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“Are you sure you’re all right, sir?” Arthur says, letting his eyes wander across the large, dimly lit room, taking in the scattered groups of people sitting around tables, glasses and bottles clutched in their hands and chatting and laughing away, before finally settling back on the man – no, the Type 2 – sitting across from him.
Tired, red-rimmed blue eyes come up to meet his, obviously feeling the weight of his gaze, and Dominic Rook’s mouth curls up in a small, tense smile. “I’m fine, Arthur, thank you.” He, too, looks around the room for a moment, then drops his eyes back to the deep amber liquid in the glass in his hand. “It’s not too busy in here tonight. This… this is fine.”
“If you’re sure, sir,” Arthur replies, giving him a scrutinising look.
“Yes, really, Arthur,” Rook says, nodding. “I… need to get used to being around people. This is as good as anywhere.”
“All right, then,” Arthur says, not one hundred percent convinced, but far be it from him to question his superior. Mr Rook has almost twenty years experience with creatures such as… well, himself, now. If he doesn’t know what he is doing, no one will. And it’s not like they end up having to clean up an all out massacre every time a new Type 2 is made.
“Thanks for… everything, Arthur,” Rook says, tipping the glass up and taking a generous sip of whiskey. Arthur follows suit, taking a smaller, more careful sip, savouring the delicate taste. “I’m not sure why you’re doing this, but… I want you to know that I’m grateful all the same.”
Arthur’s brow furrows. “Doing what, sir? Having a drink after work together?”
Rook lets out a harsh laugh. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Ah,” says Arthur, drawing out the sound, and a sudden lump makes his throat tighten. “Well, don’t worry about it, sir,” he continues. “I told you, you have nothing to worry about from me. As long as you don’t… you know.”
“Of course,” Rook replies, nodding emphatically, and he takes another quick gulp of his drink. “I’m not planning to… do… anything like that. Ever. If I can help it.” A dark look comes over his face, and Arthur’s eyes narrow.
“How did it happen, sir?” he asks before he can stop himself, and he quickly follows it up with, “If you don’t mind me asking?”
Rook smiles, a sad, broken, but completely genuine smile, an expression Arthur has to admit he has rarely seen on the man’s face before. “I guess I owe you that much,” he says, but doesn’t continue, and instead looks back down into his mostly empty glass. After a long moment of silence, he lifts it up to his lips, and in one large gulp, empties the remaining content and places the empty glass back on the table in front of him. “But I think I’ll need another drink for that.” His eyes flick towards Arthur’s still half-full glass, and he smiles and shakes his head.
“You go ahead, sir. I shouldn’t drink that much, or the missus will have my head.”
Rook chuckles quietly, then gets up and makes his way over to the bar. Despite his earlier assurances, Arthur’s eyes never leave the blond man, cautiously watching for any kind of change in his demeanour. You can never be too careful, after all. He watches Rook hand over some cash to the barman before picking up his glass and quickly crossing the room back to their table, and Arthur wonders why they didn’t choose a seat closer to the bar.
Then again, with what they are likely going to be discussing, it surely wouldn’t do to be overheard.
Rook approaches the table across from him, and he has barely sat down fully before he lifts the glass to his lips again, taking a greedy gulp. Arthur clears his throat loudly.
“You might want to slow down a little, sir,” he says carefully, eyes pointing to the glass still clutched in the other man’s hand.
Rook huffs. “Why? It’s not like it’s going to kill me.” Arthur’s eyes widen at the uncharacteristic outburst, and Rook’s features soften somewhat as he adds, “I’m sorry, Arthur. I… was forgetting myself.”
“No worries, sir,” Arthur says. “This must all be very difficult for you.”
Another, quieter huff escapes Rook’s throat. “Yes. That’s one word for it.” His eyes flick up and pierce right into Arthur’s in a way that he can’t help but think looks more than a little predatory. “I didn’t choose this, you know,” he says. “It wasn’t… what I would’ve wanted for myself.”
“Of course not, sir,” Arthur replies, trying not to let himself be disconcerted by that sharp gaze. “You never seemed a big fan of… well, Type 2s, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Rook lets out a quiet laugh, takes another gulp of his drink. “I don’t mind you speaking the truth, Arthur.”
