A/N: And another fic, I guess I'm a little less dead now, huh? *snicker* This one is fic for a drawing of kokoko-sir's, and I've linked it on Tumblr and AO3 but I'm like 90% sure I can't do that here, sorry.
Title: Deliver Us from Evil
Author: liketolaugh
Rating: T
Pairings: None
Genre: Angst
Warnings: None
Summary: Cross had known that he would lose Allen from the beginning. He hadn't quite registered that even after that, he'd have to keep looking his old apprentice in the face.
Disclaimer: Like hell I own D. Gray-man.
For a moment, Cross hesitated at the door, the fingers of one hand lingering on the doorknob without grasping it. Then, decisively, he wrapped his hand around it, opened the door, stepped through, and declared,
"It's about damn time, you lazy bastard."
And then he let himself look over the room.
It was a regular inn room – two beds, one window. Leverrier's dog, Link, sat on one of them, which was only a slight surprise; the trails Cross had been following (the benefit of Allen's resources being the same as his resources) had mentioned another man.
On the other sat Allen, bolt upright now, wide-eyed look of silver surprise already twisting into an irritated scowl. Without conscious thought, Cross felt an answering smirk curl his mouth, and he relaxed, a knot in his chest loosening.
"You asshole, I thought you were dead!" Allen spat, rising to his feet with both ungloved hands clenching into fists.
Cross tipped his head arrogantly, opening his mouth to reply, to taunt his stupid, stubborn apprentice out of noticing his relief-
Allen continued.
"What the hell happened, Cross? Allen is decades too young, and he had a godforsaken Innocence! And where's your Innocence? Where were you, dammit?"
Only years of practice kept the cocky smirk on Cross' face as the warmth blew out and the cold blew in.
"I was busy," he dismissed carelessly. Busy cursing his life, busy securing his place in the Order, busy growing his information network and drinking away his grief and the knowledge of the Order's foul deeds- He waved a disinterested hand at Link. "Do you really want this guy listening in?"
Link's surprise had faded as well, and he was staring at Cross with a mixture of sobriety and reproach that sparked defensive irritation in Cross. Still, when Neah ordered him, "Leave," he did so with only a quiet promise to return with food. The back of his hand brushed against Cross' when he left, and he wondered vaguely if Link was as much of a passive-aggressive bastard as Cross suddenly suspected.
That, of course, left Cross alone with one of his least favorite allies, occupying the body of one of the few people he'd liked in decades. In Allen's body.
Fuck, he needed a drink. A lot of drinks. Later.
Cross moved to collapse beside Neah on the bed, staring at the floor as Neah started to rant at him – a tirade of complaints in the hissed, high-strung tones he took when truly stressed and taking it out on some other poor bastard.
Cross lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips.
He was such a moron. He'd known from the start that this would happen – hell, 'this' was the whole reason he'd taken the brat in at all. There was no way to combat a Noah transformation, either. Cross had made sure of that himself.
Not even for a brat as stubborn and clever as Allen.
He discarded the first cigarette and lit a second, letting the remains drop to the ground lazily.
He considered, for just a moment, whether he could have found a way, with a decade of warning. If he would have thrown away the world's one chance in exchange for his apprentice's continued life. Cross Marian was a selfish man, after all. A very selfish and hedonistic man. And the world was shit anyway; he knew that better than most. Even outside of days like these, he often wondered if it was worth saving at all.
Discarded the second, lit a third.
"Cross, are you even listening to me?"
Cross dredged up a smirk from somewhere, tilted his head so Neah's irritated face was in view, and felt- nothing. Nothing but exhaustion and a distant, tight squeeze, like Grave of Maria, like the Earl of Millennium.
"Fuck, you're behind, Campbell," he said nonchalantly, eyes on Neah's. Silver, not gold. Or brown.
"And you're old," Neah sniped back – which was easy for him to say, being immortal and unaging and also missing a solid thirty-five years – and then, eyes narrowing, "And you're being strange. What's up with you?"
Fuck, he'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed; Neah was a perceptive son of a bitch when he was paying attention.
Cross hesitated, his first and only mistake. There were just so few things that could plausibly throw him off to such an extent that another would notice. A beat passed, and Neah's eyes widened, and then his mouth curled into an unfriendly and jeering smirk.
"Geez Cross," he said, far too cheerfully, leaning back with his hands still pressed to the bedspread. "I knew you didn't like me, but I didn't think you'd replace me with the first sniveling brat who came your way."
Cross snapped, quiet and tight and too goddamn old for this shit.
"I didn't replace you," he said sharply – too sharp, too harsh, never reveal weakness to Neah. "I kept to our plan exactly, as much as circumstances allowed. I made sure he knew the score and how to use it. I kept him safe from the Noah. I kept him from getting access to a single goddamn chance of escaping the transformation, and I made sure he didn't know until it was too damn late."
In for a penny, in for a pound. Cross leaned in close to Neah's startled face, spitting out his words like venom.
"And now that you're back, you'd better do this right and prove that it was fucking worth it."
Too late, Cross jerked away again, teeth gritted and grinding, turning aside so he didn't have to watch Neah's alarm turn into a delighted, mocking smirk. He was already regretting his outburst; he was sure that Neah would get a whole hell of a lot of mileage out of that one.
After a long moment, he rasped, "Where's Timcanpy?" He'd have expected the little golden golem to greet him by now, nuzzling up to him and still mourning Allen.
The bitterness was audible in Neah's voice.
"Weren't you listening, Cross? He's dead."
Cross stood up, twisted, and a moment later, the wooden wall splintered around his fist.
The first draft of this actually ran like 200 words short of my personal minimum, so there's some filler-y angst-thought and description in here. *laugh* I mean, I guess it's not a bad thing... Thanks for reading, and please review!