Subject to Interpretation, a d.gray-man fanfic

A/N: For AuburnCollision. Woops this is a little late isn't it? I like Lavi, sure, but with him it's immediate block all the way from start to end.

Disclaimer: D Gray-man is Hoshino Katsura's.

Fandom: D Gray Man
Character: Lavi-centric/no romantic pairings
Genre: Fanfiction's "Angst" and "Hurt/comfort"
Word count: Min. 2000 characters
Writing prompt: Fear/charisma

Subject to Interpretation

To the Black Order, he was just another Exorcist. One of the few on their roster, classified as a pawn in the grander scheme of things. Just as they made minimal notes on his character, he made minimal notes on theirs. History was not so concerned with details such as these, after all.

When he was "Deak", he learnt that even the furthest of strangers could come to mean the world to another. Provided that one lived in a simple world, of course.

In the year he held that alias, Bookman took his apprentice to Russia to record the history being made on the streets. It was the height of the Russian Revolution, just past the brink of the twentieth century, and a most apt opportunity to teach the useless apprentice that conflict was inevitable where Man walked and it was his express duty to record that conflict impartially.

This duty took him to the Trans-Baikal railroad and then away from Bookman.

Deak wasn't sure how he let it happen though he could remember every moment of it, but he found himself behind revolutionary lines, where his red hair and eye patch and strange clean clothes marked him as an outsider. This effectively earned him a place right next to the rebels' cosy campfire, uncomfortably trussed up but thankfully not gagged.

The men were tired and bloody but triumphant; Deak recorded all this silently as a shift in the balance of power in the revolutionaries' favour. He omitted the camaraderie displayed in the camp, the congratulatory slaps on the back, the stinging smell of vodka that came from the bottles the men passed from hand to hand. History had no need for such trivial details, and neither did he. Recording the events before him also had a beneficial side effect of taking his mind off his potential fate at the hands of drunk and grudge-bearing men, which had a further effect of staving off the touch of fear loomed at the back of his thoughts.

"Hey, you!" A gruff voice cut through the cacophony of the festivities. Deak turned his head in the direction of the sound to see a bearded man, bottle dangling from his thick fingers and leg propped up on the metal beams of the track. "You take the first shift tonight. Watch the burzhuaznyĭ, if he escapes…" he drew the index finger of his free hand across his throat to the sound of raucous laughter.

'Bourgeois' was far from what he was, but it was unfortunate enough that he had the luck to be mistaken for one. That aside, as Deak turned his sight to his keeper for the night, he met a pair of shining eyes set in a round face with skin unmarred by stubble. Overall, the boy's – for he was hardly older than Deak himself was – appearance spoke of intense eagerness to prove his worth and be admitted into the circle of men. The bright eyes fixed on Deak, sitting almost sullenly in the dirt, and sought to memorise his appearance as well as his imperfect memory could.

It was the first time he had his worth measured outside his value as a future Bookman, and Deak wasn't sure if he appreciated it.

To the other Exorcists, he was a dependable, albeit easily distracted, comrade. Something that Lenalee and Allen and Miranda were all too willing to agree on. Yu had been rather reluctant to admit as much (reluctant was putting it nicely – this actually had to be inferred from observation), but he did agree and that was the important part.

The fire popped once more as Deak attempted to wriggle into a more comfortable position. His fingers were turning cold and numb behind him, even as his shins felt too warm this close to the fire. The rope chafed at his bare wrists and ankles (they had confiscated his boots), but at least they hadn't thought to bind his hands to his feet. He deduced that men who lived as they did would have assumed that a well cared for bourgeois would have enough disincentive to run away as it was, even if said bourgeois appeared to be bordering on the lower end of his class. The eye patch would have implied that much. Regardless, this was an interesting error that he could use to his advantage, but later.

His movement drew much unwarranted alarm from the night guard, whose grip tightened unnecessarily on his jagged, broken stick. Deak had noted that there were ample weapons to go around, but the fact that this boy wasn't entrusted with one only confirmed his suspicions that he had only pitifully higher standing in the camp than he himself did.

He pasted a perfectly blithe look on his face as he shifted and shuffled – ah, that felt so much better. Any longer and his shins might have started melting. He deliberately avoided acknowledging the wary look cast in his direction until he was ready. No sense in being skittish and unnerving the poor kid further. Deak may not be physically older than the only other waking soul in the entire camp, but he might as well have been with the knowing look he gave the boy, when he finally got his feet out of the way.

"Kak tebya zovut?" he asked conversationally. What's your name? No harm in taking the chance to practice his Russian. It was hardly a new language to him, but the last time he spoke it was too long ago. Long enough that Bookman had gotten impatient every time he was tasked to communicate with retailers and other Russians and rudely cut him off midway through his first sentence with every intention of finishing the job himself.

The boy started and cast a guilty look around the camp, clearly wondering if he was permitted to answer the question. On one hand, guard duty was not the most glorious job ever and was boring on top of that. On the other, if he were to be caught fraternising with the prisoner, the repercussions might not be pretty. His expression gave away the thoughts going through his head, and Deak decided to give him just one more push.

