Being Human: Good Times, Bad Times [Hal/Cutler + ensemble] 4/?
Title: “Good Times, Bad Times”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans. Chapter title courtesy of shirogiku.
A/N: Symmetry is the first thing you would want in your sandwich.
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Part 4
Our Double Twattage
Fade in: a tiny island bathed in the light of the early morning sun. The sky is unapologetically blue for this time of the year, dotted with pudgy fleecy clouds that have as though come out of a cartoon. Brightly coloured boats sway in the harbour, rocking against each other with a gentle tapping sound. Patches of sunlight run over the water, making the reflection of the vessels ripple.
The green of the island is sprinkled with white and grey installations of fishing villages and small crofts. It looks so peaceful, but for the fact that the blue Merc has been circling all four miles of it non-stop because apparently they’ve got no idea where they are going. The journey is becoming more and more like The Proclaimers song in reverse.
After a long and arduous drive (the last third of which Cutler has been at the wheel as per the division of labour), Nick wants nothing more than to crash somewhere and hibernate for a century. Asking around finally leads them to a small, out-of-the-way fieldstone cottage. It seems so pastoral that Cutler can’t help wondering what sort of people live here - and why on earth they would let this ragtag band of refugees in.
Annie knocks on the door.
For a while, the cottage appears to be silent. Then, the door opens, revealing a woman with shortly cropped hair and disconcerting light eyes. Both she and the group pause, forming quite a picture.
“Oh,” says the woman, collecting herself. That’s pretty much all she manages to say.
A teenage boy peeks out of the house over her shoulder and concludes, arguably more eloquently:
“Well, fuck me.”
The woman turns to look at him. He makes a show of zipping his mouth shut.
Fast forward: half an hour later, there is a cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of Cutler. It is a poor substitute for a bed or a proper breakfast, but right now he feels like he is in heaven.
The woman’s name is Yvonne. She talks like a schoolteacher (which she apparently is) and reminds Cutler of every authority figure that he simultaneously fancied and feared during adolescence. There is something off about her. She appears human, but she can see Annie and Alex. Maybe she is a psychic.
The teenager is a vampire, obviously dry, though he doesn’t exhibit any ticks like Hal does. Cutler can’t smell blood anywhere in the house. It figures that nowadays Hal would be friends only with weirdoes like that.
“Might I ask,” Yvonne says as she hands Tom a mug of tea. “How bad is it?”
“I won’t lie to you,” says Annie. “It’s pretty bad.”
“And you brought them here?” the vampire pipes in.
Yvonne sighs. “Adam-.”
“What? I’m just saying. We thought media attention was bad, and now there’re vampires taking over the world, and the first place you could think of coming to was here.”
“Adam Jacobs!” Yvonne said in a steely voice. “We do not turn people in need away. Especially if they are in peril.”
After a moment of tense silence, Adam lowers his head.
“I know. I’m sorry, Annie. I’m just… processing.”
Annie nods. “It’s okay. We all are.” She runs her fingers through her hair and says: “We hate to intrude,” (she should really speak for herself; Cutler is all for intruding if it lets him assume a horizontal position and turn off the horror sitcom that his life has become) “but we are tired and we’ve got nowhere to go.”
Yvonne covers Annie’s hand with hers and smiles.
“Don’t even mention it. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. After what you did for us, it’s only fair.”
Cutler makes a mental note to find out more about who else owes whom around here.
* * *
Once they are settled, he finds that sleep is determined to elude him. The cottage is small and lacking in beds. Tom drops in the guest bedroom and Hal passes out like a light right on the living room sofa.
Cutler is too wired to sleep. He pokes around the fridge and makes himself a sandwich while nobody is looking. He sits down by the sofa and checks his mobile phone and finds out, not without a great deal of surprise, that his Twitter account had been shut down. By the government, no less. Now it would probably systematically deny knowledge and sic little green men on him.
Hal stirs.
“How long have I been asleep?”
Cutler glances at the display of his phone.
“A couple of hours.” He moves, letting Hal get up. “How’s your, uh…” He points vaguely at Hal’s back.
Hal pulls up his shirt, exposing the damaged patch of skin. There is only a faint scar there now; soon it will fade as well.
“Where is everyone?”
“Tom is still sleeping. The others are outside with Adam. Yvonne’s at work.”
Hal rubs his eyes and glances at Nick like he’s only just noticed him.
“You look terrible. Get some rest.”
It doesn’t sound like an order, not like Hal used to speak to him, but it doesn’t sound like concern either. Cutler takes off his jacket wordlessly. He would kill for a new suit now. And a new country while a benevolent genie is dishing out wishes.
Hal stops on his way to the door. Nick is pretty sure there is a trope for this sort of melodramatics.
“Why did you stay, Cutler?”
If the rest of the group usually generates questionable ideas, Hal has taken it a bit further by adding a question mark at the end.
“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” Cutler replies with a huffish snort.
“Is that the only reason?”
If Hal continues in the same fashion, he would have to make a supply run because very soon he’ll be running out of salt to pour on those bleeding wounds.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Cutler snaps, and flops down on the sofa, his back on Hal.
The door opens and shuts with a soft sound. Cutler shifts, fitting more comfortably in the indentation made in the cushions by Hal’s weight. His fingers are tingling, dizziness churns in his system. His eyes are so dry they feel sore. These are the most telling signs of sleep deprivation, and yet, he finds it difficult to relax enough to sink into sleep.
He nuzzles the armrest with his cheek, unintentionally inhaling Hal’s scent that clings to the upholstery. Remembers blood-soaked sheets, broken furniture, torn-up wallpaper, vicious bitemarks on dead bodies. The things Hal made him watch, the things Hal did to him. And after that, Hal has got the gall to seek redemption or whatever it is that he is doing by going clean and playing nice.
Cutler squeezes his eyes shut. To hell with all that.
The smell persists, stirring up resentment, nostalgia and something else, unnameable and primal, even as Cutler finally succumbs to sleep.
* * *
It’s dark outside. For a brief moment Cutler honestly can’t remember where he is. His head is buzzing with hunger as he completes the torturous comeback to reality. By now, his film is most definitely a saddening bore.
