maskormenacelogs | Not Another Jail Log!!!

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Not Another Jail Log!!!

WHO: John Mitchell & Nick Burkhardt
WHERE: a nice cozy interview room at the police station
WHEN: DATED JUNE 14ish somewhere in there
WHAT: after inadvertently and reluctantly and mostly unknowingly participating in Yomiel's crime spree, Mitchell calls up a friend who is only like 25% of a friend, because Nick is a cop and seriously what other choice does he have. pathetic.
WARNINGS: language + discussion of violence probably + supernatural stuff + Nick staring really intensely

[What's really keeping Mitchell together here is the knowledge that he didn't do it. For once in his long life, he's innocent of a crime--and what's more, he's innocent of the crime that he's being accused of, even if it looks as if he did it, even if no one believes him. Perpetually guilty, this feeling of innocence is tainted only by the fact that, for all intents and purposes, he did, in fact, take a busload of people hostage with a gun.

Or someone did, anyways, because it can't have been him. Because if he were going after a busload of people, it wouldn't be to take them hostage, and it certainly wouldn't be with a gun--and it's here that he thinks of the dim train car, stopped in the tunnel--the weird undersea lighting that came in starts and stops and sparks, and the blood, everywhere, the blood and the screams of people trapped, and the taste of the blood in his mouth, licked off of his arm, off of Daisy's skin--

Christ. Mitchell hunches over the table in the interview room and digs the heel of his hand against his eye. His teeth set together hard, like that's going to keep him from manifesting here and now. And if he does--

He's been here too long already. And he's not been treated badly, but the feeling of being caged, scrutinised--they tried to get his photograph, to book him, and of course it hadn't worked, and they'd murmured about that to each other for awhile--and meanwhile it was taking everything Mitchell fucking had to keep himself together.

And now he still has to wait, for Nick, who is just about the one hope he has. They aren't close, not by a long shot, and Nick isn't likely to stick his neck out for him--but at least he knows. He'll get it, why Mitchell wouldn't have used a gun, or taken hostages; he'll get why Mitchell has to get out of here as soon as he can. Or else it could get worse--no, there's no could about it. It will.

Furiously, holding on by tooth and nail, Mitchell stares fixedly at the tabletop in the interview room, every instinct needling him towards tearing his way to freedom. But he doesn't move. He waits.]

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[ Nick's managed a few months without taking advantage of his job for not-entirey-lawful reasons. That counts for something, right? But when a vampire calls you and makes noises about being wrongly accused or worse, then drops subtle hints about how not great a prison cell is for a vampire's state of mind— you don't just ignore that.

He tells Mitchell an hour. He shows up fifteen minutes before that mark, but his expression's a bit too closed off to be strictly reassuring. Pulling strings hadn't been a total failure. It hadn't been an immediate success, either, but Mitchell's unique problems are on file somewhere— that helped Nick's case, if not his sense of paranoia.

He and Mitchell aren't exactly close. He's more of a friend than anyone else is, yeah, but that's not saying much; and he's also still a monster, technically speaking, which doesn't say much for Nick's taste, either. They're not close enough for it to feel like a betrayal when Nick's first instinct is to watch Mitchell like he'd watch any other suspect, studying his reaction when he steps into the room and shut the door behind him before taking a seat. Nonchalant, comfortable— it's not quite the interrogation rooms back home, but it's close enough.

The silence feels far longer than it is. In reality, Nick doesn't give Mitchell the chance to fire off excuses first, gaze and voice steady when he speaks. ]

You said it felt like it was happening to someone else. What's that mean?

[ Probably what it says on the tin. Except he's not asking it like he's skeptical, he's asking it like he needs the specifics, like he's on the verge of understanding exactly what Mitchell means. ]

[The minute the door had opened, Mitchell had sat up a little straighter, tensing. He doesn't relax at all when he realises that it's Nick--doesn't have a good sense of time, or how long he's been waiting--an hour, more, less--but there's a certain relief when he sees Nick.

Not that Nick can do anything to fix this. Not that Nick is anything more than-- something like a friend, anyways, or at least the nearest thing he's got. And that's a little pathetic, but he's pretty used to that. Once you leave the comfortably creepy embrace of the vampires, you're pretty much on your own. Any attempts to join humanity are risky.

And what's still more pathetic is, he's never stopped wanting that. That was the reason for the house, right? George, and Annie, playing housemates with real jobs and mobiles and a round at the pub on Friday night.

Jesus. He shoves the heel of his hand against his eye again, hunching over the table. Nick's brusque question--that suspicious look that he fixes Mitchell with, narrow and calculating--that actually sort of helps. This is different. This is Mitchell, locked up, and Nick is his friend but it's a very balanced friendship. This is different.]

Because it wasn't me. I didn't do it. I know what they've probably told you, but I didn't take those people hostage. Not me.

