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Mind Games and Coffee	By : Solaras Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 5491 -:- 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
- 13
- 14
Disclaimer: Weiss
Kreuz is not mine. All its characters and affiliates are also not
mine. Nothing involving Weiss Kreuz is mine. Sadly this is true.

Author’s Notes: Beware Brad being a bit of a manipulative
bastard, but other than that enjoy. And
again sorry for the wait, but we all know I’m a terrible author. *sigh*

Review Responses:

Darkephoenix – Hope
this will continue to be fabulous *prays* enjoy the new chapter.

annime
– Starting to hit on their situation in light of coming events, but Crawford
will be Crawford.

eMu3 – Imagining what Crawford’s power is like
makes my head hurt :P but I try. (And
seriously WTF is that room?!)

Tryster – 100
reviews!! Celebrate good times, come on! I feel I should do
something for this. Any requests? A one-shot of your choice perhaps? And yes, the love
handle line still makes me crack up too. I was in the zone that day.

~telepathy~ aka communicating as
in intentionally projecting

/thoughts/ aka Schuldig reading someone’s mind as in not
intentionally projecting (Schuldig is eavesdropping)

German Words:

Komm raus – come out

wo bist du – where are you

Arschloch - asshole

Verpiss dich – Fuck off
(basically)

was auch immer-
whatever

Chapter Fourteen:

            “Crawford!”

            “Crawford!”
Schuldig yelled, as he shoved the door open and sent it crashing into the
wall. Farfarello sidestepped the door’s
rebound, and entered the apartment behind the enraged telepath. Nagi, who had been watching TV from the
couch, watched in confusion as Schuldig stormed past him and down the hall.

            “What’s he
upset about?” asked Nagi. “Weren’t you
two going to go mess with Weiss?”

            “Things
didn’t go as planned,” said Farfarello, whose gaze followed Schuldig, as he
first walked into the kitchen (from which came the sound of glass breaking) and
then out again. “Someone died who
shouldn’t have.”

            “Crawford! Komm raus!

            “Both of
you came back, so who could have died?”

            “Oka,” Farfarello said, and Nagi’s face paled
at the implications; an angry Takatori could turn into an angry Estet. “The little girl’s death hurts God, but it may
hurt Schwarz, as well.”

            “Crawford
said nothing?” Nagi asked, and his gaze turned to the hallway.

            “Crawford, wo bist du!”

            “Let’s go
out to dinner,” said Farfarello. “They
will be loud.”

            “Shouldn’t
we wait?”

            “Crawford, sie arschloch!”

            “There’s
nothing for us to do, and they can get their own dinner,” Farfarello said, but
Nagi still hesitated. “Crawford will
sort it out. His plans are his own.”

            “Fine,”
Nagi sighed. “Let’s go to Yoshinoya, and you can fill me in on what happened; and
since it’s probably your fault, you can buy me gyudon.”

* * * * * *

            Sitting behind
his desk, his elbows rested on the polished wood with his hands raised, and his
entwined fingers lightly pressed underneath his nose and against his lips; Brad
Crawford heard the front door close behind two of Schwarz’s number. He could hear Schuldig’s path of destruction
through the apartment, and his increasingly vulgar language. Schuldig could speak several languages, and
could pick words out of a native’s head if he didn’t, but he never immersed
himself in them. Brad’s accent was
flawless, no matter the language, but Schuldig’s words always seemed slightly
off; and the less he focused, the more German bled in.

            No matter
the place, Schuldig stood out as a foreigner; even though, as a child (orphan,
all of them in someway) of Rosenkruez, he owed no allegiance to any
country. The busier the city, the more
Schuldig stood out. The louder the
minds, the more Schuldig screamed back.
No record existed of ‘Schuldig’ being born in Germany,
but Brad doubted the birth certificate, wherever it was, carried that name. ‘Schuldig’ was the word the telepath knew
meant himself, just as German was the language he remembered speaking
first. Schuldig kept the pieces of
himself close, just as he kept bits and pieces of things to help him remember:
ratty t-shirts, old CDs, the odd photo, presents from the rest of Schwarz;
reminders of himself for himself. Although his stuff looked a mess, everything
had a place. With every move, Schuldig
demanded a chest-of-drawers with the same number of drawers; put his coffee mug
on the bottom shelf of the cabinet next to the sink; and put his pill bottles
in the bathroom medicine cabinet, second shelf, same order, all labeled in
German. For all the
whirlwind that Schuldig was, swayed by a million thoughts from a million other
minds, always flitting from here to there with the attention span of a gnat;
there existed a streak of order to the chaos of Schuldig. And amongst all of Schuldig’s collecting,
there was Brad; a silent center, who knew the word ‘Schuldig’ when its owner
forgot, and spoke German with a flawless tone.

