Transmission

You slipped into the room as the shadows bounced along lifeless walls and closed in on a dark door. The cold metal of the doorknob turned with scraping protest—frozen and unused, but by the single figure behind the the heavy wooden barrier. The quiet click of the door coming in against your back was the only sound to follow, but the other person was more than aware of your presence.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He snapped, looking up from the bed, where he flattened himself against the wall and basked in the light pouring in from the outside—a sultry mixture of moonlight and artificial luminescence.

Kanda. That was his name. A harsh sound that eased into a simple syllable, flowing from the tongue with a grunt before it devolved into a strong, yet placid sound. Somehow, very fitting to the man before you. The ugly hiss was intended to mask an easier interior that you'd gotten the wispy glances of—though, surely it would be a denied quality.

"I thought this was someone else's room," you lied, and fairly blatantly at that.

Kanda noticed—and expressed it just as blatantly. "Bullshit." Despite the darkness, you could see Kanda's fine features and distinctive expressions. He wasn't as angry as the harsh sounds of his voice suggested. Much like his name, his words were made to sound like a cut—jagged and rough at first, but smooth and precise as they flowed. "Where is your dog? I was under the impression he wasn't allowed to be out of ass-sniffing range. To make sure you don't shit anything but roses."

He was vulgar, but you found it strangely refreshing. Others were too polite and too restrained. Thinking that—of course—made you somewhat of a hypocrite, but you felt it just the same. Your experiences and your past were complicated and your forced politeness had become a defensive barrier. But Kanda—vulgar, angry and deadly beautiful Kanda—was different. He was capable of unravelling you with a few short words and pulling you back down to remember tiny details you'd forgotten in your absolute need to save face.

"I'm capable of shrugging him off, you know. You're not the only one who can run away." A cold stab and Kanda stiffened.

"Well, run away to someone who gives a shit about you."

You were silent for a moment before you stepped more surely into the room. He did not move, just like you knew he wouldn't. His eyes just followed you until he was staring right up at you as you stood over the edge of his bed. His voice, an echo in your mind, pulled you back once…twice…perhaps more. From your first meeting you clashed and settled wrong, but he seemed to breach some wall and anchored you when your flighty—sometimes unwilling—mind got carried away with itself. "If you don't give a shit, then my presence shouldn't bother you if I don't say a word." Faulty logic, of course, but it was Allen Walker Brand desperation for company of the only other person—aside from your deceased mentor—who was willing to be straight with you. He was someone who wasn't going to tip toe. He was someone who wasn't afraid to offend you or afraid of you at all.

"Whatever," he just grunted and closed his eyes. He didn't have to speak the words to tell you to sit down and shut up. And that was why you came here. The quiet presence of harsh Kanda was comforting to your chaotic mind. He didn't care about you—but what he was really saying, was that he didn't care to place you above what you were. He wasn't going to walk thin ice because of what mystery shrouded you.

He didn't care that you were dangerous—a Noah—he already knew that the person climbing into the bed and leaning against the very same wall was a boy named Allen Walker— an idiot kid with a martyr complex that he hated for his painfully similar—yet inverted—sense of harshness. You were gentle, but jagged inside.

You cared for his kindness on the outside; but beyond the surface, you wanted the brutal honesty that could hurt a softer person—you liked that he brought you down. You went to him, to ground yourself.

"Thank you," you whispered.

"I said no talking."

He hadn't actually, but you couldn't deny his claim. He spoke to you outside of mixed sounds—uttered with the intention of conveying messages. He spoke on a level that was a gift you wouldn't forget. He spoke at a frequency that only you could hear.

You hoped, closing your eyes, that one day he'd listen to the same crackling transmission coming back that offered the same comfort. You were there to bring him back, should he ever need to be grounded himself. You didn't need him to thank you—you just wanted to be the same to him as he was to you.

A/N: Pretty much my feelings on Allen and Kanda prior to Alma arc.