Crawford had always said Schuldig was a snapdragon in a field of daisies.
Schuldig never understood what he meant by that.
He never tried.
Things weren't turning out like they were suppose to. Crawford wasn't the great lover Schuldig expected him to be. Sure, he had the dark and mysterious American thing going for him, but he had it to the point where it was annoying. You'd think after being lovers as long as they had, the snobbish oracle would have opened up at least a little to his German telepath. But no, Crawford's lips remained a closed as his mind.
And Schuldig had just about enough of it.
====================================================================
Nagi performed his daily disgusting ritual of blending his breakfast. The pancake-ice cream-scrambled egg shake had been Farfarello's invention at first a few months ago, he had been up early that morning, half sane and bored. Nagi had left the table to take the phone up to Crawford's office and the plate was just sitting their, unguarded, ripe and shining, ready for the plunder. And Farfarello needed something to blend.
Ironically, Nagi liked the taste of all his food mashed up into a big chunky puddle of goo. It made taking down breakfast a lot faster, took less dishes, and if he was pressed for time, he could just put it in a thermos and eat it on the drive to school. On top of that, it impressed Farfarello's morbid side and made the psycho act more kindly to the younger assassin. It also freaked out Schuldig, and that was always a plus.
Schuldig stormed into the kitchen, clawing for the coffee maker. Nagi watched him from the table, taking a casual sip of his chunky meal. "Nice bruise."
"Bar fight," Schuldig hastily growled. He yanked his black Hooters mug from the sink and loaded it with ice cubes. Schuldig didn't mind having his coffee a little cold, he always gulped it down the moment it hit the glass, and he was quite partial towards the nerve endings in his tongue.
"Sure." Nagi replied, he finished off his drink and cleared the table. Schuldig had to scoot over to allow the teenager sink access. The water ran than shut off. Nagi grabbed his books.
"Sure as silk." The German replied snidely.
The teenager quirked an eyebrow, "...never boast that your Japanese is fluent, that all idioms translate well, or that you ever make sense."
Nagi turned towards the door, than hesitated, his heart beating a little faster than he should. He felt clever - which was rare in a house where the people you interacted with could either predict what you were about to say, or already plucked it from your mind, or were just plain stark raving mad - Nagi decided to act upon it.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He asked. "Do you want me to get you an ice pack?"
Schuldig glared, "I'm okely dokely allrIIIIGHT." The telepath screamed as a set of invisible fingers jabbed at the bruised flesh circling his eye socket.
Fine, indeed.
Nagi gave his teammate a parting glare.
"Schuldig, you aren't fooling anyone."
=======================================================================
He kept himself scarce for the rest of the day, wandering the city, visiting the clubs, making a statement: I have better things to do. When he returned to their upstate apartment, he knew Farfarello would be locked up for the night, Nagi would be hiding in his room, studying or cybering, whatever he did up there with his creepy computer and sound proof walls. Dinner would have been delivered and eaten an hour ago, Crawford would be finishing up his office work and...
Ready for luuuv.
Schuldig breezed through the door, cracking his knuckles in a righteous, confident manner. "Time for the make-up sex." He announced to the empty living room.
He paused there, pondering. Should he come into the bedroom butt naked, or should he let Crawford rip his clothes off with his teeth? Decisions... decisions...
Finally he decided that having his clothes ripped off with Crawford's teeth was always sexy. Too bad the silly American didn't let him set up the video camera, he was such a prude. Those thoughts in mind, Schuldig waltzed, humming, into the large master bedroom.
He didn't see the oracle until it was too late.
Schuldig hit the wall.
"What the hell?"
"Not now, Schuldig." Crawford growled, pulling a cream colored suit coat on and adjusting his tie. "Takatori just called, he needs me."
The telepath was having a hard time comprehending the fact that his lover, his LOVER, had shoved him out of the way to take care of his boss.
"But I need you!" The twenty-two-year old whined, dogging at his heels.
"Yes," Crawford replied reasonably, "but Takatori pays me."
"I can pay you!" Schuldig protested. He then froze. "Wait, what does Takatori need you for?"