He finds the others assembled in the kitchen. There are dinner leftovers, which Cutler eyes hungrily, staunchly ignoring the other hunger clawing at his throat. Annie is helping Yvonne with the dishes, while Hal, much to Cutler’s disturbed surprise, is holding Eve. (Should Hal even be trusted with a baby? Should babies even be held so frequently? Don’t they have, like, no immune system whatsoever?)
Cutler plops down on the chair next to Hal and leans towards the little monster as he whispers secretively:
“You know this is all your fault, don’t you?”
Hal grimaces.
“Are you trying to guilt-trip a baby?”
He makes it sound so crude. Cutler flashes him an innocent smile and starts humming The Omen theme. Incidentally, the little monster appears to enjoy it because she snores peacefully in Hal’s arms as opposed to her default wailing mode.
“So do you really believe all that twaddle that’s written about her?” Adam asks.
“They seem to,” says Annie.
“Well, it’s human skin,” Cutler mutters. “Gotta be serious.”
Alex makes a gagging sound. Annie addresses Cutler the look that clearly spells: step away from my baby. He complies, moving out of harm’s way.
“Yeah, but the saviour?” Adam rolls his eyes. “And she’s gonna destroy everyone by dying. Sorry but it sounds really messed up.”
Cutler snorts. What else is new?
“It may be poppycock,” Yvonne comments, “but the poor girl isn’t going anywhere. That much is settled.”
Cutler chuckles to himself at the controversy. It’s almost like Mr Snow has told them in person to keep this precious thing safe for him and that’s precisely what they are going to do, efficient as they are.
“Well, the blob is George and Nina’s,” Adam mutters. “No fucking way in hell they’re getting near her.” He glances back at Yvonne with a sly smile. “What, no naughty step? No washing my mouth with soap?”
Talk about functional relationships.
Yvonne shakes her head. “Not this time.”
Cutler observes the group from the corner of his eyes. Annie makes tea. Maybe she is so exhausted that she has miscounted, or she has mistaken him for Alex on top of forgetting that ghosts can’t drink, but he gets a cup too.
Tom compliments the cottage. Adam, having performed his duties as the man in the family, regresses to his teenage self and starts making lewd comments regarding Alex, to which she responds with unimpressed death glares (that is totally a thing in her case). Adam’s attempts to admire her cleavage while simultaneously assuring her that he means no disrespect and that he is in any case take by his own gorgeous foxy lady (something that all womenfolk must undoubtedly view as their loss) result in Alex levitating a saucer with the express intention of flinging it at the boy’s head. Cutler hits the leg of her chair with his foot in warning and hisses:
“Pipe down, Hazel the McWitch!”
Before she can answer, Adam lights up.
“Finally! Someone who can appreciate my Rentaghost references.” He high-fives. Cutler returns it, slightly bewildered.
(Who on earth recruited a teenager? And, more importantly, why?)
The only way to survive this bizarre reality is to ignore it. Cutler walks over to the sink and rinses his cup, intent on going outside and ignoring it alone. He puts it on the plate rack and turns around, practically bumping into Yvonne. The kitchen is very small; there is no room for manoeuvring.
Slow-motion: both of them stumble and reach out to hold onto something for purchase. That something is the sink; they clutch at it, and Cutler’s fingers unintentionally fall over hers. Four voices shout discordantly in utter panic:
“No! No! NO!”
Freeze-frame.
Yvonne withdraws her hand and covers her mouth, breathing out: “Oh my…”
“Shit,” concludes Adam. “There we go again.”
Cutler blinks. “What?” Why is everybody suddenly acting like a bomb has dropped in the vicinity of the cottage?
“‘Scuse us,” says Tom, and the next thing Cutler knows, he and Hal are dragging him up the stairs. Cutler is too stunned to put up much of a resistance.
“Wait! What-?” They shove him into the guest bedroom and attempt to close the door in his face. He grips it and stops it from moving. “What is going on? For heaven’s sake, it was an accident! If you’re afraid that I might- She’s not my type! I’m not even that hungry! Hal!”
“It’s for your own good.”
Cutler finally manages to gain control of the door and pushes it wide ajar.
“What is!?”
Hal and Tom exchange looks that he decidedly does not like.
“Yvonne is a… succubus,” Hal says.
Cutler can almost see the turning point, after which his life veers away from an action flick into the realm of gothic fantasy.
“A what?”
“She touches ya, you fall in love with her and then you die,” Tom explains, ever so helpfully. “Well, you’re already dead, so you’ll just go bonkers for a bit.” He averts his eyes. “We had a situation last time.”
Cutler’s eyes widen. He processes the information and gives Hal a pointed look.
“Thanks for the warning. But I don’t feel any different. I’m most certainly not in love with anyone.”
“It takes time,” Hal says patiently. “Fortunately, when you’re removed from her presence, it passes quite quickly. Then you’ll just have to make sure you won’t touch her again.”
That’s all very moving and shows how much they care (ha-ha), but Cutler disagrees that locking him in like an ill-behaved child is the best alternative. He is pretty sure he is not about to start swooning over Yvonne of all people any time soon.
The door slams shut despite his protests. Cutler hits it with his fist (that actually hurts, ow).
“Hal! Let me out! Hal, it’s not fair!” He can hear their footsteps as they go back downstairs. He sighs and drops on the bed. At least it’s more comfortable than the sofa. “Pricks.”
Having slept through most of the day, he doesn’t feel tired, so he lies there, arms folded over his chest, and imagines a thousand painful ways to kill both Hal and Tom. It’s bad enough to be treated like a demon in their little paradise; now they have to jump all over him for doing something that was a complete accident - and it’s their fault for not having warned him anyway.
Cutler huffs. A succubus. Things like that probably don’t even exist. Maybe it’s a cunning ruse to kick him out of their little gathering. It’s not like he wants to be here. It’s not like-
It occurs to him that someone is standing at the foot of the bed. He sits up, looking at the woman in a white nightgown. It’s unmistakably Yvonne, albeit with blond hair streaming down her shoulders, and how on earth did she get here anyway? He opens his mouth, but she positions herself on the bed and brings her finger up to his lips, indicating that he should keep silent. She cups his face with her hands and kisses him gently. Perplexed and vaguely terrified, he kisses back nonetheless, sifts his fingers through her hair and inhales the perfume that seems faintly familiar.
