Being Human: the ones who practice wicked charms [Rook]
Title: “the ones who practice wicked charms”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13 [hints of gore and violence]
Timeline: pre-canon
Summary: "I will not allow the legacy of my father and his father before him to go out with a whimper." (Rookileaks 3)
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title from “Seven Seconds” by Youssou N’Dour.
A/N: I said I would do this and nobody stopped me. So there you have it. Baby Rook. XD
THE ONES WHO PRACTICE WICKED CHARMS
For his tenth birthday Dominic gets a bicycle and a trip to the DoDD holding cells. The former is Mother’s idea; she is present in the bedroom when Father tucks him in for the night and leans in to whisper conspiratorially: Monsters are real. Tomorrow, I’ll show you. She thinks Dominic ought to have something normal. She changes her mind when he almost runs Grandma over.
The holding cells are located underground. The air is unexpectedly dry but chilly.
Dominic doesn’t remember much from that night. The snapping of bones, the rancid stench, the deafening roar. He doubles over a bucket and heaves. Father is looking, and Dominic feels ashamed, tears running down his cheeks.
Father says nothing on the way home. If he is angry, he doesn’t show it. He never shows it.
--
There used to be something under the bed when Dominic was little. It had claws and scratched at the floor, interrupting his sleep. He hasn’t heard it for years, but after the incident at the holding cells it appears to be back.
Dominic pulls the blanket up to his chin and lies still, listening to the sound of claws and the thumping of his own heart. Mother used to chase it away with a mop until he was old enough (in her opinion) to know that there was nothing under the bed - but now he knows that monsters are real. Anything can be there. A giant beast, a man with sharp teeth or something invisible and angry.
Anything.
Dominic’s eyes widen. He is terrified but he knows an opportunity when it presents itself to him. This is his chance to redeem himself in Father’s eyes. If he contains the monster and hands it over to the department, Father will be proud of him.
The floor feels cold under his bare feet. He glides towards the cupboard and rolls out the vacuum cleaner, trying to make as little noise as possible. He can feel the draught spreading over the floorboards, but his body tingles with the heat of anticipation that prickles at the tips of his fingers and makes his throat go dry.
He thrusts the nozzle under the bed and turns the machine on. It vibrates and makes loud thrumming noises. Dominic’s heart leaps up to his mouth. He drops the hose and staggers back, gets caught up in the tangled cable and falls on the floor. The hose bounces and writhes like a snake before finally going quiet, save for the buzzing the suction makes. Dominic is quite certain he has just witnessed a fight between the monster and the machine.
He crawls up to the vacuum cleaner and carefully turns it off. The air is permeated with the smell of dust. The boy jumps back on the bed and leans over the other side of it to take a peek underneath. He can see the nozzle lying still on the floor in the thick, inky darkness.
He approaches the machine again and presses his ear to the canister. If the monster is indeed inside, it’s gone deceptively quiet, undoubtedly plotting for the opportune moment to attempt its escape.
A low rumbling noise rolls through the room. Dominic staggers backwards. In hindsight, it could be anything: a car passing by, the rattling of train wheels, even the pipes. But Dominic is very certain, more certain than he’s ever been of anything, that it is the monster trying to get free.
He pulls the blanket off the bed and muffles the vacuum cleaner up. If anything, it might disorient the monster when it tries to get out. Stalling is an important part of containment.
He slips out of the room and heads to his father’s study. The desk drawers are locked as always, but Dominic has learnt picking locks from Father himself.
He takes his father’s revolver and returns to the room. If the monster tries anything funny - well, it has only got itself to blame.
In the morning, this is how Mother finds him: standing sentinel over the blanketed vacuum cleaner, a gun in his hand and the expression of the utmost concentration on his face.
--
He can hear them. They probably don’t know, but he can.
Mother’s voice is shrill with something akin to panic. Father sounds calm, but there is the warmth of rising anger in his tone. He seldom loses patience, but it seems that he is about to.
The revolver is back where it belongs. Father has changed the locks.
He’s not a child, Father says.
He is a child! Ten years old is a child! How does he even know where you keep it? How could you be so completely irresponsible?
When Dominic was younger, he sometimes used to get nosebleeds out of the blue. He wasn’t a sickly child; those nosebleeds were the only thing wrong with him, and they too have passed. But whenever he got them, his parents would stop fighting and attend to him.
He would like to have one now. He wonders how hard he should hit his nose in order to induce a nosebleed.
