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Coming Home	By : katami Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 2558 -:- 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.

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Like most places, Tokyo didn’t suck nearly as much when he was drunk. The bit of pot he had scored didn’t hurt his enjoyment of the city either. It muted the voices to a dull whisper and gave everything a sort of fuzzy look.

Schuldig wasn’t exactly sure where he was; it was somewhere far enough outside Tokyo proper that the city was no longer smothering him and that was all he cared about. He had stumbled out of the bar and aboard a train, he couldn’t remember which, and had ridden until the last stop. The hotel room he was in was small, cheap, and beige. He would have hated it if he wasn’t so relaxed. But nearly a day and a half outside the cacophony of Tokyo, plus enough alcohol to sustain a small German town, had left him with a pleasant lassitude. Even a cheap beige hotel room could be tolerated if it came with…well, not silence - he was too powerful to ever fully block all the voices - but quiet. For a telepath quiet was worth nearly as much as silence.

In his more lucid moments he knew the reckoning for what he had done would be terrible. Crawford would beat him. Might even kill him. Team leaders were given a wide leeway on discipline. That was saying something considering they worked for an organization that thought of rape, torture and dismemberment as standard disciplinary measures. He knew the pre-cog had been a boxer at Rosenkreuz, had beaten men to death, but he had never seriously considered what it meant. Never considered what it meant in relation to him. The quiet was simply too good to pass up though, it was worth whatever Crawford did to him - even if it was beat him to death.

Schuldig sighed and shifted on the cheap hotel bed but settled again quickly. He spared a brief thought to going out to get some sleeping pills, to start trying to catch up on some of the sleep he had lost over the last two weeks. He was comfortable though and wasn’t quite far enough gone to start mixing pills with liquor. That combination had ended more than one unwary telepath as their search for silence led them to overdose. That was the unspoken truth of telepaths - they didn’t burn out, they blew out. No telepath in the last forty years had died of natural causes. When telepaths died they were all lines of duty, accidental overdoses or suicides - with suicides far and away the leading cause of death among telepaths. That thought sent a spike a anger through him because he was determined not to share that fate.

Herr Kiedel had tried to break him, to turn him into one of those docile, meek little telepaths who would plow along until he couldn‘t take it anymore and blew his brains out. It hadn’t taken. He wasn’t like them and he wouldn’t go down without a fight. He would cling to life and his sanity with every last bit of his strength. He couldn’t and wouldn’t go quietly into the darkness like all the other telepaths. He was not one of the fucking sheep and he was not going to let Herr Kiedel or anyone else make him into one!

He shoved the thoughts away and instead concentrated on wallowing in the quiet. He stretched languidly on the bed and briefly let the pleasure from the guy getting a blow job two floors up drift across his brain. He sighed in contentment and sank deeper into the pleasure. It had been so long since he’d been able to spare a moment for anything other than trying to keep his shields up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d any fun or gotten laid, or done anything besides cling tenaciously to his sanity.

He briefly pondered finding someone to fuck but couldn’t quite suppress a shudder of revulsion at the idea. He was just starting to get Tokyo out of his head, the last thing he needed was to clutter it up with the thoughts of some cheap fuck. Still, a little relaxation would be nice and the pleasure drifting down to him wasn’t helping his control any.

He shed his shirt and opened his pants, reaching for his cock and letting the arousal from the couple above help to stoke his own. He slowly stroked himself, feather light touches, letting his pleasure build slowly, wanting to draw things out and really enjoy himself. He closed his eyes to savor the sensations and lowered his shields just a little to glean slightly more of the bliss from up above. He remembered Crawford standing over him in nothing but his pajama bottoms, the blue cotton resting low on his hips, and groaned. With his glasses gone and his hair tousled Brad Crawford had looked better than good; he looked like sin made flesh.

