FIC: Vark - 2 - An American Werewolf in London

[eleytheria.livejournal.com]

Title: Vark – 2 – An American Werewolf in London
Author: kickflaw
Pairing(s): DM/BB, OB/VM
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter, NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Owning real people would be slavery.
Summary: When Dominic Monaghan, intrepid entomology graduate student, heads out to Carlisle for the new year at Caldew School, he ends up embroiled in a world of darkness and silver light. A world where monsters and monster-hunters walk during the full moon with blood on their hands, and sorcery, addiction, lust, love, pain, hope and curses are all more real and more dangerous than ever before. A world he could hardly have imagined even in his nightmares.
Feedback: Would help with the other chapters, of course.
Content/Warnings: Will contain violence, angst, sex, and all of that good stuff, with a side of occasional fluff. Note also, that I'm fairly sure about this herbal info, but I could be wrong.

Chapters: 0 | 1



*

Vark - 2 - An American Werewolf in London

*

"Oh. My. God." Dom moaned, collapsing flat out over the couch armrest. Billy looked down at him, cocked eyebrow, and clicked pause on the movie he'd been watching. An American Werewolf in London - very interesting, but he knew by now that it was impossible to stop Dom from ranting when he wanted to, and equally impossible to divide his attention between Dom and something else at the same time. Not that he didn't pretend to do just that - He liked the pinched expression Dom put on when he thought he was being ignored.

"Right then. Let me have it." Billy turned to lean against the opposite armrest, facing Dom fully.

"Mr. McKellen is attempting to dispose of me by subtle poison." Dom groaned.

"Mmhmm. How so?"

"Today, I was unloading jars of something called mandrake, right? He said he sold bunches of it, and needed it all out by tomorrow. So there I was, happily stacking it on the counter over the nightshade label, and I say 'Hey, isn't this one of those old, old things they're always putting in witch brews in the movies? Macbeth like?' and he just smiles at me and disappears, saying 'Don't spill any, boy', which, as you know, is what he always calls me. So I try not to, of course, but I drop one of the jars and it breaks and,” Dom was maundering away, as he was often wont to do, and Billy couldn’t help grinning, despite Dom’s vexed flailing, "-shut it, I don't want to hear a word out of your mouth, Billy- so the nightshade is all over the floor. Being the good employee I am, I'm scooping it up into one of the spare jars he keeps, and god, this shite smells, and the next thing I know I'm coughing and the room is spinning and I swear on the Queen's knickers that that tosser was laughing. He's round the bend, Billy. Round the bend! And all he says to me is 'I told you not to spill any'."

Billy buried his face in his hands and laughed.

"Shut it. I mean, what the hell? He didn't inform me that it was poisonous. He could have said something, but, no, just 'Don't spill any, boy'."

"Dom, don't you think that was warning enough?"

"But he always says that!"

"Well, whatever the case - and I wouldn't put it past Ian to deliberately set you up, actually - you weren't being poisoned. Mandrake is a nightshade plant, and though it's naturally dangerous it's only poisonous when it gets into the bloodstream. When ingested it's only a hallucinogenic."

"Still. What if I'd hallucinated that I could fly, eh? It's lucky I only breathed a bit, and it wore off quickly."

"Indeed." smirked Billy.

Dom twisted his head to glare up at him, and the top of his spiked hair brushed against Billy's shin, resting bent on the middle couch cushion. Only a moment and the glare dimmed, softened, but Billy didn't wait to see what it turned into. He felt Dom hop up and follow him as he wandered into the kitchen. Night was heavy outside. Billy watched through his white curtains as the wind brushed sound from his dangling chimes. They comforted him, most times. Their soft, sweet, highness pierced the sifting moonlight when it draped the porch like silver slime. Soon, now. It wasn't often that Dom got home before sunset.

He felt Dom watching him still so he turned, bracing himself on the counter. "I have to go away for a few days." he remembered having this conversation with Viggo, with every one of his tenants, over all this time.

Dom looked interested. "Where? Why?"

"It's a place up in Scotland. I go every month."

"For what?"

"Just," he shrugged, "because. Mother country and all."

"Oh. Um, how long is a few days?"

"Four."

"Right, then." Dom scratched a nail along the grain of the wooden table.

