Shadowmen, a d.gray-man fanfic

Title: Shadowmen

Fandom: D.Gray-man

Author: su-dama/tempusfugit3

Pairing: Link, Allen

Rating: PG-13 for language and dark themes

Words: 9,600

Disclaimer: DGM belongs to Hoshino Katsura et al.

Author's Note: I'm taking something about Shadow People and making it something about Link and co. Borrowing from manga around Level 4 Arc. Looked over by fallia on LJ.

-Shadowmen-

Allen has finished his harangue on Link's shadow-like presence and how this is disruptive to his somewhat ordinary lifestyle. Ordinary. What an odd word for an odd boy.

They are in the process of personal discovery, it seems.

"Oh sorry, didn't mean to spit in your fire."

"That's what you would say to a girl."

"Really?"

Allen glowers at Link. "Trust you to kill it."

Link glowers back, trying not to understand, not really knowing what to say except: "I work for the Church. I kill nothing." But he still understands that Allen cannot be touched. By him.

Then they reach an understanding and have brunch.

Over dessert, which Allen eats with an appetite as big as a house despite a whole pig and then some, Link divides his pie into sections. They are called sections because that is precisely what they are, and this is how he counts portions for his health (which wastes lots of already-wasted time).

"Are you serious?" Allen asks through a mouthful of one whole piece of pie, cherry goo sticking to the corners of his mouth.

"Am I serious to be dividing my pie or am I serious to be watching you while you inhale yours?"

"Both."

"Then I am quite serious. So serious, in fact, I would very much prefer to be sitting with the adults who politely chew their food, if I may point out."

"Why don't you?" Allen asks politely, a false primness that makes Link want to set him ablaze by sheer will alone.

"Because I am obligated to govern you."

"Govern? Wow, Link, you're a lil' behind the times. Call yourself a babysitter and be done with it, yeah?" Bookman Junior says.

Link watches as Allen greets him, the big boy mussing up the little boy's hair. The little boy is friends with Bookman Junior. This is not new, but it must be observed, and for things they will never hear of, know of, or like. In the end, they are ignorant to everything except to what's in front of them.

"He's probably right, though, Allen. There is a reason why we have teeth. And a gag reflex."

"I am right," Link says. "I am right and would very much like you to chew your food."

"No one says you have to follow me into the loo," Allen hmphs at him and nods promptly at Junior, daintily touching his napkin to the corners of his mouth so as to, most assuredly, rub in the proverbial salt. Bookman Junior finds this extremely funny. Link resorts to scowling till he can feel his brows getting stuck.

Later in the loo while on a break from the mounds of reading, Allen is inspecting something in the mirror, almost nosing it and filming the glass with hot breath.

"What could that be?"

Link hesitates, hardly musing what the problem could be, although not really caring for Allen's diversions. "Do not intend to ignore your coursework by pointing out the insane."

"Whatever do you mean? It's right there."

"No, Allen, there is nothing there."

"But theeere."

"Nothing."

Allen purses his lips and begins to brush his teeth, maybe to further avoid his paperwork. Link knows all about teenagers and their inner deviant. Oh the devil.

"Allen Walker. If you do not leave this lavatory in five minutes, you shall be formally reprimanded."

"What for?!" Allen makes a show of blinking stupidly. "Ah, I see. I see."

Then he says something around his toothbrush, powder paste running down his chin.

"Wash your mouth out, then do me the service of speaking like a true Englishman," Link commands, regal in his office. Truly Allen is being a nuisance and is clueless as to what lies ahead, apparently. He ought to look past that invisible thing in the mirror and maybe take a good hard look at his own reflection.

Allen coughs his brush out into the sink and slaps the porcelain. He laughs until he cries.

Link does not, however. He's missed something vital to the conversation.

"Teenagers," he says. He refuses to believe that he is a teenager himself.

In the library, Allen is suddenly studious and reserved. He reads like he is directed to; this is the best setting for figuring him out.

Link has trouble figuring him out.

It takes Link a while to get comfortable in his chair. He crosses his legs, clicks his jaw, and re-crosses his legs. He takes a moment to pick at his lapel then falls into a statuesque composure. He takes another moment to mentally triple-check for any helpful pointers he should consider at all times, meanwhile twiddling his thumbs to look like he's bored when what's truly taking place is time management.

He succeeds.

"I can read on my own. I'm not helpless," Allen says.

"Indeed."

"I'm not."

"Ah."

"I'm not," Allen huffs.

"Evidently, as you were able to control the Ark with only your brain and helpful fingers."

Link sees how this stings. He goes on to crossing his arms.

Allen does the same. "If memory serves correct—oh, that's right, that's right, I don't remember 'cause my master forced me to do something I had no conscious effort or control, however you say, of doing, and he might have just implanted that crap into my brain and that's how it got to my fingers so don't tell me what I do or do not recollect because, you know, really, that's not playing fair at all." He huffs, again, at the end of it.

A pause.

Which Link willingly breaks. "I marvel at your antics."

Allen gasps, narrows his eyes, and doesn't know what to do with himself by the way he tightens his fist and tugs on his knit sweater.

They do not move; it would ruin their whole personal connection.

"I'm gonna be blunt."

Link gestures for him to be as blunt as he would like, waiting for the fallout. He's known this to happen, although he is relatively new to the Order, this branch, and shouldn't presume to label Allen as the kind of kid to be aggressive.

"Never—never mind."

Allen is the kind of kid to be passive-aggressive. Link shall remember this.

"Allen."

"What?"

"What do you think of Cross Marian?"

"I'm rather fond of my master," he says, not missing a beat.

"You're lying."

"Of course I'm lying, how else would I tell you something like that? I am especially fond of the way he wears a rosary around his neck, under his shirt, if he even still does that. You know you're not supposed to do that? It's not exactly jewelry. If God's rea—er, if God's looking, he is scorning Cross as we speak."

Nice retraction. It could be a rosary. Or, Allen is lying again. Link will have to verify this information.

