From a Bar to a Parking Garage, Bristol, Sunday Night

[chosehumanity]

Mitchell had had better bar nights with George along, that was for sure. The guy had been off all night, almost angry, and the silences between their conversations stretched long and awkwardly.

Mitchell hadn't been able to get back to the island for about a week now, and it was starting to eat at him, though not as much as Nina's silences did. There was something up there, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what the problem was. God, he hoped not.

And George was becoming fucking impossible to live with.

George	"So I followed her into the kitchen and I said to her, 'Nina, please tell me what's wrong.' And she said, 'It's a lot to adjust to.'" George pulled a face, and reached over to pick up his lager.
Mitchell	There was something... off, about George, lately. Mitchell couldn't quite put his finger on it. Which was odd, because with Fandom cutting him off for a bloody week, Mitchell had all the time in the world to observe him. And Nina. But his concerns about Nina were about something else entirely. "Is she frightened of anything?"
George	"What, like the attacks?" George asked, frowning. "I don't know."
Mitchell	Mitchell watched him closely, the idle way his fingers curled around the class, the strange new arrogance that had seeped into George's features. He didn't like this. "No," he said. "Not the attacks."
George	"You know, I was actually looking forward to this, living with Nina," George said, like he hadn't even caught an inch of what Mitchell was trying to insinuate. Of course he didn't. Fuck, what was happening here? "But I'm not sure we're even... I mean, yeah, there's moisturiser, and there's Tampax in the bathroom, but it's not like we're having sex." He took a long sip of his lager, then set it back down on the table with a wet clink. "We watch TV and she's just sitting on the other..." He made a vague hand gesture. "I mean, if she could see the screen from the patio, she'd sit there."
Mitchell	Mitchell released a breath he didn't really need. "George, she saw you kill someone," he said, leaning forward. "Nevermind all the stuff about us."
George	"So then leave," George snapped. "Just leave!" He sounded irritated. And dismissive. And... about a hundred things Mitchell hadn't in a hundred years expected him to sound like in a situation like this. "...What?" George asked. "What are you looking at, Mitchell?"
Mitchell	Someone he didn't know. "Nothing," he said.
George	"Why are you so bothered about Nina all of a sudden?" asked George. He had the nerve to sound fucking suspicious about it, too.
Mitchell	After a few sparse, tense moments, Mitchell shook his head. "It's called compassion," he murmured.
George	George made another noise in dismissal. "So are we staying here?" he asked, "Or are we going somewhere else? I hate this place."
Mitchell	Mitchell's eyes darted down, towards his own glass. "I'll meet you outside," he said. His voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears. "I need to take a piss."

---

Mitchell's hands were still wet from the tap in the loo when he stepped outside, his senses bombarded by cold night air, and then the sudden scent of vampires-- the sound of a scuffle. George, and two vampires, two very familiar vampires--

He sped forwards and out of the pub into the alleyway, not even stopping when one of them cried, "There's Mitchell!" and ripped the male one off of George, flinging him aside with barely a thought.

The vampire staggered backwards, finding his footing-- then beamed at him. "Evening," he said.

Wait. Fuck, wasn't that-- "Ivan!" Mitchell said, staring. Last thing he'd heard, Ivan had fucked off to Vietnam like decades ago--

Ivan turned tail, and Daisy followed quick on his heels, the two vampires rushing back out of the alleyway and onto the street. Good riddance, the last thing they needed was for George to pick up his old habit of being beaten on by the buggers--

"George!"

He should really stop thinking shit like that, Mitchell thought, in the split second between George taking off after them and his own dash after George. Five minutes later, they were running headfirst into a parking garage, George barging on like a man with a mission, Mitchell racing after him because he was a fucking idiot, was what he was.

They ran up the stairs, Ivan and Daisy straight ahead of them, up up up up, and then Daisy went up and Ivan went through the door, and George stopped Mitchell.

"Split up," he hissed. "We need to split up. The girl, I can smell her perfume-- You go after him, I'll go after her."

"George," Mitchell snapped back, "Why are we even doing this?"

"Three times now. Three times, I've been attacked."

"We should let them go." God, what had even happened to George's sense of... of common fucking sense?

"I think I can handle her," George answered. He didn't wait for any further answer from Mitchell: he was running again, dashing up the stairs.

"I know her!" Mitchell roared after him, "Be careful!" He whispered a quiet curse under his breath before he ripped open the door to the garage, speeding after Ivan.

