"The reason why the universe is eternal is that it does not live for itself; it gives life to others as it transforms."
-Lao Tzu

Before becoming one of the undead, Mitchell had hated seeing grown men cry. He'd seen a lot of it during his time in the army, but that had done little to make him feel less uncomfortable witnessing it. Afterwards, when he'd become a vampire and become the cause of a lot of grown men crying, he'd hardened himself to it more out of necessity. Nothing made men cry faster than seeing their deaths unfold before their eyes.

Now, standing in the poorly lit alleyway, Mitchell felt awkward just leaving the bloodied werewolf standing there, weeping after his angry diatribe. What he really needed to do was to catch up with Seth and the others, who were all no doubt talking already about Mitchell. He should join them at whatever dodgy pub they were going to hit up for a fresh drink. Turn the entire impromptu rescue as a kind of whim. A joke.

But instead he walked back toward the werewolf, who was now back on the dirty floor, sitting with his head pressed to his knees. The sight was pathetic and Mitchell repeated that to himself internally even as he felt a rogue wavy of pity.

"What's your name?" he asked.

There was a sniffle. "George," came the defeated mumble.

"Right, George. You can either sit here and let the rats crawl over you," said Mitchell, gruffly. "Or you get off your arse, go home and clean yourself up." George shuffled a little from the ground, seemingly content to go with the first option.

Grimacing, Mitchell reached down and grabbed him by the arm. With a loud yelp, George batted at his hand, his teary eyes relit with fear.

"Calm down," snapped Mitchell. "I'm not going to hurt you." George stopped struggling, but clearly he didn't believe him. "You think I saved your life just so that I could kill you myself?"

"You…you said people like you," said George, warily. "Vampires."

"So?"

George didn't answer, but gingerly touched a hand to his face as he continued to bleed from his mouth and nose. Mitchell gave him a small smile.

"Don't worry," he assured. "You're not my type. Werewolf blood doesn't do it for us." George looked relieved if maybe the slightest bit insulted. "Now get up," Mitchell instructed.

George's room above the café was exactly that. A room. A very small dingy room that had a bed, a chair, and a tiny sink with a mirror above it. It was utterly depressing. From his place by the doorway, Mitchell noticed only a few touches that suggested someone with a personality actually lived in it. There was a stack of books on the chair, neatly piled in alphabetical order. There were also a couple of photographs taped to the wall near the bed.

"Nice place," Mitchell commented with little sincerity.

George looked up from the sink where he'd been trying to clean himself up. He stared at where Mitchell still lingered by the threshold.

"I can't come in unless you invite me in," explained the vampire.

George blinked. "That rule's real?" he asked.

"No, I just enjoy standing in doorways," Mitchell replied, sarcastically.

"Oh. Right. Um, you are invited in," George announced with an unintentionally comedic sweep of his hand.

Smirking, Mitchell pushed himself off the doorway and walked in. "Next time a simple, 'come in' will do."

Now that he was inside the room, George seemed hesitant to turn his back on him. Something that Mitchell supposed was a good thing, given what had happened not ten minutes ago. At least it showed the werewolf wasn't completely devoid of defensive instincts. Guessing sitting on the bed would be frowned upon, he relieved the chair of the books and sat down there instead. He noted the first book on top of the pile was The Stranger in the original French.

"You might want to hurry along," he advised when George just continued to stare at him. "There's a hostel a few miles from here where you can probably stay tonight. Then you can look for something else later."

"Why're you helping me?" asked George, still standing there with a bloody towel in one hand. "I thought vampires didn't like people like me."

"We don't," Mitchell answered simply as he flicked through the rest of the books. There was Don Quixote in the original Spanish, followed by Crime and Punishment in Russian and a Russian to English dictionary. "So you want to hurry it up or not?"

George looked at him for a beat longer before he went back to the sink. As he leaned over to splash water on his face, a bit of gold swung out from his shirt and clinked lightly against the faucet. It was a small Star of David, maybe the size of a 50 pence coin.

At the sight of it, Mitchell felt an invisible hand grasp and wrench his insides. He clamped down on his lips to prevent a hiss from escaping as he hurriedly got to his feet. Luckily, there was no reflection in the mirror from which George could see his twisted expression.

George's room at the hostel was equally dingy. The werewolf had been there for about a month now, despite Mitchell's advice that he should look for a different place. He'd soon gotten another job at a mostly rundown restaurant as a dishwasher. He stayed in the back and only ever had contact with the rest of the staff. Mitchell saw that this was probably a wise, if depressing, choice.

