Title: The Old Year Passes
Spoilers: General for series 4.
Warnings: Slight swearing; reference to murder.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Series title taken from Tom Waits.
Summary: The old year is ending, and Hal's regime is preparing to see in the new. (AU – canon divergence.)
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Cutler stands at the window, watching the snow fall in big, fat flakes. There'll be a good few inches by morning: London remade, fresh and white, for the New Year. It would have been enough to bring the city to a standstill in the old days – but in Hal's Britain the roads are always kept clear, and the trains run on time. If the streets are quiet tonight, if the pavements remain untrodden, it isn't because people can't get around. It's just the way things are now: too quiet, in between the riots, the explosions, the fighting. People – humans – don't go out unless they have to. They think it's safer to stay inside, to keep the windows shut and the doors bolted. Keeping the vampires out.
Voluntary imprisonment. "The shape of things to come," Hal laughed. He laughs more than Cutler remembers him doing, but whether that's a good thing or not only time will tell.
But Cutler's being maudlin and there's really no need, not when he's in here with a cosy fire, and there's blood and champagne within arm's reach. It must be the waiting that's to blame, the expectation, the way the carriage clock on the mantelpiece is ticking away the dying minutes of the year. Cutler sinks into his armchair.
Hal lifts the cigar box and pauses, then waves it under Cutler's nose. But Cutler learns from his mistakes, and it's really not that long since the spring day when they stepped over the Prime Minister's body and walked in here for the first time: 10 Downing Street, and him at Hal's side. Hal sat behind that big, mahogany desk and offered him a cigar. Which Cutler foolishly accepted, despite the fact that he's never smoked; despite the fact that Hal knew it. He can still feel the bite of the smoke, of the humiliation. He can still see the amusement on Hal's face, that special brand of good-natured malice – and there's an echo of it there now, as Cutler shoves the box away.
Scratch and flare: Hal holds a match to the end of his cigar and sucks in a deep breath. Hal looks settled, but downstairs the noise is swelling: music, chatter, laughter. The party is in full swing. Everyone who's anyone is there: the great and the good, and the very, very bad. Even a few humans, because this regime of theirs is still new, still fragile, and you have to keep a few of the old guard around. During the transition, at least. Cutler glances at the clock: five minutes to midnight. Hal is cutting it fine.
"I know you can get away with turning up late," – More than that: Hal enjoys it. Not that Cutler would dare to say so – "but shouldn't you be making your grand entrance?"
It's not that he wants Hal to go, not down there with everyone competing for the man's attention – even trying to compete with Cutler, because they haven't seen this: Hal, perfectly content to stay here, with him. Just the two of them, the way it was always supposed to be. Cutler doesn't want Hal to leave, but he really needs to go down there, and he needs to do it before midnight. He needs to be seen – well, not so much welcoming in the New Year as presiding over it: ushering in the first full year of his rule. But Hal just stretches out his feet towards the fire and sends a perfect circle of smoke drifting towards the ceiling.
Cutler sits still – tries to sit still, tries not to fidget on the creaking leather, but the clock is ticking relentlessly on, and it must nearly be time. Hal is cutting it very fine indeed. Any minute now, Big Ben is going to herald midnight, and Hal is going to miss it if he isn't careful. Cutler debates the wisdom of pushing further.
"Hal …" Cutler glances up at the mantelpiece: it's already a minute past twelve.
Which is impossible, because Big Ben hasn't chimed, and the carriage clock must be wrong. Cutler checks his watch, but it tells him the same thing: that midnight has come and gone, and Big Ben hasn't struck the hour. Cutler's watch must be wrong as well, which is entirely possible: it might say Rolex on the dial, but the mechanism is pure Hong Kong. Cutler leans across and tilts Hal's wrist towards him. Hal's watch is old, older than Cutler, and he has to wind it every night – he refuses to trade it in for something that runs on batteries – but Cutler will admit that the thing keeps perfect time. And it says that it's two minutes past midnight.
"Relax," Hal tells him, relishing his confusion. "I can promise you that we haven't missed anything important." And it's all very well for him to laugh, but Cutler isn't in on the joke.
They sit, mirrored on either side of the fire, while the silence of the bells vibrates in the air. Hal can be a theatrical bastard at times, and he likes his audience to be suitably attentive.
"I've stopped all the clocks," Hal tells him. "It's not 2013; it isn't even 2012 any more. This is the year zero." Hal's face splits into a crescent of gleaming teeth and, downstairs, the band strikes up Auld Lang Syne. "From now on, it will always be the year zero."