Being Human: Good Times, Bad Times [Hal/Cutler + ensemble] 5/8
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.
A/N: I want to sit in and self-harm.
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Part 4 - Our Double Twattage
Part 5
Our Emotional Baggage
“Nick.” He thinks he can hear her laughing, but the sound is distorted. “I finally found you.”
“Rachel, I-.”
Cutler falters. How does one usually greet the wife who was horribly murdered and is calling from the afterlife over half a century later? He shoves his hand into his pocket, clutching his mobile phone, half-intent on Googling it.
“I know,” she whispers. That is her intonation. He recognises it. She sounded like that when things went wrong at work and he would come home ranting and forget to compliment the dinner she had made and generally act like an obnoxious fool. She was always so patient. “You’ve done so many terrible things. But it doesn’t matter now. Soon, nothing will matter anymore.”
He blinks rapidly. Maybe there are tears in his eyes. Maybe that’s just water. Maybe she’s not even real. Some vampires hallucinate when they go dry. Perhaps he’s finally losing it.
“What do you mean?”
“The world is ending, Nick.”
Not her too! Why is everyone so hung up on this?
“No need to exaggerate,” Cutler says, feigning nonchalance. He is pretty sure his heart isn’t supposed to beat that fast. “It’s just a little vampire invasion.”
“Nobody’s going to like that world, Nick,” says Rachel. “Not even the vampires.”
White noise grows louder, and for a moment, he is afraid to lose her again. He holds his hand out to the radio as if to stop her from leaving.
“You can stop it,” she says. “You can be a history maker like you were always meant to be. You can put things right.”
He takes a deep breath. Hello, insanity. If she says he is somebody’s only hope- He’s quite sure the diploma in his office doesn’t say “Obi-Wan Kenobi”.
Despite the absurdity of the situation, Cutler latches on to the familiar incentive. Be a hero. Be a history maker.
“What do I have to do?”
“You know. You’ve thought about it. You’ve voiced it, but no one listens.”
His eyes widen.
“The War Child.” He shakes his head, beginning to sober up. “No, if I do that, they…” He trails off, and starts again: “We’ve got a better plan.”
A hint of impatience creeps into Rachel’s voice.
“This is the only plan, Nick! The War Child saves humanity by dying. They know that. They are just blinded by their love for her. You’ve got no such reservations. You see things clearly, don’t you? Do what must be done.”
“Okay, first of all, stop talking like the bloody Oracle!” snaps Cutler. This is the new level of mental. Not to mention really unnerving, coming from his dead wife. “Look, I’d love to help, but… Shall we say, my plans tend to go to the dogs a bit too often these days. Besides, I’m trying to stay on the straight and narrow, and Hal-.”
The noise waves flare up. The radio crackles like it’s about to explode. Rachel’s voice comes through, edged with steel.
“How many times do I have to watch you choose him over me? You have betrayed my memory, Nick. You’ve betrayed it so many times.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. The sound grows louder. She keeps talking but he can’t make out the words. Anxiety sweeps over him, and turns into genuine fear. He feels as helpless as he felt when Hal showed him just whose blood he had drunk. “I’m sorry!” he shouts. It’s futile. He can no more apologise for this than Hal can. No person in their right mind would accept an apology for something so monstrous. “I’m so sorry, Rachel.”
The buzzing subsides. The radio goes completely quiet for a long-drawn-out moment. Has she gone? Has she given up on him?
No, she hasn’t.
“I know you are, Nick,” she says, her tone gentle again. He wishes he could see her, but then, she would see him too, and he isn’t sure he can handle that.
Cutler rubs his eyes furiously. His eyelashes are wet.
“I didn’t choose him over you,” he says with conviction. He didn’t, did he? It wasn’t a choice. At least not the first dozen times around. She has met him. Hal. She smiled at him, for fuck’s sake! She found him charming; that’s what she said.
“It’s not important now,” Rachel tells him. “Get rid of the baby and put an end to this madness. Everything will be all right then. I promise.”
He wants to scream. It is not her promise to make! Can’t she see it?
“You’re not Rachel,” he mutters. He doesn’t know what to believe, but there is a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. “Rachel would never ask me to hurt a baby. She was kind. She wanted children.”
“Sixty years in Purgatory, Nick!” she snaps. “Stuck between the worlds to pay for your sins. Yours and those of your precious Hal. How much kindness do you think I’ve got left in me?”
He stares at the radio, dumbfounded. No, that’s impossible. The afterlife doesn’t work that way. She passed over, she should be at peace!
Cutler’s lips tremble. He tries to tell her about the plan to eliminate Mr Snow they’re hatching up. He speaks of himself like he is a full-blown team member, like there is a bloody team.
“Mr Snow doesn’t matter,” Rachel says, sending him into a fresh bout of panic. How could he not matter? He’s the Final Boss, the Biggest Bad, the arrogant scumbag who didn’t like Cutler’s plan! “Whether you like it or not,” Rachel continues, “the War Child’s death is the only way to end this. Do you honestly believe Mr Snow’s shoes are too big to fill? If he falls, someone else will rise. It could even be Hal.”
Cutler’s memory supplies the words: I’ve seen what he becomes in this future. Annie’s words. Does that mean Hal becomes the new Mr Snow?
Cutler straightens his back.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not even for you.”
“You owe me, Nick!” she shouts. There is nothing of the Rachel he knew in her now, tenderness and patience stripped away to expose fiery rage. “Don’t turn your back on me! Not after what you did. Not after what you’ve been doing all this time!”
A bizarre sense of déjà vu hits him. He remembers standing in his garage and telling Hal that he cannot kill his wife. He felt so terrified: of Hal, of himself, of the future.
And now he’s having a similar conversation with her - and he is once again saying no.
The transmission is cut off mid-word. Cutler blinks away the tears and turns to the door. It’s open; Tom is looking at him from the corridor.
“Who’re you talkin’ to?”
Cutler’s brain shuts down before he can come up with a coherent answer.
“Er… myself.” He smiles. “You all hate me so much that I figured I’d join the club and give myself a piece of mind.”
Tom raises his eyebrows but luckily doesn’t say anything. Cutler trots after him, unwilling to stay tête-à-tête with the infernal transmitter. His heart is doing a Michael Jackson against his ribs.
He never liked ghost stories.
* * *
The war council is still in session. Cutler cannot help noticing that Hal is leaning against the wall far away from Annie who occasionally casts dark glances at him. Has he missed something important?
“I get why I’m scared of her,” he whispers to Hal. “Why are you?”
“I’m not scared,” Hal replies tersely. “I’m giving her space.”
Admittedly, the kitchen is a bit challenged in that respect. Cutler snorts. If that makes Hal feel better, fine, he’s not scared.
“I was wondering if maybe you could put in a good word for me. If we all have to work together, I’d rather not deal with her eternal PMT.”
As soon as he says it, he realises the phrasing might be a bit incorrect. Or very incorrect because Hal is glowering at him like he’s just defended Hitler in an argument with a Holocaust survivor.
“Given the nature of our relationship, I sincerely doubt my word would count for anything.”
Cutler is about to ask what the nature of Hal’s relationship with Annie is when it hits him. Oh, he means their relationship! The relationship between Hal and Cutler. Cutler didn’t even know they still had a relationship, much less of any particular nature.
The other Power Rangers, joined by Adam and Yvonne, continue arguing about the plan of action, and someone finally brings up a valid argument: they have got no clue as to Mr Snow’s whereabouts. It’s pretty clear he won’t be stuck in Barry forever; hell, he must have left already. Which brings them back to square minus one. Oh well, you can never have too many homemade explosives. Cutler is sure Tom will find some domestic use for them. And maybe the world, which, according to Rachel, nobody is going to like, won’t even catch up with them. At least not straight away.
Tom is relating some unimaginably complicated ideas of tracking vampires rooted in his hunting days when Annie suddenly exclaims:
“The Prime Minister!” Everyone looks at her like she’s lost it. She throws her hands up. “Eve told me that in the future the full-blown panic started when the vampires killed the Prime Minister on national television. She said we were only days away. This is where Snow is going to be.”
“He’s gonna eat the PM on telly?” Cutler repeats, dumbstruck. That’s actually… not such a bad idea. He snorts. “What’s next? Summoning Satan?”
Hal mutters, looking strangely uncomfortable:
“I wouldn’t worry about that…”
“So,” Tom interrupts, “London then?”
Oh yes, that narrows it down.
“You’re not seriously suggesting we loaf about a big city, loaded with bombs and stakes and whatnot!” Cutler says. “The last thing we need is to be mistaken for terrorists.”
“I hate to say it, but Cutler’s right,” Alex supplies. The sky must be falling. “If we knew the exact location, Annie and I could rent-a-ghost in and do our thing. But we can’t risk you getting arrested or anything. Anyway, what can we do? Blow up the BBC? That’d still get a hell of a lot of innocent people killed.”
And a hell of a lot of good shows put on hold.
“Considering the shit they’ve been up to lately, I wouldn’t say they were that innocent,” Adam mutters. Yvonne gives him The Look.
Cutler looks back at Hal. Hal’s face is a stony mask, save for the panic in his eyes.
“Seeing as we got no choice, someone will have to contact them local vampires and find out what’s what,” Tom says.