"Must I remind you I'm a Catholic? Now, continue with your papers, or I will not bake—"

"Understood!" Allen salutes him.

And Allen's passive-aggressiveness is put aside for what the kid thinks to be all too important for his own welfare: baked goods.

In the baths there are no secrets. There are, however, plenty of argumentative endeavors. Like so:

"Link, please."

"I need to bathe as well."

"But, still. I can't—shan't—bathe with you here."

"Just avert your eyes."

"I am. It's not working. And you must avert yours, too!"

"I would have never perceived you as the kind of kid to be bashful about his own body."

"I am not bashful, I am modest."

"That's a compelling tale."

"It's not a tale! That's it, why aren't there anymore towels?" Allen gives that woe-I'm-so-sorry-for-myself-look.

Link had taken the last towel. He is feeling pretty coy. "I imagine you're only saying that to me, considering."

"No. I simply don't like naked bodies."

"Then don't bother about it."

"But. This is…"

"You talk a lot in the bath."

Allen is flushed and seeming as if he's about to implode. He takes the high road instead: turning the other cheek. Link chooses to close his eyes and enjoy the steam. He leans against the stony side of the tub, or pool, or whatever Asian design it may be. The tapping on the water will start to annoy the kid, but he's fine with that. It's a reaction he's willing to pursue.

"Link."

Time to take note.

"Yes?"

"That."

Yes, that. "Yes?"

"Stop that. Please."

Link thinks about annoying him further. "Stop what?"

"That."

"Stop that what?"

"What?"

"Link! Stop that splashing!"

"I am not splashing anything."

"Then what do you call that thing you're doing with your hand?!"

Link stops, finally opening his eyes, peering through them to give the impression of high society snobbery. He is of the contrary, actually, and only few know this. (Even fewer know what Link is really like.)

"Hmm," Link says.

But never Allen. Why spoil it? Link is not the one up for inspection.

"Pfft," Allen says, sticking out his tongue.

Which is perfect. Link knows how toying he is being. La. "Did you wash before getting in?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A legitimate one. So?"

"So? I did. There."

Link nods to himself and closes his eyes again. He makes a noise in his throat as if to say, This is going in my journal. (Allen doesn't approve of this noise, either.)

It's a candidate, anyway, for journal material. He sort of likes the noise of contempt arising from the other in the bath. It's interesting how he can say or do one tiny thing, and Allen will instantly respond in his little exaggerated, awkward way. In order to extrapolate the truth, he must peel away the bluffs this kid lays, like off an unforgiving, immortally stinky onion.

Moreover, immortality is for those who do not know what immortality means, and onions are just stinking trollop.

And speaking of trollop:

"What is this?" Link asks, taken aback.

"Oh, I think that's the thing called mouthwash Komui's made."

And this is when, at the sinks again, Howard Link starts to realize the truth of the castle: Chief Komui Lee could potentially be recognized for his genius—if he didn't spend so many countless hours devoted to the inane and mortifying people within it.

"Mouthwash? Like soap for the mouth?"

This must be hogwash.

"Erm, maybe? I just know it's inno…ah, yeah, innovative, and it smells like, erm, those mint plants?"

Link sniffs the contents of the bottle. "Mint. Minty freshness. Yes, I agree."

"Try it. You try it and I'll try it."

"Fine."

"Are you trying it?"

No, though Allen is irritating him.

"Yes, though I was thinking." Link is stalling for his own benefit, and maybe to get used to the eye-watering smell.

"What?" Allen frowns at him through the mirror.

"What is your relationship with Kanda Yuu?" Now Link takes a mouthful, assuming to slosh it around.

Slosh, slosh, tear, tear.

"Kanda? Oh, Kanda, he's a—I think he is—a friend. We sort of hate each other, but I don't know if we really do or if I'm supposed to hate him or if he doesn't hate me so that I'm wasting my time hating him. But he's not a bad bloke. I'm jealous of him, to be honest. Not, well, I mean, I think he has a—shhh, c'mere—love affair going on, with Lenalee."

Eh. Deadpan.

And where the mouthwash should not go, it does, right down Link's throat as he accidentally swallows it out of zero brain activity. He gasps, grasping his throat with both hands. His body collapses after clutching desperately to the faucet. Allen gasps, reaching to catch him before any outlasting damage may occur. The bottle tips over into the sink, poisonous chemicals that Komui will be indicted for pouring down the drain, which is exactly where it should go.

"Was that too much information?" Allen asks, smiling sheepishly. It wouldn't be ludicrous to see the imp in the boy.

Link doesn't answer. He spends the next five minutes coughing up the mouthwash that tastes of mint which in reality is poison, shedding the lining of his esophagus.

He imagines himself coughing up blood and asphyxiating on this blood.

Oh the burning, oh Lord.

When the initial coughing is over, Link eyes Allen from the floor.

"What?" Allen asks innocently.

"Did you—did you try it?"

"No."

Link will later note this in his work journal as well as his private journal, being sure to document how the chief does not meet my satisfaction as a chief should in all regards, parallel to Komui is a reckless, inconsiderate, certifiable madman who I would normally call a fuckup but as this is my job, I normally cannot.

He's not giving Komui credit for any of his so-called innovativeness.

"How old are you, Link?" Allen asks in bed that night.

They've been sleeping together in his room for under a week. This, according to Allen, is preliminary enough for forward discussion. In essence, when Allen is not quiet, he is discussing how misunderstood he is and how he'll probably always be misunderstood unless some miracle happens and Allen is granted a new arm, new eye, maybe a new face; that Allen would be a pretty happy guy if it weren't for all the misunderstandings.

Link snuggles into his mat on the floor. "That's not important."

"Ah, you spoil-sport, do tell."

"No."

"Pray tell?"

"No."

"Okay, two-spot, you win."

"Eh!"

Allen turns his back to him with an embellished hmph!

