The Best Defense

BY : JeiSvenka
Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 1347
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Farfarello's
Problem


Any
comments/critiques/signs of life would be extremely appreciated. It's
nice to know when people read, even/especially if you didn't like it
:)

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Farfarello
pushed himself away from the bed frame, his muscles shaking only
slightly with the effort. He was rather proud of himself for being
able to move under the current circumstances, and, for the first
time, immensely grateful that he couldn't feel pain.


He
could feel a tickling sensation deep inside his thigh, and the
thought crossed his mind that maybe he shouldn't be putting so much
weight on that leg. No matter. He slid off the side of the bed and
immediately found himself flat on the floor. So the tickling
sensation was a broken bone, at least. His fingers pawed around
automatically, looking for a handhold, finally finding the edge of a
desk on which to pull himself up. The bed and floor had magically
expanding dark spots that hadn't existed before, and if the room had
been lighted, Farf was sure they would be reflecting deep crimson.
How much blood had he lost? How long had he been unconscious? His
pulse felt strong against his temples, but if the lack of control of
his muscles was any sign, he guessed he probably wouldn't be awake
much longer.


Crawford
had left for a business trip two days ago, Nagi in tow. Out of all of
them, Nagi showed the greatest potential for succeeding in his
footsteps, or at least being able to pull his own weight in financial
and social terms. Farfarello had failed that test long before he'd
even met the other three, existing now only as a slightly
psychopathic lackey. He didn't mind. And the last of their team?
Well, God knew where he was right now, also currently failing
Crawford's expectations. In fact, he failed Crawford's expectations
every time their esteemed leader went out of town. Crawford knew of
his failures, of course, having seen them in many a precognitive
vision, but as of yet, Farfarello hadn't been debilitated in any
permanent way, and Schuldig still managed to add a couple zeros to
each paycheck, which was all that really mattered in the end.


Which
lead to another headache. Where was
Schuldig? Last thing Farf remembered was the redhead sweating
furiously above him, dealing out his pent-up anger to the fullest
extent possible on the body of his restricted white-haired teammate.
It had been three months since Crawford's last business trip, and
expelling three months of rage in a few hours took up plenty of
energy. The man was probably asleep, in his own bed. Heaven knows
he'd left Farfarello's messy enough. But that was a problem for
another day. Namely, tomorrow. Or the next day. Or any day before
Crawford's homecoming, which wasn't scheduled for another week.
Schuldig would probably hire someone to clean the mess, as he
disliked dirtying his own palms, but the job would get done
nonetheless.


The
problem now was Farfarello's increasing lack of blood, and as
fascinating as he found the constant flow down his legs, even he
admitted that he probably needed some sort of attention, namely a
band-aid or a blood transfusion. Schuldig hadn't done this much
damage in years, if ever. As he absent-mindedly puzzled over what
could've caused this explosion, Farfarello shakily made his way over
to the door, down the hall, and out to their private elevator.


Shit.
He should've grabbed some bandages from the closet on the way out.
Crawford wouldn't be happy when he saw the trail of splatters leading
down the hallway. Not that Farfarello feared this rage, or even his
own death; he just didn't want to lose an appendage in the process. A
one-legged psychopathic murderer? Well, only if his cane turned into
a sword, or if his wheelchair had spikes. That could be cool. He
chuckled, pressing a bloody finger against the "ground floor"
button. It left a fingerprint, which he wiped off. Crawford didn't
like his team leaving tracks, especially messy ones that called
attention to their newest headquarters. And seeing as it had been
Farfarello's fault that they'd had to leave the last place, he
decided to be extra careful this time. But honestly, he thought
Crawford was being unfair about the whole incident. Who knew that a
single severed finger could cause such a ruckus?


