Chapter 15: Hospital Visit
Schuldig awoke to a bright white room. The bed he lay on felt scratchy, the sheets stiff. A hospital. The hospital. Crawford lay in a similar bed on the floor above this one. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. The dizziness was gone, but he still felt a little weak. Food. He needed food. Once the basic body imperatives were taken care of, he would go see Crawford.
He didn't want to take the time to go to the cafeteria—it was two floors down and on the opposite side of the building—so he got a few things out of a vending machine, along with a cup of coffee from the machine next to it. He made a face at the coffee. It was bad, even by his standards. He couldn't imagine what Crawford would have to say about it.
Wolfing down the snacks, he walked the halls, his stride purposeful, his eyes cold. No one said anything to him, even when he went into the ICU well after visiting hours. He never seemed more like an angel of death as he roamed halls where people tried to hold on to life. He paused for a moment at the door that separated him from Crawford, then took a breath and went in. He shut the door quietly behind himself and leaned against it.
Nothing had changed since the last time he had been here. The room was dimly lit, bereft of human noises but filled with mechanical ones. Technology labored around the clock to keep the figure on the bed in this world. There was another patient in there, a young pre-adolescent girl, adding to the mechanical din. Schuldig frowned at this. He didn't want the other here. He debated on killing her but couldn't figure out how without raising unwanted attention.
He would get Crawford a private room, then. A place where he could be alone, to sit and wait for Crawford to awaken. He put a fingertip between Crawford's brows and saw that flash of far-away consciousness. He desperately wanted to pursue it but knew that it would be best to wait. He needed the right window of opportunity. One that would allow him time uninterrupted long enough to plunge deep into Crawford's mind, into the very subconscious, all that made up Crawford.
What he needed to do had to be done free of prying eyes, interfering minds. He was going to have to be close, physically close, and for a long enough period of time to slip out of his consciousness and into Crawford's mind. Once he had locked into Crawford's subconscious, then it would be all right. He could even be physically separated from him and maintain contact.
He couldn't wait long, though. Modern technology could keep Crawford's body here, living and breathing in a mockery of life. But Crawford's mind, his persona, was a different matter. The longer he waited, the farther that would slip into the darkness, until not even Schuldig could dredge it back again. If it was not already too late. He let his fingertip trail down Crawford's nose, starting where the bridge of his glasses would rest, then on to lightly tap the tip.
It was odd, seeing Crawford without his glasses. His eyelashes were inky, feathery crescents locking away that far-seeing gaze. He ran a thumb over one of them, then dropped his hand. He didn't have time for this. Even as he told himself that, his hand lifted again to trace Crawford's cheek, his mouth. He might never have another chance to touch Crawford, once he told him that he was the reason that Claire had snapped. For a brief, crazy second, he thought to leave Crawford like this, a dragon encased in amber.
Maybe he would be like the Fujimiya girl, and Schuldig would be like her stoic brother, visiting his loved one like a supplicant visiting a sacred relic. He could bring flowers, tell Crawford about his day, cry over his lost parents, his life in Weiß. . .
Schuldig shook his head clear of the invasive memories. Damn telepathy. Sometimes the memories of others became indistinguishable from his own. He didn't need the parallels with that antisocial little prick from Weiß. They were Schwarz. He didn't have to sit at Crawford's bedside, as the Fujimiya boy had sat at his sister's, and brood over might-have-beens. He could do something about it. He had that power. Schwarz wasn't bound by petty human shortcomings.
He lifted his hand, tightened it into a fist and turned away. "Soon, Crawford. Soon," he promised the silent room as he left. The door softly closed behind him, barely heard in the mechanical noise. Schuldig's departure was noted by the living on the other side of the door. But on the inner side, the nearly-dead didn't register it.
----
Schuldig bounced on his heels in impatience. The intern that had helped him when he first arrived had taken him into her care, pushing him to eat, to go back to the hotel to sleep. This morning she had forced him to go back to his hotel suite to clean up and change clothes. Schuldig had taken the quickest shower he had ever taken since he had left the freezing showers of Rosenkreuz behind and had been back at the hospital in less than twenty minutes. He had been patient, biding his time, even as he watched his window get smaller and smaller.
