Mad Dancing ~ The Tango

Disclaimers: If I owned Weiss Kreuz, I'd give my friends Ranken, SchuOmi and BradSchu in the original anime & Gluhen, OVA and drama CDs. Aren't you glad that I don't? ^_~

Author: Avium

Rating: (it's been upped, ladies and gents – watch out)

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 2/3

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: I lied – I said that 'Mad Dancing' will be a one-shot piece, and look what happened ^_^;; This second dance, 'The Tango', follows the events straight after the first dance. Let's just call this… a fast-paced dance of seething passions, shall we? ^.~

Obviously, it is a bad idea to write this straight after watching 'Bram Stoker's Dracula'. The casting for that movie was quite a disaster; they were cashing in on the actors' names instead of picking actors truly suited to the roles. Anthony Hopkins acted his bit brilliantly, though – "No, I just want to drive a stake through her heart and cut off her head, ja?" XD

EDITED on 16th May 2003, REPOSTED 23rd May 2003: All //Crawford// and //Ken// headers have been removed from the beginning of each of their segments. I did this after some discussion with one of my bestest (I know there is no such word) buddy, but was too lazy to repost them until now. So guess what? It's up to you to find out who is speaking when now ^_~

Remember that there is only Ken and Crawford speaking in this fanfic, and that they will always take turns when speaking.

-@-@-@-@-

I know what you are thinking about. No, I refuse to believe it. You can stop trying to convince me, Schuldich.

::You're losing your touch, Brad. What is your purpose of taking the broken little kitten home with us? To let him memorise the route to our hideout so that they can plan an attack once you're done playing with him? Ja?::

He was out cold when we brought him here. And no, that is no my intention. I want him here; want him here so I can interrogate him. I want…

::The truth?::

Yes.

::The truth of WHAT, Brad?::

I can see you smirking, Schuldich. You're not giving me any respect, are you? I am your leader; you never question the actions of your leader, understand?

::Hey, it's not my ass on the firing line here. You just go play with the kitten.::

This is not the way it's supposed to end. You were supposed to escape, Ken. Not try and take your precious Abyssinian's place when Nagi tried to kill him. I managed to stop Nagi from using the full blast at you, but you… look at yourself now. You're wasted, Ken.

::Aw, how touching. The little kitty is sick, and Brad is going to nurse him back to health so he can claw us all to death...::

I order you to leave my head now, Schuldich!

::Ja, ja… If you're going to play with the kitten, remember to leave some for Farfarello, okay? His hunger for blood has yet to be satiated from that little face-off we had.::

That had better not be a threat, Schuldich. You know where you stand in the team, so you better stay there. Now get out of my head!!

… No answer.

Thank you very much, you son of a bitch.

I touch your skin – my hands come away cold. You are shivering… trembling in pain and weak from blood loss. I can tell just by looking that your leg has been fractured by the impact… and your wrist – twisted oddly and shuddering…

You are in pain, aren't you, Ken?

I can't get any closer than this. I'm sorry.

I… hurt too.

… What does my confession do for your pain anyway, Ken? It'll do nothing – it'll only add to my burdens. You are ordered to recover, Ken. So do just that. Don't make me force you into doing things again. I'm so tired of having to bend your will over.

So… tired…

-@-@-@-@-

You ever had the feeling that the sky fell down and struck you square on the head? Without a warning? Yeah well, guess what? They dropped the sky on my head *and* threw on Mount Everest for good measure. It feels like a 200-men orchestra tearing through my head right now, and lucky me – I've got free passes to the front row seats for the entire season.

Jesus Christ, but that little psychokinetic on their team means business…! Fuck, my whole body aches like King Kong just used me for an exercise mat.