Hal goes a few shades paler. Cutler always thought it was only possible in cartoons. The problem is that both of them would most likely be staked on sight (or at least Cutler would be; Hal would probably be chained up in the basement until all the good was out of his system).
Adam cuts in:
“Fine, scaredy-cats, lucky the A-dog is here to save the day. I’ll gatecrash some vampire mixer and ask around.”
Cutler is all right with that, but the others seem to be apprehensive. Alex fails to contain a snort.
“Oi, I’ve got tons of investigating experience,” Adam bristles up. “I’ll have you know I solved a murder once. Can you say the same for yourself?”
Alex glanced at Cutler. “I didn’t have to.”
If Cutler were brought up on charges for her murder now, he would most definitely plead insanity. Never mind that it’s the result of talking to her after she’s kicked it.
Little by little, the outline of the plan is becoming clear. They will leave the War Child here with Yvonne and set out for London as soon as their arsenal is ready. Adam will go ahead to collect information on Snow. Depending on his whereabouts, they will then attempt to repeat the fireworks at Stoker’s, hopefully without making a ragout out of the Prime Minister in the process. All that sounds a bit dangerous and a lot mental but nobody seems to mind.
Except Hal.
“Tom, I can’t go,” he whispers when the meeting is adjourned. “You know that.”
Cutler searches for something to fix his eyes on to make it look like he is not eavesdropping, but they aren’t pay attention to him anyway.
Tom squeezes Hal’s shoulder.
“C’mon, mate, I got your back, remember?”
Hal breathes out shakily.
“All I’ve been thinking about for the past few days is blood.”
“Try thinking ‘bout something else. Yvonne’s cooking is smashing.”
The sound Hal makes is a mutant cross between a chuckle and a sob.
“I won’t let you leap at people,” Tom says resolutely. “You can babble though.”
Another sob/chuckle hybrid follows. This must be an in-joke. Cutler hates it that they share in-jokes. He doesn’t hate Tom himself, doesn’t even hate it that Tom encourages Hal’s rehab madness, but these exchanges are more than he can bear. He attempts to slink off before he grinds his teeth into powder expressing his disgruntlement, but the kitchen has become a Tom-free zone somewhere between the ten-point earthquake of inexplicable anger and the tsunami of illogical jealousy inside Cutler. Hal easily projects his existential angst on the nearest semi-breathing object, which happens to be Cutler.
“I can’t go to London,” he says, a touch of hysteria in his voice. The broken record syndrome is apparently a thing in this household.
“Sure you can,” Cutler says dismissively. “You heard Tom. He’s got you. You’re gonna be like Butch and Sundance.”
If Cutler had enough time, he could make a proper joke out of this material: Tom is the dog, but Hal is the one who has to be kept on a leash. This is golden.
“I can barely contain myself here!” Hal snaps. “Can you imagine me in a big city with millions of people? Crowds, traffic, all that noise and chaos.”
“Maybe it’s just what you need. To find something to focus on. In our case, it’s getting Snow. You just won’t have time to think about anything else.”
This is what he is counting on in his case because - dammit, this wagon thing is becoming unbearable.
“I can’t face Snow!” Hal all but yells. The intensity of his outburst takes Cutler by surprise. Hal is sweating and shaking, and for once it’s not just about blood.
“He’s not that scary,” Cutler says cautiously. “I’ve met him, remember? He should just get his teeth bleached and perhaps think of using some skincare product.”
Hal grips the front of Cutler’s shirt. “Do you think I’m joking?”
“No,” Cutler says, meeting his eyes. “But I am. You may laugh.”
Hal doesn’t. The look on his face is enough to kill any mood except the downright apocalyptic one. Sarcasm and silly film references have been Cutler’s defense mechanism since before he can remember, but he suspects that he should stop hiding for once.
It strikes him that he has never seen Hal genuinely scared before. Hal’s eyes are feverishly bright and red-rimmed, his breath hot on Cutler’s face. It’s not that Cutler isn’t afraid of Snow. He can joke all he likes; Snow is quite terrifying up close. But Cutler is used to being afraid. He was afraid of Hal for five years; deep down, he still is. Hal, Cutler suspects, has never been afraid of anything but himself and Mr Snow.
Cutler touches Hal’s shoulder tentatively. Tension makes Hal’s muscles rigid; it feels like touching a statue. Or a Twilight vampire.
“Whatever power you think he’s got over you-” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence to realise that it’s not going to work. He tries again, softer. “Hal. You’d never let anyone control you.”
Hal whispers: “I may not have a choice.”
Maybe it’s the tone of voice; maybe the phrasing. Cutler pulls away and throws up his hands.
“Fuck that! You always have a choice. Everyone has a choice. I have a choice!”
“That’s not what you said before.”
Cutler all but gapes at him. It’s a poor substitute for a mirror, but Cutler needs to see his own astonishment reflected somewhere. Please do not disturb: epiphany in progress.
“I do,” he says, and then: “I did. Maybe not the first time around, but afterwards I always did. With Rachel, too.”
He shouldn’t have lied to Rachel earlier today, but then, he didn’t really understand, not until he heard her voice again, not until she threw those fair accusations in his face.
“I still killed her,” Hal says softly.
Yes, Cutler thinks, habitual anger stirring within him, yes, you did.
“But I chose not to. And afterwards, I chose to stay with you. Everything I did, everything I’m doing now is my choice. I kept telling myself that you wouldn’t have had it any other way.” His lips twist into an almost painful smile. Revelations can be as damnific as they can be cathartic. “But that’s not true, is it? If I wanted to make a different choice… well, there’s plenty of wood around.”
Something changes in Hal’s face. He closes off, collects himself; Cutler can practically see all the unintentionally released emotions seeping back into him. He mutters something about needing air, and Cutler doesn’t stop him - because he’s not Tom and he can only give so many fucks about someone who doesn’t give a damn about him.
(Speaking of Yvonne’s cooking: now would be a good time.)
“Nick!”
Cutler starts. Not again!
“You can’t let them leave the baby here,” Rachel admonishes. Cutler looks around and spots a radio set on the counter. How many radio sets do these people have? Rachel’s voice sounds hissy through the background noise. “She’s not safe here.”
Cutler snorts. “I thought you wanted her dead.”
“Quickly and painlessly! Not taken by Mr Snow’s men for God knows what purposes.”
Cutler is itching for some good old appliance defenestration.
“At the very least they’ve got no idea she’s here,” he says. “I’d be surprised if they had any idea what here was.”
There is a pregnant pause, and Cutler is almost sure that she curses his lack of cooperation in her mind. It would be much easier if he could see her. If she could see him.
“Nick,” Rachel says cautiously. “If they discover her whereabouts, the world will to go to hell.” The sizzling noises at the background make “hell” sound like “Hal”, which, from what Cutler understands, is pretty close to the truth. “Can you really let this happen?”
She wasn’t such a nag when she was alive. He sighs. Fine, he’ll tell them. Not that they would listen.
* * *
Much to his surprise, they do. Annie admits that she feels uncomfortable leaving Eve behind. Yvonne heroically declares that she will then join the group because she cannot have Adam- Actually, Cutler doesn’t know what she cannot have Adam doing because he doesn’t really listen. His mission is accomplished, and he realizes, with a strange, sinking feeling, that he doesn’t want to stay alone in case Rachel tries to contact him again. For all that he has genuinely missed her, he never believed he would hear her voice again. Now that he did, he wants that to have never happened.
He goes outside where the sky is a smoky, dark shade of an indefinite colour. He recalls a photograph he may have seen on some travel website. A beach somewhere in the Bahamas or the Maldives or wherever, the sky bejeweled with stars, waves rolling over the sandy shores. The waves were bright blue, strewn with specks of surreal light that, if Cutler remembers correctly, came from the abundance of some kind of luminescent plankton that reacted with oxygen and illuminated the water. It was a simple picture, something that could easily be Photoshopped even if one didn’t possess complex graphic skills. Thinking back to it now, Cutler realises that it was the last thing he thought of as beautiful. He is not the sentimental type. He doesn’t cling to snapshots of the past. Everybody keeps telling him the world is going to hell in a handcart, but he is not feeling it. Perhaps he should.
His solitude is short-lived. Three quarters of the core four pour out of the house and disperse over the lawn. Cutler wishes he smoked so that he could try and drive them away by exhaling smoke in their faces (never mind that it would only disturb Tom).
“Hal looked jittery,” Alex observes. “It’s really bad, isn’t it? The blood thing?”
“Could be worse,” Annie comments distantly. “He could be massacring dozens of innocent people on a train. Or he could be recruiting.”
The latter lights a big neon sign spelling out FUCK NO! in Cutler’s head.
“Maybe he’s right,” says Alex. “Maybe he should sit this one out.”
“I ain’t leavin’ him here unsupervised,” Tom protests. “I promised to help him. To be the new Leo.”
“Tom, you can’t always keep an eye on him,” says Annie. “Trust me, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh, please,” Cutler mutters. He should really do something about that chatty tongue of his. “Just because your vampire flew off the handle and had to be put down, it doesn’t mean-.”
He falls silent as Annie turns to glare at him. He expects the next round of Cutlerball to start in three… two… one.
