Bonjour mes amis! If this is your first time reading a story of mine: Bienvenue! If not, welcome back! This story will be updated every Monday and Friday.

I hope you enjoy it - I certainly enjoyed writing it.

Allen has his scar but not his cursed arm in this, however I have storyline involving the arm for a later date.

Thank you to dendodge for betaing.

Disclaimer: I do not own D Gray-Man, it belongs to Katsura Hoshino.

Enjoy!

Allen Walker stepped off the plane a few minutes after it landed at John F Kennedy International Airport. Hoisting up his carry-on luggage – which consisted of a photography magazine, his phone, and a bottle of water that he purchased at Heathrow before his flight – Allen made his way through the airport to get to his other bags; the ones that contained the clothes he had brought over, and any personal items. Allen didn't have many personal items, just a professional camera that his adopted father had purchased for him on his birthday several years ago. It was worn with age, but Allen loved that camera; the snapshots it took were always crisp and clear and bright and colourful, and even though Allen knew he'd be parting with it when he got to the firm he'd been employed at, he couldn't rid himself of it.

It would stay in a safe somewhere in his new apartment, safe and secure but never used. It was too precious to just throw away like an old towel.

He pushed himself through the bustling crowd of tourists and New York businessmen to grab his personal belongings and walked out onto the busy streets of the lively city. He'd been told that a black car would be waiting at the airport to pick him up and drive him to Manhattan – his boss had then also apologised for the long journey that would befall him, not that Allen minded. He'd been travelling for most of his life with his guardian, Cross Marian, who had taken him in after his adoptive father, Mana, had died tragically in a car accident – an accident that had left Allen with unspeakable trauma for years, white hair, and a ghastly scar upon the left side of his face. Despite these afflictions, Allen was pretty – as many girls at his old school had appreciated – and kind towards his fellow human beings, something that might not get him very far now that he was in a city like New York.

He found the car he was supposed to be travelling in and greeted the driver with a large smile. The driver was a tall man with messy sandy-blonde hair – his long black coat had rolled up sleeves (probably not the way it had been sold to him, Allen deduced), and underneath he wore a white shirt with a light grey waistcoat and a plain black tie.

"You must be Allen Walker, correct?" he asked, removing the sunglasses with a style borrowed from gangster movies of the past. Allen didn't quite understand why the man was wearing sunglasses in the middle of January, with the snow covering the ground, blanketing the wildlife underneath.

"Yes, I am. It's nice to meet you Mr…"

"Wenhamm, Reever Wenhamm. You don't have to call me 'Mr', kid. I'm just an assistant to the boss – you can call me Reever if you wish." His accent wasn't a typical New York accent; in fact, to Allen, the accent sounded more foreign than his own.

Allen nodded, understanding the suggestion, which had sounded more like a demand than a request. He climbed into the back seat of the Volvo and strapped himself to the chair, a safety precaution that he had been adamant about ever since the car accident.

"Excuse me, Reever?" Allen asked once the blonde man had gotten into the driver's seat (on the wrong side, Allen had noted with a chuckle).

"Yes?"

"You don't sound like you're from these parts," Allen inquired, hoping he wasn't hitting a sore spot with the question.

"You are correct, I'm Australian. Born and raised in Brisbane."

"I had a feeling you weren't American. How long have you been working for…" Allen glanced at his employment papers quickly. "Ciancia Magazine?"

"For almost five years now," Reever replied, looking up at Allen through his rear-view mirror. "I take it you've never worked for a large company like this before?"

"Well, no," Allen replied. He was a new graduate, having only just finished his photography course at Kingston University in London. "I have interned for some newspaper branches though."

"That's good. You know, the boss really liked your work, kid. I've never seen him get so worked up over something like that before. 'We must hire this kid immediately!' was what he said, and before you know it, you were on the plane."

Allen let out a soft chuckle. He glanced at the portfolio seated next to him – it was the portfolio he'd sent over to Ciancia Magazine for them to look at. Cautiously, Allen flipped through the large book quickly, taking brief glances at every photo he had taken over the past four years during his course at Kingston. "They're not that impressive," Allen said, modestly.

"Don't be that way – Koumi wouldn't have hired you if you hadn't been good. You're in luck, one of our photographers is transferring over to another magazine—" Reever hadn't said that with a spiteful tone, Allen noted, "—and we needed a new one. Luckily, you're just the guy we were looking for."

