Antarctica-or-bust (rata_toskr) wrote,

Ships in the Night

Title: Ships in the Night
Fandoms: Avengers/Captain America & Being Human
Pairing: Mitchell/Bucky, Mitchell/the Winter Soldier, minor Mitchell/Josie
Rating/Warnings: Definitely NC-17, with angst, violence, attempted murder, very rough sex
Word Count: 8644
Disclaimer: If I owned either of these, there would be more gay sex.
Summary: Mitchell and Bucky keep meeting through the years.

London, 1943

World War II is the most fun that Mitchell has had in years.

Not the war itself; the vampire has no desire to join the British soldiers stuck in Germany, but he dearly loves the London that those poor bastards left behind. It’s nothing but the old, the sick, and women; a veritable feast of women for him to gorge upon.

Mitchell and Herrick have gone from one kill to another without pausing, blood drunk and almost giddy as they lure their targets in with the promise of rationed luxuries. The vampires bleed their prey dry and then dump the corpses in the closest bombed out building. When the bodies are discovered, their deaths will be blamed on the German Blitz. Honestly, it’s almost too easy. There’s no thrill of danger anymore and maybe that’s why Mitchell pauses outside a crowded pub tonight.

The vampire is on his own since Herrick had business with an Old One that’s supposed to take all week, and while pubs aren’t his usual hunting grounds, he could use a pint right now.

Sure Mitchell can’t get drunk, but he still likes the taste of beer and it's always amusing to walk amongst humans undetected. They're so blind to the danger that he poses, too distracted by his pretty face to see the wolf beneath. So the vampire will buy a pint as an aperitif while he picks out his dinner; someone in this pub is bound to make a decent meal.

He pushes open the door and walks inside, pausing as the noise and smell wash over him. Dirt and gunpowder, sweat and alcohol, all undercut by the sweet scent of living blood and punctuated by raucous laughter in his ears.

Mitchell has stumbled on a group of at leave soldiers, a real mixed bag from the accents, and a shiver of anticipation runs through his veins. Drunken soldiers are so much fun to play with – trade a few war stories and they’ll accept you without question, add a bit more alcohol and they’ll do anything. The vampire will have them at each other’s throats within the hour, this evening’s meal disguised as a drunken brawl gone wrong.

So he walks over to the bar and asks for a bottle of the local while he surveys his options. There are plenty: the skinny fellow at the closest table looks like a good bleeder, several loud Americans probably wouldn't be missed by anyone, and the scruffy Irishman would be a taste of home. But then the vampire’s eye is caught by a shadow in the corner and his choice is decided instantly.

Mitchell doesn't usually shag men before he kills them. While he finds them attractive enough, the monster he's become likes women better: their softness, their scent, and the gorgeous way they scream when he digs his fangs into their necks. However, the vampire might have to make an exception for the soldier over there.

It’s not the other man's appearance that draws him, not exactly. The soldier is scruffy and underfed after too long on the front and his eyes are full of shadows when he glances round the room. But Mitchell can see the bones of a handsome man underneath the bruises and that mouth was clearly made for filthy fucking things. The vampire wants to crush those jagged edges, to take and claw and revel in this soldier’s broken spirit. He wants to show this man salvation and then drag him down to Hell, using him to feed the hunger that lives beneath his skin.

So Mitchell buys a shot of whiskey before walking over to the soldier's table. He hooks a chair with his foot and sits down without asking for permission. The other man glances up at the interruption and a weaker person would have quailed beneath his glare. But the vampire can't be deterred that easily.

“I brought you a refill,” Mitchell purrs, sliding his shot across the table. The soldier eyes the drink suspiciously, but after a moment, he takes the vampire's offering. He knocks back the shot in one quick move while Mitchell watches, his gaze fixed hungrily on the soldier's throbbing pulse.

“Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?” the other man asks as he sets the empty glass back down, his voice rough from the burn of alcohol. He's definitely American judging by those mangled vowels.

“What can I say? You looked lonely. I thought I'd offer a friendly ear or at least some alcohol,” the vampire replies before taking a long slow swallow of his beer. The soldier's eyes darken slightly when Mitchell's tongue swipes across his lips; he's at least a little bent and that should make this easier. The American's consent wasn't actually required – a vampire flush on blood can seduce most anyone – but desire always helps to smooth the way.

The other man swallows hard when Mitchell gives him a sultry smile, the vampire's eyes filled with every filthy promise that he cannot speak aloud. Indeed, he doesn't say another word as the soldier weighs his options, trying to decide whether or not the implicit offer is really worth the risk.

For a second the vampire thinks this American will actually refuse him, some shred of self-preservation winning out. But the soldier's resistance breaks when Mitchell lifts one hand to his mouth and licks a few stray drops of alcohol from his skin.

“I need a smoke,” the other man announces to the room at large before pushing to his feet. He doesn’t look at Mitchell as he slips out the side door of the pub but the vampire can smell his interest and he’s definitely getting a proper meal tonight. Mitchell waits a minute before he follows, long enough for the other patrons to stop caring about the stranger in the corner of the room.

