The Prisoner's Dilemma

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Weiss Kreuz characters. Siren and Hacker, however, are all mine.


Schuldig hummed, loudly and off-key, as he rubbed the towel against his hair. He used his other hand to wipe away condensation from the bathroom mirror. It would probably leave streaks, which would piss Nagi off. Keeping the bathroom sparkling was one of the kid's chores. Schuldig smirked at the thought. He gave his reflection a serious appraisal. Still a bit paler than he'd like, but the skin was healthy and smooth and his eyes had lost the dull look they'd sported after his illness. He let his gaze travel lower, studying the hard planes of his lean chest and abdomen, looked lower still. No complaints there. Leering at the image in the mirror, he blew himself a kiss and wrapped the towel around his waist. He'd look good tonight. He was ready.

It was past time for Schuldig to get out of the apartment for something other than bullshit errands or missions. Hell, Crawford had spent a few hours away from Schwartz last night on "personal business", so Schuldig felt entitled to his own evening off. Increasing the volume of his tuneless humming as he opened the bathroom door, Schuldig sauntered to his bedroom to get dressed.

Once he looked sufficiently fuckable, Schuldig grabbed his keys from the bowl he'd taken to keeping them in and left his room. A few mumbled German words mingled with his humming. Passing Farfarello's room, he saw the madman sitting cross-legged on the floor, reverently sharpening one of his favorite knives. In the next room down the hall, Nagi sat in the dark, hunched in front of his computer screen. Just another rockin' Saturday night at the Schwartz household.

In the living room, Crawford sat ramrod straight in the armchair, legs crossed macho American-style, apparently absorbed in his issue of The Economist. Schuldig's eyes were drawn to the bristle of short dark hairs at the back of the man's neck, then to the stiff set of broad shoulders. He gently nudged Crawford's mind, encountering nothing but the void created by thick shields, of course. Schuldig put a little swing into his hips in time with his humming as he made his way to the entry where his shoes were waiting. As he slipped them on, he felt the weight of eyes on his back, but when he turned around, Crawford's face was still stuck in the magazine.

"Going out?" Crawford asked from behind his periodical.

"Yeah. I know you'll miss me, but don't wait up."

Crawford turned a glossy page. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Well, Brad," Schuldig said, lowering his voice to a husky register, "you could always come with me to protect my virtue."

Crawford snorted and lowered his magazine. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it and closed his eyes, bracing a hand on the arm of his chair. Schuldig instantly recognized the signs of a vision. He risked a more insistent probe of Crawford's mind, but only picked up a vague sense of unease. Crawford straightened, blinked a few times, pushed his glasses up his nose, and returned to his magazine.

"Well...?" Schuldig queried.

"Have a nice time," Crawford said blandly.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Fighting paranoia that Crawford had seen something bad going down tonight, Schuldig took the elevator to the garage. He tried to push his concerns to the back of his mind as he drove to the club. Whatever his problems were lately, Crawford wouldn't let his telepath be damaged after all the trouble he'd recently put up with to keep Schuldig around. By the time he'd parked the car and breezed past the bouncers at the door, Schuldig had almost convinced himself the vision was nothing to worry about.

Entering the club should have been like taking the first hit of a favorite drug after a long abstinence, but Schuldig's jitters spoiled the effect somewhat. He relished the pounding of music he could feel in his chest and the thick, humid air scented with smoke, perfume, and pheromones, but he couldn't quite bring himself to drink in all the blissed-out, lust-filled, desperate thoughts the way he normally would. It was always a little dangerous to lower his boundaries in a place like this and what before had been an illicit thrill now seemed like a pointless risk. Instead of vicariously sampling the best drugs and the raunchiest dancers-his usual warm-up routine when he went out-Schuldig found himself tightening his mental shields. Damn Crawford for ruining this for him.

Giving a mental push to a woman who'd crammed a size-14 body into a size-4 vinyl mini dress, planting a need within her to shake her fat ass on the dance floor, Schuldig took the seat she'd vacated at the bar. He ordered a beer and made sure the bartender forgot to collect his money. Dejected, he sipped at the beer and commenced a careful scan of the club's patrons, keeping tight control over how much he let in at a time.

Fuck, these people were boring when you weren't wallowing in the depths of their depravity. The woman two seats down from him was worried the still-attached price tag tucked inside her shimmering halter top would show and everyone would know she was planning on returning the item tomorrow. The man leaning against the wall to his left was doing a rather poor job of pretending to be high on ecstasy so that his friends wouldn't know he'd been too chicken-shit to swallow the pill he'd been given. The couple on the edge of the dance floor would really rather be snuggled together at home in front of the TV but each believed the other wanted to be there. The redhead seated at one of the high tables across the club was trying to play it cool with the man across from her, not sure if he could deliver what he was offering. Schuldig took a moment to admire the shapely legs that her scandalously short mini skirt showed off, cringing at her poor taste in footwear; what kind of woman paired high heels with bobby socks? He turned his attention to the man she sat with, whose t-shirt-clad back faced Schuldig, and encountered...nothing.

