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fredbassettTitle : The Veil is Thin Tonight
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 12
Characters : Nick/Stephen & others
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : There are some nights of the year when the veil between one world and the next is at its thinnest, and Samhain is one of those nights.
A/N : Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial Halloween challenge.
The days when Nick had made it a rule not to drink alone were long gone.
So were the days when he only ever drank decent malt.
On this occasion, he’d stopped at his local 24/7 Tesco Express to pick up a cheese sandwich and a bottle of Bells for a late supper after Lester had practically ordered Ryan and the security team to escort him off the premises at gunpoint after he’d spent nearly a week in his office. With hindsight, even Nick had to admit that it was hardly surprising that the cleaning staff had complained when he’d started drying his socks and underpants overnight on the radiator.
Lester had ordered him to take the weekend off and had made it plain that if Nick didn’t get his act together, he’d insist on sending for a full a psychiatric evaluation, whether he liked it or not.
Nick had finally recognised superior force when it had stared down its aquiline nose at him and had retreated to his own house. He no longer thought of it as his home, not without Stephen’s presence there. He knew he should never have reacted the way he did to Helen’s poisonous revelation but acknowledging that now was too little, too late. He should have done that when Stephen had been alive, not cold in his grave for over six months.
A grave that Nick had not been able to bring himself to visit since the day of the funeral.
He ate the sandwich without tasting it, then poured a large whisky. He barely tasted that either, or the one that followed it.
Unable to sit still, Nick picked up his drink and wandered aimlessly from room to room, but each one held too many memories that he could no longer hide from.
Stephen in the kitchen cheerfully cooking bacon and eggs for breakfast.
Stephen emerging from the shower, dark hair sticking up in wet spikes, a towel draped around his slim hips.
Stephen in the living room, lying in a loose-limbed sprawl on the sofa, his eyes closed, listening to music.
Stephen kicking muddy boots off in the hall.
Stephen in the bedroom, shedding his clothes, looking at Nick from under impossibly long eyelashes, an inviting smile on his handsome face.
Stephen everywhere … and nowhere.
The empty glass fell from Nick’s fingers and bounced on the carpet, coming to rest beside the sofa.
He turned aside, dashing tears from his face. There was no solace to be found in an empty bottle, he had enough sense left to know that. With a muttered curse that would have drawn a very disapproving look from his grandmother if she’d still been alive, Nick grabbed his jacket, stuffed his house keys into his pocket and went out.
A walk might help clear the fog that had settled on his mind.
By the time he’d reached the end of the road, he’d bumped into three ghosts (complete with chains in two cases), four witches, a pair of blood-stained zombies and one vampire. Two blocks later, he wouldn’t be answerable for his actions if he saw one more bloody pumpkin or was on the receiving end of one more shriek of ‘trick or treat!’
He’d been brought up on highland tales of the caoineag, a weeping woman who foretells death by lamenting in the night in deserted places, so by comparison the US imports were just far too tame. As he walked the darkened streets, Nick amused himself with thoughts of traumatising the various little Tristrams and Jocastas of his rapidly gentrifying neighbourhood with some of his nan’s more hair-raising tales.
To his surprise, when he finally succumbed to the temptation to mutter: “Fuck off, you wee gobshites,” he didn’t even get so much as a disapproving glance from the brat’s mother. Standards were clearly slipping.
As he walked, the accusing voices in Nick’s head finally fell silent, letting him lose himself in the thin grey mist that had started to add more atmosphere to the already cold evening, blurring the light from the lamps and wrapping chill fingers tightly around him. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and kept walking.
Ahead, a pair of tall iron gates set in an imposing white stone gateway loomed out of the mist and Nick realised with a jolt that he had, without thinking, made his way to the cemetery where they’d buried Stephen. He came to an abrupt halt, staring through the wrought iron gates at the gravestones and statues wreathed in mist. He wanted to turn away and walk home, but instead he hoisted himself onto the gates, scaling them with an ease borne of long experience breaking and entering in pursuit of the latest inconvenient visitors from the past. He swung his legs over the top of the gates and dropped down onto the other side, hoping no one had seen him, but as far as he could tell, the road outside Kensal Green Cemetery was deserted and he hadn’t noticed any CCTV cameras.