"Thought I'd let you know. Dinner's up to you for the time - think you can manage?" Billy forced a smile.

"Oh, however will I survive? I shall starve until you return, oh great chef! Or no! Perhaps, perhaps I shall make Viggo cook for me! The genius of it! And if he won't, I shall simply eat him instead!" joked Dom. It wrung a real, if small, smile from Billy's lips.

"You could try." Viggo grumbled from the foyer.

Dom did nothing less than screech, followed quickly by, "Stop doing that! Lord, man! I need to put a bell on you!"

"I reiterate my previous statement." Viggo deadpanned as he sloped over to the refrigerator and cracked open a beer.

The night seemed to fade away beyond the warmth and warm light of his kitchen as Dom and Viggo bickered, and Billy didn’t bother to bite down on his laughter. But fading isn't disappearing, and it lingered. It always lingered.

*

Orlando slammed his head down onto his keyboard, scattering random letters across the computer screen. "Ow." he murmured.

He was bored.

Fuck all- he was always bored. Nothing, nothing ever kept him occupied, kept him busy, kept him excited. At the end of the day, or event, or hour, whatever, he was still going out of his skull with a mad fury for more, no matter what he did, from biking to bungee jumping. It was so fucking frustrating. No one else seemed to have this problem. Everyone he knew managed to be content with something, some level of excitement; He never was. Fleeting, momentary satisfaction was a close as he came.

This college thing wasn't working out. Two weeks in and his first paper and he was already discontent, stifled, mentally blocked. He needed to get out, let loose, find something new. Dom, he knew, was working tonight. Elijah was humoring his Aunt and being 'grounded' for once. God, he realized, that's it. That's the end of my mates in this forsaken, water-clogged northern land.

Except. Wait.

Billy. Billy would be home and maybe even Viggo.

Orlando pushed away from his desk decisively. A pair of trainers, his wallet, and he was on his way.

When he finally pulled down the winding, shaded driveway, Billy was just loading his suitcase into the backseat of his car. A slight drizzle, more fog than rain, greyed the air. The kind that made you feel damp but not wet, and never really dripped, only misted. Billy squinted at him as he strode up.

"Going somewhere, Bills?"

"Quick trip to the homeland. Need something?"

Orlando sighed and collapsed over the slippery hood of the car dramatically. "I'm bored, and no one seems to be around!"

Billy patted him tentatively on the shoulder. Despite his hesitant motions, amusement marked his tone. "I'm sorry."

"You know this place, right? Is there anything to do that I haven't done already?" he rolled over and gazed up, imploring. In the strange light Billy's eyes looked amber.

"Mmm, probably not anything normal. But I can tell you what has the potential to be utterly hysterical, were you to pursue it."

"Oh, oh!" Orlando sat up rapidly, and lost his balance on the slick metal of the hood. Billy steadied him like lightening - drew away again. "What, tell me!"

A throaty laugh, deliciously evil glint in yellow-green eyes. "Visit Dom at the chemist's. I promise it'll be achingly funny."

"Hmmm." he considered momentarily. "All right. That's on Wright Avenue, right?"

"Wright, right."

"Not funny."

With a wave, Orlando hopped into his car and backed out of the driveway, turning his gaze from Billy's smirking, fog-folded form.

*

Orlando's eyebrow arched dubiously as he pulled into the chemist's front lot. Definitely not the usual stark, well-lit, impersonal type he'd always known. This was a squat, one-story square that looked as if it had been dropped out of the sky in communist-era America. The concrete sides were darkened with heavy stains, brown and orange against the rough beige, and the flatness of the roof made it seem sunken. Ancient. Unhappy. Even the gravelly parking lot gave off a brooding, old aura, so much so that Orlando momentarily hesitated to get out of his car.

He shielded his eyes with one and peered through the wall-size windows, garishly glinting with reflected neon light from varied advertisements. It was dim inside. Wooden shelves lined every wall, floor to ceiling, and stood in rows throughout the store. From what he could tell, more than just prescriptions and basic bottled medicines were available here. What with the jars and vials and small boxes with locks on them that dotted the store, the word apothecary sprung to mind.

The door rang when he stepped inside and a moment later, Dom appeared. "Hello, how can I help-" he stopped, surprised. "Hey! What are you doing here?"