I am up against the wall, wrists and legs shackled to prevent me from escaping. To tell the truth, I doubt I can escape anyway – my body is screaming with agony, and the slightest movement threatens to paralyse me with pain. My eyes hurt when I open them. There is a glaring white florescent light overhead and it's shining right into my eyes. Even when I seal them off I can still see the blinding whiteness under my eyelids. Who am I with now? The LAPD? CIA? Scotland Yard? MI5? Why the hell does my leg hurt so much? Why can't I move my right hand at all? And why am I forced against this sterile white wall…?

… Oh wait. Everything is all coming back to me now. Don't you just love it when realisation hits you like a ton of bricks on top of the Mount Everest? Fucking OW!

Schwarz… They attacked us out of the blue after we completed our mission. It must have been Crawford, being the clairvoyant that he is, that foresaw how weakened we would be by the mission and ordered the attack. He was going for Aya the entire time, of course – leader to leader face-off. I thought this shit only happens in the movies and TV.

I know Crawford's movements – they are familiar to me in more ways than one. I knew at that moment he would have pulled his trigger on Aya and killed him in a single shot. I won't let that happen – I won't let him take away from me the people that I care about anymore. I've lost enough.

Of course, jostling Aya right out of Crawford's path and shoving myself between his gun and the wall required a person to be of a certain calibre of intelligence to pull off. Guess which idiot won the lucky draw?

My mouth is dry: I smack my lips, trying to moisten them to ease the discomfort that I am experiencing. It hardly helps, leaving me to feel more dehydrated then ever. I can barely hear or see anything: my senses are all messed up. It's like taking crack, I suppose, only that I've never taken that shit before. But I know enough to realise that I'm suffering from a case of bad concussion.  A really bad case.

And you know what can be worse than feeling aches all over and drier than the Sahara desert?

Farfarello sneering as he walks through the door and towards me with his knife.

Shit.

-@-@-@-@-

I never heard him screaming. I wonder did he even scream, or was his larynx so constricted by pain that he couldn't have made a sound even if he wanted to…? I only knew that something was wrong – it's that kind of feeling that you get in your bones and you don't know where it comes from; all you know is that something is terribly wrong.

Gone are the thoughts of filing a mission log; gone is the desire to lecture Schuldich. All I can feel at this moment is this sickly sensation swimming in my guts – the kind that I felt when they took my family from me. When they took everything that meant something to me in this world away… and left me alone.

I hardly rushed or ran in my entire life except during physical education – those dull sessions of sporting activities that promoted more violence than teamwork any day. I had good upbringing – you should never run even when in a hurry because it would reveal to others how upset you are at the turn of events. I was taught to display no emotions; I was to keep up this poker face for the rest of my life.

Now, I am running.

Now, I am panicking.

Now, my breaths are running short.

The door is half-open; I give myself a second to rearrange my clothes and push the hair out of my eyes before I step into the room. I don't recall ever biting my lip so hard before to stop myself from shouting out… or screaming.

"Farfarello…" I have to stay calm; I cannot afford to show any emotions, "What are you doing here?"

He turns to look at me, naturally, having heard the voice of their leader. The said madman tilts his head to one side in mock curiosity, his hands still pawing over your broken skin. I never felt this much anger before, I never felt so ready to kill someone.

I never… wanted so much to just scream and shout like a little boy whose favourite toy had just been broken before his eyes…

He frowns at me, of course, not understanding nor seeing my inner turmoil. Instead he takes his freshly-bloodied knife and shoves it back into his vest, his voice wispy as he speaks to me, "Schuldich told me that I could play with the kitten. He said that if I hurt him, I would hurt God because he is Christian…"

I want to hurt, I want to kill, I want to maim, I want to…

-@-@-@-@-

Pain.

Hurt.

Blood.

Enough of it and it overwhelms you – like the stink from a sewage processing plant, pungent and retching. At first it will hurt like a bitch, but after a while your brain automatically gets used to these vile sensations and will write them off as something to live with. Eventually the sensations die away, leaving behind a trail of numbing tingles – little electric sparks under your skin. Not too bad, if you think about it. In fact, a little more of it and I can *almost* live with it.

