, leaning in to speak into his ear.
One person for every guest, Mitchell soon counts. There are going to be a lot of dead bodies left over at the end of the night. He can't save them. Each and every one of them has a family at home, has friends and a life, but they don't have a long-term future. His fingernails dig into the flesh of his palm.
His body flinches when he feels George's hand on his shoulder. Distracted, he hadn't noticed him moving forward from his position against the wall. "Mitchell..." he breathes; it's clear enough that he doesn't like the look of this situation any more than Mitchell does.
It's also clear, however, that he has no idea just how difficult it is going to be to leave. Herrick is watching them already, beady eyes alert and curious.
With an internal apology, Mitchell places his hand over George's on his shoulder and digs his nails into the flesh of his skin, enough to hurt, enough to make him whimper. "Get back to your place." He keeps his voice cold. It takes a lot of effort.
"Let him be," Herrick suggests, before George can slip away. Mitchell can hear the heartbeats of their waiters; the silence in the rest of the room tells him that all attention is on himself and Herrick, on their tense interaction. "You can't blame a boy for being jealous. Is he not used to sharing your palate?"
Already, Mitchell can see where this is going. He knows what Herrick wants, and he doesn't know how he can stop it. Swallowing hard, he gives the expected answer as his fingers brush back and forth over the back of George's hand, soothing the red indents left behind by his nails. "Usually, I only drink from him these days."
"Werewolf blood," Herrick says, with a glittering smile. "An acquired taste, from what I hear."
Mitchell has never thought about it (has never allowed himself to think about it). George's scent is the scent of Mitchell's life, worn into every single pore of his skin and every item of clothing that he owns. For him, the scent of George is the scent of happiness, life and a second chance that he threw away. Everything that he has worked for is encapsulated by George himself. Mitchell doesn't know how to stop himself from throwing it away.
"It's different," he says. Something sticks in his throat. "I like it."
Herrick's smile is made of small teeth and dark eyes. "Then feel free to indulge. We won't mind if you bring your own drink."
Mitchell swallows and tries to think past the pumping, pulsing sounds in his ears. A test, he knows that this is a test. Herrick is pushing at him to see if he will can shatter any shallow illusions.
Mitchell doesn't know what he can do now, but before he can make a decision George offers his wrist before him. The skin there is pale and almost translucent, allowing Mitchell to see his blue veins. The sight makes him feel light-headed with hunger. "Come now," Herrick scolds. "The wrist? That's a little impersonal, isn't it?"
"We're in public," Mitchell says. "Call us modest."
There is something intimate about drinking from a person's neck: he's always thought so. To be so close to someone while you are draining the life from their body isn't an act for strange eyes. Mitchell has never been the sort of man to drag a victim down a dark alleyway and drink them there. Wet, messy and uncomfortable. It isn't his style.
"We're all friends here, Mitchell." Still smiling, Herrick doesn't blink. "Don't mind us."
Everyone is watching. Mitchell can feel their gazes on him, even as they pretend to be distracted by their gracious meals, holding on tightly to their prey with superhuman grips. "It's okay," George promises. He steps forward, around Mitchell's chair until he is hovering uncertainly by the table as if unsure how they ought to do this. "I don't mind - doing it here, I mean. I don't mind people seeing."
They have to. Herrick is making them uncomfortable on purpose, is doing his best to put them in their place, and Mitchell knows that they hardly have a choice in the matter - it is reassuring to have George telling him that they can go ahead with this, even if he is increasingly realising what a terrible, flawed idea it had been to come tonight at all. When they had first heard of Herrick's return, this had seemed like the only safe option for now: blending in, camouflage, keeping their heads down until they could work out their next move.
Mitchell guides George forward, both of them bumping awkwardly into each other, until George sits gingerly on his lap, looking very much as if he would like to leap to his feet and rush far, far away. To on-lookers, they can't look as if they've done this before: it isn't experienced or comfortable. Mitchell places his hand on George's far hip and tries to reassure him without words: touching is normal for the pair of them. Werewolves are tactile creatures and George is no exception in his regular life, even if perhaps he might insist that it has nothing to do with his animal side.
