Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.
I really miss Being Human. Re-watches and writing this story have helped fill the void but there's still sadness in me that the show was not commissioned at least one more series.
Thanks go to Saemay and TangentiallyTJ for proofing this chapter. TJ has a wonderful fic she'll be unveiling sometime soon. :)
Hal and Sylvie woke me up at 6 am one morning a few weeks ago with these events. They made me do it.
Ch. 5 This world will break you heart
"I do," Hal says uncertainly, his voice cracking. He looks around at the group, feeling overwhelmed.
Hal wishes he were anywhere else at this very moment. Even filthy, starving and raving in that monastery would be preferable. Had he known what was waiting for him he wouldn't have committed to this farce.
It had all started in such a positive light.
After their "dance" he feels a relief, no longer holding on to one of his conflicts. As Sylvie lays on him, offering herself, he feels her determination and optimism infect him with a thread of hope. He even allows himself to cup her jaw and pull her down for a gentle kiss. It is soft, sweet, so unlike memories he has of previous women. He pulls back wanting to savor it, holding their faces together, nuzzling his nose tenderly against hers. He opens his eyes to her deep brown ones full of innocence, trust, desire. He shifts her off of him, to stave off any further improprieties, and she leaps up twirling and skipping about in a most unladylike fashion until he begs her to stop. He tells her in a tone that brooks no argument that he most certainly does not skip. However, he offers her his arm if she agrees to walk sedately.
He escorts her home with a promise to see her again at the earliest opportunity. Not even the letter from London waiting at home affects his elated attitude. He gives it a perfunctory read then puts it away with the others, unconcerned. Jacob is an idiot, prone to cock ups. Hal had been surprised Jacob even reached the level of Old One at all. His ineptitude at leadership and lack of protocol had been the reason Hal was called in to take over in Spain; to deliver a message about what was expected. He'd been quite effective at it.
Hal thrusts away those thoughts as he goes into his library, content to let go of the past and think of the future, for once. He has a poem to write.
The following morning an invitation is delivered for a weekend affair, thrown by Lord and Lady Arundel, in his honor. He snickers at that, then spends a good 300 press-ups worrying about it. In conclusion he decides to flex this new-found buoyancy and makes arrangements to attend. How bad can it be?
Sod's Law! Fate is sick. And Evil.
When he sees the number of people invited for the entire weekend, his thumb involuntarily begins to tap a slow path back and forth across his fingers.
When he is "introduced" to the werewolf, the rhythm of his fingers increases.
When the hunting accident happens, he excuses himself, concentrating on counting the horse's hooves all the way back to the manor.
When a guest jokingly makes references to Hal having womanly vapors, he resists the urge to to grab the man by the throat, and start him off counting backwards from ten.
When the werewolf makes his third veiled taunt, he begins reciting Gulliver's Travels in his head.
When the group of women surround him, he averts his eyes from their necks, concentrating very hard not to think about his past conquests.
When the main course of dinner is presented, barely seared rare beef swimming in a pool of blood, he politely refuses with a mutter about his constitution and sits holding his breath, his fingers in his lap almost a blur.
When the meal is over he excuses himself, citing fatigue, and runs to 'their pond' where he grabs handfuls of pebbles from the shoreline and busies himself to gain some sanity.
Later he sneaks into the house to find Sylvie waiting for him in the hallway near his room.
She apologizes for not having seen him most of the day and asks about his well being. He lies, saying he is fine, just gone out for fresh air. She looks unconvinced so he gives her the poem he'd written. She insists he recite it himself and then leaps to hug him. It is awkward as he's been on edge all day, and he pulls away citing fatigue once more. She doesn't push him.
Three hundred press-ups, two hundred situps for good measure, an hour reading and one folded paper wolf thrown in the crackling fire later, Hal seeks his bed, only to wake gasping a short while later from dreams of blood. A particularly vivid dream of following a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl down an alley, using his charms to make her complicit, driving into her then sinking his fangs into her quivering flesh, letting the arousal-spiked blood flow deliciously down his throat... STOP!
Trembling, Hal leaps to the floor and begins his night anew. 1... 2... 3...
Sylvie is up early, not having slept well, restless with worry. Her parents had eschewed social customs and given her much leeway in what they saw as an odd but favorable courtship. However with their friends - members of high society - in attendance, they insisted on proper behaviour and etiquette. The men largely spent the day in gentlemanly pursuits, while the women kept to their group. Unchaperoned encounters were prohibited. Add to this her duties as the daughter of the host, placed in charge of ensuring everything went as planned, and as a result Sylvie had only seen Hal a few minutes at a time throughout the day. He hadn't looked well, appearing paler than normal, with awkward movements and a clenched jaw. She'd observed him licking his lips and his fingers surreptitiously in motion, compulsions she'd seen diminish over their time together.
