A/N: All characters are owned by the BBC. So someone on tumblr sent this as sort of a prompt/request thing and being sadistic, I ventured into writing it. Personally, I don't think it's that great but that be my inner editor talking. This was all written spur of the moment and posted just as quickly so forgive me for some careless mistakes/the funkiness in writing it. I erased so many parts and rewrote it so many times like you won't believe it. I also realized that Hal doesn't really address the issue with if he is killed in the dream whether or not he's killed in reality. He sort of accepts it as reality anyways. Maybe this will be addressed in a part 2? If there is ever a part 2? Does anyone want a part 2? Anyways, read and enjoy and review if you can!
Breathe in.
He steadied her hand, held onto it as she held onto the sharpened wood. She was crying. God, she was beautiful. Years he looked upon that face and watched the sun rays dance off it. Months he was allowed to finally touch it, kiss it, hold it in his hands, hold her. Her seemingly small and delicate frame was one that tricked the eyes. In fact, she was strong, the strongest that he had ever known. She was strong now, holding herself together as best as she could. Although, he wished she wouldn't. It would drain her. She needed to rest. He needed to rest.
"I can't do this," her voice cracked again. Her eyes looked around, looked everywhere except at him.
Do this for me, he wanted to say. But he had said enough before, said his parting goodbye.
It was routine with them. He loved routine even when routine was unnecessary now or rather the purpose for it was obsolete. Routine now was not there to combat his hunger for blood. Routine was just…routine.
"What are you thinking about?" she would ask. She liked to know those unfiltered thoughts, reveled in the more scandalous ones. He admitted, he enjoyed those best too, the thoughts and their consequences.
His fingers drew lazy circles on her back, felt her shiver against him. He smirked. He had the pleasure of learning where she was ticklish, never found such a thrill in it. That night, her body had become a map for him to explore. X marks the spots, he remembered whispering before he made her twist and contort away from him.
He used his fingers to brush away pieces of her hair, tried to tame them although it wasn't much luck. "Nothing," he answered, "I'm not thinking about anything."
He watched those lips purse, watched those eyes narrow, watched her carefully as if he was her prey now. He no longer had fangs to protect him, to defend him from this goddess. He only had mantras and prayers that worshipped her because she was all he wanted, all he needed. What did he need protection from anyways? Why would he want to hide from her?
"You're lying."
"Am I?"
Nothing was not an answer suitable for routine, he noted. So, why did he break it today?
She was stubborn, he had always known that, knew it from the first time they met each other. He knew it by her perseverance to know him, to pursue him even when, he was sure, all of her senses told her not to, not to be charmed so easily. So why did he think she would change now? Why would he think she would just give in so easily?
Tears streamed down her face. He wished he could wipe them off but his hands were preoccupied with holding her hands. But, he wanted to. He wanted to cup her face and wipe those salty tears with kisses. Push back her hair to see her glowing face. God, she was beautiful. He wished he could end this now, but he couldn't force this. She had to accept it. She had to be willing to do it. That would be the first step to grieving.
So, she stalled her time between her shallow breaths, she asked, "What about Tom? What do I tell him, Hal?" Her voice wavered but it was loud. It throbbed in his ears. "You can't just leave us!" She shouted. She left the end unspoken, but he knew what it was. She had asked it before, on the first day and he answered, told her what she wanted to say now.
Me, he could hear her silent plea. There's me.
I know, he wanted to say. I'm sorry, he wanted to say.
Instead, he said nothing.
"Yes, you're lying," she argued.
Why would I need to lie? He wanted to say, but he was lying. She had pierced right through his words because she had become an expert on him. Somewhere along the way, his mind became her own map and just as he found the treasure spots, she found her own Xs. And he hated her because she knew him so well. And he loved her because she knew him so well.
Her brows knitted together as she stared at him with those narrowed eyes. "I know what it is," she answered as she slipped out from his hold and out of the bed. Suddenly, it was cold without her presence. "You're cheating on me."
There was a long stretch of silence. He kept his face expressionless, watched as her eyes grew large and her body tensed. "Oh my God, you're having a fucking affair? With who? Who's the bloody whore?" she quickly asked.
The longer he kept quiet, the faster her speech became and he didn't need his vampiric curse to know that her heart was escalating. Her outburst continued with things such as once a polygamous vampire for 500 years, always a polygamous man. When he noticed she was trying to find clothes to throw on, he reached out, over the bed and tugged her arm, making her fall into the bed again, the warmth returning to his side.
She writhed and fought. She spat out things like how she didn't want to be touched by an adulterer.
"Alex," he called, trying to calm her down. But she didn't. She only grew more hysterical. "Alex," he tried again. No luck. He tried a third time, practically shouting over her voice now, "Alex, stop!"
