He says he knows me / But I don't know that guy

[Freshly released from jail, the first thing Mitchell did was go home and take a fucking shower. Like that was going to make him feel better, after weeks of being locked up for something he didn't even do. There's a low level anger in him, even after he's washed up and dug out clean clothes from what he's collected here. They're the clothes he had when he arrived here. That thought doesn't occur to him until he's already out the door, but it feels like it's got some weird significance. Whatever false sense of security he'd let himself be lulled into, he's done with it. This place, it's as against him as anything has ever been.

At the corner, just down the street from the hotel, he shoves the heel of his hand against his eye and exhales, hard. His cigarette is trapped between his index and middle finger, still smoking gently--nearly out, and he drops it on the ground when he drops his hand, crushes it under his heel. And then he shoves off toward the doors.

It's a nice hotel. Something about that bothers him. He doesn't indulge in nice things, good hotels, crisp white sheets. There's a lot of shit tied up in memories of staying in nice hotels. A girl in the elevator. Smiling, and then screaming. Glasses of blood on every surface, in the room, bedside tables and the arms of sofas and on the floor, and her limbs bent backwards, and her head twisted to the side.

He shoves the door open, hard. Edgeworth is sitting and waiting. He actually showed. That should be a comfort. He should approach him like it's a comfort, but his need is so acute, fighting hard against everything else, all of instincts and his hunger and that anger that he's still not rid of.

So, instead, Mitchell strides over to Edgeworth, too ready to be getting on with this to pretend at politeness.]

Well?

[He ought to make small talk, he supposes. Good day, or It's good to see you freed once more, Mr. Mitchell - because even failing small talk, he ought to comment on his gladness over the unwavering course of justice, his confidence that with good work and thorough investigations the innocent will go free and the guilty will be punished...or something. He ought to say something. God, even just a comment on the weather. Or something about Mitchell's...rudeness, or...

Instead, he just rises to his feet. He feels like he's going to an execution, though he's not sure whose.]

This way, please.

[He has a briefcase in one hand. How foolish he felt, how sickeningly foolish, going into a hardware store and buying ropes to tie someone down. He felt like everyone who looked at him knew that he was purchasing these materials for an illicit purpose, no matter that he also bought alongside it a toolkit and several keys and a little pot of sprouting gardenias simply to look less suspicious. In his other hand, he holds tightly to his cup of chamomile - as though simply by osmosis through the cup it might smooth over his anxiety.

He doesn't say anything else. He merely hits the button for floor four.]

[He trails just behind Edgeworth, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his pockets. There's a muscle working in his jaw, an undeniable tension sharpening the lines of his body.

Again, he knows: he ought to be more demonstratively grateful. He ought to be comforted by what he knows is coming, this relief of guilt that he's been waiting for, but Jesus, all he can feel is the pressure of everything working against him, like the whole universe is just waiting for him to fuck up. Nothing ever changes.

In the lift, he sinks back against the wall, his eyes on the numbers as they ascend.]

Didn't make me a cup of tea?

[It's a little mocking, when he knows that it ought not to be. Edgeworth looks absurd, standing in a lift with a cup and saucer, with a briefcase in one hand. The whole movement of the scene feels strange, like it ought to be something more illicit than it is.

The lift dings and the doors slide open. Mitchell smiles, a little bitterly, and gestures a go-ahead.]

After you.

[He glances over at Mitchell when the man makes that comment. Not for the first time, Edgeworth wants to ask if Mitchell knows what he's demanding of Edgeworth. He wants to ask if Mitchell comprehends that he is in the position of supplicant here; he wants to ask if Mitchell understands the sacrifice Edgeworth is making here. He wants to ask if politeness is really that damned much to ask. Not for the first time, he stays silent.

For once, the terror of being in the elevator is a blessing; it distracts him from his anger, from the terror of what is ahead. He closes his eyes, and as the journey begins he savors the old cold fear, because it keeps him from having to feel the new fear. (Though by the time they pass floor two, he's already regretting this ill-advised exercise of courage; the fear threatens to take over, and the trip up the next two floors is an ordeal.)