Link thinks about this. Counts courtesans. Exhales, clearing his raw throat. Someone is losing their face. Someone is privy to it.

"Every time you ask me a personal question, you are obligated to give me your own answer to the same."

"That's…" But Allen is agreeable, so he turns back over to gaze down at Link. "All right."

"I'm nineteen."

"My Gosh, you could be my big brother!"

"That's not an answer, Walker."

"Oh please don't call me that. You sound just like Kanda."

"Don't evade the question, Allen."

Allen blinks at him. "It's a simple answer, and you already know I'm fifteen."

Link tries another approach, having exerted control to the smallest extent. "I love my family."

Allen starts to say something, then trails off. Link snaps his fingers.

"Okay, that's not fair at all."

"Answer, Allen."

"Which, which family?"

"Your birth family, your parents."

"How…should I answer that?"

"Answer it, either way."

"I don't know how."

"Of course you know how. God knows you've got a sizable mouth."

"Um."

They think.

"I meant that you've got a voice, use it," Link adds.

"Ah! Link, could it be?"

"Be what?"

"You think that way?"

Whichever way he speaks of, Allen may only be goading him into the stark open, where Link may be stoned, lanced, and finally shot for whatever indiscretions he may have committed.

"Hush up. Now answer."

"Well I can't do both."

"Don't be smart with me."

"But I can, you're my brother, I can abuse you all I want."

"Now that's going too far."

"You're the one who wants to know."

"For work reasons. Research, rather."

"I—"

Link is intrigued; doubly intrigued. He thinks he's about to hear what is quite predictable. That Allen hates his birthparents; that he'll never forgive them for abandoning him wherever, whenever they abandoned him, such and such, like any normal orphan teen with a chip on their shoulder and a spectacular denouement waiting to happen.

"I hope to meet them someday," continues Allen, chin resting on his palm. His teeth shine.

"You're not lying?"

Allen sounds like he would never lie about that. "Hmm. G'night." Maybe.

Link scratches his head.

"Unchained," Link says, to sum up the report so far on one Allen Walker, suspect to have been once in cohorts with the 14th, currently under strict observation and loose confinement.

Inspector Leverrier fingers his block mustache, tucking his other hand under the armpit of his uniform. He sits there surmising like bosses do. Link is on his side, on the most part, because this is what subordinates do, not forgetting the part about this person's dark past and how Link feels slightly sorry for him.

Slightly.

"Unchained," Leverrier repeats, mulling it over with a certain refinement.

It was that much of a description, it needed to be refined.

"Yes. He is fundamentally unchained, and it may be due to Cross' influence, mounted by the hell he's experienced over the past year."

Leverrier looks up then, dropping his hand into his lap over the clipboard. He signs something, and now nothing stands in their way.

Because it is Sunday, Link believes this will strike a chord in Allen's nature.

But it doesn't strike a chord all day, and by the time they are back in bed, after an hour of avoiding each other in the bath, Allen is determinedly quiet, too quiet, and unlike his nighttime self.

"In the event of a mental breakdown, be sure to remain calm and consult your nearest psychiatrist."

Allen flicks his gaze in Link's direction. "Was that wit?"

"No, just your average everyday sarcasm."

"That's nice," Allen chirps, busily shutting his bureau drawer for the third time because, yes, this is his kind of battle.

Link plans. "That, of course, was also for my benefit, to ease the tension."

"What tension?"

"You don't pray, do you?"

"Um."

"Pray, or do anything that would hint to any religious beliefs?"

Link watches as Allen thinks quickly. Link is planning quickly.

"I never really did any of that sort."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"What a childhood you must have led."

"Is that your average everyday sarcasm again?"

"Indeed." Link sighs and bows his head over his journal.

"Whatcha writing?"

"Classified information."

"Classif…" Allen's tone turns sour again. "Listen, don't write everything I say or do down."

Link scribbles in the next line.

"I told you not to write that down!"

"Am I to take orders from a child?"

"Wha—what?"

"And for that matter, this is not relevant to you."

"Then what is it? If it's about me?"

"Nothing to you, which is my point."

Allen twists his face into a pucker and says, "Oh shut up."

Link proceeds to write in a few more words that only he would understand.

"Link!"

"Walker. Your underpants are not fully buttoned."

Allen stops puckering, makes a squeaking sound, and buttons his pants. He sends a death-glare Link's way before settling in for the night. The lamp flickers and then is blown out during Link's protest.

"Nighty-night," Allen sings.

"I was using that light."

"Early to bed, early to rise, makes a—um—blah-blah-blah."

"Such blatant disregard."

"No matter how civil I am, you just keep writing whatever you write, Link—I must say it's quite maddening." Allen sounds like he is more annoyed than maddened, making the attempt to sound pompous, even.

Link thinks that he would like to dangle Allen on a string over the Black Sea. He is sure it's called black for a reason. He realizes how sinful, or at least hypocritical, this is, and yearns to make up for it. He tucks his journal away into the darkness where Allen will not go in search of it and claps his hands together in prayer.

"What the—?"

"If you say what I think you're going to say, it shall be documented and later viewed by your superiors," Link informs him, nose wedged against his praying hands.

He hears Allen sit up in bed. "What? No. It's just, you're praying."

"That is correct. God would be so proud to know you know it is praying."

"You know, you're really awful, and no one knows the truth of it."

"Perhaps that's why I pray." He smiles smugly.

When a familiar silence falls down to blanket them like dust, Link is not really praying but listening to this silence, to the way Allen tries not to breathe and disrupt Link's spiritual demonstration. How they both have their place in this room.

"Why don't you pray with me?" Link offers suddenly, startling Allen out of it.

"Ah! Erm, that's all right."

"I insist."

"No. Are you supposed to talk during prayer?"

"I insist."

"Even if you insisted on your deathbed, no."

"That's a very unfortunate thing to say."

"Do you normally talk like this during prayer?"

"I've been neglecting chapel as of late."

"So it's an emergency type of prayer."

"You could say that."