Not a ghost, ghoul, zombie or witch in sight. Not even a solitary dog-walker.
And no fucking pumpkins. That was definitely an improvement.
Even though he’d only been there once, Nick had no trouble finding his way to Stephen’s grave.
The mist was swirling more thickly now, and the temperature had dropped by several degrees.
Nick turned up the collar of his old green Swedish army jacket, doing his best to ignore the slight tremor in his hands.
The name Stephen James Hart on the simple headstone hit him with the force of a cricket bat to the guts.
Stephen James Hart.
His best friend.
His lover.
The man he’d turned against because Stephen been seduced by Nick’s bitch of a wife. Yes, maybe he’d loved Helen once, but that love hadn’t survived meeting her again. The knowledge that she’d seduced one of her students shouldn’t have come as a surprise and, if he was honest with himself, Nick had always suspected that she’d engaged in some extra-curricular activities. He had a reputation for being oblivious, but he hadn’t been that oblivious, and the rest of the faculty had gossiped as much as the students. He’d just buried those thoughts deep inside himself, looked the door and thrown away the key. But he recognised now that if Helen hadn’t disappeared, she might have found her academic career abruptly curtailed.
Despite all that, Nick had still allowed his jealousy and hurt to drive a wedge between him and the man he’d relied on – and then loved – for nearly nine years. All thrown away because he had been too pig-headed to see Helen’s spite for what it was – a last ditch attempt to recover what she saw as her property.
And Stephen had willingly given his life to save them both. Nick would never forgive her for being the cause of that sacrifice. He couldn’t forgive himself, either.
Nick felt cold tears tracking their way down his cheeks and through the week old stubble that Lester had cast disapproving glances at when he’d finally banished him from the ARC.
“I’m sorry, Stephen.” The words were barely louder than the night breeze. He let the tears fall unchecked. “I’m so sorry. I’m a bloody idiot. Can you ever forgive me?”
A gentle laugh broke the silence that followed his admission and his question. “Nick, I think I answered that question when I closed that bloody door behind me.”
The mist cleared to reveal Stephen lounging on the damp grass, leaning on the headstone of the next grave, one leg bent comfortably at the knee in a pose that was so characteristically Stephen that Nick’s breath caught in his throat.
He shook his head, trying to clear the whisky-induced fog. “I didn’t drink that bloody much.”
“You didn’t drink anything at all.”
“Half a bottle of bad scotch constitutes slightly more than nothing.” Why the hell was he arguing with a figment of his own imagination? That was taking being argumentative to extremes, even by his standards.
Stephen stood up with all his customary grace and stepped away from the headstone he’d been casually leaning against.
The words carved into the simple slab of black marble ripped away the certainty that Nick had wrapped around himself like body armour for months.
Nicholas Cutter.
His name.
The date of his death.
The bullet tore into his chest.
His lungs filled with blood and breathing became difficult.
Slumping against Connor’s shoulder, feeling his life slipping away, unable to give the young man the reassurance he so desperately craved.
Then he’d carried on as if nothing had happened. Stubborn to the last, just like his nan had always said.
A rueful smile tugged at Nick’s lips. “Have I been making a nuisance of myself?”
Stephen grinned. “You didn’t quite resort to rattling chains, but no one could get in to clear your office. It was just too bloody cold in there, and you kept chucking around broken bits of your prediction matrix. People took the hint and stayed away.”
Nick looked down and realised that he was no more substantial than the mist that swirled around them. “You waited for me.”
“Of course I did.” Stephen held out his hand. “I don’t know what happens next, but I want us to find out together.”
Nick reached out and took the proffered hand.
The mist thickened, warm now, like a comfortable blanket.
