Chapter 8: Oaths and German Wines


Crawford studied the beautiful Amazon that was Edward Sonett's fiancée. She was tall and leggy, a former model, just what you would expect to see on the arm of a CEO of an up-and-coming company. That didn't bother him in the least. He never lacked for beautiful women of his own, when he desired female companionship. What bothered him was the green dress she wore.

It was the exact shade of Schuldig's jacket, which even now was hanging in the closet of his hotel suite, a splash of color in his white, cream, and black attire. It was a bold color, for a bold personality. She should not have been wearing it. It suited her coloring just fine. It just didn't suit her personality.

She fawned and fluttered over Sonett, looking up at him with limpid eyes. Crawford couldn't say why he found it as irritating as he did. Schuldig wouldn't have cared if she was wearing the same color as he was. The telepath would have been more interested in how he could screw her, or, failing at that, screw up her life. He probably would have done the latter just for her off-hand, condescending comment on the German wine Sonett had ordered to go with his dessert.

Her name was Samaria Tilley. He knew all about her past. Sonett had given him the information for him to read over on the flight to America. It had not been very stimulating reading. She was what she seemed. A small town girl that had traded on her face to make it in the big city. She wasn't anything special. She wasn't a schemer, but she wasn't a saint, either.

Sonett was serious about marrying her. He had big dreams, though, dreams that did not include drug problems, scandals, alimony payments or extramarital affairs. Edward Sonett had aspirations of a political career and a dynasty to pass his financial interests on to. He was willing to pay large sums of money for reassurance that Ms. Tilley could fit that bill. She was the whole reason that Sonett had been foolish enough to have contacted Esset trying to find a pre-cognitive, the reason that had brought him here.

Feeling out-of-sorts about her wardrobe choice was not an issue. Evaluating his visions about her was what he needed to focus on.

----

Crawford propped his feet on his suite's balcony railing and toasted the city lights below. Los Angeles was another city that never slept. The sweet German eiswein felt velvety, honeyed on his tongue, sliding coolly down his throat. He licked the sweetness off his lips, enjoying the hint of bite in the vintage. It was a favorite of his, ever since that night he had first gotten drunk with Schuldig.

It had been two years after they first met and a year after they had started working together. Schuldig had spontaneously invited Crawford to go out drinking with him when they had come back to Munich after a long assignment in Yemen. Schuldig had been happy, nearly giddy, about coming back to a place where he could freely obtain and drink alcohol. Crawford was sure that Schuldig would never have asked him if that hadn't been the case.

To the amazement of both, Crawford had accepted, and they had started out in a small French restaurant not far from Rosenkreuz. Schuldig, still feeling giddy about their return, had explained why he preferred to eat French food before a night of drinking—high cream and butter content. "Coats the stomach, you see. Lets you drink a little longer." That was also where Crawford had run into Schuldig's peculiar patriotism.

Schuldig could care less about politics or national pride. He had no remaining family to foster ties to his home country. He ate German food with great readiness but saved his enthusiasm for Italian cuisine. He preferred sporty Italian, American or Japanese cars, turning his nose up at the cars of his country. He loved his shoes and suits like he loved his food—Italian. The only thing that Schuldig was staunchly German on was his alcohol. Even with French food, he would only order German wines.

Schuldig, Schuldig, Schuldig. Why was the telepath always on his mind nowadays? He had even gotten this bottle because of him. The vintage was one of Schuldig's favorites, the one that he had ordered that night after they had returned to Munich from the Yemen assignment, and had been one of several wines they had drunk that night. Crawford smiled in reminiscence.

That night had been the one that had put the gears of Schwarz into motion. They had clicked that night, creating the first components of Crawford's team, the one that he had been so carefully nurturing to set into motion his vision of apocalypse. Crawford had been unsure of Schuldig until that night.

