A/N Thanks for following! Thanks again to best-beta Annie! If you like it, tell your friends and don't be shy about leaving feedback.
the man whose legs buckled under exertion kept on running
the man whose ears rang with the sound of his own name kept on listening
hair of the dog…hair of the dog
~ Bauhaus~
From the TV Myrna Loy and William Powell volleyed humorous banter but for Mitchell it only bounced about the living room as droning noise. He tried to shrug off the creeping worry when his 'U get lost?' text from a minute earlier remained unanswered.
At the same second he'd hit 'send' Annie pushed herself up from the sofa and crossed to the window. A moment later, when Mitchell's call to their friend only got him George's voicemail, he mimicked Annie's movement. He stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder to comfort them both, and glanced over the top of her head to the quiet street.
With a quick squeeze to the ghost's shoulder Mitchell headed for the door. He tugged on his boots and leather jacket and pulled open the door before looking back at Annie.
"Maybe I'll just hit the shop," he said.
"Yeah." Annie didn't have to vocalize what she was really thinking. The worry was etched into her furrowed brow. "Be…."
Mitchell sensed she was about to say 'Be careful' but by saying that it would mean something had happened to George. And neither of them wanted to face that thought.
"…back soon," she finished.
Mitchell nodded and knew his own fear showed on his face. "Right."
He jumped down the front steps and was aware of Annie watching his back as he jogged toward the hospital.
()()
The light from the all-night shop encouraged Mitchell to quicken his pace. He yanked open the door, half-expecting to see George at the counter, blushing face and shuffling stance, attempting to chat up the little red-headed shop assistant with all the smoothness of a fourteen-year-old boy faced with his first pair of breasts.
His heart sank. From her perch on a tall stool behind the counter, the red-head smiled in recognition at one of her semi-regular customers.
"Hallo, haven't seen you boys 'round in a while. Hope you're not going behind me back with that late night market over on Wells."
Mitchell forced a small laugh. "No, no. So, you, uh, didn't see my mate in here within the last hour?"
"No, it's been a tomb 'round here tonight."
Mitchell was out the door before she finished her sentence.
()()
The soles of his boots slapped hard against the sidewalk as he ran but, despite the speed afforded him by his "condition", Mitchell still felt he couldn't move fast enough.
He sprinted off Redcliff Hill to Guinea Street where the hospital sat, creating its own glow in the late night. Street lamps dropped blobs of pale blue-grey on the pavement and road. With his attention focused on getting to the back entrance of the hospital, Mitchell nearly missed the dark lump on the pavement across the street from him.
It sat in the spotlight of one of the lamps, unassuming and not worthy of the dread with which Mitchell approached it.
"No, no, no," he whispered as he crossed to it and verified what it was. With a tentative hand he picked up George's backpack and scanned his surroundings, desperate for a clue as to what had happened. A glint of reflected light from the street caught his attention and he felt ill.
He didn't even have to get close to identify them—George's glasses. With the backpack now clutched tight to his chest, Mitchell retrieved the glasses from the middle of the street and tucked them carefully into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
The hospital offered little hope for answers but he ran towards it nonetheless. A minute later he burst through one of the back doors, skidding to a stop at a nurses' station. Mitchell tried to calm himself before addressing the older nurse seated behind the high counter.
"Hey Colleen, seen George tonight?"
"Yeah, he was off shift about an hour ago. Headed home." She nodded in the direction Mitchell had just come from. Her brow furrowed as she watched him. "You all right, doll?"
Mitchell couldn't bring himself to answer. All he could do was release his hold on the backpack in his arms and pass it over the counter. "Could you do me a huge favour and mind this for me?"
"No worries, luv, I'll put it back in the office. Is George all right?"
Again, Mitchell couldn't get an answer out. "Thanks, Colleen! I gotta go!"
He dug his mobile from his pocket as he ran back to where he'd found the backpack. For the fourth time in less than an hour George's voicemail told him to leave a message but Mitchell just disconnected the call to phone Annie. She answered on the first ring.
"George?"
