Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Baby, It's Cold Outside	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1639 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Baby, It's Cold Outside

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by Card and laila
Standard Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz, its characters, storyline and indices remain the property of Takehito Koyasu, Kyoko Tsuchiya, Project Weiss and Movic. We intend no disrespect to any of these fine individuals and companies by our shameless appropriation of their work.
Author's Notes: This is why friends don't let friends write 'simple PWPs' involving simple excuses for smut, and certainly don't agree to write them together. This story was meant to be short and sweet – well, as sweet as Schuldig and Ken stuck in a confined space together ever could be, namely not very – but we added a bit here and a bit there and it got completely out of hand. Completely.

________
Chapter One
Oh, that fucking asshole. (“You should buy some more practical shoes, Schuldig.”) Smart ass; he could have just said: ‘you will be stranded on the road during a snowstorm, Schuldig. It will be very cold and windy and your shoes will be soaked and your feet will be cold but if you had a nice warm pair of watertight boots you could prevent this discomfort and almost assured resulting sickness.’
This was supposed to be a vacation—well, mostly, it would be too good to be true if were really just a break. No rest for the wicked or something like that. Estet had a package, which they so very conveniently left sitting up at the top of a mountain. And what was in the package? Fuck if they told him—and fuck if he really had to ask them. Benefits to being a telepath and all that. One of the stones required for the big ceremony was up at the top of this mountain, left by one of their associates who strangely got spontaneously killed by his angry girlfriend. (What an incredibly irrelevant way to go.) Fuck the stone, and Crawford who stayed back in the nice warm place to kiss some more ass and make them all think that Schwarz had no better things to do. No, you wrinkled old hags, we live but to serve your every fucking whim. (Even when that whim is a whole new level of stupid.)
Wind howling, snow everywhere, felt it whipping his hair around his face—felt it in his ears. Nose freezing, snow caking up on his eyebrows and he had his hands up under his arms, trying to keep his fingers warm because his toes were already too cold for comfort. (Frostbite, that’s always fun.) Left the car because the engine died and the battery was useless. Heading through the white, toward the lights of the cabin—toward the mumbling little thoughts.
And wasn’t fate so utterly fucking kind, so unbelievably wonderfully benevolent?
(Wondered if Crawford accounted for the amount of sheer hostility he was going to be receiving when Schuldig got back down off this mountain. Smug bastard—buy more practical shoes.)
Inside the cabin, watching the snow fall, warm and cozy, with a nice broken arm, sitting up here on some half-made-up excuse to recuperate from a work-related-injury was Ken Hidaka. Mind all lazily wondering if Youji had gotten down the mountain and found some woman to shack up with and if she would keep him busy or let him stay. Because Ken could take care of himself just fine, broken arm or not.
Schuldig stumbled through the snow; balance fucked all to shit and threw his arms out to steady himself, fingers burning with the cold now. Yelled a curse at the snow, but it didn’t seem to care and it wasn’t doing anything but wasting his breath. (Think of all that survival training, all going to waste.) Ground his teeth together—close enough now, could hear the thoughts of the cabins further up. Nice little family up the road a ways—a long ways. Little girl, older boy, two parents. Smarmy and wonderfully warm where they were.
Fucking normal people.
Found the building, hand against the siding, tracking his way around it, looking for the door—snow everywhere, couldn’t see anything beyond the blur of white and the promise of warmth inside, shining out through the windows. (Yeah, warmth assuming you can outmaneuver the trained killer inside. Even with a broken arm.) Ran into a porch, leg hitting it first, pain breaking through the cold dully. Hurt, but not by much, too fucking wet and cold to make much of a difference now. Moved his hand in front of him, following the railing until it got to stairs, stumbling on those, slipping on the ice under the snow, and stomping across the porch toward the door.
(Gonna need your gun for this, don’t you think? Not exactly going to welcome you with open arms. Remember little Tsukiyono was his friend and friends don’t like the guys that kidnapped their friends or shot them or set their cousin up to die—never mind that was Farfarello’s fault.)
Pulled his coat open enough to get to the gun, pulled it out, fingers too stiff and cold to do much more than hold it, flexing uselessly around it, and he raised his other hand. Banging his knuckles against the door. And that hurt.
Didn’t like that sound, Ken—inside and warm and fuck him for not liking that sound. (Oh, Jesus. This is like a bad slasher movie or something. I'm stuck alone in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm and someone's knocking on the door and I've got a broken arm.) Some underlay of his thoughts, looking for a weapon, instinctual response while his mind rattled out nonsense. ( When did I turn into a hot blonde in a tanktop and why did nobody tell me and why am I still going to open the door?)
Because you’re a moron; now be a faster moron and get the fucking door open. Didn’t pound on the door but he wanted to, kept his left hand loose, visible, at his side, the other just against his thigh, half an attempt to hide the weapon—not really.
The door cracking open, half of Ken’s face, blinking into the snow. Eyes adjusted, saw him, recognized him and slammed the door shut. Stood there, mind spinning in nonsensical circles—because that could not have been who he thought it had been standing out there on his front porch during a snow storm in the middle of nowhere—the door opened again, slower this time, but it opened none the less. Checking to see if he really was losing his mind or if—(Oh look, mortal enemy is standing in the porch with one hand behind his back. I think I'd rather have had the ax murderer. Maybe he is an ax murderer.)
