Obvious in Hindsight

Artemis discovers a few things that should have been obvious, and wonders why he didn't realize it sooner.

A/N: So, I haven't read the series in ages so I may have gotten a few things wrong and I'm not even sure this is particularly well-written (it doesn't even set the scene! *sigh*) and I'm not sure the dialogue is really that great, but I got this idea and thought it deserved to be written (because, honestly, this [the discovery, not the {nontexistant} plotline] is pretty much my headcanon for Artemis).

PART I

Artemis Fowl II was nineteen years old when it dawned on him. Well, perhaps saying he was nineteen would be inaccurate—while biologically, he was nineteen, in all legal regards, he was twenty-two, and materially he was merely a year old, with the once-again blue eyes and sixth toe to prove it. The toe had proven easy enough to adapt to—the blue eyes made him feel strange when he looked in the mirror, as though he was looking at a copy of himself that wasn't made quite right—which, technically, was true.

The past year had been rather a whirlwind, not that that was saying much, considering his life so far. Getting his memories back had been a piecemeal affair, and though he could be fairly sure he remembered almost everything now, he would still come across small details he hadn't realized he'd forgotten until he'd remembered them. Considering this, and the rather interesting events his adolescence consisted of, it was perhaps not a surprise that he hadn't realized it sooner. Still, he was a genius.

Artemis Fowl had never been attracted to anyone in his life.

Oh, he'd assumed, when he was in the midst of puberty, that the fact that he experienced arousal was evidence that he must be attracted to girls—a leap that, in hindsight, was rather less thought-through than he liked to pride himself on. Perhaps it was the distance from that strange biological transition that helped him realize it; or perhaps it was the way he had had to re-acquaint himself with his memories—making him take new looks at things he had already neatly categorized. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

For a moment, Artemis considered several explanations for this intriguing phenomenon, ranging from a childhood of neglect, to being a supergenius, to something having gone wrong at some point in all of the near-death, actual death, and time-related experiences, ending at ever-more implausible and horrific assumptions easily latched onto by the psychologist. But in a few moments he rejected them all. From an objective perspective, it was rather obvious that he was, and always had been, asexual. The only question was how it had taken him so long to realize this.

Though he knew as much about it as any psychologist (and probably more than most) the subject of sexuality was one of the few that he had never gotten around to writing a paper on, because he had never quite had the interest in it. As a teen, he had regarded the inevitable interest he assumed he would come to have in sex with others with a frisson of disgust, and had pushed aside any recognition of arousal or attraction under the heading of distracting and unimportant. Perhaps, considering all this, it was not really so surprising that he hadn't realized until now.

Artemis closed the notebook where he kept recovered memories (he was not letting a thing like that onto his computers, not with the habit he and Foaly had built up of happening to stumble on the others' data) and turned the lock on the front of the book, replacing it in the drawer of his desk. He stood up, feeling an interesting sense of lightness. He had made an important discovery—and perhaps it shouldn't have been a discovery, not after all this time, but he felt he was entitled to a small moment of victory.

Of course, in a moment, the feeling gave way to a nagging sense of frustration. He wanted to tell someone. He wanted, in fact, to tell a particular someone. Artemis stood hesitating for almost five minutes, debating consideration for a friend, who was probably relaxing at five o'clock on a Saturday, and his own intense impatience. Finally, he picked up his phone and called.

"Artemis?" Butler answered the phone. "Is something wrong?"

Artemis smiled. "No, old friend. I've made an amazing discovery. A personal one."

"That's wonderful," Butler said. "Is it another memory?"

Artemis chuckled. "Not quite," he said ruefully. "More like an inference put together from newly-recovered memories."

"What is it?"

Artemis paused. It shouldn't be that hard to say, and yet, saying it over the phone seemed rather anticlimactic. "I discovered… well, that I am asexual. That is, I am one of that group that does not feel sexual attraction towards others."

"Hm," said Butler.

Artemis tried to imagine what he looked like over the phone. While tone of voice was helpful in decoding meaning, it was much harder for the young man to decide what people meant without body language—slightly like losing an extra sense, or to be more precise, a carefully-learned language. "You're not surprised," he said at last. "How long did you know?"

"How long?" Butler thought for a moment. "I can't exactly say. It wasn't something I realized all at once. By the time you were fifteen I certainly knew."

"Then you knew long before I did," Artemis said ruefully. "It seems so obvious now, looking back; I'm rather appalled I didn't figure it out sooner."

