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.

Sorry this update took longer than I wished. Real Life has gotten a bit busy.

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Enjoy :)

Ch. 10 Domestic Bliss

"Sylvie, why, exactly, are you subjecting me to this ignoble exercise? We have 12 servants. Any one of them would do."

"Because Hal, I wish you to help me. This is an activity I love to do and I thought to share it with you. Besides, I anticipated you would be grateful to have another task to perform, something to keep your mind occupied."

"Grateful? With this new form of torture you have devised for me?"

Sylvie sticks her tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes. Really at times she behaves like a child.

She is dressed in a green riding habit, with matching gloves and bonnet, looking for all the world like the highborn lady she is. However, she is kneeling down on a cushion the gardeners procured for her. They had been as aghast as he at her suggestion the previous day. But she had been adamant and now she is snipping at the lavender bushes bordering one side of the garden with a distressingly large pair of gardening shears. Her hair is up in a bun, but tendrils are escaping her bonnet. He cringes at the dirt already on her dress and the smear across her forehead from when she had wiped the hair out of her eyes. She had refused his proffered handkerchief saying the dirt would not hurt her. The sight of it hurts him and he is itching to wipe it off himself. But seeing as she had thrust an enormous basket in his arms and is in the process of filling it relentlessly, he has no choice but to wait.

Hal sighs. "Standing about, holding this basket, awaiting like a servant. It's undignified. It's not proper for a gentleman."

"Might I remind you, you have not always been a gentleman. And would you rather be the one kneeling down here instead."

He gives her a scathing look. She chortles then continues snipping and filling, saying, "Perhaps you would rather be fowling for pheasant? Join a fox hunt? Snuff and cards at a gentleman's club?"

"No of course not."

"I hear duels are all the rage. Or perhaps you would like to go on a bloody rampage?"

"Sylvie!"

"No? Then we must endeavor to fill your hours with enterprising activities. There's only so much calligraphy and paper folding that can be done. Which, I might add, are not exactly traditional masculine activities."

Hal huffs indignantly, "I'll have you know before the modern printing press was invented it was the vital job of a very select, very skilled group of men to produce illuminated manuscripts and copy books using the very techniques that I use."

"Yes, men of God, Hal. Not exactly your calling is it?"

He raises his eyebrows at her comment but changes the subject. "How much of this, exactly, do you need?"

She absentmindedly looks around as she explains. "Well the amount you're currently holding should result in enough lavender oil and lavender essence for my needs. I also need enough stems to have some dried displays and for making sachets... I believe we shall need to harvest it all." She looks up at him with an encouraging smile.

Hal groans. "Why don't you just buy some perfumed soaps and eau de toilette as a normal lady would?"

"Because I have not cared for the products I've purchased. Lavender is my favourite scent and it's best freshly made. Besides, I have fond memories of doing all this as a child. My grandmother had a servant that showed me how when I lived with her."

Hal says sardonically. "The wonders of your upbringing never cease."

Sylvie raises an eyebrow at him. "I do not feel you are in a position to talk considering your history. I am happy that my upbringing included some non-traditional, non-lady-like activities. Life would be rather dull if it hadn't." She pauses in cutting and stacking to look at him speculatively. "I could make you some shaving soap if you like."

Hal is horrified. "No, thank you. Rest assured, you smell like an angel. However I do not think it's an appropriate smell for a gentleman. I'm quite content with what I have."

She stands up and dusts off her skirts. Then she steps up to him and sniffs at his neck appreciatively, nuzzles into him. He's torn between the thought of the dirt she's likely transferring on him, and the erotic feeling of her nose and lips brushing along his neck. He can feel a pulsation in his mouth and tenses. Oblivious Sylvie pulls back, smiling up at him and says huskily, "Yes, I wouldn't want you to smell any other way. You are positively mouth-watering!"

Hal looks down at her, with a grim chuckle. "As always your choice of words is... questionable. You do realize that describing a person as mouth-watering to a vampire is like describing the taste of whiskey to a drunkard. Neither is advisable."