“Where is Hal anyway?” Tom asks, drawing everyone’s attention to Hal’s rather conspicuous absence.
Cutler frowns. Was it dark already when Hal left or has he been out for hours without anybody having noticed? Where would he go on an island this small?
Cutler plays back the last conversation he had with Hal - and another ill-timed epiphany strikes him.
“Uh-oh.”
Alex narrows her eyes. “What?”
Cutler murmurs past the lump in his throat:
“I think I may have told Hal to go stake himself.”
* * *
Commercial break: From the producers who saw too many second-rate action flicks, comes the new epic adventure, a high-octane modern day remake of the sequel spin-off to the triquel of the sixteenth century saga Dark Hal Rising - It’s Cutler Time! It slices and dices and snarks like a boss.
Starring: Nick Cutler as his very own fantastic self; Hal Yorke, Tom McNair and Annie the Creepyfying Ghost as the Token Trio; Alex Best-Served-Cold as the Ghost Avenger; Adam Jacobs and Yvonne Bradshaw as the Redshirts; Eve “Antichrist” Sands as the ticking time-bomb; and Mr Snow as the Nightmare Fuel.
Music composed by the paranoid authors of the drumbeat from series three of Doctor Who.
Cinematography by random camera phone owners (vampires inserted via The Sims simulations).
Written and directed by [no idea who but if Cutler finds them, they’re goners].
Reviewers have described this smart, sexy and riveting adventure as “smart, sexy and riveting… until it’s not, not anymore.”
Coming to a cinema near you. Dangerously near.
* * *
Strained silence is one of the things Cutler hates, on par with running and songs that begin with a countdown.
Hal is strapped to a chair - and if Cutler knew what this rehab thing entailed, he would have pushed Hal on the wagon a long time ago.
The smell of blood is faint, but it tickles Cutler’s nostrils nonetheless, making the hunger swell and burn. He leans into Hal, resting his hands on Hal’s lap for purchase, and takes a deep breath. The blood is still in Hal’s mouth. Cutler’s lips hover over Hal’s. Tom could have at least made him brush his teeth before tying him up.
“What are you doing?” Hal whispers.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Don’t.”
Cutler snickers. It sounds like a dialogue from a trashy melodrama.
“I’m going to regret this,” Cutler says. He wants to nudge Hal’s mouth open with his tongue and suck the blood out. It may even be Hal’s blood. Cutler doesn’t care. That old, familiar feeling of need nests within him, making his teeth ache.
“I didn’t attack anyone,” Hal says rapidly. “It was dark. She came out of nowhere. She bumped into me, and I, I snarled at her. And she saw my face. She started running and fell and hit her head. I didn’t drink, I just… I touched the wound and licked some blood off my fingers.”
Which was when Tom and the others found him. Cutler nods.
“I know. This is why you’re still going to London.”
“I told you!” Hal’s voice comes out high-pitched and hysterical. “I can’t!”
Cutler pulls away. It hurts on an almost physical level. Just a few drops of blood - but Cutler feels them in his famished state all the more acutely.
“Your mental stability is the last thing I care about,” he says. “But I really do think that taking out Mr Snow - and saving that blasted baby - would be good for you. In the long run. And what’s good for you is… apparently… good for the world.” Another apocalyptic omen right there.
Hal’s eyes bore into Cutler’s back as he looks away from the chair, trying to collect his thoughts. He is usually quite good at motivational speeches, but they are frequently addressed to himself and ripped off of Hal’s spiel from the fifties.
“Looks like I’m taking this whole going dry thing a bit better than you. I guess my lack of appreciation for brutal and creative killings has finally come in handy.” Cutler grins; Hal predictably doesn’t. “What I’m trying to say is… You’ve got this huge support network. Take it from someone who’s got the first-hand experience in disappointing people: you don’t want to let them down.”
He doesn’t wait for Hal to answer. If he spends one more minute in this room, he will vomit. The pull of hunger is too strong. He goes down to the kitchen, feeling like a sleepwalker in the empty, dark cottage. The radio keeps silent as he puts the kettle to boil. He imagines Rachel, the new, hard and pitiless Rachel, laughing at him. Maybe she was always like that; maybe he just never noticed.
He makes tea and takes it to Hal. He can be nice and considerate if he tries.
“Why did Tom and the others think I was going to kill myself?” Hal asks.
“Oh, er… I might have said something.”
Hal arches his eyebrows. His expression could almost be described as amused.
“If I wanted to kill myself over words, I would have died a long time ago. Possibly as a human.”
Cutler grunts noncommittally and pushes the rim of the mug between Hal’s lips before Hal can protest. He watches Hal’s throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and waits for a disparaging comment or perhaps a remark that Annie’s is better (which is bullshit because Cutler has made so many cups of tea for bloody Griffin that if you poured their contents into a cistern, you could swim in it).
Hal keeps silent.
Cutler wants to sink his teeth into Hal’s throat. Blood maps itself out in the bluish cords of veins under his skin.
“Tell me about Leo,” Cutler says.
Hal’s eyes are dark, almost black in the soft semi-darkness of the room, but not vampire black. He looks sick, emaciated, like a radiation victim. They haven’t got much time, and Cutler doesn’t know how Leo went about these things or how Tom does or how one is generally supposed to detox a vampire (especially if one suffers from the same condition), but it’s either this or the death of Twitter and every other aspect of civilization. Cutler would only agree to have the Old Ones rule the world if they took his counsel into account.
“Talk to me,” he prods, and strangely, Hal does.
* * *
Hal shouts and pleads and threatens, from dusk till dawn and then some. At first his outbursts seem to disturb Yvonne but eventually strange linguistic enthusiasm grips her and she sets out to document his antiquated obscenities. Adam is gone within a week. Tom obsessively plans for anything and everything. Annie is barely seen at all. Alex - Alex who? As for Cutler, he tries to stay away from the radio and imagines all the boring bits as a montage set to some wacky sentimental music. Possibly Sugar, Sugar.
Alex asks him why he’s not cursing or yelling like Hal. It’s obvious that they all suspect he secretly drinks blood. He doesn’t try to dissuade them.
Fast-forward: London. April. 5.5 hours of sunshine daily. Lots of traffic and healthy blood circulation. Cutler used to live here what feels like ages ago.
Predictably they argue over where to stay. Tom is all for breaking into some warehouse or perhaps nesting under the bridge, as long as they are out of sight. Hal lectures him on the importance of having four walls around him, otherwise “I shall not be responsible for my actions!” Annie supports him (for Eve’s sake, presumably) and tasks Yvonne with finding suitable premises.
The bickering continues. Cutler does the only sensible thing there is to do: he escapes. He finds a mini-market on the corner of the street and sneaks inside. He thinks of getting Hal a bag of M&M’s, a little coloured chaos to soothe his anxiety. Anxious Hal equals snappy, irritable and occasionally hysterical Hal, and Cutler is honestly fed up with his mood swings.
The abundance of colourful labels hurts his eyes. A dull, pulsing ache spreads through his fangs. Saliva in his mouth has an acute metallic tang to it. He flexes his fingers. He’s better at this than Hal. This is the one thing he is better at, and that’s about the only reason he continues this charade.
He gathers various packs without really looking at the labels. Waffles, crisps, caramel. Perhaps he should get toffees, something really sticky; it would stick to Hal’s teeth, and he won’t be able to bite anyone. Or talk.
“How does a staunch opponent of the werewolves go from trying to warn the world about the danger that they pose to working with one of them practically overnight?”
Cutler nearly drops his acquisitions. He turns around and looks over a rather unremarkable man in a grey suit who gives him a polite smile.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Dominic Rook. I represent the Department of the Domestic Defense. My job is to maintain the illusion that man is alone and to safeguard him against supernatural calamities.”
“Looks like you’re not doing very well then.” He connects the dots and exclaims: “You took down my videos! And my Twitter account!”
He doesn’t expect an explanation, but he finds Rook’s simple, one-word answer a little infuriating nonetheless.
“Yes.”
Cutler instinctively takes a step back. It makes sense that they might want to take him into custody or just plain stake him. How come Hal never told him the bloody government knew about supernaturals? How come guys like Fergus were needed if the government could just clean up after the vampires any time?
“The world is on the verge of a great change,” says Rook, sounding like an expert salesman. “Regardless of the outcome, it will never be quite the same as it used to be. In light of that, we have decided that the vampires would be better off under new management. We would like you to be the liaison between our world and the vampire world-.”
The speech reminds Cutler of the history-making bullshit he likes to repeat after Hal.
Wait a minute.
“You want me to… what, rule the vampires? All over the world?”
“Let us not get too far ahead.”
This is mental if he does say so himself.
“On the contrary,” says Rook. “We know that the Old Ones are planning a takeover. And we know that you are now part of the group that is working to prevent the expansion of your race. We fully support this endeavour. With someone like you at the helm, someone modern and imaginative, your race could progress beyond the base, animalistic urges that govern it.”
It does sound attractive. Certainly more attractive than Snow’s crude catapults and battering rams.
“Perhaps at first you might require a figurehead. Someone more traditional, more renowned.” He means Hal, doesn’t he? Cutler snorts at the idea. “But in time, I’m sure, you will come into your own.”
