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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
- 2
- 3
Baby, It's Cold Outside

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by Card and laila

________
Chapter Three
First thought: This guy needs a haircut.
The thought was stark and simple – entirely unwanted. It was too logical, too obviously a dispatch from the Department of Cold Reality (wherein he’d just had sex with Schuldig) and Ken wanted no part of it. The good thing about this, the one good thing about having sex with this guy was that, just for a moment, it didn’t matter who this was and how much Ken might ordinarily have wanted to beat him about the head with a poker. All that mattered was that the sex was good.
Yet here he was thinking about Schuldig’s hair. (Ken spat out a mouthful of it, cursed under his breath. Yes, the guy definitely needed a goddamn haircut.)
Welcome back to reality, Kenken.
And where did that leave him? Apart, of course, from on top of Schuldig on top of a pile of blankets, in the middle of an isolated mountain cabin in the middle of a snowdrift: nowhere he’d ever have wanted to be, in an ideal world. Too bad that this was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an ideal world.
(Still had hair in his mouth: Ken spat again.)
Schuldig shook his head, raising his chin and raking both hands through his long, disheveled hair: he shifted beneath him, just slightly – it was enough to bring a flush to Ken’s face all the same. Enough to have him drawing back with a small, stifled gasp – what the Hell is going on here? Another report in from the Department of Cold Reality. (You’re lying on top of Schuldig and your shirt is riding up: what do you think you’ve just done and what, Hidaka, are you going to do about it?) He was suddenly horribly conscious of his position, and his frankly perilous state of undress.
“Comfortable?” Schuldig asked, pointedly.
Holy Mary Mother of—”Jesus fuck.” Ken cursed soft and vicious, a curse aimed firmly at himself: what the fuck had he just done? Pushed himself upright and tried to tug down his tee-shirt only to lose his balance and fall – thankfully backward, landing heavily on top of a tangle of blankets. Well, it could have been worse. At least he didn’t fall on top of Schuldig.
He retained enough self-possession to snatch at the sheet he had fallen on top of, drawing it up to his neck and clutching it in front of himself. Ken blushed like a startled schoolgirl, gazing at Schuldig in something very like shock.
(It’s a bit late to be thinking of that.)
Schuldig just laughed, with what sounded like genuine good humor. Laughed and stretched, contented as a cat, his back to the fire. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was mostly naked. Bother him? It didn’t even seem to have occurred to the guy.
“Actually,” Schuldig said, “yes, it has occurred to me. I'm usually naked after I get fucked.”
Ken – and how the fucking Hell did he… telepath, remember? – scowled at him. If it hadn’t been for the blanket (had to hang onto the blanket, the blanket was very important) he thought he might have tried to hit the guy. Or, at the very least, have hunted for that stupid penis bottle and thrown it at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen, god damn it – none of it was ever supposed to happen, and here the guy was reclining in front of the fire, smirking like a cat who’d not just gotten into the cream, but inherited an entire goddamn dairy. Basking in the warmth of the flames, sleepy and smugly contented. And this – Kenken – is why you don’t fuck people you hate.
Why, Ken wondered (wishing that he could crawl beneath the blankets and hide; wishing that wouldn’t make him look even more like a child than hiding behind it and blushing was doing) had Youji had to bring goddamn lube with him? It wasn’t like the guy could have been expecting to get imaginatively laid in a cabin in the middle of the damn mountains, was it?
“Look,” Ken said irritably, “Just because I took a brief interest in the contents of your pants doesn’t mean I want a ringside view for the rest of the goddamn evening. Get dressed, god damn it.”
“Close your eyes,” Schuldig said, and even his words were slow and languid, accent heavier than usual. Eyes closed, one hand reaching up to run through his tangled hair, a smirk twisting the corners of his mouth. “I’m not ready to move that much yet.” Raising and bending one knee seemed to be about the extent of it: well, that and the fact that he was talking.
(And Jesus God, Ken actually caught himself considering it.)
Instead, he just glowered. Refused to look away. Said, in a manner that for him verged on the snide, “Tired?”
“Oh, yes, baby—” Said in a monotone. “You rode me so hard.” And an odd inflection to that last word – like a verbal wince. He didn’t look impressed at all, but at least he was sitting now, and reaching for his pants. Who said that being petty never got you anywhere? Ken had to suppress a smile. Tugged the blanket up a little higher: he couldn’t even see his own jeans—
So, how to play that? Well, Ken thought, you could always take it at face value, or— “You know,” he said – shut up, Ken, just shut the fuck up do you want to die? “I thought you were planning on topping me. What’s the matter, couldn’t you see it through?”
(Or maybe he’ll just tie you up again, wouldn’t that be fun.)
“Then you weren't listening very well.” Schuldig shaking out his pants now, frowning as he brushed off the dust. Checking the fabric for stains. Oh yes, very intimidating: portrait of the evil black assassin-bodyguard-whatever having a laundry crisis. “I remember asking you to fuck me at least three times.”
“Three times – what, that many?” Ken said. (Make him react.) Why should I want to make him react? (Who cares, just do it.) “Honestly. Don’t you think that’s kind of demeaning, begging a guy who hates you for sex?”
Schuldig raised his head. Clearly his pants weren’t that fascinating after all. Shook the hair from his face and gazed at him through suspicion-narrowed eyes. Well, Ken thought, it’s a reaction – now what happens? Am I going to die?
“I,” Schuldig said after a beat – uncomfortable silence there: what’s this guy thinking? “also shoved you on your back, climbed in your lap, bit your neck and sucked you almost all the way off to get you to fuck me. But if it would make you feel more secure in my self-confidence next time I'll put my gun to your head.” A pause, just long enough for Schuldig to give him a sly, snide grin, and shrug slightly. “Less appealing that way and takes a lot of concentration to remember not to squeeze the trigger.”
Ken blinked. “Neither option exactly speaks volumes about your sex appeal, man.” He hesitated, just slightly. “Well, okay, maybe they do, but they ain’t flattering ones.”
“Are we stooping to personal insults now? Explain to me how you go from declaring you won't fuck someone you hate to completely hard with only a push and bite on the neck?”
“Hey,” Ken said, “you were the one who suggested doing it at gunpoint!” (Shutupshutupshutup.)
“That was sarcasm; and you didn't answer my question.” Smirk smirk. I’ve got you figured, little boy – if he ended up killing the guy, Ken reckoned he could probably claim that goddamn twisted smile as mitigating circumstances. If he wasn’t an assassin. “Are you really that easy?”