Staring at the far wall, George tilts his head to the side. The side of his neck is wilfully exposed, pale and utterly tempting. Mitchell can hear the pounding of George's blood right beneath the skin, and he is aware of Herrick's approving gaze upon the side of his face. I'll apologise later, he promises himself, before he lowers his head to George's neck. His lips touch the skin first, a soft caress, before his eyes turn black: his fangs escape.
George gasps when Mitchell's teeth first puncture his skin. It hurts. It always hurts. Hot, rich blood floods forth into Mitchell's mouth, splashing against his lips and spreading down his chin. Tightening, Mitchell's hands grasp hold of George's body in a way that will leave bruises, but bruises will no doubt be the least of George's worries. After one taste, Mitchell isn't sure how capable he will be of stopping when the time comes. His eyes close and he loses himself in the taste, needy moans vibrating through him every time that he swallows a new mouthful of hot blood.
George's hand cups the back of his head, unexpectedly welcoming, and Mitchell finds himself getting hard, fast. It is as if they are somewhere private rather than in open view of the public. Around them, Mitchell can hear the sounds of screams and struggles as the wait-staff attempt to escape their fates, but with George's blood flowing into his mouth it is impossible to care about anything else.
George tastes like the wild world itself. Natural and dangerous, he is nothing that Mitchell has ever tasted before. It isn't human, but it isn't animal. It's more than both. Acting on instinct, Mitchell pushes George until his back hits the edge of the table, supporting him, and Mitchell's hips raise, rub against him: he isn't the only one that is hard. They both are, and that's more of a relief than it should be.
Lost blood trickles down George's neck and soaks into his shirt, and Mitchell is faintly aware of the sound of George calling his name, whispering to him, as his hand clenches in his hair - trying to pull him back, he knows, but he can't stop. The life that is flowing into him is too much: he needs more of it. All of it. Letting George go now, letting him wriggle out of his grasp, it isn't an option. It never will be.
Stronger hands grasp hold of his upper arms and yank him back, supernatural speed and strength making him stumble away from the table. The chair he had been sitting on previously clatters to the ground in a sound that echoes throughout the room, and Herrick doesn't let go of him, not yet. One arm remains clamped around Mitchell's upper arm while the other pats his shoulder, an empty echo of friendship. "Easy there, Mitchell. You shouldn't have pets if you can't look after them," Herrick scolds, amused and good-natured. Slumped against the table, George holds his hand firmly against his neck and doesn't say a word, doesn't meet Mitchell's gaze. He is pale and stained with blood and Mitchell still finds the sight of him mouth-watering. "Perhaps we should have started you off with a hamster."
Mitchell's cheeks flush, fuelled by such a recent feeding. This is what Herrick had wanted, he knows; he had wanted to show how weak Mitchell is, how lost. He had wanted to demonstrate just how hungry he is to the other vampires gathered here. At the far side of the hall, he can see Daisy struggling not to laugh. She always looks like that, but now it stings more than usual.
"Why don't you go home for the night, Mitchell?" Herrick suggests, giving him a faux-friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'll let you and George finish things off in private."
Let.
This is only happening because Herrick is allowing it, and Mitchell is sure that Herrick wants him to know that. He is supposed to be thankful; he is supposed to fall at Herrick's feet, a worshipful follower once more. "Thank you," he wheezes. The taste of George's blood still coats his mouth, threatening to swamp him.
He reaches out to places his hand on George's arm and is satisfied when George doesn't flinch away. He allows Mitchell to touch him, and perhaps that means that Mitchell still has a chance of being able to apologise. He doesn't know if he deserves a chance after almost draining him dry, but he wants one anyway; he needs it.
All eyes are on them as they take the long walk across the room to the door, having to step over the bodies of the waiting staff. Mitchell can't stop in order to see if they are unconscious or dead. The faint hum of heartbeats tells him that some, at least, might survive, and for now that is good enough.
They walk home, with no car to speak of, and George hardly says a word. "Are you okay?" Mitchell asks him in the crisp night's air.
George offers a squeezing shrug. No words.
"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."
George shakes his head. "It's not your fault, is it?"