He wouldn't say he was stalking George, exactly. But it was getting increasingly frustrating to go to his usual haunts and be rundown with chatter, gossip and drinking by the likes of Seth and the rest of the brood. Plus, the restaurant George worked at did serve pretty good food.

George nearly had a heart attack the first time Mitchell snuck up to him in broad daylight during one of his breaks.

"You're out in the sun!" the werewolf accused as soon as he'd finished shrieking. "I thought sunlight burned vampires up." The last part he practically hissed in an effort to lower his voice, but remain sounding affronted.

"You read too many books," Mitchell answered, lighting up a cigarette. "How'd it go last night?" he asked, casually. Last night had been a full moon and so far no reports on a mauling anywhere.

George shot him a dark look. "Fine," he answered, shortly.

"Where do you go anyway? To do your business?" Internally, Mitchell caught the unintentional dog reference he'd just made. George, however, looked more suspicious than insulted.

"Why do you want to know that?"

Apparently nearly getting beaten to death by vampires had instilled wariness in George of other vampires. Never mind that this particular one had saved his life, Mitchell huffed even as he had to agree that it was good survival instincts on George's part.

"I'm just making conversation," Mitchell protested. "Jesus, lighten up." He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew out a lungful of smoke. George scrunched his face a little and took a step away from him. "What?" Mitchell asked.

"Some of us can still die from lung cancer," replied George, sounding faintly prim. "Could you not exhale on my face?"

It suddenly came to Mitchell how ridiculous the situation was: a cursed werewolf lecturing a vampire to spare his health by not smoking on him. In fact, the image was so ridiculous that Mitchell began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he accidentally dropped the cigarette from his lips. That, at least, gave George something to smile about.

"I go to the woods."

"I worry about you sometimes, Mitchell," Herrick announced.

"Why would you do that?"

"Have we been neglecting you?" the older vampire asked.

Mitchell gave a short laugh, having to force most of it out. "What are you talking about?"

Herrick shrugged, idly skimming his fingers over the dustless top of his desk. "I was worried you might be feeling…" he trailed off, as if searching for the right word. "Lonely," he decided. His eyes looked up to lock Mitchell in a stare. "Loneliness is usually the reason most people get pets."

"I like the restaurant where he works. They do a good kidney pie."

Mitchell schooled his features to try and look indifferent. As always, he could never be sure if he was ever any good at deception when it came to Herrick. The older vampire stared at him a beat longer. And there was nothing in the face that Mitchell knew so well. Nothing other than that calculating look in the old, old eyes. But a few beats into the stare becoming uncomfortable, Herrick broke it and leaned back in his chair.

"To each his own, I suppose," Herrick mused with an indifference that put Mitchell's try at it to shame.

Despite the rather large expanse of the woods, it wasn't too difficult to find George. Basically, Mitchell went back to the point where he'd last seen him changing and spiraled his search out from there, carrying the neatly folded pile of clothes George had discarded the night before. It only took him about 20 minutes before he found the werewolf, curled up naked next to a rotting fallen tree.

He wasn't entirely sure why he'd gone to watch George change. He'd seen two other werewolves at full moon before and as the saying went: you've seen one, you've seen them all. The last time Mitchell had watched a werewolf become the wolf, he'd heard the cracking of bones and the muted squishing of organs as they pressed and pulled apart. He'd watched the entire process with a detached morbid eye. The transformation was so utterly wrong and revolting on several levels. But the mechanics of how it preserved and kept the unfortunate person conscious as he morphed from man to wolf really was extraordinary. Mitchell had to give it that.

But watching George change had been different. It had been horrifying.

Mitchell shivered slightly at the memory. He wasn't sure why it had been different. Maybe it was because he could hear George under all the screaming when the bones had broken and the skin had torn. Even when the vocal cords had crushed and stretched out again, even in the guttural howls, he could hear traces of George's hilariously girly shriek. Only it hadn't sounded so hilarious. It had sounded painful and desperate. Hearing the screams and seeing the wolf that emerged from it, Mitchell could almost believe that the wolf and George were two separate entities, unrelated. Because the wolf had been frightening and capable of so much destruction. And George....well, watching the naked man now, stirring and rubbing a sleepy hand over his eye, it was difficult to imagine him hurting anything.

"Mitchell?"

George looked confused and then slightly horrified as he realized he was stark naked and had company. Company he recognized, which only added to the humiliation.

