Fic: Paranormal Pressures

[calliopes_pen]

Title: Paranormal Pressures
Author: calliopes_pen
Rating: PG-13
Written For: natmerc
Pairing: None
Fandom: Being Human
Word Count: 3536
Author’s Notes: This was written for yuletide, and you can also read it here. natmerc specified the following: “I haven't seen all of the current eps, so something in the early ones or during/before the first pilot would be great. I think George is my favorite character, although I like the others too. Either some domestic weirdness, or a short plotted mystery/horror segment.” This is set between episodes 2 and 3, although there are vague hints of future episodes. A huge thanks goes out to seandc, persiflage_1 and scarfman for beta reading.
Summary: Following some domestic weirdness between the trio, George needs a place to change into a werewolf, and the house is out after the last time. As is the forest…and the hospital...and the no longer abandoned building Mitchell had showed him a few days before...



“The worst thing, the very worst thing, is that it feels so good. A week before I need glasses to watch the news, Mitchell has to open jars for me. Then suddenly everything starts to work. All my senses expand and there's this part of me that can't wait, that's turned on and hungry. The neck's amazing isn't it? This tangle of artery and muscle and sinew. Did you know there are two jugular veins? An internal one and an external one. I've met people what have tasted them. And they said the windpipe came away with a sigh of air from the lungs that was still warm. As they described it they had this look, like everything they do in between is just sleepwalking and it's only for those few moments that they are totally and truly alive. And there's part of me that would give anything to feel like they did, to taste what they taste. And that's the worst thing.”
--George in the pilot, describing how the change makes him feel

“Mitchell? What’s the most exotic place you’ve ever traveled to?”

Mitchell noticed that Annie seemed to be fixated on his traveling stories lately--perhaps living vicariously through him, as she was currently unable to go far from the house. Again. Mitchell leaned back on the sofa, trying to think of a good place to describe to Annie. What was the most outrageous story he could tell, without getting into territory that was too disturbing for her? “I went to Prague once about fifteen years ago--bumped into a couple of vampires that were...different, I guess you could say. One talked to the stars and said they sang while she killed.”

With a shrug and a boyish grin, he mused, “I thought that my life was screwed up enough without getting involved with them, so I left. I did hear that the town they went to eventually fell into a hole, but vampire gossip isn’t always honestly come by. It was probably more like a small earthquake.” He laughed when she picked up that he was lying, hitting him with a well-aimed pillow to the head, before he stuffed it behind him with a grin.

She whispered in his ear, “Don’t think I won’t ask again later.” He nodded solemnly, as George wandered in, looking around the room feverishly. Mitchell had spotted that it was a full moon tonight, so naturally George would be a bit more...passionate about things.

“Mitchell? Did you see where I put my mug of cocoa? Annie’s littered the house with cups of tea again. It’s like...it’s like a war zone in here. Just with tea—cold tea, hot tea, and strangely spicy tea. And coffee, and hot chocolate. Turn and cause a spill. Or play a horrifying game of Guess What’s In The Cup, if she left a cup of drained fat from the turkey out again.”

Mitchell leaned back on the sofa, struggling not to laugh at the two of them as Annie gave him a halfhearted glare of doom at being interrupted. He just waved George to continue on, and put a magazine over his face. He might as well get a nap in now before Herrick pulled something, or something else happened.

Annie shook her head, and hid a grin. “You wouldn’t have to guess if you hadn’t bought cups that all looked the same.”

Hands on hips, George tried to look sternly at Annie, failing miserably. Instead, he settled for leaning carefully against the wall. “Yes, well...it was an emergency, wasn’t it? Shattered all the cups, and we needed more.” A pause to think, before sighing, “I’ll go out and grab cups and mugs every color and hue of the rainbow later, then, won’t I? Big and little. It’s time to gather my courage and revisit...the Marks & Sparks kitchen department.”

Annie hugged him. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Just avoid the cutlery. You know you get upset about the different types. Shrimp fork, pastry fork, fondue fork, salad fork, normal forks…”

George stared at her, before throwing his hands up in halfhearted disbelief. He was likely just doing it to entertain her. “Who needs a separate fork for shrimp? Really? It’s...it’s overwhelming, is what it is. Can’t you just hold it without the fork? Why must you poke it?”

Annie continued, ignoring his questions with a small shrug. “And then there’s sporks, sporfs, and knorks.” At his suspicious stare, she added, shoving him playfully, “I’m not making it up, they’re real things. I took a cooking class--sure it ended badly, but I know the names.”

“Was there a massive fireball that took out half the ovens?”

At her nod, he grinned. “Not just me, then!”