His hands are all over me, nails raking a path over my already abused skin. He is clawing… no, cutting into me with those hands. I can see the madness in those cold yellow eyes – dangerous drops of molten citrines following the movement of his fingers as they glide over my skin. It burns… the trail that blood forms seems to etch a fresh blaze of torment...

I can make out the silvery glint of his blade as he waves it at me, his eyes glistening with lunacy as the knife draws closer… and closer…

It presses into my cheek: I feel warmth. I feel nothing else.

I feel… nothing at all.

So this is what it is like to die. I kind of like it, actually – this warmth and dullness…

Who is that calling out? I've got a bad headache and I just want to pass out – will somebody please spare some consideration around here?

"…Because he is Christian."

Heh. Because I am a Christian; so this blasphemous forsaken little lamb decides to carve me up into tiny bits. I want to laugh out at the irony of it, but I can't – my vocal chords have failed me a long time ago.

I hear another voice: deeper and harsher. I know that voice.

Brad Crawford.

Great, just great. Everyone including the neighbour's cat has come to see me in my most pathetic state, it seems. But with that voice comes relief, for I can no longer feel fresh pain blossoming on any part of my body – just the multiple old wounds hurting and squeezing together tightly. Involuntarily I arch my body forward, as if trying to draw myself closer to that voice that takes away my anguish.

The sudden pause of the conversation nearly escapes me, but I can just make out another pair of eyes looking at me – those burning ambers staring right back at me as cool as ever. I blink, but still he remains a blur – like a dream… or a nightmare. Angel or devil I can no longer make out against the blood and hurt.

The sound of an angry punch rips through the air, rudely drawing away my attention from the conversation. Someone is speaking, or actually, growling… And then, there is but one other person left in the room.

The door has been closed – I can hear it clicking shut. Another dull click – a second door knob? Wait… that is the lock. We've been locked in together.

I force myself to raise my head to see whom I am left with, and I nearly cried in angry relief.

-@-@-@-@-

What has he done to you, Ken?

I don't know why Schuldich told Farfarello to come here – his motives are alien to me at best. All I know is that I came in and saw you for the worse – the wall that you have been chained to is now splattered with fresh crimson in an impressionistic fashion. So jarringly beautiful…

Do you want me to end your pain, Ken?

… Why are you glaring at me like this? It was your own fault for trying to save your leader – for throwing yourself in the line of fire. Do you know about the funny looks that I've been putting up with ever since I knocked Nagi off his feet when you got in the way of his kill? How do you expect me to live this down?

Hang on – you don't expect me to live it down, do you?

You made me fall, Ken. Not once, but twice.

I hate you.

I HATE you.

I so fucking want to kill you now, do you know that?

The cold metal against my side reminds me of how close a reality that can be – my handgun is still in its holster, Ken. I can kill you right now – end all your misery with one single bullet. Your life for a single bullet… Don't you feel angry, Ken? Upset? Enraged that with this tiny silver object that costs me only $2 can be used to trade for your life?

You are still staring at me… you are trying me, Hidaka Ken.

The gun leaves the holster, and I aim…

-@-@-@-@-

… Right at my heart.

I try to smirk, but my muscles are too tired to work towards such an expression. Instead, I part my lips and whisper to the heaving figure before me – the figure that has lost all traces of control…

"Goodbye, Brad."

Goodbye, Brad.

2 words, one sealed Fate. I doubt I actually said that out loud – I could only feel the slight vibrations forming in my throat as I mouthed those soundless words out to him. Will he kill me, I wonder? Will Brad Crawford kill me after all that he had done with me…? I don't want to see his eyes if he does pull the trigger and destroy all the memories in a millisecond, so I close them off and wait patiently for my destiny to unfold.

I can hear the gun being cocked, practically *sense* his finger over the trigger, trembling in rage.

I can hear the bullet leaving his gun.

I can hear glass shattering.