“Thank you, sir,” Arthur says, and for a long moment, neither of them speaks. Arthur slowly sips at his drink, watches Rook downing his own at a frankly dizzying speed. He wonders whether alcohol is really any kind of substitute for the well documented high Type 2s derive from drinking blood, and whether, consciously or not, that is what Rook is chasing by drinking in this manner. “I believe you were going to tell me how it happened, sir,” he says hesitantly, if only to have something to fill the silence with.
Rook’s eyes dart up to him, and Arthur is taken aback by the glassiness in them, by the way the small vessels stand out bright red and angry against the whites of his scleras. “How’s your wife doing, Arthur?” he asks, a small, unconvincing smile settling on his lips as he so obviously and inelegantly evades Arthur’s question. “Maggie, wasn’t it?”
Sighing deeply, Arthur replies, “Yes, sir. She’s… she’s well, thank you, sir. The arthritis has been getting to her a bit, especially in the winter months.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rook says.
Arthur nods and smiles. “Ah, it’s just one of those things about getting older, sir. Not that you’d know,” he adds, and Rook chuckles darkly.
“Not that I’ll ever know,” he mutters, staring into his glass.
Arthur watches him for a moment, unsure of how to reply to that statement. Eventually he decides not to, and instead he says, “But yes, thank you, other than that she’s been very well. As a matter of fact, it was our fortieth wedding anniversary last month,” he adds.
“I had no idea, Arthur,” Rook says, smiling a little more genuinely this time. “Congratulations. You should’ve said.”
“Oh, you know, sir,” Arthur says, waving a hand in a dismissive manner. “I don’t like making a big fuss at work. I’ve always felt more comfortable keeping my work and personal life separate, if you know what I mean.”
Something about what he said seems to strike a nerve with Rook, who stares at him for a long moment with a completely unreadable expression, before a sharp, humourless laugh bursts out of him.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “That’s generally quite good advice, isn’t it.”
Arthur frowns. “Sir?”
“About keeping your work and personal life separate?” Rook clarifies, then downs the remainder of his drink, loudly sets the glass down in front if him and, in a quieter voice, adds, “I wish it was that easy, Arthur.”
“I’m not sure I follow, sir,” Arthur says truthfully, his frown deepening as he looks back at Rook, who stares into his empty glass for a moment before, wordlessly, he gets up, walks over to the bar again, returning a short moment later with two more double shots of whiskey.
Lifting glassy and slightly unfocused eyes to meet his, Rook holds one of the glasses out to him and asks, “You sure you don’t want another one?”
Arthur quickly shakes his head. “No, really, thank you, sir. I’m all right. As I said—”
“Sure, of course, don’t want to upset Maggie,” Rook cuts in, his words starting to slur ever so slightly. He quickly takes another sip of his drink, a melancholic smile settling on his face when he adds, “Forty years. That’s quite something, Arthur.”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said it was always easy, sir,” Arthur replies. “But we’ve made it work, and I would say that we’re both very happy together still.”
Rook snorts. “Isn’t that lovely,” he mumbles, the smile on his face turning bitter as he stares down into the golden liquid in his glass. “You see, my boyfriend—”
“Oh.” The word escapes Arthur’s mouth before he can stop himself, and his eyes widen as Rook’s head whips back up to face him.
“Oh?” he asks, forehead creasing in confusion.
Arthur clears his throat. “Yes, I… I’m sorry, sir,” he says hesitantly. “I didn’t realise you’re…”
“That I’m gay?” Rook says, and Arthur feels himself blushing at his directness.
“Yes, sir,” he confirms, nodding. “It’s not a problem, honestly,” he adds quickly. “I just didn’t know.”
Rook laughs quietly into his glass. “Neither did I, until I met Hal.”
Arthur feels a shiver run down his spine at hearing the familiar name. “Hal, sir?” he asks cautiously.
Rook looks up, brow creasing. “Yes, that’s my boyfriend,” he says. “Or, well…” He drifts off for a moment, huffs quietly, then nods and continues, “Anyway, I was saying how—”
“Hal Yorke, sir?” Arthur chokes out.
