I've been thinking about changing the title of this for a while now. I considered the title Family Matters, but then another story of mine snagged the title so I figured that I had to make do with something else.
The title "Dysfunctional Family Dynamics" used to belong to an old APH fic of mine, but since that has since long been removed and is highly unlikely to ever resurface, I might as well snatch the title since I figured that it fits rather well with this.
Insert random disclaimer here / Don't own, don't sue, please drop a review.
Last edited on October 18th 2016.
- o0o -
Chapter I:
In which Cross dislikes surprises, disagrees with paternity, and disrespects privacy.
In which Allen despises Cross, disrespects curfews, and makes a bid for freedom.
In which Lavi is pleasantly surprised, unpleasantly surprised, and then outright horrified.
- o0o -
Cross Marian had never really liked surprises.
Surprises generally equalled the bad kind of surprises, in other words, the type of surprises which did not arrive in the shape of some seriously hot barmaid with every intention of sleeping with him.
This, Cross supposed, was one of the bad surprises, as it would probably end up costing him a whole lot more than he had at hand on a regular basis.
Apparently, the fling he had had roughly sixteen or seventeen years ago had ended up giving him a whole lot more than just a night of some of the best sex that he could ever recall having. Evidently, seeing that he had been somewhat intoxicated at the time in question, there was really no real way of telling whether this recollection was accurate or not.
Apparently, he now had a son; another offspring whose existence was so utterly unintended and unwanted to the extent that he wished for a rewind button, or that there was some kind of store or pawnbroker capable of receiving the aforementioned offspring.
Anyhow, this brought the total number of offspring that Cross had been made aware of up to the mindboggling count of two.
It would suffice to say that Cross had been surprised when he had been summoned to the Will reading of one of his former spouses; a woman that he remembered only vaguely and certainly not for her good qualities, at least not beyond her sparkling grey eyes, her slim waist, her vanilla perfume, her welcoming embrace and her barely concealed psychotic tendencies.
In hindsight, this relationship of theirs had been decidedly unhealthy. Cross Marian had always applauded himself on his good judgement in ending it as soon as he did. Apparently though, it had not been soon enough.
Cross stole another glance at the photograph in his hand where he sat in the backseat. He was in a taxi, heading back to his apartment after a long afternoon spent with the solicitor of his late spouse.
Apparently, his late and borderline psychotic ex-spouse had committed suicide.
Apparently, she had left a son behind.
Apparently, she had explicitly demanded that Cross take responsibility, as he was apparently written down as the father on said child's birth certificate.
Apparently, said child had not even lived with her for years. The boy had been taken in and pretty much adopted by a man whose name had rung eerily familiar in Cross' ears when he had first heard it.
Apparently, said child's makeshift guardian had recently died in a hit-and-run accident, and the kid had run away soon thereafter. Apparently.
Cross snorted, wishing that he could take a smoke then and there in order to calm his nerves. Say whatever one liked about Fate, but apparently it had an impeccable sense of timing.
He sighed, taking another look at the photograph.
Grey eyes ‒ familiar yet at the same time unfamiliar ‒ glared up at him from the photograph, partially hidden behind messy tresses of white hair. The little rascal, evidently his biological offspring, was holding up a name-plate and all; it was a mug shot though, so that made sense.
It made sense because his biological offspring had gone to quite elaborate lengths in order to avoid being taken in; viciously assaulting social workers and even a police officer in the process. Luckily enough for the kid in question, he had been let off with a warning due to the rather unusual circumstances surrounding his case.
Unluckily enough for the kid, Cross would wring his little neck if such an offence was ever repeated. After all, whatever fines or other problems might come out of such a thing, Cross himself would be deemed at least partially responsible for the brat's acts of misdemeanour.
- o0o -
Meeting the brat who had already caused him loads of trouble, Cross wasn't all too sure as to what to make of him. For one thing, it became quite apparent that the kid hated him, at least if the searing glares sent his way were to serve as any sort of indication.
Another prime indication of the kid's intense dislike of him could be found in the extremely crappy drawings that the kid had apparently done in his honour. It depicted him being thrown into what looked suspiciously much like an active volcano.
Cross didn't understand kids, or teenagers for that matter; he didn't understand them and he had no particular wish to understand them either. Still, he supposed that he had to learn at least some basic patterns of adult-teenage communication, considering the situation at hand.
