My first attempt at writing for Being Human. Set just after the season 2 finale, in Wales.
There were times when George looked at Mitchell and saw a human.
An impossibly lost human with dark eyes and crescent moons beneath.
Shadows spoiling the pale, lily white skin.
He looked young.
And he was – forever young, trapped in his own immortality, frozen in time like a photograph whose smile never falters, whose skin never withers, whose dreams never end.
At one hundred and seventeen years old, Mitchell had lived far longer than most humans and yet at the same time, he hadn't lived at all.
"What is this?"
"What?"
George blinked, the television remote falling gracefully into his lap as his eyes darted away from the unconscious form of Mitchell asleep on the opposite sofa and looked up at Nina.
She was ruffled, hair array, pyjamas crinkled, eyes squinted against the harsh light of the plasma.
"Huh?" He said, with a dumb shrug.
Nina smiled and dropped down beside him, fitting snugly under his arm. "What are you watching?"
George didn't even know - he hadn't been watching the screen at all.
He had been staring at the insomniac vampire for far too long (it was certainly long enough) and he wasn't even sure what he'd been feeling.
Pity for the murderous killer who happened to be his best friend.
Anger (at whom, he wasn't sure. Mitchell? Maybe. The world? Most definitely.)
And something else he couldn't quite fathom.
And Nina had noticed from a distance and stayed silent.
Watching quietly, like a ghost.
Like Annie.
Dead (well, deader) Annie.
"Something about the First World War, I think," George murmured gently as the gunfire hummed softly through the speakers and actors tumbled from the trenches and into death, "Did you know Mitchell was there?"
"In the war?"
"Yeah."
"No, he never said." Nina sounded quietly surprised, almost like the thought had never occurred to her that Mitchell was human once. A young man, a boy dressed in a soldier's uniform fighting a war he didn't believe in.
A war he didn't understand.
Mitchell had said once, long ago, that going over the top to face the German bullets was easier that fighting the blood lust which lingered over every conscious thought, consuming every waking moment, tainting every pure emotion.
"Yeah, he doesn't like to talk about it." George said without realising and that was because he'd never asked Mitchell if he wanted to talk. He just assumed it was too distant a memory to talk about over a cup tea with a twenty-something year old werewolf.
"You're worried about him."
Nina stated bluntly, not accusingly, or questioningly but just in that way only Nina could manage. In a way that proved further how she knew exactly what George was thinking and feeling and wishing at any given moment.
A surge of love later and he answered.
"More than I have ever been before. Since Annie, he's been….quiet. Too quiet, you know? I'd rather he was angry or moody or sarcastic or something but he's just nothing."
"He feels guilt, George. And he should."
She was right and George knew it, but Mitchell was his friend, his brother, the man who'd saved him from himself – all logic went out the window with that declaration.
"I know, I know. But – "
"You care about him. You love him-"George glanced at her with wide eyes, "- In a totally 'bromantic' way, obviously-"
"Obviously."
"Yeah and so I get it. But it's only been a few days since Annie…went. I'm sure the bloodlust is bad since he 'fell off the wagon' and – "
"And he's having nightmares."
"You noticed?"
"Of course I did…did you?"
"I know I sleep deeply, George, but even I can hear him sobbing in his sleep. I wanted to go to him last night. It was awful." Nina sighed under her breath and her voice trailed off into the night, lost amongst the guns.
"I did." George said shortly, curtly with his gaze locked on the TV and looking right through it. Nina looked at him questioningly. "I went to him and I sat there and I spoke to him. He didn't wake up."
"Did it work?" She whispered, with a hesitation.
"I don't know. Maybe. I gave up in the end. Just sat next to his pillow and waited for it to stop." George let his head drop down on Nina's, his cheek on her hair, his heart next to her ear.
"You're a good friend."
"I'm an amazing friend. And an even better boyfriend." George smirked and she chuckled, punching him lightly (not that lightly) on the arm.
It was then that Mitchell shifted from his back and onto his side, one arm falling off the sofa and brushing the floorboards, his nose buried in the smoke-stained fabric, his chapped lips twitching.
He murmured under his breath and George couldn't hear what he said.
It rhymed with 'bannie' though.
Canny.
Danny.
Annie.
They lapsed into silence for a few minutes.
The programme ended.
The wind tapped on the window panes.
Mitchell whispered again.
"Are you coming to bed?"
"No, Nina, not yet." George answered instantly and he felt Nina nod.
"I thought as much."
"You can go, if you want."
Inside, George hoped she'd never leave.
"Nah….I think I'll stay. Someone needs to keep you company because it looks like Mitchell's out for night."
"Thank the lord for that."
"We should thank someone."
George frowned and turned to look at her and their gazes met, time stilled, the TV paused, the stars flashed and the earth stopped turning in the inky blackness.
"We should thank someone that we're still here. You, me….Mitchell." Nina blinked, her eyelashes brushing against her cheeks, "I don't know who…God, Ganesha, Allah….
"A bloody giant rabbit." George smiled for the first time in days.
"A giant bloody rabbit called Frank."
"Or Percy."
"Or an angel called Annie."
"I really miss her, Nina."
"I knew you do, George. But we're still here and we're not going anywhere."
And George believed her.
He had to.
For Nina.
For Mitchell.
And for himself.