No mistaking the flex of his mind, like the grip of fingers around a weapon. Couldn’t quite figure out what Ken had in his hand behind that door but whatever it was—it was heavy and was more than capable of inflicting harm. Schuldig opened his mouth to say something and Ken slammed the door again.
“Fuck,” Schuldig said, through gritted teeth. English falling out his mouth as a reflex. Learned the curse from Crawford back at Rosenkreuz and liked it, kept it around to throw about when he felt the occasion called for something crude. Tightened his fingers around the gun, finger against the trigger; knuckles were stiff but it didn’t matter, they would bend enough to shoot the bastard in the face if he slammed that fucking door shut one more fucking time. (This of course, assuming he opened the door again.) That much wasn’t necessary, the door wasn’t locked now and there wasn’t exactly an expectation of propriety between them. He turned the knob with his left hand, right still down by his side—latch slid open and he pushed the door in with his foot, brought his arm back out of the way of whatever weapon Ken had gotten his hands on.
(Oh shit) Not even time for indecision, mind slipping into an awkward approximation of the assassin-mode. Extra weight on his right arm, couldn’t grip with the thick cast across his palm—holding whatever that weapon was in his left hand. Dexterous, yeah, but not quite ambidextrous. Wasn’t as good at killing things with his left hand. (Youji, I am going to kill you.)
Door sliding open—Schuldig stepped a little closer, blocking it from slamming shut, and pressed it open wider with his foot, other arm raising up, cautious, close to his body still. There was Ken, heavy poker in his left hand, fingers flexing around the grip, whole body coiled up and waiting for a clear shot. Balance shifted to compensate the extra weight on his right arm.
(Oh lovely.) Raised the gun then, one foot in the door, back still to the wind, snow blowing in around them. “Drop that.”
~*~
And it was still Schuldig. Still.
Ken shifted his weight slightly – back foot. Needed to be prepared to move. Needed to get a swing on this – what the Hell was it he’d grabbed, anyway? A poker, by the looks of it – and he’d never been very good at baseball. (Doesn’t matter how many times you close the door on him, Hidaka, it’s still gonna be Schuldig when you open it – hope you enjoy your cliché home invasion scenario.) Either way, it was very much the proverbial blunt instrument, big and heavy and not requiring too much finesse in the aim department.
The cast had him slightly off-balance. The whole goddamn situation had him slightly off-balance. Jesus fuck, what was Schuldig doing out here in the mountains in the middle of a freakin’ blizzard, apart of course for leaking all over his floor and auditioning for hypothermia?
Well, whatever it was he was doing he could go and do it somewhere else. This was not the opening sequence to a bad slasher movie, thank you very much.
Drop that, he said.
“No.”
No, certainly wasn’t a movie. Even the crappy ones had better dialogue than this. Maybe he should have started screaming or something, or have rushed to the phone only to discover the lines were down. Something blonde, anyway.
God, he thought such stupid things sometimes. Tension there: move, you bastard. Stop lurking in the goddamn doorway, let’s just get this over with. Anger there (and fear, sublimated the only way he knew how), and frantic calculation, what’s he holding, is he armed, he’s got a gun and will he shoot and gotta draw him closer, can’t do anything at that range and why isn’t he moving yet – and, somewhere behind all that, babbling giddily to itself, an undercurrent of what-the-fuck idiocy. Deep down, Ken couldn’t really believe in any of it…
And Schuldig should have been wearing some stupid mask—
Schuldig shifted, just a little. He smiled as he raised the gun, nicely as pointing a finger, hello there: bare seconds since they’d spoken and already it felt like they’d been standing there forever.
The gun was, almost, a relief.
Ken moved: discarding thought, discarding everything as he let the world close down, Letting instinct take over and leaving him with nothing. Just himself and a hostile stranger and a confined space – but it’s my space, damn it, it’s mine. You can’t have it. Get back. Get out.
(I’m supposed to be safe here, you bastard!)
Saw emotion, raw and indefinable, flash across Schuldig’s face, saw a flash of something in the German’s eyes and he was moving too, darting out from behind the door – the poker, clumsily hefted, struck the doorframe inches from Schuldig’s shoulder and Ken cursed frantically and furiously and knew he should have expected that and compensated for it and (a sickening crack and the smell of wood, and flying splinters) shit, shit, that wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to kill the doorframe!
Youji’ll be mad, that stupid little babbling voice murmured inanely. Jesus fuck, look what you did to his door. Ken, you brute.
(And God damn it, this would have been so much easier without the broken arm. Of course, if he hadn’t broken his arm Ken wouldn’t have been up here in the first place and Schuldig could have bust on into the cabin and made himself at home with no problem so that was very much a moot point, but—)
Ken cursed. Shifted his grasp on the poker and turned – a tangle of hair, half-glimpsed out of the corner of the eye; the creak of the floorboards, a droplet of water landing on his cheek – Schuldig darting back and even now he was all grace, though he was soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. Hair in his face and eyes almost playful, and smiling…
Fucking smiling, like this was some stupid game. Bastard!
Bastard. Ken swiped at him with the poker, not bothering with anything as rarefied as aim. Missed again, swung again, toward the man’s head – (kill him) – felt the poker strike something. Not the face: he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not. It had caught Schuldig’s arm, protectively raised to shield his eyes. Ken thought, shit.