Even so, with his near complete lack of understanding of teenage behaviour, it was not lost on him that the kid's intense hatred of him was irrational. After all, Cross himself hadn't done anything to the brat that would merit such an emotional response; not yet at least.
Then again, seeing to the fact that the kid had apparently been living with his borderline psychotic mother until the age of seven or eight, perhaps the kid's emotional response was perfectly justified, given that his mother had not only been psychotic at times but also abusive.
Cross sighed; he sure knew how to pick his spouses. Now if only they would stay alive for long enough so that their shared offspring would have turned eighteen in the meantime.
And, as if the mother herself hadn't been trauma-inducing enough, the kid's previous guardian – one Mana Walker – had also not been quite right in the head either, not if the reports were to be believed. Allegedly, the man had gone a bit mad, courtesy of his older brother's tragic death.
Cross could vaguely recall the bold headlines screaming murder of the mysterious death of a young and talented musician; a death that had later been ruled as a suicide, even though said musician's fans still considered a sinister and quite gruesome murder.
Conspiracy theories; he scoffed at them.
Then again, perhaps there was just the slightest grain of truth to them, seeing that there were things which did not fit in the picture of Nea Walker's supposed suicide.
Then again, it really didn't matter.
The only relevance that Nea Walker himself had to Cross at the moment was that said man's halfway insane brother had illegally adopted Cross' biological offspring and raised said offspring in some rather unconventional ‒ and perhaps also questionable ‒ ways.
But enough about that; it was time to get back to the point.
The point being?
- o0o -
Silver-grey eyes shot another dirty glare his way before the teen scurried off to his new room.
Then again, considering the size of it, it hardly qualified for such a label; sizeable closet would probably have been closer to the truth. In the end though, it was all a question of semantics. Besides, with Cross himself being a bit short on space, it had been the only room that he had been willing to sacrifice, even though it had meant throwing out his rather impressive collection of empty wine bottles.
The brat had his notebook in hand, and was obviously planning something troublesome.
Cross was almost willing to bet his left hand on that it was another escape plan.
Shrugging, he ended up taking another sip out of the wineglass in his hand.
Earlier, he had attempted to reason with the kid, only to find that such an action was a waste of both of their time, given that said kid apparently could not be reasoned with.
Earlier, Cross had been the one who had gotten a door slammed in his face when he had forced himself to at least try to be understanding of the emotional turmoil plaguing his newly attained protégé.
Now, just a little wiser, Cross had given up on trying to understand the kid and had left his problems for the bottle to sort out. Having a kid running around, slamming doors or just glaring at him all day was grating on his nerves, not to even mention on his patience.
Give him time, they had said, those mind-shrinking psychiatrists over at the social services. Give him time to adapt, time to get used to you, time to get attached…
Bollocks, Cross internally scoffed. As though time would make any difference; the kid's fucked up in the head and there's no amount of time that can change that.
And to make matters worse, the kid had her eyes too, her beautiful silver-grey eyes. They acted as an eternal reminder of a messed up relationship that could never be erased, not even when the owner of those eyes lay six feet deep and was being consumed by worms or whatever. She still lived on even after death, reflected in the eyes of the child that she allegedly hated and forcefully imposed upon a man who had little or no love to give.
Cross sighed deeply, draining his glass before swiftly pouring himself another. He reasoned that he might as well go ahead and drown his sorrows while he still had enough cash to buy himself proper drinks.
- o0o -
The point being?
Cross seriously didn't like kids, or teenagers for that matter. Period.
As a matter of fact, he secretly wished that his deceased ex-spouse would have entrusted him with a kitten or a puppy or something instead of a child, seeing to the fact that the former could be dumped in pet shelters if one simply could not stand them.
Evidently, due to the existence of orphanages, the opportunity to dump the kid and never see him again was a viable option, technically speaking. However, seeing that his ex-spouse had actually left a surprising amount of money in a trust fund to said kid, this was one of those so called offers that one could not refuse. He could not refuse, because refusing would equal near total bankruptcy on his part, as some insane spending and borrowing habits in his youth had served to eternally blacklist him in the books of most money-lending facilities in the UK.
He sighed again, draining another glass before setting it back onto the table. He tilted his head back, surveying the somewhat murky ceiling as he could feel a migraine creeping in.
It's all 'bout the money, his internal monologue relayed to him, and in a way, he supposed that it really was.
- o0o -
It wasn't as though Cross didn't have a job. He did, even though it was not the regular sort.
