A/N: This chapter is a little bit different than the others. It's still reactionary, still Canon, and still primarily meant to look inside Mitchell's head, but this one takes place inside the episode rather than immediately after it. This part of the story takes place mainly in the hours that Mitchell spends unconscious during episode 5 (Where The Wild Things Are) and rather than using Clara as a catalyst for the events of the next episode, this chapter uses her as the means of making Mitchell wake up with the particular bit of news he offers to George. This one is even more meta & introspective than the others and goes into representations that Mitchell's mind makes up of Lauren, Seth, & Herrick, renditions that I'm actually rather pleased with.

without further ado, ENJOY:

the Beast Beneath the Skin ~

A person's lovers linger inside of them.

Everyone whose lives they touch does really, propelling them in one direction or another, shaping who they are and what they want. No matter how fleeting the contact, how good or bad the outcome, no matter how much or how little a person remembers, every single life that has ever interacted with theirs makes an impact. Every person met randomly on the street, or in a bar, or at school or work, leaves a mark, a little piece of themselves wandering around inside.

Even the dead ones.

Especially the dead ones.

"Hello, Mitchell."

Mitchell would have known that voice anywhere. It sent chills down his spine and butterflies and anguish to his gut. Mitchell looked up from his whiskey and turned around from the counter to see her. "Lauren."

Lauren laughed spitefully. "I'm surprised you remember how I looked before you killed me," she told him, coming over to sit in his lap. She leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, "Oh right, you did that twice. I helped you and you killed me."

"I'm sorry, Lauren, I'm so sorry," Mitchell groveled. "I didn't mean to-"

"Right you didn't mean to, like that actually makes anything better. You killed me accidentally. You really are cruel, Mitchell. I didn't understand that until now, but you really are so cruel," Lauren said, teary and tragic as Mitchell clung to her. "Did you ever even like me?"

"Of course, I did, Lauren, of course," Mitchell promised. "You were kind and beautiful, and of course I liked you."

"Well I have always hated you."

"Lauren, I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Mitchell," Lauren said, pushing away from him. Without so much as a glance behind her, Lauren walked out of the pub.

An eerie silence followed her, like there was no one else in the well-lit room, though Mitchell could clearly see a dozen people chattering away.

"That wasn't really her, you know," the bartender said.

Knowing he couldn't have heard right, Mitchell turned back to face the counter. "Clara?"

"That wasn't really Lauren," Clara reiterated, leaning over the bar on her elbows. "It was just your imagination, mixing with your memory a bit."

"What do you mean, that wasn't Lauren?" Mitchell asked. "Of course it was, she knew . . . everything I'd done to her."

"So does your own mind. Did you really kill her twice? How does that even work? I guess it's not important. Just know that real people can't be here, this club's a very classy joint, you know," Clara told him. "That wasn't really Lauren. And this bloke's not real either."

"Bloke?" Mitchell asked, turning around to see who Clara meant. "Seth."

"There he is! John Mitchell, in the flesh," Seth said, coming over to sit by Mitchell at the bar with a sort of gleeful excitement on his face.

"Why are you here, Seth?" Mitchell asked, distraught. "What do you want from me?"

"I wanna hear more of your stories," Seth replied immediately. He grabbed the sides of Mitchell's jacket and yanked on them to adoringly adjust how it sat on Mitchell's shoulders. He brushed at the lapel to smoothe it out over Mitchell's chest as he said, "All of the very best stories are about you, now aren't they? John Mitchell, living legend . . . well, un-living." He laughed at his own joke as Mitchell looked ready to kill himself.

Mitchell tried to back away, but Seth stayed close to him. "I'm not telling you any more stories, Seth. That's not how I want to be remembered."

"But there are more, aren't there?" Seth asked, pleading for them, begging like a dog with a treat on a stick. "There's always more stories about Mitchell, aren't there? It's like a magic story-book that never has a last page, always more to tell, always more bodies to count. It's beautiful. You're like a work of art."

"Seth, don't-"

"Oh, come on Mitchell, we're all dying to hear! Tell us again about that girl in the fireplace, or those twins from the war, or that girl in the hotel . . . 'tombservice', did you really say that?" Seth asked, his eyes full of awe and excitement. "You're our hero, you know that, right? Even when Herrick's cross with you, and even though he wants you dead right now, you're still our model of perfection, our Adonis. Hell, you're the closest thing we have to a vice president, an' even Herrick admits that."

"What?"

"It's why Herrick wanted you back so badly," Seth explained, poking with camaraderie at Mitchell's chest. "He knows how much we admire you. And he knows that there's darkness in you somewhere and if he waits long enough it'll come back out. We're all waiting for the Mitchell from out nightmares to come back to us, to show us the way through the night."

"I'm not going back, Seth."

