Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to the Beeb, all hail the mighty Beeb…

February, 2007 - Bristol


There was a reason why Seth hadn't seen a werewolf in Bristol for years. Bad news has a habit of travelling quickly, and Herrick was the very definition of bad news. Bristol was a vampire enclave, and had a no tolerance policy towards werewolves - or, indeed, anything else that went bump in the night.

Mitchell had met werewolves before. One on the battlefields of France, a few more in London, and his hometown of Dublin was rife with them. Some of them were just as wet behind the ears as this one, but none of them were as clueless as the bloodied, panicked boy in front of him. Did he really not know about vampires? What about the werewolf who'd scratched him? Didn't they usually stick around long enough to tell the new ones the basics? He was sure Herrick had said something along those lines, when he wasn't taking the piss out of them..

The fear and disbelief in the lyco's eyes told another story, however.

"You're going to have to leave" Mitchell told him evenly. "They're going to come back. They always do…I'm sorry." That last word felt strange in his mouth, but the stricken expression on the werewolf's face almost compelled him to say it. As if this were, somehow, all his fault.

He looked away before he said something even more stupid, and walked away. He'd done his good deed for the decade. Herrick would be expecting him soon.

"And then what?" The lyco's voice called after him, and Mitchell turned to look at him. He was standing under the glare of the street light, his nose bloodied and broken. His clothes were a total write off. He looked defeated, utterly defeated. "I can't keep…I've lost everything…I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires? And they want to kill me…so I have to leave…and then what?"

Mitchell felt something inside him turn as he looked at the hopeless expression on the werewolf's face. It had been a long time since he'd seen his own reflection, but he secretly suspected it looked a lot like this.

A beat, then two, and then:

"You'll need to new place to live," Mitchell said. "There's a hostel nearby. It should do you for a while."

The lyco blinked. "What?" he said. "I don't…I mean—"

"C'mon," Mitchell said impatiently. "If I'm gone more than an hour, they'll know something is up. You said you lived up there, over the café?"

"Uh…yes?"

"Well then, let's get you cleaned up and on your way." Something inside him winced as he heard echoes of his Mam in his voice.

"But then what?" the Lyco said. "I can't go back to work at the Caf. You said they'll come back."

"First things first, okay?" Mitchell said firmly. "We'll worry about that stuff if you're still alive in the morning."

"Uh...well...that sounds rather ominous," he said, tremulously.

He was actually helping the werewolf pack – well, he was stuffing his three changes of clothing into a ratty backpack, but it was close enough. The kid had his head bent over the sink in the flat's kitchenette, and he'd already done a surprisingly good job of straightening his nose, and was now trying tried to staunch the blood.

Almost on reflex, Mitchell inhaled and caught his scent. Like most lycos, he smelled mostly human, but the taint of lycanthropy threaded through it and made him unpalatable to Mitchell's hunger. Which was just as well, really; he didn't think the kid could handle a reminder of what he was, not right now...

The werewolf straightened and turned to look at him. Two little sprigs of cotton wool were peeking out of his nostrils, and Mitchell tried not to laugh.

"You're trying not to laugh, aren't you?" the lyco said sharply.

"Who, me? Oh no, no." A snort escaped, and the werewolf crossed his arms and glared at him balefully. "Well, yeah, maybe just a little bit," Mitchell admitted, and started to grin as the werewolf's nose flared and one of the pieces of cotton wool fell out.

Holding his hand to his nose, the lyco turned back to the sink and grabbed some more cotton wool. "It's George, by the way," he said distractedly.

"What?" Mitchell said.

"My name is George," he said. "I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, by waiting for you to remember your manners and ask me, but something tells me that wasn't about to happen any time soon."

"You are a sarky bastard, aren't you?" Mitchell said, dryly, as he felt inside his coat and pulled out his cigarettes.

"Blood loss does that to me," he grumbled. "And don't you dare light that up in here. I have enough health problems without adding lung cancer to the list."

Mitchell raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm Mitchell," he said, by way of a peace offering, as he put the cigarettes away.

"I know," he said. "I heard that other one say your name."

Mitchell nodded, slightly impressed that the lyco – George – had been aware enough to absorb that, even though he was being beaten within an inch of his life at the time. He came to a decision. "You look as if you've had some medical training," he said.

George looked away. "Another lifetime," he said briefly, as he stuffed the cotton wool, along with his tooth brush and shampoo, into a plastic bag, and crammed it into his backpack.

Ah, Mitchell understood what that meant. "Does that mean you have an aversion to working in hospitals?" he asked.

"Not really." George looked at him suspiciously "Why do you ask?" he said.

Mitchell smiled at him. "Because I think I see a brand new career opportunity in your future.

"Oh." George smiled tentatively back. "Sounds…interesting."

Before he could even question what he was doing, Mitchell crossed the room and threw an arm around his shoulder. "You're going to love it," he lied.

George eyed the arm around his shoulder and looked as if he were about to bolt. "I think you're just a little bit crazy, you know that?" he said querulously.

"Of course I am. I'm talking to you, amn't?" Mitchell countered. "C'mon, lets get going…we don't want to miss it."

"Miss what?"

The hostel curfew, you stupid bugger, Mitchell was about to say, but he noticed the beginnings of hope on George's face and said, instead, "We'll miss what comes next, of course."

Fate, like love, was a fickle thing, and Mitchell couldn't help the half smile that had settled on his face as they stepped out onto the street. He had a funny feeling that life was going to become very interesting.

But at least he had someone on the journey with him.

FINIS