(Said the pot to the kettle, to borrow a phrase of Omi’s.)
And Schuldig reached for the blanket, gave it a tug. Ken tugged back, harder, and he let go – obviously Schuldig wasn’t prepared to run the risk of ending up on top of him. Probably, Ken thought childishly, he wouldn’t even know what to do about it when he got there—look, Hidaka, suicide is a mortal fucking sin, just cut it out already.
“Well…” Ken contemplated getting annoyed. Wondered if it would be worth bringing the poker out of retirement and where he’d left his bugnuk gloves. (He knew where he’d left them: buried in a bedroom drawer under a load of old shirts, and a lot of good they were doing him there.) “you ain’t exactly the world’s hardest mark either. I don’t know what you’re so smug about, you pansy, I—” No, Ken, no, just shut up, stop talking now before you say something you’ll go on to regret, “—had you on your fucking back, for God’s sakes!”
Schuldig moved. One minute standing by the fire, all narrowed eyes and cool contempt, the next – shit, shit, it should be illegal to move that fast, you should need a permit. The man was on top of him, one knee pressing down hard on his thighs, pushing – forcing him backward. Ken (come on, you should have been expecting that) reacted instinctively, breaking his fall and fuck, now his elbows hurt—
“Had me? Yes, you did, exactly how I wanted you to—and at least I've got the balls to admit it. Here you are with your snide little thoughts and your snickering remarks, all but begging for something that you're too fucking scared to say outright or too oblivious to realize.”
—and hands on his neck, fingers ghosting across his skin and God knew what the point of it was: Schuldig’s hands were gentle, his eyes asked, quite politely, if Ken wanted to die. His hair was in Ken’s face.
And he’d let go of the blanket.
Ken swallowed and immediately wished he hadn’t. “What the fuck is your problem?” Gave the guy a shove, left-handed: it didn’t seem to make the damndest bit of difference. (Still had the guy’s hair in his face.) “Get off.”
“I did,” Schuldig said airily, as if this were a perfectly ordinary, boring, everyday situation and he ended up trapped in isolated mountain cabins with his deadly enemies and tied them to beds and got fucked by them, though not both at the same time, and then lay round petting their necks though he’d stopped that now every other week; as if it didn’t matter at all. They could have been discussing the price of laundry soap. “You should remember. It’s all over your shirt.”
Ken felt himself flush, felt himself tense. Oh, he could just fucking shut up right now – this wasn’t supposed to fucking happen and the least Schuldig could do now it had was not fucking gloat about it now that it had and maybe Ken wouldn’t try and – no, beating the guy’s head in hadn’t worked, how about poisoning his food? (His cooking, dammit, was not that bad – ‘rice and something’ indeed!)
“Get off,” Ken repeated. Louder, more forceful. A hank of Schuldig’s tangled hair brushed ticklish against one of his cheeks, the hanging ends of it falling against his bare arm – Ken twisted his fingers in it, yanked Schuldig’s head back. “And get a fucking haircut!”
(Hidaka, you’re a dead man.)
~*~
Smiled, just as pleasant and peaceful as warm summer's afternoon--no clouds in the sky and beauty everywhere. Could feel, somewhere in the quiet of his mind, the way that Ken's mind flinched at that, and the fingers in his hair pulling just a little harder as that fist tightened up by reflex.
And oh--little boy--you just forgot who you were fucking with here. (And he asked for it.)
Schuldig slipped his fingers up into Ken's hair, tightened hard and yanked--no kindness or nicety about it, pulled it until he went down, his broken arm slipping out from under him and Ken was flat on his back with his head on the pillows.
(Play nice, remember you're stuck here--play nice)
“Stupid bastard,” all but spat the words in Ken's face, that close to him--could feel his breath and see his eyes. Only his eyes and the squint there, the anger tightening down--felt it in his mind the way that dear little Kenken didn't like being shoved down and that stupid smug hand in Schuldig's fucking hair was tugging again. Beyond that--maybe something else. “You think it’s going to matter to your precious little friends that you pulled my hair and called me a slut? You still fucked me--still did it completely willingly and thought about having another go--and what do you think that makes you?” Schuldig's fingers on Ken's chin, fingernails tipped in and digging into skin.
(...Can't blame Crawford for this one. This one is all you.)
Ken's mind, lost somewhere between defeat and rage--”So we're both as bad as each other, then. Get the fuck off me.” (Oh, that's a command how terrifying.) Hand moving, out of Schuldig's hair and around to his chest, too close space between them. Pushing against him, shoving as hard as he could pressed to the ground like that.
Sorry, Kenken, not enough leverage on your side.
Schuldig smiled at him. “No,” he said. Tone soft, words quiet and calm. “You're a fucking liar. I'm not. And I can fuck you and walk away and nobody is going to give a shit at all--least of all me. So be a big boy, Kenken--tell the truth for once.”
“The truth? What truth?” Ken said, the hand that had been pushing against his chest slacking.
(Someone just missed the point, entirely.)
Schuldig rolled his eyes, shoved himself up, back to his knees and looked down at Ken. (Nobody every gave this kid points for his quickness.) “Guess not.” Leaned back, getting to his feet and stepped away from Ken.
“Jesus, what the hell is your problem?” Not quite a shout but it might have well has been. (Boy didn't like getting dismissed like the class dunce.) Ken was pushing himself back up, sitting up now. “Look, you arrogant bastard, not everyone speaks cryptic bullshit - what the fuck do you think you're talking about.” He pulled his legs up, knees bent a little, closer to him.
Considered, for a second, a half-blink's worth of time, if he should let it go. If it would make Ken realize anything if he just turned his back, found some clothes and went to sleep. But the tone, the look, the sheet pooling down on Ken's hips now, and loose--nothing holding it in place anymore--the feel of his mind and (he pulled your hair and called you a pansy.)
Consideration over; Schuldig shoved Ken again, realizing only when his own knees hit the blankets that he had moved--hands against Ken's shoulders, pushing him down and then moving lower, fisting up in that sheet and tugging it out of the way. One leg between Ken's and Schuldig's mouth right there above Ken's. “This.” Kissed him, sudden, hard press of lips together and his hand on Ken's chest.
