[That look and that tone would both be quite enough to dispel any lingering doubt as to whether or not this was, actually, Ivan.

And the thing is--whatever else Mitchell feels about vampires in general, about the Bristol enclave and his role in their destruction--and whatever he feels about what came after, and where that's led him to today--the thing is, he really does owe Ivan, owes him quite a bit more than a mere thanks or a pint or a spare cigarette or something. Ivan was going to take over in Bristol--and then Ivan saved Mitchell's life. Someone else might be able to write that one off, dismiss it, but Mitchell can't. An act like that carries weight, especially from Ivan.

The impact of those words, the guilt--that shows plainly in his face, even as he looks away, passes a hand over his face. Fucking hell.]

Yeah. That's what I thought.

[The words shade toward the bitter, but a second later and he pulls himself out of it, grabs Ivan by the arm and tries to turn him away, back toward his locker and out of the general area that the public might inhabit.]

Look. This place, it's not what you think. It's a space-ship--yeah, it sounds mental, but trust me: it is. No one knows what the hell is going on here, not me, and none of these-- other people.

[In other words: not Purgatory, not Hell, not an afterlife. And--despite his guilt--Mitchell feels compelled to add--]

And I did thank you, for helping Carl.

[He huffs something that's almost a laugh at that, and he shoves Ivan's arm a little when he lets him go, like he's got to get clear of him.]

Yeah, I'm really sorry you were bored. Did you not hear what I just said? None of that matters here.

[A lie, and Mitchell knows that better than anyone. Everything from the past matters, no matter where you go, it comes with you. He says the words anyways.]

This place, where we are. Everything's different here.

Oh, yeah, I was just waitin' to be asked.

[Bitter sarcasm, but now that he's got the opportunity for a real explanation, he doesn't-- quite know how to put it, to Ivan. Like there's some special way that he's got to explain this. Tense and thoughtful, he rubs a hand over his mouth.

Right.]

It's just what I said. We're on this space-ship. No one knows how we come to be here, or how we're chosen. Doesn't matter if you're human or if you're not, what time you're from--there's people here from places you've never heard of, no matter how much traveling you've done. And there's no gettin' out.

[Practical reasons. There were a great many practical reasons that came to a head last month. The recent memory of that makes Mitchell's expression twist, for a moment, enough so that he looks away.]

We aren't the only ones here. There's others. They've been here longer--enough so there's a whole system in place.

I'm not saying no one cares. They know what they're dealing with. And there's worse than us here.

[Much better. Unfortunately. Except when it doesn't, and Mitchell looks away again, guilty even without an actual accusation being made.]

It works. They made it so it works well. You put your name on a list, and they keep you stocked in all the blood you want. Dream come true, you'll love it.

[Bitterly, he huffs a laugh.]

Ah, no. Come on. You know better than that. There's always people willing t' offer themselves up. Even this place has got a few of those. Like they're doing some service.

[But that's enough of that. He turns away, finally.]

Just put your name on their list. They'll take care of you.

[With a stilted laugh, Mitchell pushes the heel of his right hand against his eye. Just like old times.]

Yeah, right.

[Ivan, mate, you don't know how right you are. But when Mitchell looks around at him again, it's with more sharpness than that half-agreement might have suggested.]

You have to be careful. They'll hold your hand, sing Kumbayah with you, but none of this is going t' last, and they love pretending like it will. [In a single jaded word, this could be summed up as: humanity.]

[Thanks, Ivan. And while no one could ever mistake Ivan for being truly kind--well, he's occasionally something, at least, something approaching an emotion very much like kindness that can sometimes be sorted out from the rest of him, if you work at it.

And Mitchell--less than inclined to take kindness these days, but wanting, badly, to hear some kindness--vacillating between caged-in anger and so many old habits like whatever pragmatism he's ever been able to scare up or fake, over the years--Mitchell doesn't know quite how to take that, or what he should say, so instead, he sort of-- flinches, a little, looks away, his jaw tight--]

Just behave yourself. All right? There's no one here to catch you. Whatever system they've got is more for their comfort than ours, and they can cut it off. This ship'll do its best to destroy you on its own.

[And what a fucking mess either of those ends would be, and Mitchell suppresses the eager part of himself that would like to see it.]

I can't stick around. I have to go.

[Just walking off and leaving Ivan doesn't seem right. Sobriety was off the table, for him--and if there's some bizarre hopefulness that suggests the proposition of it, again, Mitchell knows better than to but it forward now. He's barely clinging to his own sobriety. There's strength and inspiration in numbers, yeah, but not now. And maybe not ever, with Ivan.

And truthfully, his reluctance is more because of what he can only think of as loyalty, and debt. The latter is more important than the former. Mitchell has never been able to write off vampires as a whole, much as he's claimed to want to, or even sometimes to have done. And even if he had, he owes Ivan. They go back, yeah--not way back; Mitchell is still too relatively young for that status--and Ivan saved his life.

So he hovers, a moment, in uncertainty, and wishes that he felt more certain in general. But eventually he's got to fuck off, he can't keep standing here saying nothing, and anyways, he's got to find George and Annie, get himself settled into the routine of sobriety.]

Yeah. See you.

[A lame send-off, but whatever. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and shoves off.]