"Huh."

"Huh?"

"Oh Link." Allen then does the worst thing imaginable—and prays with him, getting to his knees, facing Link on the floor. Link, chilled, doesn't move as Allen arranges himself more comfortably, putting his mismatched hands together as if it's an unnatural position to begin with, while Link is feeling off-track.

Link has always imagined a baby being born this way: curled, hands together and unconscious of that fact.

"What are you doing? Let's get this over with."

"You don't get this over with, Allen Walker."

"Fine, let's do it. Do we hold hands or something?"

"No. Simply bow your head—don't poke your eyes out—haven't you done this before?"

"Certainly."

"How long ago?"

"Haha, it's been a while."

"That's for certain."

"That's why I said certainly."

"Don't get an attitude with me, Walker. Just bow your head properly."

"There."

"And don't talk."

"I thought you said you can talk during prayer?"

"I never said that."

"Hmm-hmm."

"Don't hum, either."

"But it's too quiet."

"It was too quiet earlier as well, but you weren't complaining then."

"It was because you were doing this weird stuff."

"Are you being blasphemous?"

"Er, no."

"Good. Hush. And I wasn't doing weird stuff."

Allen is hushed, eyes closed. Of course, Link has to assume this since his own eyes are closed, against his better judgment.

"Do we hold hands?" Allen says. When Link opens his eyes, Allen is there, watching him. Link is growing impatient.

"Eh?" Could Allen be any more ignorant?

"I've seen people in churches hold hands."

"That is because they must."

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't hold somebody's hand because I must."

"You say that now."

"I'd say it again."

"Oh?"

"It's true. You've never lived on the East End, have you?"

"All right." Link, without preamble, grabs Allen's hand with straight intent. Or what he thinks is straight.

"Be still for a moment."

"I am."

"Bow your head."

"It is bowed."

"Hardly."

"There. I'm sorry you have such an obsession with my head."

They are quiet once again, and this time, it's lasting, but not outlasting. Allen doesn't move nor speak. Which is not how this is supposed to work.

"Walker. Pray."

"Oh! You meant me."

"Ee-yes."

"Well, I don't think so."

"And why not?"

"Because I thought you were going to pray."

Link frowns deeply. He almost wishes he had longer bangs to hide behind.

"Allen. What would you pray for?" This is the best strategy: hone in on the enemy by its weak spots, and poke those spots, hard. In this case, Allen is vulnerable in the Field of Religious Aspects, thus Link must take advantage of this vulnerability. The answer is expected to be found in whatever Allen says next.

Allen doesn't say a thing, though, which is disengaging to say the least.

"Say something."

"You're gonna write this down."

"No," Link lies. He will pray about this too.

Allen gives him an analytical look.

"Don't push me. I will not write this down." In front of Allen, that is.

"Yes, you will."

"Do I take my job seriously?" He does, very much.

"Link."

"Yes?"

"Why are you attacking my shirt?"

"Oh." Link hadn't noticed. So he gathers himself and returns to his genuflecting. Nothing happened.

Allen seems to watch his every single move. "Master does that. Or he used to. I dunno."

"Cross Marian? I wouldn't doubt it. Then again, he may be a traitor for consorting with the Noah."

"Link, Link, I want to pray."

"Oh now you want to pray."

"Right! And, let's start off like this. Holding hands, check. Bowed heads, check. Serious expressions, check."

"Pardon—"

"Repenting thoughts, check. All right, here goes!"

"Allen."

"Dear God. Father. Daddy?"

"You are not that funny."

"Anyhow, dear our Lord in Heaven…who looks down on our repentant souls for praise, er, appraisingly."

"Ffff."

"We have sinned in more ways than one. For instance, we eat like gluttons—"

"You do."

"—we throw ourselves in harm's way which may be just suicidal, which is a sin, which is bad—"

"You're the Exorcist."

"—and we, um, harbor very questionable feelings that I, for one, would not want spreading through the castle as gossip—"

"Like what?" This might need considering.

"Shh, Link, if you're not a priest, that's between God and myself. And I'm not done."

"What else?"

"Oh, well, what else?"

"I did say that, didn't I?"

"Hmm, lessee. I kinda wished bodily harm on Kanda? Before. A few times. More than a few times."

"Yes, I suppose that's a sin," Link says, thinking of his own thoughts.

"Uh huh, that's all."

"Good."

"Do you have anything to add, Link?"

"No."

"Nothing at all? Not even how sorry you are for that haircut?"

Link unfolds himself from their position and deposits himself under his bedcover without so much as a dismissal. He should feel nice and warm, safe and covered like this. He doesn't. He can't. It's preposterous.

When Link continues to pretend Allen isn't there beside him, specifically on his bedcover, where there is much strain and body, he feels a weight press above him, compressing him into his pillow. He blinks.

That is enough.

"Allen, perhaps you should pray for your safety, for your life will be in jeopardy once I reach my limit and decide to off you."

Link has a dark side, folks.

"Would you really do that?" Allen asks innocently, hovering still.

"Depending on what you have in mind. Now go to sleep."

"Did you pray?"

"Yes."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"Eeeh."

"I did."

"What did you pray about?"

"Whether you are the one that will be the cause of my future unemployment."

"Is that so?"

"Correct. Sleep. Now."

"Right. One more thing."

Link gives him one ear while turning to bury his nose into the pillow.

"If I knew the truth, I would tell you that much," Allen says, voice suddenly disconnected. He seems to shift, hesitate, shift, hesitate. Then his presence is away, up and above to the side, where Allen sleeps and snores like the Lamb of God.

Link spends some of that night dissecting his words to the root, longing to pick up a pen so to never forget this vital piece of information that may or may not be vital in the long run.

By all standards (and written notes, mental notes, compared notes), Allen is a regular teenager. Of course, excluding those special strengths he has as an Exorcist. And excluding the fact Allen is prophesied for something massive to mankind.

