Two days later, George jerked awake to the soft hiss and gurgle of the coffee maker. He froze, watching the dark figure slumped by the counter, head in gloved hands. Feet bare.

Rising silently from the couch, moving slow enough to ensure he made no sound, George crept forward on his toes, his heart in his throat, not even daring to breathe. He drank in the sight of his friend, whole and hale in body - well, not really in 'body', but in form – and fought the burn of his eyes.

It was like meeting him again for the first time, only so much more clearly.

When he was only inches away, closer than he would ever have been able to sneak up on his friend before, George finally released a silent breath, and straightened, flexing his hands.

"Mitchel?"

The figure whirled right into his arms, dark eyes wide with panic, hands raised. George kept a firm grip around the suddenly struggling man, holding him so close Mitchel's raised arms were trapped between them and their heads were squashed side by side. Curls tickled his cheek, and the familiar scent of smoke and coffee and night air filled his nose. George couldn't help the tear that rolled free.

Guttural snarls filled his ear, but he recognized it for what it was – the desperation of a trapped animal scared out of its wits.

"Sh! Sh! Sh! It's okay!" he hushed, bracing his arms against the whip-cord strength slinging against him. "It's okay! It's me, George." His voice broke. "It's George."

The struggling ceased. Mitchel grew still, but his whole body shivered.

George sniffed and ran a hand on the soft curls, soothing, and rocked them back and forth. "It's okay."

For a long, few moments, it was just this, just them, rocking back and forth. The clock ticked. The coffee maker bubbled. With a final hiss, it beeped, the shrill sound cutting through the silence of the house.

George didn't want to let go. His throat was tight, the fear that Mitchel would disappear the moment he released him running cold through his limbs. Still, reluctantly, tentatively, he pulled back, relaxing his death-grip (a horrible description for it, he scolded himself), hands slipping to hold the flannel-clad shoulders instead.

Mitchel stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking, face pale.

It was really him.

His heart broke with relief, and George's smile was watery. "Hey," he whispered.

Mitchel's lips parted. He still hadn't blinked. "Is this…" his voice was as hoarse as sand. "Is this hell?"

"What?" George blinked. "No! Why would you think it was hell?"

To his horror, Mitchel's face broke, eyes suddenly shimmering. "Oh no," he whimpered, curling in on himself, head hanging. "No, no, no…"

This was not the reaction George had expected, and his face screwed up in alarm and concern as Mitchel sank to his knees, the shoulders in his grasp hunching up. "Mitchel!"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… I tried…"

"Mitchel!" George dropped to his knee and craned his neck, trying to look into his friend's face. "What's gotten into you?"

"I'll stay away," Mitchel pressed a hand to George's shoulder and finally looked up, eyes red. "I promise, I'll stay away. I don't know why I'm here, but I'll stay away, I won't bother you…"

"No, I don't want you to," George shook his head and forced his face to relax, to show his joy at having him back. "I don't want you to. I want you to stay here, with us."

To his dismay, his words seemed to act like a physical blow, Mitchel shrinking back. "I…"

"Why – why, why, why do you think you should stay away?" George interrupted. He kept his fingers closed in Mitchel's shirt, his grip in the fabric solid against Mitchel's attempt to pull away.

He had to know. Had to make Mitchel tell him the truth. Had to understand, instead of stepping back like he'd always done.

"I can't…"

"Tell me, Mitchel." George ground his teeth and shook his head obstinately. "I'm not backing down this time. I'm not letting you go."

"George…"

"Tell me," he insisted, fighting to keep his voice level. "Why you believe you should stay away."

"Isn't it obvious?" Mitchel scoffed, the sound a broken one. "George, please,"

George shook his head, mouth pinched tight.

"I'm a curse, George. A stain. I only ever hurt you and I can't…" The pain of the confession twisted Mitchel's dark features and he hunched, hiding his face in shame. "I can't do that to you anymore."

"Mitchel…"

"I've made you lie, I've made you kill," the words, now started, kept coming. "You're good, George, you're so good, and I've made you dirty. I'm so sorry. I'll ruin your family, I ruin everything, and your child… I can't…"

"Mitchel,"

"You don't know what I've done." Mitchel whimpered. His fingers shook on George's shoulder.

"Yes, I do."

"You really don't…"

"I know, Mitchel. I know about Corporal Arthur Hanley, and I know about the people after." George held his gaze, refusing to back down, refusing to let him look away. "I know about the parties, the groups. I know about the Box Twenty. I saw it all, the other day. On the telly. While you were melting down in the attic."

Mitchel paled.