He hardly even waits for the doors to open at the top; he nearly boils out of the elevator car, then takes a moment to catch his breath; then, more sedately, he continues on for the room. 411, just down the hall: he crosses to the door without even looking back for Mr. Mitchell. He sets down his briefcase, fumbles with balancing his teacup and finding the key. It's awkward. Finally he fishes it out and slips it in to open the door.]

[The quickened pace of Edgeworth's heartbeat does not go unnoticed--Jesus, how could it go unnoticed, with the intensity of Mitchell's hunger always one notch away. But he fights it down, like he always does. He fights it down and ignores it, because what other choice does he have, because what else he's here for--that feeling, of forgiveness--he can make that outweigh anything.

For now. It's always temporary. Hunger, that won't ever go away.

But Edgeworth opens the door. The click of the lock shakes the feeling, for the moment, lets him fight it down all over again. Mitchell ducks past him into the room as soon as he can, striding in with the lights off. The sunlight through the curtains provides a dim illumination, enough to see by. He sucks in a breath, through his nose, pushes his hands over his mouth a moment, breathes out--and turns around.]

All right.

[He doesn't say anything in response. He just looks at Mitchell, and then past him. Closes the door and bolts it, sets the security lock. Then he steps into the room, and sets down his briefcase, and just once runs a hand over his forehead. His fingers are shaky; indeed, the fear nearly comes off him in waves, the smell of it - to a nose that smells these sorts of things - thick and acrid. He wishes he hadn't taken the elevator; he wishes he weren't here at all; he wishes he hadn't run into Mitchell that day. He wishes he hadn't meddled. He wishes he'd never come to this world.

The cup goes down on the table, beside the television. His voice is low and steady.]

As per our previous agreement, I should prefer to immobilize you in some way. Obviously, this room cannot lock; I ask that you consent to be tied to a chair...

[And then he looks up and around. There's an armchair in the corner, a single office chair at a workdesk - one without arms, without even a usable back, its design a single rectangular piece of plastic sculpted into a sleek and modern curve. Nothing to knot a rope to. And that hits Edgeworth hard; he swallows, and his hands clench. This seems to him a dire and insurmountable obstacle.]

No.

[He's afraid. It's a familiar smell, thick and ugly. He ought to be afraid, of Mitchell, at least--but there's other levels to that fear that Mitchell can't make sense of. Nor does he want to. It's not for him, to play therapist. That's not what he's here for.

But there's nothing in Mitchell that wants to submit to being tied to a chair. Not after being locked up. Not after that powerlessness--and all the while knowing that he could turn the fucking tables on them all and never doing it, never giving in to what he could so easily do. How unimportant that separation felt, and how easily it became unimportant.

And now this. He stares at Edgeworth, hard, his hands clenched in fists at his sides now.]

I didn't agree to that. What do I have to be tied up for? We already did this, once. You know how it goes.

You already agreed.

[He turns towards Mitchell. That's a blow to his already-frazzled nerves. He just wants, for one moment, to grab the man by his shirtfront and snarl in his face, demand to know why nothing can ever be easy, nothing, why the man must constantly be fighting him at every step, exhausting him -

But that constant fighting has ended well for Mitchell, hasn't it? Because Edgeworth stands here now, exhausted, run down, and willing to do what the man wants. He had thought that his determination and strength of will was complete; he'd thought he was unbending. But Mitchell, with his constant snarling and sniping and passive-aggression and demands and neediness, have run him ragged.

He reaches up and takes off his glasses. He rubs hard at his eyes. His voice is strained.]

I explained my reasons, and you agreed. I cannot be certain that the use of the power will not drive you mad. If that occurs, I need to be in a position where that madness doesn't cause harm to anyone.