"Don't be perverted." Crawford grabbed his cell phone and wallet up from the dining room table, opened the door, and slammed it.
=================================================================
Damn it all, why did they have to dope Farfarello up to the gills every night after dinner? Didn't they realize that Schuldig might someday need him? Didn't Crawford foresee that?
Damn American.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
"Damn it, wake up." Schuldig shook Farfarello's collar and slapped his face. The Irish man's single eye rolled in the back of his head, his lips moved a little. "C'mon you crack addict, Schu-Schu needs a hug."
"...k..ee...p...slap..pin..g..me...I...like...it..." Farfarello mumbled.
Schuldig made a sound of annoyance and dropped the albino psychopath. He stepped back, retreating to a far corner of the padded cell. He didn't understand why Farfarello always complained, the cushioned walls felt comfortable under his back. It was like a giant bed... except the pads never absorbed any heat and Farfarello wasn't allowed to have any blankets, as he might strangle himself or someone else with it. And it was always a little dark, musky, it smelt of blood, especially around the areas where the pads absorbed the gore. No windows, no television... Okay, Schuldig could understand why Farfarello complained.
Using whatever remaining strength he had, Farfarello pulled himself into a sitting position, trying to get as comfortable as he could under the restrains of his white jacket. He crossed his legs and stared calmly at Schuldig, as if having a hysteric pissed off German barge into his cell was something that happened all the time.
Lately, it did.
"Crawford left me." Schuldig whined.
An eyebrow raised under the eye patch. "Did he?"
"...not like left me, left me, like...left me." Schuldig corrected.
"Oh." Farfarello pretended to understand the red head. Of course he didn't, Schuldig was, after all, completely out of his mind. He had to be, he was dating Crawford. "Your eye is swollen."
"Bar fight." Came the quick reply.
Farfarello blinked, "No..."
For a wacko, very little slide by his Irish friend. Schuldig smiled sardonically, rubbing his hands together. Didn't the heater get down to Farfarello's cell? It was freezing. "Maybe not. It doesn't matter though, does it? It probably even hurts God."
"It hurts you." Farfarello whispered. "God laughs."
Schuldig thought about his whole relationship with Crawford. "God must be laughing his ass off," he decided. His companion didn't reply. Schuldig stared, then reached forward, shaking him. "Wake up."
"Huh?"
"We're having an intimate conversation here."
"Oh."
"Sometimes Crawford gets mad. He's a fighter, we both know that. A boxer first, a business man second. We aren't fooled by those silk Armani suits, he likes to throw a punch as much as any man. He's just dignified about it." Schuldig explained.
"Yes." Farfarello replied, they both knew Crawford liked to take his anger out on a human body, and when he couldn't find a target he turned on his teammates. Mostly Farfarello, who took it with stride as part of his punishment and quest to shame God. "Can I have a knife?"
"Here." Schuldig pulled out his Swiss army and set it on the Irishman's legs. "It's not abuse. We're assassins, we can't say we're abused. Hah, could you see that, Farf? Let's call a hotline." He placed his thumb and pinkie finger up to his ear, like a telephone. "Hi, my name is Schuldig, no, I don't have a last name. Yes, I'm a man. My boyfriend hits me. No, this isn't a prank call. Occupation? I kill people for a living. Did I mention I was psychic? Click." He put the invisible phone down.
Farfarello found that just about as interesting as staring down at the knife in his lap. In the end, the knife staring won out. "Can you untie me?"
"Me. Me. Me. It's always about you, Farf." Schuldig grumbled. He picked himself up and walked behind the man. The straps binding him slowly became unlatched. "The make-up sex is usually good."
"What's make-up sex?" Farfarello's hands were free, he greedily reached for the weapon.
Schuldig patted him on the head as he walked back to his seat. "I'll tell you when you're older, honey." He flopped down. "How's my eye look?"
"Purple with a bit of blue."
"That bad?"
The two blades unfolded from their red sheath. The hilt slowly turned in Farfarello's scarred hands. "I sun burn."
"Huh?"
"You bruise." Farfarello said. "I sun burn."
Schuldig blinked. "What's your point?"
