Summary: The sordid history that molded Mitchell into the wreck of a person he is now.
Warnings: Serious non-con and dub-con situations. Mildly graphic sex, very graphic violence. Can't be too classy when you're writing about vampires, after all.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except a Netflix account which I use to admire Aidan Turner's face as much as possible.
I Recall You Welcomed Me with Open Arms
Mitchell slept with two girls back home before enlisting. One was older than him, and said she was going to school to be an archeologist, and neither of them believed that but they had a good night together. The other was a farmer's timid daughter with big eyes who was surprisingly loud in bed.
More than once, Mitchell caught himself staring too long at the men in his company while they all showered. It made his stomach and his heart switch places. For a week he refused to sleep more than an hour at a time, afraid that he might say something incriminating in his dreams.
The decision to sacrifice himself to save his men came easily, and Mitchell tried not to think about why.
When Herrick makes a pass at Mitchell, there is no romance or seduction. He treats it like the most natural thing in the world. It must be expected of them. Mitchell remembers how the shirtless soldiers made him feel, and after all, he owes Herrick for sparing him; it stands to reason that he also wants more from their relationship.
The first time Herrick takes him, it isn't fast or slow or rough or sensual. It isn't anything. It isn't even long, though it seems it to Mitchell while he lays there, cheek pressed into wadded-up sheets, forgetting the beginning and end and what else there ever was.
It aches dully, a faint pain that pulses out from Mitchell's gut. He makes it mildly worse by tensing up, clenching his whole body in some hope that it will become numb; fisting the sheets willfully; grinding his teeth; scrunching up his face to look for other things behind his eyelids. This can hardly be called pain compared to other horrors Mitchell has experienced-and inflicted-since he wants this, after all. But it lingers. It hooks into something behind his eyes, digs its heels in and forces itself on the parts of him that are left.
Every vampire fights in his own way. Some were once trained as soldiers, and still have a strict rigidity about their attacks. Some grew up part of history's never-ending working-class and so use whatever tools the environment offers them. Some never fought a day in their life before that fateful bite; these are usually sloppy, and rely on defense over offense.
Mitchell possesses a perfect combination of combat gifts. His body frozen in its physical prime, he overpowers most opponents if they choose to fight back. He dodges and maneuvers with a fluidity the older vampires can rarely achieve. His resourcefulness undoubtedly comes from growing up on a struggling farm in South Ireland; his knack for stealth, from training in the army.
Herrick's men can't get a good read on Mitchell, at first. He's young. He tells innocent jokes, watches them argue with wide eyes, and furrows his brow when trying to pick apart strategies, which he never understands. But Herrick always points him to the thick of battle, and he always comes back with blown pupils and bright eyes, covered in the blood of other men.
One day a stout 130-something tries to prove himself by leaping out of a copse onto enemy scouts, only to get surrounded by three bayonets. Without a sound, Mitchell chucks a knife into one while tearing the throat out of another, twists the bayonet off the dead man's rifle and turns his soulless eyes on the last enemy, who flees screaming through the trees.
"What're you running for? I thought we were having fun!" Mitchell bares his teeth in a manic grin, his voice coming apart around the edges.
That night, after the company has washed up and made supper, talk turns to the ladies they'd had in a little French village not two weeks before. Again, Mitchell's eyes go wide and cheeks turn red, reminding everyone how many years there are between them.
Herrick had many women, scores of them, but only one man, at least at a time. Most of their people knew how far his relationship with Mitchell went, but woe to he who said anything out loud or in public. For awhile their silence was a blessing that allowed Mitchell some shred of dignity.
After awhile silence became boring. Whenever they could catch Mitchell alone, the taunting began. Lap dog. Whore. You're nothing but his bedroom toy. Filthy. He'd just keep you locked up if you didn't kill so well.
They escalated the longer Mitchell ignored them. Why don't you come to my bed? You know you want to. You know all you're good for is biting necks and spreading your legs.
A door stop digs into Mitchell's shoulder blade where he stands pinned against the wall. The vampire before him crowds his personal space, just close enough to brush against him in all the wrong places. His name is Peter or Philip or something plain. His knuckles press into the wall, framing Mitchell's face. Peter's body is middle-aged, but if Mitchell remembers correctly, he fought in one of Napoleon's armies. And he's cornered Mitchell before.
"How many times do I have to ask?" he moans. Mitchell squirms and sucks in a breath. The air feels heavy with the smell of black pepper and something sour. Mitchell keeps his eyes trained across the room, staring resolutely at a stain on the wall. Peter continues, his lips too close to Mitchell's neck, "Young pretty things like you don't come along often enough. Why should Herrick have all the fun?"
