Disclaimer: I don't own -man, but god, these characters need a happy ending.

…

"I'm not crazy."

Cross doesn't stop. When Allen refuses to move past the main gate, he grabs onto the back of Allen's hoodie and pulls him along.

"That's up for debate, stupid apprentice," Cross says.

Allen pulls an ugly face. "I'm not crazy," he says. "Nothing that warrants abandoning me."

Cross rolls his eyes. "Stop being so damn dramatic," he says. "I'm not abandoning you, I'm just – getting you that help. That you need. That you seriously, seriously need."

Allen's face twitched. "Putting me into a mental asylum is the worst idea you've ever had," he says. "I'll just leave."

"Hah," Cross says. "Yes. That'd be awesome. Try and shake up a few of these morons, would you? They're gonna love you, I can already tell."

"Let me go!"

Cross laughs, because Cross is mean, and has never appreciated Allen's pain. Never. He's a horrible, horrible Master, and hey, maybe going into an insane asylum isn't so bad, if it means getting away from him.

"I don't think so, idiot apprentice," Cross says. "Okay, I think we're close enough. You go and knock on the door. Goodbye, it was nice knowing you, never come looking for me again or I'll blow your brains out."

Allen twists to stare up at his Master, eyes going almost comically wide. "You what?" he hisses. "You're abandoning me here?"

"We've been over this," Cross says. He lets go of Allen's hoodie, but Allen just latches onto his arm, face small and pitiful. "I'm not abandoning you, I'm get you the help – stop looking like that! You might fool the gamblers, but not me!"

Allen scowled. "Don't leave me here."

"Sorry," Cross says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "It's what's best for you."

Allen's eyes glint. "Who's going to pay off your debts?" he says. "You're a terrible gambler. Terrible. I make most of our income –"

"I don't need income," Cross interrupts, bored. "The ladies love me. Let go, or get a bullet to the brain. Your choice."

Allen frowns, visibly debating between his complete lack of interest in letting go, and the probability that his Master will follow through with the threat. After a few reluctant seconds, during which Cross's hand inches closer and closer to his belt, Allen releases his death-grip on Cross's arm. Cross immediately takes a few warding steps back.

"Okay," he says. "That's great. Separation anxiety cured. Go knock on the door."

"This isn't separation anxiety," Allen says, offended. "And you're hopeless on your own. You need me there to make sure you aren't beaten to death."

"Cute," Cross drawls. "You do care."

"Of course not!" Allen says. "You're an awful person! Someday I'm going to kill you, I swear to God…"

"Now is not that day," Cross tells him. "My gun is bigger than yours, largely because you don't actually have a gun. Bullets works fine on crazy people, too."

"I am not crazy!"

"Sure, sure," Cross says. "See you later, kid. Maybe. Thank God I'm done with you and your bullshit. You're Koumi's problem to deal with now! Halle-fucking-lujah."

Allen makes a break for it.

Unfortunately, this one follows along with all the other attempts he's made over the past forty-eight hours. Cross grabs him by the arm and throws him bodily at the door.

Allen hits the hardwood with an oomph, the air knocked out of him. He blinks dizzily at the sky for a few seconds, cursing his Master, his aching body, and whoever the hell had made that door so sturdy. He gets to his feet, shaking off his clothes and glaring at the now-vacant stretch of ground between the actual building and the main gate.

"Typical," Allen grumbles to himself, turning to the door and rolling his shoulders. When it becomes apparent that his body-toss hadn't actually been enough of an indication that someone was at the door, he rings the bell.

And waits.

Just when he's about to turn away and try another escape attempt, even though he's fairly certain it won't end well for his poor, abused body – the door opens.

"Sorry," a dead-sounding voice drones. "We at the Black Order Mental Institution are not currently taking in anymore patients; for referrals, please call our landline; for donations, please call our landline; for complaints, please call our landline –"

"Hi," Allen says.

