multiversallogs | and i'll make it all worthwhile

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and i'll make it all worthwhile

Who: John Mitchell & Hasibe Ozcelik.
What: The aftermath of murderpiring.
Where: Mitchell's apartment in Mafaton.
When: Sukkardi morning.
Notes: /face in hands.
Warnings: Mentions of horrors.

There's a reason why they refer to blood as an intoxicant in Mitchell's world, using phrases like 'going cold turkey' and 'off the bandwagon.' It's not simply sustenance --his kind can eat and drink food just like humans. There's a little something extra.

The body count had barely reached double digits. This had been a walk in the park for him, nothing compared to his past exploits. Nothing compared to the havoc he'd wreaked across Bristol several months ago. Which meant that he wasn't nearly as blood drunk as he had been then, but there was still the dizzying, dizzying after effects.

He races home with supernatural quickness after his final, public touch, keeping to dark alleyways and corners. No one sees him, but even if they had there's a certain attitude of what happens in Mafaton, stays in Mafaton.

Keys turn in the lock. Once he enters the apartment, he closes the door and leans back against it, looking oddly calm. The blood stains and the dark gleam in his eyes say otherwise.

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Hasi is sitting by one of the windows, most of the lights low, dressed in his half-unbuttoned flannel shirt and her own underwear (no stockings, not for roaming around the apartment). Huan is asleep on a rug in the kitchen, but at the angle she's got, she can see Mitchell at the doorway. She's visible to him, too, perched with her bare legs in front of her, knees tucked up.

She tilts her head, pushing her hair away from her face. There's tequila on the table, but she hasn't had enough to get her drunk, and the buzz faded pretty fucking fast in the face of what Hasibe saw on the Network broadcast.

"You've been busy." She doesn't know what else to say. "Are you okay?"

It takes a moment for the question to register. Mitchell has other things to focus on. Even though he doesn't need to, he's gotten so used to making a show of breathing in front of humans that deep inhalations do have the effect of calming him like everyone else. He takes one, eyes flickering as they close, and concentrates on ridding himself of the more obvious signs of bloodlust.

Not that it makes him any less unsettling. He moves towards the livingroom, then stops, falling against a wall and managing to make it look lazy. And there he stays, sucking the blood off his fingers and looking straight at Hasi as he does so.

"Better."

There is an uncertain pause, but she rises slowly, crossing the room to look at him with a quiet concern. Hasi can tell he's high, in a way, on adrenaline and the thrill of the kill, and she'll never understand it, but it is so deeply familiar to her. All of this is familiar to her, and she recites in her head that it's different because Mitchell isn't Hyde, he wouldn't do what Hyde did, not to her. They have this aggression, this tension between them, and it goes just far enough.

But he does do some of the things Hyde does, evidently. Girl has a type.

"Why did you do it?"

"What do you mean why?" It's said in a sort of earnestness, almost bordering on incredulous laughter. He at least has the decency to wipe his hands on his jeans before reaching out to touch her face. "He hurt you." And there's the edge. There is a firmness to the way his thumb trails at her cheekbone. "He hurt you. And you know, I told myself, just wait, Mitchell. Just wait. Make sure Hasi's fine first. But last week--"

He presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed, as though he really needs touch something, her, to keep him anchored. "How fucking dare they come to my house and threaten you. How fucking dare they." His voice drops to a whisper as he says, "I'll tear this city apart if anyone tries to hurt you, do you understand? I'll tear them apart. Every last one of them."

A kiss is pressed to Hasi's cheek, and he moves his face away to look at her again with a sweetly surreal smile. "Oh, look at you. Don't you see?"

In a fundamental way, she will never see, not completely; her hands are hardly clean of blood, but she will never be able to relish violence. That's not necessarily a sign of goodness, in her own mind--considering she's a girl who tells him she doesn't believe in goodness--but it's just something she's not capable of feeling. All the same, she can intellectually comprehend what he's saying, even if she doesn't like it.

(So it is her fault.)

"I was angry, too," Hasi says, softly, "but I just--I didn't want this. I didn't want him dead."

She tips her head up to look at Mitchell, reaching for his hand. Now it's her turn to tether; she can hate it and accept it at once, in a strange way, the ride or die chick in her rising up even when she's wishing he'd done anything else. "But I understand that he crossed the line."

I didn't want this.

In amongst all his tumultous emotions, he gets the sense that he's disappointed her somehow. And that-- his hands drop, and he almost looks sulky. Annoyed. He didn't expect Hasi to be pleased, but--

His own self doubt rises within him. Did she have feelings for Sandor? He moves back. "I did. I wanted him dead." There's a fury to the way he says it, hands curling at the air. "The thought of him, a person like him, touching you, being with you. I have dreamt of digging my fingers into his flesh-- He never deserved to ever be near you."

The need to destroy is rising once more, and he turns away, hands digging into and clutching at his hair.

"It might have been naive of me, but I just--I am tired of men I sleep with dying because of me, even though I had no affection for this one," Hasi says, with a terrible resigned helplessness to it, "My husband was enough."

She doesn't know if he'll parse the weight of that admission through the bloodlust, but she's worried, now, and physicality is so much of how they connect to each other, so she goes to him. Most people wouldn't do this, either, with an obviously dangerous, obviously blood-drunk vampire, but she doesn't care. She wants him to look at her, at her eyes, and even if she gets blood on her hands from touching his coat, well--

She'll just try not to think about whose blood it is.

"Mitchell."