She pushes him down on the bed, stretches suggestively on top of him and unbuttons his shirt. There is not a single coherent thought left in his head. He trails his fingers down her hips, sneaks his hands beneath the gown. She covers his chest in soft, teasing kisses.
He can feel blood coursing under her skin. He cups the back of her head and pulls her closer and kisses her hard. Her mouth tastes of metal. She flicks her tongue over his released fangs, almost like she’s asking for it.
Cutler’s heart skips a beat.
He plunges his teeth into her neck, a nearly animalistic desire taking full control of him. Her blood feels hot and honey-sweet, unnaturally so. He drinks until he can take no more. When he looks up, he can see Hal standing by the bed.
Fear paralyzes Cutler.
He killed Yvonne. In her own home. Her body is a broken mess of tangled hair and bloodstained garments, suddenly so heavy over him, pinning him to the mattress. She feels eerily cold for someone who has only been dead for a minute. Hal will tear him apart for this.
Cutler tries to think of some kind of justification for his actions. She started it. She came to him. An old, familiar fear ingrained in his marrow stirs within him.
Hal comes closer.
He brushes his finger over Cutler’s lips, and it comes away smeared with blood. Hal licks it off, sucking the finger into his mouth. His eyes are black.
* * *
Cutler awakes with a start, drenched in sweat and choking on a scream.
Really, Hal, he thinks when his head hits the pillow again. Thanks for the heads-up.
* * *
In the morning Cutler finds the door unlocked. It’s very nice of them to trust him to go down the stairs all on his own.
Hal and Tom are making sandwiches in the kitchen. More precisely, Tom is making sandwiches and Hal is criticising them because the slices are too thick and the whole arrangement lacks… er… symmetry. Because obviously symmetry is the first thing you would want in your sandwich.
Cutler looks around cautiously, unwilling to run into Yvonne, and approaches the table.
“How are you feeling?” Hal asks by way of greeting. “Any, uh… dreams?”
“About… you know,” Tom adds, and tilts his head towards the front door.
Cutler frowns, then hears Yvonne’s voice and barely resists the urge to hide under the table.
“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. But I feel fine now. No desire to massacre all five and a half humans on this godforsaken scrap of land in order to prove my feelings if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Ya never know,” Tom observes. “‘S different for everybody. You might wanna read her some poetry.”
Cutler narrows his eyes.
“Is that what you did?” he asks Hal whose face promptly turns stony.
“Nah, he barricaded himself in his room,” Tom says mirthfully. “Very brave.”
“I was concerned for the safety of the entire town. You kept trying to show her your stake.”
“Stakes! Many!”
“I’ll have you know that if I’d put my mind to it-.”
“What, like you did with Michaela?” There is slight condescension in Tom’s voice, and all Cutler wants to know is who Michaela is and how, when, why and what exactly happened.
“That was an unfortunate side effect of you being there,” Hal mutters resentfully.
“Why don’t you just admit you can’t talk to women? At least when you ain’t all blooded up.”
“Because I can!”
“Is that why our first date ended with you running out on me and our second date got me killed?” comes Alex’s voice. She saunters into the kitchen, snags a slice of cheese and brings it up to her mouth before she remembers that she can’t eat. Hal and Tom give her odd looks. “What? I thought we were trading stories.”
Hal searches for an escape route and finds it in the form of Adam trundling down the stairs. The boy looks sleepy but pleased with himself.
“Adam-.”
“Hey, don’t ask me, man!” He raises his hands defensively. “I’ve had tons of action and I’ve got plenty of juicy stories to share but not while my sexy lady’s here. That’s just impolite.”
“Duly noted,” Hal says curtly. “I was wondering if there are any routines I could perform here. I’ve had a bit of a setback as you probably know.”
Adam scrunches up his face to demonstrate a thought process of some kind. Cutler can almost see a light bulb flickering to life over his head.
“Got a bicycle. A real one. In the shed. It’s probably older than me but it works fine. You could take it for a spin. We’ve actually got two. The second one’s got a slight problem with the brakes.”
Hal nods and excuses himself. After a moment of hesitation Cutler slinks off after him. He hasn’t ridden a bicycle since his school days. Should be fun.
* * *
The bicycle rattles plaintively as Cutler rolls it out of the shed. He doesn’t know which one it is, but taking his luck into consideration, it’s probably the one with the faulty brakes.
Hal glances at him from the side of the road where he is adjusting the height of the saddle. He doesn’t look too pleased.
“You need supervision,” Cutler points out.
“Hardly by someone who’s only been off the blood for three days, and involuntarily at that.”
“I need supervision,” Cutler says irritably. “What if I pounce on Yvonne?”
Hal appears to be quite willing to take that risk.
“I’ll race you,” Cutler suggests. “If I win, you tell me the whole story. Starting with the bloke in the photo.”
“And if I win?”
Cutler gives him a wry smile.
“You never had trouble collecting your debts before. We’ll think of something.”
He mounts his bicycle, dearly hoping it won’t fall apart on the move. Hal mutters something unintelligible but joins him on the road. It’s a fine day, if a little cold, and the last thing Cutler wants is to spend it bickering with the other members of Team Stop the Old Ones.
He counts down from three, and they take off. The circular road twists ahead, going ever on and on just like the Professor promised. Soon it becomes clear just how many hours Hal has spent on that training bike of his. Cutler has never been much for legwork, but he does his best, unwilling to lose. The wheels creak and the chain jangles and the green-grey scenery blurs into a continuous smudge of colour around him. He remembers to breathe once in a while, and then it’s just like when he was little: his chest burning with every fast inhalation, the wind in his hair, fingers numb from gripping the handlebars too tightly.
He glances at Hal, perhaps hoping to see something beneath the tragic mask Hal has been wearing for the last few days. Maybe there is something after all. Hal’s lips quirk up slightly, almost as if he is gearing up for a smile, but it’s quickly replaced by the look of worry-
-and Cutler’s bike jumps over the rut in the road and cuts in front of Hal’s. The wheels rattle and screech. Cutler attempts to brake - and yep, his is definitely the wrong bike. It is driven across the grass dangerously close to the harbour where it finally comes to an abrupt stop upon running into a boulder. Cutler tumbles out of the saddle and rolls down the rugged slope and narrowly avoids falling into the water. He ends up lying on the ground, his chest heaving with each painful breath. This is not how he envisioned his death.
