Fahye (fahye_fic) wrote,

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[giftfic - Dogma]

For dopplegl, in exchange for the pretty layout he made for my fahye journal.

He requested Bartleby/Loki, a pairing which I have subsequently discovered to be amazingly fun to write. I think I need to rewatch the movie.

Title: Whatever They Have
Fandom: Dogma
Genre: Angst and bizareness
Rating: R for...violence and language
Comments: Blink and you'll miss some of the tricks. It may be the insane hour of morning, or my research on temporal change, but the story twists and turns and backtracks and indulges itself in rhymes and metaphors. Sorry about this, Caleb. I hope you like it anyway :)

Bartleby, bemused; “Your eyes are so blue.”


The knife shudders against his bones and he wonders silently, with reproachful eyes, why Bartleby isn’t kissing him. It’d be only appropriate.

He looks sideways, following Bartleby’s hard gaze, and sees the small group frozen there.

Not in public. Right.


No, wait. Try again.


“You know what we need?”

You need a new robe thing.”

Loki laughs, pulling at the material. The blood is spread in grisly patterns of scarlet against the creamy garment. “We need a drink.”

Bartleby raises his eyebrows. “Nowhere will be open. You just killed, if I may remind you, one member of every household.”

“Oh.” Loki sighs and swings his sword. The edge is crusted with dried blood dried mud.

“Never fear, my friend. I’m sure there’s some abandoned wine somewhere that we can appropriate.” Bartleby puts an expansive arm about Loki’s shoulders. “Though it does seem a shame. All that death.”

Loki snorts, leaning into him. “Sodom was worse.”

A grin. “You smelt like brimstone for a week. Which was not my point. All those children…”

“Well, yeah.” Loki looks away, uncomfortable. “But…it’s right, isn’t it? I mean, it’s got to be.”

“Murder is a sin,” Bartleby intones, kissing his temple and pulling away with blood on his lips. They’re walking in shadow.

“This is divine retribution, Bartleby,” Loki says. He doesn’t sound very certain.

Bartleby sighs. “Come on. Drink?”

“Oh. Yes.


Loki; “How bad can it be?”

How blue is the sky?


What’s funny is that he’s drunk, for the first time since way back when, and so he hiccups and his hands are heavy and he seems to fall onto the knife even though the knife is falling through him, up and up and connected to a hand he knows. He wonders if it would be better if he was sober, and decides that it wouldn’t.

He looks sideways, following Bartleby’s hard gaze, and sees the small group frozen there.

His vision blurs a little with the alcohol and the pain, which he was trying to ignore but is now chewing its way through his body with cold teeth. What hurts more is that it was always them, and now it’s just him.

Still. It could be worse.

He’s just not sure how.


Still off, still wrong, still seen from the wrong…angle?

Third time’s the charm and the spell and the magic and everything they never had.



“No. I see your…tip. Thing. Point. I see it, I do.”

“Murder in the name of God isn’t right.” Bartleby waves his cup. “Hippocr – hypo – double standards.”

“Hmmm. Oh. Dropped my…dropped my sword. Somewhere. Ugh.” Loki’s head disappears under the table for a moment. He comes up with sparkling eyes. “Pfff. Find it later.”

“Fuck.” Bartleby slumps sideways, laughing, his centre of gravity perilously close to toppling point. “Fuck. You are so fucking drunk, my friend.”

“Wha-me?” Loki giggles into his tenth cup of wine, fumbling the grip. He tries to drink, and misses. “You’re dr'nk. Oh. Fubugger. Wine.”

“It’s all fover your ace. Face. Shit, Loki.” Bartleby sighs and pulls him in by the back of his neck. “Waste of good alcohol.”

This doesn’t count as public, really. No people. They can’t taste anything but the wine, but the contact and the warm nodding brush of lips and hands is just another part of…what? Whatever they have.

