Title: Homecoming
Summary: Lavi comes home from a mission late at night. Bookman is there waiting for him.
Genre: General, Family, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG
Author's Note: So, I found this half-finished in a scrap folder and decided to complete it. For Bookman feels.
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Bookman had to ask himself when he had become like this.
It was something that he had not noticed right away, but once he did, he could only question when it had begun and how he had allowed something like that to happen. After all, he was a Bookman, and Bookmen know what was permissible and what was not. Therefore, he should have known better than to have fallen into that trap, because he had trained so rigorously for so many years in order to quash that instinctually human aspect of himself that it was nothing but shameful to have succumbed to it.
And yet, there he was, asking himself when he had become like this.
It had started innocently enough: taking up a book and a chair and a bit of tea, but not in the library, instead in the room that he shared and had shared for almost three years with that apprentice of his. Usually, he would not do such a thing, but the room was empty and quiet without him and the echoes of each page turning created less of an echo in this space in comparison to the library. Without the sound of a quill scratching, the tired and sometimes frustrated sighs, and the shifting of parchment, the bookroom held no solace for him. It was only when he was in the chair with the book and the tea that he realized why he had come back to their rooms, and he hoped that Junior would never discover that reason. The word hypocrite would hang on his lips and dance on that too-familiar smirk of his, like it sometimes did when these human attributes escaped and manifested themselves for his clever eye to observe. But behind that too-clever eye of his, Bookman could see the bit of joy he tried so hard to hide from him; he was happy when Bookman violated his own rules—the Clan's law—to show any sort of affection.
The thought of it made him so angry, Bookman thought that the moment that brat came in through the door, he would most certainly have to kick him in the head. But then he stopped, fingers hovering over the page—about to turn but frozen in midair—as Bookman came to realize that even the half-hearted violence between them was due to the attachment he could not sever between them.
Bookman made an irritated sound at himself and looked at the clock. By candlelight he could see it was nearly two in the morning, and yet Bookman had no chance of sleeping. He could not even turn the page.
He had been gone a fortnight.
Two weeks without his presence in the rooms they shared. Fourteen days since Bookman had last heard his soft snoring, or had to bark at him for cleaning up one mess or another, or for Christ's sake just do your logs already. He was always irritated by Lavi: the persona that knew just how to get under his skin with all the smiles and laughter and brightness from every name before him. He knew just how to make himself likable, loveable. Bookman now knew that he used this to his advantage, but three years had passed before he had realized what an impact one name could make.
Of course, Bookman had always cared for Junior, but Lavi just enforced those feelings he should not feel. Lavi was the name that meddled and pushed and prodded until he could barely stand it any longer or hold up any of his usual defenses. And now, he was staying up all hours of the night, looking at the clock instead of his book and not drinking a sip of tea because all of his senses were focused on listening as hard as he could for the tell-tale sound of heavy boots coming down the corridor.
When, when had he become like this?
When had Lavi infiltrated every part of him to make him want to have that red headed troublemaker around snoring and making messes and not doing his job? When had it happened: that Bookman could barely sleep when that idiot apprentice was out fighting akuma on a mission when he should be at home doing his quiet, necessary work? Why was it that three years at the Order had made it so hard for him to distance himself and draw that line between them that said he would care for Junior in the sense that all his needs were met—food, clothing, shelter—and no more? Why was it now, when Bookman imagined getting that call from downstairs...that call where Komui Lee's voice would crack as he said Lavi didn't make it home and then wept in a way that he could not?
Lavi, damn you it was all his fault.
Bookman put down his book, resigned to another night of waiting and wondering what had become of him. Would his Master consider him less of a successor because of it? Fortunately, Bookman did not have to torture himself with these questions, as the sound of steps on the flagstones alerted him to the presence he had been concerning himself with all evening. The footsteps dragged, fatigued, like the hand that fell heavily onto the door knob, twisting weakly once, then twice, unable to open it until a shoulder was exerted onto the door itself, and Lavi's messy form appeared.
He looked as if he had been dragged behind a carriage: covered in dirt and blood from head to toe, but paler than parchment beneath all the grime. Lavi didn't notice him, his attention focused on peeling out of his jacket, which he discarded behind him on the floor with his suitcase as he made for his bedroom. Bookman waited, heard him take the few steps into the room, before his mattress gave a sad sound as Lavi collapsed onto it with a sigh that came from as deep as his bones.