Nick felt the press of soft lips against his and then he was kissing Stephen like his life – or death – depended on it and nothing else mattered.
When they finally drew apart, their hands remained firmly linked.
Together, smiling, they stepped into the mist.
Nothing in that world or the next would come between them now.
*****
The sound of hammering greeted Lester as he walked into the ARC. The smell of smoke had finally dissipated, but the place still looked and sounded like a particularly frenzied building site.
The pumpkins that had festooned the atrium had been tidied away by the cleaners. Dot had been muttering about making soup out of them for several days, and being a sensible, thrift soul, she’d expressly forbidden Becker’s mob from taking them outside and using them for target practice.
As he made his way to the ramp up to his office, he caught sight of a figure in worn blue overalls coming out of Cutter’s old office, a bundle of long plastic tubes tucked under one arm.
“Norman? Has …”
The ARC’s white-haired maintenance supervisor nodded. “’ee’s gone. So’s the laddie.” He waved his hand into the doorway. “Take a sken for yerself.”
Lester walked into the office that most of the staff had studiously avoided for months, even though most of them had been unwilling to discuss it. The temperature was noticeably warmer than it had been since Cutter’s death, and no books or bits of plastic model were flying around. That was certainly an improvement.
“Stephen?” Lester asked quietly. “Are you here?”
The only answer he got was silence.
He picked some more of the long plastic tubes off the floor and handed them to Norman.
“I told ‘ee. Moved on, both of ‘em.”
If Lester had been a religious man, he might have said ‘thank God’, but he wasn’t, and it was never wise to bring up matters of theology around Norman, whose frequent phone calls to Lambeth Palace had – fortunately – failed to engage the services of a exorcist, although there had been numerous heated debates about terminology, with Norman complaining loudly that dubbing it the Healing Ministry was wishy washy, although he did agree with their harassed office staff that Deliverance Ministry had led to too many people miming duelling banjos. Their opposite numbers in what Nomran persisted in referring to as Left Footer Central had been equally unforthcoming, much to Lester’s relief. The health and safety implication of bell, book and candle was not something he felt any desire to grapple with.
“Thought last night might sort ‘em out.”
Lester smiled, doing his best to ignore the lump in his throat and the sudden cold knot that had formed in the pit of his stomach. “Very good. I hope this will mean fewer complaints from the staff.”
Without waiting for a reply, he made his way up to his office, trying not to appear to be hurrying.
After depositing his briefcase on the desk and hanging up his overcoat, Lester sat down in his chair then looked around the empty room.
The very empty room.
Lester closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He knew this wasn’t about him but …
The temperature in the room dropped slightly and his eyes flew open.
The black-clad figure leaning casually against the glass wall of his office favoured him with a slight smile. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
Lester’s exhale was as shaky as his indrawn breath had been. “Are you sure there isn’t anywhere else you’d rather be?”
Ryan’s smile broadened. “Yes, I’m very sure.” The smile slid into a grin and the hard lump of ice that had formed in Lester’s stomach started to dissolve. “There’ll always be plenty of unfinished business around here.”
“Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“No bloody idea. And I hope it’ll be a long time before I find out. I’m not going anywhere without you. Not while you still want me.”
“I still want you. Just don’t start hanging your underwear on the radiators.”
“If you insist. Can I still give unsolicited advice to Becker?”
“Absolutely. One day he might even listen.”
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 12
Characters : Nick/Stephen & others
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : There are some nights of the year when the veil between one world and the next is at its thinnest, and Samhain is one of those nights.
A/N : Written for
primeval_denial Halloween challenge.The days when Nick had made it a rule not to drink alone were long gone.
So were the days when he only ever drank decent malt.
On this occasion, he’d stopped at his local 24/7 Tesco Express to pick up a cheese sandwich and a bottle of Bells for a late supper after Lester had practically ordered Ryan and the security team to escort him off the premises at gunpoint after he’d spent nearly a week in his office. With hindsight, even Nick had to admit that it was hardly surprising that the cleaning staff had complained when he’d started drying his socks and underpants overnight on the radiator.