Then the vampire leaves his empty bottle on the table and makes his own way to the door. The side entrance lets out into an alley where the American is waiting for him. The other man is leaning up against the wall and rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. But as soon as Mitchell shuts the door, the soldier takes two quick steps forward and grabs his shoulders, shoving the vampire back against the wall.

Mitchell lets himself be manhandled even though he could take down the other man in seconds. He lets the American kiss him, a harsh and biting kiss that's almost an attack. The soldier tastes like whiskey, smoke, and something utterly intoxicating, and Mitchell starts to feel almost drunk as the kiss goes on.

He grabs the American’s hips to pull him closer, the other man scorching hot against his skin. Mitchell slides his leg between the soldier’s thighs and rubs until he lets out a loud groan, breaking their kiss to gasp into the vampire’s mouth. But when Mitchell tries to grab his hair, the other man steps back.

“Don't,” he orders harshly before dropping to his knees without another word.

The American undoes Mitchell's trousers with sure fingers and then pulls out his prick. He’s clearly done this sort of thing before because he doesn't hesitate; he just leans forward and swallows Mitchell down.

“Fuck!” the vampire hisses. He throws his head back, hard enough to crack the bricks as he bites down on his hand. It's either bite or scream when the soldier starts to suck and Mitchell doesn't need anyone coming to check on them right now. Being discovered in flagrante would definitely cause a fight and massacring an entire pub of soldiers would lead to the sort of investigation that's safer to avoid. Mitchell really doesn't feel like leaving town.

The other man starts bobbing his head, lips tight around the vampire's length as he slides up and down. His tongue curls over the head of Mitchell's cock and teases at his slit before pulling off with a pop. The American smirks up at the vampire for a second, his eyes dark with hunger, and then dives back in again. His mouth is hot and wet and the noises that he makes are positively obscene as spit drips down Mitchell's prick.

The vampire bucks his hips sharply and the soldier gags, coughing and spitting around his cock. But when he pushes forward again, the other man relaxes into the motion, his lips stretching wide as Mitchell fucks his mouth.

The American just takes it. He lets the vampire push deeper and deeper until he's choking. The soldier gasps and chokes and struggles for air until his eyes are watering, but he doesn't pull away.

He likes it. Mitchell can fucking smell how much he likes it, the scent of his arousal heavy in the air and the pounding of his blood is deafening. The vampire feels his fangs start to drop, desire and hunger twisting in his gut, but he doesn't want to lose that sinful fucking mouth.

So Mitchell claws at the wall to stop himself from ripping into the soldier. He thrusts his hips forward as the other man swallows him inch by inch and moans wantonly around his prick. The American's mouth is stretched wide, his lips slick and shiny as the vampire thrusts into his mouth. Then soldier pushes forward until his nose is buried in his crotch, his throat working around the head of Mitchell’s cock, and when he lets out a low hum, the vampire loses it.

He comes with a strangled shout, his teeth digging into his hand hard enough to bleed. His hips jerk twice, seeking out the last shreds of pleasure, and then he sags back against the wall.

When the vampire opens his eyes, the solder is smirking at him. The other man sits back on his heels and spits onto the cobblestones before wiping off his mouth. His prick is hanging limply from his trousers; he must have come while the vampire was distracted, and it almost seems a shame to kill him now.

This American is too damn pretty and Mitchell really wants to fuck him before ripping out his throat. He wants to bend the other man over one of the empty crates in this alley and break him right in half. So the vampire opens his mouth to make an offer when the door swings open and the moment's lost.

“Bucky? Are you out here?” someone asks.

Although Mitchell and the soldier are hidden by the open door for the moment – and the American has definitely done this before if he even planned for that – they won’t be hidden long. So both men snap into action and by the time the door swings shut, all evidence of their activities has disappeared. They're just two soldiers smoking in the alley; nothing illegal here.

“Where's the fire, Stevie? Can't I have a smoke in peace?” the other man asks, greeting the new arrival with a jaunty wave.

This new soldier is almost as attractive as his friend, tall and blond and the kind of wholesome that Mitchell wants to wreck. But the vampire has seen a few newsreels since this war began and while he’s curious to know whether he could take on a supersoldier, finding out isn’t worth the risk.

He and Herrick have a good thing going here in London and trying to kill Captain America would be a fast way to ruin it.

So Mitchell lets the soldier walk away. He lets both men walk away even as the monster in his chest screams possessively. There will be other prey, other chances to gorge himself on blood and sex and death, and the vampire is sure that he’ll forget about this one man soon enough.

Munich, 1959

I fucking hate autumn in this country, Mitchell groans as an icy wind comes screaming through the streets. Vampires can’t freeze to death like normal humans but the cold still affects them and he always feels the chill more strongly when he hasn't fed.

Herrick ordered him to keep a low profile, which means two days without a single drop of blood to feed his hunger, and he'll be glad when his errand's finally done. Honestly, Mitchell isn’t even sure why he’s here. He’s not a spy and he’s never heard of this Stepan Bandera person that he’s supposed to meet. But Herrick needs him to pick up a package so he’ll be a good little messenger and then go find himself a girl.