Schuldig tried to imagine that stern mouth slack and slightly bruised from kissing and moaned at his efforts. Brad would be one of those people that went all heavy lidded and boneless with pleasure, like a sated tiger. He groaned at the image. By God that man was hot; all dark and dangerous. Focused. He tried to imagine Brad sinking to his knees, turning all that focus onto him; but his imagination wasn’t up to the task. Brad Crawford was like him - he didn’t kneel for anyone. With an annoyed sigh for reality imposing itself on his fantasy Schuldig moved on. Brad would never blow him. He spared a moment to consider blowing Brad - the girl up above sure seemed to be having fun. He quickly decided that as hot as it would be to make the straight-laced Oracle lose control it wasn’t what he wanted to jerk off to.

He tightened his fist, stroking faster, imagining it was Brad’s hand on him and bucked his hips eagerly at the little fantasy. Brad would be rough, skirting the line between pleasure and pain. He reached up to savagely twist a nipple, easily imagining Brad doing so, before licking his fingers and gently soothing the small pain. Brad would work him hard and fast, dominating him, but instead of using his power to hurt him Brad would give him pleasure, reward his small surrender. He moaned and thrust into the tight warm fist around his cock, pretending he could hear Brad’s commanding voice telling him to come, ordering him to come. Another quick twist of his other nipple and he was coming, wailing Brad’s name and striping his chest with come.

He lay bonelessly on the bed, panting and sated, almost imagining he could smell Brad’s cologne and letting the rich sent lull him further. The faint growl he heard was all too real, as was the looming presence glaring murder at him from behind glinting glasses. A strong hand shot out, tangling in his hair and dragging him to his feet unless he was willing to lose a clump of hair. Judging from the look on Brad’s face, the hair was only the first thing he’d lose. He’d barely gotten to his feet when a fist connected with his cheek. Then a sucker punch to the gut, a knee to the face, and countless other blows until his whole body was nothing more than one throbbing, aching pain.

* * *

That had been eight days ago. Brad had beaten him nearly to unconsciousness before dragging him out to the car by his hair. He wasn’t quite sure who had pulled his pants up, but he guessed Crawford because come on the leather upholstery would have sent the American into conniptions. He had passed out on the way back to town, although whether it was from the beating or the rush of a million voices flooding his mind, Schuldig couldn’t say.

He had come to the next day in his soiled clothes, dumped rather unceremoniously on his bed, the city screaming in head and his body begging for the mercy of drugs - strong ones. Farfarello had let him have two aspirin and told him that Brad had said if he asked for anything more or tried to leave then the psycho could stab him anywhere he wanted. He had believed it and hadn’t been willing to risk his already aching body to a confrontation with Farf. On a good day he would have been able to take the Berserker. In Tokyo he didn’t have any good days, so he had taken the aspirin.

Schuldig shuddered, that had been a week ago and still his confinement hadn’t been lifted. The bruises had faded but he would have traded all of them for a single pack of cigarettes. He had run out three days ago and Brad refused to get him any more, claiming that no one else smoked and that it was bad for him. The loss was hitting him hard and Schuldig knew it even as he was helpless to stop it. Without cigarettes he had nothing to help keep Tokyo at bay. He hadn’t slept in days. In fact, since Brad had dragged him back the amount of sleep he’d gotten could have been measured in mere minutes. He couldn’t keep any food down and that was when he could eat. Most of the time struggling to keep out the barrage of voices left his stomach too knotted to eat. If he even remembered about food.

He had been snappish at Nagi, tormented Farf, and slunk around quietly hating Brad for days but no one had said anything to him. They all seemed to treat his behavior as nothing but telepath childishness at being dragged back before he was ready. He was going out of his fucking mind and not one of them gave a damn! The thought brought a spike of rage that was washed away as quickly as it had come, buried under the myriad of other people’s feelings.

“It’s dinner,” snarled Nagi from the doorway, his glare made it clear that he had been trying to get Schuldig’s attention for more than a little while. Schuldig shrugged, not interested in food. The pregnant woman three floors down was nauseous, the kid upstairs had already eaten, Mr. Soto across the way was hungry but he wanted pizza rather than whatever it was Farf had prepared, and his own stomach was so knotted it would probably revolt at the first bite.