Cross worked as a freelance consultant to the Black Order; a company which dabbled in everything from banking, security and surveillance equipment to renewable energy, and obviously everything in-between.
With all due honesty, Cross himself did not really care all that much for what the company actually dabbled or even specialised in; he was perfectly happy with things so long as he could emerge from it at least somewhat richer.
Speaking of work, his job as a freelance consultant had always had one very favourable thing going for it; he enjoyed regular business trips at their expense and got to visit all kinds of exotic places without paying as much as a penny for it.
However, taking the most recent occurrences in his life into account, a slight complication had arisen in the shape of his newly discovered teenaged son, whom Cross could by no means bring along as he did not want to inconvenience the company, but most of all, because he did not want to inconvenience himself, especially not in case his newly attained protégé decided to have another go at running away whilst on foreign soil.
In short, Cross Marian had three alternatives to choose from:
One: He could stay at home and deal with a shitload of boring paperwork, making sure that the brat did not get any funny ideas.
Two: He could bring the brat along for the ride and let Fate run its course.
Three…
He hauled out his cell phone.
- o0o -
Allen Walker pulled out the backpack containing his most essential belongings before slamming the car door shut with a bit more force than necessary, standing there with a dark and sour look on his face. "Now what?"
Cross didn't bother answering, slamming his own car door a bit more gently before gesturing towards the somewhat old-looking two-storey red-brick house in front of them.
If anything, then he would have been tempted to grab the kid by the scruff, hauling him over there immediately. However, having learnt – through the method of trial and error – that the brat did not like to be touched ‒ his nearly broken nose would be able to testify to that ‒ Cross settled for keeping his distance.
Besides, the brat was dirty – just like every other brat in existence – and Cross really had no desire whatsoever to lay hand on him any more than was absolutely necessary.
Then again, the brat did deserve a box on the ear. As a matter of fact, he was practically asking for it. However, being the supposed adult in the situation, Cross knew better than to give in to the provocations of said brat, because the brat would obviously love to have some sort of physical injury to bring out as evidence in order to have Cross disqualified as a guardian. With his financial situation was all but balanced at the moment, Cross knew better than to give the kid what he so obviously wanted and justly deserved.
Cross pinched the ridge of his nose. He needed a smoke, and he needed one soon; nicotine patches really weren't cutting it.
He had barely even rung the doorbell before the door opened.
In the doorway stood a young man, wearing a bandana, an eye-patch and the look of someone who likely hadn't slept properly in days; the first of Cross' known and grudgingly acknowledged offspring.
The redhead stared blankly at him for a moment, his single visible green eye narrowing slightly. Then it came to rest upon the form of Allen Walker, who returned the look with a great deal of apathy.
A grin began to form on the redhead's face, and Cross could already see the gears turning inside that strange head of his.
Oh well, he might as well get it over with and be on his way; Rome wouldn't wait for him forever, after all.
"Brat, meet your older brother, Lavi Bookman."
- o0o -
When Lavi Bookman had first descended on his doorstep with a court order in one hand and two boxes of pizza in the other, Cross had not really been sure as to what to make of him.
Upon spotting the court order, he had naturally assumed that the son – the one that he never knew that he had – had turned up to demand that Cross pay all the alimony that he obviously owed said brat's mother.
However, as it soon turned out, the brat had come for an entirely different reason, the reason being the fact that he had only recently turned eighteen and had managed to file a petition to have his biological father's name retrieved from the sealed adoption records.
The brat, who had gone by the name of Deak at the time, had simply tracked him down in order to ask a couple of things over a little bit of pizza. Those couple of things had consisted of a) a rough outline of his family history, b) a rough outline of his family's medical history, and c) a rough outline of what kind of person his mother had been.
A bit puzzled, Cross had actually attempted to give the brat just that, although in truth, he had had very little information to give.
Anyhow, that had taken place nearly two months ago if memory served him right – it rarely did, but it seldom mattered whether it did or not. Since then, the newly renamed brat had taken up residence in some old man's house, juggling odd jobs with university studies.
Orphaned at the tender age of about two or three, Lavi Bookman had made a surprising career within the system of adoption and foster care, going through a total of forty-eight homes during a time span of about fourteen years before finally being taken in by the old man ‒ Bookman ‒ whose last name he had later adopted to go with his newly changed given name, Lavi.
Forty-nine homes.
Forty-nine name changes.
Forty-nine constructed identities.