[The way to act the supplicant is not to make demands of the person helping you. Do it, he tells himself, as he stares across the brief distance towards Edgeworth. The carpet and the walls and the curtain hush any noise from outside, from the hallway or the street. Do it, just do it, do what he says, so you can feel that relief. It's worth it, it's worth anything--but the sensibility of that thought is briefly outweighed by the instinct to snarl back. To refuse. Children of Darwin, Herrick's voice, in his ear, just as clearly as if he were standing right beside him. You're top of the heap, my boy, now act like it.

Instead, Mitchell laughs, putting the heel of his hand against his eye again and pressing somewhat gently, as if he's suffering a headache. He smiles, all teeth, grim and spare.]

Is that what's got you so skittish? Is that what happened last time?

[Last time. Not his time. He looks up at Edgeworth, steadily.]

I agreed to wait. I agreed to come here. I didn't agree to you making up extra requirements when I got here-- [He drops his hands at his sides, splayed, like he's showing that he's unarmed--or not mad, maybe.]

But hey. I'll play along. How much rope did you bring?

[He keeps from flinching - somehow - when Mitchell asks about last time. He ought to tell him, oughtn't he? In full. How he used his ability to punish someone. Lucifer, yes: a murderer, a man undoubtedly deserving of punishment - but not punishment at Edgeworth's hands. If any of this were going as it should, if any of this were being done correctly, Edgeworth would tell Mitchell of this extrajudicial act, and Mitchell would agree that his mental health ought not be in the hands of a man who would engage in such an act of sadism, and they would part ways.

But if Edgeworth confessed to him, it wouldn't do a damned thing. Mitchell would just laugh at his crime, as though it were nothing, and then continue on. Continue the pressure in that desperate, sweat-stained way of his. Until he got what he wanted.

God, Edgeworth detests himself.

He doesn't respond to the first question. He ignores those protests as well. It's only when Mitchell asks something that Edgeworth can actually answer that he turns, opens the briefcase. He pulls out the rope and a stack of papers twenty leafs thick. The rope is still in the package, the brand name and amount still on it, so he can answer that question easily.]

It's...six feet.

[Then his hand goes to the papers.]

I've also a few liability waivers for you to sign.

[He doesn't want to talk about the rope. He doesn't want that honest answer from Edgeworth, the account of its length. The last time he was tied to a chair, there was Carl, and the fireworks outside. People cheering in the streets. The open window, the smell of spilled champagne, and the smell of blood out there, waiting to be spilled.

He pushes the flat of his hand agaist his eyes again, putting pressure at the bridge of his nose. Sometimes the hunger is like having a headache, but a headache that's just waiting to tear its way out of you.

Papers. The absurdity of that requirement strikes at something in Mitchell--enough so that he laughs, as he focuses on Edgeworth again.]

Jesus. You've really thought of everything, haven't you. D'you need fingerprints and photographs and piss in a cup, too?

[Edgeworth hasn't shown any sign of selecting a chair--so Mitchell does it for him, turns to stride over to the armchair and drag it out toward the center of the room.]

Get me a pen. I'll sign your waivers.

Read them through.

[He says that firmly, with more strength than he's evinced this entire time. If he is not sure of himself, and not sure of what he's doing, and not sure of Mitchell, he at least is sure of the importance of reading a contract from start to finish. And Mitchell, God knows, seems the sort who'd sign something without reading it through.

And then he turns his attention to the armchair. He's come in with only the very fuzziest idea of how to tie someone up; never in his life has the issue come up, and so he's just relying on vague understanding from movies and the like. He himself was abducted, once, and tied up then - but, good lord, he certainly wasn't taking notes then, and so while Mitchell is looking over the paper Edgeworth just stares helplessly, positively gormlessly, at the furniture before him. How the hell does one tie another to a...?

He glances over helplessly at Mitchell. There's a desk - he could use that - but that would force Mitchell to crouch uncomfortably on the floor. There's the toilet - far too undignified - the bed? The bed might be the only viable option.