[He looks toward the door, cautiously, like someone on the other end is going to have their ear pressed against it. Maybe they will. When they'd taken him in, before they'd realised what he was--not just an imPort, but an imPort with file contents that marked him as a bit of a risk--Mitchell had insisted, it wasn't him. It wasn't him, they were making a mistake, and he'd bitten back as much of his violence and rancor as he could, but it had been hard. Jesus, it had been hard. And once he'd realised how mental he sounded, Mitchell had tried to shut up, to save his breath. They weren't going to believe him anyways.

Intently, he leans forward, across the table, towards Nick, dropping his tone.]

I can remember a little. Just a little bit, I left-- the house, I left the house and I went to get a coffee. And then I turned down this alley, and I just remember-- there was something.

[And, hastily--before Nick can interrupt, now, he adds:] I know what all my shit feels like. This was different.

[ He can't even remember half of what happened with Khloe. Glimpses, impulses, things that still make sense in memory but don't track in retrospect, snapping out of it and taking ages to catch up to where he was, what was going on. It'd been a hunch on the phone, but hearing Mitchell lay things out in more detail brings it to the forefront.

Nick relaxes slightly at that final comment, posture less guarded. It saves him having to ask more than one question he wasn't really sure how to ask— why this stood out, exactly how dependent on (controlled by) blood a vampire from Mitchell's world was. Those questions aren't gone, exactly, but they're immediately less relevant to the here and now. ]

This is going to sound strange, but just... bear with me. [ As if strange isn't the usual, these days. But with the disclaimer out of the way, he leans forward slightly, tone lowering. ] Have you met anyone lately? Someone you're interested in. [ A beat. ] Romantically.

[ 100% awkward questions that are also 100% logical within the context of his experiences, okay, just go with it. ]

Edited (EDITS WITH A VENGEANCE ) 2014-06-19 02:58 (UTC)

[And even though he's tense, and even though he feels the press of his hunger even now--and second to that is the instinct to get out of here, tear off the door off its hinges and get out--Mitchell suppresses all of that, fights it down and waits for Nick to get through whatever theory he's got.

It's stupid, to trust in the police, like they're some agents of good. Mitchell's witnessed enough corruption to know that's not the case. He was briefly instrumental in ensuring that corruption, in Bristol, before he went and tore out the chief constable's throat. But one person can help. Nick is what he's got right now, so he waits...

And then the intensity of his stare goes more sceptical, once Nick puts forth the brilliant theory.]

Romantically.

[He sits back in his chair a little, arms folded over his chest.]

Have I met anyone that I'm interested in romantically. Now is not really the time for this, Nick, but. Thanks.

[ Cue Nick giving him a look like he's the idiot in this situation, slightly impatient and annoyed. ] They're called Musai. Wesen with the ability to control people— usually by seducing them. [ Annoyance aside, the information's offered up plainly, like he's reading it out of a book. ] Their... victims have a hard time remembering what they did while under the influence. It's like someone else is in the driver's seat.

[ They, not him. Detachment 101, and there's so sign of bias outside of that hesitation on the wording. ] Sound familiar?

[Making jokes is a defence mechanism. Making dry jokes about questions in serious situations is infinitely better than tearing the throats out of every person in a five mile radius. So thanks for that, Nick.

In any case: Mitchell is quick to drop his own sarcasm, because he's in an interview room in a police station in Florida, for committing a crime that wasn't, for once, his own. Bit of a serious situation. But as Nick goes on, about his Wesen... Mitchell frowns, and raises one hand to rub against his forehead.]

Yeah. The last bit, yeah, but-- there wasn't anything like that. Trust me.

[That sounds pathetic, after he's said it; ego has him add--]

I don't get involved, with anyone. And I'd remember meeting someone, yeah, someone new--someone who was this-- Wesen, or something like it.

['Their victims', Nick says, and that's a pretty clinical way to say it. But he's a supernatural cop basically, yeah? That means clinical, recitations out of a book.]

What do they seduce people for? Just 'cause they're bored, for the hell of it?

[ Not Wesen. That shouldn't be surprising, and it definitely shouldn't be disappointing. There shouldn't be familiarity in monsters. Nick puts it down to the fact that this is a case, instead; it would've been easier if he knew exactly what he was dealing with, but this means another obstacle. ] Yeah, you'd remember meeting someone new.

[ And not much else. There were a few days that were just Khloe, everything else white noise. He isn't expecting a question in return (half because it's an interrogation room, frankly), and there's a beat of hesitation before he answers. ] Same reasons anyone does anything. Wealth and power, mostly.

[ The comment's casual and dismissive, and Nick doesn't dwell on the topic. ] So it's not Wesen. That just means it's an import, which means whatever this ability is, it'll be on file somewhere.

[Mitchell would actually remember meeting someone new, considering he almost never meets anyone. But he's not certain that's what Nick means, with that comment--not that he has any idea of what he does mean--but he's got to be speaking from some level of personal experience, even if it's just something he read out of a book.