Orlando grinned. "Visiting you."

"Why?"

"Because I can."

"You don't need anything?"

He shook his head.

"Well, you can't just visit. I'm working. My boss will kill me if he finds a friend here. I'm not kidding. He's tried before!" Dom was trying to manhandle him towards the door, but Orlando darted away, headed deeper in, between the looming shelves practically sagging with healing aids.

"Orlando!" Dom hissed. "Please. Go away!" he darted a nervous glance around as he followed the other man. Fortunately, Mr. McKellen was busy in the bathroom at the rear of the store.

"No." stated Orlando and flicked one of Dom's outstanding ears. Dom twitched, shuffling away as he tried maintain his grip on his current box. St. John's Wort.

"What on earth possessed you to 'visit me', you daft sod?" he muttered, bent to sort a box of plastic containers on the floor.

Orlando grin got wider. "Our favorite Scotsman, actually."

Dom's head shot up. "Billy? Billy sent you?"

"Ah, interested now, aren't we, Dommie-boy?"

"No," grumbled Dom, whilst unloading his thankfully unbreakable bottles onto their predetermined shelf, then, "maybe. Yes. Don't be a fuckwit, Orli-boy. Why would he send you? Did he want something? I thought he was leaving, anyway, did he decide not to-"

Orlando waved his hands, placating. "Hey there, mate. Nothing's changed. Bills was leaving just as I got there, sent me down here because I'm bored and he thought this would amuse me."

"Oh. Fuck off, then. I'm working."

"No, no, I don't think I will." he sauntered over to the shelf near the back, filled with odd-shaped and multi-colored jars. "What's all this? I thought you worked for the chemist."

"Don't touch that stuff, you arse. I do, Mr. McKellen is just a different kind of chemist. Keeps more than the normal prescriptions and medicine. Holistic treatments, and all."

Humming thoughtfully, Orlando hoisted a jar labeled Bane Berry, Actaea rubra and peered at the dark red, nearly translucent contents. Dim light filtered over them, blood colored reflection in the glass.

"That," a sharp voice declared as thin, gnarled fingers snatched the jar away, "is not for you, boy."

The jar was slowly slid back onto its perch and Orlando turned shakily to meet glitter-glazed old eyes. "I-I'm sorry. I was just looking."

"Look somewhere else!" Mr. McKellen snapped, twisting his long limbs towards the front. "Dominic!"

"Yes, sir?" Dom flinched.

"Is this miscreant a friend of yours?"

"Yes, sir. He-"

"Needs to leave, immediately."

"Right." Dom looked pointedly at Orlando, the glare that would come later concealed only by luck.

"Unless," interrupted Mr. McKellen, voice insidious and hissing as he slipped around to face Orlando, pierced him with those eyes, "He would like to buy something." There was a promise in his words.

"No! He's in no need of any more uppers, trust me. Go on, Orlando. Get." Dom quipped nervously.

Slowly, wordlessly, Orlando hunched from the shop. Only when he was outside, safely seated in his car, did he realize his heart was pacing like a racehorse. Glancing back, he saw Mr. McKellen at the front window, shaded red like the henbane under the neon Open sign.

*

Well, that was interesting, Orlando thought after the initial scare had worn off. He drove idly, one hand on the wheel, paying more attention to the street signs than the road itself. Carlisle wasn't actually that small of a town, Caldew just happened to be located on its very outskirts, almost outside of the city limits entirely. Orlando didn't exactly know where he was at the moment, but that was ok. That was even exciting, to some extent.

He passed a grocer's, a petrol station, multiple little shops that blurred together, and a gentleman's club, which he made a mental note of. Monroe Avenue, he thought. Remember that. But he knew he wouldn't.

Maybe he should just go back to the dorm, and try to focus on his paper again. It wasn't like the topic was boring. He liked ancient Greek theatre, he'd read Aristotle's Poetics. But it all swam away from him on the screen. Swam like he would, if he were in the ocean. Out into the deep, where the waves were high and there was every chance of drowning if the slightest thing went wrong. Waves you could surf on, like Dom chattered about incessantly. He'd like to try surfing - it sounded dangerous, fighting the ocean and using it at the same time. Motion. Power. Control.

