D. Gray-man, "Smoldering" (Lavi+Allen)

[sincere]

Returning to the Black Order HQ after years of letting everyone thinks he was dead, Lavi finds that his existing memories don't quite do everyone justice -- and in the case of one, memories just aren't enough at all.

Vaguely slashy, for the Lavi/Allen prompt "Connected [coiled inescapably]". Saladfic. Lavi skips merrily from person to person. Crowley crying like a hormonal teenage girl. Lenalee's silent wrath. Allen continues to be a forgiving sap. Follows Phoenix, but it isn't required reading. The summary reveals everything you need to know?



.smoldering.
His first day of work after returning to the Order was pretty tame. It was spent inside a tent on the outskirts of the dig site with a half-dozen members of Komui's science department, all of whom had welcomed him with open arms and then ushered him impatiently over to the ornate chest that contained the scrolls. It was a new experience, working with that many faces eagerly peering over his shoulder.

Normally, Bookman worked alone.

When he returned to HQ after a full eight hours' work (which he hadn't done in... ever) he took the time to just wander the hallways. He could find every repainted wall, every new set of curtains, every hydrangea in the garden that had been planted to replace one that had died.

He'd never thought he'd be back here, and in retrospect, he'd never thought he'd be so easily convinced. It hadn't really been about the scrolls.

Komui had chosen his messenger boy with almost ruthless calculation. Pretty admirable, really.

Crowley found him while he was wandering the garden. "Lavi!" he cried, swooping down to bury the younger man in a smothering embrace. "You really came back! It is so good to see you, after so long...!"

He was almost in tears. The Bookman choked for a beat and prompted him, "Actually -- I don't go by Lavi anymore."

"Oh... yes, of course." Crowley drew back, dabbing at his eyes delicately with a kerchief and sniffling. "I apologize. Komui told us that we should call you Bookman now. I suppose I forgot in my -- excitement. I was so happy to learn you were alive-- Very sorry."

"It's okay." He laughed, easily. "The name doesn't offend me or anything, it's just way out of date."

It was intended to reassure Crowley, but instead it only made him hunch in on himself slightly more, and murmur, "I suppose that -- all of my memories are long out of date. It has been quite some time, and you have likely changed a great deal..."

"Memories never go out of date," Bookman told him, and winked. Being unable to wink noticeably was the worst part of wearing that eyepatch for the better part of thirteen years. "Your memories aren't less valid now, you know. They all happened, they're all real. And I'm still the same guy!" He assumed a charming smile to prove it.

If anyone's memories were out of date, it was his. His records. Allen had instructed him seriously, Please don't say anything to make Crowley self-conscious. He has a new girlfriend, and... I think he's still uncomfortable with it.

Crowley had a new girlfriend. Would a single mention of Eliade bring him to tears? If he were asked about his love life, would he admit to seeing another woman, or would he cover it up like some shameful secret?

Bookman was the one out of date.



The delicate strains of a harp enticed him to the lounge long after he should have been asleep, and he was extremely surprised to find that the musician in question was Miranda, her eyes closed and her fingers working the strings with unexpected deftness, the harp cradled in the folds of her sweeping dress. Marie was on the couch across from her, smiling to himself, but his head turned up at the newcomer's entrance.

"Lavi," the Austrian said, and corrected himself as Miranda opened her eyes: "Bookman."

"That's what they call me," he said cheerfully, moving further into the room. "Hey, guys! Let me have a hug."

Flustered, Miranda rose to her feet, but she was smiling. That was invitation enough for him; he took the last steps over and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing gently.

"I didn't know you could play the harp," he said, teasing. "You're a woman of many talents."

"Marie showed me how," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the big man.

He pulled away from her and held out a hand to Marie, grinning. "I guess it's harder to play with two iron fingers, huh?"

Marie chuckled lightly and held up his left hand, demonstrating the two metal fingers, and curling them down into a fist. He took Bookman's hand with his right and shook it, almost as warm as the smile he was wearing. "Someone ought to make use of the instruments in here, and Miranda's been wanting to learn."

"I'm terrible at memorizing, though. I always forget what I'm playing by the end," she said fretfully, and Marie put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The tension eased out of her like magic, and she smiled up at him.

They were so -- intimate. "Speaking of lovebirds," he said dryly, flustering Miranda again. "I read about the wedding in the paper, and I'm sorry I couldn't make it! Didja get my gift?"

"You sent a gift?" Miranda asked, blankly. Marie picked up the clue quickly, musing, "The anonymous pocket watch?"

"That was me!" he confirmed, pleased.

"Oh!" Miranda said, her hands clasping together. "It was a beautiful watch, La-- Bookman. Marie still carries it with him."

"We would have sent you a thank-you card, but..." Marie shrugged, rueful.

Of course, even if they'd known who it was, or that he was alive, they wouldn't have known where to send it. He waved, dismissing the concern. "Hey, Bookmen don't need cards! Or else we'd have a permanent address, right?"

They didn't talk about the fact that they'd believed him dead for four years. Instead, they talked about Miranda's music hobby -- probably the only new development in anyone's personal lives that Allen hadn't passed on, from Chaozii and his friends moving back to China to General Nine's fine new husband to Link's lessons in Hebrew -- and Link didn't even live with the Order.

Of course, Allen had probably had his fill of music long ago. And all the Exorcists had had their fill of death.



The next day at work he was rather surprised to find Kanda in the excavation tent, arms folded and staring distantly out at the dreary skies around the dig site. It was going to rain: both outside, judging by the menacing clouds, and inside, judging by Kanda's menacing expression.