Jesus, it had better not be something he just read out of a book. Trusting even some small part of his faith to a man that doesn't actually know what he's doing is not high on Mitchell's priorities.

The last bit sounds more promising, but Mitchell doesn't allow himself to perk up.]

On file--and you've got access to those files, right?

... sort of. [ Very reassuring. He's fairly certain he could get access, but Nick's getting the sense that there's enough red tape around the imports to make it difficult.

There isn't much else to say. He can't make any promises, not with that red tape, and in the end he just leans forward, tone dropping slightly. ] Look, I know you're innocent. [ Innocent of this, anyway. Probably not the time to qualify that one. ] If this doesn't shake out on its own, I'll figure something out.

[ Trusting the system, if only slightly. Although— ] How long can you stay in here?

[ The question's direct, more clinical than concerned. He doesn't bother with the context; he's banking on the fact that the issue of control is forefront in Mitchell's mind, no context necessary. ]

[No need to qualify; Mitchell is pretty capable of filling in that extra bit in his head. Innocent of this, yeah, he knows. And he's appreciate more reassurance, more confidence--calling in someone who's with the police to help you with with the police should have better results than shifty looks and 'sort of'--but at this point, he's just desperate enough that even 'sort of' sounds pretty good. Or at least, better than the alternative.

So first he nods, with more blatant gratefulness than he might usually demonstrate. It's hard enough keeping hold of himself, let alone trying to govern his own feelings. And that's what lets him answer Nick's question without any squeamishness or offence, with just a straight answer--]

Not very long. Not with everything like it is. [Which is itself not very reassuring and could use some extra exposition. He rubs a hand over his mouth.] I can do a few days more, maybe a week. They've got me on my own, that helps. But it's--

[He breaks off, glancing toward the door.]

Look. I don't know how much they know. They know a little, but don't-- don't let them bring me anything.

[Any blood, he means. Saying the word seems like a lot right now.]

[ The inference is there on Nick's side, too, and for his part he's glad Mitchell passed on actually saying it. More for his own comfort than any sort of security reasons; because knowing Mitchell's a vampire, dealing with the theoreticals of it, that's fine. Actually considering smuggling blood into the police station so that he doesn't get desperate and murder some unsuspecting guard, that's slightly different.

Which he is, of course. Nick goes quiet while he mulls the issue over, trying to remember whether or not he'd seen anything obvious back at the house. It'd be nice if it was that easy, just grab some from home and bring it back. ]

Bags, right? From the hospital?

[ Human. He hasn't even asked Mitchell whether or not animal blood cuts it, though he's very reluctantly assuming that's not the case. If it were that simple, Mitchell probably wouldn't look like he's strung-out half the time. ]

[He doesn't nod. Nodding would make him feel like an active participant in this--and the less he feels that way, the better.

But the truth is, he is an active participant. This is a choice he's making, even if it's one that he makes because he has to, for the good of everyone, for the sake of not killing--it's still a choice. It's better to spare lives and break whatever crappy excuse for a fast he's got, than the alternative.

And yet he still can't bring himself to say the words, to ask. It's fucking stupid, but he can't.]

Only if it's necessary. Only if this-- goes on.

[Even those words feel heavy. He hunches his shoulders, staring at the tabletop instead of at Nick.]

And only a little. Have too much and it gets-- it gets bad.

[He gets bad, or goes back to bad, or-- whatever. The morality and rules of it all, it's too much to try and sort through right now.]

Fine. If you're still in here at the end of the week, I'll figure something out.

[ He doesn't sound thrilled, exactly, but he does sound serious. The room goes quiet for a moment while he watches Mitchell, studies him while his gaze is downcast, trying to decide whether the's got more in common with Monroe or half of the addicts he's dragged into the station.

It's inconclusive, of course. And to be fair, Monroe would probably say he's not far off from those addicts, himself; just reformed. ] If you can't wait that long, tell them you need another call. Say it's concerning your health. I'll make sure they won't give you any trouble.

[ Did you want Nick as your emergency contact, bro, because that's basically what you're getting. Though you did call him for this, so. ]

[And that's it. It's been agreed to, and the best he can do is hope that it doesn't come to that--though it very well might, and he'd better start working to make peace with that now. The thought is accompanied by a twist of hunger, deep in his gut, and he hunches over the table a little more, trying to fight it down.]

Yeah. All right.

[Fake a medical emergency. Why not? The emergency part is at least right. He doesn't look up at Nick, reluctant to even meet his eyes. Maybe that's cowardly too, but he's hardly ever claimed anything better than cowardice. And maybe now's the time to thank him, but he can't get the words out. Not yet. Later, maybe, when it's safe.]

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Not Another Jail Log!!!

FLIES INTO THE FUTURE

welcome back to the future

haha i get it i get the joke

ps i love your edits bc it's like having double tags from you instead of 1

edits 348793824 times

mmm 697587648 melissa tags

buries you in them again

weaves a poncho of tags and wears it always

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adds nick's name & work # to all his paperwork C: