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tower-arcana · 4 months ago

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Close Your Eyes.

a galladay / stellaron hunter sunday oneshot!

link to the ao3 version. . . .

Sunday had admittedly been through quite a lot as of late, so perhaps it was no wonder he’d been having less than savory dreams. He’d wake in the morning or sometimes far before dawn, and he’d be crying uncontrollably, tears blurring his vision to the point of pain. He would have to sit up, grab a pre-prepared box of tissues, and dab at his eyes as he tried to calm himself down. The feeling of immense grief and longing lingered, but he could never pinpoint where it came from.

He couldn’t even remember his dreams, much less why they made him feel the way he did. Bitterness, sadness, and regret were all common themes, as if he’d lost something important to him, but what? Or even who?

Sunday couldn’t waste too much time worrying over things that he didn’t have an answer to, however, and as he wiped away the most recent of his fallen tears, he got dressed and made himself look as presentable as possible; even when aligning himself with the Stellaron Hunters, he had an image to keep, after all.

The deck of the skiff was quiet as Sunday stepped out of his quarters, eyes surveying the area to find only Kafka awake at this hour. Silver Wolf was likely passed out or gaming, Blade was an enigma himself, and Firefly was still recovering from overexertion during Penacony. He felt his heart twist with self-loathing at the words they’d exchanged while he was in his… weaker moments, but at least she was polite enough to co-exist with him now.

As Sunday approached the control board where Kafka was idly watching over their course amongst the stars, he didn’t even have to see her lift her head to know she was aware of his presence. With her ever-amused hum, Kafka finally flicked her gaze to Sunday and gave a coy little wave.

“Hey, sleepy head. Up and at ‘em early today, huh?” Kafka questioned with a slight tease to her tone, and Sunday knew she was perfectly aware of how she often ruffled his feathers, so to speak. Still, he didn’t make a jab back; he’d become far too used to masking his irritation as the former Oak Family Head, and the skill came in handy here, too.

With a passive facial expression and a soft sigh as he sat down in the open seat beside the captain’s chair Kafka was perched on, Sunday crossed his legs and met her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Good morning, Kafka. I suppose it is early, isn’t it?”

Sunday makes sure not to crack, even as Kafka studies him with that unnerving gaze of hers, like she’s read his mind and has studied every bit of him like the back of her hand. His lips, however, purse into a deep frown with her next words.

“You’ve been having those dreams again, haven’t you?” Kafka says it more as a statement than a question, and the way her tone seems almost sympathetic makes Sunday want to vomit. “It’s written all over your face, hon. Especially those puffy red eyes.”

It takes everything in Sunday not to bristle and snap at Kafka then and there, reproached by the idea of being called out so blatantly by the woman – but he holds back, and with a sharp inhale through his nose, he sighs out his frustrations. Perhaps he can let his facade slip, if only slightly, for every lie is rooted in truth, isn’t it?

“...Yes, they’ve been rather persistent, unfortunately,” Sunday concedes, clicking his tongue indignantly as he averts his eyes to the window, even though he knows he can hardly hide from Kafka’s watchful surveillance. “It’s peculiar, really. I don’t even know what could make me react so strongly.”

He can feel Kafka’s weighted gaze on him as she appears to consider his dilemma, and after a few beats of silence, she pipes up once again with an offer he hadn’t even begun to consider. “Perhaps it’s some sort of subconscious blocking of your memories? I could use my spirit whisper and see if I can wrangle a little bit out, I managed to do it once for Bladie.”

“Excuse me?” Sunday can’t help the way he perks up at Kafka’s suggestion, and he quickly schools his expression into one of doubt. Still, he can’t deny the hope that surged forth at her offer, and he wonders just how much merit it had to it. He was beyond curious about what exactly had been plaguing his subconscious, and he at least wanted to resolve it so he could move on with his duties.

Sunday considers it for a moment longer, before hesitantly, he nods his head and turns his body to face Kafka in the seat, his expression wary. “Very well, I suppose there’s nothing to lose in trying. Try anything funny, though, and I assure you I will–”

“Sure, sure, I know the drill. Just sit back and try not to freak yourself out, birdie,” Kafka waved off Sunday’s threat with a nonchalant laugh, and she turned to face him as well. He couldn’t help but notice she was making an effort to be oddly… comforting, and he didn’t know whether he despised it or somewhat appreciated it.

He didn’t get much of a chance to decide which, however, because Kafka’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she purred out the trigger word. “Listen: Sunday, you’ll let yourself remember whoever or whatever you’ve forgotten. You’ll remember and you’ll process whatever you’ve been hiding from, and you’ll do it without self destructing… starting now.”

The whole charade was a bit too glorified for his liking, if Sunday was honest. He raised an eyebrow as he waited for something to magically happen, and despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, he remained skeptical. After a moment, he shook his head and opened his mouth to report his nonexistent findings when he felt his eyes begin to… water?

He was crying. Why was he crying? Why was he–

Sunday remembered when he first met Gallagher at a gathering between the families, and it was as if the man had been there his entire life. He slipped in and took his place at the table, and nobody batted an eye. He was perfectly inconspicuous, even to Sunday. And yet, something felt off when he’d locked gazes with Gallagher, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that this man was out of place. A puzzle piece shoved into the wrong place and forced to fit into the grand picture.

