|harukami (harukami) wrote,|
@ 2006-12-16 17:21:00
|Entry tags:||cfud, kingdom hearts|
[fic] KH-post CFUD Au, Zexion-Replica fics
So uh. These are all part of my post-CFUD AU wherein you know. Various people were resurrected for camp and eventually returned home to, well. Change things.
Five little stories under the cut. All Zexion and the Riku Replica, who've got interesting tihngs going on in camp.
Um kind of an. Early small X-mas present for ranith, actually. Even if you've already seen one of them. XD;
Safe for work!
Zexion doesn't turn. Even if the voice weren't so recognizable -- despite being identical to one other person's, of course -- he knows enough to recognize the differences in tone, the slight variance in diction, even on that one word. Had it been the one who had followed him, the tone would have been amused or challenging; this is angry, defensive, accusatory.
Besides, it would be unlikely to be anything other than Vexen's replica. The real one has, after all, returned home to his island from this place for the second time. The replica has nowhere to go, and though it had threatened to follow the real Riku, it's hardly done so as of yet.
One way or the other, that is its choice, of course.
"You," the replica repeats. It sounds annoyed; nothing out of the ordinary there. "What are you doing?"
Zexion finishes packing the preserves. The bag is leather, small; he only has taken what few he thinks he will make use of, and some dry rice; their supplies are doubtless somewhat low, after everything, but he's never been the sort to tie himself down to objects. Some he had given to the kitchens. The rest of the jars will stay for whoever next makes use of the area; given the nature of camp, that's likely to be soon.
"Leaving," Zexion says.
The replica's eyes go wide, then narrow again. It never wears them quite the way its originator did, but the replica has the same near-mad sea-green eyes, sparking with life and emotion. They suit it, Zexion thinks clinically.
"Like hell. You think you can get away so easily?" the replica demands. "Everyone in camp has a time, everyone--"
Zexion holds out a hand and forms a dark portal. "This world's borders are no longer closed to me," he says, simply. "It's time to return."
"Why?!" the replica asks. Its lips have pulled back over even white teeth, like it is some sort of animal. "Isn't this place better?"
"For me," Zexion agrees. "...I'm not my only concern, of course. I expect you'll recall that."
The replica stares at him. If Zexion didn't think it unlikely, he'd think it was panting faintly. Of course, it might be doing so. Zexion watches it.
"Take me with you," the replica says, loud.
"No," Zexion says. "That's unnecessary."
"...Unnecessary?" It blinks at him, uncertain.
"Unnecessary," Zexion confirms. "You're ready to do other things. It's not necessary to take care of you any longer. You've found your footing, and you have your heart; whatever you do from here on in is your business, not mine." He turns. "...Take care," he adds. It seems a little like a needless sentimentality, but it feels correct to say; the replica is a creature of much sentimentality, after all.
He steps forward.
He doesn't, however, get far. Even as the shadows close around him, a gloved hand closes around his forearm hard. He looks back.
The replica is panting, a little. "Take me with you!" it insists.
Darkness is flowing off it, thick enough that Zexion can nearly choke on, an entirely different flavor from the dark portal surrounding him. It's a hungry darkness, a terribly familiar hungry darkness and it threatens to pull him back. He can't shake it off, he realizes with a sudden spark of liveliness inside him, a sudden fear recognizable most because of how recently he'd felt it before. Although he is uninjured and as whole as he has ever been, he cannot shake it off. Where the replica's hand grips his wrist, both the discord and discomfort of touch resonate and the replica's darkness gulps at him, tears--
Zexion ducks his head forward and smiles.
He curls his fingers around the replica's wrist as well and tugs. The replica stumbles into the portal, after him.
"Come, then," Zexion says. He's breathing hard, but he manages to keep it subtle; the replica's hunger cuts off like that, sudden and complete. "Time is of the essence, after all."
Zexion turns. This time the replica lets him go, just following behind without touching.
"Perhaps," Zexion murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, "it is as much your birthright as our own."
"No," Zexion says to him. "It's nothing."
Zexion finds the replica standing over Vexen's stone and staring down with a hard expression. Its fists are clenched, Zexion thinks, and he thins his lips thoughtfully as he watches.
The replica turns back to him, then points. "I want this one," he says.
"That would not be a good idea," Zexion says. "He frequently kept unstable materials, and given that it has been a year--"
"I don't care," the replica bursts out. "I want this one."
Zexion looks at him, and then nods briefly.
It takes work to rewire the system to open the door; Vexen was very firmly interested in his own privacy and between that and the door's destruction, it took a surprising effort. But after, it shimmers blue.
Without waiting for Zexion to make sure the area is safe, the replica walks in. Zexion represses a sigh; at least its body repairs itself rapidly. A moment later, more cautiously, he follows.
It seems his concerns are relatively irrelevant; Vexen was, at least, tidy, and while the dangerous materials are still around, they're safely contained.
The replica has taken a seat on the hard narrow bunk Vexen used as a bed. He looks around himself, almost lost, and then up at Zexion. His eyes are full of emotion, Zexion sees.
Zexion considers and discards several possible things to say, and then finally settles on:
The replica's eyes are suspiciously wet. "I'm home," he mumbles back, just as the liquid starts to spill from the corners.
He wakes sometimes to find the replica crouching by the end of his bed, watching. He dislikes that even as he accepts it as a fair enough result of his decision to leave the door unlocked so the replica could come and go as it pleased. It still comes down to the fact that he doesn't really want it there; especially not in the rare moments when he's most vulnerable.