Maybe five girls. It’s going to take a bloodbath to warm him up again.

Mitchell turns a corner and sees his destination: Kreittmayrstrasse 7, one of many cheap apartments on this street. He picks up his pace a little, ducking his head against the wind. So he doesn't see the man until their shoulders knock together, a solid blow that drives him back a step.

“Achtung, Arschloch!” the vampire snarls in rough German. Mitchell turns to glare at the other man’s back, staring after him in irritation as he keeps walking down the street. Something about this bloke seems familiar, maybe something in his scent or the rhythm of his stride. The vampire can’t quite place it until the other man turns the corner and he remembers exactly where he’s seen that face before. It may have been some fifteen years since London but Mitchell still whacks off to the memory of those fucking lips sometimes.

So he pauses, torn between finishing his errand and chasing after the other man right now. Mitchell is seriously tempted to ignore Herrick’s orders and finish what they started back in London. It’s almost a matter of pride at this point; the vampire has never been one to let his chosen prey survive.

However, before Mitchell can make a decision, he hears a woman scream behind him. Although, his German isn’t fantastic, “sterbend” definitely means dying and so he spins back around. There’s a crowd of people standing in front of his destination, more running over as he watches, and the woman just keeps shouting about a dying man.

This seems too coincidental considering Mitchell’s errand. Indeed, when the vampire gets closer he recognizes the man choking on the ground. That’s Stepan Bandera according to the picture in his pocket and he swears under his breath.

Herrick’s instructions had been very specific – “Don’t return without that package” – and his contact is in no condition to tell him where it his. However, when Mitchell moves closer, he sees an apartment key lying on the ground by Bandera. So he memorizes the number etched into the key tag and then slips into Kreittmayrstrasse 7 while everyone else is occupied.

The vampire intends to break in but the door to Apartment 24 is open when he gets there – Stepan must have run out in a hurry. He looks inside and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees a small box on the table. That has to be his package since the room is bare bones otherwise.

“Oh, come on,” Mitchell groans when he takes a step forward and runs into a brick wall. At least, that’s what it feels like. The vampire didn’t think this sort of residence counted as a home, but apparently it does and he won’t be able to enter without an invitation until his contact dies. So Mitchell leans against the entrance, tapping his foot impatiently until the barrier finally gives. Then he slips in, grabs his box, and walks out of the building as fast as possible.

No one tries to stop him. No one even notices him except for one cute young woman at the edge of the crowd. She blushes when the vampire smiles at her and now that his errand has been completed, she doesn’t stand a chance.

Two hours later, Mitchell climbs out her bedroom window. There’s a package in his coat pocket, a gruesome murder on the bed, and for the first time in days, he feels warm again.

Paris, 1973

Josie is adorable when they go on holiday. She wanders around Paris with a wide-eyed wonder that makes Mitchell feel half his age. Truthfully, the vampire loves everything about Josie: her morals and her optimism, definitely her stubbornness, and the crooked way she grins. With her, Mitchell actually feels human and he'd do anything to keep her smiling.

“Look John,” Josie says, grabbing his arm and pointing toward the Eiffel tower. “Can we go up?”

“Of course,” Mitchell laughs. “Whatever you want.”

He pays the fee so they can climb the tower and the view at the top is worth the hike. Although the vampire has been to Paris before, he's never done much sight-seeing and looking at the city with Josie makes it seem new again.

So he leans on the railing and points out all the different landmarks he can find. Mitchell knows more about the city than he’d realized and he quickly gathers a small crowd of other tourists, their interest and Josie's encouragement convincing him to give an impromptu tour. The vampire tells a dozen strangers about his favorite side streets and the sites they shouldn't miss. He tells them how much he loved the Louvre and the gorgeous parks at sunset – skipping the part of the story where he killed someone in the bathroom and painted alleys red with blood.

Mitchell talks until his throat grows hoarse and the other tourists start to drift off one by one. The last pair to leave is an old couple, probably close to the vampire's real age, and seeing them shuffle off together makes him smile wistfully.

That's how every grand romance should end up. That's what he really wants and what he'll never have. Mitchell is going to stay young forever while the world grows old around him and deep in his heart, he knows that even Josie cannot last. But the vampire refuses to think about the future. That way lies madness and for now he'd rather focus on Josie's brilliant smile as she takes his arm again.

“Thank you for a lovely afternoon,” she says, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “That was very sweet of you. Do you want to get some food?”

“You know me. I'm always hungry,” Mitchell replies and the words are truer than he'd like. Without blood, the vampire can eat and eat and never feel completely full, but Josie is worth the ache inside his gut. She's worth everything and he will never, ever tell her about the times that he's slipped up.

So the couple climbs back down the tower and then strolls along the street, looking in the windows for the best place to eat. Mitchell lets Josie pick and they end up in a cute little cafe that overlooks the river, the kind of restaurant where writers compose tragic poetry to their long lost loves. The vampire almost expects someone to climb up on the bar and start serenading them as soon as they sit down.

