Monochromatic Whispers Familiar
Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.
Author: Avium
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Crawford x Ken
Fic length: 5/5
Timeline: Indefinite
Written in Crawford's 2nd person POV.
-----
You watch him as he peels off the written note from the rest of the pad; you watch him sticking it to the working surface of your table; you watch him as he leave. All these you have done in complete silence, knowing through your Gift exactly when it is your time to react. The temptation to simply walk over and question him nearly overrides the dictations of your Gift; but you resist with the least of visible effort.
Though, it does not reduce your contempt towards his actions in any manner. What he has done is done. And you are left to deal with the results of his conflicts whether you want to or not.
You begin to feel that this day had been a mistake all along – that perhaps summoning for him had done more damage than good.
Naturally, the notion of damage here extends beyond a physical one. But the physical ones are hard enough to ignore – you note that with a scowl as you brush a hand across your neck, tracing out the trail of tender skin with the pads of your fingers as you do so. Little sparks of heat meet your gliding hand as you pass over the reddish marks left on you.
He had marked you, as if he too owned a part of you, or even your whole being. The audacity of it all does not escape your notice.
After all, he is yours; never the other way round. His existence in your life is but one of the many interesting formulas added to the never-ending equation that defines your universe. The only problem resides in the fact that you do not know how this equation will... no, should end.
Strange, is it not? A clairvoyant that questions the future?
Thirty minutes or less, the Devil had said to you – you may see no further than that.
The unknown is both a blessing and a curse.
You bend over to pick up the laptop from the floor, glowering as you recall how recently it was obtained. Balancing it on the palm of one hand, you push down the power button; you only manage to lose the tension in your shoulders only when the system boots up seamlessly to reveal that no data was lost in spite of the shock felt.
What now, Brad Crawford?
You uncurl your hands over the keypad, fingers positioning themselves to resume work once more. Your eyes never leave the screen as it glares blues and greens at you while it boots up, and your back is straight as you ready yourself for another hour or so of the daily grind. But your mind is not there, as is your...
Fingers jumping once, as if jolted by a short burst of electricity, before they settle back on the laptop a little tenser than before. However the action is hollow, your attention no longer hovering in the present.
No, what has transposed is not of importance. Never of importance.
No words. Just sex. No less than that and especially anything more, not even with the intimacy implied in that single word. He must have been simply lust-addled – in the most passionate of moments, in the moments before the passage to Hell, people are always known to declare what they never mean to say. It's a desperate plea of sorts, as if to holler out to the world one's ability to make it better for others. Selfish, cowardly.
And utterly, totally believable.
So it was one word. Just that one word; your name, his sin.
Maybe he thinks the sin goes back further, tracing back to the weeks before the very first strayed touch. Maybe for him it began the moment you had stepped into that restaurant that he was working undercover in. Maybe he thought that you might blow his cover and stubbornly refused to speak to you whenever you went there. Maybe you patronised that particular eatery more often just to elicit this amusement. Maybe you thought it was funny, so you did not use words with him either, the both of you settling for body language and gestures over the course of time – a spectacle for anyone who cared to look.
Maybes and maybes.
The only certainty, no, the only damning certainty was that night, when the situation soured when his identity was made known just as his job was over. It had forced each of you to save the other at various points throughout that fight, a fight which you knew you had to be in. You had no stake in it, but he had a mission built all around it. But on the other hand back then you knew better than to question your Gift.
You had saved him, taking an eye and half the skull off a Neanderthal, and promptly began questioning yourself as to why you did so.
You ceased when minutes later he cuts open your would-be killer before your vision allows you to react.
It could have been the adrenaline. It could have been the need to strip away all that dirty, tainted blood. It could have been the frustration at being so close and yet so distanced for the entire month.
Whatever it was, it was a mistake.
A mistake when you turned to look at him as you pulled on your jacket – to see those eyes so quiet in their despair. As if you had painted that emotion on him.
You moved before you knew not to, caught his chin with your fingers and pulled him into your amber gaze, saying – "Next time will be like always. No words. Just this – you and me."
He glowered then, eyes ablaze with righteous anger. In trying to appear more in control he rendered himself more childlike in that instant.
"There will be no next time."