Cross had snorted at this, finding it an absolutely amazing waste of time to change one's name like that. Brat number two could keep his adopted name for all that Cross cared. Besides, putting his own last name on that unthankful little brat would be like putting an inerasable stain on his family name; the brat was dirty after all, and Cross' family name had already been tarnished enough. Besides, seeing that he had not even had a hand in raising him in the first place, Cross really did not see the point of putting his name on him in order to pretend like he had actually contributed with more than a sperm.
Anyhow, speaking of the second brat who had turned up to darken his doorstep, Cross had to admit that he thoroughly enjoyed seeing the look of terror that crossed the brat's face when he caught sight of the cheerful and somewhat mischievous grin on the face of said brat's newly introduced older brother.
Obviously sensing the danger, the brat had attempted another improvised escape attempt. Cross was having none of that though, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him into the waiting arms of one seriously mischievous older brother.
Lavi Bookman had not gone through forty-eight homes in fourteen years for nothing after all; few people could bear the periodically hyperactive prankster for a period longer than six months.
They had no doubt consulted the same kind of head-shrinking psychiatrists that Cross had had the misfortune of encountering, and no doubt had they been told that they should give him time to adapt, to get used to them, to get attached, to settle down... But let's face it; that was an absolutely worthless piece of advice; time had done the brat very little good, just like it would never do the other brat any good whatsoever.
Lighting a cigarette, Cross' ears picked up a muffled cry of utter distress from beyond the door. He paid it no heed however. Instead he inhaled, experiencing the bliss of finally getting his morning nicotine all while pointedly ignoring the sounds of the apparent grappling contest taking place on the other side of the door. He exhaled some smoke before once again putting the cigarette back into his mouth, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The uproar within the house was steadily growing more distant, indicating that someone had lost the grappling contest. It sure serves him right, Cross internally decided, making his way back to the car.
- o0o -
Cross really did not like surprises, so suffice to say that he had been positively delighted when he had received a call from the school into which he had recently had his brat enrolled, a call telling him that said brat had been skipping out on lessons recently.
Apparently, said brat had used a bunch of lame excuses, excuses involving dentists or psychiatrists or even family emergencies.
In other words, it would suffice to say that Cross was quite pissed off when the headmaster's secretary had rung him up and inquired about a lot of things to which he honestly did not possess very good answers at three in the afternoon.
After having downed a couple of painkillers to deal with his hangover, Cross had been forced to waste what little remained of his day off on finding the brat. And find him he had, eventually.
Cross had found the brat sitting in the most obscure and most remote cemetery in town and talking to a gravestone of all things.
Having located the brat and having grabbed said brat by the collar and dragged said brat back to the car without being mistaken for a kidnapper, Cross drove home.
The brat sat in the backseat, arms crossed; sulking by the looks of it and glaring quite darkly at him if the rear-view mirror was to be believed. Honestly, if looks could kill then Cross would no doubt have been stabbed, burned, impaled and electrocuted several times over, if not even burned at the stake.
Having finally made it back home, Cross sank into his favourite armchair and began contemplating life, enjoying a couple of glasses of wine and smoking cigarettes in-between them, trying to calm his already frayed nerves.
Allen passed by him once or twice on his way to the kitchen, stopping only briefly to glare or frown openly before once again disappearing back into his room.
Cross paid him little or no attention however, caught up in his thoughts as he was.
Brat gone now, for a while at the very least, Cross turned his attention back to the book he had been studying intently for the last couple of minutes, reading it with a great deal of interest.
Gradually, a frown began to appear on his face, deepening as he went on reading.
Once he had reached the bottom of the fourteenth page, he seriously found himself considering giving those mind-shrinking psychiatrists a call after all.
Honestly. Teenagers; Cross wished they had come with an instruction manual.
- o0o -
Silver-grey eyes narrowed briefly at the sight of the man smoking; of the man drowning his sorrows.
The teen turned, slamming the door shut behind him. Leaning his back towards it, he sunk down to the floor, pulling up his knees a bit so that he could use them to support his notebook as he wrote in it, recording his thoughts; trying to make things make sense again.
"Give him time… to adapt, to get used to his new role. It'll all work out in the end, dear."
He snorted, resuming his writing.
That bastard doesn't need time; he needs to be pushed off of a bridge.
- o0o -
"Why are you skipping out on classes, brat?"
Allen looked up, finding himself once more under the rare scrutiny of the irresponsible alcoholic of a biological father as the latter attempted – and quite obviously failed – to portray the image of a responsible and concerned guardian, seemingly trying to figure out just how fucked up in the head he was.