Sylvie steps away, covering a gasp with her hand over her mouth. "Oh Hal I am so sorry, I didn't mean to -"

The stains on her fawn gloves are enough to quench any urges. He concentrates on that little detail and sighs in relief. "Tis fine. I'm fine. I believe it has gotten easier to control those urges. I am able to manage better." He gives her a small reassuring smile.

"Good. I knew you could do this."

"Now may I please be excused from this torture?"

It's Sylvie's turn to roll her eyes. "Really Hal, sometimes you're like a child."

Hal closes his eyes, willing patience.

"Oh go on, bugger off. I'm determined to enjoy myself and I don't want to 'torture you'. I have plenty of help. But, you will owe me a favour."

Hal dries his face, having finished his personal ablutions, and carefully arranges all the implements on the table. He turns away and begins dressing himself as he looks over at Sylvie still asleep in their bed. Their bed - he's finally come to accept this. Their bed, their room, their life together... he had resisted, but now her possessions have begun mingling with his, her time intruding on his. He nods his head, bemused. Sometimes she has the strangest notions for distractions, for activities to help him cope. Surprisingly... domesticated.

She is on her side, her head turned in his direction, her lips slightly parted. Her dark eyelashes rest on cheeks flushed with the warmth of sleep. She looks so innocent, so young, so trusting, so human. He's thankful the high neckline of the night dress covers the direct temptation of her neck. He's been tuning it out, but now allows himself to listen to her heart, strong and steady. He feels the desire for her blood rise, but tempers it down. He must control it. He can can control it.

The winter months had been hard on her, on both of them. He was surprised at the strength of his reaction to her - it had not been something he was prepared for. As their friendship had evolved, as he had courted her (as much as he'd denied it from himself), he'd found solace in her company and friendship. The nightmares had all but disappeared for a time, the temptation of her proximity had been overshadowed by his curiosity in her. He'd expected that to remain the case, he'd let himself indulge the belief that she would save him, that her presence would help him manage. But once he'd taken her to his bed the cravings had reared up and it had been all he could do to hang on by his fingernails, all he could do to not rip her throat out. He'd felt a heady relief after their first night together, but it didn't last. Really it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Blood and sex - they are inexorably entwined.

What he hadn't counted on, the wildcard, was the danger each time he fell asleep, the vulnerability each time he let his control slip. The monster inside him clawed it's way to the surface, found a foothold in his unconscious mind, threatened to ruin all his efforts.

It shamed him that she had to see that side of him, again and again, that she had been afraid of him. He detected it, despite the mask she donned as she endured his manifestations, his assaults. Endured them and still welcomed him. She should have been running away, but instead she'd sought him out at every turn, selflessly offering comforting words and companionship in the long night hours when the nightmares -the memories - haunt him.

She gave him her body and he walked a fine line battling through the bloodlust in order to be intimate with her. Each time he persevered he lost himself in her, forgetting the pain and struggle in those moments together. In this he held nothing back, calling on his considerable knowledge to show her, however inadequately, what her sacrifices meant to him. But inevitably in the light of day he was ashamed of how he used her, how much he wanted to use her. And so he kept a part of himself distant, sought refuge in his routines, maintained his wall. To keep her safe. To protect himself.

Many times he'd wanted to give up, had want to end the torment one way or another. But she wouldn't set him free. She had promised him, but time and time again she hesitated in using the werewolf blood, believing he could win. And so time and time again he fought the urges, the love he felt wrestle with the monster that was itching to see him fail. Time and time again he won. That gave him some hope, fueled his resolve. But he'd still been captive to the bloodlust.

And then came the night he dreamt of her death. No, not simply her death, but her death at his hands. He woke up with an odd combination of terror and euphoria: the taste of his own blood in his mouth a mere shadow of what he truly craved, the sight of her glassy, sightless eyes etched behind his eyelids, the memory of her warm blood flowing in an endless river tempting him, churning his stomach to the point of pain. He'd known fear as a human and as a vampire. But in that moment he'd been more terrified than he could ever recall. Not simply because he was afraid of losing her - that he was. But more so because, for a fleeting moment, a part of him welcomed it. A part of him had wanted her death, had wanted to drink her dry, to glut himself on her blood. A part of him had wanted to be set free from this incarnation of himself.

