Title: The Ghost of Flanders Past

Author: Faith Alana Alastair

Fandom: Simpsons

Disclaimer: I'm not Matt Groenig, nor any of the writers of the Simpsons. Fox owns it all.

Pairing: None

Rating: NC-17/FRAO for suicidal themes.

Summary/Prompt: Flanders revisits his past.

Spoilers: Maude is dead.

Feedback: Please! Concrit is life.

Distribution: Want… Ask… Have.

Ned watched Rod and Todd get on the bus, sighing at the silhouette of Bart, already bullying them. They took it good-naturedly, perfect emulations of the man he'd worked so hard to become.

He turned from the window, straightening up the house. Washing the breakfast dishes, picking up a stray sock. Making his way up the stairs, he straightened a photograph hanging on the wall; himself and Maude, on their wedding day. Smiling sadly, he brushed his fingertips across the glass.

Looking into the boys' bedroom, he smiled at the hospital corners on their beds. Such good boys. God would surely reward them. He moved into his bedroom, pulling a suitcase out from under his bed. Slowly opening it, he closed his eyes, muttering a prayer for strength. Inside were photographs, newspaper clippings, a black beret. Trinkets and ticket stubs. He nearly turned aside in revulsion, but he'd made his decision, and now he faced his past.

Greenwich Village. He was so young, yet the memories were crystal clear. Smokey coffeehouses, filled with young men and women... and others. Flashes of memories flooded him like a drug. Music, poetry... God, what had he done? He'd turned so far from what his parents tried to raise him to be.

The wisdom of adulthood shed clarity on his memories. Crazed drug addicts became passionate activists once the haze was removed. Those people loved him. He shuddered, closing the trunk on the painful realizations. Getting to his feet, he went to his dresser and removed the straight razor he used to shave. He walked downstairs, spreading painter's tarp under and over his favorite chair, before sitting down.

"Hey, Father Death, I'm flying home... yea, though I walk through the valley..."

"FLANDERS!" Homer burst through the front door, screaming for Ned.

Quickly hiding his weapon beneath the cushion, he nicked himself. Sticking his bloodied thumb in his mouth, he called out. "In here, Homer. How can I do for you?"

Homer walked in, taking in the scene before him. He might not be a genius, but he wasn't dumb, either. "Flanders, why are you bleeding?" Okay, maybe he was, just a little.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Homer. There's just a loose tack here..." He blushed profusely, unused to lying, even to his often-infuriating neighbor.

"Don't give me that..." He walked in, his previous anger forgotten. What's wrong?

Ned sighed. Homer could be a downright good neighbor, when he wanted to. He cared about people, which was what endeared him to Ned from the start. "Homer, I've been so wrong. About everything."

Homer wrinkled his brow, taking a seat on the sofa. "Why don't you talk about it? When I have a problem, I tell Moe. His advice is terrible, but the talking part helps a lot. I can be Moe."

Hanging his head, Ned had to admit the truth of Homer's words. "Homer, I was born in New York City... my parents were beatniks... hippies. They were so busy trying to change the world, they forgot to change my diapers. I wound up in foster care, with a loving Christian family... and spent the rest of my life thinking my mother and father were drug addicts.

My life's been a lie."

Homer listened quietly, wishing Lisa were here. She wasn't, however, and he did the best he could. "I don't think it's a lie. You're the most decent guy in Springfield. Just because you remembered things a little wrong doesn't mean you lied."

"It just seems as though... I should have lived a very different life. Since Maude passed, I've been really thinking about things. I feel trapped between two lies."

Homer tilted his head. "What's the other one?"

Ned sighed then, closing eyes and whispering. "That I love women."

Homer strained to hear him, and wasn't certain he'd heard correctly. "Flanders, did you just come out to me?"

Cringing, Ned thought of the razor hidden beneath his seat and nodded slightly. "I suppose I did. It's my greatest shame, Homer. Where I grew up had a lasting, poisonous effect on me. I loved Maude with all my heart, but my loins burned for more forbidden fruit." He began crying, hiding his face in his hands.

Homer nearly let out a whoop. Flanders was queer. This was something he could handle. "Aww, don't cry, Flanders... Being gay isn't so bad... I'm pretty sure Lisa is..." He reached over, patting Ned's shoulder, trying to offer him comfort. "And Lenny from the plant is, too. I think. Smithers definitely is."

Somehow Homer's words were comforting, or maybe it was his hand on his shoulder. It felt pretty nice to have a human being touch him casually, he tried to make it a habit to respect people's personal space. "But... the boys. I've lied to them all this time."

Homer shook his head, grinning. This was turning out easy. He knew how to raise kids, too. "Ned, your boys just need you to love them. If you raise 'em okay, don't beat them, and give them kisses when they scrape their knee, they'll turn out okay. I'm pretty sure they'll be okay with whatever you need to be."

Ned thought this over, then thought of Homer and Marge, and their children... even Bart, who clearly loved his father through their animosity. "I suppose you're right, Homer. I never did see it that way." Suddenly, Flanders had an idea that made him smile.

"Say, I think I'll take the boys on a vacation to New York City. Maybe we can all learn some tolerance, huh?"

Homer grinned. "I think that's a great idea." he stood up, patting Ned's shoulder, and headed toward the door, suddenly remembering why he came. "Oh, and Flanders?"

Ned looked up from cleaning his glasses, replacing the on his face. "Yes, Homer?"

"I'm gonna kill you!"

~