Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, they own me. Special thanks to Toby Whithouse and BBC3 for the playground. Beta assistance from TJ4ev and Whimsyfox enables (most of) my grammar to pass muster for Hal.

Apologies for the few extra weeks of waiting on this one. I moved all of my belongings from one place, to another. Reviews are love


The drudging cadence of classical music greeted Tom as he approached the house. He paused at the door, duffle in hand. Hal only listened to that pingy kind of music when he was too aggravated for something else, and he was supposed to be at work today. Now what? Tom inwardly groaned. It had happened enough at the cafe for Tom to recognize the signs: he could almost smell the hunger from his vampire friend when he entered the house.

"What happened then?" he said by way of greeting, setting his duffle down and removing his coat. Alex was sitting crossed-legged in the far corner of the sofa, pillow on her lap, idly reading a magazine. She looked up at as he hung his coat on the hook, then she glanced towards Hal who was sitting statue-like, eyes closed and focused on the music.

When it seemed neither one of them were going to speak Tom prodded, "Nobody died, did they?"

Hal huffed, but kept his eyes closed. Alex shook her head and crossed her arms across her chest with a pointed look at Hal before answering. "This one nearly vamped the hotel. Then, he quit. Which I guess means that I've gone and quit too since he was covering for me."

"You what?" Tom couldn't help his surprise. He hadn't really been worried about Hal for weeks now. Not since London, when he had consciously refused blood. Not since he and Alex had… well. Tom plopped onto the sofa and leaned against the armrest to stare at his friend.

Hal sighed deeply, then opened his eyes and used the remote to stop the music. "Must this be a house meeting?" he asked the general space overhead.

"You quit work?"

Hal turned towards Tom with a sarcastic tilt of his head, "I nearly killed someone. So yes Tom, I quit work."

"What happened? It was that Megan weren't it?" Tom asked. At Hal's quick disconcerted look Tom couldn't help but smile. "C'mon Hal! She's been sweet on you for weeks. And you can't tell me you didn't know. Dodgy as you are, don't change that the ladies like ya. Long as you don't chat 'em up."

Hal pinched the bridge of his nose and winced, "This isn't funny."

"I know it ain't. But… ah, what will you do now?" Hal glanced to his right and he and Alex exchanged a look that Tom caught. "I know, you don't have'ta work, but -"

"If this war happens the way everyone seems to think it will, then none of it will matter."

"You're going 'ta help," Tom stated, already seeing the answer with the resignation on Hal's face. Tom was glad, actually. The situation with the werewolves was going to be a bloodbath if they couldn't do something to stop it. "I tried to teach some of 'em today. They're good folk. Most have had a run-in with vampires. They're angry, but I don't want to see 'em killed. Most didn't even know 'bout using our blood as a weapon. Will Rook be able to stop all this from getting out?"

"That is the hope."

"What does he need you to do?" Tom asked, noticing that Alex had closed her magazine with a decisive finality. Whatever it was, she already knew. But judging by the seriousness in the way she waited for Hal's answer, Tom could tell it wasn't something pleasant.

"Rook believes that I could be able to stop the vampires from coming to Barry."

"Can ya?"

"It is doubtful. But try I must."

"Why? Why risk it if you think it ain't gonna work?"

Hal shifted in his seat, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Tom could tell there was something Hal didn't want to tell him. Hal confirmed it by answering his question with a vague, "Can we just say I owe a debt?"

Tom furrowed his brow, wanting to press Hal but already knowing he wasn't going to like the answer. Hal looked away, staring into their mantle. "A debt to who?" Tom couldn't help but ask.

"Werewolves," Hal answered, finally meeting his eyes. Tom held his gaze, trying to understand, then shook his head.

"All werewolves? That's crackers. None of us were even made yet," Tom reasoned what he thought was a sound argument.

"Tom is right. Whatever the hell happened last century is no reason to -" Alex started and Hal cut her off by wincing his eyes shut again, as if her words hurt him.

"I owe it to those involved now to attempt to set this right."

"But why?" she pressed.

"Because… the Lobisomem. The nature of their very existence is because of me," Hal stated, then paused. "I was the one who convinced Snow to allow some of the werewolves to live, as long as they remained hidden. And Cutler was the one who unwittingly broke their agreement. Don't you see? Everything I've done affects everything now."