You remembered smirking, enjoying the way his muscles tensed and coiled as he pulled himself to full length in his semi-clothed state. The jeans that hung off his frame utterly failed to hide a semicircle of teethmark lovingly placed over the curve of his hip. The only reply you gave him was a quick jab towards your head, a reminder to him of your Gift.
It was almost mesmerising to watch the way colour drained from his cheek, because he does not know the limits of your abilities and had assumed that you had already seen him debauched by your hands yet again.
The truth is: you are as stranger to that future as he was.
After all, you had almost not foreseen taking his body for your own that night. Those flashes had burst into your consciousness only as your flesh first collided.
He parted his lips as if to retort, but you brought your fingers over them. It was a touch more than a press, certainly, and strangely he obeyed without another peep.
No words.
Just sex.
Perhaps it was a mistake: today's encounter, the encounter before this, and all those before. All fingers pointing back to that single night, no, that single moment of weakness. Could it possibly be due to weakness on your part that you gave in so readily to temptations back then?
But if that is weakness, then your clairvoyance itself is your tripping stone – for having told you to indulge.
Too much to consider, too much at stake that leaves you scowling as you push your glasses to the top of your head while tapping fingers at the meeting point of your crossed brows. Your Gift is never wrong, and should never be doubted, regardless of how infrequently it sends you those monochromatic splashes of him and him alone.
Only his are colourless. Surreal, like a movie from days past. Silent, like the days earlier, like this entire affair.
Why is he that one single formulae that corrupts the entire system?
You bring your fist banging to the tabletop, startling even yourself with the noise created. The burn of his marking fingers seem to flare up in that instant, but fade just as quickly. A quick return to the present where you are no longer focusing on.
You will not get anymore work done today.
Nor tomorrow.
Nor the day after.
Nor the weeks, months and years after.
The answer flickers into your head like an all-too elusive moth.
This has to end.
But only after you get all the answers to the strange riddle that he is. After that Hidaka Ken can cease to exist, and Brad Crawford can function with full, undivided attention once more.
You rise from your seat, absentmindedly rubbing at that spot on your neck, jerking your fingers away as if burnt when you realise what you are doing. The scowl on your face fades to nothingness as you glare at your disobedient hand, pondering an unseen future.
This has to end.
-----
You stir from your papers to the sound of a woodpecker outside the window. No, a woodpecker hammering against the inside of your skull: Schuldich's way of saying "I want to come in." You know that he is standing right outside your room, probably with his arms crossed over his chest while leaning next to the Monet. But Schuldich always did prefer mental to physical conversations. He used to spin up those ridiculous stories as to why he felt so – mostly vanity reasons, or a desire to flaunt his potency as a telepath. But one particular reason stuck in your head:
"I hate the way you look at me when you talk. Or when you talk to others for that matter – like you already know what we are going to say."
Naturally, you remember thinking to yourself: natural that you will give that impression since you do oftentimes know what the future holds and therefore have little time for the spoken words themselves, having already heard them once in your head. The mental words tends to escape your clairvoyance better, thus Schuldich's preference for them when conversing one-on-one with you.
The woodpecker morphs into a buzzing hornet.
Better to answer him now, or he will never leave you alone.
He walks, no, practically struts into your mind the second you lower your shields to him. Catlike and quiet, a proud feline swagger in his hips – his way of announcing that he is holding onto some very interesting information. Either that, or he has some intriguing questions that need answering.
This is not a good time.
But then again, there is never a good time for Schuldich's nonsense.
'Hey, Mein Herr.'
You do not reply – there is no point wasting words when you know that he is simply baiting you. Plus, he will eventually give in and open his yapper, because this is the Schuldich you know.
Silence.
You can almost see him casually buffing his nails against his chest while smirking through that thick white wall. It's another one of those contest of wills that he so likes to enact with you every now and then to see who speaks first. The record is at an even so far – his patience is just as short as your fuse.
But not tonight, it seems. If anything, he seems to be going for a marathon of sorts.
You give him a prompt, because he is draining away precious seconds of your time that can be better spent than sparring with a telepath:
'I am busy.'
At that he practically rolls his eyes. 'When are you never?'