What Link thinks about is how no one will ever know outside of this organization. They'll never know the importance of one Allen Walker. They'll never know how he gobbles his food, how he attends the lavatory, how he squabbles like a child, how he puts on his trousers, how he—

The last thought makes Link scare himself and curl his toes. He accidently bumps his boot into the wall.

More like, it flies into the wall parallel to him, where it makes a skid mark from the polish. He scowls hard at the mark.

Allen finishes dressing, standing like a soldier and pointing to his wall. "You just marked my wall. Talk about being territorial."

"I didn't do it on purpose."

"Oh, were you distracted in any way? Was I distracting you?"

"No, you do not distract me. I distract you because I am older and wiser, on top of being your—"

"Shadow."

"That's right, your shad—pardon? I am not your shadow."

"My keeper?"

"Far from it."

"My roommate?"

"That is only circumstantial."

"I've got it!"

"What?"

"I've figured it out!"

"You've figured what out?" Because as far as Link's concerned, he's the one in charge of the figuring.

"Why they put you on this assignment."

Link retrieves his shoe to put on, eyeing Allen from the low angle.

"They put you on this assignment because you're new, am I right?"

Right, amongst other things. "No, they put me on it because I'm the only candidate for the job. If I may speak openly, and I will, though this is not exactly a covert operation, it requires a tolerance for unpredictable teenagers and their unrivaled stores of wit that can only be construed in one way."

"What way?" Allen smiles.

"It's simple."

"What's simple? Are you calling me simple?" Allen smile drops a bit.

"Yes, you're as simple as they come."

"How am I simple?!" Allen's smile is upside down.

Link smiles at this. "Like any other teenager, you've got issues."

"Issues. Issues?!"

"Yes, issues." Link nods imperiously, emphasizing each dip of the chin.

Allen keeps himself from spewing, most likely, unimaginable words, as he is that boy who tries to fool everyone with the bow of his ribbon. And in this way, Allen is someone he is not.

Link's secret power is that he is very perceptive. Not to what's in front of him, oh no; to what is not.

Allen takes a different approach, but it is still stabbing. "Do you have issues?"

"Do you have issues, Link?"

"Stop asking me that."

"It's between us, you know, that thing you started."

So it's some grudge Link is dealing with.

Very well, Link shall persevere in the name of God. "I have issues with your asking me about it. Does this count?"

"Mm! It counts!"

"You can't eat that in the library."

They are trekking between the dining hall and the library with all the paperwork Walker is going to finish, and today.

"But it's so yummy!"

"This, for example, is an issue of yours."

"Does it look like I can control my eating habits?"

"Clearly not."

"Lemme finish this sticky bun."

"Which is packed with sugar. I wonder who'd be so risqué as to serve you that. You need your energy, I suppose. Don't forget the papers."

"I won't." Munch, munch, swallow.

"Walker, you're dropping the papers everywhere."

Swallow! "It's not like I got a million arms!"

"Are you sure about that?" Link says slowly, standing at attention with his arms behind him in order to appear unintentionally scathing. He is very intentionally scathing, though; it is for a respectable cause.

Allen glowers at him over the bun sticking out of his mouth, bending down to pick up the paper trail he's made. He makes a nice pile in his arms before it goes fluttering everywhere again. He makes a scene out of quiet contempt, which Link quietly picks up on, and then Link feels the urge to say, "It's a wonder they don't stick to you."

They stare at each other.

Allen inhales the rest of the bun and says, "If I'm so simple, you pick them up!"

He lets the pile spread over the floor without further ire or ado, continuing on into the library.

Link decides Allen has won this round.

Let's review. A respectable cause, correct? Something that Link is working for and toward and will eventually figure out. Correct, correct? And that, this inevitable eventuality, or vice versa, will conclude his inner musings on the character that is Allen Walker. This kid, this kid with a heart so heavy he falls over when he's not paying attention.

"Pay attention," Link says.

Like that.

"I'm surprised your attention span isn't as short as you. I mean, you're like a hawk," Allen counters lightly, licking his finger to leaf through another stack. It's taken him a while, but he's making headway, one very slow word at a time. He screws up his face at the next passage on the page.

"What is it?" Link reads into the white of his hair, the breadth of Allen's sins.

"It's a diagram."

"Of what?" But Link already knows, for he's always a few steps ahead.

"Hrmm. Maybe it's something else. It's a picture?"

"Something of that sort."

"Okay."

"Right."

"Um, what's that sort?"

"Just write down what you see."

"Shady work," Allen says, doubtful this time, narrowing his eyes at the paper.

"You see shady work?"

"No. I see you. But this, I see two people kissing in it."

"Well, well, you are a normal teenager."

"Don't even tell me it's all I think about," Allen murmurs, half-shrugging and reshuffling the stack. He tosses the crumpled piece of paper over his shoulder.

"You're supposed to write down what you see, Walker."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard."

"Should I mark you down for flagrancy?"

"Don't be so hastyyy," Allen says, putting his hands up in front of him.

"That was your fifth paper on the floor."

"I promise I won't do it again." Allen smiles sincerely at him and then goes back on his word after having just promised not to toss another paper. Though, sincerely is just an adjective used to describe Allen's disguise; Allen may be fooling him with his acquired pretenses, and manipulating him through his childish actions.

Link hides his frown. He meshes his fingers together perfectly over the table to give the impression of a superior. Or inspector, what have you. Inspector Link is somewhat amused, despite himself.

"Now what in Jiminy is this?" Allen shoves a paper into Link's face.

"Oh." The paper is a photograph.

"Not oh." A photograph of a family.

"Are you intimidated?" Specifically, Link's family.

Confusion. "Why should I be?!"

"Keep your voice down, this is a library, Walker."

"Why, why should I be?"

"I did not force you to be bothered by it."

"Then, what?"

Link sighs and decides not to lie. They look too much like him anyway. "It's an old photograph."

"This is your family? Ah, I see. Your sister is, uh, quite the beauty."