Hal comes closer and asks the number one stupid film question:
“Are you all right?”
Does he look all right?
“I think I could play percussion with the fragments of my ribs,” Cutler croaks.
Hal lowers himself on the edge of the harbour side.
“I take it I’ve won.”
The nerve!
“It was an accident,” Cutler says adamantly. “It doesn’t count.”
He struggles to sit and gives up on the idea quickly. The ache in his body fires up a fresh surge of hunger. He moves, and whimpers because everything fucking hurts.
“How can you stand it?” he whispers. “Mouth like sandpaper. This feeling that something is clawing at your gut.” Nausea makes his head spin. “Why would anyone inflict this on themselves voluntarily?”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Hal says dryly.
That’s true, but Cutler doesn’t want to get kicked off the goody-goody team. Time and again he asks himself if he’s gone completely bonkers. Surely it is much safer at Mr Snow’s side. What’s a little humiliation to put up with in the grand scheme of things? He’s used to all the humiliation he can take.
“Are you really doing this out of some weird respect for humanity or is there another reason?”
Hal keeps silent. Maybe he is like one of those old computers; it takes him ages to load one programme. Or maybe he’s choosing another lie from a catalogue.
“That touching pitch about this being their world and not ours.” Cutler scoffs. “All very nice, but it’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah! We’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else. I mean, look at Tom. Look at what he turns into every month. Yet you view him as a victim. You don’t deny him his place in this beloved world of yours even though he’s a part-time monster.”
“Tom has got no choice,” Hal says in the voice of someone who is forced to go over the same drivel over and over again. If anything, it’s Cutler who should sound like that because he just can’t wrap his mind around Hal’s new philosophy. “He can’t stop changing. We can. The only thing he can do is take precautions, which he does.”
“Some of us didn’t have a choice either!” Cutler snaps. “Like maybe their makers forgot to ask them.”
Hal gets up. This is what the new Hal is all about: running away. Cutler forces himself up on his feet and hobbles after him.
“Hal. Hal!”
“Come on,” Hal says after a pause, picking up his bicycle. “Let’s see who wins the race after all.”
Cutler wrinkles his forehead in surprise. This… Yeah, okay, he can work with this.
* * *
The sandwiches in the kitchen have been replaced with bomb parts. Tom should open his own workshop.
The owners of the cottage are nowhere to be found, much to Cutler’s relief, while the gang is gathered around Tom, discussing the possible plan of action. According to Annie, the world is only days away from the impending disaster. That’s bloody comforting.
Cutler’s ribs hurt like a bitch. Hal has naturally claimed the victory in the race after all. Cutler has no idea what it means for him now. With Lord Hal, he never knew what to expect either, only that it would be brutal and imaginative.
He barely listens to the conversation. What’s the point? Mr Snow has most likely already left Barry Island; they’ve got no idea where to look for him, and even if they did, one does not simply walk into Mordor.
“Maybe we could get Yvonne to touch him and see what happens,” Cutler mutters. It is not until everyone is staring at him that he realizes he has said it out loud.
Annie cracks up first. She covers her mouth with her hand and her shoulders begin to shake. Alex follows suit, joined promptly by Tom. Hal’s lips tremble. He is trying very hard, but he too is eventually caught up in the flow.
They are laughing at his joke.
Cutler blinks, smiles uncertainly. Somebody print-screen this moment.
“Is it too much to hope that he’ll grow a heart like the Grinch and we’ll all live happily ever after?” Alex supplies.
Hal buries his face in his hands. He’s known the man in question the longest; imagining those deranged scenarios must hurt.
“On a more serious note,” Cutler says, inspired by his latest success, “what if Tom bleeds into his mouth like George did with Griffin? That would kill him, wouldn’t it?”
It sure did kill Griffin, but who knows if Count Zombacula dies like your average vampire.
“George was half-changed by then, weren’t he?” Tom counters. “I can’t manage that. And we’d have to get real close to him-.”
A light bulb explodes over Cutler’s head.
“You were there when George died,” says Annie in a steely voice.
The room goes eerily quiet. Cutler gulps down nervously.
“I-.” He trails off.
“Well?”
“You knew I was working with Griffin!” he fires off defensively. Why is she making such a big deal out of this now?
Annie rent-a-ghosts up to him, her eyes cold and frightening.
“Were you there when they killed Nina too?”
“No!”
“Were you there when he ordered to have her killed?”
Cutler desperately tries to remember. They discussed Nina’s death when the whole werewolf baby hell was let loose, but when the hit had been ordered, Cutler had most likely been stuck making Griffin’s tea.
“No,” he says quietly, not entirely certain. In all honesty, he just wouldn’t remember something so loosely related to his plans.
His view narrows down to Annie’s dark eyes. An acute awareness hits him: if she decides to stake him now, nobody will lift a finger to stop her.
She turns away and returns to the table. Cutler breathes out shakily. There are knives in the kitchen and forks - and who knows, maybe Annie is an Alan Rickman fan and can use spoons creatively too. Cutler makes a hasty escape into the guest bedroom.
His hands are trembling. He is a ninety-year-old vampire and he is afraid of a dead girl. Brilliant.
The radio buzzes, filling the room with white noise. Cutler turns it off absent-mindedly.
Why did she blow a fuse like that? A hell of a lot of people must have been there when her precious George kicked it. Even Regus apparently. But no, of course they have to jump all over Cutler because he is the resident punching bag, it seems. Your friend died? Blame Cutler. Your toaster broke down? Oh, Cutler must have tampered with it!
The noise grows louder. Cutler fiddles with the radio irritably. The hell is wrong with it? Didn’t he just-?
“Nick…”
His hand drops. The voice comes faintly through the buzzing, and keeps repeating his name.
“Nick…”
Cutler edges away from the radio. It’s a glitch; it must be. Somebody is calling him, over and over again, a woman, and her voice seems vaguely familiar. He can’t really tell through the noise waves.
The voice grows louder, more insistent. Cutler’s chest tightens.
“Nick!”
He whispers past the lump in his throat:
“Rachel?”