You mentally cock an eyebrow, making it clear that you are not amused by this cat-and-mouse conversation that seems to be brewing between you. It will be wise for him to take a hint now, before you shut him out of your head – slam your mental shields down over his metaphorical fingers if you will. And he does.
'It's about the job tonight.'
You pick up the stack of papers you were reading to neaten them. Perhaps you are trying to turn away from the potential path that this conversation may lead you down? Oops – I forgot – you are a clairvoyant after all. Surely you know where all this is going, right, Crawford?
You shake your head, picking up a pen and holding it in midair as if pondering what to write, then lowering it at last. If you are going to tackle this conversation, you might as well have all your wits about you.
'What about it?'
He twists and stretches himself – he must be doing that right now. As if the low thud from outside is not enough of a giveaway. 'I was just thinking... this weapons deal isn't our beat, Crawford. We have nothing to gain from it, and for all you know, Weiss is going to be on scene.'
Click.
No, no – not now. Now is definitely the wrong time to see that, to see him. But the images flash too fast for you to catch, each sweeping past your imaginary barriers like sand through fingers. You scramble to stop them, helpless like a child trying to save a goldfish with a sieve.
Get those monochromatic whisperings out of your head, fast.
'Oh. OH.'
You need to stop his line of thought now, stop him right n...
'Precisely my reason.' Let him stew on that for a few moments. Anything to buy you time for this.
He hums and haws for a stretch, making it seem almost like a jaw exercise. His exaggerated knitting of eyebrows can be felt inside your head, like a rap on the knuckles.
"Crawford," he utters suddenly.
The door swings open without the knock you often remind him to make. Your eyes meet, both shadowed by the lonely dimness of your reading lamp-lit room. He can read your mind, that you know. But when it comes to reading bodies, you are far better than him. The odds shift dramatically once outside of the mental realm.
That one, he knows.
He makes to move closer to you, stopping just a foot from your personal space. There is a sharp pull in his jaw line, like he is contemplating words too hard to form. All would have been silent except for the steady draws of breathes in your suddenly suffocating room. Similar to breathing through a damp paper bag.
He thumps his hand down on your desk – too loud in the stifling stillness. It is not a rude gesture nor an aggressive one; just a reminder of where you both are right now if you will.
Schuldich's nasal voice fills the room like a low rumble of thunder, "You know what Kryptonite is, right?"
... Where did that come from?
You will humour him with but a narrowing of your eyes – games have no place here. Especially given what had just transposed between your minds.
He catches your eye briefly, then turns away as if singed, casting his glance towards the small pewter clock to the left of your hand.
"Yeah, I guess so, what's with you being American and all." His tone is oddly dulled for the words he mutters with virtually unmoving lips.
Is that all? Did he come just to make stupid quips as such at you? You automatically lean your temple into your propped-up hand, frowning as you speak, "Schuldich, we have work to do tonight as you've so kindly noted. If this is all you have to say..."
Another thump – the other hand is lowered, and he is hunched over your table, leaning in close as his eyes sparkle a rich blue once in the glare of the light. He is carefully avoiding your personal space still.
In moments like these silence is pregnant with meaning. Pregnant with things that should be said but cannot be said. Because this is Schwarz, and you are their leader. Some lines will always be drawn and respected.
When he opens his mouth next, the words linger in your head for longer than they should:
"Do yourself a favour, Crawford – don't react like Superman does."
The meaning is not lost to you, but that is assuming that he knows what is going on. What has been going on. What should not have been going on.
What now, Brad Crawford?
The door opens before you know it, his shadow bleeding out after him as he departs. The white smear of fluorescent light from the corridors stains your carpet for just a while too long, then swallows itself up as the doorknob clicks softly.
It is easy for him to use that analogy, easy for him to get away with it. Because at least Superman knows what he is going up against.
Sometimes they expect too much of you.
Brad Crawford – clairvoyant and Schwarz. That is all the world wants of you, and everything else be damned.
-----
The sliver of grinding stone makes sharp scratching sounds as they swish against the blades of his bugnuks. Normally a few well-placed strokes and the task is completed, but today they continue longer than usual. He must be distracted.
As if that faraway, empty look in those turquoises is not enough of a hint.
