A/N: Requested by cataclysmatic on Livejournal, drabble post 9/28/09.
Disclaimer: I don't own the original work this is derived from. This work is complete, and its brevity is intentional.
When they meet, they are not generals yet. They are young, though not untested, and have not yet seen the horrors in the East.
The supervisor at the time, a cold and paper-flat man by the name of Elliott, gave them a mission together, and now they are meeting in a dingy backstreet of London. There is a little pub full of strange things. A pair of Exorcists are hardly even blinked at.
Cross, deciding that being himself is the best approach, holds his hand out to shake and gives her a slow, deliberate once-over with his eyes.
"I'm Cloud Nine," she says, and crushes his hand in her iron fingers. "I don't like you."
He thinks she is the most beautiful woman he has ever met. She is not scarred yet, and both her brown eyes are sharp and clear. Her pale hair waves back from behind her ears unfettered. She stands with military precision, her spine straight and her hands near her weapons. A white monkey chitters angrily on her shoulder. He realizes that he is going to fall in love with her, if she lives long enough, and heaves a long sigh.
"Now, then, let's try to get along," he says placidly, and cops a feel of her backside the moment she turns her back on him.
They will both live a long time, her longer than him. She will never like him. She will polish her guard of animosity until it shines every day so that he can never get in.
Even so, she will cry alone in her room when they find the blood and the broken window.