Tom could only just stare at Hal, open mouthed. His off-the-blood vampire friend had lifetimes of secrets tucked under his belt like so many daggers, continually revealed. Tom shouldn't still be surprised really, but he was. No matter who Hal was now, he used to be someone else entirely, with a whole different set of problems. Tom supposed if you lived in the world long enough, it made a certain sense that prior actions could affect the present day. It still threw him for a loop though. Alex seemed stumped by Hal's statement as well as she didn't press him any further. Silence stretched around them until finally, Hal cleared his throat and stood.

He glanced at his watch and then to Alex. "I must be going," he declared.

"Now?" Tom sat a little straighter as Hal stepped away from the sofa. "You're going to help Rook now?"

"This is merely a meeting. I'll return this evening. Did you meet with Milo again?"

"No, he wasn't around today."

"If you can find out anything about his motives, it would be helpful. He worked for Snow, therefore he cannot be trusted."

"Couldn't you say the same about yourself?" Tom asked, understanding Hal's point but trying to understand more.

"Of course," Hal agreed readily, reaching for his jacket. "But I wasn't involved in trying to take over the world. Milo was. I'll see if my powers of persuasion still hold sway with the vampires. Maybe this crisis can be averted."

"I'm coming with you," Alex stood, leaving her magazine on sofa and giving Hal another pointed look. Their eyes met across the room as he shrugged into his jacket.

"As you wish," he nodded. Then added, "thank you."

"You'll tell Allison, yeah?" she said to Tom who was still sprawled into the corner of the sofa.

"Course."


The conference room Rook led them to was larger than their interrogation room from yesterday, complete with a long, executive-style table with seating for more than a dozen that faced a full wall whiteboard. A bank of lights, low-hung over the center of the table, did little to dispel the room's shadow-darkened corners. The flooring was the same industrial dark grey as the rest of the place, but in here it made the room seem further underground, giving it a cloistered feeling even with the door open. Given the military scale of the space, Alex wondered why the Archive always seemed quiet whenever they were around. They had only run into Mike Nave that one time, days ago. She actually wondered how he was getting on. It was her missing corpse that had gotten him pulled into this supernatural world after all.

Rook returned with an armful of files and cleared his throat, "Miss Millar is with us as well?"

"Yes," Hal answered, glancing at her quickly. This would be easier if Rook could see or hear her.

"Good. I did not wish to presume, since you drove here. Would you care for coffee? Tea?"

Hal felt a flash of annoyance at the offer then shook his head. "No."

Rook closed them into the room and set his files down on the table. Pleasantries aside and without further small talk, he got straight to business, placing a single file in front of Hal and taking a seat across the table. Inside the plain manila folder was a small statement of compensation, a simple non-disclosure agreement, and a liability waiver in the case of 'bodily harm, accidental staking and/or death, etc'. Hal returned his gaze to Rook. "You knew I would come."

"I hoped, and prepared accordingly."

"No, you knew."

"Based on the likely probabilities, given your known patterns of behavior… yes."

"This isn't necessary," Hal said as he closed the file.

"Merely our standard procedure," Rook answered somewhat formally and Hal tapped the fingers of his left hand lightly once over the manila surface. Rook's eyes were on Hal's fingers, then glanced back to his face. "Given your known patterns of behavior… there is always a risk something could go wrong, is there not?"

Alex shot a glance at Hal who still didn't respond. The parallel to his statement this afternoon gave her a slow chill, and she wondered if Rook could possibly know. Alex supposed that he was familiar enough with vampire behaviour to have genuinely inferred.

Rook used the pause to extract a single piece of paper from the stack in front of him, and handed it to Hal without a further glance. "We took the liberty to analyze who you might speak with. We have compiled some probabilities of connected individuals and their current locales, all of which we believe you have associated with at one point or another."

Hal's expression went from impassive to furrowed as he quickly scanned the sparsely typed sheet of names, locations and the stack of files. "How, exactly did you -"

"This is all part of our Archive. The organisation has been cross-referencing data for several centuries."

"Jesus this organization is a mind fuck," Alex muttered, leaning next to Hal to read the list. None of the names were familiar to her, but then again, until their trip to the Hebrides she only had met Richard Turner, who was locked-up, and Cutler, who was dead.

"We will need a list of where Miss Millar has been near these locations. Clandestine arrangements can be made for public buildings, with additional travel outsourced, if necessary."

"Well, that's easy," Alex retorted, glancing once more at the sheet. "London, with you. Rook doesn't know that we used your memory to -"

"We will get you the list," Hal answered Rook while simultaneously addressing her as well.

"The first place you must access is London. Specifically, the offices of Turner and Yorke."

"The office is under surveillance, is it not?"

"Yes, but Miss Millar can gain access swiftly and unseen."

"And you don't already work with a ghost who could run such errands?" Hal asked with annoyance.