But instead the pair just orders coffee in their laughably bad French, the waiter's clear exasperation making Josie giggle helplessly.

“I'm sorry,” she apologizes, covering her mouth with her hands. “It's just... his face.

“It's not your fault. I think I tried to order coconuts for a second there,” the vampire replies with a wide grin of his own. “One of these days, I should actually learn to speak French properly.”

Mitchell and Josie chat for another hour, trying a little bit of everything on the menu just because they can. Somehow they still have things to talk about, although the vampire ends up listening far more than he speaks. He just likes watching Josie, her eyes lighting up and her hands waving in the air as she punctuates each word.

But every conversation has its lulls and eventually his gaze drifts out the window. Old men and young men, couples and families with children stroll by on the street as Mitchell watches idly.

Then the vampire sees a familiar face and he shoots upright in surprise, banging his knee hard on the table. Mitchell curses when coffee spills onto his fingers, the vampire nearly knocking his cup over before he manages to stop it wobbling. He grabs a napkin and dabs at the mess, trying to soak up the coffee before it drips onto his trousers, and by the time he's finished, the man outside is gone.

“Are you all right?” Josie asks, looking at the vampire worriedly.

“Yes, sorry,” Mitchell tells her. “I thought I saw someone that I knew from the last war. But I must have been mistaken.”

“Are you sure? If he's a friend, you should go after him.”

“No. That's not a good idea,” the vampire says, shaking his head in denial. “It can't have been him and I don't want to bother a stranger on the street.”

“How do you know?”

“He looked the same and he was human when I knew him,” Mitchell explains. “He should be old by now. And if something changed him, I definitely want to avoid a confrontation. I won't endanger you for my curiosity.”

Josie smiles at that. She reaches out to take Mitchell's hand and the vampire doesn't think about the past again that evening; how can he when a gorgeous woman is here with him right now?

When they leave the cafe an hour later, Mitchell has forgotten the incident entirely. His mind is on other things and when the couple is forced to take a detour back to their hotel, he doesn't assume that it's related. The assassination of an African doctor cannot possibly be connected to a man that he met briefly thirty years ago.

Madrid, 1984

It's been ten years since Josie left and Mitchell hasn't been back to England since. He doesn't blame her for breaking up with him. She wanted a life and a family that he could never offer; her time was moving on while the vampire stood still.

But he misses her. He misses the person that he was when she was still around. Because every day is a struggle without Josie to remind Mitchell of what being human means. The vampire has been trying – for her sake, he's been trying – but his control is fraying around the edges and each time it breaks, stopping becomes more difficult. Mitchell is fighting a hopeless battle and he knows that it's only a matter of time before he kills again.

It's not just the hunger, though that's a gnawing ache inside his gut. It's the memories that haunt him, a thousand faces screaming in his mind. The vampire can see them in the darkness every time he shuts his eyes.

Mitchell has killed so many people. He's a monster no matter how he tries to fight it and even when he was with Josie, he couldn't escape entirely.

That's the truth the vampire is running from right now. Going back to England means going back to Herrick and he doesn't want to be that person. He's seen his sire once or twice in the last decade but he doesn't want to be the person that Herrick talks about so proudly and young vampires look up to, the one who feeds with style and with flair.

So Mitchell wallows in his guilt instead, lying in his hotel room and trying to block out the siren call of blood. All he can hear is heartbeats, a hundred different pulses pounding in his ears. The vampire feels strung out – thin, fragile, and so very hungry – and his fangs haven't retracted in three days. He needs food, anything to fill the gaping hole inside his gut, but he can't go outside. If Mitchell goes outside, he's going to kill everyone in this hotel before he's done.

The vampire groans and shoves his pillow over his face to avoid clawing at his skin. He's going crazy and he doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to hold out.

Mitchell snaps upright when he hears a gunshot. The sound is faint and a normal human may not have realized what it was. But all of the vampire's senses are on overdrive and he knows what a bullet sounds like; judging by the crash of glass that followed, this one found its mark.

Then there are footsteps above him, strangely heavy footsteps walking down the stairs. So Mitchell moves to the door, hunger and curiosity overwhelming his good sense when the footsteps pause outside. The vampire opens his door just a crack and sees an assassin. The man has to be assassin considering the rifle on his shoulder and the black mask across his face, though there's something odd about the rhythm of his heart.

Mitchell must make a sound because the assassin's head snaps around and the vampire can't quite hold back a shudder when he meets those empty eyes. He's never seen anyone look so completely blank before. But then the assassin’s gaze narrows dangerously.

Oh fuck! Mitchell curses as the other man pulls out a massive knife and heads right for him. He tries to shut the door but the assassin slams it open with his shoulder, knocking the vampire back onto the floor. He scrambles to his feet as the other man kicks the door shut and then stalks forward with his knife raised high.

