I'd Rather Laugh with the Sinners than the Saints

Instead of studying for a test, I've decided to write fic. As you do.

I'm only about mid-way through Season 2 of the UK series, so the this occurs just throughout everyday activities.

And I cannot believe there is so little George/Mitchell fic! Their chemistry! Their interactions! Their obvious affection (Nina who?)!

Um, sorry for the abundance of italics?


This was wrong. All of this was so wrong, so off, so strange, so weird, so... wrong. There really was no other way to describe it.

George's life before had been OK. Maybe even great, now that he had something to compare it to. Secure, with friends and a girlfriend, and there was no chance he'd kill someone if he ever lost control. It was nice. And, well, less interesting than the one he had now. And safer. And more boring. But definitely safer.

And now, now, now, on top of his stupid once-a-month ridiculous deal, he had Mitchell to contend with! Mitchell, with his mystery and his hair and his dangerous tendencies and his insistence that George deal with his problem, as if it were that easy!

It was because of Mitchell he moved into a house with a ghost in it, and it was because of Mitchell he had gotten mixed up in some weird vampire royalty shit, and it was because of Mitchell he couldn't deal with his problem.

Because if he admitted he was a werewolf, well, he had to admit that Mitchell had something to do with the fact that he felt more at home in their little pink house than he had anywhere in his life, that Mitchell had something to do with the fact that George was happy, against all odds and conceivable logic.

And that was just silly.

Mitchell was a vampire, a vampire, for christsakes! Vampires and werewolves hated each other, and they killed people, and they were unpleasant to be around! But Mitchell was different. Of course he was different, because he was Mitchell. And George just really couldn't explain it better than that. In his mind, Mitchell didn't equal vampire. Mitchell simply equaled best friend.

And, well, yes, sometimes his heart beat faster when he was around, but he couldn't help it! There was probably some kind of evolutionary gene that came with his curse that meant he was scared of vampires! (Except he didn't see Mitchell as a vampire, did he?) And if his breath hitched whenever he saw him flirt with some tart, well, he was just looking out for his friend.

Because that's all they were. Friends. And if George had a chance to escape all this, he would. Without a doubt. Without hesitating. It wasn't Mitchell keeping him here! No! George hated everything about this, the fact that Annie was a ghost, the fact that once a month he lost all humanity, all vestige of what he was or could have been. He would leave, without a second glance, with no regrets.


(But, oh, George was such a bad liar. Such an awful liar. He couldn't even convince himself. Yes, he hated his curse, and yes, he would love to escape it, but he couldn't. He couldn't do that to Mitchell. And he didn't fool himself: it wasn't Mitchell who would miss George. It would be George who would do all the suffering and longing and second guessing.

Because Mitchell was what kept George human through it all. Even though the dark vampire was far from it, he reminded the other boy of what he could have done, what he could have been, what he could still have. He showed George what it was like to be human.

Mitchell had no objection to being with guys, George knew. He had had his share of awkward walk-ins and interruptions and more than uncomfortable morning after breakfasts. And George himself had no objections to guys, either. This was modern times! If vampire and werewolves could cohabit, then homosexuality should be embraced!

But he was George, and he was scared. Scared of what would happen if Mitchell said no; scared of what would happen if Mitchell said yes. So he said nothing.

And the days went on, and George stayed, and nothing changed.

Well, nothing except the intensity of George's loyalty [at this, at least, he was going to blame on the wolf's need for a pack, because, well, he could]. One day, after a particularly hard day for Mitchell [and thus, for Annie and George], it hit him.

Even if Mitchell went back to what he had been, even if Mitchell fell of the wagon and burned it to bits, taking the whole town with him, he would never leave. He couldn't leave. If that ever happened and George was still alive to witness it, well, he'd go along.

After all, it was better to laugh with the sinners than watch with the saints. It was better to live and go out in a blaze than spectate and disappear with a whimper. It was better to be with Mitchell than to ever imagine being alone again, with no ties to humanity keeping him sane.

It was just better. Mitchell made everything better. And George would never lose that. Never in a million years, never in a lifetime, never even entertain the possibility.)