"We do, and they have tried. However, Turner's office was left protected against most Type Ones. Miss Millar has gotten through the barrier in the past. Reason dictates that she can again."

Alex blanched, recalling the deadly car-wreck sensation her first attempt to teleport out of Turner's office had brought both of them. Before she could raise protest though, Hal placed his hand on her thigh under the table.

"What is it that you need retrieved?" he asked Rook.

"Turner's letterhead. Given our current position, stealing some will be far simpler than attempting to recreate your partner's flair for letterpress and obscure paper. This needs to be authentic."

"You need Richard to write a letter?" Hal scoffed.

"We need several letters to be interpreted as having come from Turner."

Hal glanced at Rook's list again, "So you want me to deliver letters? I'm not your bloody clerk."

"No, you're far more valuable than that. You, Hal Yorke, will act as an emissary."

"You do realise the Council would see me dead."

"Yes, but you have managed your way around such things before," Rook gave a little smile. "The individuals identified are believed to be sympathetic. They are each in direct benefit of the Old Ones' demise, therefore may hear you out."

"This list," Hal started, then exhaled slowly. "Have you any evidence that the vampires have been alerted to come to Barry at all?"

"Ah, yes," Rook said, as if he had forgotten. Alex had the sense he had been merely waiting for Hal to ask. He took something from his inside jacket pocket, tapped it on then slid it across the table to them. The screen of the thin, black phone illuminated to reveal what Alex recognized as a Twitter feed. "Well-placed words travel fast. Which is exactly what we must counteract. Our social media department is doing what they can, but we believe the old-fashioned approach would hold greater value for some of your constitutes."

She reached for the phone when Hal did not, quickly scanning down the feed of messages about a full moon fight in Barry and how "the dogs were going to get it." She rolled her eyes, but then came to realise how familiar the weight of the phone felt in her hand. The inner loose shake of the battery made her curious, and she turned the phone over. Sure enough, there was the same scratch along the backside. Her little brother had accidentally lost it under the fridge and they had to fish it out with a coat hook.

"This was mine," she declared as Rook watched the phone levitate and turn. Apparently, he didn't have to hear her to guess at her question.

"Waste not, want not."

"This was Alex's?" Hal asked, repeating her question. He motioned to her to let him take it and he held it delicately, like he wasn't quite sure where to touch it.

"We had it erased of course. It doesn't trace to her. But through it, we can track your progress."

"You can track us, you mean." Alex snorted, watching Hal examine her phone. He had let the screen go dark.

"Does it work as a telephone?" Hal asked, pinching it between two fingers like it was offensive.

"Yes. It is fully connected to the network and we have programmed the contacts you may need -" Rook began, but when the phone was snatched away from Hal, he paused.

"You're hopeless," Alex teased lightly but tried to unlock the screen. Her previous code failed however.

"Two five four two," Rook announced, watching the failed code attempt. She punched it in and the screen returned to light. She clicked through several things quickly.

"They really did. Everything's gone. Shite bastards," she cursed.

Alex sagged, and Hal took the device back from her. A gentle scent caught his attention. The phone still subtly smelled like her, even after all this time.

Rook straightened his already tidy stack of files then folded his hands over the top. "Take some time this evening. If you can provide us with that list, we can have an approach strategy planned as soon as tomorrow. The department can always send letters through traditional means if you change your mind. However, you know same as I that would be an exercise in futility. This needs weight behind it to be believed."

"And you would have me as your heavy."

"We would have your help in any way you wish to give it. This department has mitigated exposure without interference for centuries. I would prefer it remain that way, but needs must."


Nave, his hands full as was his usual these days, passed by Jonathan Castle in the corridor. His previous mentor looked haggard. His normally tidy grey suit was rumpled, the waistcoat undone. The young man had just come from the break room, a mug of coffee uncharacteristically in his hand. Castle had been deployed to assist their London team with the bombing, and had only just returned yesterday, with a drugged Richard Turner in tow.

"They're running you too much Castle," Nave commented in passing.

Castle shrugged, about to continue on his way when he stopped, and turned back towards Nave. "Say - what is going on in the war room?"

"You missed the excitement. Yorke & Millar agreed to help."

"The Old One, really?" Disbelief was inherent in Castle's tone.

"Yeah. They're strategising or whatever over the revolution attempt."

"The what?"

"Oh - er. You missed that too? Has no-one debriefed you lad?"

"Too busy I suppose. Why don't you fill me in?"