"You will, Mitchell, we all know you will. We'll wait for you, for as long as it takes to get you back," Seth promised.

"Come on, Seth. It's time to go."

That voice sent the sort of chills down Mitchell's spine that prompted him to grab a knife from the counter as he swiveled to face the man who'd Turned him.

"Herrick. What are you doing here?" Mitchell demanded.

"I'm here for him," Herrick replied brightly. "We've got a Dog to put down."

"I'm not letting you touch George," Mitchell snarled, letting some of the monstrosity inside him show. If he ever accomplished anything in whatever his life had become, it would be keeping Herrick away from his friends.

Seth jumped up from where he'd been sitting, practically on top of Mitchell, and trotted over to his boss's side. Herrick just laughed at Mitchell's expression, "Try to stop me, then!"

He laughed again and turned away, leaving with Seth in tow.

Mitchell tried to lunge after them, but he couldn't move. He was frozen in place, none of his muscles would respond to his commands. Trembling, distraught and anguished, certain that he'd just signed his friend's death certificate, Mitchell managed to turn back to the counter.

He drained the whiskey from his glass.

Clara's fingers grabbed his hand, her cool fingertips brushed his cheek.

"It's okay, Mitchell, they weren't real," Clara promised. "George is safe for the moment."

"It's not okay . . . what do you mean, George is safe? Where is he?"

Clara hesitated. "He's with me. But not here. I told you, real people can't come here. Just the ones made up by your imagination and your memories."

"So what about you? Are you not-real too?" Mitchell asked, blackly adding, "Have I gotten you killed too yet? Or is that just still on the menu for tomorrow?"

"No, Mitchell, I'm fine," Clara promised. "But you're right, I'm not really here. I'm just sort of trespassing."

"Trespassing?"

"We're inside your head, Mitchell, you're in a coma," Clara explained. "Herrick stabbed you, missed your heart by a long shot, like he wasn't even aiming really. Anyway, Herrick stabbed you, and George called an ambulance, and now you're in a coma in the hospital, and I'm sitting at your bedside."

"And Annie? Where's Annie? Did she cross over?" Mitchell asked frantically.

"No, Mitchell, Annie's still here. She's worried about you," Clara said, trying to gauge how Mitchell would feel about Annie passing up the opportunity to cross over because of him.

Even Mitchell couldn't tell if he was horrified or relieved that she was still here. Maybe he was a bit of both. But Annie . . . poor Annie . . . and George must be terrified, there must be so much blood and bile and George was never any good with all of that . . .

"Mitchell, you're thinking very loudly right now, could you stop it? Please?" Clara asked, her voice high with a sort of distress that Mitchell had never heard in relation to the writer before. "Just talk to me, okay? It helps you modulate the volume."

"We're inside my head?"

"Yeah, doesn't this place look familiar to you at all?"

Confused, Mitchell looked around. It wasn't just a pub, it was a little mishmash of memories. The booths from the café where he'd first met George, the bartop from a few nights ago with Clara . . . the dance floor from club where he'd first kissed Lauren.

"Yeah, I guess it does . . . then how're you here?"

"I told you, I'm trespassing."

Mitchell frowned. "But . . . how are you doing that?"

"Well, you know who I am, so a part of me was already inside your head, and that helps a lot," Clara said. "But do you remember how I said I'd give anything to spend a day inside your head? Well, I kind of meant it literally."

"But . . . how?"

"I don't actually know, astral projection maybe? Psychic dream infiltration? I honestly don't know . . . I've just been able to do it since . . . since I was little," Clara explained. "I can't see everything, only what you show me. But since I'm here without an invitation, I guess some of the unpleasant things inside your head came crawling out. If I could have made you understand earlier, I might have been able to help you make them go away. I'm sorry."

"They would have come anyway. And the others." Mitchell frowned and looked around. The people in the dinner booths, at the barstools, scattered about . . . they weren't his victims. They were the bystanders, scattered and faceless bystanders. They weren't the usual figures haunting his mind.

"Where are the others?"

"Other what?"

"The ones I . . . the ones I usually see," Mitchell said, hesitant even inside his own head to admit to Clara that he'd killed so many people.

Clara shrugged. "You normally have other people inside your head? Usually when I do something like this, it's just me in a room with the person I'm talking to. I think those three were just already on your mind, before I got here, I mean."

Letting her words sink in, Mitchell looked down. His glass was full again with whiskey. He drained it without hesitation.

"Tell me what you know."

"I know that it's snowing in Wales, that-"

"About me," Mitchell barked, looking up at her sharply.

Clara smiled sadly. "I know you're a vampire," she said simply. At Mitchell's continued stare, she added lightly, "Actually, I've known since you told Fleur. I was in the hall when you told her, just around the corner. You were too quiet to hear, but if I listened carefully, I could just make out what she was saying and it was enough to make me suspicious. When I saw Bernie show up at that train station . . ."

