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Edward Hyde could be a bit of a bother. Everyone at the Society knew that, obviously. There wasn’t a Lodger who hadn’t had the man knock at least one of their experiments over at some point or another, which usually resulted in said Lodger chasing the giggling Spirit of London at Night down the hall.
For some reason, though, Jekyll himself was never actually bothered by it.
And it was true, Lanyon reflected, walking through the Society one evening on his way to the doctor’s office. No matter how irritating the little fellow was, Jekyll always brushed the incidents off, or excused them and moved on. Someone really ought to put Hyde in his place one of these days.
Why didn’t Lanyon do it himself? The answer to that was simple. These days, Lanyon didn’t trust himself with much.
Not since that bite.
The bite. It had only been a few weeks ago, but it felt like forever–how that ashy-faced man had lunged at him and…
Lanyon forced himself not to think about it. Now wasn’t the time to relive the moment that had effectively killed him, forced him to drink living human blood to continue functioning, changed him into something he had hated the thought of all his life. Back to mentally complaining about Hyde.
Lanyon pushed the office door open, saw who was inside, and promptly closed it again.
“Hey–wherrre you goin’, Lannie?” the slurred voice of a very drunk and quite probably very drugged blond man called after him. Lanyon took a deep breath, massaging his temples, and went slowly back in, being careful not to meet his eye.
Hyde snickered, leaning back where he sat on the desk. “Why the long face?”
“I’m only here to collect some papers,” Lanyon told him stiffly, going as close to the desk as he dared. “Unfortunately, there’s someone sitting on them.”
“Oh, these?” Hyde swept some onto the floor, rolling around to lie on his stomach. “Mmmmmwho cares, they’re just… paper. Paperrrrry… things.”
“They’re important documents,” Lanyon snapped, picking a few up. He hadn’t eaten in a day or two, and he felt a good bit ill already–this was the last thing he needed. “If you could act like a professional for one moment–”
“Professional profssssmeshional.” Hyde giggled, sitting up woozily and leaning towards him. “Face it, Robert, honey, darling… no one gives a rat’s arse about that. Be a little more fun.”
Lanyon gritted his teeth and gathered what papers he could, refusing to look at Hyde.
Hyde rolled his eyes. He suddenly looked more serious, looking at him with something approaching malice. “You know, one day, they’re all gonna see right through you. You’re not a real gentleman, you’re just like Jekyll, fake as a, an, as a–”
Hyde stopped short as Lanyon bared his teeth and snarled.
Snarled . Like an animal. Maybe Hyde had taken a little too much opium, but this didn't feel like a hallucination. He squinted, but Lanyon had paled, turned on his heel, and walked out of the study with only half his papers before he could get a second look.
Hyde blinked, then laid back down on the desk.
Lanyon walked out of the Society as quickly as he could, red in the face and holding his papers to his chest.
What was he doing? It didn’t matter how irritating Hyde got, he couldn’t just lose his humanity like that. He may have been on edge, true, and he might have been hungry, and tired, and staying up odd hours just to sustain himself, but still. He hadn't even been that upset.
No matter how much his very nature fought him, he would never let himself be like the things in the books he had always hated. Never.
He took a deep breath, making a point to relax his jaw which had begun to tense, and headed home. He’d get these papers over with, then find something to drink.
He refused to say “someone”.
“What the’ell’s up with him?” Hyde mumbled, dangling his leg over the edge of the desk. “He… his teeth…”
Jekyll, strangely, was completely silent. He must have been just as confused–or perhaps just as drunk.
Ah, well. They could deal with it later. For now, sleep.
Lanyon spit out his drink.
“What!?” he sputtered, dabbing his cravat off with a handkerchief and staring at Jekyll incredulously. “You believe this man?”
It was afternoon the next day, in Lanyon’s study. The curtains were tightly drawn, but Lanyon had built the fireplace up as hotly and as brightly as he could get away with to avoid seeming like a hypocrite to his friend. Lanyon had a glass full of what he had told Jekyll was watered red wine that he was not willing to share, which was now slowly staining his shirtfront.
