Hal likes to pretend he's the strong one, fully in control of himself, but he isn't. He knows this. Admitting it is another thing all together.

For years Leo and Pearl have been his foundation, the hands that steady him and smooth back the rough edges that peek through his mask of control. He wants so much to be a good person, and for a while they helped make him one.

And now they're gone.

In just a moment he lost what kept him sane, the strength that kept his monster locked up behind his eyes away from the sunlight and humans (friends?) too easily broken. He tries desperately to fill the hole they've left with Annie and Tom, with the baby destined to destroy everything he is, with home and family and his routine. He builds a safe haven in his room, prefect corners and neat lines that calm the turmoil of his brain and it doesn't work. Nothing is working and he can feel his mask slipping, feel the monster inside of him shifting and waking and he's clinging to the cracks with his fingertips.

Workdays at the cafe are a blessing and a damnation all at once, Toms soft chatter calms him while another part screams at the presence of so many humans (food) so close at hand. He wants to lose himself, tear into them and gorge himself on blood so bad his teeth ache and at the same time his stomach rolls at the idea, bile burning bright hot at the back of his throat. Tom still keeps stakes on hand, "In case tha' vampires attack us again" he states almost guiltily but Hal knows that's not the only reason, and bizarrely it calms him.

Tom won't let him lose himself.

Won't hesitate to stop him.

Somewhere along the line, somehow, Tom has started to become his support – the smell of him (wolf), the soft rumble of his voice as he explains the plot of a movie to Hal, the almost puppyish need he has to experience things, the way his hips feel pressed up against him and the sweet/sour taste of his mouth, of the skin of his neck and the way Hal knows he can't damn him, that all that enticing hot blood pumping under Toms skin protects him.

Tom messes up the straight edges of his room, rumples the sheets and leaves stuff where it shouldn't be… and it should bother him but somehow it works. When it's just them - tangled in bedsheets and the sounds Tom makes as he sinks into him, the way his back arches, neck displayed shamelessly (and Hal isn't even tempted to bite anymore), the way his scars stand out ghostly white against the flush of arousal, the way he tastes of need and desperation just as much as Hal does - it's perfect.

He's not the strong one really, and he doesn't have control but Tom steadies him with hands against his hips and lets him pretend he does.