A/N: This is still a largely reactionary fic that follows Canon almost exactly, unless otherwise is directly stated. This chapter is set immediately after the events of the second episode (Tully), and assumes Canon. This one tries to show how fine the line is that Mitchell's walking between feeling like an isolated monster and a connected human being.

Master of the House, but Slave to its Soul ~

What Tully had done was more than just upset the balance of things. He'd shown them that there really hadn't been a balance to begin with, there never had been. Tully had exposed the subtle shifting in the supernatural world that Mitchell had been trying to ignore ever since Herrick had made him choose a side.

With everything having just settled down at last after the incidents at the hospital, all of which were still unresolved, Mitchell, George, and Annie had thought that they could be normal again; their version of normal at least.

It had only been an illusion though, that normality.

Mitchell had tried to invite the world in, to participate in the beautiful roiling mess of humanity, with all their stories and hopes and dreams. That sort of freedom was addictive, the freeing thought that the world was manageable. But it couldn't happen.

At least, not for Mitchell.

The others were still so human. They'd forget Tully's intrusion, remember the good things and keep the bad things under-wraps. George would make good use of the tips Tully had given him to transform with, and Annie would pretend she didn't remember what he'd done, might even really forget eventually. But Mitchell would go on remembering every detail, every word, every bit until there was no one alive on earth who had ever even heard of Tully. Because that's what vampires did.

The others could right their worlds eventually, make things find a new equilibrium to balance at precariously. But Mitchell couldn't. His world didn't have a balance, it was a continuous struggle. In order to keep himself and those he loved and those he didn't even know as safe as they could ever be, Mitchell had to suppress himself every single second of every day for the rest of forever.

It was a daunting realization.

Lauren's visit . . . that horrible tape . . . Mitchell knew he couldn't escape what he was. The fact that he'd kept the DVD was more than enough to prove that. He'd been trying to tell George to be himself, convince him not to be ashamed of himself and his condition. He'd been trying to help Annie see that as well. But everything Mitchell said was hypocritical.

He was a monster and he was ashamed and everything he did that was human was entirely an act. Mitchell wasn't worthy of his friends.

With that in mind, Mitchell was setting out to make amends in his way. He wanted to help Annie cross over, and help George fall in love and stay safe for the rest of his little almost-human life. After that, Mitchell didn't know what he would do.

For now he had to walk the line between both worlds; the almost-human one he shared with George and Annie, and the dark depths of the one he pretended he could leave. Lauren had shown him, told him very clearly, that he'd been wrong to think he could just put that world behind him like a bad dream. Herrick had checked him into hotel Transylvania and he could never check out.

The thoughts were circling around in his head as Annie and George sat in the living room watching something stupid on the telly. Mitchell should have been there with them, but he was sitting on the steps, staring at the wall and trying to think about how he could make it work. If he kept lying to his friends, if he gave in just a little bit to the vampire and used it to strengthen his ability to interact with George and Annie to give them the best lives possible, then what would be so awful about it?

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

"Mitchell, are you expecting someone?" George called, curiously.

Lauren. "No, I'll see who it is though," Mitchell returned cheerfully, his scowl firmly in place as he pulled himself to his feet. The ten step trek to the door felt like crossing an abyss to Mitchell, he almost couldn't bring himself to open the door

If it was Lauren, if she'd come back again . . . Mitchell wasn't sure what he'd do.

The thought terrified him.

He opened the door in a sharp swing that startled the person on the other side. It wasn't Lauren. It was Clara.

And Mitchell was still scowling.

She didn't seem to mind, in fact it interested her greatly.

"Not who you were expecting?" she asked stepping closer and looking around carefully at the street corners. "Then who am I supposed to be? Who would have made you smile?"

Letting his face relax into a much friendlier expression, Mitchell responded, "Maybe I'm just having an off day and you're the only one that could make me smile, Clara."

"Ah, so he's not quite as stupid as he seems," Clara laughed. Then thinking better of it, she asked, "George told you who I am, didn't he?"

Shrugging, Mitchell admitted, "He might've mentioned."

Clara laughed. Then peeking past him into the hall, she asked, "So can I come in, or does the writer who likes to talk about dead people have to stay out on the stoop?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course, I'm sorry, come in," Mitchell said quickly, stepping back and inviting her inside. He looked to the living room, worried about what his friends might think about his inviting someone in who asked so many questions. "This way."