----

Munich, Germany, three years ago

Crawford felt hot and tired, an aftereffect of the relentless desert heat of the Middle Eastern country he had just returned from. He didn't mind snow, ice, chill winds, sleet or winter rain. He had been born and raised in the Maine-New England part of the United States, and the cold had been a fact of life there. It was heat that bothered him. He was glad to be back in Germany, where the weather made sense to him.

Not as glad as a certain German telepath, though. Schuldig had gained a spring in his step and an eager sheen in his eye the moment he had left the terminal. The redhead had seemed to be humming like a live wire, crackling with excitement and energy. "Hey Brad. You hungry?"

Crawford was so jet-lagged that he missed the hated usage of his first name. He turned over the concept of 'hunger' and found that yes, it did apply to his current needs. "Yes."

"I know this place not too far from Rosenkreuz. We can go there after we turn in our report."

Crawford shrugged. "Sure."

Half an hour later, he found himself seated in a small French restaurant. "French, Schuldig? I would've never figured you for the type."

"Oh, I'm not," Schuldig assured him breezily. "I only come here if I'm about to do some serious drinking."

"Before you go drinking? Why?"

"Because of all the cream and butter they use in everything. Coats the stomach, you see. Lets you drink a little longer." Schuldig tilted his head curiously. "You do drink, don't you, Brad?"

Crawford felt sufficiently revived at this point to notice the use of his first name. "Crawford. And yes, I do." He picked up the wine list and scanned it with a critical eye. "Not bad. I think I'll have a glass of this Chateau de—"

"No, no. That French piss will ruin my appetite."

Crawford raised an eyebrow. "You won't be drinking it, I will."

"But I would have to watch you drink it." Schuldig motioned to their waiter. "Bring one from my stock, Michel."

Five hours later, they were at Schuldig's apartment, finishing yet another bottle of Germany's best. Crawford had become a convert by the fifth vintage that Schuldig had pressed on him. They had ended up in three different bars, where Schuldig was obviously a regular, and had sampled different wines in each. A glass here, a glass there. A magnum of that amazing eiswein. Now this wonderful Riesling.

"I'll never drink another French wine again," he announced to the room at large. He lay on the floor, a glass balanced on his stomach.

"I'll hold you to that," a voice drifted over to him from somewhere off to his right, somewhere in the vicinity of the couch. He lifted his head and fuzzily tried to see who it was.

"Schu?"

"Don't call me that," Schuldig grumbled. Crawford heard the sound of someone rolling onto the floor, then Schuldig crawled over to prop himself on the coffee table so he could peer into Crawford's face. "Are you drunk?" A grin split his face. "You are, you are!"

"So are you," Crawford grumbled. "And you call me Brad, so I can call you Schu."

The smile dropped from Schuldig's face. "Call me Schuld, if you want a nickname. Don't call me Schu."

"Hmph. Schu, Schu, Schu."

Schuldig's eyes narrowed. It would have been more threatening if he was not weaving slightly. "I said, don't call me that."

"Deal with it. You call me Brad, I'm gonna call you Schu." Crawford felt childishly smug. He realized he would probably be appalled by this tomorrow, but now he was having too much fun needling Schuldig to care. His vision was getting fuzzy. Where were his glasses? He reached out to feel around.

"What are you looking for?" Schuldig was a curious creature. Nothing could make him forget a pout like satisfying his curiosity.

"My glasses."

Schuldig snorted. "They're on your face."

"They are?" Crawford reached up and felt them. "Oh." He relaxed again and stared dreamily up at the ceiling. He had forgotten how pleasant getting this wasted could be. It took away the hard edges, the white auras, the visions. Everything became the present, with no echoes of the future. "I'm going to regret this in the morning."

Schuldig leaned over to peer into Crawford's face again, this time nearly tumbling on top of the American. "Hangover?"

"Nah. Loss of control. I probably said something tonight I'm going to regret tomorrow."

Schuldig waved a hand. The action unbalanced him to where he fell backwards. He continued talking like nothing had happened. "Don't worry about it. We're partners, after all."