Copper wafts on his breath and makes Mitchell's eyes water. The stain vaguely resembles a dog. Maybe a sheep-dog.
"Leave me alone," Mitchell gasps, focusing intently on the dog-stain.
Peter snorts with laughter. "Gee, how intimidating," he sneers. Then he drops his voice and presses his lips to Mitchell's ear. "It's cruel, really. Herrick parades you around and shows you off, but won't ever share. He calls you our little hell hound, but we all know you're just his bitch."
Mitchell blinks back a haze in his eyes and tries to swallow, but finds his throat obstructed.
Peter roughly pushes Mitchell's legs apart with a hard thigh and rasps, "One night he'll leave you alone and I'll fuck you in the dark like the dog you are."
The stain wobbles. No, it's not a sheep-dog. It's a wolf. A wolf with it's head thrown back, pleading to the moon.
Peter eventually follows through on his threats, catching Mitchell deep in sleep, defenseless and confused until it is too late. Peter grunts out a monologue while Mitchell shudders under him. Something about better than I'd imagined and why do you think we keep you around and thank you and we should do this again sometime.
Mitchell is too terrified to tell Herrick, but Peter was only the first.
One night, when Herrick catches them in the act-one holding Mitchell down by his hair, pinned to the table, while the other takes him roughly from behind-Mitchell feels a perverse relief because surely Herrick will go into a rage at that. Surely he will punish them, maybe punish Mitchell, and even that small rescue would be welcome.
Instead he slowly takes a seat in the shadows and opens the front of his pants and finishes himself while Mitchell struggles harder. No one says anything. Only Mitchell's ragged sobs and the scrape of table-legs on the floor break the dark silence.
After that night, Herrick invites others into the bedroom with them, sometimes with Mitchell's permission, sometimes without. He likes to watch and if he's watching, he prefers a fight. Mitchell hates to give him the pleasure but his body can't help but buck and flail in resistance. When they leave, Herrick comforts him and thanks him and runs his hands over his chest and hips and thighs until Mitchell stops shaking.
He owes Herrick so much-for empowering him, for showing him what it's like to truly live. He doesn't know what to say. All he can do is nod and bite his lip.
One night, the other vampire is younger and less repulsive than usual and Mitchell tries to enjoy it. He moves sensually, murmurs sweet things, and kisses him. They look into each other's eyes and Mitchell thinks he's never seen a more beautiful color, though he can't put a name to it. They even both climax before it's over.
That earns him a beating afterwards. When Herrick's hands grow bloody and sore, he brings Seth in to keep up the deluge while he continues to spit lectures and abuse. Something about Mitchell belonging to him and giving himself up like a slut off the street and other insults of which Mitchell has long grown weary.
Sometimes Herrick brings a human with him, some unwitting soul who finds Mitchell devastatingly handsome and simply can't pass him up. These nights are loud, the pumping of blood ringing in Mitchell's ears, and before he can finish Herrick's voice always cuts through the din, "take her! Take her!" Mitchell's vision inevitably goes white and the next thing he knows, he's buried to the gums in veins and arteries and sinews, and that raging pulse is all he can hear and feel and all he can taste.
In Mitchell's memory, the First and Second World Wars blend together. His duties and his role remain the same, after all.
In the forties, he becomes vaguely aware that the other vampires respect him more. He's proven himself enough, that he's stronger and more devious. He doesn't fight fair, which impresses them. They can't force him into bed anymore.
Peter tries, though, one night when they are holed up in an apartment in northern France. Mitchell chews through his spinal cord.
No one knows how much time has passed when they find Peter's lifeless body heaped in the middle of the moonlit room. Mitchell is thrust into a dark corner, fingers twisted into his hair and feet kicking desperately at the blood-stained rug. His wretched sobs sound like a wounded animal.
This isn't the first vampire Mitchell has killed, but it's the first he's cried for.
Though the Second World War is largely unmemorable to Mitchell, the Korean conflict sticks in his mind. It marks when Mitchell started sleeping around without Herrick's permission, and subsequently when he started losing track of kills.
He fits seamlessly into their group's bar brawls and one-night-stands. Luke is the loud one, Tom is the polite one, William has a temper, and Mitchell is the funny one. His sarcasm bubbles up, harsh and unexpected, and they accept him.
He doesn't stop following Herrick's orders until he meets Josie.
xXx
Author's note: OK, so that happened and I might have taken everything too far... let me know what you think. Mitchell is a pretty fucked up individual, so it doesn't feel right to back down, or anything.
There's more coming; in fact I have quite a bit more written, but Carl is giving me SUCH a hard time. (Originally, this was only meant to be an easy-going like 1000-or-so words, Mitchell is sick, blablah; and now here I am, giving birth to a monster with characters and feelings. Sigh)