As Clara followed Mitchell inside to the living room, George called, "Mitchell? Who is it?"

"Clarissa Moore," Mitchell replied, leading the girl in question into the room as he did.

She smiled brightly as George paled. Beside him, Annie looked to Mitchell in confusion as George said, "Mitchell, can I talk to you for a minute? In the kitchen? Now?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure thing," Mitchell said as George leapt up from the couch and scurried across the floor to the kitchen without doing more that staring at Clara. "Can I get you some tea, Clara?" Mitchell asked.

"Yeah, tea sounds great thanks," she replied sweetly.

"Make yourself at home then," Mitchell offered, turning to follow George to the kitchen.

Not used to being invisible to humans again, Annie smiled apologetically at Clara before she followed the boys. For the briefest moment, Annie thought that Clara smiled back, that Clara saw her, but the writer's head didn't turn as Annie walked past.

When Annie reached the kitchen, George was in the midst of asking, "What the hell is a writer doing here, Mitchell? She's practically a reporter! She must be here about that new book . . . What if it's about us? What if she knows about us? What if she exposes us?"

"She doesn't know," Mitchell promised. "If she did, do you think she would have come here alone like this? Listen, we don't even know what she wants yet. And what's more suspicious, turning her away or telling her how boring we are?"

Annie agreed in an anxious tumble of words, "Mitchell's right, George. I've read Clara's books and from her bio it's clear that the only way to make her give up on something is to make it boring. Just tell her that all you guys ever do is sit around and watch the telly on your days off and how the only exciting things that happen to you are at the hospital and you have to hear about them second hand from doctors."

"That'll go over well, tell the mystery writer about all the unexplained creepy and exciting things that happen at the hospital," George responded with distraught sarcasm.

"George, come on. She's already here," Mitchell said, calmly accepting a tray of tea from Annie. "Let's just be nice to her."

"Well, I don't suppose that there's anything else we can do is there?" George replied, straightening his glasses.

He followed Mitchell out to the living room, where Clara was patiently waiting for them on the couch. "Here we are, a nice cup of tea for you," Mitchell said, setting the tray down carefully on the table for Clara to pick from.

"I'm guessing the coffee's yours," Clara mentioned looking carefully at him as he pulled up a chair. "And that the chamomile's George's. So that leaves me with this one." She picked up the yellow mug and sniffed at its contents. "Is this Earl Grey? Lovely."

Mitchell laughed as she took sip, lifting his own mug from the tray. "How'd you know who each one was for? Couldn't I have just been offering you a variety to choose from?"

It was Clara's turn to laugh. She gave Mitchell a look as she replied, "You don't do tea. If I can peg anything about a person, it's the coffee/tea question. I get a bit mixed up sometimes on the cat/dog preferences, but I can always tell a chronic coffee drinker from a tea addict."

"And what about between the teas?" Mitchell pressed, curious and thinking that if he kept asking the questions then she wouldn't have any time to interrogate him in case any more dead bodies had shown up in connection to him.

Looking pointedly at George, Clara said, "With him all in a fuss, do you really think giving him caffeine at the moment is a good idea?"

"I am not in a fuss!" George protested.

"Yeah, ya are mate," Mitchell informed him.

"I am-" George squeaked. The he realized how he sounded, making both Mitchell and Clara grin into their mugs.

After a moment of watching him burn at the stake of his own embarrassment, Clara said, "Look, you're a sweet guy, a bit private and very shy. There's no shame in that. Honestly, every book I've ever written includes a character like you in it somewhere. You're important. You see things and you realize that they're dangerous. You remind the others about the fact that the world's a big scary place even when there aren't monsters banging on the door. I like people like you, George."

"Well . . . isn't that nice," George said stiffly, trying not to reveal how much his heart rate had jumped up when she'd said that there were monsters banging on the door.

Mitchell teased, "Oh, go on, do me. I want a character profile in one of your books."

"You don't even read my books."

"How do you know?"

Clara arched an eyebrow at him. "You don't read books. You don't watch movies or dramas much either. Just a bit of something stupid on the telly, like the Real Hustle or something, as an escape from the day. You don't need any more stories to keep you going. You take your stories from the real world and the people around you. Why bother reading about a lonely housewife with an unruly kid when you could go across the street and talk to her, make her a little less lonely, right?"

"Pretty good job, that sounds a lot like me," Mitchell admitted.

