George is strangely amenable to invasions into his personal space. If you encroach when he's not paying attention you can get away with almost anything, and Mitchell can't help encroaching, it's in his nature. He slides his feet into George's lap while he's flicking through the channels.
"Upstairs," Mitchell says without looking up. "She looked...fragile. I didn't ask."
George makes a noise, something that manages to be curious and sympathetic at the same time.
Mitchell is hoarding the biscuits, more through stubbornness than genuine biscuit desire, though George hasn't noticed yet.
Mitchell will continue to hoard them whether George notices or not.
This place doesn't make any noise at all. Not heating sounds, no adjusting floorboards, no ambient sounds in general. It's entirely possible that Annie wasn't the only reason people pegged the place as spooky.
People like their houses to become familiar and sounds are a part of that.
The next time he looks up George is flicking between Horizon and what looks like a period drama with doctors, or possibly Poirot? Not exactly Mitchell's idea of riveting television.
He's also rearranging the cushions in ways that keep jiggling the sofa.
George notices him looking and makes a face that's just begging to be made fun of.
"You're the one who bought the tiny cushions," Mitchell points out over the top of the Radio Times.
"A man can buy throw cushions and not be gay you know, this isn't nineteen fifty five!"
Mitchell doesn't bother answering, he just looks at him, carefully raises an eyebrow.
George pulls a face at him.
Then leans over and steals the biscuits.
Mitchell suspects that reacting to the thievery will be immature, and it's beneath him.
"Besides throw cushions aren't for sitting on, they're for throwing, it's no wonder your arse is numb. "
George is still flicking, though after revisiting the same channel four times he dumps the remote on the arm in disgust.
Poirot is now staring at Mitchell in his smug little Belgian way.
"Can we watch something else?"
George reaches sideways for the remote, only to knock it flying.
It's far enough away that George will be compelled to get up, but Mitchell, Mitchell is longer.
He eyeballs George.
"I didn't do it on purpose," George points out.
Mitchell dumps the magazine he wasn't really reading, and slides along the sofa, slithers across George's lap and over the arm.
George is sniggering and if he so much as thinks about smacking Mitchell's arse he will replace all of his precious books with copies of Barbara Woodhouse.
Mitchell may be taller than George but he isn't an octopus, though George does helpfully get a grip on his shirt so he can snag the cheap plastic and claim it for his own.
The batteries are threatening to escape and Mitchell slides back halfway and listens to George sigh theatrically against the side of his head while he sticks them back in.
"You really need to-"
"Are you going to get off?" George says and there's a quiet impatience in his voice that sounds a little-
George has been enjoying this more than is normally socially acceptable, and Mitchell can't help the way his mouth stretches into something quick and amused.
"I can't help it," George says in a tone which somehow manages to be both awkward and strident. "I can't help it, it's been a long time and you were wriggling."
Mitchell hears himself exhale laughter, one quick burst of sound.
"I was not wriggling."
"You were," George insists and shifts under Mitchell. Uncomfortable and unhappy and perfectly prepared to live in his own skin no matter what it decides to do and how it decides to humiliate him. He thinks if he gets too used to living like that he'll go mad.
Mitchell lets one of his legs slide over George's, and the movement doesn't go unnoticed.
"What are you doing?" George says crossly, or as crossly as he can manage anyway.
For someone who's supposed to be intelligent George has clueless stupidity down to an art, really. Anyone would think he practiced.
"Wriggling," Mitchell provides and tugs George's shirt out of the way.
"Mitchell." The cross has gone, replaced by disbelief, and something so complicated Mitchell suspects even George doesn't know what it is.
"What's the harm?"
Mitchell has some experience dragging open jeans in quick silent movements.
George tries to speak twice and fails both times.
"What's the harm in a little hand every now and then, we all get a little excitable when there's no one suitable around."
"I wouldn't exactly describe you as suitable," George's voice is thin, careful, strained.
"When there hasn't been anyone suitable for a while now," Mitchell adds.
"This isn't fair you know," George says, voice quieter then before. "You're good at this, you're good at this and I can't and it's not fair."
"I'm not teasing," Mitchell says quietly. "I wouldn't."
"Aren't we complicated enough already without-"
Mitchell's hand pushes into his open fly, fingers pulling down the waistband of his boxer shorts until he can slide his hand inside, and whatever George was going to say falls to pieces.
Mitchell pushes all the way down and it's easy to wrap his hand around him, easy and smooth, and George shivers under the cool grasp of Mitchell's fingers.
"All you have to do is say no, or tell me to stop," Mitchell says quietly.
"Oh god," George says quietly, but it isn't a no by even the most generous of margins. The leather creaks under a slow shift of thigh that's urging Mitchell's hand into movement, even if George still looks amusingly conflicted.
His throat is far too close to Mitchell's mouth, hell his mouth is far too close to Mitchell's mouth and the world could so easily become very narrow indeed. But then George makes a confused noise and twitches up just a little.
Mitchell murmurs amusement, and drags his mouth across a curve of jawbone.