At dinner she had been called away to answer a question in the kitchens, returning to find him gone. After a fruitless search of the house she had paced the hallway, propriety be damned, until he arrived a couple hours later. She wasn't convinced with his placating words, but his gift had shot her through with such happiness that she gave in when he excused himself to retire. Sleep would definitely do him good.
Now she sits at the pianoforte quietly playing, awaiting to see him. Fortuitously he comes down shortly, ahead of any other guest. He looks as handsome and presentable as usual, but there is a tired and tense air about him, his eyes red-rimmed. She stops playing "Hal -" she begins, but he hushes her immediately.
"No, please don't stop. Your playing is quite... restorative."
She stares at him, giving him a timid smile, but he continues to give her a wooden look. He walks over to the nearest settee and sits expectantly.
She plays a selection of the most soothing pieces Hal had mentioned to her on previous occasions, while keeping watch on him. He sits ramrod straight and still, staring off distractedly, his hands gripping his knees. As she plays she wills his hands to loosen their white-knuckle grip. On the third tune she believes she sees a slight improvement, his shoulders easing a fraction. She plays a fourth before deciding to approach him, lest she lose the opportunity when others come down. She sits next to him, touching his arm lightly, and shaken from his thoughts he turns his head to look at her.
"Hal", she says quietly, "This weekend is not turning out as I expected. If you need to leave, I will make excuses for you." She takes his right hand in both of hers.
Hal focuses on their hands, noting that it is actually a comfort to have them together. She really does make him feel stronger. He looks up at her and answers just as subdued, "No. Thank you. It's just for one more day. I believe your lovely playing has given me the respite I needed." It is his turn to give her a timid smile.
As they hear someone coming down the stairs they let go and once again Sylvie sits to play another song.
Hal chants to himself. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
"I do," Hal says uncertainly, his voice cracking. He looks around at the group, feeling overwhelmed.
At the end of another long day he stands taught as a lute string, tapping out a whirling rhythm on his fingertips, his hands hidden behind his back. The smell of wolf and blood, the reverberations of shotgun blasts and heartbeats, the whine of a dozen voices all circling around him, have made it hard to think or to breath. He's barely had a moment's quiet. He's been forced to endure the dark looks and veiled quips from the hound and to evade questions from Sylvie's parents. He's been enraged by the incompetence of the men and the incessant prattle of the women. Still he manages to maintain his mask of civility for the unsuspecting humans.
It is after dinner and Sylvie's mother is once again fawning over the werewolf. Hal has to commend the Spaniard, he's come far since the days in the dog fights. The young man he remembered hadn't been much more than a street ruffian. This man is confident, amiable, enthralling the women with flourishing bows and foreign words. One of the women had even suggested to her friends that he was a pirate. Hal had rolled his eyes at their titters and sighs. Yet it wasn't so long ago he had been enthralling women with his charm and wit, and a small part of him holds some jealousy over the other man's easy manner.
"Marvelous Lord Yorke!" Lady Arundel exclaims to his reluctant admittance. "I daresay Spanish is not a common knowledge in these parts. It is wonderful that you can speak it, to have something you share with our dear Mr. De La Villa."
Both men bristle at her comment.
She continues obliviously, "Tell me Lord Yorke, were you able to attend those bullfights I have heard about during your time in Spain? And what about the fabled 'Running of the Bulls'. It sounds ghastly and brutish."
Hal huffs a snicker. "I'm afraid I was rather busy with my enterprise at the time to catch either of those sports." They would have been enjoyable but best to keep vampires away from public bloodbaths. "My companions and I however found ample amusement with some of Spain's other entertainments." He gives the hound a look.
The werewolf narrows his eyes at him.
"Would you honor us with a demonstration of your Spanish skills? I have acquired an interest in the language and would love to hear it spoken," she insists.
Hal sighs, giving her an obliging nod, turns to the werewolf and says the first thing that pops in his head, "Shall I tell them about the first man you killed in the dog fights? As I recall you tore all his limbs apart then ate them. I'm sure she'd love to hear about that." He ends with a slight smirk.
Federico retorts, "I would be happy to tell her of the two werewolves you had drained one night. How you tied that vampire over the tub of their blood and slowly lowered him down, letting the blood etch away his body to see how long it would take before he actually died." He lifts his eyebrows challenging.
They turn back to Lady Arundel's expectant face. "Well that was quite a mouthful. What did you converse about?"
With a straight face Hal says, "I was recounting my pleasure at having been able to take in much of the local entertainment. The people of Madrid are quite colorful and passionate at everything they do."
Federico counters, "And I was relating exactly how my people feel about having foreigners with such a variety in tastes."
The ignorant woman smiles. "Oh lovely, I would so desire to visit and experience some of the local customs. It does get dreadful here with the same old concerts and operas. I would enjoy something more lively."