The assassin intends to kill him, that much is obvious, but Mitchell refuses to go down without a fight. He may be weak from hunger but there’s something to be said for the desperate motivation not to die.

The vampire lets his fangs drop and lunges forward with little thought to his own safety. Mitchell feels the other man's knife pierce his shoulder even as his fangs sink deep and while that wound would kill a normal person, all he needs is blood. So the vampire bites down harder until the assassin curses and slams his left arm into Mitchell's gut. It feels like getting hit with a freight train and he flies back hard into the wall.

But that small taste of blood drives him into a frenzy. This man tastes amazing, rich and sweet and heady on his tongue, and even if it weren't a matter of survival, Mitchell would be happy to drink him dry right now. He’s going to feed or die and he leaps toward the assassin with a growl.

Although the other man is clearly the better fighter, he's not used to vampires and while Mitchell takes a lot of damage, he gets in his own hits as well. The vampire bites every piece of flesh that he can reach and the blood keeps him going long after he should fall.

As the fight drags on, the other man starts to seem more human. He becomes frustrated by Mitchell's refusal to stay down and his strikes become faster and more vicious. Finally a brutal punch throws the vampire onto the bed and the assassin pins him to the mattress before he can react. The other man holds him in place and Mitchell hisses angrily.

The vampire lashes out, his nails catching the edge of the assassin's mask. He digs gory furrows into his opponent's cheek and then licks the blood from his fingers one by one.

Mitchell's blow leaves the mask hanging by a few tattered straps and the assassin spares a breath to rip it free. He tosses the mask aside before glaring down at the vampire and Mitchell falters for a second. Because it's him. The assassin is the same American soldier from London and Munich and maybe Paris after all. Honestly, this is starting to push the limits of plausibility and the vampire almost has to wonder if someone is fucking with him now. Because as good as the assassin tastes, Mitchell is pretty sure that he's still human and the vampire knows that immortality always has a price.

However, Mitchell is too far gone for paranoia. The blood haze doesn't care where this man came from. It just wants to feed. He wants to feed or fuck or both, sex and hunger tangled in his mind. They've always been connected, two sides of the same coin, and Mitchell has been hard since the assassin's blood first passed his lips.

So he can't hold back a groan when the other man shifts his grip and brushes across his prick. It's just the barest touch and the vampire knows it's accidental, but he pushes his hips into it anyway.

The American startles at this. He stares down at Mitchell with wide eyes, his expression strangely vulnerable as his knife drops to the bed. The other man looks achingly young in his confusion and the vampire is almost as surprised by this reaction as the assassin seems to be. Why would the American be thrown by his desire after sucking Mitchell off at their first meeting? It's not like he hasn't done this sort of thing before.

So while the vampire probably should have ripped out his throat while he was still distracted, Mitchell's confusion makes him slow. Before he can switch gears from fucking back to fighting, the other man smirks suddenly.

His smile is almost feral, his hesitation disappearing in an instant to be replaced by confidence. Here is the American that the vampire remembers, as though a completely different person is looking through his eyes. Maybe the other man is crazy or maybe he's possessed; Mitchell can't bring himself to care when the assassin shoves his right hand down his trousers and grabs his cock again. He strokes the vampire roughly, his smirk widening at Mitchell's strangled moan.

He tries to sit up – to kiss or bite, he isn't sure. But the other man holds him down with just one arm, though that should be impossible. He pins the vampire in place so that Mitchell can only take it, bringing him to the edge before letting go again.

The American leaves him gasping, removing his hand from Mitchell's pants and then ripping off his trousers. Literally ripping as the fabric splits along the seams. The other man tosses these shreds over his shoulder and Mitchell doesn't think he's ever been so turned on in his life. No one has matched his strength since Herrick changed him and he didn't know he loved being manhandled until now.

Mitchell doesn't even fight when the assassin turns him over. The other man isn't gentle, gloved fingers digging into the vampire's hips when Mitchell tests his grip. The bruises won't last long but he loves the thought of them, loves the thought of being marked by someone else's hands.

“Fuck, you bastard,” the vampire gasps when a blade slices deep into shoulder. He jerks against the American's hold, adrenaline flooding through his veins as he wonders if he's made his last mistake. But the assassin's grip just tightens. He shoves Mitchell's face against the mattress and rubs one hand across the vampire's wound, the touch sending waves of heat running through his veins. Because the pain is pleasure or maybe Mitchell just can't tell the difference anymore.

Not when the air is thick with blood, every breath letting the rich scent coat his tongue. He feels like he's drowning in it, hunger and pleasure and desire overwhelming all his senses as slick fingers press against his ass.

The assassin stretches Mitchell quickly and efficiently, working him open with his own blood to ease the way. He still hasn't removed his gloves and the leather is smooth against the vampire's skin, warm softness over steel.

The other man's hands never waver. He touches Mitchell with confidence, taking what he wants without excuse or hesitation, and the vampire can only shudder helplessly. He can't fight this and in truth, he doesn't want to. If he had the breath, Mitchell would be begging, a desperate whine escaping his throat when the American pulls his fingers free.