“Yes?” Rook says, half an affirmation and half a question, big blue eyes fixed on Arthur and the crease in his forehead deepening. “So it turns out he’s been—”
“#SJ031, sir?” Arthur asks hesitantly.
“Good grief, Arthur, yes!” Rook snaps, eyes flashing black for a fraction of a second, and Arthur inadvertently leans back as far as he can in his chair, never taking his eyes off the Type 2, who appears completely oblivious of the brief manifestation as he is now looking at him with a confused frown on his face.
Arthur clears his throat loudly and, with all the nonchalance he can muster, asks, “How long have you and… Hal Yorke… been together, sir?”
Rook shrugs. “About a year. Maybe a bit less.” He pauses, a thoughtful look on his face as he once more lifts his glass to his lips. “Yes,” he continues after a moment. “It’ll be a year in February.”
Arthur’s eyes widen at that new snippet of information. “A year.”
“Yes,” Rook says, nodding. His gaze drifts off to some far corner of the room, but he doesn’t seem to focus on anything in particular, and Arthur is fairly sure he can see tears glistening in his eyes. “But now it turns out that while I was in the cellar, he went out with this guy, this… human. Student. Pretty.” He huffs out a mirthless laugh, and in the dim light of the pub, Arthur can just about make out one single tear streak down the centre of his cheek. “And he—”
“Pardon me, sir,” Arthur interrupts, “but what do you mean, while you were in the cellar?”
Rook turns back around to face him, and now Arthur can clearly see the tears rolling down both of his cheeks. The sight makes him feel an odd mix of protectiveness and overwhelming awkwardness, and he averts his eyes to look into his own, mostly empty glass while he waits for Rook to respond.
“After I was turned,” Rook says after a moment, “I was locked in the cellar, at the house, so that I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“I see,” Arthur says, frowning. “I guess I’d never thought about the particulars of… newly recruited Type 2s… in that way.”
Rook snorts. “Why would you?” he says bitterly. “It’s not something that happens to decent people, is it.”
Arthur’s head snaps up. “That wasn’t—”
“I didn’t want this,” Rook cuts in, shaking his head. “I never did. I told him so, but he didn’t listen. So, when it came to it, and I was dying, he… he did it anyway.”
Arthur finds his throat closing up at the other man’s words, and he clears it loudly before he asks, “Hal did it?” Rook silently nods at him, and he quickly adds, “What happened, sir?”
Rook chuckles darkly. “That’s a bit of a long story, actually,” he says.
Arthur gives him a pensive look, then lifts his glass up to his lips and takes another small sip of the burning liquid. “You might as well tell it,” he says, silently hoping he isn’t going to regret his words.
Rook smiles grimly and says, “It all started with the Devil. Well, with us defeating the Devil. You see, in order to save Hal and Alex, I—”
“Alex, sir?” Arthur asks.
Rook nods. “A friend of mine. She’s a Type 1.”
Arthur’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to reply, but thinks better of it, swiftly shakes his head and says, “Please, continue, sir.”
Rook nods and says, “So, in order to save them, I… made a deal with the Devil, so that I could pass over into purgatory, but the men with sticks and rope weren’t particularly happy with me just… waltzing in and leaving again, so they started this ridiculous vendetta against me.” He pauses, huffs out a quiet laugh and lifts his glass back up to his lips, only to realise that it is empty. Frowning, he sets it back down and reaches for the second, untouched glass in front of Arthur, who is watching with impossibly wide eyes as he takes a generous sip, swallows and continues, “So, long story short, the men with sticks and rope compelled me to stab myself with a kitchen knife, and Hal… well. Hal couldn’t keep to his fucking word. And so I wake up in that cellar and I’m a fucking vampire. And now I find out that all this time he’s been having a fucking affair behind my back with this… this human and it’s such a fucking slap in the face and I—” he breaks off, and his forehead creases in thought for a moment, before he shakes his head, takes another swig of whiskey and says, “I don’t even know why I’m surprised. I mean have you seen him? He’s so beautiful.” A soft smile settles on his lips that is somehow dreamy and melancholic all at the same time.