He runs a hand down the front of his shirt. He ventures, awkwardly:]

I...think perhaps this chair will not suit.

[And he leaves that there, hoping that Mitchell will have some inspiration for something that isn't the bed. That's simply...uncomfortable.]

[He looks up from the sheaf of papers, from where he's standing with them, half-leaning against the wall. The papers are boring, dry and full of legal language so thick it's like trying to read a foreign bloody language. Half of him had wanted to reject the paperwork outright, or at least just to flip through them without really reading through--but the other half of him knew, this was important, if there was some shit in there that he needed to know--Edgeworth is straight-laced, intent on the right of things, but Mitchell doesn't trust him.

But he takes the looks at the chair, and then at Edgeworth.]

Why not?

[It's not even really a sneering question; it's honestly asked. He gestures, with the papers--]

Wrap it around. Did you not think that part through?

But you could just...stand up. And get loose.

[Couldn't he? Yes - there's no narrower part to tie him to, no loops or arms or anything of the sort. If the arms were just wood, or if there were some part to go through, something to knot the rope around, but...If he just wraps it around, it could slip loose.

He clears his throat.]

I, ah...Would you perhaps...

[He runs his hand over his forehead. His face twists awkwardly, his expression deeply uncomfortable.]

Would...the bed...be all right?

If you knew how to do knots I wouldn't. But I'm guessing you never made it to Rover Scout, did you.

[But the suggestion that Edgeworth offers isn't one that Mitchell had expected. Not from him, and certainly not in this circumstance. It's enough to stop his sarcasm short, and he looks around at him with more than a little confusion.

A beat of silence, and he huffs a laugh.]

What?

[Edgeworth rushes to explain.]

It is a convenient post for tying you to. It's difficult to break, and the anchoring points are sturdy and easy to manage. It would also be decently comfortable for you, since it's a cushioned spot. And -

[He reaches up to adjust his glasses. His face is warm; he knows he's blushing, and blushing a deep color, and he hates that fact. His fluster is just making this even weirder. If he could maintain a professional demeanor, it would be fine, but he has to be embarrassed and that makes it weird.]

I know there are...overtones. But I think in these circumstances we are both more than capable of ignoring those and not allowing ourselves to get discomfited. By - overtones.

[He starts laughing at the first overtones--quietly, yeah, but it's still a laugh. That will probably make Edgeworth less than happy. He's likely not a man that can take a joke, and even if he was, it wouldn't be a joke at his expense.]

Overtones.

[He repeats Edgeworth the second time that he says it, with a grim little grin.]

At least you sound like you've thought that part through. The things you learn about people.

I did not ask for commentary, Mr. Mitchell.

[He pulls his glasses from his face, then fishes out a cloth to polish them. They're clean already; he just doesn't want to see that smirk. Damn him, damn him, he should just walk out, hang the man - ]

I merely asked for agreement. Do you agree?

Do I have a choice?

[But he doesn't let that bitter question stand alone. After a beat, he shoves the sheaf of papers away, knocks them onto the floor, and moves back so he's sitting with his back against the headboard.]

Go on. Knock yourself out.

[A muscle jumps in Edgeworth's jaw when those papers go flying. He watches as Mitchell scoots onto the bed, and then -

Well. He doesn't like that he does this - after all, he is a small and petty man who takes revenge - but he turns away from the man. Instead, he kneels down to gather them up, quite methodically. Then he sorts them back into numerical order. Then he draws a butterfly clip from his briefcase and clips them together. Then he places them in his briefcase. Then, and only then - perhaps a minute and a quarter later - does he turn back towards Mitchell.

He wants this to progress quickly. He wants it over. But his desire, he has no doubt, does not equal the magnitude of Mitchell's desire for relief. So if Mitchell will dump his papers on the ground, then Mitchell will damn well wait while Edgeworth gets them back in order.