However, she had brought him back from the brink of despair and temptation with her warmth and love and hope. His wall of deception, of lies and secrets, had always been there. He'd erected it since before he could remember, a defense mechanism that was second nature to him. But that night he'd let the wall crack a little. He'd surrendered. He'd let her into his private world, sharing with her a glimpse of his past.

It had been an oddly liberating experience. The nightmares had abated, the bloodlust calmed.

He still has his routines, they are an undeniable necessity, to keep her safe, to keep everyone safe. But there is more peace inside him. The monster is quieter, easier to manage. He feels... content. It is an alien feeling and he is still not sure if he trusts it.

He approaches the bed, hesitating, then stroking her warm cheek lightly. She stirs and he thinks about kissing her, but doesn't want her to wake. He has a schedule, a destination to be. Instead, on the table beside the bed, he leaves her a note saying he'll be gone all day.

He goes outside - everything is ready. The groom and his coachman had been instructed the night before to have the carriage ready by the time the sun was rising. He gets in and settles for the long ride.

Hal does not like to be idle. He'd learned long ago, even as a human, that keeping busy kept him sane, kept unwanted thoughts at bay. He tries to concentrate, had even brought a book for company on his long trip, but eventually his mind wanders...

Pretty girls, the thought pops in his head. It is always the pretty girls. He has just left one to go meet another. One holds his heart, the other holds his promise.

It had been a pretty girl that jolted him out of his debauchery the first time. The horror of what he'd done to her had caught up to him and it had been too much to bear. It had been messy - everything in those early years had been - but this time he had strung it out for days, prolonging her pain and his pleasure. He could still picture her in his mind perfectly: tied up, filthy, bruised; her tattered skirts stained with blood from his feedings and his games; her juicy thighs riddled with his bites. He shudders at the memory - she'd been a mere girl, about the age Sylvie had been when he'd first seen her. The day after that nameless girl had finally died, after he'd finally tired of her, he'd inexplicably been engulfed with a wave of self loathing so powerful that he'd disgorged his breakfast and what little of her blood remained in his stomach and had run.

He'd run to the local authorities, had begged them to lock him up. They'd been only too eager to oblige - he'd ranted like a madman. It was a miracle the priests hadn't been called in for an exorcism - that would have been disastrous. When he'd emerged many months later, finally clean, finally sane, he'd vowed to become a better man. He'd fought hard against the temptations, and temptations had surely plagued him. The steady thudding of hearts surrounding him a constant reminder of the readily available blood in veins barely hidden by transparent skin. The steady offering of women a constant reminder of the pleasures to be had, of the heady combination that blood and sex could be.

He'd toiled away at the most menial, undesirable jobs as a way to seclude himself from most of the temptation, as penance. Having no education, having nothing more than his soldiering experience, he'd simply lived day to day, he'd survived minute to minute - pushing a cart collecting refuse, collecting piss pots for the tanneries, digging plague pits...

Eventually he'd begun trusting himself, and had become restless, dissatisfied. So he'd offered his services as a mercenary again. He'd been employed by a Baron, gone to live at the garrison, met the Baron's niece...

And so It had been a pretty girl once again, this time causing his relapse. His second reign of terror had been fiercer than the first. Not as messy, not always, for his turn as a good vampire had taught him self control. This time he'd begun seeking out vampire society, begun understanding the politics, begun using his soldiering experience to rise up in the ranks, begun educating himself, making a name for himself. Many battles later, several lifetimes and cycles later he'd been close to achieving Old One status.

Then came another pretty girl. And a wager.

That cursed wager.

He'd been in Wales on orders from Mr. Snow to 'butter up' a prominent politician and landowner. This was one of Snows 'tests' of his leadership potential. Newport was rapidly becoming an influential trade town and Snow wanted Hal to gauge the possibility of recruiting some of the key players. Eager to impress, Hal had gone on his mission, with an entourage of course - cronies of Snow and Wyndham, a couple of his own recruits. They had made a merry band, toying with the humans, attending their parties, regaling them of the riches to be had with "foreign investment", picking off the expendable ones like flies. They'd all become aware of the girl's infatuation with him, the youngest Morgan daughter. She was shy, sheltered, and very proper - he came to understand that she ran a finishing school for less well to do girls. Pretty enough, but a bit too fragile and vapid for his tastes.