Part 5 - Our Emotional Baggage
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans. Chapter title courtesy of shirogiku.
A/N: Symmetry is the first thing you would want in your sandwich.
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Part 4
Our Double Twattage
Fade in: a tiny island bathed in the light of the early morning sun. The sky is unapologetically blue for this time of the year, dotted with pudgy fleecy clouds that have as though come out of a cartoon. Brightly coloured boats sway in the harbour, rocking against each other with a gentle tapping sound. Patches of sunlight run over the water, making the reflection of the vessels ripple.
The green of the island is sprinkled with white and grey installations of fishing villages and small crofts. It looks so peaceful, but for the fact that the blue Merc has been circling all four miles of it non-stop because apparently they’ve got no idea where they are going. The journey is becoming more and more like The Proclaimers song in reverse.
After a long and arduous drive (the last third of which Cutler has been at the wheel as per the division of labour), Nick wants nothing more than to crash somewhere and hibernate for a century. Asking around finally leads them to a small, out-of-the-way fieldstone cottage. It seems so pastoral that Cutler can’t help wondering what sort of people live here - and why on earth they would let this ragtag band of refugees in.
Annie knocks on the door.
For a while, the cottage appears to be silent. Then, the door opens, revealing a woman with shortly cropped hair and disconcerting light eyes. Both she and the group pause, forming quite a picture.
“Oh,” says the woman, collecting herself. That’s pretty much all she manages to say.
A teenage boy peeks out of the house over her shoulder and concludes, arguably more eloquently:
“Well, fuck me.”
The woman turns to look at him. He makes a show of zipping his mouth shut.
Fast forward: half an hour later, there is a cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of Cutler. It is a poor substitute for a bed or a proper breakfast, but right now he feels like he is in heaven.
The woman’s name is Yvonne. She talks like a schoolteacher (which she apparently is) and reminds Cutler of every authority figure that he simultaneously fancied and feared during adolescence. There is something off about her. She appears human, but she can see Annie and Alex. Maybe she is a psychic.
The teenager is a vampire, obviously dry, though he doesn’t exhibit any ticks like Hal does. Cutler can’t smell blood anywhere in the house. It figures that nowadays Hal would be friends only with weirdoes like that.
“Might I ask,” Yvonne says as she hands Tom a mug of tea. “How bad is it?”
“I won’t lie to you,” says Annie. “It’s pretty bad.”
“And you brought them here?” the vampire pipes in.
Yvonne sighs. “Adam-.”
“What? I’m just saying. We thought media attention was bad, and now there’re vampires taking over the world, and the first place you could think of coming to was here.”
“Adam Jacobs!” Yvonne said in a steely voice. “We do not turn people in need away. Especially if they are in peril.”
After a moment of tense silence, Adam lowers his head.
“I know. I’m sorry, Annie. I’m just… processing.”
Annie nods. “It’s okay. We all are.” She runs her fingers through her hair and says: “We hate to intrude,” (she should really speak for herself; Cutler is all for intruding if it lets him assume a horizontal position and turn off the horror sitcom that his life has become) “but we are tired and we’ve got nowhere to go.”
Yvonne covers Annie’s hand with hers and smiles.
“Don’t even mention it. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. After what you did for us, it’s only fair.”
Cutler makes a mental note to find out more about who else owes whom around here.
* * *
Once they are settled, he finds that sleep is determined to elude him. The cottage is small and lacking in beds. Tom drops in the guest bedroom and Hal passes out like a light right on the living room sofa.
Cutler is too wired to sleep. He pokes around the fridge and makes himself a sandwich while nobody is looking. He sits down by the sofa and checks his mobile phone and finds out, not without a great deal of surprise, that his Twitter account had been shut down. By the government, no less. Now it would probably systematically deny knowledge and sic little green men on him.
Hal stirs.
“How long have I been asleep?”
Cutler glances at the display of his phone.
“A couple of hours.” He moves, letting Hal get up. “How’s your, uh…” He points vaguely at Hal’s back.
Hal pulls up his shirt, exposing the damaged patch of skin. There is only a faint scar there now; soon it will fade as well.
“Where is everyone?”
“Tom is still sleeping. The others are outside with Adam. Yvonne’s at work.”
Hal rubs his eyes and glances at Nick like he’s only just noticed him.
“You look terrible. Get some rest.”
It doesn’t sound like an order, not like Hal used to speak to him, but it doesn’t sound like concern either. Cutler takes off his jacket wordlessly. He would kill for a new suit now. And a new country while a benevolent genie is dishing out wishes.
Hal stops on his way to the door. Nick is pretty sure there is a trope for this sort of melodramatics.
“Why did you stay, Cutler?”
If the rest of the group usually generates questionable ideas, Hal has taken it a bit further by adding a question mark at the end.
“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” Cutler replies with a huffish snort.
“Is that the only reason?”
If Hal continues in the same fashion, he would have to make a supply run because very soon he’ll be running out of salt to pour on those bleeding wounds.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Cutler snaps, and flops down on the sofa, his back on Hal.
The door opens and shuts with a soft sound. Cutler shifts, fitting more comfortably in the indentation made in the cushions by Hal’s weight. His fingers are tingling, dizziness churns in his system. His eyes are so dry they feel sore. These are the most telling signs of sleep deprivation, and yet, he finds it difficult to relax enough to sink into sleep.
He nuzzles the armrest with his cheek, unintentionally inhaling Hal’s scent that clings to the upholstery. Remembers blood-soaked sheets, broken furniture, torn-up wallpaper, vicious bitemarks on dead bodies. The things Hal made him watch, the things Hal did to him. And after that, Hal has got the gall to seek redemption or whatever it is that he is doing by going clean and playing nice.
Cutler squeezes his eyes shut. To hell with all that.
The smell persists, stirring up resentment, nostalgia and something else, unnameable and primal, even as Cutler finally succumbs to sleep.
* * *
It’s dark outside. For a brief moment Cutler honestly can’t remember where he is. His head is buzzing with hunger as he completes the torturous comeback to reality. By now, his film is most definitely a saddening bore.