From beneath his magazine, Mitchell spoke up with his own theory. “I think I know why you have an aversion to forks, George. It’s sort of like a racial memory thing--or an overexposure to monster movies. Of the torches and pitchfork variety. Of course, it doesn’t bother me to shop for forks. I just have an extreme aversion to people playing with glitter and asking me to sparkle.” Firmly, he continued with just a hint of amusement, “I will not sparkle for blood.”

At Annie’s puzzled look, George filled her in. “A certain fictional character has ruined things for some vampires. Don’t ask, he’ll just get scary.”

“Right. Going back to the random questioning lest you freak out over it.” Annie grinned wickedly, thinking of another question to ask the both of them this time. “What’s the strangest type of creature either of you have come across, Mitchell? George? Not counting me, of course. Ever met, I don’t know...a wizard? A zombie? The Loch Ness Monster?”

George laughed nervously, rubbing his neck as he thought. “You’re not a strange thing, Annie...if you ignore the cup thing. I might have met Bigfoot once in the woods. Or maybe it was just the hairiest hunter alive. It was tough to tell, given how dark it was. There was a hairy chest involved, I know that much. We’ll never really know, since I was rushing about trying to find a spot to change, and didn’t have the time to ask if he was the legendary Bigfoot, or just a guy trying to fake it. There were extremely large footprints, of course, but they might have been left by the werewolf, when it was running around in circles.” At their twin looks of confusion, he cryptically added, “The chicken on a rope.”

Mitchell frowned. “You’re joking, right?” George’s grin didn’t give anything away. Mitchell shook his head with a grin, reaching over to playfully shove him. “Now, as for me. Thought I saw a mermaid once, but that was only because I drank blood taken from a guy that was really, really high. You saw me that night, George. Remember me screaming about the spacemen doing the Macarena in the living room?” When George put his head down, giggling hysterically, he smiled. “I see that you do.”

What was another question Annie could ask, that might lead to embarrassment? Ah, yes. “What movie scares you more than anything?” She held up a hand to stop them, continuing, “Not because they got the details of being a vampire or werewolf wrong. But because it really did scare the hell out of you, and left you with nightmares that kept you awake for hours. Listening to every creak and thud. I’ll go first--The Exorcist.”

George grinned and leaned forward. “The exorcists or the possession scare you more?”

She bit her lip and thought. “These days, the exorcists. I never want to leave you guys. And I don’t want to get obliterated by a ritual.” A pause, before adding wistfully, “Although, I have wondered if I could pull a Patrick Swayze on Owen someday. The pottery scene is sweet.” She just missed the look shared between Mitchell and George. “George?”

In a hushed tone, he whispered, “The Ring.” Before anyone could laugh or interrupt, he trudged on, explaining his reasoning for the terror to the other two as best as he possibly could.

“And let me just state for the record right now, before anything happens--if some creepy, half-drowned little girl with stringy hair and a desire to kill crawls out of our television set? I’m screaming and running into the night. I don’t care if I’m a werewolf, or that I live with a sweet ghost and a vampire, and you might be able to fight it. I’m going to run—I am out that door, using any supernatural reflexes I might still have at my disposal. Which won’t be that much, with the kicking and shrieking. I’m--I’m going to freak out even more than I do when you put your mugs and pots and kettles and cups of tea and cocoa everywhere!” Seeing that Annie couldn’t stop snickering, and was starting to hide behind a pillow to conceal it, he rolled his eyes.

“Don't laugh, Annie, I can go to levels of hysteria you can only dream of on a bad day!” Holding up a finger, he continued, “The Ring scared me--the original, mind you. It almost made me wish you hadn’t saved that television the last time I changed. Almost.” There was a long moment of silence, before George plaintively looked at Mitchell. “You? What movie scares you? I’m sinking here!”

Mitchell tapped the side of the sofa, struggling not to laugh as he said in the most ominous tone he could muster, “Home Alone.” At their disbelieving stares, he smirked. “Kevin would be a horrifying vampire child. Just think...that little boy, recruited into the ranks of the undead. Think of the carnage--buckets to the head to subdue his victims. Marbles on the floor to leave them helpless long enough to go in for the kill.” He nodded when the two shuddered. “He would probably just take down anyone trying to stake him with some sort of improvised defense system.”

George leaned forward. Whispering in awe, “And the live wire on the door knob…charbroiled victims. I don’t know whether to be in awe of you for thinking of that in the first place, or just be terrified.” Another thought struck him. “Missing floors to trap them until the next time he needs to feed, and bricks to keep them dazed. Diabolical.”

Annie patted his arm, before another thought struck her, crossing her arms over herself unconsciously, as though cold. “You can’t do the missing floor trick here, Mitchell. Owen’ll kill you...and you or George might take a wrong turn and fall in.”