Do you want him to end up like you did? Mother continues. Do you want to be like your father?
Father respected Granddad, Dominic knows, but he didn’t love him. It wasn’t something Dominic was told; it was just obvious. Dominic isn’t sure where the line between love and respect goes and how thin it is, but he and Father are probably different.
The trick with the nosebleed might not work. He is too old now. He would most likely be expected to take care of himself.
God forbid I gave your more children so you could ruin them too! Mother snarls.
The sound of something breaking comes from the room. Dominic flinches when she storms out.
He pokes his head into the room. There a shattered vase at Father’s feet. Father gives him a cold look. Dominic already knows there was no monster, but he thought that maybe the effort would count. If there had been a monster, he would have safely contained it.
He takes a step back. Father stays where he is, framed by the doorway.
He narrows one eye and winks.
It’s quick, blink and you’ll miss it, but it’s a genuine wink and it’s addressed to Dominic.
--
Father is killed in the line of duty years later.
Mother dies peacefully in her bed.
Grief is a strange thing. It drives some people into a frenzy but it makes others numb.
Dominic lives by the values his father has bequeathed him. Modesty. Composure. Dedication. Faith. Perseverance.
If you want everybody to like you, you will never get the job done.
Queen, country, God, peace, humanity. Those used to be just words.
Not anymore.
--
Splashes of blood on the floor, on the walls. Even the ceiling lamp is stained red.
Scenario seven: homicide. Perhaps the handiwork of a serial killer.
The truth: vampires.
Three carcasses in body bags: a man, a woman, and a young girl. The bites are so vicious that if it had happened outdoors, they could have passed it off as an animal attack.
The timer is ticking.
Rook surveys the room. It seems to be empty, but he knows full well that is not the case. Slowly, he approaches the bed.
“Hello,” he says amiably. There is no use hiding; he can hear the sound of breathing.
A child, six or seven, emerges from under the bed. His face is smeared with blood and his eyes are swollen and red. He is shaking.
“The monsters,” he whispers in a trembling voice. “The monsters are real.”
“Yes, they are.” Rook leans into him. “But you can’t tell anyone. Because if you do-” He brings his mouth closer to the boy’s ear and whispers: “They will find you.”
February 22-24, 2013
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13 [hints of gore and violence]
Timeline: pre-canon
Summary: "I will not allow the legacy of my father and his father before him to go out with a whimper." (Rookileaks 3)
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title from “Seven Seconds” by Youssou N’Dour.
A/N: I said I would do this and nobody stopped me. So there you have it. Baby Rook. XD
THE ONES WHO PRACTICE WICKED CHARMS
For his tenth birthday Dominic gets a bicycle and a trip to the DoDD holding cells. The former is Mother’s idea; she is present in the bedroom when Father tucks him in for the night and leans in to whisper conspiratorially: Monsters are real. Tomorrow, I’ll show you. She thinks Dominic ought to have something normal. She changes her mind when he almost runs Grandma over.
The holding cells are located underground. The air is unexpectedly dry but chilly.
Dominic doesn’t remember much from that night. The snapping of bones, the rancid stench, the deafening roar. He doubles over a bucket and heaves. Father is looking, and Dominic feels ashamed, tears running down his cheeks.
Father says nothing on the way home. If he is angry, he doesn’t show it. He never shows it.
--
There used to be something under the bed when Dominic was little. It had claws and scratched at the floor, interrupting his sleep. He hasn’t heard it for years, but after the incident at the holding cells it appears to be back.
Dominic pulls the blanket up to his chin and lies still, listening to the sound of claws and the thumping of his own heart. Mother used to chase it away with a mop until he was old enough (in her opinion) to know that there was nothing under the bed - but now he knows that monsters are real. Anything can be there. A giant beast, a man with sharp teeth or something invisible and angry.
Anything.
Dominic’s eyes widen. He is terrified but he knows an opportunity when it presents itself to him. This is his chance to redeem himself in Father’s eyes. If he contains the monster and hands it over to the department, Father will be proud of him.
The floor feels cold under his bare feet. He glides towards the cupboard and rolls out the vacuum cleaner, trying to make as little noise as possible. He can feel the draught spreading over the floorboards, but his body tingles with the heat of anticipation that prickles at the tips of his fingers and makes his throat go dry.