The man blinks at him dumbly, Allen's interruption apparently having short-circuited whatever pre-rehearsed routine he's fallen into. He's short, with round glasses and stringy brown hair that's been pulled against his head in bunches. There are long, dark bags stretching out under his eyes.

"I'm Allen," Allen says, when the man doesn't say anything. "I'm not crazy."

Another blink. "That's…nice," the man says. "…for inquiries, please call the –"

Allen pulls out his most charming smile. "I'm not here to make an inquiry," he says. "My Master just dropped me off here. He said he'd already written to the Chief…?"

"Chief," the man says, and gives a full body shudder. Allen doesn't like this at all. "Letter. Chief and letter. Your Master sent the Chief a letter. Yes."

Allen stares at him. "Yes."

"Okay," the man says, and visibly pulls himself together. "I'm Johnny, by the way. Who's your Master?"

Allen eyes him warily, wondering if he'll be blamed if Johnny collapses. "Cross Marian."

That gets a reaction. Somewhere within Johnny's sleep-deprived brain, the information proves meaningful. His eyes widen slightly. "Oh," he says. "Just let me – give me a few seconds, I'll just go make a call –"

Allen watches as Johnny runs away into the dark recesses of the Black Order Mental Institute. There are more trees than he's used to, planted along the high-gated walls. He likes to think barbed wire wouldn't look out of place here, but he knows he's wrong. There's too much greenery, and it's making his poor city-adjusted eyes hurt.

The building itself is built of dark brick, and raised slightly higher than the rest of the surrounding land. It's been built on a hill, like a fortress. The roof curls upward, looking similar to a Gothic Cathedral, the with a coloured stained-glass window illuminating the image of a four-pointed symbol.

Johnny returns, and with him is a tall man spikey blond hair. Both are now wearing lab-coats, and Allen takes a small step back. It won't be hard to escape, he tells himself. He just has to wait for his awful Master to skip continents, which should take about a week, and then just climb one of those trees and disappear. Hey, he's been supporting a deadweight for years. Surviving on his own can't be that bad.

"I'm Reever," the new man says, his expression similarly sleep-deprived. "Welcome to the Black Order. If you'll come with me…"

"I'm not crazy," Allen says, sighing, but he steps inside anyway. Johnny closes the door behind him, and Allen tries not to think about how it feels like he's just walked into a coffin. "No matter what my stupid Master has told you."

"I know you're not," Reever says, but it's an absent placentation, his mind clearly elsewhere. "I'll just take you to the Chief, will I?"

Allen shrugs.

The hallways to the building are narrow and tall, decorated with darkly stained wooden panelling and small paintings of angel-wings along the roof. The main door opens up onto a split-level, with a third option for straight-ahead. The stairs themselves are dark and old, the railings hand-carved and spindly enough to break.

This doesn't look like a mental institution.

"This way, then," Reever says, apparently having made up his mind without any need of Allen's input.

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" Johnny asks, and Allen tries not to look alarmed. "He's not in the best of moods."

"Go back to work, Johnny," Reever says.

Johnny snaps into an awkward salute, and then winces when he pulls badly at his back-muscles. "Yessir!" he says, and then scurries down the stairs. Allen watches him go with a curious mixture of befuddlement and despair.

"I'm sorry about him," Reever says, voice bland as they move forward down the middle corridor. There are doors studded into the walls are odd places, none matching. "We've been a bit backlogged with work. And the Chief thought it'd be funny to switch all the coffee to decaf, and then – ah, here we are."

The Chief's office is smaller than Allen expected – though that may have been because everything was plastered wall-to-wall with loose sheets of paper. Allen shifts, reading what he has under the toe of his boot: #354 PROPERTY DAMAGE CLAIM.

Allen has such a bad feeling about this.

The Chief isn't what he expected, either. He's tall, with an angular face and narrow eyes. His glasses fit oddly on his face, and his white cap is skewed. Dark hair pulls down at his ears. He's sitting at his desk, mug in hand, reading a book.

Reever clears his throat pointedly.