Pink embarrassment, if Schuldig looked, Ken would be blushing. Made with the protesting, had his hand against Schuldig's chest and he was going to push him away. (Liar.) Those fingers against his skin were too spread to push him back. But the alternative was unthinkable in that mind. (No, couldn't want to touch you--that would be wrong.)
Schuldig tilted his head, shifted his weight onto the knee between Ken's thighs and pressed against him. Let his hand drag down the sweat-sticky skin, all the way down to his belly, tracing the muscles there until his thumb dipped in at his navel. Fingertips facing down, ghost-soft little touches. Pressed into the kiss more, deepened it, his tongue against Ken's. Another push against his chest, Ken's spread fingers pressing in against his skin (not even trying anymore.) Body under his shifting, adjusting, Ken tilted his head to one side, just a little and he was kissing back now, pushing himself up by digging his right arm into the bed and that left hand was palm-flat against Schuldig's chest and working its way up toward his neck.
(Boy's got ideas.) Yeah; he did. Schuldig pulled back, balancing his weight on his right arm and looked down at Ken. (But did he catch that point?)
“I don't know what you think you're trying to prove, but why the fuck can't you get on trying to prove it instead of staring out of the window every five seconds?” Down turned angle of his eyebrows and the narrow eyes, and Ken's voice all but dripping with the annoyance that was tense in his fingers. His hand still on Schuldig's shoulder, moving up fingers around his neck and digging in, pulling down hard--(like you don't have a choice. Like it’s really going to be that easy and you're so very willing to do as he commands. Little boy is starting to think too much of himself, isn't he?)
Schuldig grabbed his arm, fingernails tipped in and pulled, weight shifted to the left arm (and that hurt, popped the fucking steristrips, probably) and looking at Ken. His head tipped back and to the side. “Remember you asked for it,” Schuldig murmured, voice low and quiet, lips brushing against Ken's. Then kissing, uneven, Ken had no leverage, opened his mouth and pressed back against Schuldig. Hand still on his neck like it had a place there. Schuldig shifted his weight again, left hand dragging down Ken's side, across his stomach and down between his legs. Fingers curling around him, short stroke and nice little shiver for his effort.
(Hand's still on your neck.)
Yeah, gonna do something about that soon. (Finally,) Ken's thought, echoing in his head. Not quite smug but something else, grating on his nerves like the hand that tugged down on his neck again. Schuldig broke the kiss, hand off Ken's arm, up to his neck now, thumb under his chin and fingers across his face. Felt the pant of Ken's breath against his hair as he dipped his head down, teeth nipping at his throat. Skin hot, flushed, sweaty (and old sweat, bad taste to that.) Moving down his neck, leaving little red marks and damp spots, down until he ran into Ken's collar, dipped a little lower and bit him through the shirt. (Idiot, why the hell does he still have a fucking shirt on?) Both hands moving, off Ken's neck, up over his belly and fisted the hem of it, dragging it up roughly and straightening up enough (look, hand gone off your neck) to yank it up. Made it to Ken's armpits, and there was stubborn reluctance to any further progress. Ken's mind running through the options and the pros and the cons, wrapping itself all around this idea.
(And really, if he wanted the shirt on that badly, he could leave it on.) Schuldig tightened his fist around it, yanking it up out of his way (making it as uncomfortable as he could while making it seem like oh so much of an accident.) His left hand back against the floor, and he pressed his hips down, grinding, against Ken. Head tilted to the right, licking and biting across his collarbone.
“Okay,” Ken's voice. Half-choked sound to it from the shirt pulling too tight across his throat. “You've made your point, take the damn thing off.”
Schuldig grinned, dragged the shirt up with one hand, and Ken fell back against the blankets, hair ruffled up and arms over his head. (Good look for you there, kid.) Schuldig tossed it over his shoulder, didn't care where it landed, leaning back against Ken, kissing him again. Close enough their bellies were rubbing together. Schuldig shifted his weight one last time, right hand going down Ken's side, fingernails dragging over skin, down to his hips and lower, curled around his knee, pulling it out. (Need more room between his thighs for this to work right.)
The noise--(don't laugh, don't laugh)--Ken yelped. Shocked, surprised or just offended. Looked at Schuldig like he was out of his damn mind. (Boy has lots of ideas.) Ken held his leg just where it was, pushing back against Schuldig's grip on his knee, sitting half up and palms (well one, the other palm was a cast) pushing back against his shoulders. Force in it, shoving Schuldig back and the full weight of Ken backing it up. Up on his knees now, pressure still on his shoulder, trying to shove him on his back.
(No, maybe not.) Schuldig moved closer, taller on his knees than Ken was just sitting there, slipped his hand into the tangled wet hair and pulled it, bending Ken's head back to kiss him again. The hands were moving down off his shoulders, felt the scratch of the cast as it dragged down, Ken's fingers not quite able to tight around his elbows on that side--but the other, tightened down hard and fast, yanking down as Ken pushed against him. It pulled him off his balance, fell to the left, Ken scrambling to follow him down.
Ended up on his back, Ken crawling back between his legs, and kissed him. No mistaking the intent in it. (There go those ideas again.) Leaning down against him, hips rubbing slow and tight. Ken's mouth pressing harder against his, his tongue (bland taste, like that fucking rice) and fingers, back on his arms, holding him down.
(Sorry, no.) Time to flip this over again, turned his face away from the kiss, head tilted back (bare your neck, isn't that counterproductive at this point?) Ken not even bothered by this, lost his mouth but there was all that neck. (Sure likes being on his back, doesn't he--) in his mind, thought murmured in the quiet of his own mind. His teeth and tongue against Schuldig's neck. (Is it my imagination or are we just winging it now?)
Cocky little bastard.
Schuldig pulled on his arms--Ken tightened his arms as a reflex. (Go to the gym as soon as you get back. Take Crawford up on his offer.) Little bastard, fine. Wiggled a little, rubbing back up against Ken, letting his head drop back and his shoulders raise up a little. (Take me beast, I surrender.) Waited for the fingers to loosen on his arms, waited for Ken to gloat in his head about his prowess and Schuldig's failure to follow through with his plans--(arrogant ass)--and then moved, slipping his arms free enough to get his weight on his elbows, lifted his head and opened his mouth. Teeth digging into Ken's shoulder hard enough to bruise.
Ken cursing, too loud and right there next to his ear, but his hands let go of Schuldig's arm. That left hand in Schuldig's hair again, right at the back of his head, fist too tight and pulled it, hard. Hard to breathe with his head that far back--closed his eyes.
