Hello! I immediately decided to write some stuff after being inspired by the Pilot episode of Being Human. I've watched Season 1 already (late, I know) and somehow, as much as I like the female characters, I'm still a SLASH George/ Mitchell fan! And yes, it definitely had something to do with the landlord accusing them of being lovers… anyway, the following stuff is pretty much interaction between them around the house, outside, when George's transforming etc. There isn't anything hardcore or smutty (at least not yet!), but definitely hints of something a lot stronger than just bro/ housemate love.
Do review and let me know what you think. Chapters will be out as and when I'm inspired by new ideas. Don't like slash, don't read it, please!
VIGNETTE 1
"Will you stop fooling around?" George complained, turning to glare at the vampire, his lips pursed in a scowl. "Take your feet off my lap."
"Why? They're not dirty," Mitchell lazily replied, refusing to move them an inch.
George was really starting to regret his initial enthusiasm over the couch. Yes, it was leather, genuine leather, and it could even fit three blokes if they sat up straight, but still. Mitchell wasn't sitting up straight at this point in time, or at any point in time, for that matter. It seemed that every time he watched the television, Mitchell had to plop down right next to him – oh, wait. Mitchell never plopped. He always sat down with aplomb, but that ultimately turned into a certain sloppiness that always ended up with his head on George's shoulder, or his arm flush against George's, or his leg touching George's, or his feet – his feet, damn it – on George's lap. It wasn't George's fault, he knew that for sure. He always sat on his side of the sofa neatly. It was always Mitchell invading his space.
"It's not about them being dirty. It's just you being a total slob. I mean, seriously. You're taking up practically three quarters of this couch and you still have to sling your bloody legs on me? We need to have rules. Boundaries." Even as George said it he knew it was futile. Mitchell always ignored him, and it was always him rambling on about the daily necessities – necessities, mind you – that didn't seem to exist, or remotely matter, to his housemate.
"Boundaries?" Mitchell inquired, an eyebrow raised. So he was listening after all.
"Boundaries," George opened his mouth to continue, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way Mitchell's faced looked. He couldn't quite describe it, but there seemed to be deep unease in the other man's face. "Boundaries." He repeated again, rather lamely.
The vampire grabbed the remote and switched off the TV, swinging his legs off of his perturbed friend. "So you're saying that we should respect each other, and draw a clear line as to where each of our lives start and begin? A dividing one?"
George stared at Mitchell, his eyebrows lifting. "Exactly," he replies, surprised. "Like a divisive line on this couch. You sit here. I sit there. That's the way it should be."
"Well if that's the case, I'd like you to take all those infernal brussel sprouts and beer and god knows what else from my side of the fridge and dump them. Same goes for that ridiculous chinaware you insist on cluttering up my side of the dining table with," Mitchell watched carefully as the werewolf, still human, shifted in his side of the couch in shock, "and of course, the garden. Rip out those ridiculous vegetables from my side, thank you very much."
"But- but you like the chinaware! You said so yourself!," George retorted, eyes blazing.
"That's what I told you. But really, they're the ugliest things I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of things in my lifetime." The moment Mitchell said it he half-regretted it. Half, because part of what made his cruelty worth it was watching George try to hide the hurt.
"A-and the garden," the other man continued to splutter, "you don't even like the damned garden. You don't even go out in the damned sun!"
"Doesn't change the fact that we bought this house together, which makes exactly half of that garden-" Mitchell lazily inspected a hangnail on his right index finger, "mine." He looked up to see an angry George getting up, muttering something about stupid sun-hating arse wants the garden, fine, bloody vampire making a big deal out of a molehill, storming past him, but not before Mitchell grabbed hold of his hand, stifling a familiar urge as he felt the strong feral pulse underneath George's hot skin. Before George could complain Mitchell had strongarmed him into his lap, and the two tussled. Werewolf and vampire, part human, part animal, and struggling for dominance. Mitchell let George scratch him a few times, half-punch him, bruise him for all of a second (just so that he didn't bruise George's silly, naïve, fragile male ego) before pinning him so that he couldn't move.
"You can keep your garden," he whispers because his face is so close to George's, "and I want you to leave the damned china on my side of the table. But in exchange, the-" he paused to figure out how to say this without the truth spilling out, "the couch is mine, even while you're on it. And you don't complain anymore about it. You got it?" He searched George's face for an answer, but the strange thing was that the werewolf's face wasn't the usual mix of masculine anger and stubbornness. There was something else. Wonder.
Suddenly, Mitchell realised that his pupils had fully dilated, and in a split second he had simultaneously released and gotten ten feet away from George. I'd forgotten to control myself, he cursed, turning away, afraid to look at George in case he found what he almost always found in everybody else who had seen him in his animalistic, near-uncontrollable state of arousal. Fear.
"Okay," he heard, and he turned around. To his surprise, there was no trace of fear on George's face, no matter how he scrutinized it. "Fine. As long as I keep getting to grow my vegetables. Okay." Somehow Mitchell knew that the damned greens weren't nearly the most important part of this strange, awkward conversation, but he didn't care. Even as he turned away he felt relief course through him. Boundaries? George wanted to talk boundaries? How could this naïve bloke ever understand that no one understood boundaries like he did? He shuddered – but then again, George must never know that my entire sanity rests on him not putting up a boundary between us.