“Mmm,” Loki mumbles into the side of his neck, afterwards, breathing in slowly. “Tell me something nice.”

“Nice? You’re kidding, right?” Bartleby’s smile slides. His eyes laugh. “Since when are you –”

“Nice,” Loki insists, half asleep.

“Your eyes are so blue. So blue…”


When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen.


“You can’t exile us for showing some bloody compassion!

“Loki, hey, hey –”

“Omnibenevolent my fucking wingspan!”

“I didn’t mean –”

“Don’t just smile at me, you fucking bitch!”

A sound like every blade of grass in the world snapping in unison.

And then, tears.



Whatever they have. It’s never needed a name.


Everything comes down to contact, in the last moments. He is pressed against Bartleby’s chest and both of them have crazy heartbeats – his is slowing, and they’re falling out of synch – and that’s all that matters, somehow. There is a strong hand at his back and his best friend has dark eyes and he’s just suddenly become fixated on the lovely set of his jaw. Bartleby looks dangerous in a personal way, now, because all that rage and passion that scared him so much to begin with has somehow been focused onto Loki’s face and instead of being scared he’s quite flattered, really. He feels almost loved.

He looks sideways, following Bartleby’s hard gaze, and sees the small group frozen there.

They’ve probably stopped blaming him, now, which is a bit of an odd thought. Maybe being killed is enough to gain absolution.

That sounds familiar. Sacred, even.

Divine retribution. Murder in the name of –


No. Not that either.

Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly.

Funny thing, memory.


“We’re going to show her, he says! It’s such a grand fucking idea, he says!”

“We were right! Right, Loki! I didn’t mean it to go so far, but you were brilliant! And right.”

“Yeah? By whose moral compass are we steering, Grigori?”

“Oh, fuck you…”

A laugh, almost bitter. “We’re not quite that mortal.”


“Seriously. Right? We’ve been exiled, Bartleby. I think I’ve lost all my landmarks when it comes to what’s wrong and what isn't.”

“Don’t sound so bloody despairing. It could be worse.”

“Christ, how?”

“Could just be you. Or just me. We can handle this.”

Loki fumbles for Bartleby's hand, and finds his wrist. It’ll do.

“So what’s this place called?”


Ah. Yes. This is how it happens.


Death is a surprise. He’s always wondered at that, at the fact that humans look so surprised when they die. They know that they will die eventually – they know, without exception, that death will come. And for those pressed against the wall watching the fire, or staring at the sword (the gun) in his hand, it should be no surprise at all. And yet the ubiquitous wide eyes and the gasp and the denial, of this the most human of facts. It’s never made sense to Loki. But here and now he gasps with his whole body, gasps around the cold steel and feels it wedged between his ribs and his eyes so blue so blue are wider than they’ve ever been, and he understands.

He looks sideways, following Bartleby’s hard gaze, and sees the small group frozen there.

Serendipity’s anger, through the despair. The Apostle, shaking. The Scion’s hands over her mouth in a shock that’s worse than his own. He wants to tell her not to bother, to save her surprise for her own death because if he knows the look in his best friend’s eyes – and he does, oh and now he’s wondering how he ever missed it in the first place – then it won’t be long in coming.

It’s almost a pity.


“You’re such a bloody sap, Loki. For the angel of death.”

“Ah, come on…”

“Not in public.”

“Why does it matter?”

A quick clasp of fingers, almost apologetic, but –

“Not in public.”


Lavender’s green as the grass that snaps and wine against wallpaper and the scuff of new leather across his thoughts, because after it all? This isn’t so bad. The pain’s gone. Doesn’t really feel like hell and not much like home heaven old home new home, now?

Angels have been never quite sure if purgatory is an urban legend, but he’s willing to find out.


The first sunrise on earth, as far as they’re concerned.

“Wisconsin, hey,” Loki says. He slings an arm around Bartleby’s shoulders. “How bad can it be?”
Tags: dogma
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