It isn't, not technically. Herrick was the one that had pushed him into doing it, just to prove a point - but Mitchell had been the one that thought it was a fair idea to come along this evening at all. They should have turned the invitation down and gone on the run again, back to Wales, perhaps. Anywhere would have been better than this. "I'm sorry anyway," Mitchell says.
It isn't enough. Every single footstep is accompanied by a fresh thought of George's blood, and those cravings won't vanish for a long time. George's blood is inside him, now. It is inside of his body and inside his mind and it is going to be a long time before he can be around George again without feeling thirsty.
They make it home and Mitchell unlocks the door to their apartment block. The fluorescent light in the hallway is flickering, despite the thousands of times that George has reported it to their landlords. They don't seem to care.
Mitchell walks up to the third floor and opens the door for George, holding it there. The mark on George's neck is already impossible to see, even if the dried blood left behind on his skin is enough evidence. Mitchell has always been delicate, leaving nothing more than pinpricks behind on his victim. It's something he once took pride in.
"George," Mitchell says as the door closes behind them. Their flat is shadow-filled and quiet without any lights on. "I need to say sorry. Again. I didn't know that would happen."
"It's alright," George promises - and he shouldn't. He shouldn't have to, but he's moving in closer to Mitchell, pressing into his space, and Mitchell doesn't know how to resist him. "It's really alright. Has to be."
Mitchell shakes his head. George shouldn't 'have' to forgive him. He shouldn't 'have' to do anything. "George..."
George shuts him up when his hands rest on Mitchell's shoulders. Unobtrusive, it still silences Mitchell as effectively as a gag. "Mitchell, seriously. Stop apologising. I'm blaming Herrick instead of you. I'd like to keep it that way."
"But - " Mitchell is cut off when George rests his hands against his chest. He looks down at them in alarm, waiting for whatever pain must be coming next, but there is nothing. George is looking at him with sad, thoughtful eyes, and Mitchell realises that he currently has no idea what is happening between them. Ever since Annie was taken and Nina left, it has just been the pair of them once more: alone and trying to work out what is going on with the world; together and trying to plan what to do next. Now George is here and close, with dried blood down his neck, and all Mitchell can do is look down at his pale lips. "George..."
George doesn't allow him to say anything more than that. He closes the gap between them, so that Mitchell is no longer merely looking at his lips - he is feeling them too. Hesitant and uncertain, George's mouth pushes against him. Mitchell feels certain that he will be able to taste his own blood in Mitchell's mouth; George ought to recoil in horror, reminded of the monster that Mitchell is, but he does nothing of the sort. He eases his mouth open, and even if Mitchell knows that this is a bad idea he can't help but reach out to hold George firmly against him, their torsos pressed against each other.
Mitchell remembers how it has felt to feed from George; he remembers the feeling of George's erection by his thigh. An involuntary reaction, he had thought. Adrenaline and fear, nothing more, but George is clinging to him now, is moaning against his mouth.
"George," Mitchell pants, as his fingers curl at the base of George's neck. "George, what's- What are we..."
He doesn't know what to ask. There are too many questions to ever make it through all of them.
George rests his head against Mitchell's forehead, breathing deep and steady. Mitchell listens to the rush of air in and out of his lungs, and relishes in the sound of life. "I don't know," George says. "Tonight was bad. Really bad."
Mitchell closes his eyes; he doesn't want to think of it ever again. Herrick had known exactly what he was doing. It had all been planned long before they had even arrived, the perfect way to demonstrate his weakness. To be a leader again, Herrick had to demolish the old one. It hardly matters that Mitchell had never wanted the position in the first place.
"It won't happen again," he promises. It doesn't matter that thoughts and dreams of George's rich blood might haunt him, now. He doesn't care that a room filled with vampires has seen him learn control, or that Herrick has gone to deliberate lengths to cast George as nothing more than food. They know the truth, both of them.
"Not in public," George agrees. Mitchell doesn't allow himself to think of the possibilities that those three words might suggest. He can't allow his thoughts to linger there. If it happens, it'll happen. If they can work out a way to let him drink safely, if George is fine with that, then they will work out a plan - but, right now, that is far, far down his list of priorities. "Can I stay through with you tonight? Not with any funny business, I mean. I just don't fancy sleeping alone tonight."
