Raison D'être | Chapter 2
A LXG Fanfiction by Majokai Yukiko
Pairing: Dorian + Tom
Warning: Slash. Wicked Dreams.
Timeline: Post-movie cannon.
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"Hey, Skinner." Tom greeted the invisible man cheerily, taking his place beside him at the railing, looking out at the horizon where sky met sea.
The Nautilus floated alone in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, very still in an immense stillness, the shadows of her spars flung far westward by the rising sun. There was no sound in her, and around them, nothing moved. Not a boat in the water, not a bird in the sky, not a cloud in the sky. In this moment of calmness, their existence stood out, with only the sky and the sea for judges and spectators.
Tom Sawyer looked to his side. A bond had been forged between Rodney Skinner and himself after that previous incident with M. Skinner had saved his life, and with that, the man had earned for himself Tom's undying respect and gratitude.
It was strange. Extraordinary gentlemen in extraordinary situations with extraordinary bonds, they had their taste of uniqueness, it was normalcy that had became a mystery to them.
"Hey yourself, Tom." Skinner replied. It was impossible to see the expression on his face. Had he regretted this invisibility? Had he ever felt the loneliness of his existence, threatening to consume his sanity every waking moment?
"You think I can get a tan if I stay out here long enough? Nothing beats the tropical sun, does it?" Skinner asked.
"I don't know, Skinner. But you can definitely try." The American boy replied.
Tom rested his hands lightly on the ship's railings, as if on the shoulder of a trusted friend. When Jekyll lost a vial of his solution, they had automatically assumed it to be Skinner. The League had no idea if Skinner was good or evil. Perhaps nobody had any idea either. It was an age-old stereotype that had almost caused the League's fall: never trust anyone you could not see.
Was it the same for Dorian Gray? Tom mused. It was unclear if the immortal was good or evil. But he was definitely feared among the League. They all had weaknesses, while Gray was virtually indestructible. As a result, he was being feared and doubted.
That, by it, had always tended to bring up the worst in people.
Did he feel lonely too?
"I'm going back in," Skinner announced. "Don't want to pull a chair out here to tan and end up having Hyde sitting on me because he can't see me."
Tom grinned. Skinner could always take things in his stride, seeing the humor out of any and every situation, good or bad.
The American leaned back against the railing, closed his eyes, and smiled, enjoying the feel of the sun shining on his face. It felt good; to be truly relaxed in such troubled times. It almost made him believe that he could stay like this forever.
Almost.
***
He was back in the library again. This time, however, Gray was already waiting for him. Tom took his seat, and wondered briefly, what his dream would be about.
"Good evening, Sawyer. You are early today." The European offered his guest a glass of scotch like he had done the night before and poured out red wine for himself. Tom accepted it politely, but did not drink it.
"I did not poison it, Tom." The agent looked up with a chagrined smile on his face.
"I didn't say you did." Tom glanced around the library, wondering why he ended up here again this time. If he was supposed to be dreaming of Dorian Gray (although why of all people, he had yet to figure out) they could be somewhere else. Like the Nautilus, for example; at least he would feel a little more at ease there.
"Do you paint, Tom?" Dorian suddenly asked. Tom snapped his head back to face his host, shook his head and looked at the immortal questioningly. Dorian only smiled.
"I had a painter friend when I was your age." He paused. There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if remembering something from a long time ago.
In that split second, Tom Sawyer thought he was looking at a different man. That thoughtful expression had never crossed the face of the real Dorian Gray. Yet, this illusory creation sitting before him had a sensitivity of a poet, noble without the arrogance that came with the package. Tom wondered if this was the Dorian Gray the immortal used to be before his soul began to corrupt.
It made no sense. Tom had not known anything about the man before the League. Even then, whatever contact he had with him was nothing beyond a taunting pat on the shoulders or an occasional dismissing sneer.
"Vampires do not dream. Or else we could have Mina here too." Dorian murmured, almost to himself. The American wanted to ask what the other man meant, until he was distracted by something that was significantly missing from the room.
"Where is your portrait?"
A true smile spread across Dorian's face. Tom wished the courtier had smiled like that more often. It made him look younger, more approachable…perhaps a little less irritating. He mused. Then again, age could do irreversible things to someone, physically or not.
Tom thought once again of his dead mentor.
"You know where it is." Dorian answered cryptically. "It's with you."
"You want it back?" Tom blinked curiously. Perhaps this dream was from the ghost of Dorian, wanting to have his picture back. That would make this entire hocus-pocus bullshit seemed more conceivable. The immortal had been ready to deceive the entire League for that single sheet of canvas. It was perfectly probable for his ghost to want to claim it back, even from his grave.
The only question was: Would an immortal ever become a ghost?
"You should leave." Dorian said abruptly, an almost livid look was on his face, as if he was truly insulted and mortified by Tom's earnest question. Tom nodded and stood up, bracing himself for the darkness that would soon overwhelm him, just like the way it did when he last dreamt.
"I'm sorry," Tom hung his head guiltily. A shocked expression spread across Dorian's face. The English seemed rather disturbed by the apology.
Then again, it might just be his imagination.
***
Tom woke up once again to the picture of Dorian Gray. He frowned. There was something very wrong with the painting that morning. He got up from his bed, hastily pulled on his boxers and clambered over to the wall.
The boy squinted his eyes hard; holding his hand out to touch the canvas lightly and then drew back, as if burnt. He stared at his fingers, an alarmed look on his face.
The paint was fresh.
End of Chapter 2
Continue to Chapter 3