Word Count: 1,011
Warnings: Implied dub-con
Notes: Written for my kink_bingo prompt ‘aphrodisiac’ – this completes my line – yay! This idea came from my wondering why Herrick doesn't fight George more, at the end, in the basement.
Summary: Mitchell loves George, looks out for him, rescues him – but it may not be entirely for altruistic reasons…
“Lycanthropy is a disease,” George announces one day, when they’re in that terrible bedsit in Redland, “Because it’s passed on via touch, through an organism or secretion in the blood. Right?”
Mitchell shrugs, because George doesn’t need an answer, not if he gets a bee in his bonnet about something. He likes to ramble, and Mitchell likes to let him. Idly, he traces a pattern in the mildew on the wall beside the sofa.
“So if it’s in the blood, yeah – that’s how you could tell I was a werewolf. That’s how Seth and the others could.”
Mitchell looks up then, because it’s not as if George doesn’t know that. George is blinking at him from behind his glasses, and his left leg is bouncing, and he’s trying to be nonchalant, but Mitchell can tell he’s nervous – although when is George anything but nervous? Mitchell sometimes wonders what he was like before he became… what he is. He sometimes wonders if George wants to know the same about him.
“You can smell it on me,” says George, certain now, and Mitchell wipes his finger, stained brown from the mildew, onto the arm of the sofa.
“Sure,” he says, and counts. It takes three seconds for George to break, and go get a cloth from the kitchenette.
“So, you could tell if I was cured, right?” George continues, as he walks through, and rubs roughly at the coarse fabric, inches from Mitchell’s head, “If I could get a… I don’t know, a full bone-marrow transplant, and like… replace all my blood as well. A werewolf dialysis, yeah? Would it work?”
George is so close, Mitchell’s fangs are aching in his skull. The rich earthy odour of him, ripe for the plucking, is driving him insane, great swathes of his scent wafting over Mitchell’s senses as George rubs and rubs at the stain. The aroma of curry is strong from the Indian takeaway downstairs, and Mitchell is mostly glad of it. Because if he doesn’t have something like that to distract him and dull the fucking delicious smell that breathes from George, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stand it.
“Would what work?” Mitchell asks, his gaze two careful inches away from the nape of George’s neck.
“Are you even listening to me?” George’s glasses flash, as he stands, arms akimbo. Mitchell blinks and looks up, slowly, forcing himself to smile, and rub the knuckle of one forefinger against the woollen-clad palm of his other hand. The pressure helps. He can feel the ligaments and bones shift and grind against each other.
“I don’t know,” says Mitchell, “It’s never been tried. We can try and hook you up after our next shift, if you like.”
And George is pleased, as easily as that. “Yeah, right. Like it’s that simple – I’m human, apart from… certain things. I’m not letting you anywhere near me with a needle!”
Mitchell forces himself to chuckle and grin wider, showing his teeth. “Actually, I was thinking of something sharper than a needle.”
George snorts, and points a finger at him, waving the dishcloth, and Mitchell feels overwhelming desire, and grinding guilt. He wishes he actually was teasing.
“It’s too close anyway,” he says, “To your time of the month.”
“Yeah,” George wrinkles his nose, “The hospital smells really bad at the moment. It makes me sneeze – I keep being offered anti-histamines.”
He pats Mitchell on the shoulder and wanders off, back to the kitchenette, and Mitchell lets himself relax a fraction. He’s amazed that George doesn’t smell it on him in turn; the longing, the desire – especially at this time of the cycle, with all George's senses augmented. But he doesn’t. He really doesn’t know what he does to Mitchell as the full moon draws near, what Mitchell wants to do to him, what Seth and the others fear in the loss of control. There’s seduction in it, but danger too, being overwhelmed by the addictive scent of a werewolf near his change. Most of his kind don’t want to take the risk. Most of his kind destroy what they fear.
Mitchell’s different. A different kind of monster. He has control – up to a point.
“We should go out soon – get you to the woods.”
George mmm-hmms in response, ignoring Mitchell, not wanting to think about it, probably. So Mitchell stays where he is, sprawled into the shape of a squashed question-mark, curled up and safe on the sofa, squeezing himself tight, wrapping himself in willpower. But this bedsit is so small, there’s nowhere he can go to get proper respite - one room, a kitchenette and a tiny bathroom. It’s not enough.
Mitchell loves George, he loves him for his ordinariness, for his enthusiasm, for his stubbornness. He loves watching him eat beans on toast, for the little noises he makes. He loves him when he runs wild in another form, even as his heart trembles, even as Mitchell haunts the shadows in the woods that the beast stalks, waiting, waiting…
Waiting for George to come back.
Because when he does, there’s a time, a few minutes, an hour or two, when George will still smell as intoxicating, but when he is naked and pliant, and… safe. After all, who will notice a few extra bruises or punctures? Who will know or care that he has been rolled in leaf litter, and rutted against, and fed upon? Who will know that an addiction has been sated for another month? Certainly not George. When he finally falls asleep, he won’t remember anything, and that’s how Mitchell likes it. Needs it.
If he can only control himself now.
He looks up and catches George’s eyes, who smiles at him, falsely chipper, as he often is around now, and Mitchell smiles back, and loves him. But he can’t ever tell him how much.
“I’ve been thinking,” says Mitchell, with painful brightness, “I reckon we need to look for something bigger. A house, maybe? Separate rooms, at least. I think it’ll be best. In the long run. Don’t you agree?”