Rook concludes the speech with an extremely fake cheery smile. It makes Cutler’s skin crawl. He’s never seen a less human-like human.
“In return,” Rook adds, seeing Cutler’s hesitation, “we shall provide you with premises, funding, assistance and means to acquire blood consensually.”
Damn, the bastard really knows his strategies of negotiation.
“You don’t have to answer immediately. But we are aware that your group is in need of accommodation.” He holds out a small note with an address and a phone number scribbled on it. “This might suit your needs. Give me a ring when you make up your mind.”
Another fake smile. If there was a Grand Prix for this, the guy would win it.
“Why don’t you just stop the Old Ones yourself if you know what they’re planning?” Cutler asks - because, hell, anyone stands a better chance than their ragtag Fellowship of Arson, Murder and Lifesaving.
Rook looks at him like he has just asked why frogs don’t fly.
“Bureaucracy, Mr Cutler. If we go via official channels, I’m afraid it will take quite a while.” It cannot possibly sound any fishier. “But I wish you the best of luck.”
* * *
“No bloody way!” Tom says resolutely. “I ain’t getting locked up nowhere so they could experiment on us or something. They could even be the same people that did that to George and Nina!”
He looks to Annie for approval. She nods vaguely, rocking Eve in her arms, as if she hasn’t really given thought to it. She has been strangely distant lately.
Cutler has no idea what was done to George and Nina, but he is pretty sure Rook isn’t planning to experiment on them.
“We can’t stay in the car or in a ditch somewhere,” he reasons. “And it’s not a very good idea to check into a hotel with… you know, bombs in our luggage.”
Tom grudgingly agrees to inspect the place. They drive to check out the address and end up in front of an old, gloomy-looking house that may or may not be abandoned.
“We don’t have a key anyway,” Tom mutters, “so let’s go.”
Cutler twiddles Rook’s note in his hand. There is a combination of numbers that is obviously a key code, but before he can punch it in, Alex disappears; a moment later the door opens from the other side. Alex grins and waves them inside.
The house is gloomy but clean and orderly. Cutler instantly dubs it Grimmauld Place. Hal traditionally doesn’t get the joke. Alex snickers, and the others ignore him.
“Is that a camera?” Tom asks, glaring suspiciously at the ceiling where a small rectangular object is positioned. Tom moves aside; the box buzzes and turns slowly in the same direction. Motion sensors. How cool is that?
“Maybe they’re filming a reality show,” Alex suggests.
“Starring ghosts and vampires?” Hal says sceptically.
“Or a floating baby,” Cutler notes.
Annie starts, and moves out of the camera range.
“Do they know about Eve?” she asks.
Cutler doesn’t think so. At least Rook hasn’t mentioned anything, but then again, the War Child is more or less irrelevant to his proposal.
“If we’re gonna stay here, we need to get rid of ‘em,” Tom says.
It’s a bit like a scavenger hunt. Cutler is sure the house is bugged too, and there are probably more hidden cameras than the ones they can see, but he enjoys disconnecting them as they explore the place inch by inch. Hal notices his grin and cocks his eyebrows curiously.
“Defense mechanism?”
“No, this is me actually having fun!”
Hal’s surprised face looks very amusing and somehow makes him look less… Hal-like.
“Why?”
Cutler stops containing his childish excitement.
“What do you mean why? Look at this place! It’s like a James Bond film but with a crappy low budget. I wonder if there’s a panic room. Or a secret torture dungeon.” Hal cringes. “Come on, everybody loves a dungeon!” Cutler winks slyly. “I know you did.”
Alex pops out of nowhere right by his side. Not for the first time Cutler is glad that he can’t have a heart attack.
“It’s them!” Alex declares with the utmost certainty. The two vampires give her blank looks. She shakes her head impatiently. “They’ve got my body. You said they cleaned up after weird murders. How much weirder could my murder get?” She clamps her hand on Cutler’s shoulder companionably. “You’re gonna ask them about it.”
Cutler goggles at her.
“No way! No! I can’t contact them before I have an answer-!”
Alex sniggers. “What, you as the… head vampire in charge? Seriously?”
Cutler puffs up his chest. “Why not?”
He makes the mistake of looking at Hal then. Hal’s face reflects an insulting combination of outrage, not unlike the expression he wore when Cutler outlined his idea of the exposure of werewolves to him, and mockery. He can take this from her: she doesn’t know him, she wasn’t the one who tried to fashion him into a history maker. But not from Hal. Hal has lost the right to laugh at him.
Cutler clenches his teeth and says nothing, but he files it away for later.
* * *
Cutler texts Yvonne and Adam the location of the house and the key code combination. He thinks of starting a new Twitter account but it’s not like he can liveblog saving the world.
Tom declares they should track down Milo and separate him from Snow, which is easier said than done, at least until Adam gets them Snow’s location. Tom and his “team”, that is Hal and Alex, leave in the evening, evidently to nick some more junk for Tom’s arsenal. Cutler is very explicitly told to stay put (apparently it’s easier to trust a bipolar five-hundred-year-old megalomaniac whom they have dragged here against his will than someone who maintains the most basic control over his urges). Annie refuses to leave Eve until Yvonne comes to play babysitter - and nobody cares that leaving Cutler alone with the all-powerful woman who hates his guts might not be the best idea.
Fortunately, Grimmauld Place has a lot of rooms, the doors to all of them lockable. Cutler turns the key, leans against the door - and realises that fat load of good it will do him. Annie can rent-a-ghost.
He growls and slides down on the floor. In a single moment of anger, he slams his fists against the floor and spits in a choked voice: “Fuck!”
This is so not what he wanted. He was supposed to be rich, living in Brazil, driving fast cars and walking barefooted in the sand. There would be easy women and blood in abundance. There would be some kind of fucking freedom at last!
But hey, since when does Nick Cutler get what he wants, be it wealth or recognition or even a break? That would be too fucking trouble-free, wouldn’t it?
The television screen flickers to life. Cutler can’t see anything but a vaguely outlined shadow. He can’t decide if it’s comforting or disturbing.
She calls his name. He doesn’t move but he finds himself wishing she were here, even as a ghost, so that he could feel her, just for a little while. But because he is a moron who doesn’t know when to stop, he snaps at her:
“Come to gloat at my misery?”
“I’m on your side, Nick,” Rachel says. She doesn’t sound hurt or reproachful. He liked it better when she yelled at him. Tranquility is eerie.
“I know you are.” He tilts his head up, resting it against the wall. It takes an effort not to slam it harder onto the hard surface.
“They won’t trust you,” says Rachel. “You know that.”
“I don’t care about their trust!” But she didn’t see Hal’s face. And now Cutler doesn’t want to think about Rook’s proposal because for all he knows, that might have been a cruel joke too. “I want people to remember my name. I don’t care if I go down in history as a hero or a villain as long as I make it.”
He expects her to be horrified. His Rachel would be. But this Rachel is sixty years older and reinvented.
“I told you before,” she says. “There is only one way.” He hesitates. She adds: “What’s one life if it saves the world? If it saves Hal?”
Cutler jumps up, infuriated.
“Fuck Hal! He’s a dick. And why should I want him off the blood anyway? He’s even more insufferable this way! Sanctimonious bastard. He almost killed someone, but it’s totally okay because he’s their fwiend! Hypocrites, the whole bunch of them.”
“Every time he reverts, he gets worse. The man who is coming now is not at all the man you knew. He will be cold, brutal. He will have lost everything, and there is nothing more dangerous than that.”
Cutler covers his face with his hands. He is having a minor anxiety attack. Or a major anxiety attack. Feels more like anxiety carpet bombing.
There are a lot of things about the whole War Child business that he doesn’t understand. Even if she dies now, what good will it do? Humans don’t even know she exists yet and the vampires can maintain the illusion that she is alive indefinitely. She is a baby; how hard can it be to replace a baby?
“You know what? You’re right. Maybe this is what I’m here for.” All good films are afflicted with plotholes and continuity issues. He doesn’t give a damn why the War Child must die, but if this is the way to prove his worth, then so long, infant immortality.
Sod everything; he’ll do it now. It has to be worth the looks on their faces. He just needs to make sure Annie is removed from her side.
He peeks into the room. Eve is asleep and alone. He looks around warily, but there is no sign of Annie. No sign of Yvonne either. He finds it hard to believe that Annie would just leave the War Child alone, and it’s not like she needs a bathroom break, but he’d better take this opportunity. What should he use? He can probably snap her neck with his bare hands. Or smother her with a pillow. No, let there be blood. Let them see some blood; they’re all so afraid of it.
He picks a knife up in the kitchen and returns to the room. Annie is still absent. Cutler raises the knife. He never had a soft spot for babies and he absolutely loathes this one, but-
“Look, it’s nothing personal,” he tells her. “It’s just that unfair kind of a deal: you or the world. And I like the world a bit more.”
“Nick, shut your mouth and just do it!” Rachel cries out. This is what happens when there is a telly in every room.
She’s right though. He should get cracking. He brings the knife down.
“Hey, mate, there you are! I combed the whole house, it’s like a bloody graveyard-!”
Cutler spins around, startled, and plunges the knife deep into Adam’s flesh right below the ribcage.