Mitchell tries to smile and tease him as if everything is normal: "Afraid of the dark?" he asks.
George, all too earnest, doesn't try to deny it. "Please, Mitch," is all he says.
All he has to say.
"Yeah. Of course, yeah." George shouldn't have to ask: they've never shared a bed before, other than in enforced circumstances (Mitchell really does hate camping), but Mitchell can't say 'no' to George any more. He wouldn't want to. "Just don't hog the covers."
It's the least of their worries. Mitchell isn't sure how George can stand to be around him after what happened at Herrick's 'dinner', but he doesn't want to prod at fresh wounds. George goes to wash up while Mitchell rushes to tidy up his room and make his bed presentable. He can't do a lot to help George, but he'll do whatever he can to take care of him: they have enough enemies in the world without the vampire in Mitchell turning on them both.
Pairing: George/Mitchell
Word Count: 4162
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood-drinking, dub-con, spoilers for the S2 finale.
A/N: Written for the "humiliation (in public)" square of my kink bingo card.
Summary: Mitchell has to demonstrate that George is under his control - whether he wants to or not.
Mitchell bites his tongue so that he doesn't apologise the moment he's done it, his hand still stinging from the impact. George's right cheek is beginning to tinge red and his eyes are wide, shocked, even if they both knew this was coming.
They'd talked about this. They had decided that it was what was for the best - but there's something different about actually doing it. There's something different about seeing the pain in George's eyes.
"Did I say that you could speak?" Mitchell asks him, raising his eyebrows. The candles flicker as if fire itself wants to escape from the coldness in his voice. I'm sorry, he wants to say. You know I don't mean it.
But they are being watched with dozens of greedy, curious eyes. There is a room filled with vampires casually watching their every move, and if Mitchell doesn't put George in his 'place' then someone else here will - and, for them, that place will be several feet below the ground. Mitchell won't allow that. Not with George. Not with anyone, of course, but especially not with George.
George raises his hand to press the back of his fingers against the burning red of his cheek, and Mitchell snaps again: "Did I say that you could speak? Answer me."
After swallowing, George answers. "No," he says - and his voice is high and scandalised. He clenches his jaw the moment that he closes his mouth again. Once they are done here, Mitchell decides that George has free reign to punch him as much as he likes for an entire evening. He can beat the hell out of him if it will even the score, but he isn't even sure if it is a matter of trading bruises.
"Exactly. So stay quiet. No one wants to hear your voice."
It's not true. It's really, really not true, and the way that the other vampires in the room are watching them says as much - they want to hear George. He's fascinating: a captive wolf. They want a taste as badly as Mitchell does.
George drops his gaze and stares at the ground, and on instinct Mitchell reaches out to stroke his hand over the top of George's head, feeling the fuzz of hair there. It prickles against his palm before he drops his hand to George's shoulder and focuses his attention elsewhere, even if George stays in the over-active back of his mind, worrying. There should always be a level of fear present when dealing with a group of vampires, but in this case it is more pressing than ever: there are banners up inside the room, welcoming Herrick back to the land of the unliving. The only reason that Mitchell is here, the only reason that either of them is still alive, is because Daisy vouched for him. She told the story of his return to the fold: blood-splattered trains and a hunt for revenge.
Herrick had been impressed. So impressed.
Mitchell drops his hand from George's head to his shoulder instead, and looks around at their observers. He meets their eyes with no small hint of defiance: don't you know who I am? his expression sneers.
They know. They all know.
Mitchell's hand tightens on George's shoulder as he senses Herrick descending upon them. "Mitchell!" Herrick says, as warmly, blandly delighted as he always is. "You made it!"
Mitchell smiles too, and tries to remember when he was good at this: the memories of blood and violence come easily. Thoughts of old friendships are far more distant. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world." It is an historic occasion: a vampire brought back from the dead. He hasn't ever heard anything like it before.
