So sorry for this long overdue update. I'll say in my defense, the last few chapters of the manga series have shaken me up and basically ruptured all my works in progress. I've ended up deleting and rewriting whole chapters for this story as i worked out a way to incorporate the new information from the series. i want to stay as close to the universe created there as possible. Cross' thought process is a mirror of my own as i'm trying to figure out the connections between allen, mana and the fourteenth. i'll have more of that in the next chapter.

Warning: The beginning of this chapter features a very drunken General coming close to crossing a line with poor sleeping Allen.

Allen was dreaming. And Cross, drunker than he had been in ages, was watching him. He felt so dirty; and he liked it. The little noises the boy was making and the sweat on his brow left very little doubt in his mind as to what he was dreaming about. Dirty dreams were just another part of growing up. Cross swore under his breath at how he had to deal with the general inconvenience of it all.

He was fifteen now or would be in just a few more months. That thought made Cross feel only slightly better about what he was thinking. He was drunk enough to consider it. He was actually considering it. It was only a short jump from thought to action, but it was a line he had never crossed before. Especially with one so young… and male. Maybe that was why his blurry mind was so interested.

Not that gender had ever stopped him before; he had tried all ends of the spectrum and probably even invented a few new ones. He liked what he liked and he always took what he liked. Cross never liked taking no for an answer. It was just a signal to go slower. He never forced anyone, not really. That kind of action was unsightly and didn't fit with the way Cross defined himself as a gentleman. He would never use force; besides, he didn't have to. It was just a matter of convincing them. Sometimes it took his talented hands a few minutes to procure a yes; sometimes it took days, if he didn't lose interest first. Still he could respect someone who said no to him.

He stared at the sleeping figure. Allen wasn't going to get a chance to say no. No, he would fight him tooth and nail. At least he would at first. Cross would have to make him agree; he would have to go disturbingly close to forcing him. Then the boy would beg. He was sure of it. Cross could make him agree; make him cry for it, make him love it and want it.

He let his mind drift, picturing those pale eyes staring into his. The boy didn't make eye contact with him; he just didn't like to. Cross would hold his chin and make him look. Part of him wanted to see the streak of panic they would hold and watch it change into a delicious combination of hate and fear. He had seen those eyes on the boy before. He would watch them dissolve into a shamefully pleasured haze as he tried, as Cross was sure he would, to deny what his body wanted. He imagined doing all sorts of things to the youth with a disturbing sense of satisfaction.

But before any of that could happen, the boy would fight him. Maybe he would even invoke his Innocence. Cross almost smiled at the notion; he wasn't sure if he could win against him in that situation. He was too drunk to fight. It would be a grand battle. Unless he didn't wake up... Fighting that little body would be way more effort than Cross was willing to waste, but if he stayed asleep that could prove interesting in its own right.

The room was far too hot, even with the windows open to let in the tepid night air. If there was one thing he hated about India, it was the heat; the heat and the food. Allen's night shirt had ridden up; his pale stomach exposed for the entire world to see. Through the alcoholic haze that held him, Cross wanted to touch it. The youth whimpered and rolled over, taking the view with him.

Cross was torn. He was better than this. Logically he knew he should just walk out the door, stumble really, and find a girl. His useless apprentice was just that, useless. Allen was a skinny brat. Cross sighed, even as he moved his chair closer to the bed, his knees touching the side. Sure, he was a skinny, horrible brat and every moment Cross had to endure in his presence was a testament to his patience; but, he was here now.

Cross decided that no matter what course of action he went with tonight, he couldn't wake the boy. It would just be too troublesome. He reached out a single hand and, not touching, let it hover over Allen's hip; still not sure he could get away with it. Dimly, he knew if he started anything now he would have to finish it. Too much to drink had his hand shaking; he hated that, but if he were sober he wouldn't even be in this situation. If he touched that frail body now, he wouldn't be able to stop. Allen was a heavy sleeper; if he was careful he wouldn't wake him. His mind was slurring rationalizations at him.