            The banging
on the office door grew in intensity, as if the perpetrator sensed Brad rising
from his chair. Unlocking and opening
the door, Crawford dodged the fist that flew through the opening. He caught Schuldig’s wrist in a bruising grip
and wrenched his arm behind his back. Heedless
of the pain, Schuldig’s other arm came around to finish what the other had
started, but Crawford knew Schuldig’s next move before it came. With both arms restrained, Crawford pushed a
thrashing Schuldig into the wall, trapping his legs with his own. Schuldig struggled and cursed, and Brad held him
crushed to the wall until, realizing the futility of fighting a precog without
the rare element of surprise, Schuldig stilled; his mouth an angry line and
breathing rapidly through his nose.

            “You’re a
bastard,” Schuldig said with thinly veiled rage.

            “Perhaps,”
Brad replied calmly

            “You
could’ve said something.”

            “I did.”

            “You
could’ve been more specific,” Schuldig hissed.

            “Why are
you angry, Schuldig?” Brad asked against Schuldig’s ear. “Surely, you don’t care if she’s dead.”

            “Of course not,” Schuldig snarled, twisting and failing to
head-butt Crawford. “The whiny
bitch can roast in hell along with her fat letch of a father!”

            “Then why?”

            “Takatori’s
going to be out for blood over this.
Ours! And the first call he’s
going to make will be to Estet. They’re
going to decide that we’re complete fuck-ups, who jeopardized their Japanese
contact, and let Takatori rip our balls off through our throats! What do you think, I’m upset over!”

            “Don’t you
trust me?”

            “I’m
fucking tired of you saying that!”
Schuldig yelled, and started pushing back against Crawford and yanking
at his arms. Brad tightened his grip,
feeling bones grind, and rested his forehead against the back of Schuldig’s
head, nose buried in his hair. Mind open
just enough, Brad encircled the telepath’s mind with his own shields. Schuldig sagged against him, mouth open in a
silent gasp. Brad could feel Schuldig’s
consciousness, strange and familiar, just outside his own; so close, he could
reach out and pull him in completely and leave Schuldig’s body, with it’s poor
shielding, an empty shell. Distracted,
Brad breathed in the smell of Schuldig’s shampoo and left him in his own head,
shielded and protected, but whole.

            “Trust me,”
Brad said quietly, but behind the wall that still separated their thoughts, the
words sound differently. Need me.
“Let him hit you and bruise you.
Let him grow tired and emotional.
Make him weak and vulnerable, and I swear I’ll make sure he dies. He’ll die and Estet won’t look twice at us.”

            “I hate
you,” Schuldig breathed, and something twisted painfully in Brad’s chest.

            “Trust me,”
he said more firmly.

            “I fucking
hate you.”

            “I know.”

            “I really
do.”

            “Trust me.”

            “Ja.”

* * * * * *

            The world
tilted and spun in sideways revolutions.
The floor replaced the ceiling; a tightly woven green carpet, office
grade. Today Schuldig remembered an
almost forgotten lesson: when hitting the floor, the floor hits back. Takatori had started his enraged beating on
Farfarello, who had been more annoyed than pained by anything bruised or
broken. The swings, when they came, were
less severe and more tired for Schuldig.
The last swing of the golf club, however, fueled by a deep reserve of
grief and anger, had slammed into the side of Schuldig’s head.

            Schuldig
knew well the speed with which time could move; the fleeting seconds that raced
by and into eternity. He had chased
time, moved faster and easier, and watched as time itself seemed to slow for
his opponent. Schuldig had lost time as
well, surfacing from the swell of minds beyond his own to find the day long
gone. Rare, however, was the slow drag
of time.

            The cold
curve of metal pressed itself into Schuldig’s cheek, just missing his
temple. His flesh dented and remolded
around the foreign object. The
unyielding bone, forced to give ground, cracked. Time, it seemed, had forgotten Schuldig. Instead of carrying him along at his usual
breakneck speed, time left the telepath behind.
The split-second of contact dragged into forever, as the clubhead
dragged along his cheek. The flesh tore
in the wake of contact. The layers of
skin ripped and separated, followed by red moisture beading and seeping.