He'd never been possessed of much in the way of survival instincts. Bookman skipped the scrolls temporarily to go over to him and exclaim, "Kanda! I was sure that you were dead or dying! You mean you just didn't come to see me when I arrived? That really hurts, buddy."

"I'm not your buddy," Kanda said, not looking at him. "Do your work, Bookman. I'm doing mine."

It figured that Kanda was the only one who didn't need to be reminded that Lavi wasn't and had never been his name. "This is your work?" He glanced around.

Kanda was standing at the tent flap staring outside, and the scientists were going about their own work, and no one seemed to be doing anything that involved Kanda.

"...what exactly is it you're supposed to be doing?"

The Japanese man sighed irritably and said, "I'm guarding the excavation site." His tone added, Obviously.

Bookman almost winced. "How... exciting. That doesn't sound like Kanda-style work at all. You should be out there exploring the underground ruins! Fighting off raiders! That sort of thing. I think you're being mismanaged, Yuu."

"Don't call me that."

He waited for further elaboration, but none was forthcoming. Slowly he relaxed, and asked, "What is this, some sort of punishment? I'm pretty sure you didn't volunteer to come here and babysit these nerds." Johnny's voice from behind him called out that he was one of 'these nerds' but he ignored that obviously biased complaint.

But it was obvious that, given the choice, Kanda would have avoided him for the duration of his stay with the Order. He was okay with that, and after all, why shouldn't Kanda avoid him? He'd faked his own death, the man must've severed all ties with him years ago. But there had to be some reason he was here against his will.

Kanda said, flatly, "I normally am stationed at the excavation site. I traded shifts with Lenalee."

...so the one who was really avoiding him was Lenalee.

That was good to know.

That evening they worked late, and she came around the excavation tents with coffee for the scientists. Something inside her visibly froze when she saw Lavi, saw him watching her, but she continued refilling everyone's cups.

"Why, hello there, stranger! With milk, please," he said to her, smiling. She did not smile back, and did not say anything at all. The milk did not mask the bitter taste of the coffee.



He ate dinner alone that night, taking his tray out to the balcony and curling up on a chair, watching the people pass by beneath him thoughtfully while he ate. There were fewer people here now than there had been in days gone by... The heroic cause that had once united people here, dozens of Exorcists and hundreds of Finders and scientists maintaining the last bastion against the Earl's threat, no longer had any meaning. Chaozii was long gone. Toma and Goz were gone. Even River was gone, he'd discovered, to his inexplicable disappointment.

All of the people who lived here were people that he would have been content to never see again. He had the memories of them, perfect captures of every moment of every day he'd spent with them. Any time he wanted to remember, he could call them up and relive them as if they'd happened yesterday. The memories made him smile when he was bored.

While he'd let his guard down, they'd become his friends. But they hadn't made him need friends. He had been able to cherish those memories without missing them, or wishing things could have been different.

He heard Allen approach before he saw him, and he lifted his gaze to grin at him before the younger man could say anything. Allen matched it, of course.

"I was wondering if I could join you for dinner," Allen said mildly, lifting his tray, laden with a dozen dishes heaped high with food.

"Sure, sure. I don't have any particular fondness for eating alone." He reached out and grabbed a table, hauling it a little closer so that Allen could sit with him. "Are you on a diet or something? That's such a moderate amount of food for you."

Allen laughed. "Well, the science department says it's natural that my appetite should slow down, since I'm not growing anymore."

For all that, he still had a pretty impressive mountain of meats and breads, easily ten times what a normal person would eat. Bookman admired it distantly, and sipped at his tea. Allen always made him feel as if he ate like a bird.

"How's your work with the scrolls coming?" the younger man asked him, selecting a plate to devour first.

"Good, good. It's hard work without a Rosetta Stone, but with the few words we can decipher and the knowledge of the language I already possess, I'm making progress on deciphering the writing system, which you totally don't care about," he concluded, watching Allen. There might have been less food to get through, but Allen set himself to it with the same single-minded intensity.

Allen made a vague, wordless sound through his mouthful, to indicate that he was in fact listening before he had a chance to finish chewing and swallow. Then he asked with a smile, "Do you like it?"

"Like it? I love it." Bookman stretched leisurely, careful with his tea. "It's easy, interesting application of knowledge. If I didn't love it, I'd be in a different line of work."

He expected that comment to be met with typical approval -- no one ever concerned themselves with other people's happiness more than Allen -- but instead Allen smiled, half to himself and a little sadly. "I forget sometimes. There's so much more to you than a guy who sits in libraries or laboratories all the time... When I think of Lavi, it's never about how incredibly smart you are."

It never even occurred to him that Lavi wasn't really his name.

Reflexively, he laughed and managed, "You think I'm smart? Please. I know a lot of shit. There's a big difference!"

Allen argued with him. That was the thing about Allen: without even trying he brushed past the surface of things, saw deep and held fast, and he accepted his judgments unconditionally. It made it hard to keep him at arm's length, when before you knew it and without your permission or even awareness he was under your skin.

All of this time, he'd been avoiding thinking of Allen. The memories were there, perfect captures just like he had of everyone else, but the truth of the matter was that it wasn't the same, looking back. It wasn't enough.

The memories of those warm smiles only made him wish he could have them again.

When he finally noticed that Allen was still calling him Lavi, he shrugged it off. It couldn't hurt to be Allen's Lavi, until he had to leave.