He
stumbled out into the lobby, glancing sideways out the window. It was
still dark, with only an array of streetlights to be seen lighting up
the pavement. Maybe two or three in the morning? He rang the small
service bell twice after propping himself against the front desk, his
limp leg making for a very annoying burden. Would it have to be
removed? Surely not…


Schuldig
was usually more intelligent than that. Calculated. He chose
Farfarello specifically due to his inability to feel pain. If the
telepath were to choose another victim, the redhead himself would've
felt a sort of mental "echo" of the blows he dealt. Again,
Farfarello didn't mind. He wasn't the source of the man's anger, just
a vent. Not that it would've bothered him anyway. Although Schuldig
was the closest thing he'd ever had to a "friend" since his
childhood, they didn't exactly have a typical relationship. Schuldig
preferred to ignore Farfarello and turn his attentions to their
leader, when the precog was around. To no avail, of course.


Not
that Crawford didn't notice. If Schuldig's transparent droolings
weren't a sure sign, then the vehemence of his affection toward
Crawford's white-haired replacement, especially after he'd been
rejected for the nth time, was definitely a clue.


Ah,
and so the pieces fell into place. Three months of staring Crawford
in the face, blatantly rejected. Three months of trying to arouse
jealousy in those cold eyes using Farfarello's own body. And at the
end of the third month, the explosion.


Farfarello
had written it off, of course. He had better things to do than listen
to the ramblings of a psychotic telepath. But then, the ramblings…
Exactly what was it that had set him off this time? There must've
been something specific...


A
small voice in his head prodded him back into the world of the
living, and he found himself staring at a wide-eyed young Asian man
behind the counter. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the
service bell, on which he had also left bloody fingerprints, although
for some reason he couldn't bring himself to care. From the skewed
reflection, he could see that his hair wasn't very white anymore, and
was he wearing a shirt? Or anything, for that matter? How indecent.
But in fact, he felt just fine. Why was he down here again? Well,
there was the slight lightheadedness, and that annoying ringing in
the back of his head. But was that any excuse to raise an alarm?
Suddenly, he found himself staring at a very flat, very hard wall. It
had a nice equine design, with colorful horses winding back and forth
like a very colorful wind made out of spirit ponies.


And
then it was black again. God, how he hated the dark. The muffled
silence. He was sure there were monsters in here somewhere, and even
though he'd spent his life trying to make himself more nasty than
anything else in the darkness, the hair prickling on the back of his
neck told him there was still another badass out there, far more
powerful and disgusting than he. It chilled him. He felt a shiver run
down his spine.


Felt?
Oh good, so he could feel again, although he couldn't remember when
he'd lost that ability. Not the ability to feel pain,
of course; he'd lost that long before, possibly when he saw the blood
of his sister and parents oozing its way down his fingers. But the
ability to feel anything? When had he lost that? Shortly before the
darkness and the colorful ponies? Yes, that must've been it. And now
it was back. Goodie.


Then
an array of colorful noises burst into his eardrums. The beeping came
first, and then the voices (oh, how he loved those!), and then the
racket of shuffling that usually accompanied some sort of panic.
Panic and hospitals.


His
eyes flew open, and he found himself momentarily blinded, although he
didn't bother shutting them again. He knew they would adjust, which
they did. A halo of half-masked faces greeted his blurry vision, and
for a moment he considered the idea of throwing up, although he
wasn't sure if he had enough energy. No, he didn't. He felt the bile
lower itself back into his stomach, but the taste remained.
Farfarello hated hospitals. He hated the white walls, the white
coats, the white souls of the white doctors doing their civic duties
to create a white world… a world that Farfarello labored so
vigorously to turn black. And as much as he loved knives, he hated
the feeling of cold, sterile, metallic medical objects against his
bare skin.


He
tried to push himself up, only to have his eyes black out at the
motion. When he opened them again, his world was spinning. Or rather,
the bed he was lying on was spinning, as he was wheeled into the
closest elevator that lead to whichever room could cure his
lack-of-blood and various other problems.


So
much for keeping a low profile.


On
top of his many troubles, he was hungry, and, as almost any patient
in the world can attest to, hospital food was almost always
practically inedible.


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