"George and Annie think I let him die," Mitchell told her blackly.

"I know."

"I should've let him die."

"But you didn't," Clara pointed out. "Be it for better or for worse, you didn't."
Mitchell shook his head, letting his eyes fall away from Clara. "But I was wrong. I should have . . . I made him into a monster, Clara."

"You made him into a vampire," Clara returned. "And maybe all vampires are monsters, but it seems improbable to me. Though . . . honestly, I was scared of you, Mitchell, when I first found out. That's why I haven't been 'round lately. I didn't know how to talk to you, anymore."

"So why're you here now?" Mitchell asked, his voice black and angry with the guilt and horror that came with being what he was.

"You almost died, Mitchell," Clara said. "You don't get to having as many friends in high places as I do without getting a call when someone you like ends up in the hospital."

"Why did you come if you're so scared of me?"

"You've forgotten what I told you, Mitchell," Clara sighed. "Your past might define who you are, it might set the stage for your future, but you're the only person that can decide what you're going to do now. Somewhere in this messed up head of yours in kindness. I was afraid of you Mitchell, but I've been thinking since then. You've been nice to me and I want to help you."

"I don't want help. I should just die already."

"Maybe you should, but if you do, then it'll be up to George to kill Herrick."

"He won't be able to do it."

"He might be, people have a way of surprising you."

"Not George. George won't kill . . . he can't."

Clara shrugged, not accepting the answer, but willing to move on for the sake of argument. "So what then? If George doesn't kill Herrick and he just . . . wins? How will you feel if that happens?"

"It doesn't matter, the whole world's going to burn eventually."

"Are you even listening to yourself, right now?" Clara demanded, finally fed up with his self-loathing. "That's imaginary whiskey, you know. You're not really drunk."

Mitchell shouted, "What does it matter?"

"You can't let Herrick win!"

"Why not?"

"Because that means everything you've done is wasted. What Lauren did for you, what George and Annie . . . and Josie, have done for you . . . none of it means anything if you just die here!" Clara tried to explain.

"Maybe none of it ever meant anything," Mitchell responded bitterly.

"Mitchell . . ."

"Don't you understand, Clara? I'm a monster."

"Oh, I understand," Clara responded coldly. "You're selfish, Mitchell. You want to keep everything in your crooked little world-view exactly how it is. You want to keep all of the blame on you, so that no one else could have done anything . . . because that's safe for you. Maybe, your imaginary Lauren was right, maybe you are cruel . . . because you taking all the blame for everything means that none of your friends ever mattered, ever did anything more noteworthy than look on in horror."

"Christ, Clara," Mitchell started.

She didn't let him get his thought in before she added, "George just saved your life you know, calling that ambulance. He fought off Herrick and saved your life, and you want to just sit here and make his heroics and worry mean nothing?" She paused and shook her head. "He's worried about you, right now. Wanna see? I can do that you know, show you the outside. Look."

Mitchell looked up to see Clara indicating a large mirror behind the bar. She swept a dishrag over the surface to reveal a bed in a quiet corner of the hospital. Mitchell was lying in the bed, his chest patched up with gauze and tape. It was still a bloody mess.

Clara was sitting at his bedside, her hands holding one of his and looking asleep to all the world. Behind her, George was sleeping in one of the visitor's chairs. The werewolf was curled up in a contortionist's attempt to fit inside the chair's arms, his expression was anxious and exhausted.

"George," Mitchell breathed, vaulting over the bar to stand beside Clara and put his hand against the glass separating him from his friend. Seeing George so distressed made Mitchell nearly forget everything else going on in his head at the moment.

"You think your head is messed up right now . . . you've got all this guilt and pain from things from so long ago inside you, but you've lived long enough to know how to sort through it all, to categorize it and shove it all down inside," Clara said, "But him . . . he's got his hands full with right now. He loves you, Mitchell, with the unquestioning loyalty of family. You're the only reason he can bear to be alive sometimes. He needs you. And to make things worse for him. he thinks that this is his fault somehow."

"George! George, can you hear me!" Mitchell shouted, tapping the glass like George was a goldfish swimming around just out of reach.

"No, Mitchell, he can't," Clara said. "But I'm still inside your head and you are being very loud right now . . . doing this whole invade-a-mind thing gives me enough of a headache without your yelling."

Collapsing back against the bartop, his eyes still on George, Mitchell apologized, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . I just need to talk to him . . . I need to tell him I'm sorry."

"I know," Clara whispered, her words loaded with meaning that called on so many things at once. Putting her hand on his, she added, "I can show you other things too, like Annie."

Mitchell blinked and the scene had changed. This time they were at the house, well, Annie was. And she was scared. Mitchell's blood still coated the floor and walls of the foyer, though it looked like Annie had started to clean it up. What she was scared of now had little to do with Mitchell's condition. There were papers and things blowing about in a strange breeze and the electronics were acting very peculiar.