He can hear the hammering of George's heart and makes sure to tighten his hand on his shoulder: reassurance or restraint, he isn't quite sure. They've already discovered that Herrick can be resurrected from even a werewolf mauling. Mitchell doesn't fancy their chances if they make any more attempts at getting rid of him. They need to be more clever than that.
Herrick's gaze flickers towards George, and his smile doesn't falter: it stays right in place, his blue eyes otherworldly. "I see you brought your little dog along," Herrick observes. Mitchell tries hard not to think of Seth - he tries even harder not to think of Lauren. "Is he behaving himself?"
Mitchell nods. His jaw aches. "He's doing what he's told."
Herrick's eyes linger for a moment longer on George; Mitchell knows that there is very little that Herrick would like to do more than rip George limb from limb. Luckily for them, rules of etiquette would advise against such actions. "Good. Make sure it stays that way." If Mitchell doesn't keep George in line, Herrick will do it for him - and neither of them would be fond of Herrick's methods. Suddenly, Herrick's attention is back on him, blue-eyed and friendly. "Come and sit with me at the head table, Mitchell. There's so much to catch up on, isn't there?"
They both know the exact details of what the other has been up to since their last encounter: it would be foolish to come to another encounter without doing their background research. Herrick is a lot of things, but 'foolish' is the furthest thing from it.
Mitchell follows obediently, and George trails after him. Mitchell has to take for granted that George will know how to behave and how to handle himself. He's too focused on keeping them both alive to bother paying attention to the ins and outs of George's behaviour. When they sit at the table, Mitchell at Herrick's side, he has to clear his throat so that George knows that he is not invited to sit with them: faced with a choice between kneeling at his feet or leaning against the wall behind them, George opts for the latter option, the least humiliating of the pair.
"I have to say that I never thought I would see the day you were drinking again," Herrick says, with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle around the edges. "Oh, at first I thought it was going to happen. Giving up is a phase we all go through. With you, though..."
It hurts to think about it, although he knows that it shouldn't: he remembers how strong he had been and for how long, but ever since his betrayal by Lucy he has been able to think of nothing but the blood. Every single dry day is torture. It's like starting all over again. This time, he doesn't think that he is strong enough to hold out.
"It was those friends of yours. The ghost and the wolf." Annie. Mitchell's heart breaks silently at the thought of her fate, and he can only cling with white knuckles to the hope that they will get her out of here. What has happened to her will not last forever. "Such distractions. Dangerous, really. That's why our kind should stick together, Mitchell. You see what happens now when we don't."
Isolation from other vampires is what is needed if anyone wants to go clean - and yet, before the explosion, before Ivan's sacrifice, before the end, they had been doing alright. His plan, it had almost been working. Sometimes, with a mournful clench of his heart, Mitchell wonders what might have been different if events had been allowed to take the right course.
The other vampires in the room have taken their seats at the various white-spread tables around the room, wine glasses in hand. Chattering conversation dies as the doors to the kitchen opens, and the waiters and waitresses stream inside.
Mitchell's heart sinks. He knows, instantly, that it isn't food that is on the menu tonight.
The short sleeves and exposed necks of the staff confirms as much. Their shirts are a crisp white, to better show off the blood that will spill. His eyes flick nervously towards Herrick at his side, who looks positively gleeful at the sight. "I thought everyone deserved a treat," Herrick says, leaning in to speak into his ear.
One person for every guest, Mitchell soon counts. There are going to be a lot of dead bodies left over at the end of the night. He can't save them. Each and every one of them has a family at home, has friends and a life, but they don't have a long-term future. His fingernails dig into the flesh of his palm.
His body flinches when he feels George's hand on his shoulder. Distracted, he hadn't noticed him moving forward from his position against the wall. "Mitchell..." he breathes; it's clear enough that he doesn't like the look of this situation any more than Mitchell does.
It's also clear, however, that he has no idea just how difficult it is going to be to leave. Herrick is watching them already, beady eyes alert and curious.
With an internal apology, Mitchell places his hand over George's on his shoulder and digs his nails into the flesh of his skin, enough to hurt, enough to make him whimper. "Get back to your place." He keeps his voice cold. It takes a lot of effort.