Part 6 - Our Halk Smash
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.
A/N: I want to sit in and self-harm.
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2 - Our Group Decision
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Part 4 - Our Double Twattage
Part 5
Our Emotional Baggage
“Nick.” He thinks he can hear her laughing, but the sound is distorted. “I finally found you.”
“Rachel, I-.”
Cutler falters. How does one usually greet the wife who was horribly murdered and is calling from the afterlife over half a century later? He shoves his hand into his pocket, clutching his mobile phone, half-intent on Googling it.
“I know,” she whispers. That is her intonation. He recognises it. She sounded like that when things went wrong at work and he would come home ranting and forget to compliment the dinner she had made and generally act like an obnoxious fool. She was always so patient. “You’ve done so many terrible things. But it doesn’t matter now. Soon, nothing will matter anymore.”
He blinks rapidly. Maybe there are tears in his eyes. Maybe that’s just water. Maybe she’s not even real. Some vampires hallucinate when they go dry. Perhaps he’s finally losing it.
“What do you mean?”
“The world is ending, Nick.”
Not her too! Why is everyone so hung up on this?
“No need to exaggerate,” Cutler says, feigning nonchalance. He is pretty sure his heart isn’t supposed to beat that fast. “It’s just a little vampire invasion.”
“Nobody’s going to like that world, Nick,” says Rachel. “Not even the vampires.”
White noise grows louder, and for a moment, he is afraid to lose her again. He holds his hand out to the radio as if to stop her from leaving.
“You can stop it,” she says. “You can be a history maker like you were always meant to be. You can put things right.”
He takes a deep breath. Hello, insanity. If she says he is somebody’s only hope- He’s quite sure the diploma in his office doesn’t say “Obi-Wan Kenobi”.
Despite the absurdity of the situation, Cutler latches on to the familiar incentive. Be a hero. Be a history maker.
“What do I have to do?”
“You know. You’ve thought about it. You’ve voiced it, but no one listens.”
His eyes widen.
“The War Child.” He shakes his head, beginning to sober up. “No, if I do that, they…” He trails off, and starts again: “We’ve got a better plan.”
A hint of impatience creeps into Rachel’s voice.
“This is the only plan, Nick! The War Child saves humanity by dying. They know that. They are just blinded by their love for her. You’ve got no such reservations. You see things clearly, don’t you? Do what must be done.”
“Okay, first of all, stop talking like the bloody Oracle!” snaps Cutler. This is the new level of mental. Not to mention really unnerving, coming from his dead wife. “Look, I’d love to help, but… Shall we say, my plans tend to go to the dogs a bit too often these days. Besides, I’m trying to stay on the straight and narrow, and Hal-.”
The noise waves flare up. The radio crackles like it’s about to explode. Rachel’s voice comes through, edged with steel.
“How many times do I have to watch you choose him over me? You have betrayed my memory, Nick. You’ve betrayed it so many times.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. The sound grows louder. She keeps talking but he can’t make out the words. Anxiety sweeps over him, and turns into genuine fear. He feels as helpless as he felt when Hal showed him just whose blood he had drunk. “I’m sorry!” he shouts. It’s futile. He can no more apologise for this than Hal can. No person in their right mind would accept an apology for something so monstrous. “I’m so sorry, Rachel.”
The buzzing subsides. The radio goes completely quiet for a long-drawn-out moment. Has she gone? Has she given up on him?
No, she hasn’t.
“I know you are, Nick,” she says, her tone gentle again. He wishes he could see her, but then, she would see him too, and he isn’t sure he can handle that.
Cutler rubs his eyes furiously. His eyelashes are wet.
“I didn’t choose him over you,” he says with conviction. He didn’t, did he? It wasn’t a choice. At least not the first dozen times around. She has met him. Hal. She smiled at him, for fuck’s sake! She found him charming; that’s what she said.
“It’s not important now,” Rachel tells him. “Get rid of the baby and put an end to this madness. Everything will be all right then. I promise.”
He wants to scream. It is not her promise to make! Can’t she see it?
“You’re not Rachel,” he mutters. He doesn’t know what to believe, but there is a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. “Rachel would never ask me to hurt a baby. She was kind. She wanted children.”
“Sixty years in Purgatory, Nick!” she snaps. “Stuck between the worlds to pay for your sins. Yours and those of your precious Hal. How much kindness do you think I’ve got left in me?”
He stares at the radio, dumbfounded. No, that’s impossible. The afterlife doesn’t work that way. She passed over, she should be at peace!
Cutler’s lips tremble. He tries to tell her about the plan to eliminate Mr Snow they’re hatching up. He speaks of himself like he is a full-blown team member, like there is a bloody team.
“Mr Snow doesn’t matter,” Rachel says, sending him into a fresh bout of panic. How could he not matter? He’s the Final Boss, the Biggest Bad, the arrogant scumbag who didn’t like Cutler’s plan! “Whether you like it or not,” Rachel continues, “the War Child’s death is the only way to end this. Do you honestly believe Mr Snow’s shoes are too big to fill? If he falls, someone else will rise. It could even be Hal.”
Cutler’s memory supplies the words: I’ve seen what he becomes in this future. Annie’s words. Does that mean Hal becomes the new Mr Snow?
Cutler straightens his back.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not even for you.”
“You owe me, Nick!” she shouts. There is nothing of the Rachel he knew in her now, tenderness and patience stripped away to expose fiery rage. “Don’t turn your back on me! Not after what you did. Not after what you’ve been doing all this time!”
A bizarre sense of déjà vu hits him. He remembers standing in his garage and telling Hal that he cannot kill his wife. He felt so terrified: of Hal, of himself, of the future.
And now he’s having a similar conversation with her - and he is once again saying no.
The transmission is cut off mid-word. Cutler blinks away the tears and turns to the door. It’s open; Tom is looking at him from the corridor.
“Who’re you talkin’ to?”
Cutler’s brain shuts down before he can come up with a coherent answer.
“Er… myself.” He smiles. “You all hate me so much that I figured I’d join the club and give myself a piece of mind.”
Tom raises his eyebrows but luckily doesn’t say anything. Cutler trots after him, unwilling to stay tête-à-tête with the infernal transmitter. His heart is doing a Michael Jackson against his ribs.
He never liked ghost stories.
* * *
The war council is still in session. Cutler cannot help noticing that Hal is leaning against the wall far away from Annie who occasionally casts dark glances at him. Has he missed something important?
“I get why I’m scared of her,” he whispers to Hal. “Why are you?”
“I’m not scared,” Hal replies tersely. “I’m giving her space.”
Admittedly, the kitchen is a bit challenged in that respect. Cutler snorts. If that makes Hal feel better, fine, he’s not scared.
“I was wondering if maybe you could put in a good word for me. If we all have to work together, I’d rather not deal with her eternal PMT.”
As soon as he says it, he realises the phrasing might be a bit incorrect. Or very incorrect because Hal is glowering at him like he’s just defended Hitler in an argument with a Holocaust survivor.
“Given the nature of our relationship, I sincerely doubt my word would count for anything.”
Cutler is about to ask what the nature of Hal’s relationship with Annie is when it hits him. Oh, he means their relationship! The relationship between Hal and Cutler. Cutler didn’t even know they still had a relationship, much less of any particular nature.
The other Power Rangers, joined by Adam and Yvonne, continue arguing about the plan of action, and someone finally brings up a valid argument: they have got no clue as to Mr Snow’s whereabouts. It’s pretty clear he won’t be stuck in Barry forever; hell, he must have left already. Which brings them back to square minus one. Oh well, you can never have too many homemade explosives. Cutler is sure Tom will find some domestic use for them. And maybe the world, which, according to Rachel, nobody is going to like, won’t even catch up with them. At least not straight away.
Tom is relating some unimaginably complicated ideas of tracking vampires rooted in his hunting days when Annie suddenly exclaims:
“The Prime Minister!” Everyone looks at her like she’s lost it. She throws her hands up. “Eve told me that in the future the full-blown panic started when the vampires killed the Prime Minister on national television. She said we were only days away. This is where Snow is going to be.”
“He’s gonna eat the PM on telly?” Cutler repeats, dumbstruck. That’s actually… not such a bad idea. He snorts. “What’s next? Summoning Satan?”
Hal mutters, looking strangely uncomfortable:
“I wouldn’t worry about that…”
“So,” Tom interrupts, “London then?”
Oh yes, that narrows it down.
“You’re not seriously suggesting we loaf about a big city, loaded with bombs and stakes and whatnot!” Cutler says. “The last thing we need is to be mistaken for terrorists.”
“I hate to say it, but Cutler’s right,” Alex supplies. The sky must be falling. “If we knew the exact location, Annie and I could rent-a-ghost in and do our thing. But we can’t risk you getting arrested or anything. Anyway, what can we do? Blow up the BBC? That’d still get a hell of a lot of innocent people killed.”
And a hell of a lot of good shows put on hold.
“Considering the shit they’ve been up to lately, I wouldn’t say they were that innocent,” Adam mutters. Yvonne gives him The Look.
Cutler looks back at Hal. Hal’s face is a stony mask, save for the panic in his eyes.
“Seeing as we got no choice, someone will have to contact them local vampires and find out what’s what,” Tom says.