Ken had been trying to kill Schuldig, or damage him at the very least: he had been trying to make the Schwarz hurt, knock him out – anyway, give himself the edge. He’d failed. What the Hell was he going to do now?
So long, world: it was nice knowing you.
Schuldig staggered back, spitting out a mouthful of English obscenities: Ken didn’t quite catch the actual words, but he picked up the tone well enough. Shit. Shit! Oh, you’re dead, Hidaka.
He raised the poker again, challengingly, threateningly. Stay back, damn it. Stay… he took a hasty step back as Schuldig snatched for the end of the poker, caught it, held it. Ken tried to step away, to pull it free. Come on, you bastard, I just hit you with this thing, how hard do you think you can – hissing a curse even he only half-heard, Ken yanked back on it, trying to jerk the poker from Schuldig’s grasp, and Schuldig let go. Just like that, he let go, and Ken—
You fucking idiot, that couldn’t have gone nicer if he’d scripted it!
Oh, and wasn’t this dignified.
Ken had lost his footing. Played right into his hands, didn’t you? Stupid goddamn – and felt himself slip, felt himself fall. Ken landed heavily on his back, legs akimbo and his right arm cradled to his chest in a desperate attempt to save it from any further damage. He hadn’t even managed to hang onto the poker: that had landed, with a heavy clatter, by Schuldig’s feet (great, gouge holes in the floorboards too, why don’t you?) and Schuldig had kicked it away; didn’t matter where, it was enough that it was out of reach.
No smile now. Schuldig was on him in seconds – a heavy, angry weight, damp hair curtaining his face, smelling of the cold. One knee pinning down his outstretched left arm, and the muzzle of the gun pressed hard against his forehead.
Somewhere, a million miles away, he thought he heard the door bang shut.
“Oh,” Ken said – his voice flat, his words understated. He realized, with no surprise at all, that he was terrified. “Well, shit.”
~*~
Bleeding. Felt it hot against his arm, the throbbing of the broken skin and the sticky dampness of the coat rubbing against it. Ken’s words and the look in his eyes. (You little fucking bastard, I should shoot you just because. Or Crawford--shove a nice big pair of practical fucking shoes right up his ass) Afraid of him—Ken was. Pinned down and suddenly at the disadvantage—hurt him, yeah, but with that look on Schuldig’s face it probably didn’t seem like such a good fucking thing to have inflicted pain.
Interesting ideas rattling around in that brain.
“Lets get a few things straight—first, I don’t want to be here with you either. Lucky us, because your cabin was closest. Second, hit me again,” he said, cold and cool, like the snow that was melting down his hair. “And I will kill you.” Pressed the gun harder to Ken’s forehead, felt the sneer on his face that was nothing like a smile.
Some thought in Ken’s head about the smell—damp fabric.
Fucking snow. “Third, I have no intention of dying in a snow storm and unless you have some objection to the continuation of your own life—I assume you don’t either.” (FUCK.) His arm was burning, pain up and down, blood had to be showing against the sleeve of the coat, felt it slipping down to his fingers now. Hand going almost numb. Schuldig rocked back, rolling back on his heels and stood up, shook his arm, felt the blood on his fingers, little droplets of it falling off and hitting the ground. (Should shoot him, in the foot or something. Wouldn’t kill him. Just hurt a lot. Would be fair.) No. “Get up. Where’s Youji’s stuff? I need clothes.” Did the good proper Japanese thing and kicked his wet shoes off, leaving them in front of the door. (Closed now, wonder when that happened.)
Ken pushing himself up, watching him—still scared, not sure what to make of this exactly. Left arm pushing him, legs doing most of the work and he was on his feet. Not talking—uncommonly quiet this right here. (Youji's clothes? Wait, he wants to wear Youji's clothes?) Looking at him, mental image gone all wrong. (Please tell me that's not gonna look as stupid as I think it is.)
Yeah, not exactly looking forward to it either. Curled his fingers up in a first, brought his left arm up, against his stomach, higher so his hand was against his chest, almost to his shoulder. Gun still in his right arm, still pointed at Ken. “Lead the way.”
Didn’t want to—didn’t want to be in this situation at all. (Because the ax-murder was so much more appealing, surely.) Didn’t want to turn his back on Schuldig. Some kind of innate ‘fuck no’ in his mind, and he was walking almost sideways, looking at him while going forward. Watching the gun, and his eyes; Ken led him to a bedroom. The bed was left slept in and a suitcase was sitting open on the bed, clothes laid on the bed. (Kudo judging what would look best, doubtlessly.)
“Sit there,” he said. Spot in the middle of the floor, away from anything that Ken might decide he could use as a weapon. Watched his indecision; ( what is this, some kind of stupid one-on-one hostage situation deal? God almighty, what a ridiculous goddamn situation, I could totally kick his ass if he didn’t have the gun.)
“But I do have it; so go sit down.”
Didn’t like that, not even a little, being told what to do. Not so much of that give in his mind, fear kind of running out when the anger came in. Being treated like a dog or something equally helpless. Could kill him—Ken could, kill him with his bare hand if he didn’t have the fucking gun. Moved, though, because the gun was there and the threat was real enough. Step one was surviving this. Moved, sat.