Lester had ordered him to take the weekend off and had made it plain that if Nick didn’t get his act together, he’d insist on sending for a full a psychiatric evaluation, whether he liked it or not.
Nick had finally recognised superior force when it had stared down its aquiline nose at him and had retreated to his own house. He no longer thought of it as his home, not without Stephen’s presence there. He knew he should never have reacted the way he did to Helen’s poisonous revelation but acknowledging that now was too little, too late. He should have done that when Stephen had been alive, not cold in his grave for over six months.
A grave that Nick had not been able to bring himself to visit since the day of the funeral.
He ate the sandwich without tasting it, then poured a large whisky. He barely tasted that either, or the one that followed it.
Unable to sit still, Nick picked up his drink and wandered aimlessly from room to room, but each one held too many memories that he could no longer hide from.
Stephen in the kitchen cheerfully cooking bacon and eggs for breakfast.
Stephen emerging from the shower, dark hair sticking up in wet spikes, a towel draped around his slim hips.
Stephen in the living room, lying in a loose-limbed sprawl on the sofa, his eyes closed, listening to music.
Stephen kicking muddy boots off in the hall.
Stephen in the bedroom, shedding his clothes, looking at Nick from under impossibly long eyelashes, an inviting smile on his handsome face.
Stephen everywhere … and nowhere.
The empty glass fell from Nick’s fingers and bounced on the carpet, coming to rest beside the sofa.
He turned aside, dashing tears from his face. There was no solace to be found in an empty bottle, he had enough sense left to know that. With a muttered curse that would have drawn a very disapproving look from his grandmother if she’d still been alive, Nick grabbed his jacket, stuffed his house keys into his pocket and went out.
A walk might help clear the fog that had settled on his mind.
By the time he’d reached the end of the road, he’d bumped into three ghosts (complete with chains in two cases), four witches, a pair of blood-stained zombies and one vampire. Two blocks later, he wouldn’t be answerable for his actions if he saw one more bloody pumpkin or was on the receiving end of one more shriek of ‘trick or treat!’
He’d been brought up on highland tales of the caoineag, a weeping woman who foretells death by lamenting in the night in deserted places, so by comparison the US imports were just far too tame. As he walked the darkened streets, Nick amused himself with thoughts of traumatising the various little Tristrams and Jocastas of his rapidly gentrifying neighbourhood with some of his nan’s more hair-raising tales.
To his surprise, when he finally succumbed to the temptation to mutter: “Fuck off, you wee gobshites,” he didn’t even get so much as a disapproving glance from the brat’s mother. Standards were clearly slipping.
As he walked, the accusing voices in Nick’s head finally fell silent, letting him lose himself in the thin grey mist that had started to add more atmosphere to the already cold evening, blurring the light from the lamps and wrapping chill fingers tightly around him. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and kept walking.
Ahead, a pair of tall iron gates set in an imposing white stone gateway loomed out of the mist and Nick realised with a jolt that he had, without thinking, made his way to the cemetery where they’d buried Stephen. He came to an abrupt halt, staring through the wrought iron gates at the gravestones and statues wreathed in mist. He wanted to turn away and walk home, but instead he hoisted himself onto the gates, scaling them with an ease borne of long experience breaking and entering in pursuit of the latest inconvenient visitors from the past. He swung his legs over the top of the gates and dropped down onto the other side, hoping no one had seen him, but as far as he could tell, the road outside Kensal Green Cemetery was deserted and he hadn’t noticed any CCTV cameras.
Not a ghost, ghoul, zombie or witch in sight. Not even a solitary dog-walker.
And no fucking pumpkins. That was definitely an improvement.
Even though he’d only been there once, Nick had no trouble finding his way to Stephen’s grave.
The mist was swirling more thickly now, and the temperature had dropped by several degrees.
Nick turned up the collar of his old green Swedish army jacket, doing his best to ignore the slight tremor in his hands.