"Let him be," Herrick suggests, before George can slip away. Mitchell can hear the heartbeats of their waiters; the silence in the rest of the room tells him that all attention is on himself and Herrick, on their tense interaction. "You can't blame a boy for being jealous. Is he not used to sharing your palate?"
Already, Mitchell can see where this is going. He knows what Herrick wants, and he doesn't know how he can stop it. Swallowing hard, he gives the expected answer as his fingers brush back and forth over the back of George's hand, soothing the red indents left behind by his nails. "Usually, I only drink from him these days."
"Werewolf blood," Herrick says, with a glittering smile. "An acquired taste, from what I hear."
Mitchell has never thought about it (has never allowed himself to think about it). George's scent is the scent of Mitchell's life, worn into every single pore of his skin and every item of clothing that he owns. For him, the scent of George is the scent of happiness, life and a second chance that he threw away. Everything that he has worked for is encapsulated by George himself. Mitchell doesn't know how to stop himself from throwing it away.
"It's different," he says. Something sticks in his throat. "I like it."
Herrick's smile is made of small teeth and dark eyes. "Then feel free to indulge. We won't mind if you bring your own drink."
Mitchell swallows and tries to think past the pumping, pulsing sounds in his ears. A test, he knows that this is a test. Herrick is pushing at him to see if he will can shatter any shallow illusions.
Mitchell doesn't know what he can do now, but before he can make a decision George offers his wrist before him. The skin there is pale and almost translucent, allowing Mitchell to see his blue veins. The sight makes him feel light-headed with hunger. "Come now," Herrick scolds. "The wrist? That's a little impersonal, isn't it?"
"We're in public," Mitchell says. "Call us modest."
There is something intimate about drinking from a person's neck: he's always thought so. To be so close to someone while you are draining the life from their body isn't an act for strange eyes. Mitchell has never been the sort of man to drag a victim down a dark alleyway and drink them there. Wet, messy and uncomfortable. It isn't his style.
"We're all friends here, Mitchell." Still smiling, Herrick doesn't blink. "Don't mind us."
Everyone is watching. Mitchell can feel their gazes on him, even as they pretend to be distracted by their gracious meals, holding on tightly to their prey with superhuman grips. "It's okay," George promises. He steps forward, around Mitchell's chair until he is hovering uncertainly by the table as if unsure how they ought to do this. "I don't mind - doing it here, I mean. I don't mind people seeing."
They have to. Herrick is making them uncomfortable on purpose, is doing his best to put them in their place, and Mitchell knows that they hardly have a choice in the matter - it is reassuring to have George telling him that they can go ahead with this, even if he is increasingly realising what a terrible, flawed idea it had been to come tonight at all. When they had first heard of Herrick's return, this had seemed like the only safe option for now: blending in, camouflage, keeping their heads down until they could work out their next move.
Mitchell guides George forward, both of them bumping awkwardly into each other, until George sits gingerly on his lap, looking very much as if he would like to leap to his feet and rush far, far away. To on-lookers, they can't look as if they've done this before: it isn't experienced or comfortable. Mitchell places his hand on George's far hip and tries to reassure him without words: touching is normal for the pair of them. Werewolves are tactile creatures and George is no exception in his regular life, even if perhaps he might insist that it has nothing to do with his animal side.
Staring at the far wall, George tilts his head to the side. The side of his neck is wilfully exposed, pale and utterly tempting. Mitchell can hear the pounding of George's blood right beneath the skin, and he is aware of Herrick's approving gaze upon the side of his face. I'll apologise later, he promises himself, before he lowers his head to George's neck. His lips touch the skin first, a soft caress, before his eyes turn black: his fangs escape.
George gasps when Mitchell's teeth first puncture his skin. It hurts. It always hurts. Hot, rich blood floods forth into Mitchell's mouth, splashing against his lips and spreading down his chin. Tightening, Mitchell's hands grasp hold of George's body in a way that will leave bruises, but bruises will no doubt be the least of George's worries. After one taste, Mitchell isn't sure how capable he will be of stopping when the time comes. His eyes close and he loses himself in the taste, needy moans vibrating through him every time that he swallows a new mouthful of hot blood.