He finds the others assembled in the kitchen. There are dinner leftovers, which Cutler eyes hungrily, staunchly ignoring the other hunger clawing at his throat. Annie is helping Yvonne with the dishes, while Hal, much to Cutler’s disturbed surprise, is holding Eve. (Should Hal even be trusted with a baby? Should babies even be held so frequently? Don’t they have, like, no immune system whatsoever?)
Cutler plops down on the chair next to Hal and leans towards the little monster as he whispers secretively:
“You know this is all your fault, don’t you?”
Hal grimaces.
“Are you trying to guilt-trip a baby?”
He makes it sound so crude. Cutler flashes him an innocent smile and starts humming The Omen theme. Incidentally, the little monster appears to enjoy it because she snores peacefully in Hal’s arms as opposed to her default wailing mode.
“So do you really believe all that twaddle that’s written about her?” Adam asks.
“They seem to,” says Annie.
“Well, it’s human skin,” Cutler mutters. “Gotta be serious.”
Alex makes a gagging sound. Annie addresses Cutler the look that clearly spells: step away from my baby. He complies, moving out of harm’s way.
“Yeah, but the saviour?” Adam rolls his eyes. “And she’s gonna destroy everyone by dying. Sorry but it sounds really messed up.”
Cutler snorts. What else is new?
“It may be poppycock,” Yvonne comments, “but the poor girl isn’t going anywhere. That much is settled.”
Cutler chuckles to himself at the controversy. It’s almost like Mr Snow has told them in person to keep this precious thing safe for him and that’s precisely what they are going to do, efficient as they are.
“Well, the blob is George and Nina’s,” Adam mutters. “No fucking way in hell they’re getting near her.” He glances back at Yvonne with a sly smile. “What, no naughty step? No washing my mouth with soap?”
Talk about functional relationships.
Yvonne shakes her head. “Not this time.”
Cutler observes the group from the corner of his eyes. Annie makes tea. Maybe she is so exhausted that she has miscounted, or she has mistaken him for Alex on top of forgetting that ghosts can’t drink, but he gets a cup too.
Tom compliments the cottage. Adam, having performed his duties as the man in the family, regresses to his teenage self and starts making lewd comments regarding Alex, to which she responds with unimpressed death glares (that is totally a thing in her case). Adam’s attempts to admire her cleavage while simultaneously assuring her that he means no disrespect and that he is in any case take by his own gorgeous foxy lady (something that all womenfolk must undoubtedly view as their loss) result in Alex levitating a saucer with the express intention of flinging it at the boy’s head. Cutler hits the leg of her chair with his foot in warning and hisses:
“Pipe down, Hazel the McWitch!”
Before she can answer, Adam lights up.
“Finally! Someone who can appreciate my Rentaghost references.” He high-fives. Cutler returns it, slightly bewildered.
(Who on earth recruited a teenager? And, more importantly, why?)
The only way to survive this bizarre reality is to ignore it. Cutler walks over to the sink and rinses his cup, intent on going outside and ignoring it alone. He puts it on the plate rack and turns around, practically bumping into Yvonne. The kitchen is very small; there is no room for manoeuvring.
Slow-motion: both of them stumble and reach out to hold onto something for purchase. That something is the sink; they clutch at it, and Cutler’s fingers unintentionally fall over hers. Four voices shout discordantly in utter panic:
“No! No! NO!”
Freeze-frame.
Yvonne withdraws her hand and covers her mouth, breathing out: “Oh my…”
“Shit,” concludes Adam. “There we go again.”
Cutler blinks. “What?” Why is everybody suddenly acting like a bomb has dropped in the vicinity of the cottage?
“‘Scuse us,” says Tom, and the next thing Cutler knows, he and Hal are dragging him up the stairs. Cutler is too stunned to put up much of a resistance.
“Wait! What-?” They shove him into the guest bedroom and attempt to close the door in his face. He grips it and stops it from moving. “What is going on? For heaven’s sake, it was an accident! If you’re afraid that I might- She’s not my type! I’m not even that hungry! Hal!”
“It’s for your own good.”
Cutler finally manages to gain control of the door and pushes it wide ajar.
“What is!?”
Hal and Tom exchange looks that he decidedly does not like.
“Yvonne is a… succubus,” Hal says.
Cutler can almost see the turning point, after which his life veers away from an action flick into the realm of gothic fantasy.
“A what?”
“She touches ya, you fall in love with her and then you die,” Tom explains, ever so helpfully. “Well, you’re already dead, so you’ll just go bonkers for a bit.” He averts his eyes. “We had a situation last time.”
Cutler’s eyes widen. He processes the information and gives Hal a pointed look.
“Thanks for the warning. But I don’t feel any different. I’m most certainly not in love with anyone.”
“It takes time,” Hal says patiently. “Fortunately, when you’re removed from her presence, it passes quite quickly. Then you’ll just have to make sure you won’t touch her again.”
That’s all very moving and shows how much they care (ha-ha), but Cutler disagrees that locking him in like an ill-behaved child is the best alternative. He is pretty sure he is not about to start swooning over Yvonne of all people any time soon.
The door slams shut despite his protests. Cutler hits it with his fist (that actually hurts, ow).
“Hal! Let me out! Hal, it’s not fair!” He can hear their footsteps as they go back downstairs. He sighs and drops on the bed. At least it’s more comfortable than the sofa. “Pricks.”
Having slept through most of the day, he doesn’t feel tired, so he lies there, arms folded over his chest, and imagines a thousand painful ways to kill both Hal and Tom. It’s bad enough to be treated like a demon in their little paradise; now they have to jump all over him for doing something that was a complete accident - and it’s their fault for not having warned him anyway.
Cutler huffs. A succubus. Things like that probably don’t even exist. Maybe it’s a cunning ruse to kick him out of their little gathering. It’s not like he wants to be here. It’s not like-
It occurs to him that someone is standing at the foot of the bed. He sits up, looking at the woman in a white nightgown. It’s unmistakably Yvonne, albeit with blond hair streaming down her shoulders, and how on earth did she get here anyway? He opens his mouth, but she positions herself on the bed and brings her finger up to his lips, indicating that he should keep silent. She cups his face with her hands and kisses him gently. Perplexed and vaguely terrified, he kisses back nonetheless, sifts his fingers through her hair and inhales the perfume that seems faintly familiar.
