Title: Would You Be An Outlaw For My Love
Author: Chaos
Beta: The wonderful Basil, who sadly has no livejournal.
Parings: Mitchell/George
Warnings: Um...I don't know that there are any. Suicidal thoughts maybe? Weird PoV musings. And it was written during the first season. And it has no plot...
Rating: G? PG? There's kind of abstract slash and a bit of adult theme-ish stuff. But really, this fandom comes complete with blood anyway.
Spoiler Warnings: None. Oh, maybe for Herrick and his occupation. But...nothing really.
Disclaimer: Not mine. This isn't even one of my usual fandoms. So on a scale of zero to mine they're way down the bottom. Oh, and the title/cut lyrics are from a Garbage song, so still not mine.

Summary: Mitchell loves how naive George is.

Author's Note: Umm...I wrote this ages and ages and ages ago and only recently dug it out of the recesses of my computer and fixed it up with the thought that someone, somewhere might some day want to read it? I don't know. I really don't.

Mitchell loves how naïve George is.

He loves that George assumes they're the first. That they're unique. That no one else ever tried, no one else ever wanted to be normal and safe and sane. That all it's really going to take is that little bit of extra effort that no one else has ever been willing to commit. Because all the others throughout history have just accepted their fate and resigned themselves to being creatures of the night.

There have been others.

Mitchell knows. He knew some of them personally. Hell, he killed some of them. Herrick told him that they were a threat. That they posed an unacceptable risk to the rightful order of things. So he killed them. Herrick's orders.

Because Herrick's word was the law.

He loves how affronted George is by the fact that there are vampires everywhere. Working in their hospitals and on the police force. Loves how it enrages him that vampires can protect themselves using the intricacies of human society. He loves that George innately believes that the police are meant to be the good guys. Without doubt, without question. Because George believes that some things have to be sacred after all.

He loves that George doesn't think of him as a vampire anymore. That he unconsciously classifies Mitchell as one of the good guys.

He loves the way that George just assumes it's safe to be around him, doesn't even seem to notice that Mitchell's breath hitches every time (every single time) they touch. He loves the way George ignores the little slips he makes. Getting lost in the need for blood as a conversation washes over him. Or burning their toast as he stares into the distance, ears filled with the steady metronome of a heartbeat in the next room. The way he fights himself for every step as he shuffles closer to the beat of the werewolf's pulse. The fact that George doesn't care that he has to refocus when he calls his name in that vaguely teasing tone.

He loves the way that George leans into him when they're watching television in the evening. Hiding his face in Mitchell's shoulder whenever something scary happens on the screen. The way he doesn't seem to realise that the shirt he's buried his face in belongs to something more real and infinitely more terrifying than anything that's ever come out of Hollywood.

He loves that George doesn't flinch away when Mitchell's hand brushes his face. The way George smiles at him so innocently as he's falling asleep or waking up. As if he could never have nightmares about Mitchell losing it (which he doesn't). As if he doesn't know that Mitchell is a bundle of nerves held loosely together by a rapidly weakening will (which he is). As if he trusts him (which he does). Trusts him even as his lips are ghosting over the werewolf's jugular. Even when his breath quickens as his own heartbeat falls into sync with George's, as the rhythm of his pulse echoes through his whole body.

It's these assumptions that keep him sane. That very naivety that keeps him hanging onto the wagon by the skin of his not inconsiderable teeth.

Because he can't bear to think of what might happen to this deceptively innocent trust if he snaps. Can't bear the dreams of betrayal and fear in George's eyes. Dreams that wake him up in a cold sweat only to find those same eyes watching him with tender concern. He doesn't know what he'd do if he couldn't sleep curled around George at night.

Because he loves every scarred, slightly dysfunctional inch of George with every bit of his technically deceased heart.

But he knows that one day the need will overcome him.

He likes to think that it'll never happen. That it's impossible. That love is enough to keep it at bay forever. But he knows otherwise. He knows he can't control any of it.

And he keeps telling himself that he's going to leave before that can happen. He's just going to pack up and be gone one morning. Even if he has to break that damaged, wolfish heart when he does. He's going to write a letter and run away, never to return. He's going to make George hate him enough that he won't come after him. He's going to go so far away that he'll never be able to come back. Go somewhere he can hide from everyone and slowly starve himself out. Die an honourable death this time around.

But though he keeps going over these things in his mind he's beginning to suspect that he's lying to himself. That maybe he's as naïve as George to think that they're ever going to come true. Because he knows he can't leave George. Not now. The damned werewolf has wormed his way into his life and he doesn't want to go and dig him out.

George has become an addiction. Being with him, being near him, has become a compulsion almost as strong as the need for blood. Two addictions are at war inside him and Mitchell finds himself wondering how long he'll be able to hold onto his own dark variety of sanity.

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