Arbitrary
He didn't really care for children.
The fact that he himself had been a child was (excusably) inevitable and thus (conveniently) irrelevant (in his mind in any case). He wouldn't say he hated them, especially considering the irrevocable damage this would have on his reputation with the ladies, but he'd rather deal with sour teens than pewling preschoolers.
A silk-gloved thumb spun the switch of a sputtering lighter twice in quick succession. He deftly slid a cigarette out of its container and shielded the flame as he ignited its ashen end.
He didn't really care for home.
In fact, he rather found that those who called it home were quite delusional and apt to sustain ridiculous emotional damage when they or "the family" didn't make it back.
Family.
Exhale.
Home.
Draw.
Psh.
Nonetheless, home he was and seated in the tiny kitchen courtyard among the discarded dish soap and rusted domestic machinery. He didn't really care for Jerry but, as he was the provider of this minute sanctuary, he was to be treated with respect and reverence in the laconic arrangement of procuring the aforementioned haven.
He did care, very much so, for the weather of this day and to this end was determined to lounge away the hours outdoors.
Rain.
It wasn't actively raining, but the stone steps he'd propped himself up on were slick and the sky was the quality of darkness singular to rainy evenings, unique from the dark of dusk to night, a hue of gray in which all could be seen in heightened clarity as the world quivered in eager wait for the sky to saturate its thirst. In town, the street lamps would be on and the streets full of no one or, at most, random, harried parties with cumbersome umbrellas.
People swore more on rainy days.
They talked less.
Rainy weather was best for smoking and for breathing.
And for bubbles.
Rainy days were good for hiding in plain sight because, on rainy days, no one looked for you. You could do whatever you wanted behind the maybe-sheets of water that effectively barricaded so many indoors.
What a waste, to not love rain.
He glanced down through thin trails of smoke at the floating sea of dish soap bubbles. He nudged one with he rounded toe of his boot. It endured this aggression and drifted sideways over the thin layer of water slipped into the shallow indentions of the concrete courtyard-ette. He ran five gloved fingers through his hair as he leaned back, propping the free hand's elbow on the top step, sliding his rear to the extreme edge of the third step, and letting his legs splay (one fully extended to the lower floor level and one bent to reach the second to last step).
He was tall (he really didn't care for heights).
His hair was auburn (he didn't really care for red).
The door creaked and he shifted his ever half-lidded eye sideways, glancing without turning because he didn't really care enough for other humans to disconvenience himself in their favor.
"Mon petit oiseau, a pris hmm hmm hmm, mon petit oiseau, hm hm sa volée, hm hm hm a la volette, hm hm-" the visitor, upon noticing him, stared up in shock with such a ferocity that most people would feel as if they had wronged him if they were on the receiving end of the look.
Cross, however, met it evenly, blinking placidly once in contemplation. The tiny Asian boy who'd been dumping another tub of glistening dish bubbles appeared to be one of Tiedoll's brats, he'd seen his fellow general leaving the supervisor's office with a brood of three as he had entered and recognized the child from one among them.
The two faced off for the space of a minute or more, the boy leaned over, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, still gripping the dull, tan plastic wash tub and Cross leaned back, hat discarded behind him, smoke twisting elegantly around him on it's ascent into the blue-gray clouds.
The child placed the tub indoors before turning back and scowling again after which he hopped quite violently down one, two, three, four, five, six steps and squatted, overlooking the brilliantly shining soap ocean, He poked at the bubble nearest him and observed it as it drifted away unscathed, inciting him to lower his upper body and puff up his cheeks, blowing vigorously at the colonies of sailing bubbles. Cross regarded the child with the interest he would pay the brick walls surrounding them.
"This is my spot," the general remained unmoved as the youth resumed his squatting position and spoke sharply while gazing at the splotchy wall across from them.
Cross tapped his cigarette against the edge of a step, eye fixed on his intruder.
"It's my bubble spot, Jerry lets just me help with dishes so I can take the bubbles. You don't come."
"Hey, kid, want a smoke?"
"You go home." The severe little boy was still staring hard at the wall.
Cross slowly let his cigarette hand fall and studied his fellow exorcist as such.
"This is home," he replied nonplussed, after hesitation for consideration, and replaced his smoke lazily, looking up to the ever darkening sky dismissively.
"Che. Maybe for you. You and the bubbles." The elder man shifted his eye again, frowning slightly at the stubborn brat.
"What do you like so much about bubbles?" The boy stood and gripped his bare toes on the step before jumping into the deepest part of the swamp of dishwater. They both studied the resulting waves that rocked the water-suspended soap spheres less and less intensely. The boy stooped and scooped up a handful of water gazing with his head to the side at the perfectly preserved bubble.
"Only on wet days. On sun days, they're nothing. On wet days, they're indestructible. Wet days are my favorite."
Cross tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette again and stretched back, letting his back rest against the steps between his seat and the top level and his head fall back against the cement. His eyeglass broke under the splattered form of a single raindrop. He didn't bother wiping it away. The shower started as showers always do, with short, piercing random drops.
"What's your name, kid?" He saw with peripheral vision that the child looked at him for the first time in their conversation.
"Kanda Yu." It was said with enough containment to be respectful yet enough pride to prove the boy had something for his name.
The rain was falling now and bubbles were bursting from the sharp impacts of raindrops.
He didn't really care for children.
But what a waste.
"I'll remember it," he answered.
Cross always made worthy investments.
For the curious, the song Kanda is attempting to sing is À La Volette (Something like On The Wing... babel fish says With Flutters). It's a French childrens rhyme, in which a bird flies away from its owner and falls eventually, sustaining extensive injury. The part Kanda sings is the first verse, in full: Mon petit oiseau, A pris sa volée, Mon petit oiseau, A pris sa volée, A pris sa, A la volette, A pris sa, A la volette, A puis sa volée (roughly my little bird, took flight, my little bird, took flight, took it, with flutters, took it, with flutters, took flight). He's singing a French song because his gensui is French and I believe it would be very Tiedoll like to teach his students French songs and have wanted to implement this in a fic for quite some time. It could have plot significance if you can find some, I put it in purely for fun.
This fic is dedicated to my most beloved nee-san who witnessed with me the bubbles scene that inspired this fic. Love to all my chicas and the typing demon who I am much indebted too!