"Are we?" Crawford put the glass aside, rolled over, propped himself up on his elbows then snaked over to where Schuldig lay. Now he was the one that was peering into Schuldig's face. "Do you think so?"

Schuldig's face grew serious, even a little anxious. The vulnerability there was tantalizing. Crawford pushed that strange thought away. "Well, sure. Aren't we?" Schuldig asked solemnly, his eyes searching Crawford's. Crawford felt tendrils searching his brain.

"Stop it, Schu." The invasive touches disappeared. He considered the question. They were partners, yes. Schuldig had been assigned to him fresh out of Rosenkreuz. Crawford was already a veteran of five years of field work by then. He'd had his eye on the telepath for a year before he was assigned to him. "It depends, Schuldig."

"Does it have anything to do with that plan in the back of your head?" Schuldig flinched back at the sharp glance Crawford threw him. "Relax. We're partners. I don't give a damn about Esset." He sat up, his face inches from the seer's. "I kinda like the idea myself." His grin was wicked, but a fervor burned in his eyes. "We can rule hell together."

Crawford snagged a half-full glass off the table. He lifted it meaningfully. Schuldig found a glass and raised it too. "An oath, then. To the plan."

Schuldig's mouth curved into a smirk, but his eyes and words were deadly serious. "To the plan. Let the devil take the hindmost, and to hell with everyone else." The two glasses kissed, making the crystal ring. Without taking their eyes off each other, they drank to the toast. When Schuldig finished the last drop, he flung the glass into his fireplace. Crawford started at the sound of breaking glass, then flung his glass, too. The two looked solemnly at the cold hearth, then at each other, then began laughing like loons.

Schuldig wiped off tears of mirth from his eyes. "What are we laughing for?"

"Don't know. Don't care." Crawford flopped back onto his back again.

Schuldig nudged him with a toe. "So what is the plan?"

Crawford smiled. "I'll tell you the details when you need to know."

"Feh. Damned closed-mouthed pre-cogs."

"Damned nosy telepaths."

For some reason, this set them off on a new gale of hilarity. "That wasn't that funny, you know," Crawford finally managed.

"So what? What's a little laughter between partners in crime?" Schuldig replied. He fell over on his side, his head nudging Crawford's ribs. His deepening breathing told the American that the telepath was falling asleep. Crawford usually didn't care much for unnecessary contact, but decided to let it go this time. The body heat he felt from Schuldig was pleasant. A long strand of hair draped across his chest. Crawford fingered the fiery length curiously. The hair was cool and smooth to the touch. He wrapped the lock around his finger then fell asleep himself.

----

Crawford considered his wine glass as he sat on his high-rise L.A. balcony. Some years had passed since the two of them had made that oath. They had expanded their circle by two and had worked hard to attain their goals. Crawford had been surprised at how quickly his goals had become Schwarz's. Schuldig had been his most dedicated follower. So what had happened? The loss of Fujimiya's sister could have been circumvented. Maybe. His foresight had become unreliable lately.

He was sure of one thing. With Schwarz behind him, he could have gotten the plan back on track. Farfarello's death had been unexpected and had created unwelcome ripples that still were being felt. The full repercussions were yet to come, he was sure of it. He raised the glass. "To Schuldig and to Nagi, wherever you might be. And to Farfarello, too. I know where you are, you son of a bitch. May you rot there."

----

A/N:

eiswein: German for "ice wine." It is made from grapes that have been frozen on the vine and pressed that way, making for a sweeter wine.

Sorry for not having more. I had hoped to have 8-10 posted this weekend, but it just didn't work that way. Feh. Thanks to Hisoka-- glad you liked that chapter, I thought of you when I posted it. Thanks also to Nony (I know who you are)-- always glad to see you aboard. And Minerva Solo! squee! Thanks so much for your kind words about 'Love Match.' You (and your stories) rock.

Don't know when the rest will be posted, I've been much busier than I had anticipated (and Schwarz more contrary than they should be, damned rewrites). Hopefully I'll have Ch. 9, 'Drinks After Work,' posted in a day or two.