“I... wouldn’t really know, sir,” Arthur says carefully, and the smile slips off of Rook’s lips.
“I guess you wouldn’t,” he concedes. “Well, take it from me, Arthur, he’s fucking gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted. And I mean anyone. To be honest, I never understood what he saw in me.” He pauses, and a dark, thoughtful look passes over his face. “Well, I guess there was the blood, to begin with.”
“The... blood, sir?” Arthur asks in a hushed voice, stealing nervous glances around them to make sure they are not overheard.
Rook frowns. “Yes, my blood. He’s a vampire, isn’t he? Or, sorry, no, a Type 2,” he corrects himself. Arthur has a slightly queasy feeling in his stomach thinking about what Rook might be alluding to. “So now that he can’t get that from me anymore, he’s gone off with this... this guy and—“
Arthur clears his throat loudly. “I’m not sure I’m really the right person to talk to about this kind of thing, sir.”
Rook’s eyes snap up to meet his, red raw and filled with fresh tears, and he stares at him for a long moment. “I’m… sorry, Arthur,” he says. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” He lifts up his glass, downs the remaining content in one gulp, and Arthur follows his gaze in the direction of the bar. “I should get another—”
“You should be getting home, sir,” Arthur says firmly, reaching out a hand to lightly touch the other’s arm, forcing himself not to flinch away from the coolness of his skin. He meets Rook’s glassy blue eyes, gives him a significant look. “You’ve had enough for one night, don’t you think?”
“I…” Rook swallows and averts his eyes. “I don’t want to go home.”
Arthur sighs. “Well you can’t come home with me, sir. Certainly not in the state you’re in. Maggie would have a heart attack.”
Rook looks back up at him, one corner of his mouth lifting up in an attempt at a smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose on you, Arthur.”
“In that case, how about I drop you back home, sir?” Arthur suggests. “You’re clearly in no fit state to drive.”
Rook lifts his eyebrows at him. “You’d drive me all the way back to Barry?”
“Barry, sir?” Arthur asks, frowning, a split second before the pieces fall into place. “Of course. I’m… I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I’ll drive you to Barry. It’s not exactly a long drive this time of night.”
***
“Thank you, Arthur,” Rook slurs as he clumsily extracts himself from the passenger seat. Leaning heavily on the car door until he has found his balance, he briefly turns back around to him, smiles and says, “Give my regards to Maggie.”
“Will do, sir,” Arthur replies, returning the other man’s smile. “You go get some rest now, and I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Rook chuckles dryly. “Yes. Well. Thanks again. I… appreciate… you know. Everything.”
“I know, sir,” Arthur says, before the passenger door slams shut with a bit more vigor than perhaps Rook intended, and he watches as the blond man staggers his way up the path towards the front door, not daring to drive away until the door has safely closed behind him.
The drive back to Cardiff is short and uneventful at this time of night, just like he predicted, and before he knows it, he turns the key in his own front door, swinging it open only to be met with his wife of forty years, brow creased in worry as she looks him up and down.
“Where in the blazes have you been so late?” she asks.
Arthur sighs. “I just went out for a couple drinks after work,” he says, walking through into the living room, and he can feel her sharp eyes on him as she follows him inside.
“On your own?” she asks incredulously.
“No, Mags, of course not on my own,” he replies, turning around and raising his eyebrows at her. “I take it you remember Mr Rook?”
“You mean Dominic?” she asks. He nods, and she smiles. “Of course, I remember him from when he was a wee lad. How is he doing?”
Arthur feels a harsh laugh bubbling up from his chest as everything he has learned this evening whirls around like a hurricane in his head, but he doesn’t let it out, and he nods and says, “Yes, he’s doing all right. Going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment, you know. Heartache. The usual.”
“Oh dear, poor lad,” Maggie says. “I hope it’ll all work out for him.”
Arthur swallows thickly and nods. “Yes, let’s hope,” he says, a thin smile on his face, while in his head, a hurricane still rages, and all he can think is, This is not going to end well.