Mitchell's words tumbled out. "I can't find him, Annie! He never made it to the shop, one of the nurses saw him leave work, I found his bag and his glasses in the street, jus' lyin' there in the open. I'm headed back now to the spot but I don't know what's happened, I don't…it doesn't make sense."
"Mitchell, Mitchell!" Annie shouted at him to get his attention. "We'll find him. You'll find him. And…he'll be all right."
In the dark, Mitchell nodded. "Right…right. I'll ring you back if-when I have something."
They signed off and Mitchell found himself in the same spotlight where he'd discovered his friend's backpack. He jammed his mobile into his back pocket and raked his hands through his hair. He needed to find him. Had to find him. It would all fall apart if they lost him.
The night the two of them met, despite the violence inflicted on George by vampires, the newly-turned werewolf had opened himself up to Mitchell. He'd trusted him and, over their months together, set an example for the vampire for how to access the humanity Mitchell so desperately sought and needed.
Frustration and fear welled in him and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to block out the images flooding his mind. Was it a repeat of their meeting—three against one, George curled against the kicks, his blood spotting the stone wall? But this time Mitchell was too late?
He turned a slow circle, feeling lost. "George. GEORGE!"
Human hearing probably would have missed the whisper that came out of the dark. Human eyes would have dismissed the figure on the edge of the alley as a shadow. "Mitchell."
The vampire froze and zeroed in on the man pressed against the building across the street. He inhaled and recognized the faint scent of the undead. A half of a second was all it took for Mitchell to close the gap between him and the mystery man.
He had the man pinned to the wall before even trying to identify him. When he did recognize the figure in his grip Mitchell was a bit taken aback. "Roger?"
The shock showing on the face of the other vampire didn't lessen. "It wasn't me! I don't know what it's about! I jus' came to find you."
Mitchell eased his grip on Roger's throat. "Find me why?"
"Yer mate, the lyco-"
Emotion flooded through Mitchell and he felt his eyes flash black; Roger gagged as strong fingers again clamped down on his windpipe. "WHERE IS HE?" Mitchell could feel the other vampire shaking but he didn't care. Hands clawed at his arms.
"Mitch'l, please, I'm tryin'…."
After a second Mitchell's vision cleared and he released Roger but kept the space tight between them. The smaller vampire couldn't seem to get the words out fast enough.
"I jus' figured I owed you after you helped me with that thing back in January. I jus' come from The Tin Door, ya know the tastin' place east of here, and I knew you fellas worked at the hospital so I was comin' to find you."
"The point, Roger."
"Right. Earlier these three blokes comes in to The Tin and I hears 'em talkin' to Gabe."
Mitchell's questioning expression prompted Roger to interrupt himself.
"Gabe, he runs the place. Anyways, they say they're lookin' to rent one of the downstairs rooms. I don't know where they's from but one of 'em—a skinny little punk—says, 'We need a place like this in Southampton'. Anyways, the oldest lookin' guy tells Gabe they're waitin' on one more bloke and then a bit after that two of 'em leaves and a bit after that when I'm leavin', I sees them draggin' somebody down the stairs."
He paused, as if scared to finish. "I'm positive it was that… yer friend."
Mitchell's knees slackened and he took a step back, as if distancing himself from the messenger would make the news untrue.
Roger spoke again. "I'm sure he was alive…a little rough 'round the edges, if ya know what I mean, but he was upright and his legs were still workin'. But I didn't think it was right, ya know. I mean, I know he's a wolf and all, but if you like 'im maybe he's a decent sort. So I figured you should know."
Mitchell clapped his hands to Roger's upper arms, unintentionally causing the other man to flinch. "Thanks, Roger." He jogged backwards, calling out as he disappeared in the dark. "I owe you. I owe you."
()()()()
In the small basement room, George realized the shivering that started in the trunk of the car had become harder to control. Thanks to a coffee spill on the way to work, his plaid button-up was balled up in his backpack, wherever that might be. He'd left the hospital in a white t-shirt and his jacket, which was another casualty in this night of one-thousand horrible moments.
At least he had the strange solace of being alone. After Sheldon left to wait for the mysterious McCallan it didn't take his boys long to crave a drink over hanging out in a dank basement. Above him, George could hear the clunks and scrapes of people moving about but the hallway outside remained quiet.