But then he's left confronting one of the many moments he's been dreading - tying the man up. Edgeworth hasn't the faintest idea how to tie a good knot. It can't be a standard knot; after all, if the man ends up struggling against the ropes, the knot might tighten and be impossible to undo. So Edgeworth takes the rope, and says, awkwardly - ]

Your hands, please.

[And then, around Mitchell's wrists, he ties an over-under bow, like he would on the laces of a pair of sneakers. Then - and this is how he makes it secure - he double-knots it.

God, he feels foolish.]

[The shuffling of the papers is maddening--and all the while he can hear the steady rhythm of Edgeworth's pulse, unmistakable and intent. Either one that he focuses on wears at him, grinding down the control that he holds so hard to.

He has no idea, what he's doing. Mitchell stares down at Edgeworth as he works, his jaw clenched so tight that it nearly hurts, a muscle working in his jaw. He has no idea of what he's doing, who the hell he's messing with. I've killed more people than you've ever met--in flats, in clubs, in alleyways and parks and cottages in the bloody countryside--and in hotel rooms just like this one.

But he waits. Because even through his sharpness, and his hunger--he needs what Edgeworth has, what he can. He makes himself wait, every second wearing at him; he even holds out his hands, obedient in that--

And then he stares down at Edgeworth's handiwork.]

You've got to be kidding me. You've got to be-- Jesus.

[Irritated, he turns his hands over, twisting almost expertly in the ropes so he can grab for the two ends of the bow. Double-knotted or not, it doesn't take him long to work free, even from this angle.]

You'd better be a damn good lawyer, man, because this? You're shit at this.

[Once free, he sets to making the knot himself--double loops for wrists, with the thick knot in between, complicated on its face. The loops are left loose, and he holds the finished product out to Edgeworth.]

Here. That's as much as I can do for you. Just tighten it.

That's -

[He starts to protest, to scold Mitchell when he starts wriggling his hands - but then the knot simply falls apart. Frustrated, he runs a hand through his hair; then he relaxes, gratified, when Mitchell starts knotting the rope himself. God, anything that can save him from having to search How does one tie someone to a bed so that they cannot escape.

He's grateful enough that he lets the comment about being shit at this slide; he's not so grateful that he forgoes a sardonic little comment - ]

From your days as a Rover Scout, I suppose.

[Then he slips the ropes over Mitchell's wrists. He frowns as he works out just how to tighten it; it's a puzzling sort of thing, this knot, and he's never had a head for reasoning out this sort of puzzle. Give him a matter of guilt, or an impossible mystery, and he will inevitably conquer it, but set a paper crane or a dreamcatcher or God forbid a lanyard in front of him...

It doesn't help that he's even clumsier than usual right now. His hands are unsteady. God, he's terrified.

But he works it out. He tugs and pulls until the loops tighten down enough to capture Mitchell's wrists. He lets them stay loose, though; he doesn't want to cause the man discomfort. (Even if he had damned well deserved it by now.)

The free end of the rope goes to the bedpost. This knot is at least fairly secure, since he needn't worry about hurting the metal frame; he ties it tight. And he ties it so that there's about a foot between the frame and Mitchell's wrists; he wants him to be able to move.

When he sits back, he feels exhausted, like he's climbed a mountain. A foolish thing to feel: after all, he is nowhere near done.

And that thought strikes him hard. Suddenly. He mumbles:]

All right.

[Then he reaches up and takes off his glasses. He folds them and shoves them into his breast pocket, not even worrying about putting them back in their case. And then he pushes a hand - still shaking very slightly - against his eye. He's come this far; he has to continue. He must continue. He has given his word. The next step is to just reach down, to just utilize his ability. He must do this. He must. He has no choice. He must.

But what if he hurts him? What if he damages him? What if he can't cause the alleviation of guilt - what if he just worsens it? What if he destroys him completely? He doesn't understand this power, and doesn't even understand himself, and he certainly doesn't understand Mitchell. And he should just walk away - he should do it - he could be courageous - he should be smart -

God, he just doesn't...

