Title: An Encounter At A Strange Border
Author: Red Fiona
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; the BBC do. No money is being made from this.
Fandom: Being Human
Characters: John Mitchell and John Mitchell (Pilot)
Ratings/Warnings: 15 rated gen, spoilers up to the start of season 2.
Notes: Set after the pilot for Mitchell from the pilot, and just before the start of series 2 for John Mitchell.
Summary: All Mitchell wants to do is get so drunk he forgets everything. He thinks he's found exactly the right place for that, but fate is about to send that plan awry.
A vampire walks into a bar, and it's not the start of a joke. Mitchell only went to bars when he wasn't with Annie and George. He went to pubs with them, because that's what normal people did, they went to pubs with their friends. Nice, welcoming pubs, where they didn't remark on you buying drinks that were never touched and where they didn't think anything of it when the two of you seemed to speak to thin air. There were times when that was precisely what Mitchell didn't need.
He didn't want to think about what George had done for him, so he was going to get rat-arsed. For that you needed the exact opposite of the pub where everyone knew your name. You needed a cheap, dark bar, where they sold vodka shots for a pound a go and didn't care how drunk you got as long as you didn't throw up.
Mitchell was four drinks into his plan, when he felt a sensation he'd long learnt to associate with another vampire being near. There was no one he recognised, that wasn't a surprise, the other vampires were giving him a wide berth since Herrick's death. He tried to narrow down who it was. He knew it was someone who'd just come in. Not the girl with the radioactive pink skirt and the green tights, but near her. Not the boy, stripped shirt and uni rugby tie, standing next to her. Then there was the tall man, all in black with the ridiculous number of bangles and baubles.
Great, it was some Goth wannabe that had been turned. That was all Mitchell needed, vampire posers.
It got worse for Mitchell; the gangling idiot was coming over this way. Mitchell hoped he wasn't looking for some sort of vampire solidarity. The other vampire sat next to him, and ordered a drink. Mitchell was about to tap him on the shoulder and tell him to hop it, but the other vampire caught his hand before it touched him. "I have had a very bad week. It would be better for you if you let me be."
Vampires have this sense of how old one another are, almost as good as the Antiques Roadshow; it told them where they fitted into the pecking order and all that, and Mitchell knew, in an instant, that this man was old.
And yet, George hadn't gone through all that for Mitchell to just roll over and let someone come and fill Herrick's place. "You'll find Bristol might not be the most welcoming place for you," he warned the newcomer.
"What's Herrick told you to do me?"
"What? Nothing."
"Well, that's a relief." The other vampire pulled out a bar stool and sat down. Mitchell went to grab him by the shoulder, show him who was boss, but the other vampire was too quick for him. He half-turned and grabbed Mitchell by the wrist before he could touch him. "Look, I don't know who you are, but I came here for a drink. Leave me alone, and I'll do the same to you."
"I don't think you get it."
"No, *you* don't. I've had a terrible week, and I'd be obliged if you leave me alone." The man turned away from him, and seemed to be happy to leave Mitchell to it.
Mitchell wasn't going to let him rest, his guilt stirring the fire in his belly. "You might want to know that I'm John Mitchell."
The other vampire laughed. It was a long, sour sort of laugh. "Sit down, idiot. You've had too much to drink. That's my name, fool, and it's been my name for longer than you've been alive."
Mitchell was confused. And angry. He wasn't important enough to have imposters, at least he hadn't been. "Liar."
The other man looked like he was about to smash Mitchell off his stool, but then he seemed to change his mind. Of all the things, he was laughing. "Word of advice, John Mitchell, avoid witches, they'll only do you a good turn in the stupidest of ways." The man was talking nonsense. Witches didn't exist. Now Mitchell admitted that he was a vampire saying this, which meant people might suggest he ought to keep a more open mind, if they knew and he happened to be the type of person who went around shouting about that kind of thing, but there was no such thing as witches. Vampires, yes, werewolves, yes, ghosts, thank goodness still yes, witches no.
"Pull the other one."
"It's the only thing that makes sense, because I know I'm John Mitchell, and you're sure you're him, and the chances of there being two John Mitchells who are vampires, running around Bristol, are small."
"So you're me from the future or something?" He made a disbelieving face. "We look nothing alike."
The other man shrugged. "I never said I'd worked it all out. Can you come up with a better explanation?"
"Yeah, you're mad, or you've fetched a thump to the head."
"Even if I was mad, why would I be quite so desperate as to pretend to be John Mitchell?" And wasn't that the truth in every way.
"I have a reputation."
"And you want none of it." That wasn't exactly a secret though.
Mitchell was willing to listen, which might have been the vodka, or might have been a pathetic need for there to be someone somewhere who understood him. "Say we pretend you're not mad and some witch has sent you here. Now why would she do that?"
"I helped her out with something and she knows I find myself in a difficult place and I need some advice."
"I wouldn't try to get it from me, mate; everything's fucked up around here." That was when Mitchell got the idea. If the other man, the other vampire, wasn't lying, and he didn't think he was, if only because you wouldn't invent such a stupid lie, then he might be able to make some good of this. If this guy was from the past and he could find out when in his past this other him was from, maybe he could stop George from doing the terrible thing he'd chosen to do to save Mitchell.
He ordered a round of shots and, taking the other him by the elbow, moved to a quieter part of the club. "There's something I need you to know." Mitchell wasn't a short man, but this other Mitchell was a head taller than him and was having to lean at odd angle to hear him. "You know Herrick. Short, fat, ginger,"
"Average height, black, suave,"
"Power-mad."
"That's the one." Apparently, there really were things far more essential to your character than what you looked like.
"You know he's up to something."
"He may have mentioned something about it."
"Well for once, he's not just talking about it." Mitchell assumed that if everything else was similar enough, then the way Herrick had always *talked* about doing something was also going to be the same for this other him. Why hadn't he listened, why hadn't he done something earlier, when Lauren had told him, when Herrick had made it more than clear that this time, he was serious.
Lauren, he thinks, in all of this, he'd forgotten Lauren. Maybe, if there was a Lauren for this Mitchell, maybe he could save her. It wouldn't be much, it wouldn't make up for all the terrible things he'd done to his Lauren, but it'd be something. "There's something else I need you to know, there's this girl, Lauren, and,"
"And your warning is five days, three hours and twenty-eight minutes late."
'And you, you poor bastard, have been thinking about it ever since, thinking that this time was the last time, and you're on the wagon for good now, and Herrick's going to take that away from you.' Mitchell was too late to save Lauren, again, but he'd have to carry on. "Your fairy godmother's not given us much time then. Herrick, at least the bastard I know, was planning to end the agreement, stop us hiding in the shadows. All-out vampire domination, basically. He wanted me, us, to join him. Join him or die. And I said no, like you're going to." Because if this man really was him, there was no other option. "So, we agreed to a fight, or at least, I thought we had. Then George, oh God, George ..." The other man's hand was around his wrist again, and it tightened, so much so that, if he'd still been human, Mitchell's wrist would have crumpled, broken and shattered by the pressure.
"What did you do to George?" No, Mitchell thought, there was no way this other him would have been stupid enough to make George have to kill for him.
"I didn't do anything to him, he did it to himself." Realising that didn't explain anything, and didn't help the situation, Mitchell tried to clarify what he'd said. "George found out what was happening, I don't know how, and he thought I wasn't strong enough, because I'd been in hospital." Mitchell answered the question before it was asked. "Wrong end of a stick." That Josie had given up what was left of her life for nothing, and for him who was worse than nothing. "George fought my fight for me. And Herrick's dead." He could see the other him putting the pieces together. He felt he might as well hurry up the inevitable. "George killed Herrick for me."
The other man snarled. That was the only word for it; it was animal, visceral and angry. For one moment it looked like Mitchell was going to put himself out of his own misery. "How could you? He's not like us. He's a good man."
"I know. I didn't do it to him. He did it to himself to save me, and that's the worst of it. That's why I'm telling you. You've got to stop him. Stop Herrick, and stop George from doing that to himself. If this witch has given you even half a chance at that, she's done you the best turn anyone ever has."
Mitchell described what had gone on, in as much detail as he could remember, like confession. Parts of it, the worst parts, were seared into his memory, never to be forgotten, but other bits, he had to think about. He thinks the whole sequence is important, because anything could have been the moment where he could or should have stopped Herrick but was distracted by something else. Between them, they're confused by a few things, mostly Annie. Who is and isn't the same at all, more so, by the sounds of it, than they aren't. He thinks things might hinge on Annie, in some strange way, what she is here and not there. Or not there yet. If they can somehow give Annie those telekinetic powers earlier, it might stop the whole thing, or the whole thing of it that hasn't happened yet. They will always have been five days, three hours and twenty-eight minutes too late.
