A/N: Almost posted this as my entry to dgray-contest's week #1 theme, sin, but decided on Faithless by a narrow margin.
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treading water
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The smoke drifts toward the shadowed ceiling, and Cross smiles wryly.
"Smell that, God?" he says.
It's a bad cigar, crass and nearly bodiless, but it works as well as any thrice its cost. He only chooses function over style on days like this, days when he can feel the enemy gnawing at his ankles, when he's too afraid to really enjoy the good stuff and the high is all that matters.
A tall bottle of golden brandy sits on the table beside his armchair. He hasn't decided yet whether he's afraid enough to drink it.
There are sins, and there are sins, and God forgives him these little things because he is useful.
There are larger sins that would not be forgiven. He drinks and smokes and fucks because they are all that holds him above committing them. If Hell has the spiritual gravity of earth and if Heaven is akin to flying, Cross weighs a thousand pounds. It is a daily struggle to walk on the water between.
Cross blinks, and the Earl smiles mockingly at him from the back of his eyelids.
He reaches blindly for the brandy.
It is one thing to smile in the face of death. It is quite another to smile to its back when you know it will find you again, whether expected or by surprise, and cannot rid yourself of the feeling that it is watching you, waiting for you to stumble.
Cross is strong. Perhaps the strongest, despite belligerent Winters and flashy Theodore and vengeful Nine, and whatever strange and terrible thing Allen is becoming. His perpetual terror helps him fight. He wins every battle he fights.
Even so, in the end, he has no doubt who will win the war.
The brandy burns his throat all the way down.
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A/N: Yes, I'm still in denial.