Of all the things that Allen positively loathed, being pitied only came in second place. What he truly loathed were people actually going as far as to pretend that they actually gave a shit about his wellbeing; that they actually cared for him beyond the point which concerned money.
Regardless of whether it was governmental benefits or something else, Allen could very much tell that Cross had only accepted his 'parental responsibility' due to the fact that it had been monetarily beneficial for him.
Besides, the man was a seriously screwed-up alcoholic who looked ready to screw anything even remotely feminine with a nice-looking face and a slim-looking pair of legs; a man like that should not be anyone's guardian, as it was bloody self-evident that the man could take proper care of a minor as little as he could take proper care of himself.
And, judging from the fact that Allen had found the man stoned out of his mind on the floor for the third time in a month only a couple of days prior, he believed that he had every right to pass judgement.
It was simply too bad that those people at the social services believed that he was a seriously disturbed and possibly delusional attention-seeking little brat whose words should not be taken seriously.
He sighed, continuing to pen things down.
The steadily growing pile of homework next to his makeshift bed was stubbornly ignored in favour of his notebook, because Allen knew that he was probably going to fail his GCSE exams anyhow, just as he knew that he was unlikely to pursue a career wherein GSCEs were required, and as such, he really did not see much point in making the effort.
Speaking of troublesome things…
Silver-grey eyes fell on the flyer; it had fallen out of his bag earlier when he had opened it to retrieve his most prized possession. He found himself eyeing it in distaste.
It was one of those stupid handouts that his overly concerned English teacher had forced upon him, as the woman seemed to be under the impression that a little extracurricular activity in the form of sports or drama would no doubt work its magic in clearing his minds of all those dark sorrowful thoughts that no doubt inhabited it.
With all due honesty, Allen wanted little more than to go ahead and shove them ‒ the handouts; not the thoughts ‒ down her throat; if he had wanted to be distracted, or if he had actually wanted to go the extra mile for some points in order to heighten his chances of getting into a decent university, then he would no doubt have done so a long time ago. In truth however, he was by no means interested in doing anything beyond maybe turning up for class to stare out of the window all day.
It was his time to spend; his life to live. He decided what to make of it, period. After all, life was far too short to be wasted within the walls of confinement belonging to the prisonlike educational facility that was part of the institution otherwise known as secondary school.
Obviously, Allen did not like his new school, and he actually had quite a few good reasons to loathe the place. In a fit of boredom, he had even compiled a growing list featuring some of the things about the place that made his skin crawl.
First of all, due to him being 'the new kid', people absolutely refused to leave him alone even when he flat out told them to fuck off (‒ receiving a verbal warning for it).
Apparently, in being new and mildly exotic (since the school did not get a white-haired fifteen-year-old transfer student with scars and a 'tragic' life story each and every day), some people had apparently decided that they needed to uncover all his secrets or whatever, or that they needed to take him down a notch or two for acting conceitedly or something along those lines.
This was – mildly put – quite annoying, but for one reason or the other, Allen found himself positively craving a decent fight so that he could beat all those snotty-nosed brats up and possibly even get himself expelled for the trouble.
However, seeing to the fact that he was looked upon with pity by a majority of not only the teachers but also of the remaining personnel, he would probably just receive a written warning oand get suspended for a week or so; a week that he would no doubt be forced to spend in another place of confinement – Cross' stinking and cramped apartment – under the close watch of the Devil himself.
In truth, it was the latter alternative – the prospect of him being forced to spend even more time than absolutely necessary in the abode of his current guardian – that truly kept him in line.
Second of all…
He looked up, his eyes once again zeroing in on the piece of paper on the floor. Then, slowly, he shifted, reaching for it.
In the choice between Cross and his classmates – however repulsive or annoying as a company they might have seemed – Allen knew which he preferred, though he only grudgingly admitted it.
He scrunched up the paper, crushing it in his hands.
- o0o -
As a general rule, Cross absolutely abhorred the thought of having to spend money and time on projects that were doomed to the extent that investing in them to keep them afloat for a bit longer seemed futile; he had done numerous bad investments in the past, and he held little doubt of the fact that investing much time, effort and money in the asocial scoundrel that was his biological offspring would be one of these bad or at least utterly pointless investments. The odds that he would actually get anything out of it in the end were, after all, creeping rather close to being nonexistent.