Alex had reset; her ghostly ability that always returned her to the state she'd been at the time of her death had healed her of his misdeeds. He had hurt her, but she wasn't hurt. In fact, as she joined him in bed she didn't even seem bothered by their actions in his office earlier.

Hal recognized it for what it was however.

He was slipping.

The more she had tried to help him today, the more he had wanted to hurt her; to tear through her to get to everyone and anyone else. His bloodlust would win - eventually. Which was precisely why he knew he could not return to the hotel. Working with Rook may not be any wiser, but all this - the anger of the Lobisomem and the impending revolution and everything that conspired to set it off - it all was directly tied to choices he had made in the past. Hal knew he couldn't set it right. Nothing can change the past. But he could try to mitigate the future. He had to attempt to keep his mistakes from rippling out any further than they already had, and he had to do so soon. Before he slipped any further and had a change of heart.

He had written the requested list, including several possibilities within each city. Alex had photographed his handwritten notes with her phone, magically sending it off. He wasn't eager to speak with anyone on Rook's list, but maybe he wouldn't have to. Tomorrow, he would consult with Richard. His old partner may not have proven helpful to Rook, but he still owed allegiance to Hal. Given Richard's current quandary of confinement, Hal might be able to remind him of that allegiance. He would ask him which contact to pursue for the most direct dissemination.

"Will you sleep… you know, after everything?" she asked, nestled in close and fingers trailing his stomach.

He shrugged, and didn't answer her at first, allowing his mind to continue to drift. If only was an indulgence he seldom allowed. But tonight he couldn't let it go; Cutler's ambition had set off this predicament of potential war they now found themselves in. He wrapped his arm over Alex's shoulder and drew her close, savouring the scent of her. "The choices I've made…" he mused, still not really answering her. "Some... I never would have fathomed the implications."

"D'you mean the Lobisomem, or Cutler?" She asked insightfully, resting her head on his shoulder.

Hal had meant both, really. But his thoughts kept returning to his abandoned recruit. "Ergh. Yes, Cutler."

"That whole crazy scheme of his wasn't your responsibility though. You had nothing to do -"

"Oh but I did. I cultivated Cutler. An heir isn't taken lightly among the Old Ones, but I was... bored. I wanted the challenge of him. He was so intrinsically good, in the beginning."

"Oh," she said, at loss for words as her hand stopped trailing its patterns. Talk of Cutler did invariably stump her. He should stop.

"I apologise. I'm tired, forgive me," he murmured, stroking her arm and setting his chin in her hair.

She draped her arm over his waist to find his hand, then interlaced their fingers. She sighed but hugged herself close. "It's alright. Get some sleep."

The press of her against him was softly comforting, her warmth soothing. Hal closed his eyes and felt her relax against him. She trusted him. She trusted that his strength would continue to win. Hal knew he shouldn't allow her to. If he truly cared for her he should push her away. But he also knew, at heart, he was and always would be a selfish bastard. He held her close and let her comforting warmth guide him into sleep.


The dark paneling and heavy furniture served to accentuate that there were too many people in the interior space of the flat.

"This is my home! You can't -" the voice broke off abruptly with a meaty smack. Hal stopped at the credenza, removed his hat and admired a heavy crystal carafe. He unplugged the stopper and sniffed while more muffled and scuffled sounds of an unfair fight were heard from the dining room beyond the foyer. He poured himself a drink and took a sip as he picked up the newspaper sitting next to the liquor.

"They'll hear and - mmmph!"

"Acclaimed Author George Orwell Dies," Hal read aloud from the paper and scoffed. "Your news is three days old. You've been avoiding us."

The man Hal was addressing failed to answer as he was being gagged and lashed to his own polished dining table. "Robert, I would like you to meet Mr. Cutler. He's a bit new at this, so please, don't mind him."

Robert gave a muffled protest through his gag, fighting with futility against the tightening of his bonds. Nick Cutler, dressed in an oversized trench coat, hastily removed his hat when he saw that Hal had, and held it awkwardly in front of him, as if it could distance him from the scene he was witnessing.

"What is that?" Hal cocked his head towards the dining room.

Robert pleaded with his eyes and gave a plaintive "mmrph!"

Cutler looked seriously pale and positively sick. Dennis, smiling slyly under his beard, placed a firm hand on his shoulder as Louie finished securing the restraints and stepped back from the table.

"Really Robert, you must speak up. I can't hear you," Hal set his tumbler down and sauntered slowly towards the scene in the dining room.

"Mmm-mmph mm mmph!"

"Oh, I know," Hal drawled in mock sympathy. "I know, and I know that you know." He came to stand next to the table with a velvet smile and Robert's eyes finally widened in mortal fear. Leaning in close, Hal whispered in his ear, "You understand my position, of course."