George took a sip of what was now cold cocoa with a slight wince of disgust, before glancing at his watch. Thankfully, he didn’t spray the drink anywhere. “I hate to stop the funny questions and deeply troubling answer session but...well...werewolf time. The hospital’s out, since some people are working down in the basement again. Annie, could you hold my glasses? I don’t want them broken.”

She nodded. On the way out the door, he turned back. “And I’ll get you those cups I promised tomorrow, Annie.” While she made an amused sound, he turned to leave again with a strangely jaunty little wave. Without another word, he was out the door.

Forty-five minutes later, a harried George reappeared, knocking at the kitchen window. Nearly naked, and with nowhere else to turn, and not enough time to get dressed, he had returned for assistance.

Mitchell opened a window, with an eyebrow raised. “What happened?”

“I went to the regular spot--and people were camping. Went to a hidden area--and people were walking the path. There were screams--some from me, some from them. I think it’s some sort of obscure little marathon that wasn’t announced. The abandoned place you showed me a couple weeks ago has homeless people living there.” He quietly mouthed ‘help’, adding, “Before the neighbors see me?”

Annie and Mitchell shared a look, before she whispered to Mitchell. “Give him his glasses, would you? And keep him safe.”

He gently patted her hand. “Always, Annie. And I think I know just the spot for him to go.”

--
George was beyond frantic, quickly heading to new and uncharted levels of the emotion as it edged closer to time for the werewolf to make an appearance. He tapped Mitchell’s shoulder from where he stood behind him, and chuckled. “I had just stripped. What was I supposed to say to them, Mitchell? ‘Hello, don’t panic about the naked man before you! Please vacate the path at once, or the big bad wolf will get you’?”

Mitchell frowned, and turned to look at him, as he struggled to keep from laughing. “Thank you, George. Now I’m actually thinking of ways to get you to try that.”

“And?”

He playfully glared at his friend. “They all end with you being arrested for indecent exposure...or being sectioned.” With a long-suffering sigh, and an amused chuckle, he muttered, “Just follow me, George. I know just the place. A condemned house was demolished, but the basement of the house remains. Strong enough to keep a werewolf inside.”

George didn’t have much choice, since his clothing and underwear were variously stuffed into Mitchell’s jacket pocket, and slung over his shoulder. “I sort of have to, Mitchell--you’ve stolen my underwear! I’m still streaking here. You have my clothes, and we’re at the edge of town!” He dropped his harried voice to a hushed, if still urgent tone, before adding, “Someone might phone the police if they see a streaker.” Without a word, the vampire handed him a small bush he found along the trail.

“That's...that's not flattering at all.” Trying to see the lighter side as he covered himself anyway, he added with a rueful chuckle, “Whole of civilization can see my bum, but at least my front’s covered!” Then, to his disbelief, his foot caught on a root.

A screech and a muttered oath from beside him caused Mitchell to wince in sympathy. A rose bush run wild can be a painful thing. A hush fell, before George’s pained voice drifted out from where he had fallen, struggling to keep the last remaining shred of his dignity. “Oh, yes, thorny bushes. Proof that English gardeners are the real monsters here. The wolf won’t be pleased with thorns in his paws...or down there. I’m naked, after all.”

This prompted another sympathetic wince, and Mitchell covered his face for a moment before reaching in to help. Carefully stepping out, George lifted one foot to allow Mitchell to yank out a thorn. “Sorry, George. At least it wasn’t poison ivy?”

“I’ll thank you when I’m not bleeding.” There was a brief pause, before George cautiously whispered, “This isn’t going to make you want to bite me in the morning, is it?”

Mitchell rolled his eyes. “No, George. I keep telling you that werewolf blood tastes like rancid meat, mixed with garlic...and, strangely, parsley the closer you are to changing. I’ve never understood that. The scent’s stronger than skunk spray. No offense.”

George smiled weakly. “None taken. Annie’s been making more parsley sauce and soup lately. The taste would be stronger tonight.” He laughed at Mitchell’s disgusted face. “Well, someone’s got to eat it. It wouldn’t work to throw parsley at vampires, would it?” Mitchell only responded with an ‘are you kidding me?’ stare. “Didn’t think so.”

Mitchell suddenly vanished through a mix of moss and vines while George was turned away. Beginning to feel increasingly anxious since the time to change was edging ever closer. He was beginning to think there was nowhere to change...and it was starting to get to him.

“Is there a support group for werewolves that can’t find proper places to become furry?! Really, now, it can’t be that hard to find an abandoned area, can it? Can it?! Oh, this must be how Lawrence Talbot felt, just...with less poetry about plants being spouted by gypsies.” He stopped midway through his tirade, and looked around, finally realizing Mitchell was nowhere in sight. “There might be a whole new level of self-pity, though, as I realize that I’m talking to myself! Where the hell did you run off to, Mitchell? I think I feel fur growing! This is a two minute warning before the howling begins!”