Aya thought it was enough, though. Yohji would have cleared his throat; Omi would have asked him if he was alright. But not Aya – he settled for just walking into the basement, and that was sufficient to alert him to the fact that he was no longer alone.
His eyes flare briefly, as if inwardly berating himself for having been distracted in his task. Distracted by something that should not have bothered him so. That should not have bothered you so for that matter.
"We have a mission tonight intercepting a mob weapon shipment." Aya says it to no one in particular.
He lifts his head towards their team leader, saying, "Yeah, I got the file. We head out at one tonight?"
Aya nods while keeping his eyes on him. He would have turned away, but the redhead's gaze was steady as if intending to speak soon again.
"Ken." The name is breathed out rather than spoken. Then amethyst eyes tip away from him completely, and it only peaks the boy's curiosity further.
"This has to end."
He was in the process of rising to his feet when those words were formed. Blood drains from his face and drops right into the pit of his belly – it is that strong a fight-or-flight reaction. Yet he still manages to find his own, slightly shaky voice:
"What has to end?"
Aya's eyes say enough, but as if to twist the knife further he throws in contradictions to them, "Whatever that is making you this way."
He boggles, a huffing sound that was to be a scoff coming out winded instead. He is not aware of how his hands have clenched into fists by then.
"You mean, making me sad?"
Softly, with the concern of a teammate and nothing more – "Are you?"
He sucks in air like a man drawing a dying breath, then gives their leader a lop-sided smile.
"Nah, I'm cool. I'm Weiss, remember? If we don't look after the innocent, who does? How can anyone be sad if he is doing something so worthwhile?"
He is Weiss. Your polar opposite.
Aya gives him a look that can only be described as cautious, but there is still some level of privacy in their lives that they do not share, or do not broach even when known. Maybe he thinks that his leader is only guessing – calling his bluff to try and find out the reason for his listlessness in the week after his most recent afternoon disappearance from the Koneko.
He will not reveal anything.
He is Weiss – his word is honour.
Are yours?
-----
The walls of the warehouse make for poor buffers against the annoying foghorn bellows from the nearby docks. Perhaps the first few times it is still bearable, but an hour into the wait instead of becoming a background noise it sounds louder than ever, drowning out words before they can even hit the airwaves. Nagi has long given up on trying to hold small talk with you and has moved over to his own stakeout point.
You shift around the holster strapped under your jacket, the gunmetal warm against your skin after such a fruitless wait. They shouldn't have to be here, you know that. But to come out on the pretext of a solo mission is at best questionable, at worst begging for interference. A compromise had to be reached.
"Retrieve crate R-56A4. If Weiss turns up, take them out and leave. Don't come back for me if I do not follow."
"Why?" Nagi had asked when he first heard the instructions.
All it took was one firm glare from you, and he understood at once:
No one questions your orders. Ever.
Several crates away Schuldich fidgets, flicking bits of sawdust in the general direction of Nagi with his thumb and index finger. They bounce harmlessly off the boy's low-humming PSI shield. Farfarello is not involved tonight (an unnecessary addition to an already overstaffed situation) – you gave orders that he was to stay home since you expect this night to proceed as planned.
You of course know that there are two plans tonight – one for Schwarz, one for Brad Crawford.
The clacking snaps of metal rollers opening upwards, loud enough to drown out the next foghorn bellow. The entrance of a forklift follows that sound, its slow progress indicative that it is carrying a load of freshly-unloaded cargo. The kind of cargo that only moves at night. You shift your balance from one foot to another, gesturing to Nagi and Schuldich to be ready.
A flash – movement of red hair, the shimmering glow of a katana before it dips itself into a blossoming well of crimson. The forklift rolls backwards, its driver panicking, so much so that he backs right into a tall stack of crates. The thunderous collapse of the wooden boxes drowns out his screams and alerts his associates – everyone last one of them.
Pandemonium.
Blink, and back to the real world again.
It will be wise to move your team out of the way and put them in a better position to complete their phony task.
At the back of your head, you can almost feel Schuldich's eyes burning into you.