Clara was still staring at Mitchell, the gears behind her eyes whirring away at something. "It's funny though," she said offhandedly. "The way you act, how you move. It's like you've seen so much of the world that it's already gone and killed you. I don't get how a guy like you can be from Bristol."

"I've lived around, a bunch of different places over the years," Mitchell replied, brushing the comment off. Clara didn't say anything, but she didn't let the look she was giving Mitchell soften by a single degree.

George grew distinctly uncomfortable.

"So, Clara, um . . . if you don't mind," he started. "Could you tell us why you're here?"

"Not that there's anything wrong with you dropping by," Mitchell added hurriedly, "but I have to say I am curious."

Clara shrugged. "I'm still working on the Nomer case, but it doesn't look like I'm going to be able to get anywhere with it. This town is full of weirdos," she said with an oddly chipper tone. "I just wanted to ask you one more time about Annabel's Nomer friends. Are you sure she didn't say anything to you about them?"

"Not once," Mitchell promised truthfully.

"Me neither, never mentioned," George jumped in.

"What about Lauren?" Clara asked, eyeing Mitchell as she did.

Pulling off a convincingly confused face, because he was legitimately confused, Mitchell asked, "What about Lauren?"

"Did she ever mention Nomer friends, before she disappeared?"

Mitchell shook his head. "No, I can't say she did. Why?"

"Because I'm worried she might be next," Clara explained. "I've got some contacts in the Nomer community and they've seen her around. They won't tell me when or where, but definitely since she's gone missing. So as of now, she's still alive, but if she's mixed up with the same people who didn't like Annabel hanging around you, then . . ."

"She'll be fine," Mitchell promised, thinking about how futile it would be for a human to try anything with Lauren. Quickly, he covered himself by adding, "She was smart girl when she was around. Strong enough to keep herself safe."

Clara looked down into the dregs of her tea. "Yeah, I guess." Then she set her mug down and looked towards the kitchen curiously, but turned away after only a moment. George and Mitchell looked to see if Annie was at the window, but were met with an empty frame.

"I should be off then," Clara said, standing. "This was nice, though."

"Yeah, really nice," Mitchell said, rising to walk her to the door. "Feel free to pop over whenever."

"Thanks." Then she called, "Goodbye, George! It was nice seeing you again."

"Yeah, anytime," George replied a bit shaky.

"Bye, Mitchell."

Mitchell watched her walk half way around the corner before he closed the door. He wasn't even sure what he was thinking about. This whole being human thing that he was doing with George and Annie . . . an hour ago it had seemed so impossible.

When Mitchell got back to the living room, Annie and George were snickering at him.

"What are you two on about?" Mitchell wondered, looking suspiciously between them.

"Gosh, Mitchell, why don't you just ask her out already," Annie teased.

George, relaxed now that she'd gone and the Chamomile had taken affect, added, "Really, if even we can see right through you, it's gotta be loads more obvious to Clara."

"What are you talking about?"

"You like her, Mitchell," Annie spelled out.

"I do what?"

George pointed out, "You were oh so nice and obliging to her."

"That's because she's dangerous, remember?" Mitchell responded, kicking George over on the couch so he had room to sit down beside the werewolf.

"Come off it, Mitchell," Annie teased as they settled in to watch whatever happened to be on. "Just admit you like the girl."

"She's nice," Mitchell responded quietly. It was enough to get his friends to give him a little peace on the matter.

And it was true, Clara was nice. She was very nice.

If Mitchell had any sense at all he would just keep it at that, never let her any closer to him. Nice people didn't live very long once they had met him.

He was cursed. He was a vampire. He was still able to smell the human warmth of Clara's body where it had seeped into the couch.

Throughout the whole of her visit, Mitchell had been able to count her heartbeats.

Clara had said it herself, Mitchell had seen so much of the world, too much of it. He was already dead and there was nothing he could do about it. No matter how much it felt like he could keep playing pretend, that was all it ever could be for him.

He could continue 'being human' for now, but he resolved himself to finding out how to best help George and Annie live well before he had to leave them behind and give in to what sort of monster he really was.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I like to think that this chapter goes into Mitchell's thoughts a bit more since between Ep 2 & Ep 3 he decides that he needs to hook everyone up, and I've always felt that part of that was tied up in the fact that his grip on humanity was so fragile. He covered it up well for his friends, especially early on, but it really always tenuous. ^_^ Again, THANKS FOR READING! and the next chapter will be up soon!