He'd waited barely fifteen seconds after Ian and Andy left before testing the strength of the floor-to-ceiling pipe his arms were handcuffed around. He slammed against it with his back and pulled as hard as the pain at his wrists would allow but to no avail. The sweat he'd generated cooled rapidly, leaving his shirt damp against his back and chest.
For the hundredth time, he scanned the concrete room; however, without his glasses, decent light and the freedom to move about, it generated nothing more than a greater feeling of hopelessness.
The pain in his head had subsided somewhat, but that had been replaced by a feeling in his chest, so deep as to be a physical ache. He slumped back against the pipe.
"I'm sorry guys."
He cursed himself for allowing this to happen. Mitchell and Annie didn't deserve any more anguish in their lives. His unexplained disappearance would wreck the tight, carefully balanced family the three of them had created. It might keep Annie earthbound, and more worrying, it could shatter Mitchell's fortitude.
Mitchell had appeared in George's life and literally saved it. Since that night in the alley, George had hoped by being a solid shoulder for his friend to lean on, he could return the favour.
Mitchell had become his brother, Annie his sister. They'd helped George rebuild a meaningful, laughter-filled existence after his old life had been ripped from him. Annie's little pink house on Windsor Terrace hadn't just become their home; it was their protection against a world that couldn't accept them as they were.
And he'd managed to fuck it up in one fell swoop of not being aware of what was going on around him.
Shivers coursed through his body when his muscles contracted against the cold. Perched on the low cement outcropping that ran the length of the wall he brought his knees up to his chest and laid his forehead on them. He decided to try to rest before his hosts returned. If he had the opportunity, he wasn't going down without the toughest fight he could muster.
()()()()
The alley leading to the spot known to the local vampires as The Tin Door was about what Mitchell expected—long to suppress sound and intentionally dark thanks to smashed lights. He forced himself to walk casually down the alley but his senses were wide open.
The end of the alley opened into a small lot created by the backs of the surrounding buildings. Several cars and a couple of motorbikes were scattered around but it wasn't the vehicles that got his attention. He inhaled and instantly recognized a familiar scent that caused a protective instinct to rise in him.
The jacket was on the ground by the wall. He picked it up and walked into the light of a lamp hanging above the unmarked entrance of The Tin Door. He didn't detect any blood on it but it reeked of fear, anxiety and adrenaline.
He surveyed the lot and one car captured his attention. It was closest to the door, as if parked in a hurry. Both its rear tail lights were smashed out but it was the dark smears on the edge of the boot lid that sent a wave of ice through his body. His hand went slack and George's jacket fell to the ground.
He wet the tips of two fingers with a bit of saliva and wiped at the dark mark. He knew what it would be, and when he brought his hand up, the smell made him swallow down a gag. Not from the fact that it was the blood of a werewolf, but because it was blood shed by his best friend.
"Jesus," he breathed.
Frantically, he scanned the area for anything that would help him pry open the boot. A piece of rebar lay against a wall and within seconds he had it under a ridge of the boot lid. His physical strength popped the lid like a plastic cover. It creaked open but Mitchell had clamped his eyes shut. When he forced himself to look, relief at the sight of the empty boot nearly brought tears to his eyes.
Sobriety clamped back down on him when he detected the small bit of blood on the floor of the boot. He slammed down the lid hard enough for the edge to buckle and create a lock for the one he'd broken less than a minute before.
He crossed to the passenger's side and smashed the window without even bothering to try the door handle. Reaching inside, he flipped the handle to open the door. A blinking light was the first thing that caught his eye. Nestled between the seats a mobile phone flashed notification of messages.
Mitchell didn't bother looking for anything else. He pocketed his best friend's phone and strode toward the entrance of The Tin Door. He didn't realize his hand was shaking until he reached for the door knob. He withdrew it, clasped it tightly with his other hand and pressed them to his lips like a man in prayer.
A second later he released them and shook them out, before dragging them through his hair. The door knob turned easily and as Mitchell entered the club, he begged silently.
'You best be all right.'