You move away from your hiding place just as the scene replays itself for real this time, a signal to the other two to proceed as discussed. Schuldich leads Nagi around the mass of fighting bodies in the centre of the warehouse – in a direction distinctly opposite of yours.
Now.
Now, what do you do?
You cannot wait for a vision to come to you, knowing full well that this boy eludes them. You cannot go to where all the clashes are taking place, because then you will draw the attention of his teammates. Taking them on is not a problem, but it is a waste of time and can jeopardise all your plans.
You pull your gun out from the holster, pulling the safety catch back towards yourself and thumbing it lightly as if considering something. Flick it back on, then off soon after.
He will know that it's your gun; he will know that it is you.
One sharp crack of thunder ringing out – too loud in the confines of bricks and concrete. Too much attention, especially when you alone are the possessor of firearms in this room.
The fighting in the centre stills. So quiet that you can hear a pin drop.
"Who fired?" Aya's voice rips through the silence. He must be glaring daggers at everyone around him right now, be they friend or foe.
"Whose gun is that?" He demands once more.
No one speaks, but then someone starts yelling. The sound that comes after is like a metal pole smashing clean through a plank of wood. A crude version of a war trumpet, and the fighting resumes from where it has left off. As if there had been no gunshot in the first place.
You tighten your grip on the handle, reassuring yourself that it was real. That the pause was not a figment of your imagination, but that you have made it. And that the message has been conveyed. So all you have to do now is...
And just like that he appears in front of you.
Even though you stand easily twenty paces apart, it is hard to miss the sharp anger in his eyes. Those turquoise blues – ringed by shadows of restless sleep. They make his face darker, his emotions richer.
What must be going through his mind now? To see you at his 'workplace' so brazenly announcing your presence? To put everything that he values at stake?
Does he remember doing the same to you just seven days ago? Arriving at your office, making it painfully obvious to anyone who cared to ponder aware of the fact that surely the two of you must have a history together?
Tit-for-tat. Your calculated moves for his rashness of youth.
Games. What you have been playing with him, what he responds to.
You aim your gun at him just as he charges. Not madly like a crazed beast, but with instincts flowing through his veins that pulls him into a low dash, ready to swerve from your line of fire if you do pull the trigger.
You know you can move faster than he can, than he ever can. The safety catch is already off, and your finger is already locked over the trigger. That practiced squeeze should not take more than a few pounds of pressure to complete. If he swerves now, looking at the angle of his run you know he will be shifting himself leftwards, as will your hand.
A perfect kill.
But only if you take it.
Crawford?
He is nearing. The aim can only get better.
So fast – he advances like a big cat, hands at ready to spread and tear.
... Brad?
Click.
Slow, too slow.
You can feel yourself being propelled backwards, driven by the momentum of his lunge. He grasps true around your middle, knocking you right off your feet and sending you both skidding backwards and right into a forest of discarded planks.
The first half a second of contact with your back knocks the wind right out of your lungs, leaving you with just enough time to look up and see the rain of splinters and wood. Training would have taken over if his did not rear up – with him winding his legs around yours and twisting the both of you out and away from the shower of debris.
A sandstorm of hollow-sounding thuds and sawdust. Too loud to your ears, but too soft for the rest of Weiss to hear over their own commotion.
It is only with instinct that you hold him close and curve protectively over him. Like a father will for his son. Like a fireman will for a victim. Like a lover will for his...
His coughing derails all trains of thoughts at once. It's enough to distract you such that he is able to wind his arms around your neck, around where he once marked. Anger spits in you at that touch and with a low snarl your hand around his back tears upwards to seize at his throat – completely automatic.
Maybe it is automatic too for him to roughen his touch, to use raw force alone to slam you onto your side and pin you there. You were not prepared for that, because you expected better from him. But your hand stays firmly locked around his throat, not so much squeezing as holding.
He blinks the sawdust away from his eyes. Blue into gold. Breathing so loudly that it is like air being drawn through a wide chamber. The adrenaline in you has quickened your breathing as well, leaving the both of you heaving and staring at each other in the manner of locked rams.
Perhaps this is how the affair will end – with one dying at the hand of the other.
His eyes squeeze shut as if he is about to cough again, and you use the chance to reassert your dominance once more, smoothly snaking out of his pin before arching him backwards into a different pinning fall.