He's made it this far. But when it comes time for the final step, he finds himself abruptly, coldly paralyzed with fear, with indecision.]

No.

[From his days as a mass-murdering vampire who's tied up a lot of people over the past ninety-some years.

But he doesn't say that. And he doesn't offer advice as Edgeworth struggles to work out the knot. He sits through all that fumbling, through the process of knotting to the bed posts--just one rope, binding his wrists and hands, and he smiles grimly down toward his boots. There's stories he could tell about how unwise it is to leave legs unbound.

But he doesn't. It's done, he's come to the hotel, signed the papers, let himself me tied to the fucking bed--all for this moment, for what comes next, and he shuts his eyes for a half a second, breathes in, a little shaky. The memory of what that alleviation of guilt had felt like--it's long since faded to just the barest impression, like a touch at the back of his mind. But it was good. He remembers that, it was good, better than anything else--

And nearly a whole minute has passed, and there's nothing. Edgeworth hasn't even moved. Mitchell lifts his head and stares at him a moment. Still nothing.]

Oh, come on.

[It doesn't lack any sharpness. He grins, mirthlessly, and holds up his bound hands.]

Come on. I did everything you said, now do what you promised t' do. Or else what the hell was all of this for?

[That's a good question. What was it for? Mitchell has made it clear that he needs this badly. He is a vampire, he's said, and now he is tormented by guilt, and it's not difficult to fill in the blanks: he needs it to deal with the weight of his past. And who is Edgeworth to deny that to him? If one knows how to swim, one does not leave a drowning man. One helps.

Edgeworth helps. That's all he's ever wanted to do. Even in his darkest times, his most miserable times, when he was utterly lost, all he wanted to do was help people. He alone has the power to help Mitchell.

But does he truly? Ruka had warned him that those with empathic powers could do real harm. It's not hard to imagine why. The mind is a delicate thing, and the balance of guilt and morality even more so. In his career, Edgeworth has dealt with sociopaths, men without morality or conscience; they seemed altogether normal, perfectly sane, save for that small tip towards self-interest over guilt. The mind is delicate, and Edgeworth is unsubtle, a bull in a china shop; how could he possibly improve things without doing any damage?

He sees Mitchell's grin, fuzzily, through the blur of myopia. He hears those words egging him on. But all he can do in that moment is close his eyes; all he can do is say - with honesty engendered by fear, with all pretense towards coolness and composure lost in the face of raw emotion - ]

I don't...want to hurt you.

[That admission actually makes him look at Edgeworth--really look at him, not the cursory glances and sneers that he'd been treating him with before. This look is different, lingering.

There's nothing of Edgeworth that he identifies with. He doesn't see himself in the man--and that's not surprising, because Edgeworth, despite superpowers, despite being dragged to Florida by God knows what--is human, with lines of humanity coloured so dark it's like they're drawn in permanent ink. And Mitchell is so far from that, so many miles down his own bloody road that humanity is like a little glimmer way back.]

You can't.

[His voice is flat and dull, with none of his previous mockery. He drops his hands and looks away from Edgeworth.]

And even if you could-- I wouldn't care.

Edited (tenses and grammar and stuff ) 2014-06-18 23:46 (UTC)

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'that desperate, sweat-stained way' thank you for that

#realtalk

it's funny because it's true

sweat, desperation, and animal charisma: the john mitchell story

I'd suggest an HBO special but Aidan Turner is too busy with the Hobbit so

we could have peter jackson direct

then it's the adventures of Sweaty John Mitchell in New Zealand but I'm ok with that

Being Hobbits

um excuse u Being Dwarves

Being Dwarvish, yes, excuse me

yeah great now i can make warg jokes/dog jokes

wait were there wargs in the Hobbit

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&docid=zaQWV5EV6hmh_

well thar ya go then

yeah so warg jokes