A sushi bar went by on his left, then a pub, The Juggler, on his right. He liked the bright colors. Maybe he should stop by that sushi place and get something, eat it with too much wasabi so it made his whole body ache.

Or, he could swerve very sharply to the right and cut into the parking lot of the Elab smoker's boutique he saw a moment later. That worked.

Like all smoker's boutiques around the world, it smelt like a conglomeration of herbs and wood inside. Orlando by-passed the cigars, the regular and flavored cigarettes, the bidis, the selection of pipes long the right wall, and went straight for the kreteks, a small shelf behind the counter. He wanted Djarum Blacks and he wanted to chain smoke them. They would give him a buzz enough to empty his mind, and scorch his throat and lungs enough to produce some adrenaline, but wouldn't have the unwanted effect of mind bending like marijuana.

Three pounds, he paid out to the clerk, and bought a pack of matches as well. Sitting on the curb outside, he lit the first and inhaled deep, not allowing himself to cough, even as his eyes watered from the smoke in his chest. He didn't smoke frequently, wasn't numbed out to the sting, like Elijah; that was a surprise, finding out the Yank smoked cloves like it was his job. He'd have to tell him about this place - they were cheaper here than at the little vendor nearer the college.

The first kretek disappeared in under five minutes. The second and third went even faster. When he exhaled, he made sure to breath in quickly afterwards through his nose, sucking in the secondhand smoke as well. God, but it smelled good. That was the thing about cloves - they had this deep, cloying flavor and scent that was addictive in and of itself, forget the tobacco. He loved that smell. And the Djarum's were always coated around the filter with a layer of some sugary substance that left his lips tasting like candy. He didn't know why he wasn't an addict like Elijah. They were worth it.

Maybe he should let himself become an addict. Maybe the constant downer would help his boredom. Sedate him, like. Give him something to look forward to. Yeah, he thought. Addiction. That was something he hadn't tried. Hell, it was just clove cigarettes, not some serious drug or anything. Why not?

"Orlando."

He jumped, looked up into Viggo's dark eyes, felt his heart race for reasons other than the fright. "Viggo?"

Viggo sat down on the curb next to him, and set a crumpled brown bag down between them. "Hello."

"Hi."

"I didn't know you smoked. Thought that was Elijah's vice."

Orlando shrugged, recovering himself enough to not stare, and took another long, long drag. "I'm making it mine."

"That's too bad."

"I suppose."

Silence descended, in which Orlando smoked steadily and watched Viggo watching him out of the corner of his eye. City sounds floated around them, cars roaring past going way over the speed limit, people walking, their footsteps alone seeming to echo, not to mention their voices. An autumnal wind brushed by, one of the coldest Orlando had felt so far, especially so in his flimsy jumper. The bag rustled. Viggo watched him smoke. His blood was buzzing slightly with the sudden overload of nicotine.

"So," He said, snuffing out the nub of one kretek and striking a match for the next, inhaled and breathed out scented smoke, "What's in the bag?"

"Paint." Viggo replied.

"You paint?"

"It relaxes me. Are you going to smoke all of those at once?"

"They relax me."

"All right." Viggo stood. "All right. Probably won't see you for a few days, Orlando. Be careful."

"Why won't I see you? I'll be stopping by to see Dom, I'm sure." Orlando stayed sitting but craned his head back to enjoy the looming view of the dark-eyed American.

"I won't be there." with that, Viggo was gone, taking his paint with him.

Orlando watched him stride away and smoked his seventh clove. His lungs were going numb.

*

Dom was dusting out the back of the store when Mr. McKellen swooped down on him. The worry on the old man's face made his spine tingle, he'd never seen fear in that hard face before. "What's the matter?" He asked.

"Nothing. Go run the front. There's something I need to do."

"But-"

"Now, Dom."

Dom, Dom realized, he called me by my nickname, and his nerves lit up further, so much so that he turned on the bright overhead light that Mr. McKellen hated to use usually. It flooded the store with whiteness, spilling out the windows onto the parking lot as well. It had gotten dark while he was in the storage area. He hadn't known; Mr. McKellen had bricked all of the back windows in to keep the stored herbs in the room from going as quickly.