Oh, fuck this nice bullshit. (Yeah, but what exactly are you going to do about it? Pinned down like this--hit him?) Schuldig slipped inside of Ken's mind--wide open like that, smugly right there at the edge of a realization that hadn't really dawned on the boy yet. Pressed his hand against Ken's shoulder, mental push (do what I fucking tell you.) Ken moving back, shoved up to his knees and not at all happy about it. Leaning back against him. (Sorry, had enough of this.)
Schuldig moved, pulling his legs in, up on his knees too. Ken's damn hand still in his hair (clutching it even tighter than he'd been hanging on to that fucking blanket ten minutes ago.) Pressed his own hand against Ken's face, thumb against his chin and fingers in his hair. Dipped his head down again, mouth back to Ken's neck, light brush of teeth and sucked on his skin. Other hand sliding down, heavy palm stroking the length of Ken's chest, and down, over his belly, curling around him.
Short shiver, like a tremor running through the tension of Ken's body. The boy was still hanging on to his indignation, hanging on whatever belief he had in his own prowess and Schuldig's lack of it. Up on his knees and letting this too tall German (pansy that's what he called you) do whatever he thought he had to.
Keep telling yourself that, Kenken.
Schuldig's hand moving faster, stroking a little harder, fist curled up just a little tighter and his mouth moving, up Ken's neck toward his jaw. That thumb against Ken's chin slipping up and over his lip, pressed against his teeth. Sharper shiver there, Ken's hips pressing forward a little--indrawn breath.
Bulk of the cast against Schuldig's shoulder, intent in Ken's mind to shove him backward. (Stubborn boy, with those ideas of his.) Left hand curling around his arm, trying to throw off his balance again. Schuldig shrugged his hands off, right hand grabbing Ken's forearm and dragging it off him. Held it out to the side, fingernails biting down into the skin hard enough to make it clear. (We're not doing it that way again.)
(Took him long enough to make up his mind--wait, what?) Ken looking down at him out of the corner of his eye. Breath sped up and that tremble growing a little heavier as Schuldig looked back at him, mouth still on his neck and hand still stroking--just a little slower now. (Guess he doesn't like being on his back that much after all. (Sure he doesn't, Hidaka--now what do you think about it?))
Which way were they facing now? Lost his orientation somewhere along the way--looked past Ken's shoulder. Fire to his left, meant that--looked up, past the couch pillow on the floor, pushed away from the blankets now, saw the bottle sitting there, upright by some pleasant turn of fate.
Schuldig smiled, gave Ken's neck a final nip and shoved him back with his free hand. Resistance against the move, just enough to show objection and Ken was falling back. Schuldig following him down, had to scoot forward on his knees, moving right between Ken's thighs, left hand against his chest, the other reaching past him, grabbing the bottle and pulling it back.
(I'm going to fuck you.)
It was an audible sound, the change of Ken's breathing, the swipe of his tongue across his lips (reddened now, just a bit swollen, been kissing too much) and the echo of it in his mind. (This probably isn't the idea of the century it doesn't look like.) Not quite sure about this--been here, in this position but not with this guy. Schuldig looked at him, straight down his hand next to Ken's ear now and his hair falling around his face. Realization just there in the space between them now.
(You had the upper hand, Kenken, and didn't quite realize it fast enough but you can tell that it’s slipping away now.)
Schulidig looked down, at the bottle in his hand, rocking back to his knees. Tipped it over, lube on his palm, sliding down over his fingers, dripping off the tips. Clear and oily droplets falling on Ken's belly, low down by his hips. Schuldig scooted closer, his knees pressing against the backs of Ken's thighs, pushing up against them. No intention in Ken's mind to move his legs or make this easier, not just yet, still lingering back on that thought of his. (His ideas are changing--finally.)
“Legs,” Schuldig said.
“Thanks, I'd guessed.” The words were not quite angry, annoyed, on edge. The thoughts echoing the doubt: (You are aware that makes you sound like a slut, right?) But Ken moved his legs, pulling his knees up toward his chest. ((And that, Kenken, if you hadn't realized it yet--that makes you look like a slut.) Shut up, I'm trying to have sex, spare me the moral panic.)
Schuldig leaned forward again, across Ken's left thigh, fingers dipping down and pressing against him. Contemplated looking up at him, see his face as he pressed his fingers in, but didn't. (Not that interested?) Felt Ken’s mind, rolling over itself, and the muscles in his thigh, flexing tight and then loosening. Slid his fingers in deeper, and tossed his hair over his shoulder, looked up at Ken. “Need more?”
Ken's eyebrows drawing down (More of--was that a question or an insult?)
Oh, for fuck’s sake--Schuldig pressed his fingers in deeper, rubbing against Ken on the inside--hit the right spot, heavy shiver in the body under him, Ken's half-voiced gasp. Schuldig looked at him. “More of this.“ Fingers still rubbing; watched Ken's hand in the air, indecision about whether it was going to grab Schuldig's arm or the blankets or his own hair. Just there in the air, fingers curling in and his body pressing back.
That question still, and Ken's mind working its way around to that, gonna think about it and process it. “Oh fuck ye--no, no, get on with i--” That hand moving up, curling up in Ken's hair, not quite pulling, dark spikes between his knuckles. Shuddering breath out of Ken's chest. “Anything, just don't stop now.”
Quite a change there, from the boy all smirking about his dominance to this. Not quite as shameless as he seemed to be, legs parted and pulled up and hand in his own hair. Schuldig watched Ken’s face, eyes half closed, looking back at him—Mind slipping out of focus a bit, just wanted more of that feeling and less of everything else. Still lying to himself, ignoring what he was going to have to say and focusing on what he was feeling. Telling himself it meant nothing at all, it just felt good.
(Think that line is going to work in a week when you’re standing in front of your precious Omi?)
Schuldig pulled his fingers back, tipped the bottle over again—heard Ken’s heavy breath—shifted his weight as he spread the lube over himself (too chilly still, always damn chilly) and pressed against him. Hands flat on the blankets now, looking down at Ken. Smirk across his face as he pushed forward. (You’re too easy, Kenken.)
Brown eyes under him staring back, disinterest like a challenge in the face of the grin; Ken’s teeth clenched down tight and bare. (I don’t even want to know.)