Sunday bided his time until after the meeting had ended, keeping a hawk-like eye on Gallagher the entire time as he approached the taller man, wary, but not intimidated. The Oak heir had long since found that the tallest men can fall with the sweet music of order.

“Gallagher of the Bloodhound family, yes?” Sunday greeted smoothly, putting on a faux smile of warmth as he bowed his head ever so slightly, another empty show of respect. Another thing he’d learned is that you must kiss the asses of these buffoons to earn their trust, and so he would do just that. “My name is Sunday Oak, as I’m sure you're already aware. I’m afraid we haven't had the pleasure of meeting personally yet, though. May we get to know each other a bit, perhaps over dinner?”

Again, kiss their ass and repeat until you have what you want; Sunday may be a devout believer, but he knows the inner orchestrations of life well. What he doesn't expect, however, is for the gruff looking individual to crack an almost wolfish grin and wink at him, of all things!

“Gallagher in the flesh and at your service! It’s an honor to finally meetcha, and you know…” Gallagher pauses, a teasing hint in his tone and his eyes sparkling with mirth. “I’d say it sounds like you’re asking me on a date right now, Mister Oak. Don’t get me mixed up, I’m definitely open to it, just surprised I’ve charmed the pants off of the Family Representative so fast!”

If Sunday was a man with less self control and less patience, he may have bristled and flushed a furious red right then and there; instead of rightfully telling Gallagher off, though, the Halovian just smiles thinly and plays along. He wasn’t exactly one to seduce men for his own benefit, but at least Gallagher was nice to look at all the same.

“I wouldn’t say my pants are charmed off just yet, Mister Gallagher,” Sunday quips back with an easy smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he begins to lead Gallagher out of the meeting hall and to the foyer. “But perhaps I am inviting you to a date, and it seems you’re willing, too. Now, why don’t I have the culinary staff prepare us a nice meal…”

Sunday could tell this would be a long evening already, but he fully planned on getting to the bottom of this admittedly charming man known as ‘Gallagher,’ no matter what.

/ / /

Well, that had escalated far quicker than Sunday had anticipated.

One second, he was begrudgingly enjoying the banter between himself and Gallagher, exchanging jabs and playful snide remarks; in the next moment, Sunday was eagerly pressing himself against Gallagher’s body, pulling the taller man’s hair down so that their lips met in a messy kiss. Sunday was nothing if not coordinated, but he felt almost… desperate to have this enigma closer to him, to feel the heat of this potential threat. What a fool he was.

Tongues and limbs intertwined, the two men barely managed to make it to Sunday’s bed chambers before they were ripping each other’s clothes off, and in a whirlwind of passion and lewd noises, hours passed before they were through with each other. Desire satiated, at least for the moment, Sunday laid in Gallagher’s arms, his head resting on the wolfish man’s chest as he caught his breath, and his nose wrinkled as he smelled the smoke from the other’s cigar.

“Must you rot your lungs in my bed? If you get ash in my sheets, Gallagher…” Sunday’s tone was warning and rather harsh, especially for his usual persona he attempted to portray, but Gallagher hardly seemed to mind. In fact, he just chuckled heartily, the sound sending vibrations through his chest that made Sunday’s traitorous heart flutter in his chest.

“Relax, relax, pretty bird, I won’t make too much of a mess,” Gallagher soothed halfheartedly, though as he paused, a devilish smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, not more of a mess than I’ve already made, of course.”

Sunday felt his face heat up at that, and he scoffed in exasperation, rolling over onto his other side and facing away from Gallagher, almost pouting. He wasn’t one to sulk, he had a reputation to upkeep after all, but something about this man made him feel more vulnerable than he had in a very long time. “You’re far too vulgar for your own good, hound dog.”

“Pfft– Hound dog? I like these animal pet names we’re coming up with, it gives me a chance to get creative,” Gallagher snickered a bit, but he conceded all the same in putting out his cigar and scooting closer to Sunday, putting an arm around the other man and pulling him back against his chest. “Come on, don’t put me in the dog house, Sunday! Geeze, you’re really too cute, you know that?”

Cute? Sunday was far from cute, and yet that comment made his heart skip a beat all the same. Xipe above, what was this Bloodhound doing to him?

/ / /

Sunday was all but seething as he leaned over Gallagher’s desk, his lips pulled back in a sneer as he glared daggers at the smug bastard’s face. He’d barely been able to keep proper track of Gallagher’s dealings that entire month, and the more he looked into it, the stranger the apparent Bloodhound’s employment became. Who the hell was this man?

“You’ve been sneaking around like an alley stray, you know that, yes? You’re hardly as subtle as you seem to think you are!” Sunday hissed in a dangerously low tone, making it clear he wasn’t about to sit down and take these mysteries that Gallagher kept feeding him. It was almost like a betrayal, to invest so much time into this mystery of a man and get so little in return.