She pushes him down on the bed, stretches suggestively on top of him and unbuttons his shirt. There is not a single coherent thought left in his head. He trails his fingers down her hips, sneaks his hands beneath the gown. She covers his chest in soft, teasing kisses.
He can feel blood coursing under her skin. He cups the back of her head and pulls her closer and kisses her hard. Her mouth tastes of metal. She flicks her tongue over his released fangs, almost like she’s asking for it.
Cutler’s heart skips a beat.
He plunges his teeth into her neck, a nearly animalistic desire taking full control of him. Her blood feels hot and honey-sweet, unnaturally so. He drinks until he can take no more. When he looks up, he can see Hal standing by the bed.
Fear paralyzes Cutler.
He killed Yvonne. In her own home. Her body is a broken mess of tangled hair and bloodstained garments, suddenly so heavy over him, pinning him to the mattress. She feels eerily cold for someone who has only been dead for a minute. Hal will tear him apart for this.
Cutler tries to think of some kind of justification for his actions. She started it. She came to him. An old, familiar fear ingrained in his marrow stirs within him.
Hal comes closer.
He brushes his finger over Cutler’s lips, and it comes away smeared with blood. Hal licks it off, sucking the finger into his mouth. His eyes are black.
* * *
Cutler awakes with a start, drenched in sweat and choking on a scream.
Really, Hal, he thinks when his head hits the pillow again. Thanks for the heads-up.
* * *
In the morning Cutler finds the door unlocked. It’s very nice of them to trust him to go down the stairs all on his own.
Hal and Tom are making sandwiches in the kitchen. More precisely, Tom is making sandwiches and Hal is criticising them because the slices are too thick and the whole arrangement lacks… er… symmetry. Because obviously symmetry is the first thing you would want in your sandwich.
Cutler looks around cautiously, unwilling to run into Yvonne, and approaches the table.
“How are you feeling?” Hal asks by way of greeting. “Any, uh… dreams?”
“About… you know,” Tom adds, and tilts his head towards the front door.
Cutler frowns, then hears Yvonne’s voice and barely resists the urge to hide under the table.
“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely. But I feel fine now. No desire to massacre all five and a half humans on this godforsaken scrap of land in order to prove my feelings if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Ya never know,” Tom observes. “‘S different for everybody. You might wanna read her some poetry.”
Cutler narrows his eyes.
“Is that what you did?” he asks Hal whose face promptly turns stony.
“Nah, he barricaded himself in his room,” Tom says mirthfully. “Very brave.”
“I was concerned for the safety of the entire town. You kept trying to show her your stake.”
“Stakes! Many!”
“I’ll have you know that if I’d put my mind to it-.”
“What, like you did with Michaela?” There is slight condescension in Tom’s voice, and all Cutler wants to know is who Michaela is and how, when, why and what exactly happened.
“That was an unfortunate side effect of you being there,” Hal mutters resentfully.
“Why don’t you just admit you can’t talk to women? At least when you ain’t all blooded up.”
“Because I can!”
“Is that why our first date ended with you running out on me and our second date got me killed?” comes Alex’s voice. She saunters into the kitchen, snags a slice of cheese and brings it up to her mouth before she remembers that she can’t eat. Hal and Tom give her odd looks. “What? I thought we were trading stories.”
Hal searches for an escape route and finds it in the form of Adam trundling down the stairs. The boy looks sleepy but pleased with himself.
“Adam-.”
“Hey, don’t ask me, man!” He raises his hands defensively. “I’ve had tons of action and I’ve got plenty of juicy stories to share but not while my sexy lady’s here. That’s just impolite.”
“Duly noted,” Hal says curtly. “I was wondering if there are any routines I could perform here. I’ve had a bit of a setback as you probably know.”
Adam scrunches up his face to demonstrate a thought process of some kind. Cutler can almost see a light bulb flickering to life over his head.
“Got a bicycle. A real one. In the shed. It’s probably older than me but it works fine. You could take it for a spin. We’ve actually got two. The second one’s got a slight problem with the brakes.”
Hal nods and excuses himself. After a moment of hesitation Cutler slinks off after him. He hasn’t ridden a bicycle since his school days. Should be fun.
* * *
The bicycle rattles plaintively as Cutler rolls it out of the shed. He doesn’t know which one it is, but taking his luck into consideration, it’s probably the one with the faulty brakes.
Hal glances at him from the side of the road where he is adjusting the height of the saddle. He doesn’t look too pleased.
“You need supervision,” Cutler points out.
“Hardly by someone who’s only been off the blood for three days, and involuntarily at that.”
“I need supervision,” Cutler says irritably. “What if I pounce on Yvonne?”
Hal appears to be quite willing to take that risk.
“I’ll race you,” Cutler suggests. “If I win, you tell me the whole story. Starting with the bloke in the photo.”
“And if I win?”
Cutler gives him a wry smile.
“You never had trouble collecting your debts before. We’ll think of something.”
He mounts his bicycle, dearly hoping it won’t fall apart on the move. Hal mutters something unintelligible but joins him on the road. It’s a fine day, if a little cold, and the last thing Cutler wants is to spend it bickering with the other members of Team Stop the Old Ones.
He counts down from three, and they take off. The circular road twists ahead, going ever on and on just like the Professor promised. Soon it becomes clear just how many hours Hal has spent on that training bike of his. Cutler has never been much for legwork, but he does his best, unwilling to lose. The wheels creak and the chain jangles and the green-grey scenery blurs into a continuous smudge of colour around him. He remembers to breathe once in a while, and then it’s just like when he was little: his chest burning with every fast inhalation, the wind in his hair, fingers numb from gripping the handlebars too tightly.
He glances at Hal, perhaps hoping to see something beneath the tragic mask Hal has been wearing for the last few days. Maybe there is something after all. Hal’s lips quirk up slightly, almost as if he is gearing up for a smile, but it’s quickly replaced by the look of worry-
-and Cutler’s bike jumps over the rut in the road and cuts in front of Hal’s. The wheels rattle and screech. Cutler attempts to brake - and yep, his is definitely the wrong bike. It is driven across the grass dangerously close to the harbour where it finally comes to an abrupt stop upon running into a boulder. Cutler tumbles out of the saddle and rolls down the rugged slope and narrowly avoids falling into the water. He ends up lying on the ground, his chest heaving with each painful breath. This is not how he envisioned his death.