But how could he resist a wager?

And so he'd found himself encouraging an acquaintance, putting on his charms. She'd led such a sheltered life, it had been all too easy. In a matter of days he'd had her evading her chaperone to meet him in secret, rewarding her with flowery words, a few strategic touches - a lingering hand upon the small of her back, a kiss on the back of her hand, fingers toying with the jewels at her throat. He'd strung her along, quite enjoying the feeling of power over her, the rush at seeing the worshiping look on her face. Her prim and proper ways had been no match for his advances. He'd fully intended to get something out of this little game, but then it had gone horribly wrong. And so he'd been forced to kill her - at least she'd serve one purpose. Blood was blood.

He'd made the idiot responsible for the cockup clean up the mess, came up with a hasty plan that would ensure no suspicions were cast upon his group, and thought he was through with the matter. Imagine his surprise when he found the girl-ghost following him around like a lost puppy. That wouldn't do. So he had made an agreement with her. She would remain in her home and he would visit her annually. Still stringing her along...

He'd kept that promise - it had been one more game to him, a challenge to occupy some of his immeasurable time. However, once he'd gotten off the blood the guilt had set in and now he visits her for a completely different reason.

It helps remind him of the cruel man he doesn't want to be.

In order to facilitate his little project he'd nurtured a relationship with the residents of the grand country house. The current Morgans in residence consider him a close family friend and he is allowed in their home while they are at the Season in London.

Standing alone in the entryway he sees her appear at the top of the main staircase. Unconsciously, he swipes at his hair and adjusts his cravat. He takes in her confectionary gown, her elaborately coiffed hair, her jewels. As she primly descends to meet him, he can't help but compare this woman to the one he left mere hours ago. She has brown hair as Sylvie does, but the similarities end there. While Mary is frozen wearing the constrictive and concealing fashions of her time - corset, multi layered skirts, petticoats and frills - Sylvie is free to follow the current trends which have a simpler aesthetic. He's developed a preference for Sylvie's Empire waisted gowns made of soft, loose material displaying the long lines of her body and accentuating her curves. Her stays are much more easily dealt with than cumbersome corsets. The simpler chignons currently in fashion are more pleasing than the massive coiffure, and more often than not Sylvie scoffs even that much, letting her silky hair fall down her back and about her shoulders, framing her delicate face and neck. At times when the wind blows, the indescribable motion of her hair stops his breath. She literally is breathtaking.

But the superficial contrasts are nothing compared to the contrasts in their personalities. While Mary always smiles demurely, hesitantly, Sylvie never holds back on her smile, whether full of mirth or of mischief. While Mary looks at him with moonstruck eyes and simpers insecurely, Sylvie assesses him, challenges him, she's open and confident.

Everything about Sylvie screams 'joie de vivre' while Mary is, well, a ghost in comparison.

The ghost in question reaches the bottom of the stairs and curtsies. "Lord Harry."

Hal wipes his thoughts clear and bows back. "Lady Mary."

"Lord Harry, I trust this past year has found you in good health?"

He knows this is her way of asking if he's still clean. Had she followed him around much longer after her death she would have been disabused of that notion. However, as it happened, he did not have to lie to her this year.

"Indeed. I am happy to report that I am as well as the last time we met. I have some news..." he trails off.

He idly considers telling her about Sylvie. Yet he hesitates, taking in her adoring eyes and expectant look. She has a slight, hopeful smile. It would crush her to learn that he loved another. It would change her feelings towards him. She might even pass over.

Moreover it would be revealing something personal from his life. It would be another crack in his wall.

"Lord Harry?" Lady Mary interrupts his thoughts.