Of course he didn’t. Knowing would be admitting and this was all about the lie. (And who’s lying to themselves to now? This isn’t about shit—) The long strands of Schuldig’s hair slipping off his shoulders and falling down, around his face. Nothing but that silent movement, and Ken’s eyes looking right back up at him. (Sorry, you’re not impressing me—not even a little.)
“Get on with it!” Ken’s voice; too loud.
Schuldig moved—(You’ve lost this round)—quick and short, drawing out and thrusting back. Clenched his own teeth, fingers curling up in the blankets; Ken under him, eyes fluttering and jaw flexing, biting back any noise he might have made. (Fucking bastard.) Knees pressing against the backs of Schuldig’s arms; felt them shift when he thrust in. (Stupid fucking bastard—) Schuldig’s knees digging into the blanket, hard enough it almost hurt and pushing forward, down and in. Understated violence in the movement; could see the muscles in Ken’s shoulders as they rolled back, trying to get leverage, trying to push back.
(Should’ve hurt him, should’ve killed him, should’ve fucked him over when you had the chance—)
Mangled curse word, wet sound through Ken’s clenched teeth. His head tipping forward toward his chest, elbows against the ground, digging in so he could shove back against Schuldig’s movement. Frantic pace to it—stringy and sweaty brown hair just under his mouth.
Schuldig hand on his shoulder, fast and hard shove in time with another jerk of his hips. (Stay where I fucking put you.) Ken’s palm against his shoulder, shoving back at him and his fingers digging in—fingernails into his skin, and tightening—(Scratches, lovely.) Asshole, and he was trying to get back up on his elbows. Pushing harder against his shoulder, slipping on the sweat of his own palms—Schuldig knocked his hand away, reaching down, grabbed his knee, hand under the bend, pressing it up toward Ken’s chest.
Watched the boy fall back, head rolling back, eyes closed then. Teeth still bared, and the taut lines of muscle and tendon in his neck. Gasping draw of breath as Schuldig pushed in again, harder. Hips moving faster—nothing even slightly understated about the violence of their hips jerking.
“Fuck,” he snarled, his own hair sticking to his face, across his lips. Ken’s hand against his shoulder again, awkward grip, fingernails digging down and in again. A wet sort of pain there, barely felt—barely felt anything but the heat of the body under him, tension and muscle. Ken pushing back against every thrust. That stupid cast, too big and white, saw that over Ken’s head, saw fingers curling up in the messy fall of brown hair.
Nothing in Ken’s mind at all, but the mumbling curses.
Felt the blankets under his knees moving, getting pulled down or they were moving across them, pillows almost under Ken’s shoulders now—short and low noises in time with Schuldig’s movements. “Jesus.” All but there and the sound of it was there, twisted up in Ken’s voice, trembling in the air.
Sharp edge, right there, Schuldig pushing in again, head down, teeth against Ken’s neck—slick sweat and salt-taste. Ken’s half-vocalized objection, getting all but crushed, Schuldig’s body sliding against his, one leg against his own shoulder, and shivering. The movement muted, hips rocking, same pace. Bit down on Ken’s neck, free hand going down, hand around his thigh and squeezing hard; hips thrusting down—(fuck, finally)—some noise, heard it peripherally, dim noise. Hips still moving, Ken’s hand moving down, slipping down his back, pulling at the movement, so close and he’d be right there too.
(Should leave him like that—) Wouldn’t prove a thing.
Schuldig pressed in and ground against him, stomach rubbing Ken and ran his tongue over the circle of teeth marks he’d left.
“Je—s” Ken’s mouth open, choked sound and a subtle shiver that ran all through his body.
~*~
(Well, we got there in the end.)
Jesus. Oh, Jesus, fuck. On his back on the blankets on the floor, flushed and dazed and breathless and aching and you know, Ken, if you were a rather better liar you could probably get away with saying you were bust in on and attacked. It’s not like you don’t have the injuries to go with it, and sheets can be washed. Or replaced. Or burned. It wasn’t like Youji paid any real attention to his bedlinen. It wasn’t like any of them did, except him—
(Too bad you wouldn’t be able to say it without blushing, really. God knew what he was going to say about this one.) Shut up, brain. Less of that and more of the afterglow, thanks.
He let his eyes fall closed.
Felt Schuldig moving, shifting against him – it didn’t bother him any more. Felt him move away. Maybe, Ken thought dreamily, he’s gone to stare out the window again, and heard himself laughing, soft and low and breathy. It wasn’t even that funny.
Tired now. Tired and warm and that was something else that didn’t want too much in the way of rationalization, either, the precise why of that. Enough that he was tired and warm; it was a wonder, really, that he’d managed to stay awake as long as he had given how little rest he’d had last night, and try not to think about that either. God damn, was there anything that was safe to think about right now? He hung onto the drowsiness, the sluggish quality of his thoughts and the way they left his mind so comfortably clogged. It was warm and he was drowsy, dammit: did it matter why?
“Fuck,” Schuldig hissed from – somewhere, Ken could probably have placed it if he’d tried, but he didn’t want to. Oh, shut up, Schuldig, I don’t want to deal with you right now. “You're not going to sleep yet.”
Ken didn’t open his eyes. “I didn’t know you cared,” he said vaguely.
“I don’t,” Schuldig said: well, that sounded about right. Ken hadn’t really thought Schuldig would have wanted to keep him awake for the sheer joyous pleasure of his company. “But I’m bleeding and your rope burns are going to get infected.”
Oh yeah, them. But—
“Too bad,” Ken said, and his tone was languid, his words dreamily slow. “I’m not ready to move yet.” He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t manage to fight back the smile. Keep this up, Hidaka, and he really is gonna kill you.
“Lucky I don’t give a shit what you want.”
Ken sighed. Yup, his pickup tactics need serious work. (Um, no, Ken. No, they don’t. Either that or you really are that easy.) He could hear Schuldig moving, the hiss of fabric and the rasp of a zip as he tugged up his pants, hear the sound of his footfalls as he moved around. Felt something brush against the side of his leg and you should get dressed, you know, you can’t like being naked in front of this guy. God knew what he was doing. (You could always open your eyes.) Sorry, I’m trying to pretend I just fucked someone pleasant.
“Move.”
No chance of that. Ken muttered something irritable even he didn’t quite catch, and – it wasn’t even difficult – managed to open his eyes. The ceiling was very interesting.
“Whatever,” Ken said shortly. Pushed himself upright and cast about himself for his jeans.