He shoves his ass higher and the other man obliges him, lining up his prick and then slamming home in one quick move. The stretch burns so good and Mitchell groans loudly, holding onto the bed frame tightly when the assassin starts to thrust. His pace is brutal as he fucks into the vampire, each stroke slamming into Mitchell like a freight train and shoving him up the bed. Then the assassin changes his angle slightly, pushing even deeper as his hips snap forward once again.

The vampire gasps when the other man's next thrust makes light burst behind his eyes. He can feel the assassin's cock deep in his gut, pleasure roaring through his body like a wave. Mitchell is panting now. He’s hard as nails and gasping as the other man drives into him.

“Please,” the vampire whines, caught on the edge without relief. But then the American wraps his right hand over Mitchell's mouth. His glove is soaked with blood and the vampire laps it off his fingers desperately, his fangs tearing at the leather to reach the skin beneath. He bites down hard and moans when blood spills between his lips. The taste heightens his desire, making his prick throb almost painfully, and when the assassin gives one more sharp thrust, Mitchell lets out a scream.

He comes so hard that he sees stars, the bed frame splintering underneath his hands. The vampire goes limp with pleasure and nearly faceplants on the mattress before the American grabs him by the neck. The other man holds him upright and thrusts twice more before coming with a grunt, his seed filling Mitchell’s ass in one hot gush.

The vampire can feel it dripping down his thighs when the American pulls out a few seconds later; apparently murderous assassins don’t believe in afterglow. Mitchell, however, feels much too good to move. For now the monster inside his chest has been sated with sex and blood and violence and he tips over onto his side as he slumps down on the bed.

When Mitchell manages to open his eyes again, the assassin is looking at him. He’s righted his clothes and replaced his weapons, the most obvious evidence of their encounter wiped away. The American has even managed to repair most of the damage to the vampire’s hotel room, though the sheets that Mitchell is lying on are a definite lost cause.

Now that the cleanup is done, the other man seems to be contemplating what to do with Mitchell, his expression a cold killer’s mask again. If the assassin decides to kill him, the vampire won’t stand a chance at this point. But the American just nods once and then spins on his heel instead.

“Who the Hell are you?” Mitchell asks roughly, his voice gone hoarse from moaning. He doesn't really expect an answer, not when the other man has yet to speak a single word. But to his surprise, the assassin pauses on his way to the door.

“Soldat,” he says, looking back at the vampire with a bitter smile. The expression is a slash of wound across his face and Mitchell can’t hold back a shiver of unease. Soldat is not a name and the vampire doesn’t want to think about what could have given his American soldier a whole new Russian accent in the last forty years.

“Sekret,” the assassin continues when Mitchell doesn’t speak. His stare pins the vampire in place as he puts a finger to his lips, the motion clearly an order and a warning all at once.

Then the other man disappears into the hallway, leaving Mitchell to wonder what the fuck just happened. Honestly, the assassin doesn't have to worry about him staying silent; no one would believe this crazy story anyway. The vampire can barely believe it himself and he’s got the bruises, the ache in his ass and the blood on his tongue to prove that it was real.

Vienna, 2000

Mitchell has been clean again for two months, eighteen days, twenty hours, and ten minutes, and every single second has been a constant fight.

Being clean is what he wants and yet he hates it. Life would be so much easier if he could just give in. If he could just be like Herrick and let the monster reign. But Mitchell is caught between two worlds. He’s left his sire half a dozen times and gone back just as often, his fits of conscience alternating with decades as a fucked up murderer.

Herrick always welcomes his return, greeting Mitchell with open arms no matter how long he’s been away. What’s five years to a vampire who will live for centuries? And his sire can afford to be gracious. He knows that his wayward child will always come crawling back again and when he loses control, Mitchell is the sort of vampire that gives normal people nightmares, the sort that breeds stories of monsters in the dark. Mitchell falls and falls hard and he hates himself a little more each time.

So meeting Carl a few years back had been a lifeline. Here was another vampire who didn't want to be a monster. Here was a vampire who had stayed clean for years and showed no signs of slipping, a vampire who lived with a human lover and hadn't bled him dry.

Carl is everything that Mitchell wants to be. He gives the vampire hope that things really can be different if he just holds his course.

Mitchell thinks of Carl’s disappointment when the memories start to overwhelm him. He thinks of Carl’s lover and the way that Dan had sneered when the vampire showed up on their doorstep, blood drunk and desperate to be clean. The human hates him. He thinks that Mitchell is a lost cause and Carl should just put him out of his misery.

Honestly, Dan might be right. But the vampire doesn’t want to die. He just wants to live without hurting other people anymore. When he falls off the wagon, innocents get slaughtered and someday he’s going to pass the point of no return.

Mitchell has spent most of the past three months hiding in Carl’s house to avoid temptation. But tonight he couldn’t take the sound of Dan’s heartbeat anymore. If the vampire spent any longer in that house, he was going to try something he’d regret and he refused to do that to Carl. He refused to prove Dan right by killing him.