Jekyll looked away. “I have to say I do, Robert. I’m worried for you, is all.”
“I’m sure it was just some delirious hallucination,” Lanyon continued, undaunted. He set aside the handkerchief with a huff, the cravat beyond rescue. “You know, he was sitting on your desk, making the whole room smell like opium–”
Lanyon was cut off when Jekyll raised a finger, frowning.
“Robert, opium doesn’t smell strongly enough to stink up a room unless he’d been smoking it right in front of you.”
“I– well, I don’t know how you’d know th–”
“And I know fairly well he didn’t, since if he had, I would have smelled it as well when I came back. Either you sat right into his lap to sniff him, which I know you did not do, or you’re not telling me something.” Jekyll leaned forwards, an anxious look in his eyes. “What’s going on?”
Lanyon hesitated for a long moment.
“I just want to help,” Jekyll prodded gently.
Lanyon took a deep breath. Drew it in, held it for a few long seconds, let it slowly out.
“This might take a while,” he said. “Try not to be too upset with me over it all.”
And Lanyon began to tell his story. Jekyll could almost see it happen, flickering by before his eyes, reflected in the shimmering fireplace.
“About a month ago,” Lanyon said softly, “I was about to head home for the night when my clerk came by to tell me I had one last patient.”
“There isn’t any more bookings for today, Andrews, I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Lanyon called over his shoulder at the clerk standing in his office doorway, pulling his jacket on and picking up his bag. “Tell whoever it is that if they want a meeting, they’ll have to wait until tomorrow – and for goodness’ sake, if it’s that Annie girl, tell her I’m married.”
“It’s urgent, sir, that’s what he keeps saying.”
Lanyon huffed. “Clearly the man can’t read. The sign up front has my operating hours, doesn’t it?”
“I know it does,” the longsuffering clerk told him patiently, “but he refuses to wait. Babbling something about burning up if he waits too long.”
Lanyon let out a groan and set his bag down again, not bothering to take off his jacket. “All right then, one last patient for the night. Invite him in, Andrews – I hope he makes it quick.”
Andrew bowed and stepped away.
Moments later, a man walking the edge of life and death came in and took a seat. Lanyon nearly flinched.
His skin was ashy. His hair was limp with grease and miscare. The suit he wore – no, the suit that hung on his emancipated frame – was so dirty the dark blue fabric was nearly brown, but the eyes gleaming wildly above it stood out all the more boldly. They were an almost pearlescent shade of whitish-blue in the greyness of his face.
When he spoke, Lanyon jumped. He had almost expected to be met with the dry rustling of a corpse.
“I have been suffering, Doctor,” he said. His accent was hard to place. “Of chest pains and head pains. I know that you, as an educated man, can help me.”
“…Very well, sir. Let me get my equipment, and perhaps we can work something out.” Lanyon turned his back to the man, bending down to open his bag and retrieve some medical tool– he couldn’t remember what it was. All he did remember was straightening up, and turning, and all of a sudden those bright shining eyes were in his face and there was a pain in his neck and everything had gone black.
“And you didn’t tell me for a whole month?” Jekyll asked softly.
Lanyon looked away. “I’m sorry, but you can understand why. I was scared that you would dehumanize me in some way– surely you remember the fairytales we all read as children…”
Jekyll laughed. “Of course I remember them, but I loved those stories. And besides, I know full well that you’re still the same Robert Lanyon I’ve always known, vampire or no. You can trust me.”
Hearing the word– vampire– spoken out loud for the first time changed something, like the feeling one got when trying to describe a nightmare over breakfast. It stole some of the fear away from it. Lanyon couldn’t help but visibly relax, beginning to smile. “Thank you, Henry. I’m glad to have you as my friend.”
Jekyll returned the smile, pushing the Edward Hyde-shaped section of his own guilt and secrets out of mind.