He felt better now that every crevice all the way out to the kerb was at least dimly lit. Telling himself to relax, Mr. McKellen was a nutter anyway, he sat down on the stool behind the counter and sent himself spinning. It squeaked with every rotation, and he grinned. He loved it when he got to run the cash register.

"Boy! Stop that immediately!" Mr. McKellen bellowed. Dom nearly dislocated his shoulders jerking himself to a stop with the counter.

"God," he muttered, cracking his knuckles and casting a spiteful glance toward the back. The old geezer usually didn't mind that. Dom had assumed he was mostly deaf.

He tapped his feet, twiddled his thumbs, hummed a little, got yelled at again, tried to remember why he liked working the register, got a Ritalin prescription for a mother and her four year old son, and thought about how absurd that was - anything to avoid listening to the shuffling, slamming, and low voice tones coming through the thin wall behind him. Hopefully, the old man hadn't gone completely 'round the bend finally. Though he'd be hard pressed to admit it, Dom actually kind of enjoyed his job. It was simple, personal, quiet, and he got paid well enough to afford his bills and a little more.

A particularly loud crash caused Dom to nearly fall off the stool in fright. He'd just started up, intent on checking on the noise, when Mr. McKellen swooped by. He carried a bowl filled with something foul smelling and dark and ignored Dom as he sped out the door. He didn't even mention the light.

Dom darted to the large front window and watched, speechless, as his boss plucked out handfuls of his strange concoction and scattered them along the line of the parking lot, all the way around, until he disappeared around the corner of the store. Ten minutes later, according to his watch, Mr. McKellen returned and now, with herbs smeared on his hands and wrinkled forehead, he looked exhausted. He'd never seemed so old as he stood, shaking slightly, and let the empty bowl slide onto the counter with a clatter. Dom blinked, flinching away from the stench.

"Boy," Mr. McKellen said sharply, suddenly, "I need you to clean up the back and fill out an order form for two boxes of Aconitum napellus, number 147."

"Mr. McKellen," Dom started and touched the man's elbow, something he didn't think he could've dared under any other circumstances, "Maybe you should go home early tonight. Get some rest."

"Just do what I say."

"Yes, sir."

So Dom did and ended up covered in the same nasty mixture that Mr. McKellen bore without complaint. Whatever it was, the leaves it consisted of were slimy, coated in something thick and greasy, and spilled all over the back room. Lavender and brown, probably rubbed with some kind of gel, and utterly nauseating. Dom decided, as he mopped it all up with a sponge, that Mr. McKellen was indeed mad. Yes, he'd thought so before, but this just took the cake. What in hell was he on about? Mad as a cow, that one.

After filling out the proper papers and wrapping them in heavy, pre-addressed envelopes, Dom passed through the store, heading for the mailbox out front.

"Boy!" McKellen snapped. Again. Dom jumped. Again. "Leave it. I'll put them out tomorrow."

"Mr. McKellen," Dom tried hesitantly, "Are you sure you don't want to close early tonight? I really think-"

"No, Dom." McKellen's eyes were bulging, his thin form hunched over. Tension seeped from his weak muscles, set Dom on edge in a way he couldn't explain. The light was still on. He hated the light, it shouldn't still be on.

"Please, sir, what's wrong? I can tell you aren't feeling well. A good cuppa might make things all-"

"There will be no going home tonight, Dom. Not for me."

McKellen's gaze was focused far past him, out the window, into the night.

*

When McKellen finally let Dom go that night it was nearly midnight and a Tuesday no less. He had to be back on campus at nine to present a preliminary thesis to his Insect Biology professor. The moon shone, nearly full, illuminating, as he fit his key into the lock for the first time. Billy had always kept the door open before - it was strange. Viggo was home, shouldn't it be unlocked?

But Viggo wasn't home, Dom realized, as he toed his shoes into the front closet. You could tell if the American man was doing his brooding at home by whether or not his jacket, a faded brown duster, was hanging in the closet. He never left without it. It was gone now.

How eerie, Dom thought, and watched his arm hair turn silver and prickle in what little light filtered through the kitchen window. It spilled on the floor, right where Billy had stood earlier, face wistful, framed by darkness.

He was alone. The house was empty.

*

TBC