I can… still hear my heart beating. A little faster than usual, no doubts about that, but definitely still pumping away steadily.

Curious, I look up to see the smoking gun pointing towards the ceiling. With blurred vision I recognise a surveillance camera now reduced to a useless pile of metal and glass, parts continuing to fall off as if trapped in slow-motion. They hit the ground almost noiselessly, and I lift my head towards the man who reduced it to such a state.

The gun drops – metal on concrete.

I hear a gasp, and a shuddering sob. I scan my surroundings for that tall figure.

Brad Crawford is on his knees, swallowing tears back by the mouthfuls.

I ache again… but in a different way.

-@-@-@-@-

Why couldn't I have pulled the trigger at you? Why couldn't I have just taken your life as easily as you took control of mine? This world is so unfair, Ken.

Do you know what justice is? It's something for the foolish men to thrive on – something for them to believe in should they ever find themselves experiencing a crap load of bad karma. It helps them live for another day, to not give up hope so soon.

You are fighting for this justice. And you are prepared to die for it.

… I can't. I don't believe in such tomfoolery.

So why can't I kill you? Your life is in my hands… I owned you the day you stepped into my car, so willing to listen to my wishes as I listed them out.

Please tell me why things turn out the other way round – with you holding the reins to my chained emotions?

I am bitter. Lord forbid, but I am feeling *so* bitter…

There are tears… Funny how they taste bitter like bile, funnier still, how they seem to come from nowhere.

My cheeks are wet – why?

My throat is choking with gagging sobs – why?

I raise myself to my feet to glare at you – to seek out an answer to all this madness. Yet in my fury the tears continue to fall and mar my line of vision. I can make out the softly seeping trail of crimson down your cheek, and I reach towards it, cleaning it away with my fingers. They stain my suit as I drop my hand back down to my side.

You have tainted me.

You have ruined me.

I know what you have done to me, because I suddenly find my body involuntarily crushing against yours, assaulting your lips in rage with sensuous, grating motions.

I can taste your blood – it is flowing into me… Becoming part of me.

I hate you.

-@-@-@-@-

Sometimes I don't know if I prefer to be loved or to be hated. With Crawford, everything seems to be in moderation – he either frowns at me, or nods in acknowledgement. He never does anything in extreme, because he is Mr. Brad In-Control Crawford. To push him into sudden displays of emotion will require an inhuman amount of effort.

That's why his sudden passion scares me. A lot.

I mean, a frigging, huge lot.

I can feel his tongue trying to probe into me, and I give in – I had to learn it the hard way that Crawford must get his way all the time, and that is one lesson I won't forget in a hurry. I don't know which is more frightening – the fact that I'm tongue-kissing the man that is my mortal enemy; or the fact that he wants me so badly that he can ignore my present physical state…

His hand descends on my bad wrist, and I hiss into his mouth, knitting my eyebrows as I do so. He draws the offending limb away at once, almost as if he is concerned for a change. But I know better than to believe in the effects of my silent prayers. Instead, his hands slip around my waist and heave me towards himself against the restraining shackles, drawing me closer to his pooling urgent desires and needs. The chains rattle noisily against the wall, and I brace myself against the surface when I feel my wounds beginning to flow with fresh blood.

Deft fingers work away at the buttons of my already ruined clothes, leaving my wounds exposed to the chilling, stale air of this compact room. A growl automatically forms at the back of my throat – it dies when it travels into his mouth. When at last I am able to finally close my mouth and breath normally, I feel the insistent lips moving downwards, carefully avoiding the various cuts and bruises as it does so. Then just as suddenly he thrusts his clothed length against me, making me shudder against the flood of desires.

I can hardly breath.

Then it all stops.

I crack open my eyes in frustration, both scared and angry that he may have decided to come to his senses all of a sudden and leave me awkwardly aroused. In a dazed stupor of passion I hardly manage to make out his hands reaching for the shackles at my legs first, then at my wrists, freeing me from my position against the wall. Weak from blood loss I fall forward. To my surprise he catches me – and allows himself to fall backwards with me still firmly in his grasp.