Schuldig walked around him, over to the bed. Looked at the clothes, sneer at them. And shifted the gun to his left hand—felt the objection in the pain. Fingers in a clumsy grip but it was good enough for its purpose. Used his right hand to pull the buttons of the coat, and shrugged it down off his shoulder. Wet drag as it slid off his arm, and shifted the gun back. Hissed through his teeth—loud in the hostile silence of the room. The coat hit the floor, his arm throbbing freshly now that it was exposed to the air. New blood to compliment the pain of it.
(Going to grow a third hand or put the gun down? Don’t think Mr. I-Don’t-See-You-Lalalalaa is going to try much when he’s staring at everything but in your general direction.) Ken sitting there; staring at the floor or the snow through the window, make a statement of how much he was not looking and pouting in his head like a three year old denied their second helping of cake. (Still scared.)
Schuldig put the gun on the bed, pulled the button of his pants and pushed them down, felt them rolling up against his thighs and jerked his leg up to get it free, and then the other. Sat down on the bed to get the holster and the shirt off, over his head, didn’t even fuck with those buttons and then the socks. (Still not looking at you. Definitely not looking. Wouldn’t look at you—could you just hurry up? It doesn’t take that long to put clothes on.)
Would have laughed at it, the cycle of thoughts rolling around in that head, but there was only so much interest in self-preservation holding that murderer in hiding in Hidaka’s mind at bay. Push it too far and it wouldn’t matter how many guns he was going against—
Picked through the pants—fuck, did Kudo own anything that wasn’t made specifically to hug his ass and ride on his hips? (And this guy is straight, right?) Found something that was probably meant to be slept in (hoped so anyway.) They were loose, probably looser on him than on Kudo. Stood up to tug them on his hips, felt them slipping lower and frowned at it. Pulled the drawstring and they tightened up—tied it (left hand fumbling and sticky with the blood drying to his skin.)
Didn’t worry about a shirt, wouldn’t stay dry with his hair dripping water down his back anyway. Picked up the gun again. “Got bandages?” Didn’t need to wait for the answer, once prompted it was in Ken’s mind and he motioned toward the door. “To the bathroom, then.”
"For fuck's sake, stop ordering me about."
“Stop pouting like a fucking three year old then. Oh, no, the mean foreigner is in my house! The horror! You’re the one that attacked me, all I wanted was a place to stay until the fucking snow stopped. Believe it or not I don’t really give a shit about you or your deep secret mission to rid the world of dark beasts! Kill all the fucking people you want, good for you.” (Head starting to hurt now. Not many thoughts, but the cold—hated snow. Arm hurting mightily now. Bruising darker and still oozing blood.
"Then put the gun away, you've made your point."
(Yeah, put it down, not like he’s still got a weapon—oh, right. His weapons are kind of attached to the rest of him. Might want to spend more time in the gym and this sort of situation wouldn’t paint you in such a skinny white light, huh?) Schuldig considered it, fingers flexing against the warm handle of the gun. (Or keep it and push him a little farther. That fear isn’t so strong anymore, now he’s getting more annoyed. A cover, maybe—maybe not. Want to play the odds?) “Let’s assume I’m not stupid. The gun stays with me. You don’t try to kill me and I’ll stop pointing it at you.” Bent down and picked up the holster, shook his shirt loose from it. Slipped it back on—wet against his skin, not going to be comfortable for long—and put the gun back.
"Well, I hope you like pointing guns at people. 'Cause you're gonna be doing it one hell of a lot." Snide and nearly hateful look on his face. (Thinking he would have liked to hurt more than just your arm—hurt you enough that no amount of bandages in this world would make it better. Cute that.) And then he was on his feet, heading toward the bathroom with classic obedience. Out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the bathroom. Ken standing back against the wall, shoulder leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest. Glaring at him.
Schuldig found the bandages in the cabinet next to the mirror. All the necessary supplies—figured. Had to wash it first and not even slightly looking forward to that. Turned the water on—almost all hot—and looked around and found a cloth on a shelf. Dropped it in the sink, looked over at Ken and then back. Turned a little more cold water on and bent down, arm under the running water. Almost too warm still and it burned running over the split in the skin. Water running rusty red down the drain. (Fucking whores.) Picked the rag up and scrubbed at his elbow, and then lower down on his wrist and his hand. Lifted his arm up and looked at it. (A little more force and he’d have broken it and you would be completely fucked.)
Ran the rag over the broken skin, fresh blood and new pain. (Ken behind him looking for something nearby to hit him with. Something heavy enough to bust his skull and bring an end to this home invasion nonsense—an abrupt realization in there somewhere. Oh, but he’s a telepath, and that stopped. Angrier now. Leaning back against the wall, recrossing his arms.) Could see the spread of the split skin. Didn’t look good.
Pulled the disinfectant out of the cabinet, used his fingers to twist the cap off and poured it over the wound—FUCK—eyes closing, teeth gritted down tight and left hand curling up into a fist tight enough he could feel his fingernails digging down into the skin of his palm. Waited until the pain faded back into a pulse, hot up and down his arm—and then poured more over it.
(Really, just shoot him. Somewhere where he won’t die. The hand, blow a finger off—he won’t bleed to death with a missing finger.)