With a tight grin Hal turns back to the hound, "Perhaps I should recount your fourth fight, hmm? Very impressive, taking on two opponents. You bashed their heads together spewing brain matter. The onlookers thought that lively, not something frequently seen."
Federico says with barely controlled contempt, "Should I mention the girl tied up in one of the cells? I heard her crying and talking to herself every day, and when you went down I heard what you did to her. To this day I don't know what finally broke her, the mental or physical torments you 'entertained' yourself with."
Hal blanches with the memory, swallowing back the bile, holding back the wetness in his eyes, suppressing the conflicting emotions. He can feel him prowling, wanting to taunt the wolf more, wanting to wipe the inane grins off the humans, wanting to vent the frustrations of the last two days in a wash of blood. He looks at Sylvie for the first time since the exchange began. With effort he says shakily, "Would you please excuse me for a moment," and runs away once more...
Sylvie moves to follow but is prevented by her father's "Give the man some space." Sylvie looks over at Federico, imploring him with her eyes to find out what was said. The man looks furious, but after a few moments starts looking a bit guilty. This can't be good. Desperately, she spills wine on herself, exclaims that she must go change, then jumps up, leaving before anyone can stop her. However she barely makes it down the hall to the stairs before Federico's lowered voice stops her.
"It would be better Señorita if you do not go after him right now. He is very dangerous."
She rounds on him, her hushed tones carrying her anger, "What did you say to him?"
The werewolf replies, "I only reminded him of some of his past actions."
"Why would you do that? Can't you see the state he's in, trying to cope? Do you want him to lose his control?"
"He will show his true self at some point. Better while I am here."
"Where he can slaughter two dozen innocent people? And yet he didn't. Instead he ran away. You do not know him at all."
"And neither do you Señorita. You want to know what I reminded him of before he ran away? There was a girl -"
Sylvie stops him, saying quietly, "I suspect there have been many girls." She takes a deep breath before continuing firmly, "However that doesn't change my feelings for him one jot. I am concerned with the man he is today, not with his past, and I hope that you'll see him for what he is now, a good man, and let the past go. I am going to find Hal, to make certain he is... himself. Nothing you say will change my mind."
She runs to his room and knocks but there is no answer. When she opens the door, she finds the room empty. Thinking of his actions the night before she searches the grounds outside then runs all the way down to the pond. What confronts her is a curious sight; rows upon rows of pebbles, small ones at one end and large ones at the other. Oh Hal. They are all dry; he must have done this last night. Her heart already thundering in her chest, she runs to the coach house. His coach and servant are still in attendance. Only then does she search throughout the house, careful to avoid her parents and guests. When she cannot find him in the public areas she goes upstairs to search the private rooms, starting with her own.
She opens the door and lets out a sigh of relief as she sees him, turned away from her, sitting rigidly on her bed. Closing the door behind her she begins to babble in her relief. "Hal, dear God, I have been searching all over for you! Have you been here this whole time? Are you alright, you were as pale as a ghost when you left. Wait, are ghosts actually pale? Well, you were white as a sheet, no small feat considering -"
She cuts off as she gets closer and rounds the bed, a horrific sight greeting her: Hal is staring off into nothingness, covered in blood; drying lines of it coming from his parted lips, splattered on his coat and shirt, a pool of it staining his lap. Her eyes travel down and see what is at his feet - she falls to her knees. Duckie, her dog, her dear friend for almost nine years, her last link to her brother. Oddly her first thought is I didn't know a dog his size would have so much blood, before she lets out a muffled scream of anguish. She picks up her dog and rocks him as the tears pour out. She looks up at Hal, who appears catatonic, and pushes away her grief, gently placing her dog to the side as she moves forward to deal with the bloody vampire.
"Hal," she croaks. He doesn't respond. "Hal," she manages a little louder but still no response. She dares to touch him, grabbing that hand she'd held comfortingly just that morning. He still does not move, does not blink. Tentatively, she cups his cheek and still no response. There is blood all over him; he looks so unlike the pristine, meticulous Hal she's accustomed to. Is this how he is when he's bad? Then, Oh. She looks to see if his fangs are out. They aren't. That's a good sign.
She decides on a course of action. Wiping the blood off her hands on the rug, she throws on her pelisse to hide her now bloody dress and goes downstairs to ask for water to be heated. Then she goes in search of Federico.
She finds him with the men smoking in the library. She peeks in the doorway, and once he notices her she waves at him to come out.
"Did you find him?" he begins without preamble, on top of her "I need your help."
His eyes narrow. "What has happened? I smell blood on you."
She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak about it, and signals him to follow up to her bedroom. She lets him in and leads him to Hal, who is still as she left him.
Federico looks around silently, then gives her a pitying look. He pulls out his stake. "I can take care of him right now."