He opens his mouth, "I have it on good authority that the weather has taken a turn for the better and we shall be enjoying this lovely temperate climate for many weeks to come. Might I trouble you for a tour of gardens..." He offers her his arm with a small smile. He sees her face fall slightly before the ever-present simpering smile returns. She threads her hand through his arm and starts speaking about some new topiaries in the garden. And so begins the interminable yet safe prattle...

Wall intact.

He arrives home later than he'd hoped. His butler informs him that The Lady Yorke retired about an hour before. Hal nods his approval - James had informed him that he didn't hold with all that improper use of first names nonsense.

During the ride back he'd been more successful in concentrating his thoughts, reading for a time, doing some mind exercises. However he still feels the itch of inactivity and seeks out exercise to help calm his body as well as his mind. He does a couple rounds of press ups in his study before heading to their room.

By the time he goes up, warm wash water has been brought in.

The one servant he has never felt comfortable having is a valet. Besides the complications of proximity with a human, he's simply never been comfortable with being dressed, with being touched, no matter how casually. By most people. He looks over at Sylvie asleep in the bed with a small smile of satisfaction that he'd made an exception for her.

He washes up, changes into his night clothes, then carefully slides into bed so as not to wake her.

"Did you tell her about me?" Hal starts at her voice and looks over at her. A pair of alert brown eyes stares back at him. She must have been waiting for him.

"I'm sorry?"

Sylvie lifts up on her elbows. "Your ghost friend. Did you tell her about me?"

With a flutter of panic, Hal evades. "I'm not sure what you are referring to." In his note he'd indicated he would be away on business, nothing more.

Sylvie smiles down indulgently. "Hal, I may not have your gift of memory, but I am neither unobservant nor an idiot. I clearly remember about this time last year a visit to the Morgan estate, learning about your ghostly acquaintance. Based on the time spent traveling and the distance, it is the only logical place you would have gone.

He hesitates, holding onto his wall. Then he says tentatively, "I was afraid, you would be -"

"Jealous?" Sylvie interjects. "What do you take me for, a simpering girl? I am not that shallow."

"Of course you are not. If you were, I would have lost interest in you almost immediately."

Sylvie punches him in the stomach.

Hal looks at her in shock. "What did you do that for?"

"You've just insulted me."

"I assure you, that was meant as a compliment."

"You are a true charmer," she says sarcastically, then continues seriously, "I told you I would only take what part of you you were willing to give me and I meant it."

Hal replies sardonically, "And here I thought I was your plaything, to be order about. I've been made the fool."

She punches him again.

"Owww!" Hal frowns at her. "You have a surprisingly strong arm for someone so small."

Sylvie gives him a crooked smile. "I may occasionally... nudge you, but I haven't pressed..." Hal raises his eyebrows with incredulity. "...much. I am fully aware that you have a complicated past and not all the people from it are locked away in your head, some still roam about. If you have a female friend that is your prerogative. I simply wondered if you'd informed her of my inclusion in your life."

He examines her closely. Her face is open, curious. He allows another crack in his wall.

"No, I did not inform Lady Mary of your presence."

"So now I am one of your dirty little secrets?"

She has a teasing smile on, but he detects something in her eyes, an understanding of his motivations. And despite her claim of lack of jealousy, he sees the hurt.

"She isn't you."

She looks confused.

He takes her head in his hands, and brings her down, so that he can kiss her. He's just aware that he actually missed seeing her all day.

He kisses her thoroughly, pleased with the bemused look on her face when he's done.

"Lady Mary. She isn't you."

Sylvie's smiles widely, seeming to accept his peace offering. "Ahh, there's my Romeo. Fine, keep me a secret and keep your friend Mary. As long as I get to keep you."

Hal is sitting uncomfortably on a settee at the draper shop as Sylvie and Gemma peruse fabrics. He can hear Sylvie at the other end of the shop, giggling. For the life of him he cannot imagine what they could possibly find amusing.

The werewolf is sitting next to him looking just as uncomfortable.

The two women come over to them, the shop owner and her assistant trailing behind with several bolts of fabric, all in shades of gold-bronze.

"Hal, I want your opinion on which of these would be more pleasing for an evening dress?"

Hal glances perfunctorily at the bolts the assistant offers forward. "Is this a trick question? They look exactly the same."