So Mitchell had grabbed his coat and left the house, walking aimlessly through the streets of Vienna in an attempt to clear his head. It’s been almost an hour now and he’s finally starting to feel better. The vampire doesn’t feel as close to ripping out some poor bastard’s throat anymore.

He’s trying to remember the way back to Carl’s place when a gunshot shatters the silence and if Mitchell had been sensible, he would have run the other way. The vampire should call the coppers and then disappear because a gun fight is the last thing he needs to get involved with, not when he’s still so hungry and an open wound might make him crack.

But he never claimed to have good judgment. If he did, he wouldn’t be here and he certainly wouldn't be sneaking toward a gunshot instead of calling the police. The vampire keeps his ears wide open as he hugs the shadows, listening intently for any other sounds.

Mitchell doesn't hear another gunshot but he does hear the sound of fists on skin. He follows the noise and rounds a corner to find an outright brawl. One man is taking on a dozen other guys barehanded, at least three pistols and a knife lying discarded on the ground. He punches one of his attackers and the man goes down with a wet thud before another grabs his arm. Mitchell hears a snarl almost worthy of a werewolf and the vampire winces when a body crashes hard into the wall.

This man takes his target's jacket with him and the moonlight flashes off something metal. Mitchell moves closer, trying to get a better view. The vampire doesn't know which side of this fight he should be rooting for – maybe none at all – but he can't deny that he's curious about what's going on. So he waits on the edge of the street until the combatants move into the light and Mitchell's breath catches sharply.

His soldier is back. Even beneath that mop of hair, the vampire can recognize him. At this point, Mitchell thinks he'd recognize the other man anywhere. But for once it's not the American's face that leaves him reeling. The soldier has a metal arm, the whole limb gleaming silver from fingertips to shoulder and he definitely didn't have that sixty years ago.

While Mitchell has seen a few prostheses in his time – from wooden pegs to more complicated mechanisms – this arm blows them all away. His assassin fights as though the limb is a true piece of his body and when he punches his attackers, they don't get up again.

Truthfully, the American is mesmerizing. He moves with a panther's grace as he weaves through his attackers and the vampire can't tear his eyes away. Mitchell knows that strength; he knows those hands and if he can't feed his other hungers, he'd settle for those metal fingers closing on his wrists again.

So the vampire watches as the soldier tears through his attackers and he's half-hard by the time the last man falls. Mitchell still doesn't know what's going on here but he doesn't really care. The vampire has always been a little selfish, after all.

However, before Mitchell can step forward and confront the other man, a harsh stream of Russian fills the air. Or at least, he thinks it's Russian. Cyrillic languages have never been his strong suit and he's somewhat distracted by the way that his assassin screams.

The other man falls to his knees, his hands clutching at his hair as the new arrival keeps spitting Russian. He's older than the others, a doctor rather than a fighter, but his words land like daggers anyway. The American struggles to stand beneath the onslaught but he can't seem to keep his feet, all that lethal skill lost to utter panic as he tries to get away.

Mitchell just watches, frozen, until the assassin looks up and their eyes lock together, the vampire nearly bowled over by the desperation that he sees. The other man is practically screaming, “Help me!” without a single word at all.

Some shred of conscience in Mitchell's heart wants to answer but common sense keeps him pinned in place instead. The vampire shouldn't get involved – for all he knows the American deserves this. He is an assassin and quite possibly a madman; this Russian may just be a handler bringing his wayward asset home.

Indeed, the Russian barks out one more word and the other man crumples to the ground. When he looks back up, his eyes are empty. He's just a soldier waiting for his orders and he stands back up when the Russian speaks again.

Mitchell shrinks back in the shadows as the two men leave together. Neither seems concerned about the bodies strewn across the pavement and the vampire doesn't want to be here when the cleanup crew arrives.

This isn't any of his business anyway.

Bristol, 2009

Mitchell has been having a shit day. A couple of shit days, really, and he plans to get completely pissed tonight. After all, he's Irish, and everyone knows that the Irish solve their woes with alcohol. Not that the vampire remembers drinking much before he shipped off to the Great War, but he's more than happy to live up to the stereotype right now.

So he finds the closest pub and pushes the door open, wincing when he's met with a wall of light and sound. Apparently Mitchell isn't the only person who needs to drink away his sorrows and the vampire gets elbowed three times on his way to the bar.

He orders four bottles of Harp Lager when he finally gets the bartender's attention; he needs at least that much to take the edge off now. Mitchell chugs the first one immediately and then fights his way back through the crowd.

The vampire isn't in the mood to deal with other people so he's hoping for an empty table, ideally one in a corner where no one will talk to him. But he's not that lucky. Almost every seat is taken and Mitchell is starting to feel claustrophobic when he finally spies an empty chair. There's a table near the wall that everyone else appears to be avoiding, probably because there are only two seats and one is already occupied by a rather scruffy man.

However, a brooding stranger sounds like the perfect drinking companion as far as Mitchell is concerned. So the vampire makes his way over to the table and sets his bottles down.