The boy groaned softly and shifted again. Cross wondered which he would ultimately regret more, touching him or not. Allen made another needy whimper, licked his lips and with a breathy sigh made up Cross' mind for him.

Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission. He wasn't going to go too far; it wasn't like he was going to take the boy. No amount of alcohol could ever make that happen. That would certainly wake him if he tried anyways. Just touch… He would help that stupid little body finish what a hormone fueled dream had started. Just enough touch to satisfy his own curiosity and aching body.

Cross let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding as he tentatively touched Allen's human arm. It was a nice neutral place, somewhere that wouldn't be misinterpreted if it woke the boy. He didn't stir. The boy's skin was far too hot. Cross knew that overly warm bodies came with being a parasite type. They just naturally ran hot.

They also died young, almost without fail. Cross could only think of one who made it past age thirty. He was a rare exception; his Innocence having been dormant until he was twenty-nine. Allen would be lucky if he made it to twenty-five. With power like his, even twenty was a stretch. His Innocence was going to devour him from the inside. They burned bright and hot and impossibly fast.

All the more reason to keep going now… he thought blearily. Carefully he let his hand trail up upwards, pausing at the shoulder to check for any sign of wakefulness. Allen just sighed and shifted.

Cross felt decidedly nervous. He knew he was doing something very wrong and yet here he was, doing it anyways. It was so very wrong and he liked it. He liked the threat of the boy waking up, catching him while he tried to take advantage of him. Cross found himself almost hoping he would wake; just so he could see his embarrassed face, see the anger in those pale eyes.

The boy's eyes were too soft. Cross needed to see the fire return to them. He knew it was there; he just had to bring it out. Behind the terrified grey was something powerful when Allen was forced to fight. Sometimes it even seemed as if there was something else looking out through the boy's eyes; something inside that was watching, waiting for the right time to make its presence known. He needed to do more to make his apprentice hate him, fear him. It was the only way to make him strong. The world was a cruel place and Cross had to be even crueler to prepare the boy for it. This is for his sake…

His fingertips glided over the vulnerable skin of his neck, dipping into the hollows of his collarbone. He ghosted them over those pale lips, almost delighting at the feel of Allen's breath on them. Feeling almost giddy, Cross traced the cursed scar on his cheek. It was a deep dent in otherwise smooth skin. Allen ached away from that touch and groaned.

For a moment, Cross felt guilty, but not near enough to stop. He shifted and tried to find a more comfortable position for his aching body. It was starting to become painful. He wouldn't sit on the bed with his sleeping apprentice. It would be too easy to become tempted to do more than he was comfortable with at the moment; he might touch with more than his hands. Somewhere along the lines of blurred thought he decided that it would only be his hands. Hands were easy to wash. Allen was a dirty brat and he didn't want to dirty any more of himself than necessary. He was too drunk to really stay upright in the shower and he was sure he would drown if he passed out in the bathtub. To a degree, hands could also be explained away if the boy woke.

When Allen moved again, he took the opportunity to pull up his night shirt as far as he dared. Cross folded his hand on the edge of the bed, looking like a child saying its bedtime prayers and watched the boy. The pale chest before him rose and fell gently as the youth breathed. For the briefest moment, as Cross stared, he thought he was beautiful. He pushed the thought from his mind as soon as it came. It was stupid. I must be really… really trashed. This is a bad idea…

Before he could finish talking himself out of continuing, he had both hands on that burning skin. He looked so small under Cross' large hands. He almost shuddered, unable to believe that just touch was having such an effect on him. Allen made a mewling sound and he nearly came undone right there. This is so wrong!