Waited until the tightness in his jaw relaxed enough he could talk and rinsed his arm again and looked back at Ken. “I assume you know how to take care of wounds.”
No reply for that then flat look, short clipped laugh and (bitch, are you for real?)
“Good. Then do it.”
“You must be out of your mind,” no change to the expression or the level of disbelief in his mind. Absolutely no compulsion to do what he was (told) asked.
(It would be positively unthinkable to do this with any level of ease, wouldn’t it.) Still better than freezing to death. Pulled the gun out of the holster again, pointed it at him. “Please.” (Don’t think that works the same at gunpoint.)
~*~
Oh, he said please, well wasn’t that nice of him.
For a single, suspended moment Ken just looked at Schuldig. At his face: his expression, a symphony in varying shades of pissed the fuck off. Pain in those narrow eyes, a waxy cast to his cheeks and a slight sheen of sweat on the brow and Ken knew he could have taken the guy easily even with the cast, but it wasn’t even worth thinking that, not when – looked at his pale hand, holding the gun. No tremor there: nothing but cool, iron-sure confidence.
And this was a stupid fucking thing to get himself shot over. To survive – well, everything, only to finish in Youji’s cabin in the middle of a goddamn blizzard because he didn’t want to play private nurse for some psychotic German…
Ken hated to admit it, but the gun was one Hell of a productivity incentive.
“Whatever,” he said irritably. Then – touch of bravado, watch your mouth, Kenken, “But you better not expect me to kiss it better, asshole.”
"Color me relieved.” No inflection there at all. “Never know what you've been putting in your mouth."
Looked at him for another long moment. Then – “Jesus Christ,” – reached across to the cabinet for gauze and a roll of crepe bandage and some kind of antibiotic cream: the first thing that came to hand and It had better be useful, I’m not going back there for – oh, steristrips, right.
He turned back to the cupboard and where the Hell had he left them, anyway? He found, after an embarrassing, awkward rummage through what felt like half a ton of assorted medical supplies, a single stray unopened packet half-hidden behind a packet of painkillers. Dropping the steristrips by the sink and gazing down at the roll of crepe in his hand, as if he couldn’t quite work out where it had come from or what he was supposed to be doing with it, Ken reminded himself to remind Youji to refill the cabinet sometime soon.
If he survived this, of course, and the way he was going that wasn’t looking – well, he could always leave Youji a note.
Okay, to Hell with the fine print. Forget the gun. Forget that this is Schuldig and you’d far rather take this roll of crepe and strangle him with it than dress his booboos and pat him on the head and send him running off to eat all your food and kill you. Pretend this is normal – that it’s Omi or somebody. It’s not like this is anything new to you, Hidaka and God, but this was going to be a bitch to dress, what with the plaster cast.
(Yeah. Pretend you’re not afraid.)
Dear Youji, I have been shot by Schuldig, hope you had a good evening. PS: Buy steristrips.
Ken, his own eyes uncertain, his lips slightly parted as if to frame a question – where were the words? Couldn’t find the words all of a sudden – met Schuldig’s eyes, just for a second. Then, taking a deep breath and dropping his head, he reached for the antiseptic, concentrating on the weal at Schuldig’s wrist.
Looked nasty. Looked painful. He’d have to mind how he touched it. The skin around the wound was already starting to swell, to turn purple. Schuldig was going to have a bastard of a bruise there come the morning. As he clumsily uncapped the antibiotic, squeezing it directly onto Schuldig’s wrist (clumsy, used far too much: Ken snatched for a washcloth, wiped the excess off) he was glad he’d already got the steristrips: he was definitely going to need them.
This is ridiculous, first you hit the guy with a poker and now you’re rubbing cream into his bruises and bandaging him up. After this, you’re probably gonna try and kill him again… But he’s got a gun, it’s not like I just decided to play Doctors with the bastard.
Well, fair’s fair. Now we’ve both got an injured arm.
"You're not stupid enough not to know that hurts—and I'm not patient enough to care if you're nervous."
Shit. Ken flinched, lifting his hands from Schuldig’s arm as if his skin had burned, gasped audibly as he felt the kiss of metal: the muzzle of the gun, grazing against his forehead. Schuldig pressing just hard enough to be emphatic. Hard enough to chill the skin and leave Ken wondering, inanely, if there would be a mark there, afterward. A bruise, perhaps. Or an indentation, pale with pressure.
Or a hole in your head, Ken.
Ken heard himself say, “Sorry.” His voice sounded brittle, fragile as spun glass.
Swallowing, he forced himself to concentrate on Schuldig’s arm. The cream, he thought, would probably be fine as it was. It seemed to take him a long time to open the packet of steristrips: he told himself it was the cast, and the cream on his fingers was making it hard to grip. He – they’d definitely need more – probably used too many for Schuldig’s little cut, but—
Okay, okay, just grab the gauze and get on with it, anyone would think you liked bandaging this bastard’s bruises, the time you’re taking over it.
Carefully, he placed the gauze on top of the wound. Carefully, letting the fingers of his broken arm rest atop the pad, he wrapped the crepe around Schuldig’s forearm and why couldn’t the guy put the gun down for a second? Just to hold the pad in place? I wouldn’t try anything, I just want to – not that it mattered, it was done, it was as good as it was going to get. Ken lifted his head, stepped back a pace, absently rubbed at the spot on his forehead where the muzzle of the gun had rested.