His patience was rewarded this morning. They had gently refused him admittance to see Crawford while they were in the middle of transferring the other occupant to a new room. She had been upgraded out of ICU, so the change was due, anyway. Schuldig had made it known that Crawford was not to have any more 'roommates.' A look at the cash he was willing to put down made it reality. So Schuldig was left pacing the area outside Crawford's room as they completed the transfer.
His pacing was soon brought to an end by the emergence of the still-comatose girl, surrounded by a swarm of nurses, doctors and family. They reminded him of bees buzzing around a sticky pool of spilled soda, which was pretty much what the girl was. Sweetness, never to be drunk. Gone forever. He could tell that at a mental 'glance'.
The nurses' and doctors' thoughts were brisk, professional, and tinged with regret. Their thoughts were the working bees that crawled around the soda pool. Her family were the angry bees from the other hive. They had been supplanted at this pool, and they knew it. This pool belonged to the doctor-bees and nurse-bees now.
The family-bees could see it, remember the sweetness-that-was, but never taste the fading sweetness again. Soon, the pool would crystallize, degrade into something else. Tasteless, scentless. All trace of the sweetness would be gone, merely a memory. He watched the active clot of humanity pass, expressionless.
When the group had faded into the background din, he entered Crawford's room. The door swung shut behind him, putting another layer between them and the rest of the world. Now it was just Crawford and him. He pulled up a chair to the side of the bed and stared broodingly at Crawford's still face. Even relaxed there was something sharp and hard about his features. Crawford never looked soft. Even the softness of his eyelashes were negated by the uncompromising darkness of them.
Schuldig leaned forward, needing to touch but not certain how. His hands made a few abortive, awkward movements, then stilled and rested nervously on his thighs. He had to feel Crawford's warmth, make the physical connection to aid the psychic one. But how? He didn't want to hold Crawford's hand—it bespoke of a familiarity that Crawford hadn't permitted him yet. It was. . . presumptuous.
He laughed suddenly, the sound chasing away the nerves. Presumptuous. What a thing to think. He had actually even thought the word. So fussy, so formal. The laughter died down, and he chuckled softly to himself. He couldn't ask Crawford for permission. And in cases he couldn't ask Crawford for permission, he took that for free rein to do as he pleased. Sometimes to Crawford's displeasure, but that had never stopped him before. Why was he letting it stop him now?
"Faint heart never won the fair lady," he chuckled to himself. The thought of Crawford's reaction to being compared to a fair lady made him go into fits of laughter again, raising tears in his eyes. After he calmed, he wiped his eyes and sighed. Good thing Crawford was unconscious, and they were alone. He probably sounded like he had lost his mind. He rose from his chair and kicked off his shoes, then crawled onto the bed next to Crawford, being careful not to disturb the wires and tubes.
He sent his mind out like a well-trained attack dog, lighting on the nurses on duty. A tweak here, a tweak there, and he was assured of several hours of non-interference. He hoped it would be enough. Breathing in the fading scent of Crawford's aftershave, he closed his eyes and snuggled in to Crawford's side. Warmth enveloped him. It was strange that someone so normally cold and self-contained could have this pervasive heat.
He parted his lips and touched the tip of his tongue to thewarm skin of Crawford's neck, tasting a smoky saltiness tinged with bitterness. Eyes still closed, he brushed his slightly open mouth over the other man's skin, inhaling the complex scents that Crawford produced, enjoying the tingle of sensation that his exquisitely sensitive lips gave him. He brushed once, twice, then buried his face in Crawford's neck so that every inhalation would be permeated with Crawford's scent.
His free hand, the one he didn't have pinned against Crawford's side, flexed experimentally, like a cat unsheathing and resheathing his claws, drifted down Crawford's chest and belly, then up again. His hand came to rest over the steady thrum of Crawford's heart. Here. Here was where he needed to be. Senses filled with Crawford, he slipped into Crawford's mind.