---

There was no one there. The whole lot was desolate, a few old cars, a few spills from fuck knows when, but no sign of Ivan. Mitchell paced through it, smelling the air. Somewhere, there, there was a whiff of something, something that told him the vampire hadn't left yet, but he couldn't pinpoint where.

He stopped when he hit the railing on the other end of the lot, and peered down over the city, bathed in darkness. Nothing.

And then there was something hitting his senses. He spun around, stepped down and away from the railing, just in time to get Ivan's fist in his face. Ivan grabbed him in a choke hold, pressing on his throat even though he knew it wouldn't do anything beyond activate old human panic mechanisms.

Mitchell struggled until he let go, suddenly. The force of it sent him sprawling to the ground, panting even though he didn't need to, staring.

Ivan	"Oh, mate," Ivan said, sighing, and paced around Mitchell. "You look awful."
Mitchell	Mitchell wiped the blood from his mouth, and stared at him. "You just smacked me in the face!" he cried, incredulously. Seriously?
Ivan	"I think you know what I mean," Ivan said, idly. Another step, another pace. "So, it's true then," he continued. "You're clean?"
Mitchell	Mitchell scrabbled up against the railing, trying to get a hold of himself. "Yeah," he said, still staring. "You should try it."
Ivan	"Oh, yeah," Ivan replied, with a bit of a roll of his eyes. "And then maybe one day, I can look like shit, too."
Mitchell	Using the railing, Mitchell managed to push himself upright. He sat down on it, rubbing at the blood still flecking the corner of his mouth. "How long have you been back in the country?"
Ivan	"Couple of weeks," Ivan replied, and his mouth formed into an idle smile. "Daisy's visiting family."
Mitchell	Right. Sure. That made sense. "Why did you attack George?"
Ivan	"It was my duty," said Ivan, like that made some fucking sense.
Mitchell	"Your duty," Mitchell repeated, flatly. "Ivan, you didn't even like Herrick."
Ivan	Ivan sighed. "There are rules, Mitchell," he said, not unsympathetically. "He was one of us. Bet I'm not the first. I won't be the last either, no. Insurgents, Herrick loyalists, just anybody wanting to make a name for themselves. Your puppy's dance card's going to be pretty full."
Mitchell	"So you come all this way just to have a pop at George, huh?" That almost didn't sound like Ivan. Or maybe, it sounded exactly like Ivan, the fucking perpetual tourist.
Ivan	"Not just that, no," Ivan said, and walked to the edge of the railing, a few steps from Mitchell, and pressed his foot against it. "There's a power vacuum here."
Mitchell	Well, that made oodles more sense. Mitchell grinned through his split lip. "And you intend to fill it?" he asked. Fucking hell.
Ivan	"No, no, no," Ivan said, smiling back, waving it off. "I just want to sit back and watch the flames." His voice turned harsher, then. "Brush up on your history. Taking out someone like Herrick is never clean, it's never clinical. It leaves a wound, and wounds get infected. I was at Baghdad, I saw Phnom Penh. I want to see what happens here."
Mitchell	Silently, Mitchell slid off the railing, and onto his feet. He was in Ivan's face in seconds, and it didn't matter that he was older or taller than Mitchell, because he fucking knew, still, what he was capable of, and so did Ivan. "Let me make this clear. An attack on him is an attack on me," he growled. "You meet anyone, you tell them that. And tell them to hide. We go back to the shadows, where we were." He yanked away, and waved a hand at Ivan. "The revolution... has been cancelled."
Ivan	Ivan didn't smile, nor did he shy away. But he nodded once, coolly, and stepped aside. "Daisy!"

---

"We're not done yet, Bouncer," said Ivan, Daisy yanking on his arm to get a move on, to get a snack for the road. "We are far from done!"

Then he glanced at Mitchell. "You're sliding into chaos here," he said. "Should be an interesting show. Good night."

George was practically chomping at the bit to holler something back at them again, but Mitchell grabbed his arm and forced him to stay until the two vampires had run off out of sight.

Then he paused. He could smell something-- he turned and looked at George. "What happened?" he asked.

"She attacked me," said George, firmly, and set his jaw, straightened his shoulders.

Mitchell snorted. "Yeah?" he said. "You've got lipstick on your mouth."

Fuck this night. Fuck it with a fucking screwdriver. He was going home.

[[ nfb, nfi, ooc-okay; taken from Being Human S2E01. Time to get back to canon, Mitchell, you poor bastard. ]]

Comments

[thatsamilkshake]

[Yes, for this you get no DAMMIT MITCHELL. Instead you get DEAR FRAKKING GOD GEORGE YOU WHINY SELF-CENTRED LITTLE BITCH.]