            Schuldig’s
neck turned to the side, and his spine released a sharp cracking noise. Time unfroze.
His body twisted to follow the path of the club, and as Schuldig’s knees
left the ground; his face replaced them.
Nose pressed into the coarse olive weave, Schuldig’s only semi-coherent
thought (he presumes it’s his) was how badly his coat must clash.

            Supported
by his right arm, the one not busy forming bruised knots to match his face,
Schuldig levered himself up. Takatori’s
mouth was moving, but Schuldig couldn’t catch the words. He blinked, again, and once more, but all he
heard was roaring: too many thoughts, too many voices, streamed into his
mind. Disoriented, the white noise
threatened to drown him. Schuldig closed
his eyes, and tried to pull away from the dizzying nausea, tried to float above
the clamor in his head. Thoughts, words
not his own, formed and surged out of the noise to claw at him, pierce and
divide his consciousness.

            Eyes open,
Schuldig sought out Brad. The club came
down again, but he didn’t feel the hit.
Vibrations shook him, and he managed to focus on Nagi. The club struck again, but once more just
vibrations, like someone pounding the other side of an invisible wall. When the club ceased to return, Schuldig slid
his gaze away from Nagi; his head drunkenly following the roll of his eyes. Crawford stared back from the other side of
the raised golf club. He was speaking,
his mouth moving, to Takatori who still gripped the club, but he watched
Schuldig. He shook his head at
something, and refocused his gaze on Takatori.

            Schuldig
heard none of the conversation, and couldn’t focus enough to pick their minds;
but from the tilt of Brad’s head and the slant of his eyes, Crawford was using
his own brand of manipulation to sway Takatori to a new viewpoint, soft words
with sharp intent. Schuldig watched as
king and pawn traded places in this game of human chess. Crawford’s calm and control would seem even
more rational in the face of Takatori’s grief muddled mind. The would-be king released the club, and
balled his fists. Under Crawford’s thin
smile, Takatori fled the room. Outside
the door, he gestured violently, and several ‘suits’ jumped to follow him or
hurry ahead.

            Closing his
eyes, Schuldig let his head fall back.
He tried again to let the invading thoughts drift into useless noise,
and to collect himself above it all. A
hand cupped the back of his head, and he was alone in his head. It wasn’t the ‘Symphony,’ as there was no
background noise either. There were no
thoughts at all, save his own. Silence. Schuldig opened his eyes, and looked through
glass into the amber eyes of Brad. For
once, Schuldig was sure, the other man hid nothing. His mouth remained twisted in an amused
smile, and his eyes shone with malicious triumph.

            “Schuldig,”
he said, “well done. As they say, kings
to you and Farfarello.”

            “Checkmate,”
replied Schuldig hoarsely.

            “For this match. Now
we sit and watch the final fatal moves.”

            “I still hate
you, Crawford.”

            “I know,”
Brad said. His smile softened into
something less sinister. ~But you still
need me.~ Schuldig narrowed his
eyes, but didn’t protest when Crawford helped him off the floor. The hand on the back of his head slid down
his back and under his arm. Crawford
slung Schuldig’s other arm around his neck.
“Nagi, you can drive home.”

            “Gott, I’m going to die after all,” Schuldig rasped.

            “I drive better than you do, Schuldig,” said Nagi, as Crawford’s car
keys lifted out of his coat pocket and floated to Nagi’s hand.

            “Farfarello?”
Crawford asked, glancing behind him.
“All intact?”

            “Of
course,” Farfarello replied, “Takatori is but a sheep among us wolves.”

            “Easy for
you to say, psychotic nut job,” sneered Schuldig.

            “Not my
fault you’re a bleeder.”

            “I could
kill you with my brain, you deranged blender.”

            “Try it.”

            “I’m not
carrying either of your corpses,” interjected Nagi.

            “Neither
will I,” said Brad, intentionally jarring Schuldig,
who gripped his head.

            “Rain
check,” moaned Schuldig.

            “The good
pills tonight, I should think,” said Brad.

            “I’d rather
not be unconscious, when Takatori comes and kills me,” grumbled Schuldig.

            “Schuldig.”

            “Verpiss dich.”

            “Schuldig,
trust me.”

            “Was auch immer,”
Schuldig replied, but tightened his hold on Brad and received an echo from the
arm around him. His body ached, but his
mind was quiet.

End Chapter

End Notes:

            I had some
trouble with this chapter, but I think it came out well. What do you all think? Thanks for stopping by. :)

Solaras
- 13
- 14
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Mind Games and Coffee