Hal goes a few shades paler. Cutler always thought it was only possible in cartoons. The problem is that both of them would most likely be staked on sight (or at least Cutler would be; Hal would probably be chained up in the basement until all the good was out of his system).
Adam cuts in:
“Fine, scaredy-cats, lucky the A-dog is here to save the day. I’ll gatecrash some vampire mixer and ask around.”
Cutler is all right with that, but the others seem to be apprehensive. Alex fails to contain a snort.
“Oi, I’ve got tons of investigating experience,” Adam bristles up. “I’ll have you know I solved a murder once. Can you say the same for yourself?”
Alex glanced at Cutler. “I didn’t have to.”
If Cutler were brought up on charges for her murder now, he would most definitely plead insanity. Never mind that it’s the result of talking to her after she’s kicked it.
Little by little, the outline of the plan is becoming clear. They will leave the War Child here with Yvonne and set out for London as soon as their arsenal is ready. Adam will go ahead to collect information on Snow. Depending on his whereabouts, they will then attempt to repeat the fireworks at Stoker’s, hopefully without making a ragout out of the Prime Minister in the process. All that sounds a bit dangerous and a lot mental but nobody seems to mind.
Except Hal.
“Tom, I can’t go,” he whispers when the meeting is adjourned. “You know that.”
Cutler searches for something to fix his eyes on to make it look like he is not eavesdropping, but they aren’t pay attention to him anyway.
Tom squeezes Hal’s shoulder.
“C’mon, mate, I got your back, remember?”
Hal breathes out shakily.
“All I’ve been thinking about for the past few days is blood.”
“Try thinking ‘bout something else. Yvonne’s cooking is smashing.”
The sound Hal makes is a mutant cross between a chuckle and a sob.
“I won’t let you leap at people,” Tom says resolutely. “You can babble though.”
Another sob/chuckle hybrid follows. This must be an in-joke. Cutler hates it that they share in-jokes. He doesn’t hate Tom himself, doesn’t even hate it that Tom encourages Hal’s rehab madness, but these exchanges are more than he can bear. He attempts to slink off before he grinds his teeth into powder expressing his disgruntlement, but the kitchen has become a Tom-free zone somewhere between the ten-point earthquake of inexplicable anger and the tsunami of illogical jealousy inside Cutler. Hal easily projects his existential angst on the nearest semi-breathing object, which happens to be Cutler.
“I can’t go to London,” he says, a touch of hysteria in his voice. The broken record syndrome is apparently a thing in this household.
“Sure you can,” Cutler says dismissively. “You heard Tom. He’s got you. You’re gonna be like Butch and Sundance.”
If Cutler had enough time, he could make a proper joke out of this material: Tom is the dog, but Hal is the one who has to be kept on a leash. This is golden.
“I can barely contain myself here!” Hal snaps. “Can you imagine me in a big city with millions of people? Crowds, traffic, all that noise and chaos.”
“Maybe it’s just what you need. To find something to focus on. In our case, it’s getting Snow. You just won’t have time to think about anything else.”
This is what he is counting on in his case because - dammit, this wagon thing is becoming unbearable.
“I can’t face Snow!” Hal all but yells. The intensity of his outburst takes Cutler by surprise. Hal is sweating and shaking, and for once it’s not just about blood.
“He’s not that scary,” Cutler says cautiously. “I’ve met him, remember? He should just get his teeth bleached and perhaps think of using some skincare product.”
Hal grips the front of Cutler’s shirt. “Do you think I’m joking?”
“No,” Cutler says, meeting his eyes. “But I am. You may laugh.”
Hal doesn’t. The look on his face is enough to kill any mood except the downright apocalyptic one. Sarcasm and silly film references have been Cutler’s defense mechanism since before he can remember, but he suspects that he should stop hiding for once.
It strikes him that he has never seen Hal genuinely scared before. Hal’s eyes are feverishly bright and red-rimmed, his breath hot on Cutler’s face. It’s not that Cutler isn’t afraid of Snow. He can joke all he likes; Snow is quite terrifying up close. But Cutler is used to being afraid. He was afraid of Hal for five years; deep down, he still is. Hal, Cutler suspects, has never been afraid of anything but himself and Mr Snow.
Cutler touches Hal’s shoulder tentatively. Tension makes Hal’s muscles rigid; it feels like touching a statue. Or a Twilight vampire.
“Whatever power you think he’s got over you-” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence to realise that it’s not going to work. He tries again, softer. “Hal. You’d never let anyone control you.”
Hal whispers: “I may not have a choice.”
Maybe it’s the tone of voice; maybe the phrasing. Cutler pulls away and throws up his hands.
“Fuck that! You always have a choice. Everyone has a choice. I have a choice!”
“That’s not what you said before.”
Cutler all but gapes at him. It’s a poor substitute for a mirror, but Cutler needs to see his own astonishment reflected somewhere. Please do not disturb: epiphany in progress.
“I do,” he says, and then: “I did. Maybe not the first time around, but afterwards I always did. With Rachel, too.”
He shouldn’t have lied to Rachel earlier today, but then, he didn’t really understand, not until he heard her voice again, not until she threw those fair accusations in his face.
“I still killed her,” Hal says softly.
Yes, Cutler thinks, habitual anger stirring within him, yes, you did.
“But I chose not to. And afterwards, I chose to stay with you. Everything I did, everything I’m doing now is my choice. I kept telling myself that you wouldn’t have had it any other way.” His lips twist into an almost painful smile. Revelations can be as damnific as they can be cathartic. “But that’s not true, is it? If I wanted to make a different choice… well, there’s plenty of wood around.”
Something changes in Hal’s face. He closes off, collects himself; Cutler can practically see all the unintentionally released emotions seeping back into him. He mutters something about needing air, and Cutler doesn’t stop him - because he’s not Tom and he can only give so many fucks about someone who doesn’t give a damn about him.
(Speaking of Yvonne’s cooking: now would be a good time.)
“Nick!”
Cutler starts. Not again!
“You can’t let them leave the baby here,” Rachel admonishes. Cutler looks around and spots a radio set on the counter. How many radio sets do these people have? Rachel’s voice sounds hissy through the background noise. “She’s not safe here.”
Cutler snorts. “I thought you wanted her dead.”
“Quickly and painlessly! Not taken by Mr Snow’s men for God knows what purposes.”
Cutler is itching for some good old appliance defenestration.
“At the very least they’ve got no idea she’s here,” he says. “I’d be surprised if they had any idea what here was.”
There is a pregnant pause, and Cutler is almost sure that she curses his lack of cooperation in her mind. It would be much easier if he could see her. If she could see him.
“Nick,” Rachel says cautiously. “If they discover her whereabouts, the world will to go to hell.” The sizzling noises at the background make “hell” sound like “Hal”, which, from what Cutler understands, is pretty close to the truth. “Can you really let this happen?”
She wasn’t such a nag when she was alive. He sighs. Fine, he’ll tell them. Not that they would listen.
* * *
Much to his surprise, they do. Annie admits that she feels uncomfortable leaving Eve behind. Yvonne heroically declares that she will then join the group because she cannot have Adam- Actually, Cutler doesn’t know what she cannot have Adam doing because he doesn’t really listen. His mission is accomplished, and he realizes, with a strange, sinking feeling, that he doesn’t want to stay alone in case Rachel tries to contact him again. For all that he has genuinely missed her, he never believed he would hear her voice again. Now that he did, he wants that to have never happened.
He goes outside where the sky is a smoky, dark shade of an indefinite colour. He recalls a photograph he may have seen on some travel website. A beach somewhere in the Bahamas or the Maldives or wherever, the sky bejeweled with stars, waves rolling over the sandy shores. The waves were bright blue, strewn with specks of surreal light that, if Cutler remembers correctly, came from the abundance of some kind of luminescent plankton that reacted with oxygen and illuminated the water. It was a simple picture, something that could easily be Photoshopped even if one didn’t possess complex graphic skills. Thinking back to it now, Cutler realises that it was the last thing he thought of as beautiful. He is not the sentimental type. He doesn’t cling to snapshots of the past. Everybody keeps telling him the world is going to hell in a handcart, but he is not feeling it. Perhaps he should.
His solitude is short-lived. Three quarters of the core four pour out of the house and disperse over the lawn. Cutler wishes he smoked so that he could try and drive them away by exhaling smoke in their faces (never mind that it would only disturb Tom).
“Hal looked jittery,” Alex observes. “It’s really bad, isn’t it? The blood thing?”
“Could be worse,” Annie comments distantly. “He could be massacring dozens of innocent people on a train. Or he could be recruiting.”
The latter lights a big neon sign spelling out FUCK NO! in Cutler’s head.
“Maybe he’s right,” says Alex. “Maybe he should sit this one out.”
“I ain’t leavin’ him here unsupervised,” Tom protests. “I promised to help him. To be the new Leo.”
“Tom, you can’t always keep an eye on him,” says Annie. “Trust me, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh, please,” Cutler mutters. He should really do something about that chatty tongue of his. “Just because your vampire flew off the handle and had to be put down, it doesn’t mean-.”
He falls silent as Annie turns to glare at him. He expects the next round of Cutlerball to start in three… two… one.