Even in his sleep, Allen moved away from Cross' inquisitive touches. It was obvious that his body was enjoying the attention, but the sounds he made were quickly becoming more panicked than pleasured. Somehow it made the General even more interested. I'm such a bastard…

Next time, if there was a next time; Cross resolved that he would want the boy awake for this. He would probably have to get him drunk first. Cross nudged at the waist band of the youth's boxers. Little bit by little bit he worked them down until he could clearly see the sharp jut of his hip bones. He stopped when he saw the scars.

Hidden from the waking world, the boy was a sick network of thin scars. They were old, fine and nicely healed; their light color made them nearly invisible against that pale skin. Cross stared. What the hell? When did…? He leaned in and examined one on the inside of his hip bone. Round and small, he recognized the shape. Cross knew a cigarette burn when he saw one.

This feels wrong. He abandoned that whole area and sat back in his chair. He rubbed his face with his hands; he wasn't a quitter. Locking his eyes on Allen's tight face, he settled his hand back on the thin hip. His thumb rubbing the little burn scar.

Allen practically convulsed at the touch. He cried out unhappily. Cross frowned. The boy was crying, actually crying in his sleep. It was disappointing; he liked seeing Allen miserable, especially if he was the one causing it. However, there was something definitely wrong with this. He absently kept petting the boy's side and chest as he tried to force his blurry mind to make a decision.

"Please… stop." The boy whimpered in his sleep. Vaguely surprised, Cross halted all movement. "Hurts… please, nooo… don't…" Whatever dream the boy was having had turned into something much more sinister. All signs of his body's enjoyment were gone; a pale hand frantically gripped the sheets. "Hurts! Out of… please, too much!"

That did it. Cross pulled away as if burned. Allen's last pained cry was far more effective than any bucket of ice water or freezing shower. All the interest he had found in the boy was gone in that instant, leaving him only with an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. "Well… shit." He mumbled out loud. He roughly shook the boy's shoulder. The kid was having a pretty bad nightmare; he would be worthless tomorrow if Cross let it continue. "Alright, Idiot. Wake up…" he growled.

The boy started almost violently and sat up with a dismayed yelp. Pale eyes darted frantically around the room before settling on Cross' frowning face. "Wha…?"

"You were having a nightmare." Cross drawled.

Allen glanced about again, taking in the sight of his master sitting by his bed. "Agh!" he grabbed the blanket around him protectively. "What are you…" he frowned hard and looked suddenly deeply disturbed. "Were you… were you watching me sleep?"

Cross barked a laugh. "Yeah, you're really funny… good entertainment." Cross couldn't help but smirk. "Any good dreams?"

The boy turned as red as his arm. Obviously he remembered what had been running through his sleeping mind. "You were sitting there and watching me sleep?!" Cross shrugged; there was no point in denying it. "How long were you there?" Allen asked suspiciously.

"Not long…" Cross tried to act nonchalant, but he was far too drunk to pull it off effectively. "You were loud… shouting. Woke me up… I don't like being woken up. You're gonna pay for that in the morning."

"Why wait till morning?" Allen snapped with frustrated embarrassment. "Things like a lack of day light never stopped you before…" he glared at him. "And I don't believe you… you actually brought a chair over and sat there… watching me sleep!"

"I did bring a chair…" Cross would admit the obvious. "I'm too trashed to stay upright." His voice slurred as if to confirm it. His stomach turned with an abrupt lurch. "Actually… I think I'm gonna throw up now…" he really hadn't overindulged this severely in a long time. Hangovers were a familiar thing, as was passing out in a drunken stupor. Cross couldn't remember the last time he had drank to the point of forceful expulsion. To be fair, he also couldn't seem to remember how to walk at the moment.

Cross spent the next hour sitting in an undignified manner in the bathroom before the porcelain alter. Allen held back his hair. He didn't order him to do that, but the boy was there anyways. Cross couldn't believe what he had almost done to him. It soured his stomach and he leaned over to empty it again. A small hand was rubbing his back as he coughed. I'm a bastard…

The last few hours of the night passed in a blur. Somehow the general woke in his own bed. His apprentice was downstairs cooking. Through his raging headache he could hear the muffled bangs and clacks of pans and utensils at work. Cross groaned and forced himself to sit up. His bleary eyes drifted to the bottles and glasses that sat heaped upon the little table. Under all that debris was a letter.