Intrigued, Schuldig focused his talent and tried a more forceful scan of the man's thoughts, staring at the close-cropped brown hair covering the back of the man's skull. He had shields. Good ones too, not some clumsy kludged-together mishmash, but smooth solid walls that spoke of intensive training. They were like Crawford's shields, like Schuldig's own. You didn't just develop shields like that on your own. Schuldig was looking at a Rosenkreuz agent.

Deciding not to risk a forceful probe-who knew why the man was here or what sort of position he held-Schuldig shifted his attention back to the redhead. Delicately, he engaged her field of vision, examining the man who sat before her. It took a moment for recognition to dawn; he wasn't used to seeing such an earnest expression in those hazel eyes, the hair was all wrong, and the man's body had filled out since their last meeting, but Xavier hadn't changed so much that Schuldig couldn't identify his former...what? Classmate? Roommate? Friend? It was difficult to develop appropriate labels for the people one had interacted with at Rosenkreuz. He watched through the redhead's eyes as a brief frown of concentration crossed the man's face. He shifted his focus back to his own field of view as Xavier turned to meet his gaze. A slight widening of eyes was the only betrayal of his surprise at seeing Schuldig, the look quickly replaced as Xavier plastered a car salesman's smile on his face. Schuldig felt a familiar brush against his mental shields and shored up his defenses. He smirked and waggled his fingers at the man.

/Schu, fancy meeting you here. What the hell are you up to?/

/Having a drink./ Schuldig held up his half empty beer bottle, swinging it slightly. He suppressed a smile at hearing the slightly goofy-sounding elongated vowels of Xavier's faint Brussels accent in his head again. /Who's the leggy redhead?/

/Nobody you need to worry your pretty little head about, darling./

Schuldig watched with amusement as Xavier turned back to the woman and stroked her hand. Her brows knitted together as he talked. He continued to hold her hand and gradually her expression smoothed to blankness. Interesting. Looked like somebody had gotten better at memory wipes. Idly turning back to the bar, Schuldig contemplated digging through the woman's mind for a hint of what she'd been discussing with the other telepath. He decided against it; breaking through a good memory wipe took concentration and Schuldig wanted to focus on keeping his shields strong at the moment. The little voice inside that tended to remind him of his objectives during missions warned that if Crawford were there, he'd likely want as much on the woman as Schuldig could gather. Schuldig told the voice to go fuck itself.

He felt the weight of Xavier's big hand settle on his shoulder and with it, an intense push at his mental shields. The little bastard-not so little anymore, he corrected himself-always had been able to boost his power through physical contact. Normally, Schuldig wouldn't have any trouble keeping Xavier out of his head, but tonight he was still off his game and the effort necessary to block the cocksucker was giving him another headache. Schuldig reminded himself that he could wipe the floor with this chump as he turned on the barstool so that he faced Xavier. The casual movement knocked the hand from his shoulder, instantly easing the pressure in Schuldig's head.

Looking unperturbed, Xavier shifted his hand to the morose young woman seated next to Schuldig. Toning the wattage of his smile down so that he showed fewer teeth, Xavier leaned towards the woman, looking her right in the eye. "I'm sorry to bother you miss, but you just happen to be sitting next to my high school sweetheart, who I haven't seen in years." Schuldig saw the excitement shining in the other telepath's eyes.

The young woman perked up a bit, her gaze flickering to Schuldig before being snared by Xavier again.

"He's only grown more beautiful since I last saw him." Xavier said reverently, wistfully looking to Schuldig.

The woman's sour expression faded as she looked back and forth between the two, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "I'm sure you'll be wanting to catch up," she said awkwardly, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt before she stood. She waved down a bartender. "Please, their next round is on me."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly accept...you're too kind," Xavier gushed, face alight with near orgasmic gratitude.

The woman flushed more and looked down at her shoes. "I'd rather not get in the way of a reunion. Please, enjoy your evening." She handed the bartender a few bills and took off for the dance floor, throwing the occasional glance at them back over her shoulder.

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow at Xavier. "High school sweetheart?"

The other telepath shrugged, settling into the empty bar stool and ordering two more beers. "The woman's a...what do they call it here? A yaoi freak, total romantic." He grinned. "Got us a free drink, anyway."

Schuldig noted the woman had moved to a nearby table with a direct line of sight to their position at the bar. Skimming her thoughts, he smirked. "She's going to watch us for the rest of the night, hoping to catch a glimpse of some action."