But he doesn't not want the replica there either. Still. Still.
"What is it?" he asks finally the third or so time when he wakes and there it is, sea-green eyes glittering madly at him.
"Go back to sleep," the replica says.
Zexion quirks an eyebrow. "I'm not exactly tired at the moment, thank you," he says.
"Tch," the replica says, obliquely disappointed, and stalks silently out the door.
Two nights later Zexion wakes when he feels someone too close; the replica has slid into bed with him. It takes him a few moments to calm the panic and turn to look.
It's just sleeping there.
He watches for a surprisingly long time, then sighs to himself. It really, he thinks, needs better habits, and then he curls back down to sleep again.
"As always," Marluxia says smoothly -- pleased with himself, most likely -- "I appreciate your help with all this."
"Of course," Zexion says, quietly.
Marluxia gazes at Zexion from under half-lidded eyes. "Of course, I know we cannot be sure how long you'd like to stay with us..."
He's expected to take up the slack; he does. He says, "Here's the only place the Organization can truly be rebuilt. I will be here until you've done such, or until Xemnas returns."
Marluxia nods once. His smile brightens. "By the way," he says, "where's your baby chick?"
Zexion's nostrils flare, almost despite himself. "The replica hardly fits that description."
"Well, he does usually follow you about," Marluxia says. Thoughtfully, almost distracted, he adds, "He did the same to Vexen, at first. At any rate, I was only wondering, since he wasn't here."
"Yes," Zexion begins, then hesitates. He sniffs, then stiffens. "Excuse me, please."
"Of course," Marluxia purrs.
Zexion finds the replica pinned to the wall in the Hall of Empty Melodies by Larxene's body and three of her knives. He's gasping and though Zexion can see his eyes and how wide they are, he doesn't seem to notice Zexion's approach.
"Excuse me," Zexion tells Larxene, tonelessly.
Larxene peels herself back a little to smirk at Zexion. There's blood on her cheek; the replica bleeds like a real boy. "Zexy," she sing-songs. "Did you want something, hmm?"
"That's mine," Zexion says. "I'd appreciate it if you'd return it unharmed."
"I don't see your name on it," Larxene says. She draws her gloved fingertips down the rubber of the replica's shirtfront. "Maybe I haven't looked far enough."
"Larxene." It's too mild for most people to consider it a warning.
"Ahhh, where would you put your name?" Larxene asks. "Here? Here?" Her hand squeezes. "Here?"
The replica cries out and Zexion takes a step forward. "Enough," he says warningly.
"You're no fun," Larxene purrs. Her thumb caresses the zipper there briefly, and then she releases it. "Don't even know what to do with a pretty toy?"
"You do not want to challenge me here and now," Zexion says.
"Over this?" Larxene throws her head back and cackles. "Oh, hardly. I can't even believe you'd want to. Really, hasn't anyone taught you to share your dolls with the other children?" She removes her knives and takes a step back. The replica crumples down.
"Generally," Zexion murmurs, "it's a bad idea to share one's things with someone inclined to break them."
Larxene licks a fingertip. "And I don't even pay you back," she agrees, amicably enough, but with a sharp edge. "It's so shocking, don't you know? Well, I'm done with him for now. It's your turn for some fun anyway."
Zexion doesn't reply. As she passes him, she ghosts a hand over his shoulder, only a tiny buffer of air between them.
"Besides," she breathes. "It's so much more fun when daddy comes to the rescue anyway, hmm?"
And then she's gone.
Zexion sighs heavily, then comes over and kneels beside the replica where it sank down against the wall, limbs sprawled. "...Are you all right?"
"Don't touch me," the replica spits as Zexion begins to look to an injury.
"No?" Zexion asks quietly.
The replica slaps his hand away, though Zexion hadn't continued to reach. "I'm not your thing," it snarls. The look in its eyes is wary, suspicious, hunted. A wounded animal still, Zexion thinks. "Leave me alone!"
"You only ever have to ask that," Zexion says. He starts to rise, and he hesitates. He is almost certain that the replica's talking out of fear; to leave now would be to damage it further. "I am always willing to. Still, you'll want those looked to."
"It's not bad," the replica mutters.
"Are you sure?" Zexion asks.
The replica shoves him away, hard enough to startle Zexion both with the contact and the force of it, so he slips and lands on his rear. The replica scrambles up. "I told you to leave me alone!"
There seems to be no help for it. Given the choice between risking fear of abandonment and acting as if the replica is not worth having its desires listened to, there is no right answer. Zexion inclines his head.
"As you prefer," he says, and goes.
He doesn't see the replica for the space of time of a few days. He can smell it, of course, moving about the castle furtively, heading off now and again into the city.
Occasionally he returns from discussions with the other members of the Organization, and he finds signs that the replica has been in his room. A few things disordered, a lingering scent. The third of these times he finds a number of synthesis items laid out on his desk where he'd owned none before. The next day likewise.
The fifth day, the replica comes back.
"Good afternoon," Zexion says.
The replica shrugs. "Whatever," he says, and slings himself up onto the archway of the door to watch Zexion as he continues to work on the reconstruction of the Proof of Existence.
That night, the replica comes and watches him sleep and though it wakes him up he doesn't say anything; he simply stays there so that the replica will not have to decide on a reaction to him. So that the replica, too, can simply stay there.