“Um.” Ken spoke only to fill the silence. “Do you need any painkillers or – something?”
Yeah, conciliate with the bastard. That’s pretty pathetic of you, Hidaka.
(I just don’t want to get shot.)
It had been the wrong thing to say. Why, Ken didn’t know, but Schuldig didn’t reply at first. The man just looked at him, his expression frankly murderous – Ken backed off another pace, cast about himself for something large and heavy to hide behind, something a little smaller to throw.
“No,” he said.
“Well, all right then, um…” Ken glanced briefly toward the door, longing to bolt. Fuck snowstorms, and fuck cabins in the mountains too. Who was it had told Youji it was a good idea to buy any place out of screaming distance of the nearest neighbor? “What now?”
“Now?” Schuldig echoed. Stepping away from the sink, he tucked the gun back in its holster, then raked a handful of damp hair from his face, an entirely pointless action as it all fell back into place the minute he lifted it away. "Now you go be a good boy and do whatever the fuck you want."
And then he turned and left.
For a moment Ken simply stood there, gazing over his shoulder at the empty doorframe, listening to Schuldig’s footfalls as he padded off down the hall, the creak of a floorboard as he descended the stairs. Stood and stared, and wondered – did the guy really just leave me alone? He couldn’t be that confident he’d do what he was told. Surely Schuldig, a highly alive bodyguard-assassin-dark-beast-what-the-Hell-ever, couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Well, could he?
He’s a telepath, Ken reminded himself, sitting down cautiously on the edge of the bath. You can’t try anything with a telepath with a gun. He’ll know what you’re thinking and shoot you before you’ve even gotten near. Just be a good boy like the man says and maybe he’ll be nice and decide not to kill you after all. (Petulant little thought there: I’m supposed to be resting. I’m meant to be on holiday here. This is so unfair, when was the last time I had any kind of a break? Gonna need another vacation after this one’s done.)
Yeah, but – hope springing, as ever, eternal – maybe he can’t, well… hear me or whatever the Hell it is he has to do if he’s far away. Maybe the reception goes all crappy, like when a cell phone goes out of range.
Maybe. Maybe not.
But it wasn’t like he had any better ideas, and it wasn’t like he was going to play maidservant to that bastard Schuldig until the weather got its act together. At least he’d be doing something.
Ken got to his feet, slipping out of the bathroom and back down the hall. Down the stairs and out into the living area, as warm and bright as ever, a veritable cliché of coziness. He hesitated at the foot of the stairs for a moment, his unbandaged hand resting on the balustrade, as he glanced about himself. Nothing. No sign of Schuldig, and there he’d been expecting the guy to make himself comfortable, perhaps with a few beers. No sound, even: apart from the fallen poker, the scarred wood about the doorframe and a few puddles on the floor, there was no sign that Schuldig had even arrived.
Ken bent, hefting the poker again: for a moment he considered it, but it had been pretty damn useless last time. He needed something a little easier to use one-handed, and none of this stupid business about having to get a good swing on the thing. He dropped the poker back by the fireplace.
Carefully, he peered into the small kitchen, trying to look like he was merely wondering if he should be a good host and offer Schuldig some coffee, or perhaps a nice warming soup. No, no Schuldig in there either. Well, that suited Ken fine.
Picked up a meat cleaver. No, that would be overkill. A bread knife? Too blunt. A little knife would be easier to hide – he could always palm it or something, hide it up his sleeve, if he had a sleeve, try and catch Schuldig off-guard. No, he’d have to get in too close and how many times, Ken, you can’t catch a telepath off-guard. Not like that, anyway. No, had to be something big, or big enough, just so he could be sure of doing some damage.
He finally settled on a carving knife, one of a set, and tested the blade against the ball of his thumb.
“Ow!”
Great. Ken licked a droplet of blood from his thumb, frowning slightly. Now all he needed was Schuldig.
~*~
(Watch that, sign of weakness.) Didn’t think it mattered at this point; it had become more than a little obvious that it was a point of weakness given that the moron who busted his arm open had just spent the past five minutes fumbling through dressing it. Making sure to press nice and hard against it for extra fun.
Bastard.
Fucking bastard.
(Be a good boy you tell him and yet, here you are, pulling open the closet door, oh, look how nicely they fold their linens.) All the appearance of a nice closet, full of perfectly innocent blankets and towels. Kind of like a group of assassins arranging pretty flowers for a living. Never think to look any farther than that. Ken Hidaka—why no, he’s entirely too cute and wonderful and good with flowers to ever want to hurt a living thing. (Oh, and he likes kids too. Couldn’t possibly be a cold-blooded assassin if you liked kids.) Right, Farfarello liked kids too, sometimes for hours.
Schuldig reached his hand in, scooped the neatly folded sheets forward, felt them falling against his legs and reached in farther, fingers brushing against the false back. Slipped his finger into the notch at the top of it and pulled it forward, hinges opening noisily. Not been used enough, a safety precaution installed but never taken advantage of.

Had to bend down to look in. Not much left in there. A shuriken lying in dust. Flashlight, roll of monofilament. Rope. (Used to be more there, but used it up after the last mission, should replace it and might have if they intended to use it for that purpose again, but didn’t have the time. Too busy, what with Takatori and all and—) Schuldig pulled the rope out, picked the sheets up and tossed them back in, tumbling back into the hidden space, rustling up the dust. And closed the closet.
