Chapter Text
“Labyrinth-like corridors and halls, traps everywhere… The owner of this mansion must be a bit paranoid.” The soft footsteps on the lush red rug slowed to a stop as the man spoke, observing the figure standing silently at the other end of the hall. Between them was an elaborate smaller reconstruction of the dreamscape upon a table, though the man paid it little mind, gazing at the owner of the mansion through the gaps in the skyscrapers.
“You’re so funny, Mr. Security Officer. I hope that sense of humor of yours has helped you find the serial killer.” The silver haired man did not even bother to turn, seemingly enthralled by the orange futon before him.
The bartender was unfazed. “Just expressing a personal opinion. Why, did I hit a nerve?”
“Mr. Gallagher, my patience is wearing thin. Neglecting duties…” The Halovian turned, facing the Hound at last. “...will only make me more suspicious that you and the real serial killer are connected.”
At last, Sunday used his chosen name, though it was not nearly as endearing as usual. After hearing the different ways the syllables could roll off the silver haired man’s tongue in a collection of moans and screams, little else could compare.
Gallagher stared at the man for a long moment, before giving a long-suffering sigh. “Scoundrel, punk, drunk, hooligan… I’ve heard this trash talk all too often.” His legs began moving once more, past the reconstruction between them. “But I have never once thought that I’d be treated as an accomplice to a murderer!”
His voice was just the appropriate measure of barely contained anger, dripping with shock and disgust. It may have been a little dramatic for the act he was set to play, but not all of the fury was false. How dare Sunday compare him to an accomplice, as though he was not good enough to take credit for his own murders! Reduced to a mere background actor in his own performance.
He stopped before the Halovian, his stance stiff with repressed emotion. “I take back what I said: Your problem isn't paranoia. You’re just crazy, you know? Lunatic,” he spat, crossing his arms.
Silence fell heavily between them, though a flicker of joy sparked within at the sight of Sunday’s fists clenching at his sides. It was so delightful to see the carefully controlled exterior crack beneath Gallagher’s hypocritical accusations. To see the man start to question himself, the overthinker that he was, battling with reason and suspicion regarding whether the Hound truly was what he thought. All those heated nights in the bedroom, stolen moments in the office, lingering touches and muffled gasps, and still the Angel did not know his mysterious Hound well enough.
“You - The Family - you broke my spine and pulled out my fangs, and now you want to accuse me of murder? Ridiculous, only idiots who’ve drunk too much SoulGlad will berate a stray dog on the streets.”
Gallagher shifted, placing a hand on his hip, noticing how Sunday’s eyes followed the movement with a complicated look. “What exactly is making you say all this nonsense? You should be more concerned about the outworld visitors who are making a scene in the theme park than me!”
At that, Sunday finally spoke up. “I don’t need you to remind me. Once that ambassador walks through the doors of the mansion, I will know what he wants.” He turned to his side, eyes flicking up briefly to the ceiling for a moment, where Gallagher knew one of his avian spies was likely perched. Creatures he wasn’t particularly fond of watching in the bedroom, but for this particular confrontation, he would need them to witness this performance to its end. “My servants see everything. His little magic tricks may have fooled me, but no matter, I’m happy to see how it’s turned out.”
His golden gaze returned to the bartender, his voice cutting like an elegant blade. “Why do you think I just let him go? And why do you think I emptied the theme park stage?” He turned to face him completely, the elaborate halo framing his winged head like a lethal crown. “Because my target from the beginning has always been you, Hound. The more noise he makes, the more opportunities I have to make you and your true master pay in blood!”
“If I were really the murderer, why would you need to be so secretive?” Gallagher didn’t miss a beat, inwardly thrilled that the true banter was starting at last. It would be no fun if his beautiful Angel was convinced so easily. “Ha, I forgot, you also have a difficult master to serve - telling you to ignore the murder case and focus solely on that Charmony Festival…”
He stepped forward until he was face to face with Sunday. “Isn’t that right, my caged canary?”
Sunday huffed a breath, lips twitching softly. “...Looks like your disguise has helped you successfully understand every facet of The Family.”
“Disguise?” Gallagher scoffed, allowing the false anger to affect his tone once more as he straightened up. “You must be blind to be accusing me of being a fake. Open your eyes and take a good look…”
Eyes the color of his favorite drink Siobhan made looked him up and down, piercing in their brilliance. They lingered on his scarred forearms, his well-muscled chest, and his crotch for a long moment before quickly flicking back up to his face, the tips of his wings shivering slightly. Gallagher held back a smirk, knowing exactly what was crossing Sunday’s mind before he exerted that signature control once again, sighing before he spoke.
“Indeed, every part of you is real. The brown hair, soft and curly like Benny’s; the orange eyes, which make me miss the gaze of Sir Whittaker; that odd scar, the mark of Woolsey… And the gray vest, tie, Hound Emblem, bottle, the bartending and your role as a security officer… These are all true traits from all fifty-two loyal Family members. When they are gathered, countless tiny truths are woven together into a lie - you collected a small piece of each of them and claimed them for yourself. Then, you invented this facade, a complete Gallagher…”
Sunday closed his eyes as silence fell once again between them, weighted with tension. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Oh, but he wasn’t wrong. And that’s what would make this revelation all the more bittersweet and heart-breaking for the Halovian.
He had given his body to the Hound, allowed his most private and tender areas be exposed, allowed every inch of himself to be claimed and sullied both inside and out. Allowed his sensitive wings to be caressed, allowed small secrets to be whispered in the darkness after a night of passion, allowed himself to feel beyond his cage of doubts and expectations.
And now, Gallagher was about to make his nightmares reality, rather than relieving his unconfirmed suspicions.
The bartender began to chuckle, softly at first before it grew into rich laughter. “Hahahaha! You have guts, I’ll give you that! Not bad, I severely underestimated you.” He gave a small nod of approval, before stepping even closer to the stiffening man, watching as his wings drooped in pain and betrayal. “Admirable. But so what? Can this prove that I murdered your sister and that stowaway?”
Sunday took a deep breath, attempting to pull the cracks of his stone cold control back over his raw emotions. “This proves that you and the Memory Zone Meme “Death” are linked - and that’s enough.”
His fists clenched again, so tight Gallagher could hear the leather of his gloves moving. “Listen up. I don’t care how you did it… I only care about one thing, the answer to a question…”
The Hound uncrossed his arms, waiting patiently as his Angel struggled to contain himself, reveling in the show of weakness. “...You devil! You wretched, despicable dog, why did you kill her?!” The agony and fury radiating from his cry was matched by the anguish in his gleaming eyes, and his wings were flared around his head intimidatingly.
Gallagher was still for a moment, before chuckling again, rubbing his temple with a hand as he stepped past Sunday, into the shadowed area at the end of the hall. “You know, in the thick of things, people are blind to the grit in their eyes, yet they can always feel its scratch.”
Seating himself upon the futon, he pulled out his lighter from within the pocket of his vest, flicking it open and igniting it in a fluid motion. Gazing at the brilliant flame, he waved his other hand around it, the familiar heat comforting as Sunday’s confused glare settled on his hands. The end of this performance was not something he was particularly looking forward to, but alas, it was a necessary part of the Watchmaker’s plan.
He only hoped his gilded angel did not hate him too terribly after this.
“You want the answer? I’ll give it to you.” With a short laugh, Gallagher held up the lighter. “The whole thing is just fate playing a cruel joke on us.”
The lighter snapped closed just as Sunday was impaled by Death’s instrument, his blood splattering across the marbled floor as his dreamscape life was extinguished, just like the flame.