"What are you doing?" George mutters, though it's not worried, just curious. Like Mitchell might do something scandalous...more scandalous anyway.
"Oral fixation," Mitchell reminds him and George makes a sound that's suspiciously close to a whine, hand sliding over the arm of the sofa and Mitchell isn't sure whether it's a handhold or an attempted escape.
Either way a slow, sure push down with his hand stops the movement.
"I could, if you wanted me to?" That causes a reaction, a quick drag of breath and a hard noise that's all throat and greed and restraint. George is good at restraint, he's needed to be, and Mitchell thinks it would be interesting to shake, just a little. Of course the suggestion could be taken a few ways, both of which Mitchell would be fine with. Though George is definitely more interested in the more obvious meaning.
Mitchell drifts closer, trails his nose up the rough edge of George's cheek.
"Would you like that?"
George inhales all the way, shaky and rough enough that he nearly chokes on it. His hand folds round Mitchell's wrist, folds round it and quivers in indecision for a long moment before pushing, just a little.
George is hot under his fingers, every long shift seems to make him a fraction harder and there's a tacky trail of moisture that leaves the edge of Mitchell's finger wet on every upstroke.
George's hand moves from where it was flung over the back of the sofa. Then there are fingers in the hair at the back of Mitchell's neck, twitching through it, as if George can't quite bring himself to catch or pull. As if he can't make himself demand.
Mitchell thinks it would be good for him, for a change. George can be so polite, so careful.
It's a nice wall right down he middle of him. But it's in danger of becoming a permanent fixture.
A little selfishness should be encouraged.
He purrs impatience, tips his head back just a little.
George's fingers tighten, just a fraction, one short reflexive pull that brings Mitchell just a little closer, close enough that his mouth touches the edge of George's jaw.
"Is that what you want?"
George takes a breath, frustration and arousal and something quietly hysterical that might just flatly deny all of this tomorrow.
"Yes," he says quietly and it shivers out in one stream.
Mitchell carefully shifts his head back and forth, feels the catch of George's nails against the back of his head.
"Then take it,"
George inhales sharply and there's a catch in Mitchell's hair, a movement that desperately wants.
"Do it!" Quiet insistence that for a long second Mitchell doesn't think will work, because George looks so conflicted and if there's one thing George is good at it's living in that space and doing nothing.
But then George takes a breath and pushes, pushes his head down and Mitchell folds over under the movement, sliding on the couch until his legs are bent under him.
George's cock is heavy in his mouth, hot against his tongue in a way which is terribly, deliciously familiar.
"God," George says harshly and pushes up like he can't help it. Mitchell draws his hand away, balances it on George's thigh and slides all the way down.
George catches the noise between his teeth but it's hard and desperate and still too loud. Mitchell swings his other hand upwards and folds it over George's mouth, reminding him that, though she is technically dead, there is someone else in the house. George groans under the push of his hand and Mitchell suspects he rather likes it.
Unless under special circumstance George doesn't continually fight the urge to bite, and the thought makes a long shiver run down Mitchell's back. George's hand slides from his hair to the back of his neck, restless and curious. Fingers no longer trying to push just sliding across Mitchell's skin like they're taking the opportunity while they can, and maybe George is more than needy after all.
There's a certain concentration Mitchell can be thankful for in having his mouth full, even if it is in quick wet pushes. All tongue and shiver of teeth but George is already more than there, because it's been a while, a long, complicated, frustrated while. The fingers have dropped out of his hair, tangled in the shoulder of Mitchell's shirt, one ragged fist of fabric that gets tighter on every quick hard exhale through his nose.
Until it tugs, one hard jerk of fabric that Mitchell ignores.
Something tears and George's helpless muffled groan is followed by a quick, wet push that quickly becomes wetter still and Mitchell swallows, drags his mouth back and swallows again and George makes soft half-broken noises when he drags his mouth free and lets him go.
Mitchell's hand slides off of George's mouth, leaves him gasping air and muttering quiet meaningless things through a mouth that's probably completely numb.
Mitchell eases back, drags George's boxer shorts back into place, then slithers upright, snatching the remote as he goes.
He throws an arm round George's shoulders, and George looks helpless and surprised and half drunk. There are white finger marks across the edge of his cheek that are stark enough to surprise Mitchell into a spark of something quick and hot.
"What?" George says vaguely.
"I provide sexual favours I get to pick what we watch."
"When did we decide this?"
"It's a new rule, I just made it up. I thought you'd approve, you like rules."
George is eyeing him with confusion and suspicion, there'll be eye rolling in a minute too, he can feel it coming. It's not quite as effective while his cheeks are still red. Mitchell makes a note that he now knows exactly how knock George's train of thought off of it's carefully laid tracks.
"Can I have a biscuit?"
George stares at him for a moment. Then provides biscuit shaped support, that seems to bring him back to reality, he's muttering something under his breath and fixing his jeans.
When he's finished Mitchell slides his feet back into his lap.
"We need more biscuits," he says decisively, just in case there's a list of some sort. He wasn't really paying attention.