You have his wrists locked to the sides of his head by the time the first cough escapes him.
Only when this close do you finally see that it's not the rings around his eyes that darken his features, but the shadows that cast over him when you press so intimately together. It's that curve of his cheekbones that cause this odd play of lights and darks on his skin. The skin that you should not be touching, particularly now.
But it is so familiar.
You take one hand off of him, knowing from the look in his eyes that he will not strike you then. Bring that hand up to his chin to tip his face upwards – eye to eye.
The beep of his intercom is most unwelcomed.
"Ken? Where are you?"
Outside of this universe, the fighting has stopped. His eyes widen as if wakened from a dream before he scrambles to pull the dangling intercom up to his face.
"I'm here. I'm okay. I just..." his eyes dart about the confines of the warehouse – at everywhere but you. Scuffing his freed hand through his hair he fumbles awkwardly for an excuse, any excuse that he can use. Maybe that is why he knows better than to look at you, to expect a rescue from you.
Still you lean in next to his ear, and his breath catches in his throat. Are you going to...
One long, sensuous movement of your tongue tip from the top of his earlobe, curving right down to the bottom.
He shivers so, so sweetly, lower lips disappearing between his teeth to stop himself from saying anything inappropriate to the listener on the intercom. Which by now has to be 'listeners', you think to yourself, considering how quiet the place has become.
He will not give the game away.
His word is honour.
But still...
"Cleanup." You bite the word into his ear. More accurately, you simultaneously breathed and bit the word out to him.
His muscles seize up at once, tightening around each other. Freezing like a deer caught in a headlight so to speak.
Something snaps, cracks, then shatters.
It could be his ability to think, you muse.
Or it could be this entire arrangement. How everything changes forever with one word. His was your name, and yours is his... way out.
"C... cleanup," he mutters into the intercom – still not looking at you, "I'll do cleanup tonight."
A different voice. "But Ken-kun, I'm supposed to..."
"Ken," another voice – pauses before speaking out again, "Do it, and find the person who fired that shot."
He nods, too dazed to realise that it cannot be seen through their intercom, then switches it off and drops it onto the floor. But he is still not looking at you.
This has to end.
That remnant voice drums those words into your head once more. Too self-confident, too self-possessed. And sounding oddly like Schuldich's voice instead of your own. But maybe that voice is right, you decide, as you make to climb off the safety of warm familiarity.
Like lightning, he wraps his legs around your waist, locks and slams you back down before you are ready for it. You cannot break the hold with the angle that your arms are in, leaving you effectively held down by the boy.
This time, it is you who will not look at him.
It takes a long moment before something stirs the air – his hands lifting to cup your cheeks, to pull you in close for that first contact. Soft, dry lips pressing into yours and moving in ways that are not strange to you.
It is with routine familiarity that you arch your hand forward to dig into his lower lip, parting them for better access. More access. And he responds to them as he always does – always painfully slow, always willing in spite of it all.
In spite of it all.
He makes this noise in his throat when you push into the insides of his mouth, clamping that annoying tongue of his between teeth. Chiding him for words that he wants to speak – those silent whispers that you only ever seem to hear from his mouth. He responds by arching upwards against you, pressing your lower halves closer together if it is even possible, lips cracked in a soundless moan against your mouth.
Why are there so many things that can be heard even in his silence?
Steady hands, barely aquiver with... lust, no, hunger. Clutching at his jacket, his shirt, the seam of his jeans – the struggle to disrobe him is almost impossible when he does not want to relax his grip on you. Is he trying to change something here? Surely he has not forgotten now that it is still no...
Words.
... Something has changed.
He whines high in his nostrils, forlorn and feral like a cornered monster. The next thing you know those damning turquoises are on you, looking right past the amber and into someplace foreign. Someplace you do not want to acknowledge. Touches you right there.
You almost fail to register his hands now curled around your collar, tugging and yanking off your tie, not so much popping as fumbling off the buttons of your shirt. Taking charge from below.