"NO! That's not the type of help I'm asking for. I need you to help me dispose of this mess. I need you to... to..." She takes a deep breath and starts again, "I need you to take my dog and bury him, if you wouldn't mind. Take him to the pond down the lane. Please bury him under one of the trees." She stubbornly wipes away at the tears. Take care of this first.
"Are you sure about this Señorita? He has killed. He will kill again and I do not think it will be an animal next time."
"Yes I am sure. Just do this, please? I can take care of him and most of this mess, but my dog- " she stops, wiping tears again.
Federico gives in. "I will do this for you, but you deserve better than this."
She ignores that comment. "I need to make sure no one will come in here. Have Gemma tell my mother that she came looking for me, that I'm suffering from womanly problems and retired early. Tell my father you came up to speak with Hal and he has retired for the night."
"What will you do with him?"
"I'm going to clean him up and wait for him to wake up from this state."
"He might wake up, kill you, and go on a rampage."
"Feel welcome to wait outside. If he comes out covered in blood again then I suppose you'll have your wish," she says flippantly, hiding her fears.
Federico nods and asks for something to wrap her dog in. She tells him to use the rug since it would be difficult to have it clean by morning. Before he wraps him up, she strokes her dog tenderly one last time, saying goodbye.
After he leaves she attempts to wake Hal once more, unsuccessfully. She takes her pitcher from the washstand and sneaks down for the hot water and some linens.
Once she's back inside she places everything on the floor, removing her overcoat and kneeling down in front of Hal. She takes his hands and soaks them one at a time in her washbowl, drying them with care. Then she begins undressing him. She slides off his open coat, folding it on the floor as a platform for the other bloody garments. She removes his soaked cravat, thankful that Hal's tastes do not lean toward the more complicated knots. Next she removes his waistcoat, the blood-slick buttons slowing down her shaky fingers.
Pouring water directly on a towel she begins to wipe the blood off the left side of his face, holding the steamy cloth against his skin to soften the dry spots then gently wiping from his cheek to chin. Moving to his right she pauses, touching the scar there, wondering for the hundredth time how he acquired it, what significance it had in his human life. Wringing the cloth clean she moves to his parted lips, so plump, so red, working to get the blood from the corners, squeezing fresh water from a second cloth to sluice the blood left in his mouth. Once she's satisfied she removes his collared shirt with some difficulty, having to lift his heavy muscular arms one at a time and maneuver the stiff fabric up over his head carefully. She wipes the drying demarcating line of blood from his neck, noting the lack of palpitations, watching until she sees one pulse... then a second... a third.
She realizes she's been transfixed for a while, shakes herself, drying fresh tears from her cheeks and chin, and re-commences her ministrations. She removes his shoes and stockings, then moves on to his trousers. She pauses to ascertain he is still in his trance-like state, then grabs the flap at his waist, unbuttoning slowly, her fingers still shaky. She can't help her blush. Standing, she pushes his chest, catching his shoulders as she eases his head down onto the mattress. She then lifts his feet so that he is laying in a supine position. Placing her hands at his hips, suppressing inappropriate thoughts, she works his trousers off, leaving him in short drawers. Thankfully only a tiny bit of blood seeped through his trousers. It would have to do. She leans over him with the clean cloth to wipe any more remnants of his bloody relapse, then leaves the room to dispose of the evidence.
Returning, she removes her pelisse and bloody dress, stashing them in the wardrobe. Only in her chemise and stays, she feels self conscious but gets in the bed beside him, pulling him to her, his back against her stomach, his head nestled against her chest. She hugs his shoulders and starts rocking him gently, humming a soft tune. hmmm... hmmm... hmmmmmm... hmmm... hmmm... rocking gently. She quietly weeps as she remembers another boy she loved, doing the same for him, night after night. hmmm... hmmm... hmmmmmm... hmmm... hmmm...
She must have dozed after a while, for she comes to with a start as she feels the bed shaking. He'd rolled forward from her and is curled up, his hands gripping the mattress, his body convulsing. His muscles are rippling with contracted tension, his body is covered in a sheen of sweat, his breath is shaking with effort. Afraid touching him might trigger something worse, she curls up beside him. There is no indication that it will end soon and she is at a loss, unsure of what to do. The uncertainty and helplessness tip her over the edge and she gives into her grief, letting his convulsions carry through her as she is wracked with sobs. She cries for the dog she will miss, for the boy she lost, for the tortured man she wants. And she cries for the girl she was, the girl with the foolish heart that insisted on loving a man who isn't a man, that insisted on dreaming an impossible dream.
Time has no meaning but eventually his tremors stop and she hears a hitched "I am so sorry.", the tears thick in his voice. Impossibly, she cries again. This time it is her spasms of anguish that shake the bed until her body is drained of tears, of adrenaline, of all emotion, and she succumbs to sleep.
When she wakes, the late afternoon light illuminating the rumpled bed, he is gone.