There was a short huff of laughter from the other end of the phone. "You had other things on your mind; and anyway, I think you were somewhat invested in ignoring your sexuality altogether."

"Yes," Artemis admitted. "That was the conclusion I came to."

After a moment, Butler continued. "Should I expect you to have told anyone else?"

Artemis hesitated, thinking. "I may tell Miles and Beckett… eventually. Perhaps if they ever ask. Holly, of course."

"Your mother?"

Artemis frowned. "I'm not sure," he said at last. Before Butler could comment, he continued, "Oh, it's nothing like worrying about acceptance; that's not an issue. I'm just not sure it's necessary, or that it would help our relationship in any way for her to know. She doesn't quite understand me, all the time… you know her vested interest in me being somewhat," Artemis searched for a word, "normal," he continued. He thought of T-Shirts, jeans, and sneakers, and shuddered. He still had nightmares about that.

"She means well," Butler said at last, without trying to convince him to change his mind.

Artemis smiled. "I know. Thank you for listening to me ramble on; I must have interrupted you."

"It's not an interruption," Butler said. "I'll always be willing to hear something this important."

"It's not that important," Artemis said.

"It's as important as you consider it to be," Butler countered, "And you wanted to call me."

There was a short, and thoughtful silence. "Perhaps you're right," Artemis said.

PART II

Artemis wanted to tell Holly; in fact, as she was the only person he'd ever fallen in love with, he considered the information exceedingly pertinent to her. The only problem was: how did you bring such a thing up?

Holly fixed him with a knowing stare. "All right, Mud Boy," she said. "Spit it out."

"Spit what out?" Artemis asked, after considering, and discarding, a protest that he was technically no longer a boy.

Holly rolled her eyes. "Your mind has been wandering all day. You obviously want to tell me something."

"Oh yes?" Artemis asked, his mind racing. "What gives you that impression?"

"Because if it was something you didn't want me to know, I would never have noticed," Holly pointed out reasonably. "Well, I might have noticed," she amended, "but it wouldn't be so obvious."

At last Artemis nodded. "Well, in that case, you're correct," he said. "I was thinking over my regained memories when I realized something about myself I'd neglected to notice before."

"Artemis Fowl, having a self-realization?" Holly asked, in exaggerated surprise.

Artemis smiled. "I wonder if you'll know; I told Butler and he already did. I discovered that I'm asexual."

Holly frowned for a moment before shaking her head slightly. "Nope, didn't know that," she said.

"Do the people have anything like that?" Artemis asked after a moment.

"Oh, sure," Holly said. "It's fairly rare, but it definitely exists. Why did you think I'd know?" she asked after a moment.

Artemis cleared his throat, his cheeks heating up as Holly stared at him. "Well," he said at last. "You know," he added. "When we time-traveled."

For a moment Holly seemed confused, then… "Oh," she said, with slightly less obvious embarrassment. "That."

"I did enjoy kissing you," Artemis added quickly. It had been incredible, if more for the fact that it meant Holly had returned his feelings than that it incited lust. It was certainly something he would not have minded repeating. "I just thought you may have noticed… then, and afterward. My interest never really extended any further."

"Except for Orion," Holly added, but Artemis was shaking his head.

"Even with Orion, it was about the romance," he said. "He loved you. We—I love you. In a way distinct from friendship. I didn't realize it for so long because I never really wanted to have a sexual relationship with you." It was, Artemis realized perhaps two minutes after he'd actually said it, the first time he'd actually admitted to being in love with Holly Short. But it was not a surprise for either of them.

"And you thought that was why I might know?" Holly asked. Artemis nodded.

After a moment, she continued. "There's something you forgot to think of in all this," she said. "I assumed there was no further interest because of our species. Cross-species attraction is incredibly rare. And before you ask," she said, with a rather pointed look, "I do find you mildly attractive. There's enough similarities in what our species tends to like—and apparently in what I like—for that. But sex? With a Mud Man? Honestly, it's just kind of… gross." She shrugged. "So, I knew you loved me, but I just assumed the lack of a more obvious sexual interest was due to that."

"Oh," Artemis said. "I hadn't considered that."

"Well, if you never feel attraction to anyone, it stands to reason you might not realize that species could be a reason for not feeling attraction," Holly said.

Artemis gave her an exasperated look. "It is rather obvious," he said. "And neither is it something I don't know. I just failed to apply it to relations between elves and humans."

"Well, think of it this way," Holly said. "It's just proof that being a genius doesn't protect you from making mistakes."

"Do I need proof?" Artemis asked.

"Always," Holly said, grinning.

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