"I stay out of the sun."
Schuldig never understood what he meant by that.
He never tried.
Things weren't turning out like they were suppose to. Crawford wasn't the great lover Schuldig expected him to be. Sure, he had the dark and mysterious American thing going for him, but he had it to the point where it was annoying. You'd think after being lovers as long as they had, the snobbish oracle would have opened up at least a little to his German telepath. But no, Crawford's lips remained a closed as his mind.
And Schuldig had just about enough of it.
====================================================================
Nagi performed his daily disgusting ritual of blending his breakfast. The pancake-ice cream-scrambled egg shake had been Farfarello's invention at first a few months ago, he had been up early that morning, half sane and bored. Nagi had left the table to take the phone up to Crawford's office and the plate was just sitting their, unguarded, ripe and shining, ready for the plunder. And Farfarello needed something to blend.
Ironically, Nagi liked the taste of all his food mashed up into a big chunky puddle of goo. It made taking down breakfast a lot faster, took less dishes, and if he was pressed for time, he could just put it in a thermos and eat it on the drive to school. On top of that, it impressed Farfarello's morbid side and made the psycho act more kindly to the younger assassin. It also freaked out Schuldig, and that was always a plus.
Schuldig stormed into the kitchen, clawing for the coffee maker. Nagi watched him from the table, taking a casual sip of his chunky meal. "Nice bruise."
"Bar fight," Schuldig hastily growled. He yanked his black Hooters mug from the sink and loaded it with ice cubes. Schuldig didn't mind having his coffee a little cold, he always gulped it down the moment it hit the glass, and he was quite partial towards the nerve endings in his tongue.
"Sure." Nagi replied, he finished off his drink and cleared the table. Schuldig had to scoot over to allow the teenager sink access. The water ran than shut off. Nagi grabbed his books.
"Sure as silk." The German replied snidely.
The teenager quirked an eyebrow, "...never boast that your Japanese is fluent, that all idioms translate well, or that you ever make sense."
Nagi turned towards the door, than hesitated, his heart beating a little faster than he should. He felt clever - which was rare in a house where the people you interacted with could either predict what you were about to say, or already plucked it from your mind, or were just plain stark raving mad - Nagi decided to act upon it.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He asked. "Do you want me to get you an ice pack?"
Schuldig glared, "I'm okely dokely allrIIIIGHT." The telepath screamed as a set of invisible fingers jabbed at the bruised flesh circling his eye socket.
Fine, indeed.
Nagi gave his teammate a parting glare.
"Schuldig, you aren't fooling anyone."
=======================================================================
He kept himself scarce for the rest of the day, wandering the city, visiting the clubs, making a statement: I have better things to do. When he returned to their upstate apartment, he knew Farfarello would be locked up for the night, Nagi would be hiding in his room, studying or cybering, whatever he did up there with his creepy computer and sound proof walls. Dinner would have been delivered and eaten an hour ago, Crawford would be finishing up his office work and...
Ready for luuuv.
Schuldig breezed through the door, cracking his knuckles in a righteous, confident manner. "Time for the make-up sex." He announced to the empty living room.
He paused there, pondering. Should he come into the bedroom butt naked, or should he let Crawford rip his clothes off with his teeth? Decisions... decisions...
Finally he decided that having his clothes ripped off with Crawford's teeth was always sexy. Too bad the silly American didn't let him set up the video camera, he was such a prude. Those thoughts in mind, Schuldig waltzed, humming, into the large master bedroom.
He didn't see the oracle until it was too late.
Schuldig hit the wall.
"What the hell?"
"Not now, Schuldig." Crawford growled, pulling a cream colored suit coat on and adjusting his tie. "Takatori just called, he needs me."
The telepath was having a hard time comprehending the fact that his lover, his LOVER, had shoved him out of the way to take care of his boss.
"But I need you!" The twenty-two-year old whined, dogging at his heels.
"Yes," Crawford replied reasonably, "but Takatori pays me."
"I can pay you!" Schuldig protested. He then froze. "Wait, what does Takatori need you for?"