Warm, wet air from the surroundings hits your bared skin and cleaves softly into you. His eyes soften at the first furrowing of your eyebrows, and you are not sure why that is so. Until he pads his fingers gently against your shoulder where an ugly bruise was starting to darken – most likely the result of being struck despite your attempt to protect the both of you from the shower of planks. You feel his legs slacken around you as he arches forward – not to kiss the wound, you both are beyond those tiresome displays – but to curve his fingers around it.
Is he... trying to measure it?
No, not quite. He is just looking at it, tilting his head as if to study it by a different light before finally turning his attention back to your eyes.
Why the eyes?
Kisses like he means it, like he wants it. Taking your stilled hands and placing them on his hips. Desire? Want? Need?
Permission.
This is not routine. You. Him. Like this.
Routine has long gone out of the window, hasn't it, Crawford?
You untuck his shirt, unfasten his jeans: revealing his skin to the artificial light that makes him look sickly under it. He in turn ghosts his hands over your legs, trailing them upwards to rest for but a moment before moving with renewed purpose.
That slow, dirty click of zipper teeth undoing
The night air hits crisp against hot flesh, but the cold does not linger for long. He manoeuvres himself unprepared onto you, supporting himself on your outstretched arms. Not wanting to wait, not willing to wait. Tempting poison on your skin.
Doesn't move, and just holds tight around you. Flexing, relaxing and adjusting to you – so unfamiliar for an otherwise familiar act. His breathes come shallow against your shoulder, but they are not the pained kind that you are so used to hearing from him. This one is steady, with its own rhythm.
Calming himself for something all-too new for the both of you.
Maybe that is why your chest feels so constricted from the lack of air; you have forgotten to breathe amidst it all.
He doesn't move until you catch up with him in terms of composure. How can he tell with that rapid thudding of your heart anyway? Or it can just be something simpler, like how your fingernails have stopped biting crescents into his hips, Crawford.
Moving firm like you forever do. Moving with you.
Simple, sensual and salacious.
Feeling him spent on you. Feeling yourself emptied into him – and still held safe, close and warm.
Familiar.
He does not release neither you nor your shoulders even then, clutching to them as he puffs against the skin there. It prickles your goosebumps, and instinctively you pull him closer to stay warm.
It takes almost too long for the both of you to come to your senses. For something akin to shame or shyness to take hold and make the both of you pull apart and robe yourselves once more.
You still cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye.
This had been... unplanned. Unexpected. But far from undesirable.
He clears his throat several times to shake off the last embarrassing traces of his growl-scratched vocal cords.
Slowly, almost uncertainly just as he clears his throat the last time, "So... what happens now?
Reflexively your shoulders tense, your frame stiffening. Tonight has brought too much of the unforeseen already, and now he is...
... He wants an answer.
He wants to know what has happened.
You half-turn to him, looking at him out of the corner of your eyes as you retrieve your glasses from a nearby spot. At length you speak the first words that come to your mind.
"Nothing changes."
He... blinks. Owlishly. It takes him several heartbeats to grasp at your words.
Perhaps the other reason why others dislike conversing with you may be because of your tendency to speak in unfathomable riddles, no?
He reaches forward to push a stray lock out from your eye, sliding his hand down the side of your eye before turning you to face him properly.
His eyes are so blue.
"But we can talk," he swallows, "right?"
You bring your hand up over his, pressing over it for the briefest of moments before peeling his away. There is the stirrings of a desire to just kiss him, to let him know through actions. But his preference for the tangible over the intangible – that part which you so take to – wants for something else from you.
"What do you think we are doing right now?" You say it, face expressionless as always.
Inside, your mind is not so still.
It has ended.
Outside, he laughs. Like on that bright summer day to that kindly cashier.
He has a small laughline on the outside of his left eye. Something that you've never noticed before.
You decide that it is something that you can get used to seeing; that you like it.
You catch his hand, pressing something small into it before closing it and pushing his fist back towards him.
His laughter stills the moment he opens his hand to reveal a small fold of paper in it. At this he raises his eyebrows, wariness creeping into his eyes. At this you hold your gaze, your intentions clear only to yourself.
Some things, as we all know, will always need a closure.
When he puts the note away after reading it, the laughline is still there.
"Thank you."
End
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Author's note: And there you have it after more than a year of wait. I hope you've enjoyed this fic as much as I have writing it.