Xavier laughed, a deep, smooth sound, and leaned closer to Schuldig, sliding a hand up the redhead's thigh. Again, with the touch came an assault on his shields. "Wanna give her a show, Schu?"

Schuldig saw the bartender approaching with two open bottles and tangled a few motor signals to the man's feet. He tripped spectacularly, spilling beer all over the sleeve of the arm Xavier rested on the bar. Apologizing profusely, the bartender offered a towel. Xavier removed his hand from Schuldig to take the rag, assuring the bartender there was no harm done. Schuldig took advantage of his companion's distraction, staging his own offensive on the man's mental shields. Damn, the little shit had improved his defenses. Realizing he'd give himself a migraine if he pushed much harder, Schuldig resigned himself to calling it a draw for now.

Once the bartender had stopped kowtowing and scurried off to replace their spilled drinks, Xavier turned to Schuldig, toothy smile back in place. He refrained from touching Schuldig.

"Touche," he said, shaking out the still slightly dripping arm of his worn long-sleeved tee.

"Too bad you never got the hang of efferent nerve manipulation, eh Xave?" Schuldig's eyes wandered over the man sitting next to him, cataloguing the changes. Xavier had been a really gangly teenager, but he'd put on a lot of muscle mass in the last few years. The buzz cut suited him, adding the illusion of angles to a face that was too round and soft. Not strikingly attractive, but not ugly either, he was pleasant-looking in a way that would enable him to blend in with a crowd better than any member of Schwartz could. "So what the hell are you doing in Tokyo anyway?"

"Business," he replied blandly, giving the bartender a warm smile to show there were no hard feelings as he arrived with their new drinks. "You?"

"My team's posted here." The little voice in Schuldig's head that liked to play Crawford's bitch piped up again, scolding him for giving more than he received, pestering him to find more information. If Esset had brought another team into Tokyo, Crawford would want to be informed. "Is your business with the organization?"

Xavier turned to face Schuldig, his smile turning positively predatory. "You know it's not healthy to ask too many questions."

Schuldig's contrary nature had him wanting to argue, but as a field agent working under a tight-lipped precog, he understood the concept of being on a need-to-know basis. Esset kept its information highly compartmentalized. Snorting, he speculated that Xavier probably didn't even know exactly why he was in Tokyo. Taking a swig from the neck of his beer, he tried to sneak in under those mental shields again. Xavier's grin widened even further as he sent a nasty battering ram against Schuldig's mind in retaliation.

The attack left his head aching, but the beads of perspiration along Xavier's hairline told Schuldig how much the effort had cost the other telepath, even if the man's expression bore no sign of the strain. Xavier nursed his beer, eyes scanning the crowd.

"Well Schu, as delighted as I am to see you, I'm afraid I must be on my way."

"Mmm. Don't be a stranger while you're in town."

Xavier chuckled. "Sure, I'll keep in touch."

"Always a pleasure, Xave," Schuldig said, raising his bottle in salute. He watched as the man melted into the dance floor, catching a glimpse of him a few minutes later in one of the club's dark corners. Xavier's head was bent close to the ear of a mousy brunette, his hand clutching her elbow. As Schuldig watched the couple, he noticed the woman's eyes widen before her face settled into a cold mask. The woman had shields rivaling Xavier's, which meant she was another Esset agent, probably a teammate. Schuldig looked around the club for the redhead Xavier had been talking to earlier in the evening but found no sign of her. As he finished his beer, the Crawford's bitch voice in his head told him that he should go home and make a report on the night's events. The corner of Schuldig's mouth curved in a lopsided smile as he contemplated sitting on the information for a while, just to show that Crawford wasn't the only one with secrets.

*****

It wasn't too late when Schuldig made it back to the apartment. Farfarello was up, sitting Indian-style on the floor in front of the television, a PlayStation controller held in his lap. The room was dark except for the flickering light coming from the screen, which illuminated Farfarello's face, making him look ghoulish. He cackled at the television as the tiny cherub he controlled jumped onto a demon's back, possessing the creature and turning it against its brethren. Nagi had ordered the game for Farfarello a few months ago and it was still the Irishman's favorite; he claimed playing the blasphemous video game hurt God. Schuldig didn't understand why an angel killing demons would hurt God, but found it was best for his health not to poke holes in Farfarello's bizarre dogma.

Schuldig plopped down on the couch, throwing his arms across its back and spreading his legs wide. The encounter at the club had been tiring and distracting. As eager as he'd been to escape the apartment tonight, it felt good to be back. He watched Farfarello's game for a few minutes before it started to bore him.

"So what's everybody doing tonight?" he asked. Not that he really cared, but a little conversation with Farfarello when he was relatively lucid like this was usually amusing.