"You know what I am." His back is still turned to her when he first speaks, although he does, eventually, turn. There's nothing too angry about his features but, as with everything to do with Mitchell, that could change. Quickly. "You're the one always saying about how being human doesn't mean being good. Well then!"

His hands splay out in a 'surprise!' gesture, face in an exaggerated smile. "I'm a monster, Hasi. You've known that for a while now. You've encouraged it." And his head tilts to the side, slightly mocking. "I mean, did you honestly think I would let this one go? Did you think I would stay by your side like an obedient little pet?"

His lip curls at that last part. There's a pause while he looks at her solemnly. "Because that's what this is beginning to feel like."

There's a moment of silence, and a lack of visible reaction--always so poised, when it comes to things like this, assuming that mask immediately. It's never far away. There's a flick of her lashes toward the ceiling, and then she makes eye contact again.

"Let's get one thing clear," she says, and as she goes on, it's with a rhythm to it, something so patiently serpentine it rides the edge of supernaturally hypnotic. "You're a monster, darling? You don't say. My people were monsters when your entire race wasn't even flesh, when there was no flesh to ride the earth and fill it with children. We invented the the system that damns you. Don't you ever presume to educate me on the nature of monsters, Mitchell, because you are not ever going to be the biggest one in a room with me. Don't you fucking play that card like I can't counter."

A pause, and she settles to sit on his sofa, knees together. Her body language isn't remotely threatening, despite her cool tone of voice, which now fades into something else, a sort of resigned verbal shrug. She sounds tired, even though she doesn't feel it; adrenaline will do that.

"I don't know what I expected. Maybe I do headgame you sometimes, it's second nature, but that doesn't make me fucking wrong here." She should have, she supposes, seen this coming, but she didn't anticipate a Network broadcast. "But now I expect that they'll come for you, and I don't want that, because I don't want anything to happen to you."

Hasi tips her head back to watch him.

"I like that you're a monster, that this is what you are in addition to everything else. I don't like that you might get killed for this. It scares me. I am scared for you, do you understand what this is about?"

Edited 2012-02-26 10:36 (UTC)

He listens petulantly at first, which slips away as soon as that hypnotic gaze is set on him. The meaning of her words reverberates through him and he swallows at something that isn't there, dilated pupils going to smaller points as this --Hasi, her power, what he's gotten himself into-- hits him full force.

Everything that was big and brash about him a moment before suddenly unfurls and twists in on itself in a different way. Mitchell looks like he's a million miles away, but he is listening. Especially to that last part, which gets a hesitant look from under the tangles of hair that have fallen over his face.

He moves towards Hasi, even going so far as to shift the coffee table out of the way, so he can kneel in front of her properly.

"Say it. I want you --I need you to make it clear to me."

She'd nearly said something about how she's not the one who lets herself be turned by the blowing of the wind, but discarded it as too petty and disingenuous--because the rollercoaster ride that is Mitchell's mood swings never fails to startle her.

For a second, she just looks at him, amber eyes unsure. But then she lifts her hands, pressing them against his shoulders, knowing that there is blood on his clothes, on him. Blood doesn't frighten her.

"You're important to me. This thing between us...we say it's not serious, but I care about you, I don't feel--I don't feel not serious." She doesn't know what she feels. Scared, mostly. That part was true in so many ways. Sotto voce, now, with blurred edges, the soft, clear, higher register appearing in her voice that comes only when she's earnest this way.

"We're going to have to be strong, now, in the face of what will come."

"I feel the same way." It's said remarkably soft, even though there's very little in the past week that's been tender about him. "I want it to be serious, I just. Everything that happened in Bristol, and afterwards. Losing George and Annie. I don't deserve it."

"And now --I keep doing this. Why do I keep doing this? I--" His hands cup the sides of her thighs, thumbs tracing back and forth, as he keeps his head bowed. "I'll be strong. I promise. I'll find a way to be strong for you."

Never for himself, of course. Always for other people.

Hasibe tilts her head just slightly to the side, dark hair falling in a wave on her cheek. His phrasing does not escape her (she is hyper-attuned to the concept of doing things for others and not yourself when they should really be self-motivated--and she is a hypocrite, too), but it does not seem like the appropriate time to pursue as much. That blood-drunk aura still lingers on Mitchell.

"Okay," she says, and kisses him then, intending to be brief about it, "okay."

She wonders at how the anger went out of him so fast. But maybe that moment is deceptive--she realizes the aggression isn't gone, even if he's changed its direction.

She may have intended for that kiss to be brief, but it becomes apparent where Mitchell's anger has been channeled when he follows the soft display of affection with something much more more fierce and prolonged. His fingertips press into her thighs, gripping, intentionally wanting to leave a mark. And when he pulls back, reluctantly letting go of her bottom lip between her teeth, he is all red lips, open mouthed and upper lip curling.

And staring at Hasi, cruel looking and wanting.

She sucks in a breath in such a way it's like a low hiss, drawing air through her teeth. It hurts, but she responds to pain differently from other people; it's more experience, more forgetting. And she can see him now riding the high in a new fashion, the kind that can actually leave her trembling. (So much otherwise is feigned, so much is play-acting not to be human, she doesn't care about that, but to be a person, to not be a force of nature. Beings of flesh, not just humans, would usually find that comparison flattering. It's less so when it's what you really are.)

"What do you want, Mitchell?" The phrasing could be hostile, if she used different inflection, but the still-present softness of her voice renders the inquiry something else entirely.

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and i'll make it all worthwhile

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