Being Human: The Forest of Talking Trees [Hal/Cutler]
Title: “The Forest of Talking Trees”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: hard R
Timeline: 1950s
Summary: Hal values his books significantly more than his people. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Quotes from “Ava Maria Gratia Plena” by Oscar Wilde; “A General View Of The Criminal Law Of England” by James Fitzjames Stephen.
Dedication: for the Hivemind: shirogiku, one of whose story initially inspired me for this idea, and non_canonical with her Hal, books and brain-breaking.
A/N: IDEK what this is. Think of it as ridiculous book fluff with violence. And for the record, the views on Wilde expressed here contradict my own: I happen to love him.
THE FOREST OF TALKING TREES
The books that I keep by my bags are full of the stories
That I drew up on a little dream of mine, a little nightmare of yours.
Of Monsters and Men. "Sloom"
Hal slips the book into his hands and pulls away with evident reluctance. He does not share his possessions lightly, and this one is old, older than Nick, a small and tattered copy of Oscar Wilde’s poetry. Hal leans against the desk, arms folded over his chest, and looks at it like it’s a kitten he’s rescued from drowning and now feels responsible for.
The rustling of pages when Nick turns them is deafening. He expects them to crumble to dust and slip through his fingers, and then Hal will definitely break every bone in his body just by glaring at him.
Cutler doesn’t really know what Hal wants him to say. Probably compliment the book in some way. It’s… beautiful? Hal has no patience for platitudes. (Besides, it’s not. It’s beautiful in the same way babies who really look like tiny goblins are beautiful.) Expensive? That’s likely true, but it sounds very mercenary, and Hal already believes that the only way Cutler can appreciate art is from an operator’s point of view.
He settles for old.
Hal releases a barely audible sigh and looks at him like he is some kind of a peasant. (For all Cutler knows, Hal might be hardcore Transylvanian aristocracy closely related to Count Dracula.)
“Read,” Hal says.
He doesn’t say which one, so Cutler chooses at random.
He reads:
Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae…
His voice is trembling and he stumbles over words, too aware of Hal’s judgmental eyes fixed on him. There is nothing Hal loves quite like showing people they are inferior to him. Perhaps it’s a sign that he cares.
With a sigh, Cutler puts the book down.
“Don’t look at me like you’re a disappointed schoolteacher.” Poetry puts him to sleep; he can’t help it. He’s already reinvented enough of himself for Hal; what more does Hal want?
“Have you had many teachers disappointed in you?” Hal asks, his voice warm, for once not with anger but with good humour.
“No,” Cutler says sharply. “I was an adequate student.”
He bites his tongue. What possessed him to tell the truth? He should have said great, apt, gifted, remarkable; anything but the truth.
“Give me Hanbury, Fitzjames Stephen - any law book, I’ll read it. Hell, I can probably even quote paragraphs from those by heart.”
But Hal doesn’t need proof that he’s good at his job. Luckily, he has seen Cutler in action and remained satisfied.
“Read,” he says calmly.
Cutler addresses him a pointed look that spells: Fine, Your Bloody Majesty. Could be worse. Could be French.
He stumbles through the next lines:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire…
He is painfully aware of how dry his mouth feels. What the hell is this stupid poem even about? He decides that he doesn’t like Wilde after all. Hal has already made him read The Picture of Dorian Gray; while moderately entertaining at times, it proved to be loaded with philosophizing that seemed to Cutler a little like beating the air. He likes the fairy tales better, likes their blend of charm and gloom, but he wouldn’t read them to his own children. Not that he’d ever have any.
His eyes are fixed on the page, and he fails to notice Hal moving closer. He feels it though; the bed sagging slightly under the extra weight, the collar of his shirt being tugged down - and a burning sensation spreading down his neck. Cutler starts, breath caught in his throat. Hal’s husky chuckle travels down his spine. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of metal in Hal’s hand. A flask of some kind.
Holy water.
This is what that wet, stinging pain is.
Hal sprinkles more of it onto his fingers and draws patterns over Cutler’s skin.
“Keep reading,” he breathes in Cutler’s ear.
Cutler complies.
Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly…
He knows what that feels like. He is trembling, caught between growing desire and the overwhelming feeling of injustice: they are the same species; yet it hurts him and spares Hal. God is clearly unfair.
Hal unbuttons Cutler’s shirt. His hands are inconceivably gentle as they stroke Cutler’s skin but the tenderness is leveled by the dampness of holy water on Hal’s palms. It burns and it bites and it peppers Cutler’s reading with uncontrolled sighs and half-smothered moans.
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of…
He can’t go on, nor does he care to. The only mystery here is Hal who always gets what he wants and yet never stops demanding more.
Hal’s fingers curl around him, and Cutler thrusts eagerly in spite of the pain. Perhaps it even spurs him on. Things are hardly ever different with Hal. The book slides off his lap. He clutches at it half-consciously and before he knows it, there is a thundering noise of a page ripping in half. Cutler’s eyes widen. His heart sinks.