"Here." Mitchell hastily tossed him the clothes. George was covered in streaks of dirt with leaves clumped in his hair. But beneath that, there was nothing to even suggest the fact that last night his entire body had basically broken in half and put back together. There wasn't even a scratch, other than the ones on the shoulder that would never go away.

"What're you doing here?" asked George. His voice muffled slightly as his head caught in his shirt.

A few good responses ran through Mitchell's head before he blurted out the one that had the highest chance for rousing suspicion. "Taking a walk."

George's head finally emerged from his collar. "In the woods?" he asked, slowly. "Miles from civilization?"

"Fresh air?" Mitchell really wished it didn't sound like a question.

George was vainly trying to straighten out the creases in his shirt when he looked down at the clothes he now wore and then looked up again at Mitchell. "Were…were you spying on me?" he suddenly asked.

"Don't be daft!" Mitchell exclaimed, going for a laugh that felt a little feeble. George stared at him. "I wasn't spying," he added, defensively.

"Were you watching me change last night?" George demanded.

Mitchell hesitated and then decided he obviously needed to work on his poker face because it seemed his answer was written all over it.

"How dare...this is none of your business!" shouted George, getting red in the face. "Why would you even DO that? What, you and your vampire mates put bets on whether or not the lyco was going to kill someone?"

"No, it wasn't like that all," Mitchell protested.

"Then what was it?" George demanded.

"You're overreacting." Mitchell said it because in the time he'd known George, it had become obvious rather quickly that the man tended to overreact over a lot of things. Only Mitchell usually felt exasperation at those histrionics. Right now all he could feel was a small flip of worry. Like he had done something wrong.

"What happens to me is…it's my business! It's something I do. On my own. I come out here to make sure. I could've killed you or scratched you."

"Trust me, there was little chance of that," Mitchell assured with a small smile that George did not return.

"It's private!" shouted George. His voice broke and echoed through the trees around them. "What happens is…it's personal and it's…" he trailed off, sounding close to tears.

At the shame pouring off of George, Mitchell felt a large twinge of commiseration that he hadn't felt with anyone since….he couldn't remember since. It had been years, a few lifetimes since he'd felt that sort of sympathy. And like anyone out of practice, the vampire stumbled in his attempts to comfort and fell somewhere closer to condescending.

"Look, you didn't hurt anyone," said Mitchell. "And that change…that's just something you can't control. It's not your fault or anythi-"

"Get out!" George yelled, throwing an arm up to point somewhere off to the distant left of where they stood.

"Out?" Mitchell asked, incredulously. "We are out. We're in the woods."

George abruptly dropped his arm and simmered a little as the wind was taken out of his sails. "Fine," he snapped. "Then I'll just go." He turned and began to walk away in a random direction.

"Let me give you a lift back," Mitchell called after him. The werewolf kept marching, despite his lack of shoes. "George, come on!"

"Stay away from me!" was the only resounding reply.

Mitchell did as he was asked of, or rather, demanded of. He avoided the café for a couple of months and definitely avoided the woods during the full moons. The latter task wasn't entirely difficult, considering he never spent time in the woods to begin with. But he had gotten rather attached to the café's kidney pies.

He told himself a few times that he needn't feel bad about what had happened. He hadn't done anything wrong. He'd just taken an innocent stroll through the woods at night and George had been the one to see fit to have a conniption over it. George was the one obviously having a sulk. Mitchell, most certainly, was not the one in a mood.

But then into the third month Seth, who was quite fairly the least observant of them all, asked Mitchell who'd gone and pissed in his cereal. After that, Mitchell considered that maybe he could apologize to George.

He finally found George a few streets away from the hostel where he still lived. The werewolf was laden with bags of groceries, his grip on them getting tighter when he spotted Mitchell approaching him.

"Need a hand with those?" offered Mitchell.

George hugged the bags closer. "No."

"Look, George," Mitchell began. He hated apologizing. He hadn't done it for years and these days he didn't even know anyone who ever said sorry. At least not sincerely. "I'm sorry," he finally blurted out, silently praying that he wouldn't have to elaborate. But as short as his statement was, he realized he didn't have to fake the sincerity of it.

George stared at him, unblinking. To Mitchell slight chagrin, he found the gaze a little unnerving. Not in the way he found Herrick's look unnerving. With Herrick, he would be concerned with whether or not that behind the pale eyes was an intent to hug or an intent to kill. But with George…Mitchell just worried. Worried that he'd end up on George's list of people he wanted nothing to do with. Mitchell knew that George was definitely the type of person to make those types of mental lists.

