Lightning fast reflexes can't help, no matter how quickly he moves the dark haired little boy is directly before him again, squinting with a smug grin. So he does what comes naturally, pale-blue eyes screwed up tightly shut, tiny fists shaking at his side. "FUCK YOU!"

The high, piercing voice causes Crawford to wince and look up from the book propped on his crossed leg, first at the pair now furiously throwing sand, and then at his companion on the park bench.

Schuldig shrugs but otherwise remains relaxed, draped in a bench hogging sprawl. "We'd decided to raise him multi-lingual."

Crawford gloats over the stock pages. Schuldig scribbles thought bubbles emitting from every character in the comics - a quick hand claiming pen from pocket the moment it came to mind the reason Crawford couldn't do the crossword. "Just like old times," one of them had said.

The sounds of battle in the sandbox have quieted, and both listen curiously as they rise.

"Mchten Sie mein Muttermal sehen?" this voice, high and nasal, makes his father smirk.

"I'd rather see you cry," is the response, accompanied by sounds of renewed struggle, causing HIS father to smirk.

"Just like old times?"