The name Stephen James Hart on the simple headstone hit him with the force of a cricket bat to the guts.
Stephen James Hart.
His best friend.
His lover.
The man he’d turned against because Stephen been seduced by Nick’s bitch of a wife. Yes, maybe he’d loved Helen once, but that love hadn’t survived meeting her again. The knowledge that she’d seduced one of her students shouldn’t have come as a surprise and, if he was honest with himself, Nick had always suspected that she’d engaged in some extra-curricular activities. He had a reputation for being oblivious, but he hadn’t been that oblivious, and the rest of the faculty had gossiped as much as the students. He’d just buried those thoughts deep inside himself, looked the door and thrown away the key. But he recognised now that if Helen hadn’t disappeared, she might have found her academic career abruptly curtailed.
Despite all that, Nick had still allowed his jealousy and hurt to drive a wedge between him and the man he’d relied on – and then loved – for nearly nine years. All thrown away because he had been too pig-headed to see Helen’s spite for what it was – a last ditch attempt to recover what she saw as her property.
And Stephen had willingly given his life to save them both. Nick would never forgive her for being the cause of that sacrifice. He couldn’t forgive himself, either.
Nick felt cold tears tracking their way down his cheeks and through the week old stubble that Lester had cast disapproving glances at when he’d finally banished him from the ARC.
“I’m sorry, Stephen.” The words were barely louder than the night breeze. He let the tears fall unchecked. “I’m so sorry. I’m a bloody idiot. Can you ever forgive me?”
A gentle laugh broke the silence that followed his admission and his question. “Nick, I think I answered that question when I closed that bloody door behind me.”
The mist cleared to reveal Stephen lounging on the damp grass, leaning on the headstone of the next grave, one leg bent comfortably at the knee in a pose that was so characteristically Stephen that Nick’s breath caught in his throat.
He shook his head, trying to clear the whisky-induced fog. “I didn’t drink that bloody much.”
“You didn’t drink anything at all.”
“Half a bottle of bad scotch constitutes slightly more than nothing.” Why the hell was he arguing with a figment of his own imagination? That was taking being argumentative to extremes, even by his standards.
Stephen stood up with all his customary grace and stepped away from the headstone he’d been casually leaning against.
The words carved into the simple slab of black marble ripped away the certainty that Nick had wrapped around himself like body armour for months.
Nicholas Cutter.
His name.
The date of his death.
The bullet tore into his chest.
His lungs filled with blood and breathing became difficult.
Slumping against Connor’s shoulder, feeling his life slipping away, unable to give the young man the reassurance he so desperately craved.
Then he’d carried on as if nothing had happened. Stubborn to the last, just like his nan had always said.
A rueful smile tugged at Nick’s lips. “Have I been making a nuisance of myself?”
Stephen grinned. “You didn’t quite resort to rattling chains, but no one could get in to clear your office. It was just too bloody cold in there, and you kept chucking around broken bits of your prediction matrix. People took the hint and stayed away.”
Nick looked down and realised that he was no more substantial than the mist that swirled around them. “You waited for me.”
“Of course I did.” Stephen held out his hand. “I don’t know what happens next, but I want us to find out together.”
Nick reached out and took the proffered hand.
The mist thickened, warm now, like a comfortable blanket.
Nick felt the press of soft lips against his and then he was kissing Stephen like his life – or death – depended on it and nothing else mattered.
When they finally drew apart, their hands remained firmly linked.
Together, smiling, they stepped into the mist.
Nothing in that world or the next would come between them now.
*****
The sound of hammering greeted Lester as he walked into the ARC. The smell of smoke had finally dissipated, but the place still looked and sounded like a particularly frenzied building site.
The pumpkins that had festooned the atrium had been tidied away by the cleaners. Dot had been muttering about making soup out of them for several days, and being a sensible, thrift soul, she’d expressly forbidden Becker’s mob from taking them outside and using them for target practice.