"Can't understand Russian?" he asked rhetorically. "Figures they'd put the dumb one here to bore me to death." He didn't have to add that every other living soul in their immediate vicinity was dead drunk and incapable of carrying any intelligible conversation. He now knew that he had nothing to fear while the sun slept, maybe even for a while after.

One indignant flash of the eyes, one more moment of hesitation, and he replied. "Nikolai."

Victory of the people, thought Deak. How appropriate. "Deak," he returned. At least for now.

The confusion on Nikolai's face was amusing, as much as anything could be amusing in such a situation. It was too badly concealed, even with the upturned nose and the firelight casting flickering shadows over his profile. "What a weird name. Is that what the bourgeoisie name their children nowadays?"

Oh, hardly. And as much as he would have liked to snort at Nikolai's poorly disguised ignorance, that wouldn't be fair to someone as uneducated as he was. He would have thought that his accent would at least hint at his foreign origins. "I'm don't hail from this country," he said shortly.

That piqued Nikolai's interest, again badly disguised, curious eyes flickering to that eye patch once more (or was that a trick of the firelight?) when he thought his prisoner wasn't paying attention. Not that it was his fault. Unlike Deak, he probably never had cause to lie openly or deceive surreptitiously. "Then where are you from, Deak?" He pronounced the name cautiously but it still sounded harsher, sharper than it did coming from his own lips.

"Nowhere," he replied automatically, and that was true enough. The faint memories of the meadows and cottage – was it even a cottage? – that he called home once upon a time didn't count. "I don't have anywhere to return to."

Forbidden to speak of the Bookman clan he was, and this was related to it, but he was certain that this would break no rules. Ignoring Nikolai's slack-jawed expression, he proceeded to explain further. "I go everywhere there is conflict, because it is my duty to record mankind's folly."

To Bookman, he was a semi-reliable apprentice who had followed him in recording 48 events and was currently in the process of observing the 49th. An apprentice that he was sure had some brains and knowledge behind that dumb facade because otherwise he might as well consign history into nothing since there was no way in hell that he would let someone that fickle take over.

If it had been anyone older and a tad more cynical, this proclamation would surely have been met with a chortle, disbelief, and quick dismissal. As it was, his words were met with awe. Admiration even. Coming from a one-man audience, reality was not quite as inspiring as it sounded.

What happened next was of little consequence. Suffice to say that he humoured the boy for the next hour, answering his questions truthfully regarding the places that he had been and skirting them when they came too close to the why and what really happened there and is that how you hurt your eye. Artfully painting a picture of the world's beauty with his words, strategically concealing the fact that humanity's ugliness had blemished it time and time again. Subtly planting the idea that better times could exist in Russia, could exist for Nikolai, in the days to come. Conjuring fairy tale after fairy tale even as the fire hissed and sputtered.

Always avoiding the mere suggestion of sleep and that he would obediently stay put. Such a suggestion would have quite the opposite effect, for humans were contrary creatures, and a single word could break the tenuous trust he had coaxed out of Nikolai. Deak considered himself skilled in the art of manipulation; seeing that much ink on paper over time did that to a person. Not that he would have needed it if he had decided to force his way out, now that he knew there were no reinforcements to call upon. Still, he would like to think himself different from his non-Bookman counterparts and remain above unnecessary violence.

Besides, there was an undeniable lure of escaping through psychological means.

There were many things that he could have done once he freed himself from his bonds. He could have taken a small tour around the campsite and vandalised one of the wagons just to rub salt into their wounds. He could have set fire to the grain or let water into the gunpowder without any substantial risk to his freedom. Or reignite the fire that had long become embers and sparks. But of course he didn't do any of the above, because he was never meant to be on this stage to begin with.

Instead he tracked his way back to the hostel where Bookman was surely waiting for him. Waiting impatient and grumpy, that was. A perfect memory came in handy more often than not, as he picked his way past rusted metal and rotted timber. The path that he should take was clear, at least in his mind. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he was not separated from his master against his will, but instead out of a desire to walk on his own for once. Trust did not equate to freedom, after all.

Even if he did have a heart and was allowed to feel, Deak didn't think he would have felt sorry for the boy now sleeping beside the dying fire. He knew the life he would lead when he chose this road, and he walked it with unwavering confidence all the same.

Much like Deak did, only his road had been chosen and illuminated for him. He never did have a choice, really, but he had no regrets all the same.

To himself… He couldn't really say that he thought about his identity often, but after the Ark and Road he would be lying if he said he didn't at least consider it a few times here and there. In the moments before sleep, while poring through a book memorised long ago, when listening to mission briefings. Given enough time, they would always lead back to one question. Who did he want to be? The impassive mask he showed the Order, the face that the Exorcists he called comrades were familiar with, or the character he played for Bookman all those years?

He once entertained a passing thought that he might be a court jester. Clowns were more of Allen's forte, but apart from being the entertainment that their patrons wished to see, jesters also had the honour of being the sole member of the court permitted to speak of the flaws of royalty without fear or favour. That was what Lavi existed for, wasn't it? To record humanity's flaws while hidden in the shadows (in plain sight), even renouncing his own humanity for the sake of history… That was what he wanted then. Did he still want it now?

(Yes, of course. He needs that reason to keep existing.)

(But reasons of the mind can always be replaced by reasons of the heart – even if one is heartless.)

END