She did but her eyes glared at him now. "I was only joking," he said with a nervous laugh. "Honestly, how do you even think I'm possible of engaging in this affair if you never let me leave this room?"
Her glare continued. He could hear those unspoken words.
"I'm not lying," he said but quickly added, "About the affair. Honestly, that's just absurd. But…" But he was lying about the nothing he had uttered earlier. Her glare was easing in intensity now, slowly but surely. "But…I was thinking about something, earlier when you asked."
Her voice rang, stern as it was soft, "What were you thinking about then?"
He shifted so that he was closer to her, let his eyes take in every detail he could of her again, like how the sun danced off her skin and how red her lips were when she bit down on them and how hard it was to tame her hair in the morning before a shower.
These routines, he realized, was not just routine. These routines became his ritual, his ritual that reminded him of this new life.
"Please, please don't make me do this. We can figure out another way," she urged. She had managed to stand closer to him, pressed her cheek on his chest but their hands still held the stake firm.
He wondered what made him do it, made him shatter this dream of theirs. Sometimes, he questioned why such things happened to him. Was it because he had so much blood on his hands that it was now poisoning him as revenge? He wish he wasn't the one who insisted on making tea for them that day, wished he would've stayed in bed with her until the next morning. He wished he didn't notice the carefully folded origami wolf resting on the mantle, wish Tom didn't walk in, wish he didn't ask who made it which would prompt Tom to answer that he didn't know, prompted him to tell him the missing detail of his dream.
The devil had made that for him, and here it was.
Every kiss then became more urgent, he wanted more taste. Every breath was deep because he wanted this freshness, this lack of desire for blood. Every laughter and whisper was louder than ever before because he wanted it to ring true. Perhaps if they loved enough, laughed enough, breathed enough, it would become real.
But it never did. Those rose tinted glasses they all wore now turned red.
He rested a hand on the nape of her neck, felt its softness, her solidness. "There is no other way," he whispered into her hair. "This is the most clarity I will ever have in my mind and this is what needs to be done. If I don't-" He couldn't even say the words so he didn't say it all together. "Then, when this is over, I'll kill again. I'll be him. I can't—I can't have more blood on my hands, Alex."
She sniffled; her grasp around him grew tighter. Was she saying goodbye?
Please, no.
Please, yes.
Please.
Her head rested on the pillow and her anger all gone as she faced him. He still hadn't answered her, still couldn't muster enough strength to admit it all to her. He feared it was too soon. But…was it too soon? Life was limited now. Time is limited. Nothing is too soon.
The answer started off quietly, a little bit loud enough to hear but not too loud. "I've lived a long time, seen too many things, horrific things, done some horrific things myself." They didn't need to elaborate on that part. "And all my life, all my days of immortality, I was struggling, fighting with myself and I was never…" His eyes flickered at her face again. God, she was beautiful. "Happy. And now, with you for the first time, I am. I am happy, truly and genuinely."
Instead of fawning, Alex lifted her head and pulled the pillow from underneath, setting to hit him with it. "That was the cheesiest thing I have ever heard."
He grabbed the pillow and tossed it off the bed before it could hit his face and used his other arm to pull her flush against him. Her breathless laughter brushed his skin, sending shivers and he felt them race under his skin.
"I'm happy with you too, Lord Hal," she teased.
He rolled his eyes before he tilted his head to capture those lips, capture the breath that electrified him, that gave him life every day.
She made him happy.
She made him human.
He begged her to stand across from him, killing him this way would stain her clothes with the ashes he would later become. She shook her head, mumbled out a "don't care". Her fingers gripped the sharpened stake again, he felt her heart throb or maybe that was just his. Her other arm gripped around his waist.
She took in a few shaky and shallow breaths.
Could she do it?
Between her crying and her breathing, he feared she couldn't. But now, he wanted her to. Now, he wanted her to end this dream. After 500 years, she had gave him new memories, memories of what it felt like to be human again, to live again. It was only right for his time to end now. Because this was being human too. Mortality was human. Grieving was human. Acceptance was human. Moving on was human.
"Are you happy now?" she asked faintly. He wasn't sure if she was accusing him of placing so much burden on her shoulders in such a wonderful dream of theirs, accusing him of cracking her tinted glasses. But when his eyes locked with hers, he didn't see resentment or anger.
She wanted to know if he was happy, if he was happy enough to die, to accept these terms. Was he? He was. He truly was. Slowly, he nodded before giving her one last smile.
The hand that held hers dropped and reached to lift her chin slightly, stroke the underside of her jaw and let his lips capture hers, let him give them the last piece to their routine.
Being staked was not pleasant, it shocked his body and burned it from the inside out, he felt it, could feel his body turn to ash, slowly. He pulled his lips away from hers, felt her breath brush his skin briefly.
Breathe out.