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Having lived as long as he has, Hal knows, there are bound to be both ups and downs. Staying dry for over fifty years and making something he might genuinely call as friends in progress was definitely an ‘up’. Losing both said friends at the same time, only to be saddled with a handful of strangers, and having then being forced by them to work a low-paying job in what appears to be a café straight from one of Hell’s nine circles, can easily be classified as the latter.
Today is his first day in his new job. By afternoon, Hal is convinced that whatever torture might be waiting for him in the great beyond, he might gladly skip to that part already – surely it can be nothing compared to this.
The pains of his torment are indeed many in nature; he has a newly-found hatred for lettuce from all the chopping Tom has made him do and his hands feel dry after soaking up the chemicals from the rag used to wipe the tables, cracks appearing on his skin like lines in marble. Every molecule in his body positively reeks of grease.
Or perhaps the latter is only partly true, and it is the stench of betrayal that hangs around him like a cloud. Only some moments before, after having an unfortunate run-in with the man while he was taking out the rubbish, he had agreed to let Fergus storm the café by nightfall, something he knows might very well lead to Tom’s death. Hal still doesn’t know whether he intends to go through with it or not, or if the decision is already out of his hands. For now at least he tries to put it out of his mind. It is early afternoon still; anything can happen before closing time.
Proving to a cheeky twenty-something werewolf that he still has the skill when it comes to flirting, and that staying away from any potential romantic entanglements is a deliberate choice on his part and not in any way proof of his incompetence, was definitely not on today’s agenda.
Somehow a conversation that had started as a fairly innocent discussion about Tom’s use of the word ‘courting’ has spiraled down into a debate about whether or not Hal can still – for the lack of a more elegant expression – get it up. Right now, Tom is rolling his eyes excessively and deflecting all his well-thought arguments about safety and sanity.
“Have you ever even been with a woman?” Hal finally snaps, eager to shine the spotlight away from himself, even if it means delivering a somewhat low blow.
But if he was expecting to embarrass Tom, it hardly does the trick. “I’m waitin’ for the right woman. Virginity’s like a flower –“ Tom says, shaping with his hands what appears to be precisely that – “you don’t just pluck it for anyone.”
Hal is about to smirk, the corners of his mouth already tugging up in a Cheshire grin. But despite his pestering from only moments before, this time Tom’s brown eyes are wide and earnest, every line of his face a monument of pure commitment to his words, and something about it has the power to make Hal come to a halt. After centuries of crushing hopes and lives alike, and going behind Tom’s back only the very morning, this naïve fantasy of his is suddenly too much for Hal to destroy.
So with immerse difficulty, he swallows up his own amusement. Calling up a somewhat somber expression, he says, “Well said.”
And how does Tom repay this rare act of kindness?
“I still don’t reckon you can chat up.”
“Are we still on with this? Look, I told you, I don’t need to chat up,” Hal all but snarls. “I have charm – and wit.”
Tom’s expression remains as unconvinced as ever. “Prove it.”
“What?”
He points at the door. “Chat up the next woman what comes in ‘ere.”
Fortunately, there is not a single woman in sight. Hal tells him as much, fully expecting the whole issue to be over and done with – no need to make this more embarrassing than it already is.
But then Tom, being the stubborn idiot that he is, leans back in his chair. “Alright,” he says, folding his hands over his chest in defiance. “So woo me.”
Hal splutters. “What?”
“Chat me up – work your magic or whateve’.” He smiles, all mock-earnest. “Maybe it’ll be easier for you to practice with me first. It’s not like we wanna go scarin’ all the lady-customers away, now do we? I promise I won’t laugh.”
Hal is about to decline yet again, but the last line manages to strike a nerve. Of course Tom doesn’t say it to really offend him – Hal has already learned that he can be blunt when he wants to be, if never cruel - but his words do a remarkable job of reducing the last remainders of his self-respect to dust. He was once a lord, Hal thinks, not for the first time during this hellish day, one who bled people dry in manors and whose mere name was enough to strike terror in the un-beating hearts of his peers. Now, he’s wearing a filthy apron and isn’t trusted to be left alone with a simple register. Just because Tom doesn’t know about his past, it doesn’t excuse him from making a mockery of it.