George's hand cups the back of his head, unexpectedly welcoming, and Mitchell finds himself getting hard, fast. It is as if they are somewhere private rather than in open view of the public. Around them, Mitchell can hear the sounds of screams and struggles as the wait-staff attempt to escape their fates, but with George's blood flowing into his mouth it is impossible to care about anything else.
George tastes like the wild world itself. Natural and dangerous, he is nothing that Mitchell has ever tasted before. It isn't human, but it isn't animal. It's more than both. Acting on instinct, Mitchell pushes George until his back hits the edge of the table, supporting him, and Mitchell's hips raise, rub against him: he isn't the only one that is hard. They both are, and that's more of a relief than it should be.
Lost blood trickles down George's neck and soaks into his shirt, and Mitchell is faintly aware of the sound of George calling his name, whispering to him, as his hand clenches in his hair - trying to pull him back, he knows, but he can't stop. The life that is flowing into him is too much: he needs more of it. All of it. Letting George go now, letting him wriggle out of his grasp, it isn't an option. It never will be.
Stronger hands grasp hold of his upper arms and yank him back, supernatural speed and strength making him stumble away from the table. The chair he had been sitting on previously clatters to the ground in a sound that echoes throughout the room, and Herrick doesn't let go of him, not yet. One arm remains clamped around Mitchell's upper arm while the other pats his shoulder, an empty echo of friendship. "Easy there, Mitchell. You shouldn't have pets if you can't look after them," Herrick scolds, amused and good-natured. Slumped against the table, George holds his hand firmly against his neck and doesn't say a word, doesn't meet Mitchell's gaze. He is pale and stained with blood and Mitchell still finds the sight of him mouth-watering. "Perhaps we should have started you off with a hamster."
Mitchell's cheeks flush, fuelled by such a recent feeding. This is what Herrick had wanted, he knows; he had wanted to show how weak Mitchell is, how lost. He had wanted to demonstrate just how hungry he is to the other vampires gathered here. At the far side of the hall, he can see Daisy struggling not to laugh. She always looks like that, but now it stings more than usual.
"Why don't you go home for the night, Mitchell?" Herrick suggests, giving him a faux-friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'll let you and George finish things off in private."
Let.
This is only happening because Herrick is allowing it, and Mitchell is sure that Herrick wants him to know that. He is supposed to be thankful; he is supposed to fall at Herrick's feet, a worshipful follower once more. "Thank you," he wheezes. The taste of George's blood still coats his mouth, threatening to swamp him.
He reaches out to places his hand on George's arm and is satisfied when George doesn't flinch away. He allows Mitchell to touch him, and perhaps that means that Mitchell still has a chance of being able to apologise. He doesn't know if he deserves a chance after almost draining him dry, but he wants one anyway; he needs it.
All eyes are on them as they take the long walk across the room to the door, having to step over the bodies of the waiting staff. Mitchell can't stop in order to see if they are unconscious or dead. The faint hum of heartbeats tells him that some, at least, might survive, and for now that is good enough.
They walk home, with no car to speak of, and George hardly says a word. "Are you okay?" Mitchell asks him in the crisp night's air.
George offers a squeezing shrug. No words.
"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."
George shakes his head. "It's not your fault, is it?"
It isn't, not technically. Herrick was the one that had pushed him into doing it, just to prove a point - but Mitchell had been the one that thought it was a fair idea to come along this evening at all. They should have turned the invitation down and gone on the run again, back to Wales, perhaps. Anywhere would have been better than this. "I'm sorry anyway," Mitchell says.
It isn't enough. Every single footstep is accompanied by a fresh thought of George's blood, and those cravings won't vanish for a long time. George's blood is inside him, now. It is inside of his body and inside his mind and it is going to be a long time before he can be around George again without feeling thirsty.
They make it home and Mitchell unlocks the door to their apartment block. The fluorescent light in the hallway is flickering, despite the thousands of times that George has reported it to their landlords. They don't seem to care.
Mitchell walks up to the third floor and opens the door for George, holding it there. The mark on George's neck is already impossible to see, even if the dried blood left behind on his skin is enough evidence. Mitchell has always been delicate, leaving nothing more than pinpricks behind on his victim. It's something he once took pride in.