The Chief glances up, slams the book closed and throws it unobtrusively over his shoulder. It smacks into the wall with a large thud, dropping to the ground and becoming almost immediately buried in paperwork. "Reever!" he says, voice high. "I didn't hear you come in!"

"I knocked," Reever says. He hadn't. "How are those budget forecasts coming along, Chief Koumi?"

Chief Koumi swallows. "…well."

Allen watches in mild fascination as Reever's fingers curl into fists, like he's physically restraining the urge to choke his employer. After a few calming breaths, he continues as though all thoughts of homicide have been placed carefully in a lead box and then dropped into the ocean. "This young man says that Cross Marian just dropped him off."

Finally, a cue Allen understands. He pulls out his best smile (two parts shy, one part hopeful) and steps out from behind Reever, waving. "Hi," he says. "I'm Allen Walker. My Master sent you a note about me…?"

Allen watches with metaphorically-baited breath as Chief Koumi visibly hesitates, glancing around at the absolute mess about the room. "A letter," he says, voice blank.

"Yes," Allen says. "A letter. I'm not entirely sure about its contents, but I'm assuming it had something to do with future employment…?"

There was no way they were ever going to find that letter in this chaos. None. Stretching the truth couldn't hurt.

"Employment," Chief Koumi says, and he sounds a bit strangled. "Cross Marian's apprentice."

Allen tilts his head and widens his eyes. Keep calm, he tells himself. Don't go overboard. "Yes," he says. "At least, that's what I'm assuming. He didn't tell me much about this place."

"No," Chief Koumi says. "I expect he wouldn't. I just. We haven't received a letter from Cross Marian in a long time, and – Reever? Has anything like that crossed your desk?"

Bad move. Allen watches in delight at Reever's face darkens, the black circles under his eyes becoming more prominent. "No," he says. Chief Koumi shrinks back. "No, I haven't, because everything that comes through my desk comes off your desk, and your desk is an absolute black hole of –"

"Not in front of the intern!" Chief Koumi says, in what is obviously a last-ditch attempt at dodging out from a lecture. "You don't want to scare him off, now, do you?"

Reever's grin is feral. "If he's been living with Cross, there's nothing I can do to scare him off," he says, and, well. Fair. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll mysteriously pull that letter out of your ass by tomorrow. I have faith in your capabilities, Chief."

Chief Koumi grins. "Of course, Assistant Chief Reever!" he says. "And in the meantime, I expect that you'll want to settle out lovely new intern into some more – comfortable – quarters. And maybe do some introductions? I'd do it, but as you can see" – he makes a vague gesture towards the room – "I'm slightly busy."

"With finding the letter," Reever says.

"Yes," Chief Koumi says. "With finding the letter. Shoo, shoo! I've got important work to do, and not much time to do it!"

"I hope you manage to set yourself on fire," Reever says, and then turns and leaves the room. Allen stands there for an awkward few seconds, wondering if maybe he should try to set the room on fire to burn any incriminating evidence. He'll have to discern how likely that sort of thing is; from the lack of sleep that practically permeates the air, he thinks he can get away with it. Oops, forgot to stub out my cigarette properly – that sort of thing.

How likely is Chief Koumi going to find that letter by tomorrow?

Allen turns and walks away. He doesn't have a cigarette, though he certainly smells like them, thanks to Cross. Tipping some alcohol over those sheets should help with burning them properly, and maybe make the whole thing more authentic. Where is he going to find a cigarette lighter? At least one of the staff smokes; someone is always smoking in high-stress jobs, and from what he's witnessed, this isn't exactly a low-stress environment. If he's lucky, he can blame it all on Chief Koumi. No one ever suspects the cute, innocent intern who just arrived the day before. Cross Marian seems to mean something to these people, God knows why. He can use that.

Yes, Neah whispers from the back of his mind. Burn this place to the ground.

…

Hi! Back again, different fandom an explanation for my absence is on my profile, if you care to look. Update schedule is every Saturday, probably around the afternoon. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and I hope to see you in the next one!

Mneme