Summary: Carl.
Warnings: Very very mild dub-con. (Not really though, Mitchell just keeps making the same dumb mistakes.)
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Being Human.
Author's note: I'd like to give a warm, public thank you to SamanthaBlue for fixing my silly errors and confirming that I'm not crazy, and to Black Hawk for backing me up every step of the way. Thank you both for being wonderful! You keep me going! xo
Our Image Can't Be Captured
Florence is one of Mitchell's favorite places to visit, even in the summer, when it rains most days. In fact, he's been there so long now that it can hardly be called "visiting." He resolves to look for official housing sooner rather than later. Currently, he's squatting in the shabby one-bedroom that belonged to his first victim four months ago.
Tonight, though, he's looking to drink and relax. The sticky air smells of damp leather and stale bread. His shoes scrape the brick streets while he seeks out the bar with the cheapest cappuccino.
He chooses one with a long name he can't pronounce. A handsome man in a well-cut suit sidles next to him at the counter. Suddenly, someone bumps into Mitchell from behind. He stumbles and catches himself, but a knife clatters out from an inside pocket of his jacket and skids into one of the handsome man's expensive shoes.
He quietly bends forward and returns Mitchell's knife. Mitchell mutters a thanks and the handsome man answers, "Here you go. I'm Carl, by the way."
It's a relief to find someone who speaks English.
"Mitchell," he replies. "John Mitchell. ... I just came in for a drink, I didn't ..." and Mitchell doesn't know exactly how to explain the weapons he carries, so he stops.
"God, that's a terrible Scottish accent, if you were going for Connery," Carl says amicably.
Mitchell's brows furrow in disbelief and mild annoyance. Not that he doesn't get the joke, but really? Scottish?
"Will you have a martini, then?" he adds with a twinkle in his eye. Before he can go on embarrassing himself, Mitchell cuts him off. "I can buy my own drinks, thanks."
Carl laughs in his face. "No, God. Did you think I was coming onto you?!"
Mitchell opens and closes his mouth several times, frown deepening.
"That's sweet, honey," Carl adds, "but I'm ... probably too old for you."
Now it is Mitchell's turn to laugh. "Don't be so sure," he mutters dryly, scowling and hunching over his cappuccino. Carl frowns at that, but doesn't press the issue.
He smacks the counter suddenly. "We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should back up," he says cheerfully. "Where are you from, Mr. Mitchell?"
Mitchell and Carl cross paths at the same cafe the following week, and again three days later. Mitchell was too distracted before, too flustered, but now he realizes with surprise and excitement that Carl is also a vampire. It's clear from a mile away; he wonders how he missed it that first night in the cafe.
The fourth time they meet, Mitchell doesn't even pretend it's been an accident. He weaves through crowds and street vendors to follow Carl to a tent full of leather jackets for sale and smiles when he haggles with the stubborn woman.
Afterwards, he listens intently while Carl explains the ins and outs of talking down prices on the streets. He'd never had to think about it much, since most of his money went to food and rent. He says something about pickpocketing for a living, and laughs at the horrified look that flashes across Carl's face before he realizes it's a joke.
Carl displays some reluctance to Mitchell's dinner invitation.
When Mitchell tries to kiss him after dessert, Carl turns away apologetically.
They don't see each other the next day. That night, Mitchell visits a crowded lounge and has too many cocktails and flirts with a waiter named Giovanni until his shift ends.
They barely make it to a secluded alleyway before they fall upon one another. Their hips lock together and Mitchell sweeps his fingers into the young Italian's hair. Their tongues clash between heated lips.
"Can we-" Mitchell is interrupted by his own small moan when Giovanni grinds against him, hard, sending a thrill of pleasure up his spine and a rush of adrenaline. A fight or flight reflex flares in his gut, which he shoves into a savage growl and deepens their kiss. As long as he keeps Giovanni's mouth occupied, he can just as easily picture him with a honeyed British accent.
Giovanni mutters something hopefully seductive in Italian and suddenly Mitchell's back is flush against a wall. A jagged corner digs into his shoulder blade. He gasps, but doesn't seem to get any oxygen. Flooded with claustrophobia, he bucks and yanks his head backwards, only for it to collide painfully with the bricks. His throat spasms with mingling arousal and panic.
