The heavy iron door shudders open, and Schuldig feels like an intruder in his own home. Familiar empty bottles and cigarette packets and dead beetles, never cleared away, are gilded alien by the late afternoon sunlight. The light warms the outer door and paints quiet shapes on the duskiness through the opening. Schuldig shuts the door behind him and toes his shoes off. He's picked up the habit of doing these things now.
He goes straight to Crawford's room. It would make no sense to do otherwise, really.
Crawford doesn't look up from his computer. Schuldig wonders for a moment whether he really has managed to surprise Crawford this time. Uncertainty keeps him lingering in the doorway.
Then, "Nine o' clock, tomorrow morning. A new employer. Smart dress."
Schuldig's heart jolts to hear him speak. He opens his mouth stupidly and shuts it again. If he tries to speak, he'll lose. He's too tired even to quite understand why he feels slighted. The adrenaline still in his system from anticipation dissipates, leaving him empty and staring stupidly at the black grime on the horizontal bits of the window frame. A fight would have been better than this; his body knows it and is puzzled. Everything in the apartment is exactly as Schuldig remembers it.
Schuldig tries to explain. His telepathy meshes him deep into Crawford's hindbrain, focused and deeper and harsher than mundane physical contact. It'll hurt, tear something probably, if either of them tries to pull away before time. Schuldig's stream of consciousness is as jumbled and disjointed as anyone else's: messy thoughts that don't bear giving voice to. Crawford, too, all power and easy possessiveness – Schuldig feels the emotion as if it's his own. He can get off on it too, though. A doctor once told Schuldig it was chemicals that caused it. It was the fluids the brain released, he said, that let Schuldig read thoughts and walk into dreams and look at himself through other people's eyes. Schuldig just sat there nodding politely, letting the man's nervous pomp and procrastination flow over him and thinking all the while /you fuck you bullshitter you don't understand this any better than I do/. He didn't even need telepathy to see that.
"It's disgusting." He puts his mouth around the notion. "Messy -- all that fluid." Crawford has Schuldig on his lap and is rocking him back and forth on his hips, so Schuldig's voice undulates with the motion. He draws breath on the backstroke. "Sweat and shit, and spit -- cockroach juices -- it's so fucking disgusting it makes me want to throw up." He sees Crawford raise one slim eyebrow. Crawford's frisson of amusement runs through his neural pathways.
"Life, is disgusting," clarifies Schuldig, and arches forward and tries to tongue-kiss Crawford.
He is pushed off and flipped over so fast he barely notices it happen. He starts to panic when he feels himself falling, but then he's still again, flat on his back with Crawford kneeling between his legs. Crawford, as calm and nonchalant as if he didn't have his dick up Schuldig's ass right now. He might as well still be wearing the suit. It's hardly fair, thinks Schuldig. He's lying here pinioned with the sweat chilling on his body for Crawford to inspect at his leisure, and Crawford won't ever really be naked for him, not in that way. Not in the way that has Schuldig clinging and crying under him when he comes; the way Crawford looks at Schuldig that still makes him feel open and small when no-one else can do that to him.
Crawford lifts Schuldig's hips and repositions him a little, improving the angle. He can feel the heat of Crawford's body on his chest and jawline as he leans over him, though Crawford doesn't touch him there. He just takes Schuldig's hands and moves them out of the way, touching the blue-green veins on the underside of Schuldig's left wrist with his thumb. He always pays attention to details like that.
Crawford is rough with him. Crawford will definitely leave bruises to mark his presence. It's as much of a given as Schuldig's flirting and goading and constant, constant pushing toward the raw, base power beneath Crawford's physical being; confident he'll never get at it, but needing to know it exists all the same. Crawford is rough, and this has nothing to do with clumsiness and everything to with precise, physical sadistic manipulation. It's a game that Schuldig doesn't mind playing along with, even when he's angry or sulky and knows he's still doing exactly what Crawford wants him to do. Exactly what Crawford knows he will do.