Slowly, he turns his head. Hal’s eyes are cold and black, devoid of any expression. Cutler’s heart isn’t even thumping. It sits in his chest like an unwieldy boulder; if he moves, he will probably collapse under the weight of it. It will pin him to the bed and Hal will tear him apart.
He tries to think of a proper apology. Hal moves his hand suddenly, squeezing harder, and the words scatter and disperse and abandon Cutler in his predicament. Every nerve in his body tingles with fear and arousal. Hal brings the flask up to his mouth and takes a generous swig. He leans into Nick and kisses him, parting his lips with his tongue and letting the liquid fire invade Nick’s mouth. Nick winces, partly at the searing sensation and partly at the maneuvres of Hal’s hand. Holy water runs down his throat. Hal bites at his mouth hungrily, adding blood to the mix, his goddamn favourite cocktail. Cutler does his best to ignore the prickling sensation in his eyes.
It feels like Hal is smiling against his burnt lips. In a moment of strange clarity, Cutler thinks: fuck that. He pushes Hal away and spits the poisoned blood off, spraying the floor by the bed red. His throat hurts and his breathing comes out wheezy and he doesn’t think he can talk. Hal arches his eyebrows. Cutler can’t figure out whether he really is surprised by his recruit’s boldness or he’s feigning it.
Cutler swings towards him, dizzy and hungry and beyond terrified, and digs his teeth into Hal’s neck. He bites like an animal, desperate, starved for any reaction, be it a punishment for his insolence or a reward for initiative. He can barely feel Hal’s blood, but the low growl that rumbles through Hal’s throat and spills out of his mouth shoots through Cutler’s entire system. It’s enough to undo him, take him apart into molecules of blood and water. He pulls away, trembling in the aftershock of his release, and manages a crooked smile.
* * *
Hal ignores him for a week. Cutler doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s sulking over the torn page in Wilde’s book or because he wants to torture Cutler for what happened afterwards. The first couple of days are all right. But Hal’s indifference is even more brutal than his attention, and by the end of the week, Cutler is climbing the walls, trying to think of a way to get Hal to at least say fucking “hello” to him once in a while.
It works eventually. He finds Hal sitting on his bed (he has long since stopped being surprised by Hal showing up out of the blue and taking over various items of furniture in his flat), a thick, leather-bound volume resting next to him.
Hal drawls: “Hello,” a taunting promise in his voice. More poetry, more pain.
He opens the book at random and reads, every word clear and precise:
“The criminal law stands to the passion of revenge in much the same relation as marriage to the sexual appetite.”
Cutler blinks, taken aback.
“I think I’m going to enjoy this book,” Hal concludes.
December 9-10, 2012
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: hard R
Timeline: 1950s
Summary: Hal values his books significantly more than his people. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Quotes from “Ava Maria Gratia Plena” by Oscar Wilde; “A General View Of The Criminal Law Of England” by James Fitzjames Stephen.
Dedication: for the Hivemind: shirogiku, one of whose story initially inspired me for this idea, and non_canonical with her Hal, books and brain-breaking.
A/N: IDEK what this is. Think of it as ridiculous book fluff with violence. And for the record, the views on Wilde expressed here contradict my own: I happen to love him.
THE FOREST OF TALKING TREES
The books that I keep by my bags are full of the stories
That I drew up on a little dream of mine, a little nightmare of yours.
Of Monsters and Men. "Sloom"
Hal slips the book into his hands and pulls away with evident reluctance. He does not share his possessions lightly, and this one is old, older than Nick, a small and tattered copy of Oscar Wilde’s poetry. Hal leans against the desk, arms folded over his chest, and looks at it like it’s a kitten he’s rescued from drowning and now feels responsible for.
The rustling of pages when Nick turns them is deafening. He expects them to crumble to dust and slip through his fingers, and then Hal will definitely break every bone in his body just by glaring at him.
Cutler doesn’t really know what Hal wants him to say. Probably compliment the book in some way. It’s… beautiful? Hal has no patience for platitudes. (Besides, it’s not. It’s beautiful in the same way babies who really look like tiny goblins are beautiful.) Expensive? That’s likely true, but it sounds very mercenary, and Hal already believes that the only way Cutler can appreciate art is from an operator’s point of view.
He settles for old.
Hal releases a barely audible sigh and looks at him like he is some kind of a peasant. (For all Cutler knows, Hal might be hardcore Transylvanian aristocracy closely related to Count Dracula.)
“Read,” Hal says.
He doesn’t say which one, so Cutler chooses at random.
He reads:
Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae…
His voice is trembling and he stumbles over words, too aware of Hal’s judgmental eyes fixed on him. There is nothing Hal loves quite like showing people they are inferior to him. Perhaps it’s a sign that he cares.
With a sigh, Cutler puts the book down.
“Don’t look at me like you’re a disappointed schoolteacher.” Poetry puts him to sleep; he can’t help it. He’s already reinvented enough of himself for Hal; what more does Hal want?
“Have you had many teachers disappointed in you?” Hal asks, his voice warm, for once not with anger but with good humour.
“No,” Cutler says sharply. “I was an adequate student.”