Guy still hadn’t stopped fidgeting. Ken sighed, shifting closer to the fire. (You’re still naked, Kenken – this should bother you more.) Yeah, but the blankets are all – they’re kinda – well, I’m probably going to have to burn them. He tried to ignore Schuldig; he didn’t quite manage. Watched him out of the corner of his eye as he dug about beneath the blankets, dragging out—
You know, Ken thought, I think I felt that goddamn thing digging into my back.
“Look,” Ken said, “don’t you think that’s kinda redundant given the whole fraternizing-with-the-enemy thing we’ve got going on here?”
Schuldig just looked at him, holding the gun, still neatly tucked away in its shoulder holster, in one hand. Casual as if he’d found nothing more important than a missing sock. The look on his face said Ken had, God help him, just gone and been unforgivably stupid again.
“I consider it intelligent to keep it where I can see it considering your occupation and sporadic morality. Never know when you're going to randomly decide I'm better off dead.” He paused, as if waiting for Ken to speak again; he must, when Ken refused to so much as look at him – and stop posing, you vain bastard: what does this guy he think he’s proving? – have lost his patience. “I'm going to get hot water--you find bandages and the other shit.”
And then he just turned and walked away.
As if the possibility that Ken might not go and fetch him bandages hadn’t even occurred to him.
Didn’t we just leave this party?

____
The water was cold.
Cold water. Clean clothes. Bandages and surgical tape, the antibiotic cream and the last of the steristrips. A thick blue bath towel from Youji’s suitcase. The blanket Ken had wrapped about himself on the way upstairs. Schuldig, fussing and fretting in the kitchen. Oh, joy.
As he stood in the darkened bathroom, staring absently into the mirror above the sink and watching as his breath gently misted the glass, Ken wondered (okay, do it) what time it was. It would have been an easy enough matter to find out, if he was prepared to brave the chill of the bedrooms again, but (look, just do it) he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He felt (you can’t postpone it forever, Hidaka, just get on with it) like a figure in a dream, becalmed, cut off from everything he knew, and it was almost easier that way—
“God!”
Yes, the water was cold. It left him gasping, shocked him back to uncomfortable alertness. It wasn’t as if Ken had expected anything else under the circumstances, but if anything could have been calculated to add insult to injury, it was showering in the dark in icy water in a bathroom so cold he could see his breath. The cast about his broken arm was just the cherry on the joy-cake.
(You could always wash downstairs, you know. He’s getting warm water.) I am not going to have a fucking wash in front of fucking Schuldig. (Now you’re getting coy? It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.) Shut up. (Freeze, then.) You’re an idiot, Ken Hidaka, what are you?
Ken wouldn’t have argued. He made quick and vigorous use of a cake of soap, counted to two hundred as slowly as he could bear, then stumbled from the shower cursing. Fuck. Fuck. A more effective illustration of why having sex with your mortal enemies while snowbound was a totally goddman stupid idea Ken couldn’t have wished for.
Shit, now the bathroom actually felt warm. Yes, you’re an idiot, Ken, but at least you’re a clean one.
He hastily and incompletely dried himself before scrambling into the clothes he had brought with him. Now he was clean idiot in an oversized sweater and what the Hell do you think you’re trying to prove, Ken? You already fucked him twice, it’s a bit late for the virginally scandalized act.
“But it’s cold,” Ken said to the empty air. Gathering up the medical supplies and burying the stained blanket in the laundry basket (maybe he could blame it on Youji), he headed back down to the living room.
And oh look, wasn’t it cozy down there. The welcoming glow of the fire, the drifting snow outside the darkened windowpanes, the empty cups and plates on the table and the tall figure lounging comfortably by the flames, his face a shifting study in light and shade. All it needed was a snoozing cat and it could have been a scene straight out of a genre painting, or perhaps a social-realist Christmas card, if it hadn’t been for the unequivocally stained and tangled blankets, the empty bottle of lube, and the shoulder holster strapped over the reclining figure’s shirt.
The steaming tub of water, too, seemed out of place. Towels and hot water and blankets by the fire… Jesus, you’d think we were preparing for a home birth.
“You’re an idiot,” Schuldig said.
“And you’re a bastard,” Ken pointed out. “Are we quits?” A drop of water crawled down the back of his neck and he shivered.
Schuldig laughed briefly and sardonically; it might have been only at the situation. “Not hardly. Do you want to go first?”
Ken blinked. Once, twice – yeah, why not just make a big cardboard sign saying I AM CONFUSED in three languages and hold it above your head, it’d be less obvious. Blinked, and then felt himself starting to blush, stopping in his tracks. He’d been heading for the fire, but that would mean walking past Schuldig and did he really want to do that when he’d just—
“What?” He asked incredulously. “I just showered!” In cold water, for my sins.
“How do you even keep yourself alive?” Schuldig asked: he sounded exasperated, as if Ken were an irritatingly slow pupil who, for the third time today, had spelled cat with a double T. “Sheer dumb luck? Do you want me to clean your rope burns first, or do you want to redo the bandage on my arm?”
“You’ve got a goddamn nerve if you think I’m rebandaging your fucking arm again after that crack.”
“Should I wait five minutes and ask again? Bite you again? Use the gun? Its going to happen, that's not the question. It’s what you get in return that’s up to you.”
For a moment Ken debated whether it was worth getting angry with Schuldig, but decided that in the long run it probably wasn’t worth the effort – the novelty, he supposed, of being yelled at and attacked with random household implements must have worn off several hours ago where that guy was concerned. Instead, he just glared. Dumped the bandages on the nearest flat surface, which turned out to be the seat of the couch, and moved over to Schuldig. Stood right in front of him, hands on hips. He could feel the heat from the fire playing against his side.
Going by the look on his face, Schuldig thought it all too petty for words.
“Do you,” Ken said finally, after a brief, uncomfortable silence which he felt awkward in and Schuldig barely seemed to notice, “ever shut up?”
And, snatching for his arm, Ken roughly yanked at the bandage, tugging it down. Schuldig swore, loud and explosive – God knew what he was saying, God knew what language it was in, but Ken could tell just from the sound of it that the man was cursing and it was strange, wasn’t it, how bad language translated? Ken could tell, too, that he hadn’t meant to do anything of the sort from the way he bit back the word, forced himself to calm.
You know, Ken thought, and he thought it perfectly calmly, he’s probably going to shoot you before he walks out of here.