Hal comes closer and asks the number one stupid film question:
“Are you all right?”
Does he look all right?
“I think I could play percussion with the fragments of my ribs,” Cutler croaks.
Hal lowers himself on the edge of the harbour side.
“I take it I’ve won.”
The nerve!
“It was an accident,” Cutler says adamantly. “It doesn’t count.”
He struggles to sit and gives up on the idea quickly. The ache in his body fires up a fresh surge of hunger. He moves, and whimpers because everything fucking hurts.
“How can you stand it?” he whispers. “Mouth like sandpaper. This feeling that something is clawing at your gut.” Nausea makes his head spin. “Why would anyone inflict this on themselves voluntarily?”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Hal says dryly.
That’s true, but Cutler doesn’t want to get kicked off the goody-goody team. Time and again he asks himself if he’s gone completely bonkers. Surely it is much safer at Mr Snow’s side. What’s a little humiliation to put up with in the grand scheme of things? He’s used to all the humiliation he can take.
“Are you really doing this out of some weird respect for humanity or is there another reason?”
Hal keeps silent. Maybe he is like one of those old computers; it takes him ages to load one programme. Or maybe he’s choosing another lie from a catalogue.
“That touching pitch about this being their world and not ours.” Cutler scoffs. “All very nice, but it’s bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah! We’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else. I mean, look at Tom. Look at what he turns into every month. Yet you view him as a victim. You don’t deny him his place in this beloved world of yours even though he’s a part-time monster.”
“Tom has got no choice,” Hal says in the voice of someone who is forced to go over the same drivel over and over again. If anything, it’s Cutler who should sound like that because he just can’t wrap his mind around Hal’s new philosophy. “He can’t stop changing. We can. The only thing he can do is take precautions, which he does.”
“Some of us didn’t have a choice either!” Cutler snaps. “Like maybe their makers forgot to ask them.”
Hal gets up. This is what the new Hal is all about: running away. Cutler forces himself up on his feet and hobbles after him.
“Hal. Hal!”
“Come on,” Hal says after a pause, picking up his bicycle. “Let’s see who wins the race after all.”
Cutler wrinkles his forehead in surprise. This… Yeah, okay, he can work with this.
* * *
The sandwiches in the kitchen have been replaced with bomb parts. Tom should open his own workshop.
The owners of the cottage are nowhere to be found, much to Cutler’s relief, while the gang is gathered around Tom, discussing the possible plan of action. According to Annie, the world is only days away from the impending disaster. That’s bloody comforting.
Cutler’s ribs hurt like a bitch. Hal has naturally claimed the victory in the race after all. Cutler has no idea what it means for him now. With Lord Hal, he never knew what to expect either, only that it would be brutal and imaginative.
He barely listens to the conversation. What’s the point? Mr Snow has most likely already left Barry Island; they’ve got no idea where to look for him, and even if they did, one does not simply walk into Mordor.
“Maybe we could get Yvonne to touch him and see what happens,” Cutler mutters. It is not until everyone is staring at him that he realizes he has said it out loud.
Annie cracks up first. She covers her mouth with her hand and her shoulders begin to shake. Alex follows suit, joined promptly by Tom. Hal’s lips tremble. He is trying very hard, but he too is eventually caught up in the flow.
They are laughing at his joke.
Cutler blinks, smiles uncertainly. Somebody print-screen this moment.
“Is it too much to hope that he’ll grow a heart like the Grinch and we’ll all live happily ever after?” Alex supplies.
Hal buries his face in his hands. He’s known the man in question the longest; imagining those deranged scenarios must hurt.
“On a more serious note,” Cutler says, inspired by his latest success, “what if Tom bleeds into his mouth like George did with Griffin? That would kill him, wouldn’t it?”
It sure did kill Griffin, but who knows if Count Zombacula dies like your average vampire.
“George was half-changed by then, weren’t he?” Tom counters. “I can’t manage that. And we’d have to get real close to him-.”
A light bulb explodes over Cutler’s head.
“You were there when George died,” says Annie in a steely voice.
The room goes eerily quiet. Cutler gulps down nervously.
“I-.” He trails off.
“Well?”
“You knew I was working with Griffin!” he fires off defensively. Why is she making such a big deal out of this now?
Annie rent-a-ghosts up to him, her eyes cold and frightening.
“Were you there when they killed Nina too?”
“No!”
“Were you there when he ordered to have her killed?”
Cutler desperately tries to remember. They discussed Nina’s death when the whole werewolf baby hell was let loose, but when the hit had been ordered, Cutler had most likely been stuck making Griffin’s tea.
“No,” he says quietly, not entirely certain. In all honesty, he just wouldn’t remember something so loosely related to his plans.
His view narrows down to Annie’s dark eyes. An acute awareness hits him: if she decides to stake him now, nobody will lift a finger to stop her.
She turns away and returns to the table. Cutler breathes out shakily. There are knives in the kitchen and forks - and who knows, maybe Annie is an Alan Rickman fan and can use spoons creatively too. Cutler makes a hasty escape into the guest bedroom.
His hands are trembling. He is a ninety-year-old vampire and he is afraid of a dead girl. Brilliant.
The radio buzzes, filling the room with white noise. Cutler turns it off absent-mindedly.
Why did she blow a fuse like that? A hell of a lot of people must have been there when her precious George kicked it. Even Regus apparently. But no, of course they have to jump all over Cutler because he is the resident punching bag, it seems. Your friend died? Blame Cutler. Your toaster broke down? Oh, Cutler must have tampered with it!
The noise grows louder. Cutler fiddles with the radio irritably. The hell is wrong with it? Didn’t he just-?
“Nick…”
His hand drops. The voice comes faintly through the buzzing, and keeps repeating his name.
“Nick…”
Cutler edges away from the radio. It’s a glitch; it must be. Somebody is calling him, over and over again, a woman, and her voice seems vaguely familiar. He can’t really tell through the noise waves.
The voice grows louder, more insistent. Cutler’s chest tightens.
“Nick!”
He whispers past the lump in his throat:
“Rachel?”
Part 5 - Our Emotional Baggage