"Then… then you know, George." His dark eyes shimmered. "You know…"

"I also saw what Herrick did to you, how he manipulated – and twisted you. I saw how hard you fought, all the time. How many times you gave it up,"

"And how many times I went back." Mitchel's voice was hard, and dripped with self-deprecation.

George closed his eyes for a moment, and then stared firmly at him. "I saw how you were trying to save the others, show them a better way, and what Lucy did to you."

"It doesn't…"

"Excuse it? Maybe not, but it damn well explains it." His eyes were hot, and George fisted Mitchel's shirt and pulled him closer, eye to eye. "I'm sorry," he hissed. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. That I was ignoring you. That I didn't listen when Herrick came back. I failed you."

"No. No, I…"

"We failed each other, then. But you are not alone in the failure, Mitchel. I abandoned you. I gave up on you, and only thought about myself, and I'm so, so sorry. You're my best friend, and I abandoned you."

"You were right to," Mitchel reassured him.

"If I lost it every month, and the wolf hurt people, even killed someone, would you have abandoned me?"

Mitchel stared at him. "No, of course not."

"Why?" George demanded.

"Because that isn't you, George, you know that,"

"Then why is it any different for you?"

Mitchel winced. "It's not the same."

"Yes, it is." George nodded, and gave up on blinking the tears back. "I just have the good fortune of being knocked aside once a month when the other genetics take over. There's no confusion, for me. There's me and there's the wolf. But you… it's like being possessed by a doppelganger, isn't it? A bloodthirsty, monstrous doppelganger, that mirrors you just enough to make it feel like it's you. It doesn't do you the courtesy of knocking you aside, it makes you guilty by association."

Mitchel's eyes were wide. He stared at George as if he were a prey animal finally seen, and he didn't know if he should freeze where he was or bolt away.

"You know how I know you're good? Hmm?" George said, lifting his eyebrows. "Because you can feel it coming. Don't deny it, mate, I saw the film in full technicolor. Or have you forgotten what happened the day I left with Annie for the Institute? In the kitchen? How mean you were, and then you slipped back to yourself and begged me to get away from you. Like you were two different people. Do you remember all the nights you stayed up with just a candle?" He placed a hand on Mitchel's chest, and wished he could impart all of his love and apology and understanding through his palm and into that point of contact. To make his friend see. "What do you feel right now? Do you want to go feed on people, right now? Do you want their blood? Want my blood?"

"No!" Mitchel exclaimed, even as he blinked, emotions warring on his face.

"Do you feel bad about the things that happened?"

His face twisted. "You know I do!"

A knot released itself, a final thread of worry dissolving into dust. George smiled, and cupped his hands on either side of Mitchel's face. "You know the difference between you and Herrick?" he murmured.

Mitchel didn't move.

"Everything in the world." George smiled, unashamed of the tears on his face. "He was wicked even when he didn't know he was a vampire. He was rotten at his core. He probably embraced becoming a vampire. You didn't."

Mitchel sucked in a small breath. "You don't know that," he said, his voice small.

"Yes I do. Yes I do. You died to save your men. You threw yourself between us and danger over and over again, danger we didn't even realize was there. You died to save us, and to pay for those people. A bad person doesn't feel bad for being bad, Mitchel. And I am so sorry I didn't tell you that sooner. You didn't ruin me. You aren't a curse to me. You're my best friend," a sob caught in his throat. "And now I've got you back."

A gloved hand covered his face, and Mitchel's shoulders began to shake.

George leaned closer, pressing their foreheads together.

"I thought I'd made a clean end of it," Mitchel whimpered. "I thought it was finally the end,"

At first George just nodded, but then the words sank in and brought with them a dawning dread. Did – did Mitchel not want to be back? Was this, being here again, like – a personal hell for him? A torment?

"I thought it was over,"

George whimpered, his hands tightening around Mitchel's face.

"I keep remembering things I've done, and… oh god, George…"

Understanding cleared his confused, anxious thoughts, and George's heart broke. Immediately he wrapped his arms around Mitchel's shaking form and pulled him close, burying his nose in the dark curls, staring at the light of the coffee maker shining up on the counter, a beacon in the midnight darkness.

There were no vampire genes to soften the edges of the memories. No vampire genes to make them palatable, even a little bit.

Just Mitchel. Just pure Mitchel. Left to deal with the mess left behind. Left with the blood of countless innocents dripping from his very human hands.

George hugged him close, shoulder growing damp, and wished he could erase the last century for his friend. "It'll be okay," he whispered instead, rubbing the shaking, slim back. "It'll be okay."