“Shit,” Ken heard himself say. “I, uh – kind of thought it was getting better.”
And – and maybe this was what it was like to be a telepath? – just like that, Ken realized he knew what Schuldig was thinking. He was thinking Case closed. You do have to work at it. Nobody could be that amazingly stupid without practicing. And, for a moment, that was it. Just the pointed silence, and the look in Schuldig’s eyes. Ken fidgeted, and looked away, down at his hands, at the welt upon his wrist – reddened now, angry-looking and inflamed. He should have seen to it hours ago…
“Right,” Schuldig said tightly. “Because enthusiastic fucking is just so good for fresh wounds.”
Ken blinked at him. “Well, it didn’t seem to stop you enthusiastically fucking.”
“The original plan called for you to do all the heavy lifting.”
“Right,” Ken said. Gave up on tugging at the bandage and decided to do things the proper way. Poor baby, let me comfort your hurt. “Like it’s my fault you’re fucking lazy.” God, and for some reason that had sounded weirdly flirty. Flirty? Get it together, Hidaka, how many times do you need to get laid anyway?
“It’s your fault you were baiting me to see if I'd fuck you, yes.” And he was smirking again. It was almost enough to make Ken want to wrench at the bandages again.
But that, Ken told himself, would have been needlessly petty. Instead, he just muttered something under his breath as he finished unwrapping the bandage: let Schuldig wonder what, exactly, he was saying to him, as if the guy wasn’t a mind reader. Then he reached for the water and rags, and another roll of crepe, and applied himself to the business of re-dressing Schuldig’s wounds. The sooner he got started the sooner he’d be done, and at least this time he didn’t have a gun to his head.
Ken ran out of steristrips about halfway through the dressing, and it didn’t surprise him in the least.
It seemed prudent to retreat after that, put some much-needed space between Schuldig and himself. Tidying away the soiled bandages and the empty dressing packs, Ken went to sit down on the hearthrug, wrapping his arms about his knees, or at least letting the cast rest atop them, same difference – anyone else would have stared into the flames: not Ken – and wondering if it was worth trying to get some sleep. Wondering about the story he would have to tell, when Youji returned, and the trip home, and the story there.
(It wasn’t like this would change anything. The thaw would come, Youji would return, he would go home. Weiss and Schwarz would still be enemies. What difference would any of this make, even a week from now?)
“For God's sake,” Schuldig said into the silence, and Ken raised his head, frowning: the man’s words were frustrated, but his tone was anything but. His tone was casual, almost even playful. “You've got rope burn and a huge fucking bite on your neck, tell them I raped you for the sheer glee of finding yet another way to torment all of you.” But that would be a lie and lying was a sin, certainly it would be a sin to lie to your friends about something like—curiously selective conscience you got there. Ken, you’re a murderer. “Get over here, its your turn now.”
(Mary Mother of God, why’s he gotta reply to my thoughts?) “You know,” Ken said, and the sheer everyday mildness of his voice surprised even him, “you’re a really… uh, really disconcerting to be round.”
He probably hears that a lot, you know. From people who take less than a day to notice it— “With any amount of luck we will never be in the same room after this.” A slight shrug. A slight smile. Well, Ken thought, I can’t exactly say I’d be weeping bitter tears of loss if we never meet again after this. Well, all need to kill one another aside, that was… Mary Mother of God, this was some situation. Why, Ken wondered, do things like this never seem to happen to Aya?
Schuldig got to his feet and ambled over to the couch, stooping to paw through the medical supplies before going over to sit by the cooling water.
“Get over here if you want those taken care of, otherwise I'm going to sleep.”
Sleep sounded preferable. (Ken, you want to be able to walk tomorrow. You do not want blood poisoning. Go and get yourself bandaged like a good boy.)
Ken said, “What’s the catch?” As if the idea that there might not be a catch and Schuldig might really want to bandage his rope burn out of the golden goodness of his heart was too remote to be worth mentioning. This – we already had sex, twice, and he’s eaten all the goddamn Pocky, what else is he after? – simply couldn’t be realistic. What the Hell was in it for Schuldig?
“I'm feeling magnanimous; you shouldn't question it.” Arrogance in his voice and that fucking annoying grin again, but somehow Schuldig managed to sound pleasant, or about as close to it as he’d so far gotten.
(Well, damn, Kenken. You must be better at this casual sex thing than you thought.)
It was, Ken supposed, an explanation of sorts. Sighing (it could have been in resignation), he scrambled ungracefully to his feet and walked the short distance over to Schuldig then, sitting, wordlessly held out his unbandaged hand. He could feel the heat of the fire playing against his side; he scrupulously blanked it, but not so scrupulously he couldn’t tell exactly what it was up to. Honestly, he simply didn’t trust the thing. Considering how thoughtlessly he’d held his wrist out to Schuldig, he trusted it considerably less than the man beside him. It wasn’t entirely illogical: at least he could bargain with Schuldig.
It should have been unsettling to have Schuldig so close to hand again, and so soon. Schuldig, his hair suggestively disheveled and his tee-shirt, which was really Ken’s tee-shirt and he knew he would never be able to wear again, stained. He was warm and heavy and real and only disconcertingly human, even if that was only because he was too preoccupied to play superior and also had his mouth shut…
Ken didn’t know quite what he’d been expecting from Nurse Schuldig but he had to admit, as he sat silent and grave-eyed and watched him work, that the man at least knew what he was doing. His movements were brisk and efficient and professionally delicate; his gaze remained scrupulously disinterested. Ken, to him, could have been anyone at all: a teammate, or a wounded puppy, should Schuldig ever have taken it upon himself to start tending to sick animals.
Schuldig had simply stopped caring.
Well, good. Did it matter how Schuldig saw him? Sure, it was kind of annoying that the guy didn’t consider him a real enough threat to care about watching his back as he bent to bandage the rope burns at his ankles, but it was preferable. Better to be nothing than a credible threat. At least nothing could be suffered to live, and without being tied to the bed… you couldn’t exactly call it an epiphany, but it was better than nothing.
Through a tumbled curtain of fire-burnished hair, Schuldig smirked over some delinquent thought of his own, or more likely over one of Ken’s.
“Ow,” Ken said. “Shit.”
“Hold still, then,” Schuldig murmured – he must have flinched; he hadn’t even realized it, but it hardly mattered when Schuldig hadn’t really noticed it as anything other than an annoyance. The man hadn’t even looked up. Just kept rubbing antibiotic cream into the abrasion at his ankle, then reached for the gauze.