A sudden movement behind him, along with a rustle of dead leaves, and Mitchell was back. Mitchell stood up from where he was crouched over a bush, one eyebrow casually raised. Slightly worried, yet distracted, as he tried to get the rusting lock to work. “Hmm? Just getting the latch unlocked over there, George, did you say something?”

George chuckled and rubbed his face. “Never mind. Forget it!”

Mitchell shook his head, and tried to keep from chuckling at the slightly muted sound of a frustrated scream. As he removed the padlock, he was practically flung aside in George’s haste to get inside before the change started. He understood that niceties weren’t going to work right now, and with one last wave from George, he closed, latched, and triple deadlocked the door.

Mitchell settled back, prepared to keep watch against the base of a tree for the next couple of hours. He knew the basement was heavily fortified, but he wanted to make absolutely certain that it could hold George. And, judging from the agonizing screams emanating from inside, the change had begun.

For someone that had once been a stone cold killer, listening to the screams of the change turned even his stomach. When the thuds and crashes started right on schedule a couple of minutes later, he knew that the werewolf was furious at being caged…and hungry.

With the pain that the transformation caused, and the abuse it inflicted through the course of the transformations, it was a wonder that George was even remotely sane. It was a wonder he wasn’t more like Tully. It was a testament to George’s mental strength, even if he was still firmly situated in the land of denial. Believing that it was something else, and never a part of him.

He didn’t even flinch when he heard a pig squeal--so George had found his little distraction. His midnight snack. Just in case George was too wild to contain, Mitchell had torn a page from Tully’s book. He had been useful for something after all, other than causing them all grief. Pig in a cage was just as good as chicken on a rope, even if it was a bit messy.

Perhaps tastier. Of everyone, the vampire was the best bet to understand the hunger the wolf (George--he was starting to refer to it as some other thing, just like George; he had to work on that) could never satisfy. George had enough paranormal pressures, without Mitchell pointing that out, too.

If (really when, if he was being honest with himself) George could get beyond the stage of denial and accept the wolf, and tap fully into the beast when it was needed--well, then he would truly be a force to be reckoned with. You could lose yourself in humanity for a while, but it always came back to the darkness. At some point, it drew you back in. He, of all creatures, knew that. He could never be entirely human…and he wouldn’t change it for the world. He would have missed out on knowing George and Annie. A bit of hope...a bit of light...in the darkness.

Mitchell quietly contemplated how the moon was just bright enough that he could have read a book easily to stem any ounce of boredom that might creep in...were it not for the fact that he didn’t want to relax his guard. And when the entrance to the basement shook a tiny bit more, he cautiously added another barricade. It was a very thick branch, which might have easily been mistaken for a battering ram.

What was that line from his favorite Shakespeare play? Ah, yes. “He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf...”

The hours crept by, as the vampire chose to stay nearby in case of trouble. Mitchell grimly looked at his watch--roughly five more hours until daylight. The howling was louder than his Ipod could go, so he would just have to tough it out.

And so it was that when morning finally arrived, and the sounds of a vicious beast ready to tear anything apart lessened to the whimper of a human--likely barely noticeable if he were human--Mitchell was ready, calmly removing the branch and latches, as well as using the key to all the locks.

George staggered out as Mitchell swung open the door, much calmer, and obviously exhausted--albeit a little messy around the chest, but that was easily covered until he could get to the house and shower. Without a word, Mitchell smiled and handed him his pants, quickly followed by his glasses. With barely a quirk of his lips, he handed George a breath mint.

George chuckled, grinning ruefully. “Are you saying I have morning breath?”

Mitchell calmly shrugged, saying with a grin, “Well, it’s the morning after you were a great big dog with a taste for human flesh--and I believe you might have eaten Wilbur. Just be glad Bambi didn’t wander in. What do you think?”

Without another word, he popped the mint into his mouth. He eyed him when Mitchell handed him a shirt and comb next. “Starting to feel like you’re my butler, Mitchell.”

Mitchell poked him playfully. “Don’t push it, George. I’m not about to start driving you places. We’ll just stick with me opening the jars of jelly for you until next month.”

George rolled his eyes, as he muttered, “Deal.” He poked Mitchell in retaliation when the vampire wrapped an arm around him, and messed up his hair again.

With a chuckle, Mitchell offered, “Come on. Let’s get you some breakfast. It’ll probably be a light one, since the wolf already had some ham.”

George shook his head as he put his glasses on, and fixed his belt. “Not kosher, but what’s it matter? I’ll have a shower, followed by pancakes…and then a nap?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Finis