I do not own any of the Being Human characters or the world of Being Human. It all belongs to the Beeb. I only own my original character. After 4.03 I thought it was time Hal proved Tom wrong. I think we all know Hal can definitely 'do it'...*teehee* :3
England 1855: "O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on." – (Othello) William Shakespeare
Houses always seemed far more appealing when the halls had been touched up with their occupant's blood. It improved the smell tenfold. Honestly, who needed perfume when the tang of iron still crackled in the atmosphere? Although, it would be impossible to wash off it left any longer. That was always a problem. Stains. Clothing was discarded frequently, to quite suspicious amounts if anyone noticed. Although, no one would ever really question the real reason behind the pink tinged shirts and blood encrusted trousers. It may have been a common occurrence in war, on a battlefield which was nothing more than blood, mud and wasted lives, but not on home soil. Human minds were incapable of dealing with the cold, honest truth. Not unless it literally pounced and ripped out their jugular.
Fergus manoeuvred his way around the detritus. Upturned furniture. Torn paintings. Cadavers. Many still lay there with the wide eyes of a startled rabbit. By now their pupils had turned glassy. Men would be unnerved by that dead look; some even moved enough to lose their grip on reality. The number of British soldiers who had been shot for cowardice, when really they just couldn't find the strength to face another mass burial of their comrades. Not Fergus. He would never think twice about the bodies scattered through the building or those on the Crimean Peninsula.
The vampire continued on his way downstairs.
One of the daughters, Hal had said. It was a wonder Fergus wasn't leaping down the flights of stairs to reach the cellar and take his prize. In fact, he was strolling rather lazily to the basement. He took long draws on his pipe, just picturing the frightened image of the girl that awaited her fate. Trembling lips. Creamy goose pimpled flesh. Red cells pulsing through vital organs. It stirred the beast in him. Fergus came to a complete halt at the front door. In truth, he was biding his time. He was expecting a visitor. He tapped his foot impatiently on the blood splattered rug. The doorman had been the first. Had his neck shredded by Hal the moment he had invited them in.
Fergus toyed with the stained collar of his shirt. Dry flecks of blood crumbled between his thumb and forefinger, drifting to the floor. If there was a clock nearby, he might have checked it. He would give it a few more minutes; that would be enough time to tell if his guest was coming or not. They were usually so precise. Precise and reliable.
Ding-dong.
In one unhesitating swoop, Fergus unlocked the front door and pulled it open with such force the solid wall cracked. The world outside was serene, green and bathed with the English sun. If the house wasn't in such a state it might have been perceived as the perfect, idyllic British country house. The only thing this moment was lacking was a caller waiting patiently on the front porch to be invited in by the new occupiers. With deliberation, Fergus took one step across the threshold. The property owner was dead, so he – and any other vampire – could come and go as they pleased. There was no one to be seen. As a trickster himself, other people's games bored him. He did not have the patience for hide-and-seek. Another step.
'Is the master of this fine establishment at home?' The voice was eloquent, feminine. Behind him.
Fergus chuckled, pivoting on the heel of his shoe to face the entrance hall of the grand house. He passed a lopsided smirk in the direction of the pretty picture which stood before him. Plaid silk taffeta clutched at the curves and spilled out into a full skirt. It concealed everything and yet exposed enough for Fergus to mentally strip the woman down to her underwear…and further.
'The master's out,' he replied, nonchalantly kicking the door shut with a resounding slam.
'What a shame,' came the sarcastic drawl, accompanied by a charming grin. A dimple was dented into her left cheek. The woman in her 20s, dark in complexion, hair and nature – as Fergus knew all too well – gazed scornfully around the room. She dramatically tapped a finger against her chin in mock thought. 'Maybe he should consider hiring better staff in his absence.' A graceful foot peeked out from under her dress, like a curious mouse, to nudge the listless arm of the doorman. The limb moved upwards with the foot, then flopped back to its original position.
Fergus wouldn't keep up the small talk for long. At first it was fun, then it became tiresome. And she knew it. He had just slipped his extinguished pipe into his pocket and within seconds she was before him. One hand was playing with his blood encrusted collar, the other with his belt buckle. Her curved nose sniffed. She sighed contentedly at the scent of human blood and the lingering tobacco smoke. The pink tip of her tongue flicked out, tasting what was left on his chin. The tongue moved upwards. Slowly. Teasingly. Her newly protruding fangs nipped at his bottom lip. A growl rumbled in Fergus' throat.
'I don't suppose you or Hal have left anyone alive in this heap of bricks?' Her tongue darted out again, grazing against his mouth. He was tempted to snap back, but over the years he had become practised in resisting her charms.
'You're in luck,' Fergus muttered. His voice had deepened. 'Lord Hal left a present in the cellar.'
-x-
The maid had been sweet. Not that Hal was concerned – he would kill anyone if he was hungry and even if he wasn't on most occasions. He sauntered down the stairs, sucking his fingers like a messy child would with chocolate. He savoured every last remnant of human blood. Hal glanced at his current state of undress; his chest was smeared with blood, streaked like a red zebra. The vampire frowned at his own sloppiness. Even being the monster that he was, Hal would still make sure he was clean as a whistle by the time he and Fergus left. They couldn't very well step out in public as if they had just rolled through a recently filled mass grave. And as a gentleman Hal had to keep himself spick and span. Although, he did rather like to entertain the idea of causing a stir, making a scene, and blood drenched clothing and a face reminiscent of a messily fed baby would certainly do the trick.