Even as this sort of thoughts flicker by, that part of Hal’s mind that isn’t busy defending his honor recoils in horror. He should know better than to play with fire. There are bigger things than pride at stake here, things that he can’t quite phantom himself. Tom’s comradeship has been both unexpected as it is undeserved – unlike Leo, who had owned him his freedom, Tom has no real reason to show him kindness. He has that spare stake stashed away in the kitchen, but when Hal confronted him about it earlier, he had seemed almost ashamed of it. Most days Hal isn’t sure why Tom doesn’t just kill him and be done with it. The answer to that particular question eludes him still, perhaps because instinctively, he knows that to dwell on it more would mean opening up a whole new realm of possibilities, something that neither of them has the means to handle. Just because Tom clearly doesn’t understand what he's asking of him, Hal shouldn’t repay his cluelessness by acting on it. He has already caused Tom enough trouble for one day and it isn’t even dark yet.
But it wouldn’t be his life if he were to choose the high road. Inside himself Hal feels a shift, like some long-forgotten creature raising its head almost curiously – and then he’s already leaning over the greasy table, his voice lowered to a confidential curiosity as he asks, “Tell me: are you familiar with the work of Robert Louis Stevenson?”
Tom, clearly oblivious to the proverbial cliff they are now steering straight towards to, shrugs. “Can’t say I am.”
“In his most famous novel he writes about the relationship between man and his nature. It is a common enough theme throughout the literature: that there is a savage beast hiding within each and every human. But what are only nightmares to others has become the reality for us. I live with my demons from one hour to the next, while you become slave to yours only once a month. But we are both monsters. Leo certainly never had any illusions about that, as he was more than happy to spent his whole life hiding away from the society. He was a great man – the greatest, in fact – but when Leo looked in the mirror, he saw a beast.” Only now Hal nails down Tom’s gaze with a fixed stare; every vampire has its own talents and Hal has long since learned that when he truly wants to, his eyes are enough to drown a man on dry land. “You, on the other hand, do not.”
If he were to do this any other way, Hal would render himself into a bumbling idiot. There is a reason why he and Lady Mary have been chatting about nothing else but the weather for the past two-hundred years, while strolling through old buildings. That is courting. This – this is something else.
Truth, Hal has learned, is the most prominent weapon there is. It can be ugly at times, or a relief, but despite its exact content, the thing that stays the same is this: it is always terrifying. He has twisted more people around his little finger than he can count and for as numerous reasons; sometimes he had desired sex, sometimes blood, and in many cases, loyalty. Despite the reason, the procedure itself never changes: his words are not meant for his listeners’ ears, but for their hearts.
But this method also has its dangers, as he has but little control over the words that flow out from his mouth. He can’t take them back even if he wants to. When he thought this might not bode well, he wasn’t just thinking about Tom.
“Every werewolf I have ever met has carried this sense of shame on them, like a stigma of sorts.” Hal isn’t sure if Tom even knows what that is, but that is beside the point. “Even the ones to boast with the wolf only seemed to do it because life had left them no other choice. But you – you take pride in it, such as I have never in all my long life seen before. To you, it’s more like a birthright than a curse. This world all but spits on you and yet you turn the other cheek, eager to take on each and every miserable thing it decides to throw your way. All the blood you have spilled has always been in the name of love. You cherish and protect a child that isn’t yours, and after a lifetime of killing my kind, here you are, willing to let me work beside you. For years, I have tried to become the better man, only to find myself shocked how easily you have managed it while making it seem like you weren’t even trying at all. There is such innocence in you; I see it burn like a flame in the night and I find myself drawn to it – to succumb to it, or to put it out, that I do not know.”
Finally, he runs out of words to say. The world around them eases slowly back into existence. Hal comes to learn that in some point, he has apparently reached for Tom’s hand: it sits cradled between both of his palms, as dry as his own, but definitely warmer. Beneath the frail exterior of skin, he senses the acid-like blood and feels a thundering heartbeat, untamed and calling. He finally looks up from their joined hands and finds Tom staring at him with wide eyes.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly. The sounds of a car’s honk drifts from the street outside.
And then they are both scrambling up from the table, clearing their throats in unison. “I should chop the salad,” Hal observes, the exact moment as Tom says, “I think the grill could do with a scrub.”
In their hurry to dash behind the counter, their paths collide before it. Hal sees it happening, but he seems to have lost all control over his feet and propels straight into Tom’s side; and Tom, in a desperate attempt to stay upright and his reflexes ever sharp, grabs him for support.