“Where is Hal anyway?” Tom asks, drawing everyone’s attention to Hal’s rather conspicuous absence.
Cutler frowns. Was it dark already when Hal left or has he been out for hours without anybody having noticed? Where would he go on an island this small?
Cutler plays back the last conversation he had with Hal - and another ill-timed epiphany strikes him.
“Uh-oh.”
Alex narrows her eyes. “What?”
Cutler murmurs past the lump in his throat:
“I think I may have told Hal to go stake himself.”
* * *
Commercial break: From the producers who saw too many second-rate action flicks, comes the new epic adventure, a high-octane modern day remake of the sequel spin-off to the triquel of the sixteenth century saga Dark Hal Rising - It’s Cutler Time! It slices and dices and snarks like a boss.
Starring: Nick Cutler as his very own fantastic self; Hal Yorke, Tom McNair and Annie the Creepyfying Ghost as the Token Trio; Alex Best-Served-Cold as the Ghost Avenger; Adam Jacobs and Yvonne Bradshaw as the Redshirts; Eve “Antichrist” Sands as the ticking time-bomb; and Mr Snow as the Nightmare Fuel.
Music composed by the paranoid authors of the drumbeat from series three of Doctor Who.
Cinematography by random camera phone owners (vampires inserted via The Sims simulations).
Written and directed by [no idea who but if Cutler finds them, they’re goners].
Reviewers have described this smart, sexy and riveting adventure as “smart, sexy and riveting… until it’s not, not anymore.”
Coming to a cinema near you. Dangerously near.
* * *
Strained silence is one of the things Cutler hates, on par with running and songs that begin with a countdown.
Hal is strapped to a chair - and if Cutler knew what this rehab thing entailed, he would have pushed Hal on the wagon a long time ago.
The smell of blood is faint, but it tickles Cutler’s nostrils nonetheless, making the hunger swell and burn. He leans into Hal, resting his hands on Hal’s lap for purchase, and takes a deep breath. The blood is still in Hal’s mouth. Cutler’s lips hover over Hal’s. Tom could have at least made him brush his teeth before tying him up.
“What are you doing?” Hal whispers.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Don’t.”
Cutler snickers. It sounds like a dialogue from a trashy melodrama.
“I’m going to regret this,” Cutler says. He wants to nudge Hal’s mouth open with his tongue and suck the blood out. It may even be Hal’s blood. Cutler doesn’t care. That old, familiar feeling of need nests within him, making his teeth ache.
“I didn’t attack anyone,” Hal says rapidly. “It was dark. She came out of nowhere. She bumped into me, and I, I snarled at her. And she saw my face. She started running and fell and hit her head. I didn’t drink, I just… I touched the wound and licked some blood off my fingers.”
Which was when Tom and the others found him. Cutler nods.
“I know. This is why you’re still going to London.”
“I told you!” Hal’s voice comes out high-pitched and hysterical. “I can’t!”
Cutler pulls away. It hurts on an almost physical level. Just a few drops of blood - but Cutler feels them in his famished state all the more acutely.
“Your mental stability is the last thing I care about,” he says. “But I really do think that taking out Mr Snow - and saving that blasted baby - would be good for you. In the long run. And what’s good for you is… apparently… good for the world.” Another apocalyptic omen right there.
Hal’s eyes bore into Cutler’s back as he looks away from the chair, trying to collect his thoughts. He is usually quite good at motivational speeches, but they are frequently addressed to himself and ripped off of Hal’s spiel from the fifties.
“Looks like I’m taking this whole going dry thing a bit better than you. I guess my lack of appreciation for brutal and creative killings has finally come in handy.” Cutler grins; Hal predictably doesn’t. “What I’m trying to say is… You’ve got this huge support network. Take it from someone who’s got the first-hand experience in disappointing people: you don’t want to let them down.”
He doesn’t wait for Hal to answer. If he spends one more minute in this room, he will vomit. The pull of hunger is too strong. He goes down to the kitchen, feeling like a sleepwalker in the empty, dark cottage. The radio keeps silent as he puts the kettle to boil. He imagines Rachel, the new, hard and pitiless Rachel, laughing at him. Maybe she was always like that; maybe he just never noticed.
He makes tea and takes it to Hal. He can be nice and considerate if he tries.
“Why did Tom and the others think I was going to kill myself?” Hal asks.
“Oh, er… I might have said something.”
Hal arches his eyebrows. His expression could almost be described as amused.
“If I wanted to kill myself over words, I would have died a long time ago. Possibly as a human.”
Cutler grunts noncommittally and pushes the rim of the mug between Hal’s lips before Hal can protest. He watches Hal’s throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and waits for a disparaging comment or perhaps a remark that Annie’s is better (which is bullshit because Cutler has made so many cups of tea for bloody Griffin that if you poured their contents into a cistern, you could swim in it).
Hal keeps silent.
Cutler wants to sink his teeth into Hal’s throat. Blood maps itself out in the bluish cords of veins under his skin.
“Tell me about Leo,” Cutler says.
Hal’s eyes are dark, almost black in the soft semi-darkness of the room, but not vampire black. He looks sick, emaciated, like a radiation victim. They haven’t got much time, and Cutler doesn’t know how Leo went about these things or how Tom does or how one is generally supposed to detox a vampire (especially if one suffers from the same condition), but it’s either this or the death of Twitter and every other aspect of civilization. Cutler would only agree to have the Old Ones rule the world if they took his counsel into account.
“Talk to me,” he prods, and strangely, Hal does.
* * *
Hal shouts and pleads and threatens, from dusk till dawn and then some. At first his outbursts seem to disturb Yvonne but eventually strange linguistic enthusiasm grips her and she sets out to document his antiquated obscenities. Adam is gone within a week. Tom obsessively plans for anything and everything. Annie is barely seen at all. Alex - Alex who? As for Cutler, he tries to stay away from the radio and imagines all the boring bits as a montage set to some wacky sentimental music. Possibly Sugar, Sugar.
Alex asks him why he’s not cursing or yelling like Hal. It’s obvious that they all suspect he secretly drinks blood. He doesn’t try to dissuade them.
Fast-forward: London. April. 5.5 hours of sunshine daily. Lots of traffic and healthy blood circulation. Cutler used to live here what feels like ages ago.
Predictably they argue over where to stay. Tom is all for breaking into some warehouse or perhaps nesting under the bridge, as long as they are out of sight. Hal lectures him on the importance of having four walls around him, otherwise “I shall not be responsible for my actions!” Annie supports him (for Eve’s sake, presumably) and tasks Yvonne with finding suitable premises.
The bickering continues. Cutler does the only sensible thing there is to do: he escapes. He finds a mini-market on the corner of the street and sneaks inside. He thinks of getting Hal a bag of M&M’s, a little coloured chaos to soothe his anxiety. Anxious Hal equals snappy, irritable and occasionally hysterical Hal, and Cutler is honestly fed up with his mood swings.
The abundance of colourful labels hurts his eyes. A dull, pulsing ache spreads through his fangs. Saliva in his mouth has an acute metallic tang to it. He flexes his fingers. He’s better at this than Hal. This is the one thing he is better at, and that’s about the only reason he continues this charade.
He gathers various packs without really looking at the labels. Waffles, crisps, caramel. Perhaps he should get toffees, something really sticky; it would stick to Hal’s teeth, and he won’t be able to bite anyone. Or talk.
“How does a staunch opponent of the werewolves go from trying to warn the world about the danger that they pose to working with one of them practically overnight?”
Cutler nearly drops his acquisitions. He turns around and looks over a rather unremarkable man in a grey suit who gives him a polite smile.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Dominic Rook. I represent the Department of the Domestic Defense. My job is to maintain the illusion that man is alone and to safeguard him against supernatural calamities.”
“Looks like you’re not doing very well then.” He connects the dots and exclaims: “You took down my videos! And my Twitter account!”
He doesn’t expect an explanation, but he finds Rook’s simple, one-word answer a little infuriating nonetheless.
“Yes.”
Cutler instinctively takes a step back. It makes sense that they might want to take him into custody or just plain stake him. How come Hal never told him the bloody government knew about supernaturals? How come guys like Fergus were needed if the government could just clean up after the vampires any time?
“The world is on the verge of a great change,” says Rook, sounding like an expert salesman. “Regardless of the outcome, it will never be quite the same as it used to be. In light of that, we have decided that the vampires would be better off under new management. We would like you to be the liaison between our world and the vampire world-.”
The speech reminds Cutler of the history-making bullshit he likes to repeat after Hal.
Wait a minute.
“You want me to… what, rule the vampires? All over the world?”
“Let us not get too far ahead.”
This is mental if he does say so himself.
“On the contrary,” says Rook. “We know that the Old Ones are planning a takeover. And we know that you are now part of the group that is working to prevent the expansion of your race. We fully support this endeavour. With someone like you at the helm, someone modern and imaginative, your race could progress beyond the base, animalistic urges that govern it.”
It does sound attractive. Certainly more attractive than Snow’s crude catapults and battering rams.
“Perhaps at first you might require a figurehead. Someone more traditional, more renowned.” He means Hal, doesn’t he? Cutler snorts at the idea. “But in time, I’m sure, you will come into your own.”