“You mind?” he asks. Mitchell doesn't wait for an answer before he pulls out the chair; he just settles into his seat and downs another Lager. But then the other man looks up and the vampire is staring at a familiar face again.

“Bloody hell. You? What are you doing here?” Mitchell asks incredulously. He's so not in the mood for this. His week has been bad enough without dealing with an assassin's drama and he's halfway to his feet again when the other man grabs arm.

“Wait! You know me? You know who I am?” the assassin asks, a hint of his old accent in his voice. His eyes are pleading and now that Mitchell is looking closer, this guy really looks like shit. He's unshaven and exhausted and clearly hasn't washed his hair in weeks and the vampire finds himself sitting down again. He's not sure why, but he can't just walk away.

“I wouldn't say I know you,” Mitchell says with a half-shrug. “Honestly, I'm not even sure what your name is.”

The vampire feels guiltier than he should when the American's face falls, the hope in his eyes snuffing out almost instantly. He doesn't owe this assassin anything. They've fucked twice and tried to kill each other once; that doesn't make them friends.

But this man clearly has no one else to turn to and the way that their last meeting ended has never sat quite right with him. In truth, Mitchell has done his best not to think about it and for the most part, he's succeeded until now. However, while the vampire has a lot of practice at ignoring bitter memories, he's finding it far more difficult to ignore the living breathing person who seems to need his help.

“Look, someone called you Bucky once. Maybe it was a nickname,” Mitchell offers. “And I know you were a soldier for America before you spent some time in Russia but that's really all I've got. We've only met about four times and we never really talked.”

His words are vague but he doesn't want to go into great detail. Vampires and assassins aren't exactly proper conversation for a crowded pub and he has no idea how the other man would react. Sure he seems more like the soldier that Mitchell met in London than the assassin from Madrid, but the vampire knows all about masks that monsters wear.

But despite the obvious gaps in Mitchell's story, the American seems relieved. He lets go of the vampire's arm and sits back in his chair, something that could almost be a smile flashing across his face.

“Thank you. That... helps. You've confirmed some things that Ste... someone told me,” the other man says before gathering his things. “It was good to meet you but I should go. I've been sitting here too long.”

Mitchell is left flatfooted as the assassin suddenly stands up and this time the vampire is the one who reaches out.

“Wait,” he says, the other man tensing underneath his hand. Mitchell should probably just let him go. He doesn't need any more trouble here in Bristol and this assassin is definitely trouble.

But Mitchell is curious. He wants to know how this American is still so young after seven decades; how he survived all those years while still smelling human to the vampire's altered senses. He wants to know the soldier's story and if his parents really named him Bucky; maybe that will be a good distraction from his own fucked up life. The American may not be a decent person but Mitchell can hardly judge the assassin considering all the murders on his conscience and he certainly understands a desire to leave the past behind.

“I probably shouldn't be doing this. But when has that ever stopped me?” the vampire asks rhetorically, grabbing a napkin and searching his pockets for a pen so that he can scrawl down a few short lines. “My name is Mitchell, John Mitchell, and this is my address. It's a few blocks over that way and I'm there when I'm not working if you ever want to talk. Just try not to freak my flatmates out.”

“You know more?”

“Not much. But there are some details that I don't want to mention here,” Mitchell tells him. “Maybe one of them can help you figure out who you were before.”

The vampire holds out the napkin and the other man flinches, staring at the piece of paper like it's a hand grenade. But Mitchell just waits patiently and eventually the American snatches the napkin from his hand. He looks at the note for a long moment before shoving it into his pocket and muttering, “I'll think about it.”

Then the other man leaves, slipping through the crowd with an ease that Mitchell envies. Within a few seconds, he’s disappeared completely and the vampire finishes his last two bottles as he contemplates what he's just done.

George is going to kill him for this. If the assassin actually shows up on their doorstep, the werewolf will probably have a heart attack. Of course, Annie is more likely to give the American a blanket and a hundred cups of tea, and the mental image makes Mitchell snort into his beer.

His flatmates' reactions aside, the vampire knows he may regret telling an assassin where he lives. But some vagary of fate keeps throwing both their lives together and Mitchell would have regretted not trying even more. The American seems like a kindred spirit, someone who might understand the vampire's struggles in a way that George and Annie can't.

His flatmates are nice, too nice to believe that Mitchell's still a monster deep inside while the assassin saw that monster and lived to tell the tale. So if the other man chooses to contact him, maybe this can go somewhere. Maybe together they can find some atonement for the past.

Whatever happens, the ball is in Bucky’s court at this point and Mitchell honestly doesn’t know what the American will do. The only thing the vampire does know is that he really doesn’t feel like getting drunk anymore. So Mitchell stands up and heads to the door, ducking his head against the chill when he walks outside. If he’s lucky, George will be up for a horror movie marathon and even if he isn’t, there are always reruns of The Real Hustle on this time of night.


Tags: angst, avengers, being human, crossover, fic, het, nsfw, other slash, preseries
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