You know, Ken thought, as Schuldig pulled away from him, you tell anyone you actually agreed to fuck this guy, anyone at all, and they won’t buy it anyway. Blame his all-too-visible injuries, the bite marks and bruises and scratches, the welts at the wrist and ankles and the all-too-obvious ways they had been inflicted, the sheer stupidity of this situation, the damage and the mess. The perception of Ken Hidaka as clueless ingénue who didn’t even know how to spell ‘lust’ let alone give into it, and even if he had done wouldn’t willingly fuck a mortal enemy simply because said mortal enemy was bored.
Try as he might, Ken simply couldn’t imagine Youji coming to any other conclusion. All his denials would be good for was leaving his friend more convinced than ever that Schuldig had raped him.
Shit. What a stupid situation—
“Let him assume it then,” Schuldig said through that smirk of his, and he laughed without humor. (He just doesn’t care.) “Safer for you that way and maybe you'll get one of your dear sweet friends to pet you all better after your traumatic experience—except Fujimiya. I'd keep your distance there.” And he raised his eyes heavenward, as if Aya’s sheer predictability were nothing but a bore.
“It—” Ken spoke without thinking, “—doesn’t bother you if the others think you raped me?”
“This one works to my benefit any way you look at it.”
Ken looked at it. He looked at Schuldig. He felt his brows draw downward, and he frowned. He said, “What?”
“I forgot,” Schuldig said, so low he had to strain to hear, then murmured something he couldn’t quite catch about something that necessitated something except Ken couldn’t quite tell what. Then, out loud and infuriatingly pedagogically: “Youji assumes I raped you, the others find out and it works to my benefit because I hurt you. Convince them I talked you into fucking—twice—and it works to my benefit. Doubt, not as useful as fear, but see if they trust you the same afterward.”
It wasn’t even worth trying to deny it. (I’m not sure I trust me the same now.)
“So what happens now?”
Schuldig just looked at him as if he were somehow deficient, but Ken was getting way too used to that look to even think that much of it any more. “I’m going to sleep.” And there was an implied note of idiot there, and that had to be about the hundredth time. “You do whatever you want.”
“You’re not worried I might kill you in your sleep?” Ken asked. Another genuine question.
“Normally,” Schuldig said with all the seriousness in the world, “I would be but you know, I'm just so worn out from all the hard fucking that I must be brain damaged and stupid. So--no. Not really.” He sounded tired and resentful: he could have achieved much the same effect by simply asking, softly and wearily, why the hell Ken hadn’t shut up yet. It was actually a surprisingly good question. Ken doubted he could ever have answered it satisfactorily even to himself.
He yawned, incompletely stifling it behind one hand. Watched as Schuldig fidgeted with the blankets, clucking over the stains like a housewife before turning them over and burrowing beneath them. Now he looked like the world’s largest three year old. Ken wondered if he should offer him cocoa.
“I don’t like chocolate,” Schuldig said petulantly. Now shut up, I’m going to sleep.
“I didn’t say anything,” Ken pointed out, reasonably enough, he thought.
Schuldig just turned his back on him – and there was no way to do that and not end up looking like a pouting child, Ken thought. (And you think it looked any better when you did it?) For a brief, insane moment something inside him suggested fetching the poker and having one last crack at committing murder most horrid, but he ignored it: blame the inner demons for lying down on the job. Well, even assassins needed to sleep sometimes, right? Right.
The plan had been to sleep on the sofa, but Schuldig had stolen all the blankets and there was no point anyway, it wasn’t like the situation could get any more compromising when they’d spent the best part of the evening gleefully misinterpreting one another’s actions. Besides, Ken was cold.
Ken said, “Budge over, you selfish bastard.”
And joined Schuldig on the floor, ready or not.

____
Movement.
Movement and sound and the creak of floorboards as someone and you know what, it was just too fucking early for this. Too dark and too cold: the fire burning low, sputtering and falling to ash, snow still drifting idly past the windows.
Ken raised his head, the blankets slipping from about his shoulders as he pushed himself upright and blinked into the shadows, the embers of the fire scoring patterns on his retinas. Caught a glimpse of a tall figure stood by the door, engaged in a titanic struggle with a recalcitrant coat – idiot Ken thought without malice. (Well, look at you, full of the milk of human fucking kindness.) Well, why the Hell not? He was still alive and stupid though his situation was at least he’d gotten a decent lay out of it, or maybe he was just too tired to care.
Yeah, it was probably the latter. Still, Schuldig had to be fucking nuts to think now was a good time to head out. Oh well, it wasn’t like it would be Ken’s funeral…
Ken sighed, and tugged the blankets about him again, and settled back down. Limbs heavy, his mind fogged and clumsy with weariness, he must have bumped into Schuldig, or jostled him: the man sighed and murmured something plaintive and Ken would have laid money that he had been cursing, and something about this situation stubbornly refused to make sense.
Schuldig was right next to him. Was, in fact, still asleep. Which clearly couldn’t be right because Schuldig was by the door and fumbling for the light switch and he really should have known why that wasn’t going to work—
Waitaminute. Hold it right there, Ken. The door had closed first. That must have been what had woken him, the cue to jolt him from his sleep – then had come the footsteps and Schuldig was still there, a warm, heavy presence by his side, somehow stubbornly clinging to sleep. Which meant there was someone else in here and how unlucky did you have to be to get your home invaded while undergoing a home invasion, but that wasn’t right either because this someone else had just walked on up like he had every right to be there which meant he have to have a key and ohshit.
Shit. Suddenly wide awake, Ken sat bolt upright, clutching the blankets before him, and stared wildly about himself – he wasn’t sure if he was looking for a camera crew or an emergency exit. By his side, Schuldig was stirring again, muttering a little bit louder, a little bit more irritably: stay there, god damn you, stay still and shut up, you’re not supposed to be here!
Oh, we’re dead. We’re totally, utterly dead.
(The sex hadn’t been that good.)
And light, sudden and obtrusive, though that risked granting the tremulous flame hesitating at the element of the stranger’s Zippo far too much significance – and stranger, Hell. Ken knew exactly who this was, and wasn’t the whole damn problem?
To think he’d imagined that this was over. Ken met the newcomer’s eyes, and he smiled.
“Um, hi?”
-ende-
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