Giovanni rakes warm lips and teeth against against the line of Mitchell's jaw, sending white spots to cloud his vision. A high keening protest escapes his nose. "Not this-no-I'm sorry-"
Giovanni looks up and catches sight of Mitchell's horrible eyes, maybe even his fangs-and flings him harder into the wall, forcing all the air from Mitchell's lungs.
The world careens about him. When he can see clearly again, Mitchell finds himself crawling weakly toward the end of the alley. Giovanni has fled.
"I'm sorry," Mitchell gasps as greeting outside a busy restaurant. His hands open and close on every inch of Carl's clothing he can grasp, flutter over his face and thread through his hair. His eyes are bright and restless and his voice hitches urgently. "I didn't mean to, Carl. Please, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to."
Carl's eyes dart over the staring crowd as it grows around them. He hisses warnings and tries to tame Mitchell's desperate hands. "You're alright, stop. Not here, sweetheart. It's alright. Come on, not here, not in the street."
Carl starts pulling Mitchell away from the bright street lights and curious bystanders, but Mitchell is completely distracted and it takes several minutes to duck around a corner. Carl looks into Mitchell's unseeing eyes. "Did you hurt someone?"
"No, no, of course not," Mitchell flicks his words away like an insect. "No, I just couldn't help myself-"
Carl realizes he doesn't know where Mitchell lives, so he steers them toward his own nearby flat.
"You're sure?" Carl says, not unkindly. He doesn't understand Mitchell's vague pleas.
"No! I mean-yes, I'm sure. I'm so sorry. I was thinking of you the whole time, really, you're the one I-"
"Did you sleep with someone?" Carl asks gently, without a hint of accusation as he unlocks the door at the bottom of his stairs.
Mitchell freezes suddenly, and a single tear escapes his lashes. He swipes it away so fast it might have been a trick of the light. "No," he breathes firmly. "I don't-I don't-I kissed him, but I didn't-it felt like my head would explode-"
"Shh," Carl interrupts and tenderly strokes sweaty bangs out of Mitchell's face. "Shh, take deep breaths, now. I know you don't want to hurt me, or anyone."
Mitchell trembles visibly from head to toe. A small hall light reveals that his eyes are ringed in scarlet. Something unexpected and terrible fleets across Carl's mind. "This man-nobody hurt you, did they?"
Mitchell's eyes glaze over, but he shakes his head steadily.
Carl takes Mitchell's face in both hands and looks into young, frightened eyes. He bends closer and presses their foreheads together. This time, when Mitchell moves to kiss him, he doesn't resist. Mitchell's lips shake; the kiss is not especially long or passionate, but afterwards, his breathing starts to relax.
It takes several weeks of seduction and convincing, but Mitchell gets Carl into bed one warm, leathery night in July. A dead breeze floats through the open window and the lights on the street glow from meters below. They look into each other's eyes and with a pang, Mitchell remembers things; a color he can't put a name to; something he once enjoyed about sex; how Josie looked when she danced.
When they finish Carl kisses him deeply, over and over, and tells him he's beautiful. Mitchell doesn't know how to respond. Several minutes pass in silence, until Mitchell can no longer hold back the tears. Carl pulls him against his chest and doesn't speak.
He never says thank you, and Mitchell wonders if he did something wrong.
Wearing a ripped T-shirt and underwear, Mitchell stands still before the bathroom mirror, gazing intently at the glass. It reflects an empty, chipped shelf and peeling wallpaper, but never his face. He feels hot tears slip down his cheeks and wonders what he looks like when he cries.
He hears the door creak and watches it open behind him in the reflection. No one is there.
"Carl?" he whimpers, his voice breaking on that lonely syllable.
Mitchell's not sure what he wants-for no one to be there, just like the mirror says, or for Carl to stride in and fix the glass so Mitchell can remember that they are both there and whole and mean something. He gets neither of these things.
"You said I was beautiful," Mitchell finally whispers to a seemingly empty room. A sharp consonant that could be laughter cuts from his throat.