He thrusts the nozzle under the bed and turns the machine on. It vibrates and makes loud thrumming noises. Dominic’s heart leaps up to his mouth. He drops the hose and staggers back, gets caught up in the tangled cable and falls on the floor. The hose bounces and writhes like a snake before finally going quiet, save for the buzzing the suction makes. Dominic is quite certain he has just witnessed a fight between the monster and the machine.
He crawls up to the vacuum cleaner and carefully turns it off. The air is permeated with the smell of dust. The boy jumps back on the bed and leans over the other side of it to take a peek underneath. He can see the nozzle lying still on the floor in the thick, inky darkness.
He approaches the machine again and presses his ear to the canister. If the monster is indeed inside, it’s gone deceptively quiet, undoubtedly plotting for the opportune moment to attempt its escape.
A low rumbling noise rolls through the room. Dominic staggers backwards. In hindsight, it could be anything: a car passing by, the rattling of train wheels, even the pipes. But Dominic is very certain, more certain than he’s ever been of anything, that it is the monster trying to get free.
He pulls the blanket off the bed and muffles the vacuum cleaner up. If anything, it might disorient the monster when it tries to get out. Stalling is an important part of containment.
He slips out of the room and heads to his father’s study. The desk drawers are locked as always, but Dominic has learnt picking locks from Father himself.
He takes his father’s revolver and returns to the room. If the monster tries anything funny - well, it has only got itself to blame.
In the morning, this is how Mother finds him: standing sentinel over the blanketed vacuum cleaner, a gun in his hand and the expression of the utmost concentration on his face.
--
He can hear them. They probably don’t know, but he can.
Mother’s voice is shrill with something akin to panic. Father sounds calm, but there is the warmth of rising anger in his tone. He seldom loses patience, but it seems that he is about to.
The revolver is back where it belongs. Father has changed the locks.
He’s not a child, Father says.
He is a child! Ten years old is a child! How does he even know where you keep it? How could you be so completely irresponsible?
When Dominic was younger, he sometimes used to get nosebleeds out of the blue. He wasn’t a sickly child; those nosebleeds were the only thing wrong with him, and they too have passed. But whenever he got them, his parents would stop fighting and attend to him.
He would like to have one now. He wonders how hard he should hit his nose in order to induce a nosebleed.
Do you want him to end up like you did? Mother continues. Do you want to be like your father?
Father respected Granddad, Dominic knows, but he didn’t love him. It wasn’t something Dominic was told; it was just obvious. Dominic isn’t sure where the line between love and respect goes and how thin it is, but he and Father are probably different.
The trick with the nosebleed might not work. He is too old now. He would most likely be expected to take care of himself.
God forbid I gave your more children so you could ruin them too! Mother snarls.
The sound of something breaking comes from the room. Dominic flinches when she storms out.
He pokes his head into the room. There a shattered vase at Father’s feet. Father gives him a cold look. Dominic already knows there was no monster, but he thought that maybe the effort would count. If there had been a monster, he would have safely contained it.
He takes a step back. Father stays where he is, framed by the doorway.
He narrows one eye and winks.
It’s quick, blink and you’ll miss it, but it’s a genuine wink and it’s addressed to Dominic.
--
Father is killed in the line of duty years later.
Mother dies peacefully in her bed.
Grief is a strange thing. It drives some people into a frenzy but it makes others numb.
Dominic lives by the values his father has bequeathed him. Modesty. Composure. Dedication. Faith. Perseverance.
If you want everybody to like you, you will never get the job done.
Queen, country, God, peace, humanity. Those used to be just words.
Not anymore.
--
Splashes of blood on the floor, on the walls. Even the ceiling lamp is stained red.
Scenario seven: homicide. Perhaps the handiwork of a serial killer.
The truth: vampires.
Three carcasses in body bags: a man, a woman, and a young girl. The bites are so vicious that if it had happened outdoors, they could have passed it off as an animal attack.
The timer is ticking.
Rook surveys the room. It seems to be empty, but he knows full well that is not the case. Slowly, he approaches the bed.
“Hello,” he says amiably. There is no use hiding; he can hear the sound of breathing.
A child, six or seven, emerges from under the bed. His face is smeared with blood and his eyes are swollen and red. He is shaking.
“The monsters,” he whispers in a trembling voice. “The monsters are real.”
“Yes, they are.” Rook leans into him. “But you can’t tell anyone. Because if you do-” He brings his mouth closer to the boy’s ear and whispers: “They will find you.”
February 22-24, 2013