"George," Mitchell says as the door closes behind them. Their flat is shadow-filled and quiet without any lights on. "I need to say sorry. Again. I didn't know that would happen."
"It's alright," George promises - and he shouldn't. He shouldn't have to, but he's moving in closer to Mitchell, pressing into his space, and Mitchell doesn't know how to resist him. "It's really alright. Has to be."
Mitchell shakes his head. George shouldn't 'have' to forgive him. He shouldn't 'have' to do anything. "George..."
George shuts him up when his hands rest on Mitchell's shoulders. Unobtrusive, it still silences Mitchell as effectively as a gag. "Mitchell, seriously. Stop apologising. I'm blaming Herrick instead of you. I'd like to keep it that way."
"But - " Mitchell is cut off when George rests his hands against his chest. He looks down at them in alarm, waiting for whatever pain must be coming next, but there is nothing. George is looking at him with sad, thoughtful eyes, and Mitchell realises that he currently has no idea what is happening between them. Ever since Annie was taken and Nina left, it has just been the pair of them once more: alone and trying to work out what is going on with the world; together and trying to plan what to do next. Now George is here and close, with dried blood down his neck, and all Mitchell can do is look down at his pale lips. "George..."
George doesn't allow him to say anything more than that. He closes the gap between them, so that Mitchell is no longer merely looking at his lips - he is feeling them too. Hesitant and uncertain, George's mouth pushes against him. Mitchell feels certain that he will be able to taste his own blood in Mitchell's mouth; George ought to recoil in horror, reminded of the monster that Mitchell is, but he does nothing of the sort. He eases his mouth open, and even if Mitchell knows that this is a bad idea he can't help but reach out to hold George firmly against him, their torsos pressed against each other.
Mitchell remembers how it has felt to feed from George; he remembers the feeling of George's erection by his thigh. An involuntary reaction, he had thought. Adrenaline and fear, nothing more, but George is clinging to him now, is moaning against his mouth.
"George," Mitchell pants, as his fingers curl at the base of George's neck. "George, what's- What are we..."
He doesn't know what to ask. There are too many questions to ever make it through all of them.
George rests his head against Mitchell's forehead, breathing deep and steady. Mitchell listens to the rush of air in and out of his lungs, and relishes in the sound of life. "I don't know," George says. "Tonight was bad. Really bad."
Mitchell closes his eyes; he doesn't want to think of it ever again. Herrick had known exactly what he was doing. It had all been planned long before they had even arrived, the perfect way to demonstrate his weakness. To be a leader again, Herrick had to demolish the old one. It hardly matters that Mitchell had never wanted the position in the first place.
"It won't happen again," he promises. It doesn't matter that thoughts and dreams of George's rich blood might haunt him, now. He doesn't care that a room filled with vampires has seen him learn control, or that Herrick has gone to deliberate lengths to cast George as nothing more than food. They know the truth, both of them.
"Not in public," George agrees. Mitchell doesn't allow himself to think of the possibilities that those three words might suggest. He can't allow his thoughts to linger there. If it happens, it'll happen. If they can work out a way to let him drink safely, if George is fine with that, then they will work out a plan - but, right now, that is far, far down his list of priorities. "Can I stay through with you tonight? Not with any funny business, I mean. I just don't fancy sleeping alone tonight."
Mitchell tries to smile and tease him as if everything is normal: "Afraid of the dark?" he asks.
George, all too earnest, doesn't try to deny it. "Please, Mitch," is all he says.
All he has to say.
"Yeah. Of course, yeah." George shouldn't have to ask: they've never shared a bed before, other than in enforced circumstances (Mitchell really does hate camping), but Mitchell can't say 'no' to George any more. He wouldn't want to. "Just don't hog the covers."
It's the least of their worries. Mitchell isn't sure how George can stand to be around him after what happened at Herrick's 'dinner', but he doesn't want to prod at fresh wounds. George goes to wash up while Mitchell rushes to tidy up his room and make his bed presentable. He can't do a lot to help George, but he'll do whatever he can to take care of him: they have enough enemies in the world without the vampire in Mitchell turning on them both.