"You are beautiful," Carl insists. His hands are suddenly on Mitchell's shoulders, and he flinches at the touch. Slowly, Carl turns him around and cradles his face in both hands. His fingertips brush Mitchell's jaw and lips and cheekbones and eyebrows, so light that they might not exist, so light that his face might not exist.
Mitchell almost doesn't catch when Carl starts speaking. "Your lips are full and soft, lined with long, dry years. You have a strong jaw, you know. And this perfect dust of stubble. Your brows are striking. Broad and heavy. You're even beautiful when you frown." Mitchell does so now without thinking, and Carl smiles. "See? You get these perfect wrinkles over your nose."
Mitchell sucks in a breath and opens his mouth as if to speak, but Carl presses a finger against his bottom lip. "No. I'm not to the best part. Your eyes. They're deep and dark, but a bright light is buried there, something strong and bittersweet. You should let it out more. I could lose myself in your eyes."
"What color are they?"
Carl considers Mitchell for a long moment before whispering simply, "brown."
And Mitchell throws his arms around Carl's shoulders. His tears sizzle against the cold skin of Carl's neck, and his lips form almost inaudible words into his suit jacket.
"I don't think there are any pictures of me."
Carl grips him tightly. "No one will ever need a photograph to remember you."
They fall into something like a relationship-that is, they have sex often, and only with each other. Mitchell makes fun of Carl for being old, and Carl takes him to places he's only heard stories about. They walk by an open club playing loud pop music, and Carl sighs and laments the days gone by when young people listened to "good" music. He had attended the premieres of Wagner's Ring Cycle in the 1800s.
Carl teaches Mitchell to speak rudimentary German and Italian. His accent utterly butchers French. Mitchell reminds Carl to enjoy the little things, like eating a cheap panini under an umbrella, laughing with your mouth full, and feeding the crumbs to ducks.
In Venice, Carl talks about Saint Mark and some trivia about a lion and an alligator that is interesting at the time, but not entirely memorable. He also complains about the pigeons. Mitchell agrees. "I can't imagine what it was like with the Coke birdseed."
Carl tilts his head and looks at him blankly.
"You know, in the sixties? Saint Mark's Square? The Coca-Cola logo?" Mitchell prompts.
Carl shakes his head and a smile blossoms on his lips.
There is a beat before Mitchell lets out a raucous peal of laughter. He clutches Carl's elbow for support. "Yes! Finally! Alert the fucking media!" his smile alone could light every street lamp in the square. "We found something Carl doesn't know!"
Carl shoves him playfully and chuckles and never gets a full explanation of the story.
In Fall, they visit the Notre Dame cathedral, and Carl asks if he's ever read Victor Hugo. Mitchell tells him, "I don't know who that is."
Carl looks down at his feet, but Mitchell smiles and shrugs it off and adds, "We should climb to the top, man. Up to the bell tower or something, like the duomo back home."
Carl has been dry for years, but doesn't seem phased by it, and this fascinates Mitchell. When he thinks about it, he knows he was with Josie for years too, but it didn't feel so long. Not an hour passed where Mitchell didn't think about blood. Those years are painted red in his memory-and so short. Going off blood felt like the blink of an eye, something he tried one night and failed at miserably and never considered going back to.
It feels like he lay safe with Herrick just last night; like Josie danced for him just last week; like a man thanked him for the favor and left him on his knees in the bathroom just last month; like he met Carl ages ago, or just this morning.
He needs a drink.
He preys on young men and women in shady, cobbled alleys, usually in the mid-morning hours while Carl is socializing or shopping or working on that jeweler's sales floor. He prefers young people, who are bound to get into trouble, after all. Sometimes luck strikes and he gets a tourist. They're half-expected to go missing or killed even without his influence.
Mitchell holds back the killing to once every two or three weeks. He waits as long as he can, until a bad dream hamstrings him and reminds him how weak he is. He keeps up the routine during their travels, and when they move to Vienna that Winter.
xXx
Author's note: The whole point of this story was simply "John Fucking Mitchell," but several other characters have since begun to demand attention. I feel that meeting Carl was a real turning point for Mitchell, especially since he cleaned him up and put him back on track. But more than that, their interaction in s2 hinted at something a little more than platonic. Ergo.