Finally, George seemed to shrug and then nod. "Yeah, okay. Thank you," he replied. The acceptance was a little stilted, but it was good enough. Mitchell smiled brightly, extending out his arms.

George's brow creased at the gesture. "Are you offering me a hug?"

"Don't think we're there yet," Mitchell evaluated. "I'm offering to carry one of the bags."

"Oh, right."

"You stocking up for the winter or something?" The bag he was handed was filled to the brim, much like the other one still in George's arms.

"No, they're not all mine. I did some shopping for someone. She's just on the way."

"Earning extra cash?" inquired Mitchell.

George shook his head and balanced his remaining bags to continue walking. "No, just a favor."

"Oh?" A slightly predatory grin grew on Mitchell's face. "She a looker, then?" he asked suggestively, obviously drawing conclusions as to why George might be doing this favor.

For his part, the werewolf snorted. "If you're in the market for an octogenarian, maybe."

Mitchell shrugged. "Well, you might be. I don't know you that well…"

"Don't be disgusting," George grimaced. "She's 82."

"Oi, as someone well over that I resent the ageist implication."

George shook his head, exasperated as he led Mitchell toward a shabby-looking building. "She's got a dodgy hip and the steps give her trouble," he explained. "She's got someone who comes by every couple of weeks and usually she can manage, but she's had a cold recently. I offered to get her some stuff. We go to the same place."

"She give you her life story waiting in the shop queue?" Mitchell asked with a skeptical eyebrow.

At the slightly cynical tone, George gave him a defensive look. "I carried some stuff for her back once. She was alone. And she reminded me of my Gran," he added, sounding a trifle embarrassed.

"That's nice," replied Mitchell. "It's sweet." George looked at him warily at the remark. Mitchell supposed the werewolf assumed he was taking the piss, but he'd meant it. There was something uncomplicated and genuine in George's kindness to an old lady that lightened Mitchell's own mood.

Apparently seeing his sincerity, George gave him a small smile. "She's on the second floor," he said, pushing open the front door of the building.

The climb up wasn't too difficult, but Mitchell could imagine it might give anyone over 70 with a hip problem some challenges. George's light knock on flat number 7 was answered by a rasping voice.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Mrs. Godfrey. George from down the street?" replied George.

The sound of several locks and chains being undone followed before the door creaked open. Behind it was a diminutive woman wrapped up in tattered blue gray shawl.

"George," she greeted with a smile. "Lovely, just on time." Her eyes fell past George to where the vampire stood. "Who's that?" In the one question, Mitchell could hear the uncertainty and fear that often plagued the elderly as the world grew wilder around them as they weakened with age.

"His name's Mitchell," George replied. The werewolf shuffled in through the door with his bags. "I ran into him on my way over."

"Oh," was Mrs. Godfrey's only reply to that.

Standing at the threshold, Mitchell wondered if it would look strange if he put the grocery bag down just outside and begged off. Probably. But he didn't exactly have too many other options, unless he wanted to steal the grocery bag all together and deprive the woman of her jaffa cakes. As he tried to think of what might pass as social etiquette, he caught George giving him a slightly bemused look from behind Mrs. Godfrey.

"He's alright," George told her. "He helped carry the groceries. He's a friend of mine."

Mrs. Godfrey's small, watery eyes stared at Mitchell for a beat before she pushed the door open a little wider. "Well, that alright, then. Come in for a cup?" she invited.

The cup of tea turned into the two of them staying around to watch the latest Coronation Street. Mitchell wasn't sure if he was amused or a little horrified by the fact that George seemed to know the ongoing stories as well as Mrs. Godfrey. She made them both some fish paste sandwiches for tea while telling them about her Albert, who'd often written to her while he'd been away during the war, craving her cooking. The entire afternoon passed uneventfully and was utterly ordinary if not a bit dull. Which was why, Mitchell supposed he enjoyed himself a great deal.

The next time Mitchell saw George was two weeks later when the werewolf turned up at Mitchell's place of work.

Mitchell had been on his way to deliver a fresh pile of linens to the third floor when he saw the familiar figure staring the coffee dispenser with a slightly blank expression.

"George?" The werewolf's head snapped up, his body tensing at his name. When he spotted Mitchell, however, his shoulders relaxed. "What're you doing here?" George seemed to take in Mitchell's bland porter uniform, complete with the linens in his arms. "George?" Mitchell asked again under the scrutiny.

"Sorry," the werewolf said, blinking. "It's just…weird. Seeing you in that."

"I'm a porter here. I told you," Mitchell reminded.