For a moment suspended in time, it is unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object. Hal witnesses the flash of terror in Tom’s eyes when he realises he’s holding Hal by the arms – his unwillingness to be touched by strangers was, after all, one of the first things both Tom and Annie learned about him – and then the force of the movement tugs them along once more, as they crash against the nearby wall like a wave breaking.
Somewhere along the way Hal has spiraled around and so it is he who bears the brunt of the collision. His back slams against the wall and he barely has the time to reel from the pain of it before the full weight of a regularly exercising werewolf is on him, making the back of his skull knock against the concrete once more. On the shelf near their heads the row of spices he arranged earlier rattles dangerously.
Tiny white stars fill Hal’s vision. While he drifts in the haziness, nothing seems quite real. For some unknown reason – perhaps because she was the last werewolf he was in habit of doing these sorts of rough tumbles with - he finds himself thinking of Lady Catherine. Tom’s face is only inches away from his and it suddenly occurs to Hal that they have the same set of dark eyes, determinate and yet unbelievably kind. Tom would have liked her, Hal imagines. He would have been disappointed to learn that it was his actions that led to her death.
When his head clears a bit, Hal tries to push himself off the wall, only to learn that he is apparently pinned to it. Tom still has both of his shoulders locked in his grip and he’s pressing down hard. Hal doesn’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but the point still stands – he can’t move even if he tries.
Hal should feel caged. He should feel alarmed that there are someone else’s hands on his skin without his consent. But what comes over him is a strange sense of calmness. Every moment of his daily life is lived in fear that he’s about to lose control and that there is nothing he can do about it. He’s holding on by a mere thread and it is everything that is stopping him from dropping into the abyss of his own mind. But Tom’s touch is anchoring, and he is so very alive, and for the first time in what seems like an eternity Hal feels like both of his feet are firmly planted on solid ground.
Meanwhile, Tom’s thoughts have become hard to read, as he stares at Hal with his forehead creased in deep lines. His heartbeat is still wild and it travels between his palms, using Hal’s body as a conductor. For a moment they are but one being, and Hal is left feeling like he just stole from a child – this isn’t a page from that book of virtuous courting he described earlier and Hal most definitely isn’t a person worth plucking anything for.
As it is, neither of them quite hears the bell. Only when someone clears their throat with more intent than is strictly necessary, Hal realises that a customer has just entered the café.
Tom swivels his head around so fast that Hal can hear several joints popping. When he, too, peeks behind his head, he finds a young woman standing by the door. She has short auburn-brown hair and despite the climate she’s wearing what seems like a pair of impossibly tiny shorts. Her arms are placed on her hips as she looks at them with an expression of gleeful satisfaction.
“Sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. “I can see how this was a bad time. I’ll just come back later.”
Tom practically bounces towards her, the force of the movement swatting Hal against the wall once more. “No, we’re open, I swear! Me and Hal were just, you know - practicin’.”
“Well, I can definitely see that,” the girl smirks. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Despite Tom’s weak attempts to stop her, she is out the door as quickly as she came.
Tom stares after her for a long time, his sad expression like a dog’s that just got left behind by its owner. While he mopes, Hal finally manages to peel himself off the wall. As he tries to recall how his limbs are supposed to work, he wonders whether he can still live with himself after what has occurred during the past fifteen minutes or if he should just find a handful of toothpicks to stake himself with. Both of his shoulders still burn with the memory of touch.
After what feels like an eternity, Tom finally turns back to him. Out of all the possible things to say, the words that come out of his mouth next are, “She was real pretty.” He chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Maybe if she comes back, you can try askin’ ‘er out.”
For the second time that day, Hal is about to howl a laugh. The sound of it already sits there at the back of his throat, desperate and more than little hysterical, because surely this is madness, surely no one can be this clueless – but just like before, the expression on Tom’s face renders him speechless. He seems a bit unsure and somewhat ruffled, but otherwise unaffected. Hal has heard a little about his father and from that he has gathered that McNair was a very hands-on person. Perhaps Tom is used to rough shows of affection and to him, the latter part was the most normal occurrence of this little incident. He already thinks that all vampires are peculiar creatures and he definitely finds Hal a little odd; he arranges dominoes meticulously and exercises at dawn – what is a declaration of pure adoration compared to that?
So once again Hal swallows down whatever emotions were surfacing, putting a lid on them and them storing them away as neatly as he does everything else, until not a single bit of evidence remains.
“She’s not my type,” he manages, before returning back at his task of chopping the salad.