"So, what does my job entail?"

"Ah, you better ask Komui that question, really," Reever responded, never taking his eyes off the road before him. Allen left the conversation at that – any other questions he had about his job would end up receiving the same answer regardless of the content.

"So… Who will I be working with?" Allen asked once more after a few moments of silence, Reever's eyes meeting the pale grey ones in the mirror for a second before returning to the road.

"What?" Reever asked. He had run a few possible questions through his head before settling on playing a blind eye.

"The job description said I'd be partnered with a journalist."

"Ah, yeah," Reever trailed off, scratching the stubble on his chin. "Like I said, you're better off asking Komui that… From what I know you'll have the journalist whose partner was our old photographer. You'd better be careful; if my memory serves, he's the one who despises amateurs."

Allen gulped, the collar of his smart, white shirt tightening around his throat as he began to feel uncomfortably warm. He wasn't very good with confrontations unless the situation demanded it. And he definitely didn't like the idea that he was going to be discriminated against due to his artistic ability.

"A-ah," Allen muttered in understanding before he stared out of the window, looking at the tall buildings passing him by. "Where are we?"

"Atlantic Avenue. We're a while from West End Avenue, where Ciancia is, so you can sit back and relax if you'd like."

Allen twiddled his thumbs nervously; he really didn't think he'd be able to become relaxed even if he desperately wanted to. He laid back into the black leather seat and closed his eyes, trying to sleep off the jet-lagged feeling from the long flight. His deep breathing became silent as he slipped away into slumber.

"Allen?" Reever called, shaking the young man gently, his strong hand clutching the grey-eyed boy's shoulder tightly. "Allen, wake up."

Allen opened his eyes slowly and blinked twice, his vision coming into focus and taking in the surroundings before him. He was sat before a large grey building that dominated the clouded sky, towering over Allen, who suddenly felt extremely tiny. The white snow had been trampled on and was now a grey mess from pedestrians trailing through it on their way up and down the pavement. Small trees had been planted in front of the building, their bare branches laced with delicate white snow, bending under the weight.

Allen unclicked his seatbelt and grabbed his portfolio and the credentials he would need when he met his new boss. Reever was leaning against the car door, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and placing it in between his lips. As Allen climbed out of the car, a flurry of red hair came bounding out of the building and rushed over to Reever, a grand smile on his face. He had a single green eye, the other covered by an eye patch. He was clothed in a white shirt, grey blazer, and navy scarf, along with black slacks and black dress shoes. The stranger reached up and grabbed the cigarette out of Reever's mouth before placing it in his own and snatching the lighter that the Australian had only just pulled out of his pocket.

"Thanks, dude!" The redhead said as he took a long drag on the cigarette before pulling the object out of his mouth and blowing the smoke from between his lips – almost gracefully, Allen noted – before noticing that Allen had been standing there, watching with a dumbfounded expression. "Sup!" He greeted before taking a stroll down the street, the puff of smoke trailing behind him.

"Damn it," Reever cursed, patting his pockets for an extra cigarette. He looked at Allen with a pleading look who returned it with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't smoke."

Reever nodded and placed his hands in his trouser pockets helplessly. "I really hope you stick to that. I never used to smoke until I came here."

Allen smiled politely. He was disgusted by the smell of cigarette smoke, and the fact that two people he'd just met smoked made him a little discouraged, but he put on a brave and indifferent face – he wanted this job.

Reever walked Allen over to the front door and opened it for him, nodding at the two secretaries at the front desk. One was a young girl of Chinese descent; she had long dark hair that was pulled back into a high knot that gave everyone a full view of her pale and slender neck. The woman beside her had dark eyeliner around her eyes, her irises darting left and right suspiciously – probably spooked by the whirlwind that was the cigarette thief. Her long dark hair was loose and curly and framed her pretty and young face. "Afternoon, Lenalee, Miranda."

"Hi, Reever!" The young Chinese woman greeted in return, offering the blonde a large smile.

"H-hi…" The other woman greeted timidly before distracting herself with the stapler on her desk and avoiding all eye contact.

"Ready to meet the boss?" Reever asked.

Allen took a deep breath and glanced down at his portfolio with insecurity before looking back at Reever's face with confidence. "Yes," he replied.