Eventually, with the bar winding down for the night around them, they think they've got a plan sussed. The other Mitchell's even given him some suggestions about his problems. They are only suggestions, neither of them think there's a definite way out of it. He's got to try and get through to George, somehow make him feel better about what he's done, or at least stop letting it eat at him. If he can. Because Mitchell knows, both of them, that the thing that's eating at George is killing someone else, even if that someone is Herrick, who'd do the same to George, to anyone, without blinking. That's what separates George from them. It's what makes them like Herrick, no matter how much they'd like to deny it.
The bar staff were starting to look at them, like they would like them to move so they can get on with clearing up, even if it's not actually officially chucking out time, because they'd like to be home in bed. He's a hospital porter, they're both hospital porters, so he understands the feeling. But he wasn't sure he wanted to leave. This place had a strange kind of safety. In here, he wasn't alone. When he leaves, it'll be back to his life with no way out any way he looks.
But they've got to leave some time.
They managed to put on the right leather jackets on the second attempt. It took finding the truly, truly stupid fluffy keyring in the right-hand pocket for him to realise he'd picked up the other Mitchell's jacket on the first go.
Mitchell grasped the other Mitchell on the top of his arm by way of goodbye, turned to him and said. "Listen, if we never meet each other again..." There's a look on the other Mitchell's face, sardonic amusement hiding something, which even on a few hours's acquaintance Mitchell knows is how he always looks. This time, it wasn't quite hiding a certain sort of sadness. No, they wouldn't meet again, and then they'd both be alone. "Okay, since we'll never meet again, because you're going to fix this and that'll change things enough that you won't be the next nearest universe over and any passing friendly witches who owe you a favour won't shove you into my universe again," never before had he put such fervent hope into such a stupid sentence, "look after George for me. I don't think he'll ever let me do that for him again."
The other Mitchell, because they're both John Mitchell, understood exactly what he meant by that, and why losing George's trust was quite so terrible. That'll be the thing Mitchell will miss when they leave this club. Someone who understands what it's like to be him, because George and Annie are good so they can't, and Herrick never understood because he never wanted not to be a blood-drinking killer, and Karl never understood because he never wanted to be a killer, not the way Mitchell sometimes did, the fire, the anger and the joy of it.
"I want to tell you it will get better as you get older." The other Mitchell's smile was how other people cried. "It doesn't. You will outlive George, and Annie will find her way beyond the men with sticks," because Annie, more than most people, didn't deserve the men with sticks, "and it will hurt like it's the end of the world. The worst thing is, it isn't. You carry on. And you swear, this time is the last, and then thirty, forty years later, you meet someone else. And they're not George, but you love them anyway, and it all happens again. And those are the good years. The rest of it's like swallowing razor blades, which from the girl on the ward two weeks ago, I wouldn't recommend." The other Mitchell shrugged, defeated. "We carry on, you and I, because we're too cowardly to do anything else."
And they did carry on, pretending like they were two normal people stumbling home this time of morning, walking in nothing like lockstep, because Mitchell's not a small man but he's having to take a step and a half for each of the other's, but heading in the same direction. They laugh about it, because yes, obviously, if they're both going home, they're going to the same place, with the mould in the bathroom corner and Annie's endless cups of tea. In other ways, of course, it's not the same at all, and Mitchell doesn't just mean the colour of the living room walls; the other Mitchell is going back to somewhere where George is still speaking to him properly, not only when there's no way to avoid it. But hopefully, this will stop that happening to the other him.
They're mostly silent as they walk, because no version of John Mitchell talks a lot, well *he* does sometimes, but only when he's excited, and he's not sure he's reached excited for a while now. He tried to ignore the way the other Mitchell became quieter, as he slowly faded out of view, sardonic grin the last thing left like a vampiric Cheshire cat.
As Mitchell put the key in the front door lock, he was alone again, the only John Mitchell in Bristol.
End notes: I am sure my title is an accidental riff from some pop culture sci-fi thing, but google is not being helpful as to what. I thought it could be The Twilight Zone but a quick run through the quotes on wiki suggests not. If anyone can identify what it is, I'd be glad to know.
With regard to Being Human, I remain utterly convinced that Hal's story was what they were originally going to do with Mitchell. I was intrigued by the similarities and differences between the pilot and series and I wanted to explore that hence this fic.