“Brad said you’d better get your butt in there or he’d drag you in,” warned Nagi, not quite hiding his amusement at the idea of Schuldig getting in trouble. The kid was pissed at him. Not that Schuldig blamed him, he wouldn’t have wanted to be around him either. But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t do anything to curb his ever more volatile temper. He glared menacingly at Nagi but could do little else, he didn’t have the concentration to spare for lashing out. It was all he could do to hold onto himself. Even then he was slowly being consumed. A few more days in Tokyo and there would be nothing left of him but the voices.

He dragged himself into the kitchen, slumping into his chair and ignoring everything around him. He moved the food around his plate but the thought of actually eating made him queasy. Some part of him knew he should eat, couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, but the smell alone was enough to make him vomit. There was no way he would be able to stand anything in his mouth.

The others finished their meal and Nagi retreated to his room and Farf claimed the TV. Schuldig was just working his way up to summoning the energy to clear away his plate and stumble back to his room when a hand fell on his shoulder…And a wall slammed down between him and the rest of Tokyo.

He moaned softly, totally unable to help himself, his eyes sliding shut in bliss at the quiet. It was perfection. No, it was nirvana. Schuldig decided he didn’t care what it was. It was the most wonderful thing in the whole universe.

So naturally it was ripped away. Fucking universe.

The voices rushed back, nearly making him scream at the sudden loss of the quiet. He stared up at Brad Crawford with appalled shock before the anger in the pre-cog’s eyes registered on him. “I don’t know what your problem is, Schuldig,” began the pre-cog, his tone cold enough to freeze a man solid. “But I’m sick of this shit. You sit around your room all day moping, you won’t eat, won’t sleep and haven’t said two words to anyone in days.”

That last one wasn’t entirely true, he had said more than two words to Nagi the other day. He had also sent the kid running for his bedroom at mach ten. Brad and Farf were made of sterner stuff, but they weren’t abused nine year olds. Okay, picking on Nagi had been a little cruel but it had been rush hour and he’d had nearly six-thousand pissed off salary men in his head.

“Why the hell do you care?” snarled Schuldig, unable to help it. Brad’s whole attitude was raising his heckles. Just like every other leader he’d ever had, Brad didn’t care. He just wanted Schuldig to do what he was told, to be a good little telepath and toe the line like he was suppose to. Brad didn’t care if he was slowly dying, he just wanted to use him until he broke and then replace him. Suddenly he wanted his gun, it wouldn’t be as satisfying as ripping the bastard’s mind to shreds but Brad was too well shielded for that so the gun would have to do. Two shots. Right between the eyes. And then another half dozen into the bastard’s fucking heart just make sure the job was done.

“I care because you’re useless to me like this.” Useful. That was all anyone wanted from him. All Herr Kiedel had wanted and all this arschloch wanted. They didn’t care what their desires did to him, they just wanted him to do as he was told. Rage boiled through his blood at the thought and he forgot about the gun. It would kill him to lower his shields, it would kill him but he would take Brad Fucking Crawford with him. It would be worth it. It would be worth it to die if he could take that arschloch with him.

“Get your shit together or I’m taking you in to get checked out,” warned Brad, as Schuldig prepared to drop his shields and tear the pre-cog to pieces.

Brad’s words settled over him and the rage fled, cold terror left in its place. He didn’t even notice Brad leaving. Take him in? To the lab techs? He began to shake, unable to help himself or still the trembling of his limbs. They would kill him! No debate, no excuses, no second chances. Just death. They wouldn’t care that there were over 30 million people in Tokyo and that no telepath could thrive in that. They would just write him up, ship him back to Rosenkreuz, and request a new telepath for Schwarz.

He stumbled up from the table and out the front door, not knowing where he was going and not caring. He had to get away. He couldn’t go back. Not there. Not ever.
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