"Thank you, I'm sure she'd love to hear that." Not really.

"She would? Where is she? Does she work for the Church, too? Do you see her often?"

Link doesn't look away. "She's dead." And he smiles slightly to make himself feel better about it, mostly for himself. If any others pick up on the excess, it's hardly a sacrifice.

Allen looks as if he's just been told that he's clinically insane and should expect to be fetched by the asylum doctor within the hour. It's close enough.

"It was a while back."

"Why…is this photo in here?" Allen asks, belatedly, quietly.

"Misplacement, I would gather." Displacement, or other. He, anyway, knows how it got there.

Allen stares at him.

"Does it intimidate you?"

"Link!"

"Voice. Down."

"That's! That's! That's horrible."

"What is?"

"You just said your sister's dead. You just said that. Right?"

"She is. So are the rest of them." Bless, bless, bless their souls.

Allen stares harder, a hard scowl replacing the horror. He turns around, dips down below the table, scruffs around for something, and pops back up, still scowling with such a ferocity that it makes Link feel ashamed of his nearly smiling words. Link hadn't realized his words had been touched by his smile. Allen smoothes out the papers. Sounds like lovelorn souls.

Link relaxes in his chair for the conquest. "Does the fact my family is no longer living intimidate you?" He rubs the two dots on his forehead.

Later, while Allen is lifting dumbbells, arranged on the bed, Link is rubbing his forehead again.

"They didn't have those. And I know Indian people. They didn't have the spider eyebrows, either."

Link somehow senses what he is talking about. He plaintively puts aside his journals. "The photo?"

"Yes, the photo. Don't say oh."

"I am your elder, address me as such."

Allen flexes his arm. "Inspector Link, may I ask you a personal question?"

"Hmm, no."

However, Allen won't take no for an answer. "Aw, Link. Between you and me, I think they're brilliant. They're good for your look. And personality. Like you're all intellectual and prince-y!"

Link re-braids his hair, and could laugh. "Which look is that?"

"You know. Indian. Mixed?"

"I'm not mixed Indian." The very idea is a riot.

"Then what are you?"

"I adopted it after they died." Link is not sure if his own words are pure; he is just saying them.

Allen drops the dumbbell, missing his thigh. It bounces from the bed to the floor, where it rests like the pit of Link's stomach, solid, changing from solid to... He's not feeling so well. An iciness that he might be imagining trickles through his chest. He renews his smile.

"Sorry," Allen says, going to pick it up.

Silence abates after Link changes the subject. He wags one of his journals in the air. "You didn't poke your nose in this, did you?"

Allen, having waited for the perfect moment to speak, blinks at him too—nonchalantly. "M-my nose? Nooo. I would never do such a thing to betray your trust."

"Are you positive?"

"As positive as a tea-cozy."

Link smirks slightly.

Allen fiddles with his knees. How much fiddling one can do with one's knees is proven to be very much indeed. He then stands up suddenly. "Loo!"

"Have a nice time."

"Aren't—are you not coming with?"

"Not this time, I have priorities."

"But I thought I was your priority."

"True, but my wanting to stay away from the lavatory whenever you're in it is begging."

Allen makes an affronted squawk and barges out.

Really, Link thinks Allen's going off to avoid his criticisms. It's as simple as that.

Allen comes barging in the next second. Sweet vindication.

"That didn't take you very long," Link points out, finding a cold spot on his pillow for this particular Allen-induced headache. The signs of it are sadly familiar.

"I don't have to go anymore."

"I see."

"Yes! And!" Link watches as Allen makes a quick motion for looking over his shoulder, at something unseen. Allen is clinically insane, after all. According to reports, the Noah clan is notorious for this attribute. Well, it's going in the books, next to the notes on what he's heard in confidence.

"Umm…" Allen says, edging away from something.

"Are you afraid of yourself?"

"No! It's just, umm."

"I see. You're afraid of your shadow, if it were in the room, if it were obvious to myself, or you and I, if that is the case."

"Link, that's not it."

"And in this way, are you saying that I am your shadow of which you are afraid, hence you are afraid of me, ergo afraid of my family portrait that includes the dead and the aggrieved?"

"That…is more trifling than necessary." Allen wipes lint from his shoulders and prepares for bed. He thinks over punching his pillow. "Did you see anything?"

"Anything? You mean your shadow? By what do you mean anything?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not, but I should, seeing as how you're seeing things still." It might be a side-effect.

"Like a chimney sweep."

Link tucks his chin against the covers, lying at an unnatural angle for viewing displeasure. He waits a minute before he knows that Allen is only thinking aloud to himself again. "Did you know of any kind?"

"Hm?" Allen says, eyeing Link from the edge of the bed. There is a look of ambiguity, like it always is. It could be implied that Allen is being subtle, a muse for the art.

But. "Were you a chimney sweep?"

"Not really. I had a lot of odd jobs. Erm, but I was a climber. The climbing boy was the boy who was sent up into the chimney. You know?"

"How is this relevant?" Link thinks further. A climbing boy with a paralyzed arm?

"Did you want me to tell you?"

"Be my guest."

Allen faces the wall, coming off as arrogant; Link knows better. "The soot makes you bloody weep. It was disorienting. So, I'd see things. Like…"

They go to sleep.

Link is jumping from a broken floor and running.

Link is running then stepping over Allen's head, boot jamming itself into gouged stone, stepping into bile. He is barely thinking now; he is in overdrive, functioning purely from instinct. In his report he will say it had been deliberate, the plan; though, there is no plan, and there is Allen on the ground, here, probably petrified and probably bleeding and probably torn apart too many times for such a poor thing.

He is helpless; he must be helped; this is what our mothers have taught us.

Link has no choice because there is no choice about it.

