A Pink Corner House, Bristol, Friday Morning

[chosehumanity]

"Morning!"

It had been months. Mitchell had done very well at repressing everything that had occurred that night. He'd coped, he'd pushed it aside, he'd... moved on, and now everything he'd moved on from was standing on his doorstep wearing a heavy pair of sunglasses and a questionable smile.

Lauren.

What the fuck was she doing here?

The silence dragged on.

"Are you... gonna let me in?" she asked him, when the silence had gone on long enough.

What the fucking fuck.

Lauren shifted. "You have to invite me across the treshhold," she said, slowly, like he didn't know that. Then she snorted, and shook her head. "That is such a mental rule. Who made that up?"

Right. Okay. Jesus christ.

"You..." Death pain blood Kate's face Becka's last gasps-- "You are not coming in here," Mitchell hissed, pointing a finger in her face. No. Not now. Not into his house, not into his life, not after everything she'd done and everything she'd said.

"Yeah," she said, like she actually owned this lot, "I think I am, because you don't want this conversation happening on your doorstep." She shot a glance over her shoulder. "Hiya!" she called, to the little old lady from down on 14B who was just making her way across the pavement, "How's it going?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Mitchell said, and by now he was snarling. His fingers curled around her shoulder, and he tugged her in roughly. "Come in!"

She nearly went tripping over the floor by the force of his shove, twirling around. "Oooh, this is nice!" she squealed, ranting on. "Open room, it's very--"

He didn't need this right now, so he'd grabbed her again before he even knew it, slamming her up against the wall with a crack that was, quite frankly, utterly satisfying.

"When," he snapped, his fingers finding her throat. He pushed hard. "Will you leave."

She choked. Made a desperate noise in her throat as she scrambled.

"Me," he continued, shoving in close, "Alone."

Her fingers came up to grab at his wrist, digging into it, trying to push and shove against a power that was too much for her to overcome. "Mitchell, please," she begged, struggling, "I can't-- breathe--"

Yeah, right.

"You're killing me!" she choked out, gasping on the words. Her movements started to slow, her hand falling away from his arm, and still he didn't let go. Her shoulders slumped. Her head fell back.

And then her eyes fluttered shut.

Mitchell stared at her face as her muscles slacked out and she stopped moving in earnest. What the fuck?

Another silence that stretched, and stretched, and stretched-- and then Lauren's mouth tugged up into a quiet, dark little smile, and her pretty eyes opened back up with an equally silent shifting of her eyelids. "Oh, wait," she crooned, "You already did that."

He was going to repeat the phrase 'Oh, for God's sake' until either of them choked on it. Actually did.

"I know what this is about," she said, conversationally, her hand darting back up towards where Mitchell's fingers were still tightly wrapped around her throat. "You're still mad at me for killing your friend." A bit of a plea had snuck into her voice, and her eyes seemed bigger.

"She was only twenty years old," Mitchell growled, and his own voice sounded strangely desperate to his ears. Blood blood red matting Becka's blonde hair and--

Lauren's response was matter-of-fact.

"So was I."

The third silence of the morning was tinged heavily with regret, with guilt, and if he had still breathed he would have probably forgotten how to do so by now. They remained at their impasse, his hand on her neck, her eyes fixed on his, her lips slightly passed.

In the end, it was Lauren again who broke it.

"Are you planning on letting me go any time soon?" she asked, "This coat is quite expensive--"

The spell they'd started to weave snapped in half immediately. Mitchell shoved her away as if he'd been burned. "What are you doing here?" he snapped. "Herrick's already cut me off from the rest of the vampires. If he thinks that sending you here--"

"Why is it always about Herrick?" she shot back, regaining her footing. "What is it with you two? You're obsessed with each other. It is totally. Gay."

"So what do you want?" he asked. Refusing to rise to that bait.

"I miss you," she said.

And that, there, was the only thing she could have possibly said that he didn't have a response to. These silences were starting to mark their interactions quite thoroughly. What did you say to that? To the twenty-year-old girl you'd dragged kicking and screaming into this life, who showed up at your doorstep and said she missed you?

"I've been... thinking about the night you took me," Lauren continued, quietly. "How we barely made it to my bed..."

The sound of the zipper of her jacket coming down was deafening in the quiet. A single step brought her closer, and suddenly all of Mitchell's senses were screaming out.

"And how... first... it hurt," she whispered. Her fingers found purchase in his shirt. Her nose slid up near his, and her scent was everywhere. "And I was frightened," she continued, ducking her head. "But then... afterwards." And now those selfsame fingers were curling into his belt. "Everything... All the world was a show but the bed..."

Too close. Too close, and he couldn't focus, his own instincts setting in - dipping his head to take in her presence, to get closer to her.

"And the blood, Mitchell," she murmured, her other hand sliding along his arm. "Do you remember the taste? So rich..." She pulled his arm up, his wrist, his hand, and slid it over her breast. He could feel the rise of it, the reality of it curving under his fingers. He... wanted.

The blood, warm, rich, filling him up until there was nothing left-- Her, and the curves of her body, so familiar and still attractive--

"You can have it again," she said, and there was the solid shape of a palm over his crotch, sending a hot spark up his spine. "As much..." She gave it a quiet rub, a little circle of her hand. "... as you want..."

As much as he'd--

Blood, splattered across the floor, the disgust on Jack's features. The fragile trust he'd only just rebuilt, and Becka.

"I can't," he said, and tried to pull away - only to find that the wall was now directly behind him. His spine knocked against it with a hollow thump. "The cost is too high," he said, desperately. Trapped.

"Please," she breathed, giving him no space at all. Pleading. "Who are you saving, really? Have you seen Britain's Got Talent?"

Her hand sought out the wrist it had lost again and brushed over it, delicate. "Besides," she said, "We don't need to feed..."

Her mouth was close, so close, and he could feel her presence, the little waft of air that wasn't quite breath but something else. The slight warmth of her tongue, so close to his.

"We can just... play," she murmured, and leaned in.

His head thumped against the wall next. "I'm not so good at keeping them seperate," he said.

The annoyance came back in her features, in her voice, and she finally - blissfully - gave him some metaphorical breathing room. "So you're a monk, now, as well?" she asked him, incredulously.

"This isn't something you--"

They'd tried to have this conversation before. It didn't work. It had to.

"You don't come to a compromise," Mitchell said, groping for the right words. With a little lift of his hands, he managed to push her away further. "About this. I chose humanity."

"Yeah, I want to believe you, I really do," she said, letting herself be pushed - for once. "But see the thing is, when you look at me, you're hungry." There was a little smirk on her face. Mitchell wanted to tear it off.

"Get out," he snapped, and grabbed her again. Thrust her towards the door this time.

She laughed, loud, and not entirely sane. "Come on, Mitchell, give in to it!" she sing-songed, even as he ripped the door open and pushed her out onto the street.

"I said get out," he shouted, and slammed it shut in her face. Get out. Get out get out get out of his head and now--

"You don't get it, do you?" she snarled through the mail slot, pushing her face close against the metal. "This is the Hotel California! You can check out, but you can never leave!"

He slammed the back of his head into the door repeatedly, until the maelstrom of his thoughts calmed down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck he was so close-- "Fuck," he hissed, softly. "Fuck. Fuck."

Fuck.

He needed to get out.

He practically hurled himself at the phone, slamming in the Portalocity number by memory.

[[ nfb, nfi, OOC-okay. some violence, sexual references and simulated death under the cut. taken from Being Human season 1, episode 2 ]]