Not even seconds later, Lavi was snoring in that light, airy way that drove Bookman crazy.
(Well, in that way that usually drove Bookman crazy.)
Tonight, it was almost welcome, because it had been fourteen days and Bookman could not read his book or drink his tea. He welcomed the half-cracked front door and the abandoned, soiled jacket upon the floor. It smelled like damp and rain and mud; beneath all that the faded pugnancy of copper and sulfur: both human and akuma blood. In the candlelight, Bookman could see the glistening outlines of wet boot prints on the stone floors. Lavi had only been home approximately three minutes and already he had made a mess of things.
Bookman knew then that he couldn't have it any other way.
(But he didn't have to say it out loud.)
So he put aside his neglected work and stood up from the chair. He methodically began to clean the mess that his apprentice left behind: closed the door and locked it, then dropped the jacket into the laundry. Bookman ignored the wet footprints, taking up Lavi's suitcase instead as he made for the bedroom. There he found the redheaded boy, half-lying on the bed, half-hanging off it. His mud encrusted boots hung over the edge.
"You never change," Bookman said to his sleeping form. He set the suitcase down before lighting the lantern on the desk. Their shared bedroom came into focus, with Bookman's neatly-made bed on the top bunk and Lavi's messily constructed ruin of a mattress beneath it. With the light, Bookman could see Lavi lying amongst the newspapers and various reports he had been studying in his off hours. It reminded the old man of all those names ago, when Junior started falling into the habit of passing out amongst his work. It's great, Jiji. I'm really into it. Get it?
"You'll ruin those," Bookman said, but Lavi did not stir, just like he did not all those late nights in New Delhi and Kandahar and Kiev. Bookman would insist that in that moment of nostalgia, he did not smile.
(But what did it matter anyway, if Lavi didn't know?)
"Idiot," Bookman murmured, and it brought him back to that question from before. When had he become like this? When had that word had become less scolding and more endearing? Was it a new development with "Lavi" or had it started much, much longer ago, back before Junior even took his first alias? Starting from that very moment when that small boy had looked at him and said, with all the passion in the world I want to be a Bookman.
Bookman did not know.
"Where would you be without me?" Bookman asked aloud, as he pulled the newspapers and reports out from under Lavi's unconscious form, then the books and blank record ledgers from beneath his pillow. After placing them in a neat pile upon the desk, Bookman returned to Lavi and removed first his right, then his left boot. The sole was ripped up badly on the left from too much wear. Bookman made a mental note to inform Johnny downstairs, so that a new pair could be made.
"Never any consideration for your arches," Bookman berated him, as he pulled off Lavi's damp socks. Both of his feet were wrapped up in bloody bandages. The Order really did run their Exorcists hard, even harder than Bookman had done to Junior in the past. At least Bookman allowed for reasonable recuperation time during their long treks across the Eurasian continent. Though that was not to say that they both did not get their share of blisters and other foot ailments. Bookman had just the thing for it. He had gotten it down to a science over the years.
"You're fortunate these didn't get infected," Bookman scolded Lavi, as he removed the old bandages and cleaned the irritated skin beneath with a wet flannel. He then applied a salve and new bandages. It was very similar to their first few months together, when Junior had fallen into bed exhausted each night. He hadn't said anything about his bleeding feet. But Bookmen were observers for a reason and the old man noticed. When he confronted Junior about it, the boy turned his green eye away and had picked up clovers for what seemed like hours. I didn't want to complain. I didn't want you to change your mind about me. Because I still want to be a Bookman.
"Maybe you learned something after all," said Bookman quietly. Lavi stirred a bit, but did not wake as Bookman removed his thigh holster and belt. His body was pliable in sleep, making it easy for Bookman remove the dirty uniformed pants and undershirt. Large black and blue bruises stood out upon his arms and legs. A massive chunk of flesh had been sliced clean off his right elbow, leaving a rash of black, healing tissue along his arm. His right arm in general looked as if it had been through a war; the shoulder was bandaged up, most likely a flare up of an old injury Lavi had received upon coming to the Order. Swinging that hammer around was not as easy as it looked, though Lavi did have a devilish look in his eye when he made overly sexual innuendos about just that.