As he made his way to the ramp up to his office, he caught sight of a figure in worn blue overalls coming out of Cutter’s old office, a bundle of long plastic tubes tucked under one arm.
“Norman? Has …”
The ARC’s white-haired maintenance supervisor nodded. “’ee’s gone. So’s the laddie.” He waved his hand into the doorway. “Take a sken for yerself.”
Lester walked into the office that most of the staff had studiously avoided for months, even though most of them had been unwilling to discuss it. The temperature was noticeably warmer than it had been since Cutter’s death, and no books or bits of plastic model were flying around. That was certainly an improvement.
“Stephen?” Lester asked quietly. “Are you here?”
The only answer he got was silence.
He picked some more of the long plastic tubes off the floor and handed them to Norman.
“I told ‘ee. Moved on, both of ‘em.”
If Lester had been a religious man, he might have said ‘thank God’, but he wasn’t, and it was never wise to bring up matters of theology around Norman, whose frequent phone calls to Lambeth Palace had – fortunately – failed to engage the services of a exorcist, although there had been numerous heated debates about terminology, with Norman complaining loudly that dubbing it the Healing Ministry was wishy washy, although he did agree with their harassed office staff that Deliverance Ministry had led to too many people miming duelling banjos. Their opposite numbers in what Nomran persisted in referring to as Left Footer Central had been equally unforthcoming, much to Lester’s relief. The health and safety implication of bell, book and candle was not something he felt any desire to grapple with.
“Thought last night might sort ‘em out.”
Lester smiled, doing his best to ignore the lump in his throat and the sudden cold knot that had formed in the pit of his stomach. “Very good. I hope this will mean fewer complaints from the staff.”
Without waiting for a reply, he made his way up to his office, trying not to appear to be hurrying.
After depositing his briefcase on the desk and hanging up his overcoat, Lester sat down in his chair then looked around the empty room.
The very empty room.
Lester closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He knew this wasn’t about him but …
The temperature in the room dropped slightly and his eyes flew open.
The black-clad figure leaning casually against the glass wall of his office favoured him with a slight smile. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
Lester’s exhale was as shaky as his indrawn breath had been. “Are you sure there isn’t anywhere else you’d rather be?”
Ryan’s smile broadened. “Yes, I’m very sure.” The smile slid into a grin and the hard lump of ice that had formed in Lester’s stomach started to dissolve. “There’ll always be plenty of unfinished business around here.”
“Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“No bloody idea. And I hope it’ll be a long time before I find out. I’m not going anywhere without you. Not while you still want me.”
“I still want you. Just don’t start hanging your underwear on the radiators.”
“If you insist. Can I still give unsolicited advice to Becker?”
“Absolutely. One day he might even listen.”
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no subject
Date: 2020-10-31 08:57 pm (UTC)I loved the Cutter POV that only toward the end did I realise his current "status".
The meeting between him and Stephen was so evocative, so beautifully worded, that I started to tear up.
Got even closer when the people at the ARC were finally able to clear out his room.
But then the last bit had me simultaneously sniffling and cheering. Not quite a fix-it, but still super!
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:16 pm (UTC)I only twigged to Cutter's current status about half way through, as well!
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-10-31 11:34 pm (UTC)Poor Lester, worried he'd lost Ryan and LOL, Becker needs that advice.
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 07:45 am (UTC)*sniffs delicately*
I loved that.
It's surprising how Norman is essential in this kind of thing isn't it?
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:18 pm (UTC)LOL, yes, Norman is often essential in these circumstances.
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 02:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 06:32 pm (UTC)I am a bit sad about Ryan staying though. It’s very bittersweet.
Lovely fic and very atmospheric!
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:19 pm (UTC)I have rather a weakness for Ryan/Lester in a ghost scenario, and I can see Ryan wanting to stick around and Lester worrying that he's being selfish by wanting him to stay.
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:55 pm (UTC)Excellent Halloween fic!
no subject
Date: 2020-11-01 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-04-24 08:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-04-24 08:30 pm (UTC)