"Don't be perverted." Crawford grabbed his cell phone and wallet up from the dining room table, opened the door, and slammed it.
=================================================================
Damn it all, why did they have to dope Farfarello up to the gills every night after dinner? Didn't they realize that Schuldig might someday need him? Didn't Crawford foresee that?
Damn American.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
"Damn it, wake up." Schuldig shook Farfarello's collar and slapped his face. The Irish man's single eye rolled in the back of his head, his lips moved a little. "C'mon you crack addict, Schu-Schu needs a hug."
"...k..ee...p...slap..pin..g..me...I...like...it..." Farfarello mumbled.
Schuldig made a sound of annoyance and dropped the albino psychopath. He stepped back, retreating to a far corner of the padded cell. He didn't understand why Farfarello always complained, the cushioned walls felt comfortable under his back. It was like a giant bed... except the pads never absorbed any heat and Farfarello wasn't allowed to have any blankets, as he might strangle himself or someone else with it. And it was always a little dark, musky, it smelt of blood, especially around the areas where the pads absorbed the gore. No windows, no television... Okay, Schuldig could understand why Farfarello complained.
Using whatever remaining strength he had, Farfarello pulled himself into a sitting position, trying to get as comfortable as he could under the restrains of his white jacket. He crossed his legs and stared calmly at Schuldig, as if having a hysteric pissed off German barge into his cell was something that happened all the time.
Lately, it did.
"Crawford left me." Schuldig whined.
An eyebrow raised under the eye patch. "Did he?"
"...not like left me, left me, like...left me." Schuldig corrected.
"Oh." Farfarello pretended to understand the red head. Of course he didn't, Schuldig was, after all, completely out of his mind. He had to be, he was dating Crawford. "Your eye is swollen."
"Bar fight." Came the quick reply.
Farfarello blinked, "No..."
For a wacko, very little slide by his Irish friend. Schuldig smiled sardonically, rubbing his hands together. Didn't the heater get down to Farfarello's cell? It was freezing. "Maybe not. It doesn't matter though, does it? It probably even hurts God."
"It hurts you." Farfarello whispered. "God laughs."
Schuldig thought about his whole relationship with Crawford. "God must be laughing his ass off," he decided. His companion didn't reply. Schuldig stared, then reached forward, shaking him. "Wake up."
"Huh?"
"We're having an intimate conversation here."
"Oh."
"Sometimes Crawford gets mad. He's a fighter, we both know that. A boxer first, a business man second. We aren't fooled by those silk Armani suits, he likes to throw a punch as much as any man. He's just dignified about it." Schuldig explained.
"Yes." Farfarello replied, they both knew Crawford liked to take his anger out on a human body, and when he couldn't find a target he turned on his teammates. Mostly Farfarello, who took it with stride as part of his punishment and quest to shame God. "Can I have a knife?"
"Here." Schuldig pulled out his Swiss army and set it on the Irishman's legs. "It's not abuse. We're assassins, we can't say we're abused. Hah, could you see that, Farf? Let's call a hotline." He placed his thumb and pinkie finger up to his ear, like a telephone. "Hi, my name is Schuldig, no, I don't have a last name. Yes, I'm a man. My boyfriend hits me. No, this isn't a prank call. Occupation? I kill people for a living. Did I mention I was psychic? Click." He put the invisible phone down.
Farfarello found that just about as interesting as staring down at the knife in his lap. In the end, the knife staring won out. "Can you untie me?"
"Me. Me. Me. It's always about you, Farf." Schuldig grumbled. He picked himself up and walked behind the man. The straps binding him slowly became unlatched. "The make-up sex is usually good."
"What's make-up sex?" Farfarello's hands were free, he greedily reached for the weapon.
Schuldig patted him on the head as he walked back to his seat. "I'll tell you when you're older, honey." He flopped down. "How's my eye look?"
"Purple with a bit of blue."
"That bad?"
The two blades unfolded from their red sheath. The hilt slowly turned in Farfarello's scarred hands. "I sun burn."
"Huh?"
"You bruise." Farfarello said. "I sun burn."
Schuldig blinked. "What's your point?"
"I stay out of the sun."