"He's in his office," Farfarello said, not bothering to look away from his game.

"Eh?"

From his vantage point on the couch, Schuldig could only see a sliver of Farfarello's profile, but it was enough for him to catch pale, scarred lips curve up in a smile.

"He's making God very unhappy," the Irishman intoned. He pulled the game controller in close to his chest, ducking and weaving in tandem with his avatar on screen. "A filthy act, it makes the baby Jesus cry."

"Are you talking about Brad? Brad and filthy usually don't go together." Farfarello was in a weird mood tonight and probably spouting gibberish, but Schuldig found that sometimes the Berserker noticed things that others did not. If he couldn't figure out what was going on with Crawford these days himself, he wasn't above resorting to other information sources.

Onscreen, Farfarello's character took a fireball directly in the chest, ending his turn. He turned around to face Schuldig, pouting.

"You," he said, looking Schuldig up and down, "you make the baby Jesus cry all the time."

Schuldig smirked. "It's what I do." He leaned forward, moving his arms from the back of the couch to rest his elbows on his knees. He didn't want Farfarello to get distracted before he'd told him whatever it was he thought Crawford was doing. "But tell me what the Oracle is up to that's got Jesus' panties in a twist?"

Farfarello's eye twinkled as he no doubt savored the image Schuldig's words brought to mind. "The sin of Onan, against nature and reason, the unnatural vice," he said.

"Huh?"

Farfarello sighed and rolled his eye, clearly frustrated by Schuldig's ignorance. "'And it came to pass, that he spilled it on the ground, lest that he should give seed to his brother. And the thing which he did displeased the Lord.'"

"Spilled seed..." Schuldig cocked his head. "Shit, you mean big bad Brad is in his office, right now, spankin' it?" Farfarello nodded solemnly. Schuldig laughed at the idea, quickly conjuring a mental picture of Crawford jerking himself off with crisp little movements, checking his watch after every few strokes. Crawford, tie loosened, glasses slightly askew, legs spread wantonly, slowly wanking with one hand while nibbling on the fingers of the other hand. Actually, that wasn't so funny. Laughter abruptly cut off, Schuldig cleared his throat and crossed his legs.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, remembering the gentle smile Crawford had given him when he'd come out of his fever-haze, Crawford's strong fingers spread between his own. He brushed the uncomfortable recollections away. Crawford was a fine physical specimen, but the man had made it abundantly clear early on in their relationship that he wasn't the slightest bit interested in fucking his subordinates. Actually, the safety of knowing nothing would ever come of it had made it easier for Schuldig to mercilessly tease and flirt.

"Wait a sec, how would you know what Crawford's doing back in his office?"

Farfarello's nose twitched as he inhaled deeply, closing his eye. "I smell the stench of his sin."

Schuldig snorted. "You are so full of shit Farf. No way can you smell something like that from all the way in here." Could he?

"Maybe not," Farfarello shrugged. "Lies make the baby Jesus cry too." He grinned and turned back to his video game.

Schuldig made a rude gesture, got up, and angled toward the hallway, his smooth movements betraying nothing of the way his heart was hammering against his ribcage. He wasn't sure if Farfarello was fucking with him or not, but he damned sure wanted to find out. The notion of Crawford sitting in his office on a Saturday night, pleasuring himself, shouldn't have been that attention-grabbing, but it was just so surreal to think of his leader engaging in such a normal, red-blooded activity, demonstrating such human weakness. It was almost as surreal as the notion of Crawford sitting by Schuldig's sickbed, holding his hand.

Instead of going to bed and engaging in a little jerk-off session of his own, which would have been the prudent course of action, he found himself standing outside the closed door to Crawford's office, pulling his already strained talent together into a powerful but subtle probe. If Crawford really were doing what Farfarello said he was doing, hopefully he wouldn't notice the myriad, tiny, not quite simultaneous samplings of his surface thoughts.

He didn't think he was going to do much more than successfully push his headache over into migraine territory when he ran up against those foreboding, all-encompassing shields, but intense concentration bought him the faint, mingled flavors of pleasure, frustration, guilt, and anger wafting off of Crawford. So, Farfarello wasn't completely full of shit. Not quite satisfied, Schuldig shifted his efforts to higher-level visual cortex, the area responsible for mental imagery. Damn, but Crawford's shields were good; the only thing Schuldig could pick up on was a vague sense of shape and color. He drew in a sharp breath at what he saw.

Crawford was indeed masturbating in his office, and the image that inspired him was a writhing, man-shaped mass topped with an unmistakable smear of red-orange.

"Fuck me!" Schuldig whispered. Without giving himself time to think of anything but the window of opportunity behind the door, he raised his hand to the knob and let himself into Crawford's sanctuary.