Still, Gallagher hardly seemed to be taking this seriously; he even laughed as he leaned back in his chair, a crooked grin on his face as he scanned over Sunday’s fuming face. “Aww, don’t be like that. I’m sure you’ve got secrets of your own, don’t you, pretty bird?”

“Don’t call me that!” Sunday shot back, bristling at the sickly sweet tone Gallagher used, one that had once assuaged him, but one that now made his skin crawl. He hated feeling out of control, this weak, and he was determined to eliminate the source. “I may have my secrets, but they’re for the benefit of others, Mister Gallagher. And I hardly find it convincing that you have any secrets that aren’t only for your own gain!”

A beat of silence follows after that, a tension hanging thick in the air as Gallagher’s smile slowly faded, and he stared Sunday down. The Halovian nearly felt unnerved, but he held his ground, and he watched in outrage as a bitter smirk twisted on the Bloodhound’s lips.

“I won’t deny you there, Mister Oak. I’m a selfish man, and I’m afraid I gave you the wrong impression that you could change that,” Gallagher’s voice was flat, lacking in the usual warmth it held, and Sunday felt a chill run down his spine at the near-deadly glint in the man’s eyes. “Now, why don’t you run along and play with your toys, Mister Oak? I have a job to do, as you have so politely reminded me of.”

Gallagher waved Sunday away then, making it clear the conversation was over. Sunday almost had the impulse to continue chewing the other man out, but he felt… heavy. He decided he would leave with the little dignity he had left, if Gallagher decided it was as he saw fit.

Spinning around on his heel, Sunday stalked off, keeping a mask of fury still on his face, but he felt a brew of conflicting emotions inside. Why did he feel so hurt? Why did he feel used? He was not one of the weak, he was not one of the ones to feel shepherded — so why?

Why did he already miss Gallagher?

/ / /

Sunday had thought he was dead for certain. When Gallagher had practically cornered him in his office, he could practically taste the bitter bile of death in the air. Is this what Robin had felt when Gallagher had taken her life? In a way, the Halovian man felt he was responsible; maybe if he’d exposed this wretched hound sooner, this wouldn’t have all fallen apart.

Then, when Unto Death’s coil struck, Sunday found himself… breathing. Alive. With his sister, Robin.

Sunday didn’t know what to make of it. Even if Gallagher’s intentions were apparently good-natured, even if the Bloodhound had revealed it all in the name of the Trailblazer’s cause… Sunday could not feel content. No, he couldn’t be satisfied knowing he was not only lied to, but used in the grand scheme of this man’s plans, no matter how just.

But it was fine. Sunday would have his time to dish out punishment soon enough; he had his own turn to enact a betrayal, after all. It seemed Gallagher was aware of Sunday’s plans as well, somehow that damn devil had seen through him yet again. But he said nothing, neither of them did. Gallagher just gave him one last forlorn look, as if Sunday was the one in the wrong!

He only hoped, as he turned his back to Gallagher one final time, that this loyal old mutt would be able to witness the dream Sunday had so carefully crafted before vanishing. For he knew that if his deductions were correct, Gallagher had revealed his secrets, and thus, he would meet his own end in due time.

Sunday didn’t need to acknowledge how that very thought made his stomach sick. He only needed to keep his eyes ahead, and he would bring order to this chaotic dreamscape once and for all.

/ / /

Sunday couldn’t stop the tears from falling, from clouding his vision and twisting his heart into painful knots. It had all been for nothing. He had been so sure what he was doing was right, and in the end, he’d had a hand in Gallagher’s death all the same. Maybe if he had realized Gopher Wood was a false prophet sooner, maybe if he wasn’t part of the very same antagonists the Trailblazers had to defeat–

He hadn’t even realized he’d been struggling to breathe until Kafka had reached out to put a steadying grip on Sunday’s shoulder, her voice soothing and almost maternal as she guided him through a few breathing exercises. “In and out, slowly birdie, slowly…”

It took a few minutes before Sunday could think clearly again, his throat hoarse and his eyes stinging from the realization of what had been the source of his grief all along. Gallagher, oh Aeons, how had he forgotten you?

Sunday didn’t need to look at Kafka to know her expression was sympathetic, and he just shook his head, gripping his knees as he made sure not to spike into another lapse of sobs once again. He finally brought his gaze up to look at her, and she just nodded understandingly, patting his shoulder one last time before standing up and leaving him at the control panel without another word.

It was amazing just how far a human’s trust could go. It was a shame he couldn’t show the same trust to Gallagher when he had the chance. He’d been so keen on placing faith in no one but himself, and look where it got him…

Sunday was such a fool. Such a goddamn fool.

With a shaking sigh, he pulled himself into a standing position, intending to wash his face at the least before the other Stellaron Hunters woke up, as well as process the past he’d just realized, when the clatter of metal hitting the ground caught his attention. Blinking, Sunday’s eyes drifted down to see a simple silver lighter, and he picked it up with careful hands, inspecting the familiar item with a small smile.

“Ever the loyal dog, aren’t you, hound?”

Sunday wouldn’t forget Gallagher, not this time, not ever again.

#voltairefics #gallagher x sunday #galladay #hsr fanfic #gallagher hsr #sunday hsr #stellaron hunter sunday

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