Title: Zero Sum Game
Fandom: Being Human
Spoilers: General for series 4.
Warnings: Character deaths.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.

Summary: It's not loyalty, more a sense of bowing to the inevitable. (AU – canon divergence.)

Feedback is love. :)

The humans load their water cannons with holy water, and turn them on the troops in Parliament Square. After that, it doesn't take long. The radio shrieks with the agony of dying men and Hal switches the thing off, but they can still hear it, in the distance but getting closer: not just the screams but gunfire, and every now and then the boom of an explosion. Hal lifts the teapot and pours two precisely measured cups. Cutler sits beside him, because there's nothing else he can do, and when he raises his cup in a silent toast he's amazed to find that his hand is steady.

"So this is it, then," Cutler says. It's not a question.

"This is it." Hal seems remarkably calm about it, too. "England is a lost cause."

Cutler sips at his tea, and actually it's bloody good. Hal must have been saving the best stuff for a special occasion, and he supposes that this qualifies. By the time he's halfway down the cup, he can hear the clang and roar as the rebels begin their attack on the barrier that separates Downing Street from the rest of the world. Cutler could take a peek out of the window, but sometimes ignorance is bliss – and, besides, he doesn't want to give them a target, even if they do have bullet-proof glass.

"I told Fergus to defend the gates," Hal says.

Fergus will like that. A heroic last stand, the chance to go out defending his beloved leader. It won't matter to him that no one's going to mention it in the history books: Fergus was always more interested in the here and now. Cutler's already starting to think about him in the past tense, and not just Fergus, but all of them – himself included. It's a surprisingly liberating feeling. All they have to do now is wait for the actual dying, but Hal seems content to face that with him, and maybe the whole thing isn't as bad as Cutler's always feared.

Hal's looking at his watch, and only he could expect something as chaotic as a battle to run to a timetable. "Fergus should be able to hold them off long enough."

Cutler's cup clatters back into the saucer. "Long enough for what?" Maybe Hal has put poison in the tea, because it's not like him to calmly wait for death. But that would be silly – poison won't finish a vampire – and Hal's not the sort to go in for suicide, not while there's the slightest chance of saving his skin.

"Long enough to get away," Hal tells him, and now he's tilting his head as though he's listening. Listening for something inside the building, not outside. As though he's expecting someone.

Cutler hurtles to his feet, and he grabs the arms of Hal's chair. He wants to punch the man; he wants to kiss him. He can't seem to catch his breath but somehow, suddenly, he's laughing furiously.

"You've got an escape plan?"

"Really, Cutler. How do you think I've managed to stay alive as long as I have?"

Of course he has an escape plan. He's Hal Yorke. He's an Old One, and the Old Ones are nothing if not survivors. This is just like the old days: Hal with an ace up his sleeve. No wonder he was sitting there so placidly. Hope swells painfully inside of Cutler. They're going to get out of this, him and Hal and –

"What about Fergus?" Who's out there right now, buying them whatever time they need.

Hal looks away: looks down at the floor, looks anywhere except at Cutler. His face hardens. "There's only room for two."

"Oh." Cutler supposes he should have seen that one coming. "Well, better him than us." He can't help wondering if Hal told him, if he gave him the choice. Probably not, or not until the last possible moment: best not to put ideas in his head, in case he decided to cause trouble.

"So you've got somewhere we can lie low?"

"It's safe in Bolivia. As safe as anywhere."

"Bolivia. We'll be like Butch and Sundance."

Hal grimaces. "Hopefully without the dying part," he says, and Cutler's amazed that the reference didn't just go straight over his head. Sometimes, Hal still manages to surprise him.

"So when do we leave?" Cutler asks, "because we're kind of running out of time here."

Hal's on his feet and he's looking at Cutler, really looking, until he's sure that he has Cutler's attention – which isn't easy, with the battering on the gate becoming louder and more frequent, and it sounds like they don't have long before the humans break through.

"There's only room for two," Hal says, and now he's starting to repeat himself. They've already established that Fergus won't be joining them. Cutler's going to miss the man, he really is, but tough decisions have to be made and it's not like Hal to feel guilty.

Footsteps on the stairs: whoever it is that Hal's been waiting for. Their saviour. Some traitor, coming to lead them safely through the enemy lines. It shouldn't even be possible – this entire building was supposed to be sealed – but if someone was able to get in, then they will be able to get out. Out of the city; out of the country. But Hal's expression turns bleaker as the footsteps approach. Then the door opens – and suddenly it all becomes clear.

"Only room for two," Cutler echoes. And he's not one of them.

"Are you ready?" asks Mr Snow, and Hal nods.

Cutler's fist clenches, ready to grab Mr Snow by his shirt front, to punch those rotten teeth right down his throat, to grab a stake – there must be one, somewhere: Hal's taken to carrying one, just in case – because Cutler's not going to let that old bastard take his place. He's not going to be left behind. He can do this; Hal and he can do this together, get away together. A fresh start, for both of them. Except Hal would have done it already if he were going to: that decision was made before Cutler was even born. Cutler's hand falls slack at his side.

"Cutler, I …"

"Don't you dare apologise."

Hal turns away, and Cutler wants to drag him back, wants to hear that apology after all – to hear something, anything. He wants Hal to listen to everything he has to say. That Hal's a fucking coward; that Cutler wishes him dead, wishes him the best of luck; that he wants, if nothing else, to hear him say goodbye. But there are too many words in Cutler's throat, and they lodge and choke him, and nothing comes out. They're wasting time, and there's so little of it left. Hal's walking to the door, but Mr Snow blocks his path. Snow shakes his head.

"No loose ends."

Time congeals; they stand, poised between the past and the future. Outside, metal screeches and falls: they've broken through the barrier. Crack of pistol shots; voices, surging in the street below. A deep, nostalgic note vibrates through the air: Big Ben, striking for the first time in years. The stopped clock starts again; time moves relentlessly forwards. Hal turns back and reaches into his pocket.

And maybe it was inevitable, Cutler thinks as the stake crunches home, that Hal Yorke would be the death of him.