He bites his tongue. What possessed him to tell the truth? He should have said great, apt, gifted, remarkable; anything but the truth.
“Give me Hanbury, Fitzjames Stephen - any law book, I’ll read it. Hell, I can probably even quote paragraphs from those by heart.”
But Hal doesn’t need proof that he’s good at his job. Luckily, he has seen Cutler in action and remained satisfied.
“Read,” he says calmly.
Cutler addresses him a pointed look that spells: Fine, Your Bloody Majesty. Could be worse. Could be French.
He stumbles through the next lines:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire…
He is painfully aware of how dry his mouth feels. What the hell is this stupid poem even about? He decides that he doesn’t like Wilde after all. Hal has already made him read The Picture of Dorian Gray; while moderately entertaining at times, it proved to be loaded with philosophizing that seemed to Cutler a little like beating the air. He likes the fairy tales better, likes their blend of charm and gloom, but he wouldn’t read them to his own children. Not that he’d ever have any.
His eyes are fixed on the page, and he fails to notice Hal moving closer. He feels it though; the bed sagging slightly under the extra weight, the collar of his shirt being tugged down - and a burning sensation spreading down his neck. Cutler starts, breath caught in his throat. Hal’s husky chuckle travels down his spine. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of metal in Hal’s hand. A flask of some kind.
Holy water.
This is what that wet, stinging pain is.
Hal sprinkles more of it onto his fingers and draws patterns over Cutler’s skin.
“Keep reading,” he breathes in Cutler’s ear.
Cutler complies.
Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly…
He knows what that feels like. He is trembling, caught between growing desire and the overwhelming feeling of injustice: they are the same species; yet it hurts him and spares Hal. God is clearly unfair.
Hal unbuttons Cutler’s shirt. His hands are inconceivably gentle as they stroke Cutler’s skin but the tenderness is leveled by the dampness of holy water on Hal’s palms. It burns and it bites and it peppers Cutler’s reading with uncontrolled sighs and half-smothered moans.
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of…
He can’t go on, nor does he care to. The only mystery here is Hal who always gets what he wants and yet never stops demanding more.
Hal’s fingers curl around him, and Cutler thrusts eagerly in spite of the pain. Perhaps it even spurs him on. Things are hardly ever different with Hal. The book slides off his lap. He clutches at it half-consciously and before he knows it, there is a thundering noise of a page ripping in half. Cutler’s eyes widen. His heart sinks.
Slowly, he turns his head. Hal’s eyes are cold and black, devoid of any expression. Cutler’s heart isn’t even thumping. It sits in his chest like an unwieldy boulder; if he moves, he will probably collapse under the weight of it. It will pin him to the bed and Hal will tear him apart.
He tries to think of a proper apology. Hal moves his hand suddenly, squeezing harder, and the words scatter and disperse and abandon Cutler in his predicament. Every nerve in his body tingles with fear and arousal. Hal brings the flask up to his mouth and takes a generous swig. He leans into Nick and kisses him, parting his lips with his tongue and letting the liquid fire invade Nick’s mouth. Nick winces, partly at the searing sensation and partly at the maneuvres of Hal’s hand. Holy water runs down his throat. Hal bites at his mouth hungrily, adding blood to the mix, his goddamn favourite cocktail. Cutler does his best to ignore the prickling sensation in his eyes.
It feels like Hal is smiling against his burnt lips. In a moment of strange clarity, Cutler thinks: fuck that. He pushes Hal away and spits the poisoned blood off, spraying the floor by the bed red. His throat hurts and his breathing comes out wheezy and he doesn’t think he can talk. Hal arches his eyebrows. Cutler can’t figure out whether he really is surprised by his recruit’s boldness or he’s feigning it.
Cutler swings towards him, dizzy and hungry and beyond terrified, and digs his teeth into Hal’s neck. He bites like an animal, desperate, starved for any reaction, be it a punishment for his insolence or a reward for initiative. He can barely feel Hal’s blood, but the low growl that rumbles through Hal’s throat and spills out of his mouth shoots through Cutler’s entire system. It’s enough to undo him, take him apart into molecules of blood and water. He pulls away, trembling in the aftershock of his release, and manages a crooked smile.
* * *
Hal ignores him for a week. Cutler doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s sulking over the torn page in Wilde’s book or because he wants to torture Cutler for what happened afterwards. The first couple of days are all right. But Hal’s indifference is even more brutal than his attention, and by the end of the week, Cutler is climbing the walls, trying to think of a way to get Hal to at least say fucking “hello” to him once in a while.
It works eventually. He finds Hal sitting on his bed (he has long since stopped being surprised by Hal showing up out of the blue and taking over various items of furniture in his flat), a thick, leather-bound volume resting next to him.
Hal drawls: “Hello,” a taunting promise in his voice. More poetry, more pain.
He opens the book at random and reads, every word clear and precise:
“The criminal law stands to the passion of revenge in much the same relation as marriage to the sexual appetite.”
Cutler blinks, taken aback.
“I think I’m going to enjoy this book,” Hal concludes.
December 9-10, 2012