"No, Hal, they are completely different." Sylvie points to one on the left, "This is a Brocade. This one - " she points to one on the right "- is a Damask. See the subtle difference in the pattern and sheen? Besides," she continues, not really giving him a chance to answer, "the Damask is reversible while the Brocade is not. With your fastidious standards, I was certain you would be able to ascertain the difference."

Hal just looks at her disinterested.

Sylvie narrows her eyes, her voice raising, "You gave me a whole lecture last week on the differences between salvia officinalis and salvia sclarea..." She trails off looking at the bolts of material. "You know, I think this paisley would make a lovely robe for you." She looks back up at him with a glint in her eyes.

He swears, if he lives to be 500 years he will never understand women.

"Is this some test on my patience?" He turns to the werewolf, " I have earned several medals in past battles, but were there one for marriage it would be my most prized." They share a long-suffering look.

Sylvie raises an eyebrow in a mixture of incredulity and exasperation. "Hal, did you just make a jest? Or are you insulting me again?"

Federico rescues them from their predicament. "Mis amores, I wish to speak to Mr. Yorke on some important matters. If you will excuse us briefly? Enjoy yourselves to your hearts content." He gestures for Hal to join him outdoors.

Once they are outside the wolf turns to him. "Tell me the truth, how are things between you?"

Hal pulls up affronted, all camaraderie forgotten. "I don't see how that is any of your business."

The Spaniard replies, "I have grown fond of La Señorita. I only wish to be certain that she is safe. You promised to keep her thus when you married her. I have a small amount of empathy for you, but make no mistake, I have not forgotten our shared past. The only reason I allowed you to remain alive was because that poor niña in there begged me to. She assured me you were trying to be a good man, and your actions showed me you were. However, if I perceive any change in that status..." He leaves the threat unstated, hanging between them.

Hal bristles. "We manage. As you can observe she remains in fine health."

The wolf narrows his eyes at Hal but accepts his words. "She told me the last time I saw her that she was happy. But I sensed she was keeping something from me." At Hal's stony look he gives up. "I will not pry into your private affairs. I just want to be certain she has a good life."

Hal relents a little. "I try. To make her happy. I want her to be happy. And she assures me she is..." He sighs. "I've asked her several times to just kill me, but she refuses."

"I would gladly help with that except that La Señorita would likely kill me!" They both chuckle with little humour. "Hal, I have a proposition for you. Now is not the time, but I would like to invite you to my home to discuss some matters, say in a week's time?"

Hal is wary but agrees to a meeting.

Sylvie and Gemma come out of the shop laughing.

"Hal, there's a shop that sells Ices down a ways. That is our next stop. And then we can visit the trimmings shop, stop at the dressmaker's to choose our patterns for the dresses to be made with the fabrics we chose - they will deliver our purchases shortly - then of course the shoemaker, the hosiers, and oh there's the bookseller's..." The women have begun walking away, arm in arm, waiting for the men to trail behind them.

Hal raises his voice. "Well, at least now I am no longer in your debt."

Sylvie looks back at him laughing gaily. "Oh no Hal. This outing is your birthday present to me, remember? You still owe me."

Ices was the term for ice-cream in the 1700's/1800's.

Something about Mary: In canon we were not shown/told the circumstances of Hal and Mary's meeting, nor is it clear exactly what type of relationship they had. I have my interpretation on how Hal and Mary could have met, and I firmly believe that 1) he had been in one of his "bad" turns, and 2) based on the way she acted with Hal they did not have a sexual relationship. While we know she was not his last victim, it's unclear if he continued to be bad or if her death was an impetus for changing to one of his good spells. In my timeline he remained bad for another twenty-five years or so. Also, I know she's a strong character in the show, but she says "when we met I was that girl". At this point it has been less than 50 years since Mary died, so she's still the posh, bowing, babble-about-the-weather type of woman that had a finishing school to teach young women about etiquette and manners. If anyone is interested there's a fabulous meta about Hal and Mary at the fade and decay tumblr account. I've also reblogged that meta at my whimsyfox tumbr account.