(In the kitchen, picking his weapon.) Cherish the predictability of your enemies. Some lesson he’d learned a long time ago and was depressed about even to this day. Couldn’t just let it go, Ken couldn’t. Had to make a big deal of it, justified in his own brain because Schuldig was the bad guy. And he was going to kill him even if he said he wouldn’t. It’s what bad guys did. And he’d killed Ouka anyway—or was there, set it up, did something like that. Kidnapped Omi.
Was a bad guy because he worked for Takatori and Takatori was a bad guy. Clearly he was going to murder him.
Right.
Yohji’s room wasn’t going to work. Solid headboard, nothing else that would hold. Schuldig kept his left arm close against his waist, let the rope slide down over his right hand and it settled around his elbow. Down the hall and into the room Ken was using. Nice and tidy, clothes in the closet. Bed made neatly.
Metal headboard. Square, lots of bars and a footboard too. Schuldig grinned at it. Oh, fate was disgustingly kind to this guy, wasn’t it? (Gonna tie him to his own bed? Does that seem just a bit too—) Wouldn’t have to if Ken had just behaved himself. Lowered his arm to let the rope slip down and worked at the knot keeping it in its nice loop. Needed it in two pieces, one for his hands, one for his feet—(and how nice of Ken to bring a knife for you to cut it with, right?)
Heard the footsteps on the stairs, quiet murmur of his mind, curiosity, bit of fear—wondering if he’d really get away with it. Figured he might have an element of surprise. Figured maybe the pain was working against Schuldig’s telepathy or—
Schuldig had his back to the door when Ken turned the corner, silently cross the floor, let him get close and then turned his head, looking over his shoulder, a sigh into the air. “You are far too predictable.” Turned him off—simple little thing like holding your mouth over someone’s mouth—felt his mind struggle, all at once a violent shudder and held the control—easy. Twenty six seconds and the knife dropped, Ken’s eyes fluttering closed and he fell. Limp body hitting the floor, shoulder, elbow, head hit first, hip, knee and the slid down.
Good night, Kenken. Schuldig turned around, bent down and picked the knife up, judged the rope at about half way through and sawed through it. Tossed it over at the bed and dropped the knife back on the floor, kicked it under the bed.
(Yeah, go ahead, pick him up. I’d love to see this. One busted arm and even if it weren’t busted you’d still barely be able to get his ass off that floor.)
He bent down, grabbed Ken by the good arm and pulled, tugging him across the floor, over next to the bed and stopped there. (Fucking heavy, he is.) Bent down again, hands grabbing Ken by the armpits. Pulled, lifting him off the ground—that cut on his arm pulling and burning again—arms quivering with the effort—sweat popping out on his forehead. Got him almost as high as the bed, shoved him over onto it. Watched Ken slipping off the bed and spit a curse word at his unconscious body.
Knelt again, arms around his ribs now, pressure against the wound—new blood again, how fun—and hefted him up higher, working him onto the bed farther. The limpness of his body making it that much more difficult as his useless hands got caught in the sheets and stalled the movement. (Really hate this kid now. Really.) Got a better grip and raised the body higher, one big shove and got him half on the bed. Enough that he wasn’t falling off anymore. Stood back and sucked in a breath, sweat heavy under his hair, down his back. Felt the blush of heat on his cheeks. (Pathetic, really.)
Went around to the other side of the bed, crawling across it and reached down to drag Ken’s leg up, and then again to get the other one up. Awkward ass angle, there. Hoped it hurt when the dumb ass woke up. Schuldig rested for a second, leaning back against the headboard, arm throbbing again. Blood spots showing on the bandage.
“Asshole,” he remarked to the body.
Ken didn’t seem to care.
Rolling him over was much simpler. Just a matter of dragging the blankets out from under him and turning him. Started with his right hand, looping the cord of the rope through the hole where Ken’s thumb was and then around the cast, tied it off (just like they taught you to, right? Patented Rosenkreuz knot right here, nobody was getting that bitch loose.) Rope up around the bars of the bed, curled three times and down, around his other wrist. Tight enough his hand couldn’t slip through it—would rip the skin if he tried too hard.
Schuldig rocked back, looked down at Ken. (You do realize you’re straddling a man who is unconscious for an undetermined amount of time and doesn’t particularly like you, right? Find this odd?) Climbed off Ken and grabbed the other length of rope. Pulled his socks off (fucking bastard could have cold feet all night) and repeated the knots around his ankles. Had to push his jeans up on his calves—(and those are what muscles look like.)
Stood back and looked over this handiwork. Ran his fingers through his hair, felt the stickiness of the sweat and raked it up into a ponytail, held it loosely in his fist and waited for Ken to wake up.
~*~
Opened his eyes—
(Well, you appear to still be alive. This probably isn’t a positive thing, given your present company. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you goddamn idiot. How many times, Hidaka? Optimism is really bad for your health.)
A quick mental inventory told him that yes, he was still alive and in one piece and that was about the best he could hope for, given the circumstances. Pain in one shoulder. Slight nagging feeling in one of his wrists, something pressing against his thumb and his feet were cold, too. Wasn’t lying right. Something was off about this picture, something was very, very off – Ken blinked. Once, twice: trying to clear his vision and it was hardly worth it, not when there was nothing to see. Just the ceiling, familiar to the point of sameiness: even the pattern of cracks were all too familiar.