Speaking of Fergus…Surely he would have ripped that girl's throat out by now. Unless he was playing his usual games. Scaring her. Taunting her. Making sure her whole form was trembling with terror before he finally killed her. Hal knew how Fergus was, for the best part of a few decades.
Hal reached the ground floor, halting his trip to the cellar of the building, as his keen sense of smell picked up a new scent in the air. A suggestion of a woman's perfume. Not anything the women of the household had been wearing, or he would not have been so confused by it. Then it finally dawned on him. He did recognize the scent. The sweet smell of violets. It had often lingered where he did not want to find it. It meant she was here. Bloody hell, of course she was here! Hal followed his nose, kicking limbs aside to clear a path. The floral scent led into the cellar, where it mingled with freshly spilt blood and the dull hint of fading human life.
The vampire mentally compared his choices, as he waited at the stop at the top of the stairs. Barge in. Humiliate Fergus. He was bored of always waiting for Fergus to finish fucking…Well, Hal didn't really quite know what to call her. Hal was about to step forward. His foot stopped. He could wait…It wouldn't kill him. Besides, he had to find a clean shirt. He still didn't move. A new stimulus had alerted his senses.
Hal could hear giggling; not in the irritating, childish way, in the alluring, feminine way. He enjoyed her laugh. Unfortunately on most occasions, when they had been in each other's company, she wasn't laughing with him, merely around him. Why couldn't he make her laugh like that? He was older than Fergus. More powerful. Funnier too (if he said so himself). He was the superior one in every way. And yet, she never seemed interested in him.
The laughing had stopped.
Hal's curiosity got the better of him; it wasn't good enough for him to just listen. He had to see for himself. With his natural predatory instinct, he skulked quietly into the basement level of the house.
The first thing he spotted was the body of the daughter, which lay face down. Her skin was pale, not the warm tone it had been when he had tied her up in the corner. The rope bonds had been torn apart and scattered across the floor in ragged, uneven tendrils. No time had been wasted on this human. A shallow pool of blood was now congealing into a thick, gelatinous mess about the body, having already turned the duck-egg shade of her dress into a warm shade of pink.
The Old One crouched down on the stairs, peering through the banisters. He made certain that he was hidden by the shadows, not that there was much light in the cellar any way.
They were against a wall, as Fergus tried to find the ties of her dress and she tried to devoid him of the rest of his soiled uniform. Their mouths and clothes had been freshly covered with the daughter's blood. Lips and fangs clashed for dominance. There was a violent tear when Fergus shredded the bodice of her dress. In retaliation, she bit down especially hard on his neck.
'Christ!' Fergus hissed. 'What the blinkin' hell was that for?'
'What do you expect me to wear when you keep destroying my dresses?' Her pupils were dark with a mixture of anger and lust. Not that Fergus appeared concerned. His eyes had wandered to the boning and lace of her undergarments. Hal's had too. The perfect contrast of the white fabric against her dark skin.
'Don't worry. I can get you a new one.'
After a few seconds of consideration, a smirk came to her face. 'Promise?' Something twitched in Hal's trousers at the huskiness of her voice. The curve of her dangerous lips. The hour-glass in her figure. He faintly noticed Fergus nod, before he began biting his way down her throat to her clavicle. The Old One almost scoffed at how casually Fergus made his so called promises.
Hal rose from his hiding place. He would not allow his inquisitiveness to become degeneracy. However, just as he moved, his hawk-like eyes caught sight of her. Her neck was angled in pleasure, but she was looking straight at him. Had she known he was there all this time? Or had she only just realised? Her gaze appeared to be one of composed shock and discerning. Although, her eyes were at a paradox with her mouth; coated in blood with fangs just visible behind her lips. Hal could not interpret her thoughts at that exact moment in time, but he would always remember feeling uncomfortable while at the same time transfixed on her face. She was focused on him. Not Fergus. And for a moment…Then she turned away, kissing Fergus more desperately than before.
Hal scowled and left.
-x-
He had slipped away into the deceased master's room to rummage for a shirt. While nonchalantly scattering the dead man's clothing on the floor, a quiet rustle came from the other side of the closed bedroom door. Hal looked. A shadow passed, accompanied by the muted padding of bare feet. A pristine sheet of note paper was slipped under the door, folded twice into a square. He retrieved the note and unfurled it. At the centre of the paper, written in the flowing, linked script of a fountain pen, was a short message:
Do not be upset.
Hal scrunched up the paper and threw it into an obsolete corner. Cow. Bitch. Whore. Puerile Cowbitchwhore. Such an obscure note only infuriated him, made him feel diminutive, irrelevant. Did she think him too stupid to be given a full explanation? He was an Old One. He could storm after her and tear her limb from perfect limb. He hated her. He wanted to hate her. Hal dealt a hefty blow to the wall. He couldn't fool himself. He just wanted her.