"Yeah. Of course, yeah," George shook his head and took off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. "Sorry. Bit of a night."

Mitchell stared at the other man a little more closely. "You okay?"

"Mrs. Godfrey's here," George blurted out. "Well, uh, no, that's not really it," he amended. "She died. I found her. Heart attack…I think. I called for an ambulance, but it had been awhile already and…" he trailed off to look back at the coffee dispenser. "I was trying to get a coffee," he added, randomly.

George sounded slightly dazed, as if he was coming down from an earlier adrenaline kick, which wouldn't be surprising.

Tucking the linens under his arm, Mitchell lightly gripped George's shoulder. "Come on," he said, steering him forward. "Let's try the canteen. They've got better coffee."

That was a bit of a lie, but Mitchell doubted George would be complaining. As it was, the werewolf didn't really drink and held the steaming cup between his hands instead.

"I'm sorry," said Mitchell.

George shrugged. "Well, you know…she was…"

"82?" Mitchell offered. 'Old' seemed insensitive.

"Alone," George said instead, suddenly sounding very small. He rubbed at his eyes again, keeping his gaze downward to hide whatever was happening even as he sniffled a little.

"I'm sorry," repeated Mitchell, quietly. He realized he'd said that word more times this month than he'd ever before in his entire undead life.

George nodded, dejected. "Thanks."

They sat awhile, sipping their coffees.

"I need to head to work," said George, getting to his feet.

"You should think about getting another job," suggested Mitchell.

"Doing what? It's not like I can do much else," George pointed out, sounding more and more depressed by the minute. "And it's not so bad at the café."

"George, you spend eight hours a day washing dishes and making sure the meat hasn't gone off," stated Mitchell.

"I'm good with that," George defended, lamely. "Meat and the milk. I'm really good with detecting milk gone off."

"That really shouldn't be the highlight of a person's job," said Mitchell. He thought on it a moment. "You could work here," he offered.

"What, be a porter?" asked George, incredulously. "So that the highlight of my job could be mopping up someone's sick?"

"You'd be around more people. It'd be less depressing," Mitchell pointed out.

"Because hospitals are so cheerful," said George with little enthusiasm.

"Just think about it," urged Mitchell. The more he himself considered it, the more he warmed to the idea. "Let me know later."

"How long have you had this car?"

"Years now," Mitchell answered. He urged it to go a bit faster and smiled proudly when the engine complied with merely a purr. "It was brand new when I got it and she still runs beautifully. Even better because now I get to say it's vintage."

"Can you really say that if you're vintage yourself?" asked George.

"I'm not vintage, I'm eternal. Big difference."

"Right."

"I'm not having style etiquette lectured to me by a man who paid money for that shirt," Mitchell insisted.

"What's wrong with my shirt?"

"Nothing if you're planning on holding onto it until you can collect a pension."

"Shows how much you know," stated George with some triumph. "I didn't pay money for this shirt, I took it off a clothing line."

"You stole that shirt?" asked Mitchell.

"When you're bollocking naked in November, you're not exactly choosey."

"Fine. You kept that shirt?" Mitchell rephrased, laughing. George gave a disgruntled sigh. "Hey, maybe you'll be in luck. Maybe after tonight you'll be able to steal a pair of trousers to match."

"Ha, ha," said George. "It's murder having to find half your kit scattered all over the countryside, if at all. I swear I sank half my first paycheck from the hospital just on getting new stuff. It's a waste."

"So's that shirt," Mitchell couldn't help getting in one last time before he slowed the car down. They were now just on the edge of the trees and the rest George would have to travel alone on foot. As George climbed out, Mitchell leaned over to peer up at him. "You've got my mobile though. Call if you end up way out in Chippenham or where ever."

"Brilliant," George muttered. "It's like the walking tour from hell." He moved to close the car door but leaned down instead. "Actually, can you hold onto this for me? I can get it back from you at work."

From his neck, the werewolf pulled off a chain. The Star of David pendant that Mitchell had first seen what now felt like a lifetime ago swung into his view again. George put it on the seat he'd just vacated, the chain coiling against the leather in a short hiss.

"See you," said George and slammed the door shut.

As George made his way into the dark shadows of the trees, Mitchell stared at the necklace for a beat before he picked it up. It should have clenched at his insides. The metal should have burned the skin of his hand, causing unspeakable pain. But all he could feel from the necklace was the residual heat from George's skin. Closing his fingers over the bit of gold, Mitchell slid it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping until he saw George later.

THE END