Now Brad Crawford is underneath.

-@-@-@-@-

Ken has always been light, yet I allowed myself to fall with him.

I let myself fall onto my back. With Ken on top.

Somehow, the realisation does not scare me as much as I initially fear it will. Instead everything flows from there as if pre-choreographed.

As if we have arranged this dance right from the start.

He wants this as much as me – why else are his fingers fumbling so ineptly but insistently at my belt? Why else did he lean forward to capture my lips with his so eagerly?

This is so wrong… This is not what I had foreseen.

So why does it feel so natural – your naked flesh against mine, Ken?

Kisses like bites – they descend upon my neck and work their way downwards. I swallow one gasp after another – I won't let you see the effect that you have on me.

But I fail to stop that embarrassing moan when you take me inside of you.

On the first thrust I know everything is wrong – your leg isn't strong enough to support your movements, and your injured wrist hangs uselessly by yourself as you slide me inside of you using the force of your left hand against my chest. You are gasping – not in pleasure but in pain.

But I don't want to stop you.

Because this feels strangely perfect.

-@-@-@-@-

I am no stranger to these sensations. Sometimes, I feel as if I've known this pulsing pain all my life in fact.

But with you… each time I feel as if I've just danced with a stranger in a disco for 10-hours straight with no water in-between. It's like there is a dry spell inside of me – one that threatens to eat me from inside out. But the thought of downing liquid to drown out this terrible dryness does not appeal to me.

Because this is how the dance between us should feel like – a potent, seething pleasure, heady with dizziness from the movement of your body against mine.

Sometime slow; sometimes fast. But always dangerous.

I feel your need rising as your hands fasten over my hips, pulling me into a rhythm that is solely ours and ours alone. You are trying not to make any noise – you won't be caught dead gasping with desires.

But today, you are underneath, and each impact I make against you I can feel the short, angry gasps inside of you just dying to escape.

One hand moves over my hurt leg, dragging it into a more comfortable position. Not that I care any longer – numbed pain… It's already part of this dance.

I feel the crescendo crashing against myself, and I gasp, spilling myself carelessly over you. But you keep me steady with one hand still on my hip and the other holding my shoulder – to keep me from falling against you.

In my glazed-over turquoises, I think I can make out the tears in your eyes.

-@-@-@-@-

I can feel him nearing… feeling him shuddering… and feel the evidence of his passion spreading over my skin. He is threatening to fall against me – to rest his head against my chest.

I won't let you get any closer, Ken.

I am nearing too, but in the blurring heat of desire I can still feel the sticky red liquid flowing from your wounds onto my hand gripping your hip.

I should stop.

But I cannot.

Because I am dancing with you – like this. This is our dance.

This is our last dance.

I hate you – you have poisoned me with your touch.

One hard thrust, and I can feel all my muscles falling into a relaxed state almost immediately. With parted lips I begin to draw in sharp, heavy breaths – to combat the quickly cramping muscles that you are sitting against.

You are still trembling – whether in pain or from your afterglow I've no idea.

You reach over to my face and caress it for a moment, before pulling abruptly away to show me that they are wet… with a clear liquid.

I slowly sit up, pulling you against me as I do so to avoid aggravating your injuries. There is not a single sound from you to indicate your discomfort, if any at all. I cannot look into your eyes – I do not know what to expect to see in them.

I don't want your emotions tormenting me anymore than I wanted this.

Arms come around my back, tightening gently. This I have not expected. In turn I violently pressed my forehead against your neck, watching on helplessly as the dam breaks.

I hate you.

"What have you done to me, Ken…?"

~ End chapter 2

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: Whee! It's been ages since I did smut ^_^;; I hope this came out okay. Not sure when the final chapter will be up, but once I get a germ of an idea in my head… it's time for all to head for the hills! XD