He buried the slip of paper under wine and liquor bottles just as he had tried to bury its contents in his mind with the contents of the bottles. A letter was such an innocent thing, but this one had shaken the man. It was more proof that God didn't play dice with the world. He played his own game and wasn't going to tall anyone the rules.

Cross dragged himself to the rickety table and heavily sat down. Drumming his fingers in frustration, he tried not to think about that awful paper. A golem from the Order had delivered it yesterday morning. Cross had read it, then re-read it, sent a telegram to someone who might know something else and then started drinking. Now that he was nearly sober he knew he should examine it yet again. Someone in his pay had worked very hard to gather such information; he owed it to them to fully look into it.

The Fourteenth had a name. The Fourteenth had family. His family name was Walker.

Cross listened to the sounds of cooking downstairs. It could always be a coincidence; it was a common enough surname. But, something was nagging at him. In his experience, coincidences were never just that. Everything was connected. The how and why was never clear, but the connections were there.

He knew the Fourteenth. They had met years ago. The man was a traitor to his 'other family'; he was on the run. He told Cross about his circumstances. He spoke about his plans, but not enough information for Cross to use. He filed it all away; it may not be useful now but he was sure it would come in handy someday. He really could care less about musical instruments. When they parted ways, he set a select few Finders on the traitor Noah. He never said his name; he didn't know the man's name. The Finder's followed him and sent Cross all the information they could gather. He knew when the man died; he also knew that before he did, he passed his 'will' to another.

He never learned the man's name until now. As he read the letter, his mind started making connections. It raced from one thought to another. Each with greater and greater ramifications than the last. It was enough to make him reach for the bottle. He checked each one and sighed to find they were all dry.

It wasn't the Idiot's adoptive father. He was sure of that. At the time he had suspected the man of being something more than just a human, but he wasn't. Thinking back, Cross could see a resemblance. Brothers? Cousins at least…Why he didn't notice it then was beyond him. He was preoccupied; Mana Walker was already dying at the time. The Innocence he carried had reacted to the man, but not normally. Mana Walker was almost something. He was one step to the left of being compatible and one step to the right of being a Noah. He was connected to both, but belonged to neither. If disease hadn't taken him, something else would have. The man was destined to be another grey casualty in the black and white war.

He tried to reason that it didn't matter. Allen was not related by blood to either. Cross sighed and checked the bottles once more; they remained frustratingly empty. "It's almost too convenient…" he mumbled as he lit his cigarette. "How does a guy with a Noah as a blood relative end up finding a kid with Innocence…? The Fourteenth was already dead for years by then… so, who has his 'will'?"

It felt like the clues were all there, spread out before him. Like putting together a jigsaw puzzle; only here the pieces were spread out on the floor of a blackened room and all he had to see by was the light of a single match. He just had to put them together little bit at a time. He may not see the whole picture for years to come.

In the absence of any real information Cross entertained himself with theories. First, what if the late Mana Walker was indeed related to the Fourteenth? What if they were closely related, brothers? Assuming they were, how much did Mana know? Did he know his brother was a Noah? If he did, did he help him turn traitor? The Fourteenth had told Cross upon their meeting that he did not travel alone. Was it his brother that was with him?

Cross lit another smoke and hoped that his telegram was received. First he had to find out if Mana Walker had any relatives that would fit the profile of the Fourteenth. If he didn't have any family, then it really could be just a coincidence. Cross wanted to make certain before he thought much deeper on the subject. That meant going to someone who knew him. He was going to put his personal business in India on hold for a few days and wait for a reply from the colorful Widow Madeline.