He was in his own bedroom, or what passed for it up here, lying on his own bed. Somehow, this didn’t feel positive either.
He’d tried to kill Schuldig, hadn’t he? Or rather, again. Yes, that was it, tried to kill Schuldig again and, once again, he’d failed pretty damn miserably without the guy really laying a finger on him and make that the second time this has happened in just under half an hour. (And yet you appear to be breathing. You should think about that one sometime.) Ken had tried to kill Schuldig and now he was lying on his back on his bed and someone had taken his socks.
There was something very off about this position. The thing pressing against his thumb – felt like someone had stuck a pencil inside his cast. No, not a pencil, and not just someone either. Like Schuldig had taken a length of rope and drawn it through there and Mary Mother of God.
Fuck. I, Ken thought, don’t think I like the look of this.
Rope. In the spirit of experimentation, tilting back his head to get a better look at his hands, he pulled on one of his wrists: a bit of give there and – ow, shit – a corresponding tug back, and sudden pain. Rope about his wrists, running up to the bed head: he could get a decent glimpse of it now. Shit. (Should have used your right arm, you stupid ass: no, that would probably have hurt more.) Ken tried to raise one knee and found out the hard way why that wasn’t going to work, either. Not much give there, and tight knots, like Schuldig meant business. He did mean business. Schuldig had bound him hand and foot, then tied him to his bed.

(Well, something small and infuriating pointed out, all obstinate reason, you did just try and kill him. Twice. What’s he supposed to do, smack you on the wrist and tell you not to do it again? But he did do that, more or less, and it didn’t work. What’s Schuldig supposed to do with you, Kenken, really?)
No, I don’t like the look of this one little bit.
(Now isn’t that convenient. Use your brain, Hidaka – you can do that, can’t you? Your liking it would kind of defeat the point.)
Schuldig said, from somewhere just out of eyeshot, "You need to work on your definition of 'good boy'."
Do I, Ken thought. Do I really. There were a lot of things he could have said in response to that, but what he actually said was, “You bastard. You’re fucking lucky you tied me up. I’m going to fucking kill you.”
What, really? You’ve already failed twice. Well, third time lucky. Even so, Ken had to admit that, as far as persuasive arguments for why he shouldn’t be tied to his bed went, maybe this one kind of lacked a certain something.
"Again?” Schuldig asked. Sigh there. Irritation. If he turned his head Ken could just about see him, standing by the door with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of Yohji’s pants. He looked perfectly at home there. Anyone would have thought he owned the place, and Ken was the uninvited (and frankly unwanted) house guest. Ken cursed softly under his breath, shifting uneasily. “Are we really going to have to keep repeating this?"
“What do you think? Let me go, God damn it.”
(Nope, that argument still lacks something. Ken? You’re an idiot.)
"So you can fucking kill me? No." And Schuldig smiled, and his smile was a dirty joke. "Drop 'kill' and I'll consider it."
Ken opened his mouth to reply – something forgettable and needlessly nasty on the tip of his tongue, but the words died on his lips. He – Jesus Christ, had Schuldig really suggested… Ken stared at Schuldig in open amazement and, to his own embarrassment, felt himself start to blush. “If I—Jesus Christ, what the Hell is the matter with you? Your pickup tactics need serious fucking work!”
"I was attempting redirection; it's supposed to work to guide behavior to more productive or acceptable goals. But you seem to be incapable of the common maturity of a three year old--so let’s call this time out." Schuldig turned to the door, gave Ken a wave that, somehow, managed to come across as snide. Something of an achievement, that: it was only a wave. "I'm going to get something to eat."
He walked out, and quietly shut the door behind him. The latch engaged with a single gentle click.
Bastard.
Bastard, Ken thought: he considered shouting it after Schuldig, shouting anything at all, but he didn’t. Wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction, though what satisfaction it could possibly have given him Ken couldn’t begin to imagine…
Maybe it wouldn’t satisfy him. Ever think about that, Ken? Maybe he doesn’t care what he does to you just as long as he can get something to eat without having to worry about getting his throat cut in payment. Maybe he’s sick of sharing space with someone who can’t be trusted and can you blame him for that, Ken? He hasn’t killed you: ever wondered why?
(Even dark beasts need to put their feet up.)
Shut up. Ken tugged at the rope about his wrists again, more forcefully this time. Bit of slack there and God, but Schuldig had calculated that well: just enough slack that he could shift his weight a bit, but not enough to allow for anything useful. No give in the knots. (Schuldig had definitely meant business. Fucking asshole.) Could barely move his legs at all – and tell me that doesn’t make you feel vulnerable, Ken, lying on your back with your goddamn legs apart…
Shit. Shit, this was ridiculous. Ken cursed again, under his breath, wrenching at the rope: the bed head creaked, alarmingly loudly, the mattress pitched slightly, but apart from that and a pain in his wrist he achieved nothing. Deep down, he could already tell that struggling was useless.
It was only stubbornness, and barely repressed-fear, that made him keep trying anyway.
It was pain and exhaustion that made him stop.
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Baby, It's Cold Outside