"Then again, maybe you didn't," Bookman sighed. Junior always had a habit of getting into trouble. Bookman recalled many a sleepless night sitting vigil by his side: during the fevers and the concussions and the broken arms. Throughout the years, Bookman told himself that he did not do this because of sentimentality or kindness or because he cared. But those were all lies, every single one. Bookman did it because Junior looked like such a boy and wanted nothing more than the security of knowing someone was there beside him; that someone cared enough to sit beside him.
That when he asked Jiji, can you stay? that Bookman would stay.
"You have to learn to take care of yourself," Bookman said, as he applied ointment to the cuts and scrapes and bandaged the worst of the bruises. It was like the night after their first mission, when they had returned back to this same room, and Lavi had exerted himself too hard. Odzuchi Kodzuchi had burned his hands with backlash and Bookman soaked them in cool water. I'm fine, you don't have to take care of me, Jiji he had said, looking like he wanted to cry, but held it back. Despite his words, he let Bookman dry his hands with a silk towel and then apply a burn salve to the injured skin. I'm really okay. I promise I'm okay. I can do it he had said, but allowed Bookman to then wrap up his hands with gauze and tuck him into bed. He was only fifteen.
When Bookman looked at him now, he saw that Lavi had grown up, but only just. Eighteen with all kinds of responsibility upon his shoulders: the history of the present and the concerns of past actions upon the future. Where would "Lavi" be in terms of history? Would he survive this name? The thought of "Lavi" disappearing forever, and Junior with him, was not a thought Bookman wanted to entertain.
"I'm not going to be around forever, you know," Bookman told him, as he brought up Lavi's feet from where they hung over the side of the bed. He lay them down upon the mattress, then took up the edge of the blanket and pulled it over Lavi's exhausted body.
"You have to be prepared to succeed me," Bookman continued, gently removing Lavi's headband from his dirty red locks. His apprentice slept on, his soft snore barely audible now that he was so deeply asleep. The old man let his hand linger in Lavi's hair for a moment, just for sentimentality's sake. He knew then that he had never become like this. That indicated he had to have maintained a different state before this one, and he had not. No. Bookman had not changed at all. He had always been this way with Junior, from the moment they had first met. It really had been from that moment when a single green eye looked up at him and begged teach me the hidden history of the world.
"Can you do that, Junior?" Bookman let his hand smooth back the red locks before retreating. It was just like those nights in New Delhi and Kandahar and Kiev. It was like all those nights sitting vigil through the fevers and the concussions and the broken arms. It was like the night when Lavi had said he was fine, but looked like he wanted nothing more than to cry. And all of it was against Clan Law and principles and doctrines, but Bookman, even with all his training and conditioning, could not resist it. He could not resist the draw, the pull, the magnetism of this boy, his successor, this one person on a planet with six billion people. It was Junior who made him get angry about the messes and the snoring and the not ever doing his goddamn work, but it was also Junior who was a good sport about things and who made Bookman laugh (even if he would not admit to it). And it was with Junior that Bookman could talk about things no one else could know and with Junior that they could speak without speaking a word aloud. It was Junior who could make Bookman sit up all night while he was gone on a mission or in an uncomfortable chair at his bedside for all hours of the night, worrying over mundane things like sickness and injury.
It was Junior that made Bookman realize he was human. Bookmen were not Gods, they were men. And even though they strove to be above the realm of men, there was only so far they could reach. And although the laws said that they had to remain unattached-even to one another-Bookman found it impossible. Junior had become a constant in his life: this vibrantly obnoxious, pitiable, annoying, downright aggravating, intelligent, wonderful person who was there to learn from him, but had taught him so much in the process. And Junior would remain his companion for the rest of his years: be the one to take the oaths and the memories of all the history before him. Be the one to take on the name Bookman as the start of his own journey.
Be the one to see that Bookman's ashes were scattered over the Himalayas, just like all the other Bookmen before them.
He was an apprentice, yes. A successor, undoubtedly. But Junior was also the closest thing Bookman had to a son. Who else could make that Heart He was not Supposed to Have pulse with anger and quiver with fear and throb with concern and warm with pride? No one but Junior.
And he was irreplaceable.
That had never, ever changed.
"Yes," Bookman said, as he looked at the boy, sleeping soundly unawares, before him."Yes, I think you can." This time, Bookman did smile and he would admit to it.
(But only this once.)
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