Rook concludes the speech with an extremely fake cheery smile. It makes Cutler’s skin crawl. He’s never seen a less human-like human.
“In return,” Rook adds, seeing Cutler’s hesitation, “we shall provide you with premises, funding, assistance and means to acquire blood consensually.”
Damn, the bastard really knows his strategies of negotiation.
“You don’t have to answer immediately. But we are aware that your group is in need of accommodation.” He holds out a small note with an address and a phone number scribbled on it. “This might suit your needs. Give me a ring when you make up your mind.”
Another fake smile. If there was a Grand Prix for this, the guy would win it.
“Why don’t you just stop the Old Ones yourself if you know what they’re planning?” Cutler asks - because, hell, anyone stands a better chance than their ragtag Fellowship of Arson, Murder and Lifesaving.
Rook looks at him like he has just asked why frogs don’t fly.
“Bureaucracy, Mr Cutler. If we go via official channels, I’m afraid it will take quite a while.” It cannot possibly sound any fishier. “But I wish you the best of luck.”
* * *
“No bloody way!” Tom says resolutely. “I ain’t getting locked up nowhere so they could experiment on us or something. They could even be the same people that did that to George and Nina!”
He looks to Annie for approval. She nods vaguely, rocking Eve in her arms, as if she hasn’t really given thought to it. She has been strangely distant lately.
Cutler has no idea what was done to George and Nina, but he is pretty sure Rook isn’t planning to experiment on them.
“We can’t stay in the car or in a ditch somewhere,” he reasons. “And it’s not a very good idea to check into a hotel with… you know, bombs in our luggage.”
Tom grudgingly agrees to inspect the place. They drive to check out the address and end up in front of an old, gloomy-looking house that may or may not be abandoned.
“We don’t have a key anyway,” Tom mutters, “so let’s go.”
Cutler twiddles Rook’s note in his hand. There is a combination of numbers that is obviously a key code, but before he can punch it in, Alex disappears; a moment later the door opens from the other side. Alex grins and waves them inside.
The house is gloomy but clean and orderly. Cutler instantly dubs it Grimmauld Place. Hal traditionally doesn’t get the joke. Alex snickers, and the others ignore him.
“Is that a camera?” Tom asks, glaring suspiciously at the ceiling where a small rectangular object is positioned. Tom moves aside; the box buzzes and turns slowly in the same direction. Motion sensors. How cool is that?
“Maybe they’re filming a reality show,” Alex suggests.
“Starring ghosts and vampires?” Hal says sceptically.
“Or a floating baby,” Cutler notes.
Annie starts, and moves out of the camera range.
“Do they know about Eve?” she asks.
Cutler doesn’t think so. At least Rook hasn’t mentioned anything, but then again, the War Child is more or less irrelevant to his proposal.
“If we’re gonna stay here, we need to get rid of ‘em,” Tom says.
It’s a bit like a scavenger hunt. Cutler is sure the house is bugged too, and there are probably more hidden cameras than the ones they can see, but he enjoys disconnecting them as they explore the place inch by inch. Hal notices his grin and cocks his eyebrows curiously.
“Defense mechanism?”
“No, this is me actually having fun!”
Hal’s surprised face looks very amusing and somehow makes him look less… Hal-like.
“Why?”
Cutler stops containing his childish excitement.
“What do you mean why? Look at this place! It’s like a James Bond film but with a crappy low budget. I wonder if there’s a panic room. Or a secret torture dungeon.” Hal cringes. “Come on, everybody loves a dungeon!” Cutler winks slyly. “I know you did.”
Alex pops out of nowhere right by his side. Not for the first time Cutler is glad that he can’t have a heart attack.
“It’s them!” Alex declares with the utmost certainty. The two vampires give her blank looks. She shakes her head impatiently. “They’ve got my body. You said they cleaned up after weird murders. How much weirder could my murder get?” She clamps her hand on Cutler’s shoulder companionably. “You’re gonna ask them about it.”
Cutler goggles at her.
“No way! No! I can’t contact them before I have an answer-!”
Alex sniggers. “What, you as the… head vampire in charge? Seriously?”
Cutler puffs up his chest. “Why not?”
He makes the mistake of looking at Hal then. Hal’s face reflects an insulting combination of outrage, not unlike the expression he wore when Cutler outlined his idea of the exposure of werewolves to him, and mockery. He can take this from her: she doesn’t know him, she wasn’t the one who tried to fashion him into a history maker. But not from Hal. Hal has lost the right to laugh at him.
Cutler clenches his teeth and says nothing, but he files it away for later.
* * *
Cutler texts Yvonne and Adam the location of the house and the key code combination. He thinks of starting a new Twitter account but it’s not like he can liveblog saving the world.
Tom declares they should track down Milo and separate him from Snow, which is easier said than done, at least until Adam gets them Snow’s location. Tom and his “team”, that is Hal and Alex, leave in the evening, evidently to nick some more junk for Tom’s arsenal. Cutler is very explicitly told to stay put (apparently it’s easier to trust a bipolar five-hundred-year-old megalomaniac whom they have dragged here against his will than someone who maintains the most basic control over his urges). Annie refuses to leave Eve until Yvonne comes to play babysitter - and nobody cares that leaving Cutler alone with the all-powerful woman who hates his guts might not be the best idea.
Fortunately, Grimmauld Place has a lot of rooms, the doors to all of them lockable. Cutler turns the key, leans against the door - and realises that fat load of good it will do him. Annie can rent-a-ghost.
He growls and slides down on the floor. In a single moment of anger, he slams his fists against the floor and spits in a choked voice: “Fuck!”
This is so not what he wanted. He was supposed to be rich, living in Brazil, driving fast cars and walking barefooted in the sand. There would be easy women and blood in abundance. There would be some kind of fucking freedom at last!
But hey, since when does Nick Cutler get what he wants, be it wealth or recognition or even a break? That would be too fucking trouble-free, wouldn’t it?
The television screen flickers to life. Cutler can’t see anything but a vaguely outlined shadow. He can’t decide if it’s comforting or disturbing.
She calls his name. He doesn’t move but he finds himself wishing she were here, even as a ghost, so that he could feel her, just for a little while. But because he is a moron who doesn’t know when to stop, he snaps at her:
“Come to gloat at my misery?”
“I’m on your side, Nick,” Rachel says. She doesn’t sound hurt or reproachful. He liked it better when she yelled at him. Tranquility is eerie.
“I know you are.” He tilts his head up, resting it against the wall. It takes an effort not to slam it harder onto the hard surface.
“They won’t trust you,” says Rachel. “You know that.”
“I don’t care about their trust!” But she didn’t see Hal’s face. And now Cutler doesn’t want to think about Rook’s proposal because for all he knows, that might have been a cruel joke too. “I want people to remember my name. I don’t care if I go down in history as a hero or a villain as long as I make it.”
He expects her to be horrified. His Rachel would be. But this Rachel is sixty years older and reinvented.
“I told you before,” she says. “There is only one way.” He hesitates. She adds: “What’s one life if it saves the world? If it saves Hal?”
Cutler jumps up, infuriated.
“Fuck Hal! He’s a dick. And why should I want him off the blood anyway? He’s even more insufferable this way! Sanctimonious bastard. He almost killed someone, but it’s totally okay because he’s their fwiend! Hypocrites, the whole bunch of them.”
“Every time he reverts, he gets worse. The man who is coming now is not at all the man you knew. He will be cold, brutal. He will have lost everything, and there is nothing more dangerous than that.”
Cutler covers his face with his hands. He is having a minor anxiety attack. Or a major anxiety attack. Feels more like anxiety carpet bombing.
There are a lot of things about the whole War Child business that he doesn’t understand. Even if she dies now, what good will it do? Humans don’t even know she exists yet and the vampires can maintain the illusion that she is alive indefinitely. She is a baby; how hard can it be to replace a baby?
“You know what? You’re right. Maybe this is what I’m here for.” All good films are afflicted with plotholes and continuity issues. He doesn’t give a damn why the War Child must die, but if this is the way to prove his worth, then so long, infant immortality.
Sod everything; he’ll do it now. It has to be worth the looks on their faces. He just needs to make sure Annie is removed from her side.
He peeks into the room. Eve is asleep and alone. He looks around warily, but there is no sign of Annie. No sign of Yvonne either. He finds it hard to believe that Annie would just leave the War Child alone, and it’s not like she needs a bathroom break, but he’d better take this opportunity. What should he use? He can probably snap her neck with his bare hands. Or smother her with a pillow. No, let there be blood. Let them see some blood; they’re all so afraid of it.
He picks a knife up in the kitchen and returns to the room. Annie is still absent. Cutler raises the knife. He never had a soft spot for babies and he absolutely loathes this one, but-
“Look, it’s nothing personal,” he tells her. “It’s just that unfair kind of a deal: you or the world. And I like the world a bit more.”
“Nick, shut your mouth and just do it!” Rachel cries out. This is what happens when there is a telly in every room.
She’s right though. He should get cracking. He brings the knife down.
“Hey, mate, there you are! I combed the whole house, it’s like a bloody graveyard-!”
Cutler spins around, startled, and plunges the knife deep into Adam’s flesh right below the ribcage.
Part 6 - Our Halk Smash