Hence, Cross saw little reason to become more physically invested in the kid than he absolutely had to, and he saw even less of a reason to become emotionally invested in said kid's future. Said kid would no doubt disappear out the door and never come back the very moment he turned eighteen, and whilst the latter was by no means such a bad thing in Cross' world, it did provide quite an argument in favour of his general philosophy of non-involvement.
Besides, that Lavi brat did not seem to have minded it terribly and Cross doubted that Allen would have much against it either, seeing that the kid hated him with a passion and likely harboured a wish for him to die prematurely in some elaborate and painful way.
Simply put, Cross had reached the conclusion that getting involved with the brat any further than was absolutely necessary would be a bad decision on his part.
Having taken the brat in had from the very start been a bad decision, but seeing to the fact that he needed the money, there was little that he could do about it.
Still, considering the fact that the kid's existence in itself was bad news to him, Cross did have his moments where he wondered if he should not have trusted his gut instinct and dumped the kid back onto social services, opting to sell one of his kidneys or something in order to make up for the loss of income.
Then again, seeing to the fact that he had been quite wild in his youth and as such had trashed several of his organs to such an extent that few would wish for him to donate anything, maybe this – taking the kid in order to receive the money from his deceased psychotic ex-spouse – had been the only correct decision to make, even if it had been a bad one.
Sighing, Cross took another sip out of the glass in his hand as he directed his eyes towards the dusty picture frame up on the shelf.
Within it lay what little remained of the life that he had had in his youth; a life that he would rather have forgotten all about. It had been a drifting life where responsibilities were few and things were far less complicated, where the future had been the least of his concerns as the present had been his all.
He still found himself grieving the loss of his bike; it had been such a fine piece of machinery, but it had been far beyond saving.
His body still held the scars from that fateful night, recording it as an eternal reminder of the date when the dream ended and his descent into reality began.
That night had been a bad decision as well, but it would all have ended well if he had been the one to perish in the crash.
Instead, another had paid for his fateful mistake and that was what had made all the difference.
Since then, he had gradually gotten rid of all that remained of that night; he had sold what he could sell and burned the rest, among them the photographs that had depicted the moments which had led up to that fateful night. The photograph on the shelf was the only one that he had kept, having been unable to part from it.
After all these years, her smile still haunted him.
Afterwards, once things had calmed down and once only scars remained of the incident, he had taken to the bottle in order to forget all about that smile and in order to forget all about the woman behind it, but it had been stupid of him to believe that strong alcoholic beverages would be able to drown the wretched thing otherwise known as his conscience. Her smile haunted him even more then, at times when he was intoxicated enough not to care much about details, and before long, he saw it in a lot of women.
Eventually however, her mirage had faded, and in her place were these other women, women who were certainly beautiful in their own right but who still did not hold a candle to that woman when it all came down to it.
Now that he thought about it, perhaps the reason as to why he had become stuck on the white-haired brat's mother was due to the eerie outward resemblance to that woman.
It was probably the eyes that had fooled him; they had shared the same beautiful eyes, grey like clouds yet sparkling all the same; the same eyes that now glared at him on occasion ‒ belonging to the brat that he had accidentally fathered ‒ either surprisingly empty or burning with a kind of loathing. Those eyes; they accused him still. Even after all those years, they were still looking at him, serving as an eternal reminder of that day.
He sighed again, tearing his eyes away from the photograph. Instead, they found themselves wandering to the clock as it counted the minutes in silence.
The brat was late again, for the umpteenth time in these last couple of weeks; Cross had not bothered counting the times, but even he was able to tell that the brat turned up late at least a couple of times a week lately, looking tired.
Honestly, considering the fact that he was supposed to act like a responsible adult and all, Cross supposed that he should at least act slightly concerned about the kid and make an inquiry about said kid's whereabouts during those hours that he evidently did not have any classes.
Then again, if he asked the brat directly, then he would no doubt be facing those cold eyes and have a door slammed in his face faster than he would be able to finish his sentence.
As such, Cross was considering the few alternative options that still remained open.
For one thing, seeing to the fact that he could not afford having a private detective stalk the kid and was far too lazy to do it himself, Cross supposed that he needed a consultant; someone who knew the kid and what went on in said kid's head better than anyone.
After a brief moment, his thoughts settled upon Lavi, but he nearly immediately shrugged it off, seeing that the brat would rather consult with gravestones than with his newly introduced half-brother.