Hal produced a perfectly weighted blade from the lining of his jacket and used it with a deftly darkening satisfaction. Flesh pierced so easily, despite Robert's tweed suit. Like parting open a parcel.

"Mmmph!" The protest raised in pitch then cut off sharply. Hal freed the blade and surveyed the mess of the man on the table. The knife he was holding was slick with blood. He brought the blade to his face, then licked the side, vision brightening as the room flared into crisp detail.

"Nice. The guilty always taste better. Cutler - taste your predecessor."

Cutler looked positively aghast but Dennis pushed him forward - hard. He stumbled into the table, catching himself on its edge, then yanked his hands back in disgust from the blood that was pooling and threatening to drip over the edge.

"This - this-" he stuttered.

"My mistake was in leaving him human, unlike you. Drink." Hal's command did not leave room for argument. Cutler was shaking his head, his gaze pleading with Hal nearly as much as Robert had. The knife sailed with a sick thwack into the man's throat, right past Cutler's arm.

"Drink!"

For a small, pivotal moment Cutler remained frozen, and all eyes in the room were on him. He peeled his gaze away from Hal, startled, to the knife in the man's throat and the blood gurgling out. Cutler swallowed, looked back at Hal then back to the bloodied throat.

Trembling and tentative, he stretched out his hand to grasp the hilt of the knife and pull it free. Immediately it clattered, hitting the edge of the table and crashing to the floor.

Cutler's hesitation failed him. The minute the blade was free, the gaping wound pooling with blood, his eyes flickered black and then he swooped, dropping onto the man's throat with a desperate lapping.

Hal gave a smug snort then turned away, wiping his hands on his kerchief while Cutler slurped. Idly strutting back to the credenza, he picked up his tumbler and continued with the paper.

When Cutler finally came up for air, it was with his face covered in gore and fangs extended. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then licked his lips with a satisfied grin. Hal let the paper drop back to the credenza and raised his glass in mock toast to Cutler.

"There. Better?"

Cutler grinned drunkenly.

A sharp rapping knock knock! at the door set everyone on alert, Cutler's grin turning guilty in an instant. Hal set down the glass and donned his hat. "Would you look at the time." He gave a nod to his crew and Louie pulled a flask out of his breast pocket.

"Mr. Mercer? Deli delivery sir," came the voice from the other side of the door while Robert's body was doused with a spray of the propellent liquid in the flask. Hal struck a match, the firelight brightening the edge of shadow under his hat as he pulled the light through the tip of his cigarette. One long drag, then on the exhale he flicked the match onto Robert's gutted torso. The flame woomphed and caught, quickly picking up speed and spreading across the table.

"Supper is served gentlemen," Hal announced, the room dropping into crisp relief once more as he reached for the door.


When Alex jerked awake, dark visions imprinted behind her eyelids, it was with acceptance. She couldn't ignore the mass-murdering trail of Hal's past any longer. The dreams were either real, or they were the machinations of her subconscious as a way of coming to terms with it. She couldn't pretend this wasn't happening. She needed to know if her dreams had any bearing in his reality.

She just wished there was a way to know without asking him.

Beside her, Hal was still. The disturbingly still sleep of a vampire. Hardly a breath or movement to mark that he was alive, and not a corpse like the gutted and still form in her dream.

Almost as if her thoughts were pulling at him, Hal sighed in his sleep and turned fluidly into her. The back of his fingers came to rest curled into her chest and Alex didn't move. She didn't want to risk waking him. The creeping spread of an idea was taking hold. There potentially was a way she could find out. All she had to do was confirm one of the dreams as being a memory. The kill she just witnessed had been interrupted, the body and flat burned. Which maybe, just maybe, meant there was a record. And now, she had a date.

"Acclaimed Author George Orwell" the headline had read. She hadn't always paid the best attention in her courses, but vaguely remembered that he died in London, even though he had been living in Scotland before then. If this past dream had been connected to that event, then having a factual date would significantly narrow the timeframe of her search.

She rationalized that she could just search for the date and see if there was a record. It wouldn't take her that long. And then she would leave. She didn't need to look through the rest of his file, if she found it. It wouldn't do to add more fuel to the fire if this all was only her imagination, after all.

Yes, she would go, check for the date and then she'd be right back. She watched Hal's face in the half light as she pulled carefully away. It was the middle of the night. Hal's watch on the nightstand indicated that it was nearing two. If ever there was a time for a ghost to pass undetected in the Archive...