"Annie defied Death, and now . . . she's being told that Death doesn't like to be defied," Clara explained.

"Annie . . ." Mitchell whispered, terrified.

"Please don't yell," Clara jumped to saying, knowing what was coming next.

Mitchell lowered his hand, having not even realized that he'd lifted it to pound on the glass. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

"What's going to happen to her?"

"She'll be fine this time, a bit shaken up, but fine. She'll need your help to deal with it though," Clara explained. "The problem's only going to escalate if you don't go back. She'll be running scared instead of looking for a way to fight back."

"How do you know all this?"

"It's sort of complicated . . . I um . . . I sort of died, when I was seven . . . and again when I was nine . . . and fourteen, so I sort of know how the whole 'Death' thing works" Clara started with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Like I said, it's complicated. But I promise that I'll try to explain it all when you get better."

"Even if I wanted to, I don't think I can," Mitchell said. He blinked and suddenly the image in the mirror was that of his hospital bed again. "Look at me . . . I'm pathetic. My body can't make any new blood . . . the dialysis isn't helping either, because you can't just clean the sludge of vampirism out . . . and that, that infusion they're giving me . . . all that's doing to making the hunger worse."

Clara let his comment settle for a moment before she mentioned, "You know, Josie's here too, the one you fell in love with. She wants to talk to you, Mitchell."

"I can't talk to her . . . she's already too disappointed in me, I couldn't bear hearing any more of it," Mitchell pleaded, shaking his head and trying to back away.

Clara sighed. "You need to grow up, Mitchell. You need to admit that she can help you, that she's always been able to help you. I've seen how you talk about her, Mitchell. And I've talked to her about you a little. She's good for you, she's humanizing for you."

"I can't . . . I know what she's going to ask of me, and I . . . I don't think I'll be able to say no," Mitchell said, nearly hysterical.

"Then maybe you shouldn't."

"Every time I do it, the gap between me and humanity grows just a bit bigger," Mitchell pleaded. He sank down behind the bar, collapsing in a slow motion fall symbolic of the futility of the struggles he'd made to live in the human world as the sort of monster he was. "Isn't that gap wide enough already? Can't I go without killing even one of the people I love?"

Clara put her hand on his cheek, kneeling down beside him. "Mitchell, listen to me . . . she just wants to talk to you. She has something important to tell you. And you have something important to tell George, look."

Reluctantly looking up as Clara indicated, Mitchell saw George in his hospital room. The hospital's priest was there, leaning over Mitchell's still form with concern. "What's going on?"

"Keep watching, this isn't an exact science you know, I can't just pan the camera around," Clara said, staring at the mirror with as much concentration as she could spare from Mitchell. "This trick's really only supposed to show you the people you're already thinking about. But I know I can . . . ah, there we go . . . "

The image shimmered inside the glass to a view just outside the hospital's ambulance entrance. Two very familiar men in black suits were skulking about the door. "Oh, god, it's them."

"You have to tell George, Mitchell," Clara said. "You have to tell George that they're coming, you have to warn him. You have to WAKE. UP."

Suddenly, all of the lights flickered and Mitchell began to squirm.

George thought for a moment that it might have been the sarcastic Vicar forgiving himself, invoking that prayer-like thing, whatever it was, that hurt vampires.

"Mitchell? Mitchell, it's okay," George tried to soothe, leaning over the sleeping form of Clara at Mitchell's bedside.

"George? George, they're coming. They're in the hospital," Mitchell tried to explain. He didn't think his words made all that much sense, but it seemed like George understood. After a moment of flailing uselessly about, George and the Vicar left his bedside.

"Clara?"

"I'm here, Mitchell," she said, standing to lean over him as she held Mitchell's hand firmly. She brushed the hair back from his face as his eyes looked wildly about.

"You should run, too," he told her.

Clara laughed. "They haven't run. They're going to protect you."

"No, they can't, the vampires are too strong . . ."

"Shhh, Mitchell," Clara said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Sleep now. They'll keep you safe. I'm going to go warn Josie, we'll hide until the morning. Don't worry. Just sleep."

With that, Clara left Mitchell's bedside. His vision was too fuzzy to see where she'd gone and his other senses were too confused with the residue of blood and bile and human and werewolf and vampire and disinfectant.

He fell into a disquiet unconsciousness before George returned to his bedside. The blackness of the abyss hung before him, breaking up in fleeting glimpses of light and awareness. He could hear when someone was talking to him, respond, but he couldn't really interact fully with anyone until Josie appeared before him in the early hours before dawn.

"Hello, Mitchell."

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter is the one in which I start to tweak Canon ever so slightly, and it should be up soon!