He unsheathes the hidden weapon, the device attached to his arm suddenly feeling noticeable and even audible. It sheens out. Deflects. Protects. The debris scatters in pieces like slices to the skin, the tiniest deeds noticed

In the moment where all seems to be okay, it will be okay, for now, the thought comes to him unbidden, tampering post-non-plan: Allen is covering his face like that time he had in shame, the only time he'd done it in front of Link, when Link wouldn't be touched in any way possible; it hadn't even gone in his private journal.

"We cannot…allow you to die at the present time," Link reassures him, his eye smarting from the explosion of debris.

Allen is realizing that Link is handy, blood smearing down his chin.

It turns out that not everyone died.

Neither did everyone survive.

So it is.

So it is, Link will never forget the screaming. He's heard it before, but the sounds differ in greatness.

Allen cries like nobody's business on his shoulder (though it is Link's business), snorting in his attempt to suppress his cries. As a lost child, Allen probably knew all about the art of crying. Now he doesn't. Now, it is just coming out. It is gutting, it is cruel; it is one of the most telling things ever. For once, Link does not say anything to assuage Allen's sudden instability. There is only room for silence. Maybe greatness.

It will be all right. Link can handle the odor coming from him as well. (It's an odor no one forgets, the odor of past evils.)

The infirmary is in a craze. There are broken lamps and spilled bottles and gauze strips and bloody trails. Everything is as it should be in a craze. Walls caving in, people screaming, old screaming, the kind of screaming that echoes off the caving walls hours after the fact. This is not hours after the fact. Link's mind is wandering.

And when, at length, Allen is deposited into an empty cot, Link leaves him in pursuit of his superiors, finding himself walking faster and faster until he is running with no law of gravity.

It will be all right.

And when, at length, Link returns in the early, early hours of the morning the next day, he stops long enough to watch Allen crying in his sleep. He may not know he is.

That Link is watching.

He preens himself slightly at the bedside chair, turning his attention to Kanda sitting up in bed from across the room.

"What the hell," Kanda is mumbling.

"Sleep it off," Link tells him.

"What?"

"Goodnight, get well."

Kanda doesn't listen. "I cannot believe I'm in here again."

It is true that Kanda had been hunted down by the glue that holds them all together: namely, Nurse. Link could imagine the confrontation, but definitely knows how Kanda was practically dragged in by the ear, which had looked to be a regular occurrence.

"Oy, you."

Link frowns at Kanda, crossing his legs.

"I don't think he'd like that," Kanda grouses, completely awake now.

"And what would that be exactly?"

"That hovering."

Link shrugs to himself, pulling at the sheet to dab at Allen's eyes. The tears have become so thick behind closed doors, behind the eyes, lashes permanently wet and webbed, that they are glued shut. Allen doesn't move in his sleep. Link swallows despite himself, wondering. He then tips his ear to the partly opened lips, looking for signs of life. There. Here. He has it, that sign of life.

Kanda is at Allen's bedside, a person with no feet, no sound. Link, perturbed and not showing it, lets Kanda do as he shall, which is simply a quick study of Allen's face.

"What the fuck," whispers Kanda, "he's crying, the brat."

Allen is sobbing, actually, but no one's making that distinction.

Link doesn't answer. Sometimes, sometimes people cry in their sleep, and when they wake, it's not so demandingly sad.

But then again, Allen Walker and his world, their world, are extraordinary beings with sadder realities and sadder, sadder revelations.

That can be overcome, depending.

Kanda leans over, sticking his fingers against Allen's throat with a sigh.

This is Kanda's world, too.

"Don't be ridiculous, he's alive, you saw me check," Link says, annoyed again.

Link must never forget that he's apart of the same world.

"Can never be…too sure." Kanda steps away with, what seems, only eyes for Allen, on Allen's parted lips. Maybe listening for Allen's broken sobs. Hush, hushed.

Link supposes he won't write this down. "Do you care?"

"Care?" Kanda sneers. "If he's so important to your cause, would I care?" His hair is stringy, nightshirt mottled against his chest.

"Yes, that's it." Link places a damp towel against Allen's brow. Link cares, like this, so much for the kid that he bothers to take a calculated amount of time mopping at the sticky tears, carefully patting the corners of Allen's eyes, watching him flinch now and then at Link's precise ministrations. Allen moans past his front teeth. His lips are cracked from vomiting. The ministrations are taken there.

Kanda is still as quiet as Link ever was. "Obviously you care." Voice like sand.

Is that the truth?

Link ignores Kanda's footless flight back to bed. He turns around when the clock has been ticking for too long, the moaning in people's sleep, Crowley's stomach on a motor, to discover that Kanda had not returned to his bed but that he'd snuck out of the infirmary altogether.

Kanda Yuu is, in this respect, a shadow, disappearing into the night. Yet they will all disappear forever, with or without Link's interference.

The scaly course of the month is a throwback to their schedule, to their war. (Link gets an eye-patch for a handful of days for minor cuts, to which he keeps away from prying eyes.) But everything is okay, they are apt to get by; it is only acceptable, they have no other choice. They are in the process of relocating headquarters, Komui is in the process of sounding as if he's never been any more stressed by his job (that he might deserve, either way), and Bookman has been minding himself more and more, Junior doing the same. They are, essentially, in the process of evolving.

Link has a feeling he's being watched, just as he's been watching Allen Walker. Not watching. Supervising. Link is. Bookman Junior is not. He is merely watching. And it makes Link think some things that he would not have thought otherwise.

On the last day Allen agrees to stay in bed for his troubles, before Lenalee can come back in to prod and disturb their atmosphere with her scant wardrobe, Link is back to supervising, counting courtesans, then stones, in the interim.

"Where were you?" Allen asks through a bowl of soup. He drinks the rest of the broth and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

"I think now is high time we talked about your master." Link had waited until Allen couldn't possibly spit anything out. Cross needs to be talked about. He is leaving; Link must find a way to gossip and see if Cross' ears are burning. His golem sits sullenly on the windowsill, making a noise to remind them it's there, flashing sharp chompers.

Oh yes, the golem watches, too, with a smile on its face.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Link smiles. "You are not obligated to."