Then again, speaking of inanimate objects…
To be completely honest, Cross would rather not have delved any deeper into said kid's mind than he absolutely had to. However, as a supposedly responsible parent, he supposed he had to make sure the kid had not gotten himself involved with some secret crime syndicate, begun dealing or taking drugs or begun selling himself on the street for pocket money or otherwise gotten involved in the kind of activities that Cross himself would imagine the youth of today could possibly encounter either at or outside of school.
Having made up his mind, he downed what little had still remained in his glass.
He had given the kid enough time; it was high time for an intervention.
- o0o -
"Where the Hell have you been lately, brat?"
- o0o -
Allen turned, honestly surprised by the sudden enquiry, and even more so by the unexpected welcoming committee waiting for him at the door as he arrived back from a drama session which had been dragging on forever. He stared impassively at Cross where he sat, flipping through something and reading it with a dull kind of interest.
Was this another one of the Bastard's rhetorical questions again?
"Why the Hell would you give a damn?" he said, slamming the door shut behind him. "Bastard."
"If anyone is a bastard here, then that person is you," Cross scoffed, eyeing him with obvious distaste.
Having decided that the Bastard did not deserve an answer from him, Allen instead focused on the thing – the utterly and dreadfully familiar thing – that lay in the man's slimy hands. Almost immediately, his grave suspicions were confirmed and he blanched briefly before rapidly reddening as he was suddenly overcome by righteous anger.
Within moments, he had sprung forth, ripping the notebook from the man's despicable hands. "You had no right to read that!"
Cross Marian – that Bastard – stared coolly at him in response. "You left me no other choice," he said, not sounding sorry in the least for his blatant violation of Allen's privacy. "I need to know what the fuck you're up to… and seeing that you refuse to tell me anything, I was forced to rely on other sources…"
Allen just stared at him, fully dumbfounded and speechless for several moments.
Then, his emotions gradually cooled down, allowing indifference to seep up in their place.
He turned, and in that very second, he had made his decision.
- o0o -
Even fifteen minutes after that, he was still running through the night, barefoot. His feet should have been killing him by then, but they had gone numb pretty soon after he had dashed off.
He gradually slowed down a bit, whipping his head around to check whether or not Cross was still after him, but in the absence of the creep, Allen allowed himself a bleak smile.
Barefoot or not, he was free.
Given the chance, he would rather stay that way.
- o0o -
In the apartment that he had just vacated, Cross Marian sat back down, pinching the ridge of his nose, processing that which had just taken place and forming distinct opinions about it.
On a positive note, he reasoned that the kid was now out of his hair.
On a negative note, said kid had just run away.
Sighing, Cross reached for the bottle but then withdrew it; he was getting way too old for this.
Hauling out his phone, he pressed speed-dial.
After a couple of rings, someone picked up on the other end, uttering a tired "Hello?".
Cutting to the chase, Cross opened his mouth to speak.
For several moments, he was only met by silence from the other end before the recipient finally answered in a way that clearly betrayed his disbelief. "You did what?!"
The one on the other end proceeded to berate him on his actions, asking him if he was insane and insisting that the basic idea of snooping around in other people's belongings was to do so without their knowledge; saying that he ought to have asked directly otherwise.
Cross snorted in response. "And gotten a door slammed in my face?"
"Yeah, well at least it's better than having him run away, isn't it?!" the one on the other end retorted, exasperated. "Honestly…"
There was a beat of silence, and then a question. "How long ago was it?"
Cross looked up at the clock, checking the time before answering. "About forty-five minutes ago."
"Then why are you not out looking?" was the exasperated response that he got, along with a "Doesn't he have a phone or anything?"
"Do I look like I'm made out of money or something?" Cross scoffed.
A sigh was heard from the other end. "You don't have any idea where he might've gone? To a friend's place perhaps?"
Cross scratched his head; he couldn't really say he did. "Not really."
"No idea whatsoever?"
"Nope."
"Not even the slightest speculation?"
Cross paused, thinking. "Well… he does like to hang out at that graveyard…"
"Graveyard? Which one?"
"St. Whatever. Grey's, maybe."
"St. Grey's Churchyard?"
"Yeah, that one."
There was another sigh from the other end. "I'll go and have a look, but honestly Cross, he's your kid and not mine and underage to the boot, so do at least pretend to take proper care of him. He's been through a lot."
Cross found himself scoffing at that. "Haven't we all?"
- o0o -