"But?"

Link smiles widely. "But how are we to know you are telling the truth? If you do not answer fully, then we ourselves are more than obligated to believe otherwise."

Allen smiles back. "That's dirty."

Link does what he's been doing for the past two weeks: he offers a long-lasting treat in the form of a smile that is as mysterious as a foggy harbor. It is purposeful, and through this, there is an understanding.

A small, minuscule, transparent one.

Allen loses his own smile, eyes blinking downward until they are staring at the nondescript infirmary blanket.

The study insofar has revealed Allen to be an unusually sensitive boy, however sensitive due to force, sensitive in his every action and deep in his words. He is always careful in choosing his words; sometimes Link thinks Allen is counting between sentences, when to say this, when to say that. Link is never fooled or taken for granted. Allen must know this, but he urges himself on to say what he says and do what he does just to make it happen, because this is what he's trained himself to be: the missionary.

The sight of Allen busily sucking on his lower lip begs Link to ask.

"Did you think you were going to die?"

"What? When?" Eyes are on Link, eyes darting, like a deer in the middle of London.

"When? All those times, perhaps. Maybe, that one time, when I found you. You were on the floor—"

"I was on the… I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I dunno. I don't remember."

"You don't remember. I see. That's right, that's all right."

"I don't remember. Is that bad?" Allen looks like he is unraveling again. To remember is a blur; Link can believe Allen does not recall a thing. There may be things to call back to life, only that Allen is unable to, averse to calling back those recent images that he'd fought in, just as Link could not allow him to die at that time.

So would Link, if given the opportunity, let Allen die? Would—?

Link lifts the tissue box from under his chair and places it very softly upon Allen's thighs, where it falls into the pit between them. Allen hesitantly lifts the lid with the tips of his fingers, barely touching it. "Cookies," he says. The lid flaps down. "I don't say things for cookies, Link."

Link was never trained in letting him die.

"No, I didn't think you would. It's comfort food."

"I'm very well aware of that."

"Custard." He would have made clotted creams, but there was a time constraint in juggling work and healing—and clotted creams are overrated when one eats too much of them, anyhow.

"I…like custard."

"That's good." Link stays away from him, just in case Allen decides to shower him in custard out of spite. Because, Link knows better. And maybe, this in itself is a tiny detour of comfort.

Allen starts to put a cookie into his mouth, tip flaking off, filling off the top gathering on his top lip. Link finds this too comforting, so that it is disabling, watching Allen do this.

"I like custard," repeats Allen.

"Not everyone may spoil themselves," says Link. With memories, that is. Link cannot even remember how his sister might have smiled, or held him, or did her hair, maybe behind a floral divide.

He supervises as Allen chews without another word, fists locked and ready for something.

Link soon drifts off to sleep, an hour after Allen had done the same for his nap. As Allen's been mumbling, so has Link, half-aware of his surroundings and ego not responding like it should. It is a blood-traitor. This is how he knows he's been mumbling, talking, in his sleep on the chair, head kinking over his right shoulder. There is an itch where his weapon presses into his arm, but he doesn't scratch it. Someone is putting their hand on the weapon, Link's jacket swishing, sliding down from his chest.

No, he mustn't do that.

Link hears himself saying, "Don't touch." He is trapped in a pool of shadows. He hears whispers, dust settling, feet scraping grain off stone. He hears the finest sounds. He tastes dirt and custard on his tongue. "Don't touch me."

"Hey."

"Don't touch it."

Someone is fingering the sleeve.

"Don't touch. I hear noises. Get down, don't touch me, stay down."

"Link? It's just me. C'mon, wake up, it's like you never leave his side."

Link finally opens his eyes. "Ungh, what? Stay down, I leave him." He knows he's not making any sense. He takes a millisecond to swallow and swallow the remnants on his tongue, of it. Lord, it's going down. He flushes.

It is Bookman Junior before him, brow arched, hair wrapped by a different band. The lights are dimmed, only a few dull yellow ones in the corners. The nurse's office door is shut for the—it is night already.

"You should leave," Junior says, as concerned as an adult, adjusting Link's collar for him in an underhanded manner. As if there is something to adjust after all of this.

"Bookman Junior," he says.

"It's Lavi, wha's the matter?"

"Bookman Junior, you've ink."

"Say what?"

"Ink, on your…" Link reaches to wipe it away from Lavi's nose.

"Get up, Link, you're delirious."

"Be reasonable," Link groans as he puts a hand to his throat; the effort hurts.

"D'ya always sleep like that? I'm surprised the bean-sprout doesn't blame himself for that, too."

"Is that how you speak of your friends?"

Lavi stands upright, fingers entwining themselves into his belt-loops. The way he flares his hips is suspecting.

After all, there is always a method to the madness.

Link waits for it. "Do you need me?"

"It's a call from Big Boss Man."

"Then I'll take it." Lavi doesn't move as Link desires him to; it is more of the Link-wants-to-punt-him-out-the-window-persuasion. "Pardon me." He's awake, he's been awake, the rest of them are delirious.

"There are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses—by George Bernard Shaw. Know 'im? Get what he means? Do you, Link," he adds forbiddingly.

"Are you," Link says waspishly, "speaking of your friend?"

"Yeah, savvy?" Lavi is unblinking, gazing down into Link's face. He is strict in his resilience, and no one would dare trespass on his dominion. Plus, with the height advantage, there is no denying that gaze.

Link drops his pretense. "You can be a right idiot, you know that."

"But that still means I'm right."

It's easy to imagine Lavi peeling the blanket away from Allen's body, carrying him in his arms, cradling him, with Allen's feet dangling on one side. Helpless, useless, like no warrior at all. Like cold bare feet tracing, toeing a circle of hell.

He walks away once Lavi takes over his job in the chair, smiling and thinking Lavi has secrets of his own.

Link is but a shadow; he must know all these secrets.

Allen is the first.

So Link is going to kill their little mock-love because it's better left unlived.