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Dragon Cycle	By : RubyRoh Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 6229 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own WeiÃŸ Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Dragon Cycle - Pt 3 - Blindsided

Disclaimer: Of course the WK and Schwarz boys don't belong to me, we just have fun together. I write this stuff for pleasure not profit.

Author's Notes: Many thanks again to Iron Dog, my wonderful beta.

To those who've take the time to review or leave comments. Thank you! I very much appreciate it ^_^

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Schuldig sniffed, freeing a hand from beneath the covers. He touched his fingers to the warm trickle of blood coming from his nose and drew his hand away, frowning.
“What the…?” he began.
For a split second, Farfarello thought he heard Crawford and Nagi, sounding distant and confused. He felt something snap in his head then his attention was caught by Schuldig. The German made a startled sound just before his hand slammed down on the bed, bunching the covers in a white-knuckled grip.
The thin trickle of blood became a heavy stream and the telepath went rigid. His head snapped back hard, making the tendons in his neck stand out. His back arched in an impossible angle and his muscles strained. His eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites showed. He sounded like he was being choked as his lips pulled back from his teeth in a death’s head grin. Farfarello could hear Schuldig involuntarily grinding his teeth together under the power of the seizure.
Farfarello sat up sharply. “Schuldig! Schu!”
Even as Farfarello came upright, the gurgling sound Schuldig was making died away to a sigh, and Schuldig’s body dropped back onto the bed completely limp. The entire episode had lasted less than thirty seconds. Apart from the steady rise and fall of his chest, the German didn’t move. His eyes were closed and Farfarello knew they weren’t going to open again any time soon.
He sprang from the bed and grabbed a box of tissues from the dresser. Returning to the telepath’s side, he carefully wiped the blood away from his nose and mouth. The stream had already slowed back to a trickle and Farfarello continued to wipe at the blood until it stopped completely.
He knew what had happened – but he didn’t know why.
He’d seen Schuldig fall victim to attacks of this type before, although never one as severe as this. Telepathic backlash could cause it, but Schuldig hadn’t been doing anything to evoke backlash that Farfarello knew about.
Perhaps the fall he’d taken those few hours previously was to blame. Schuldig hadn’t been groggy or dazed when he’d clambered back to his feet after cracking his skull on the rooftop. He’d seemed fine except for the damage to his ankle. Farfarello doubted the impact had been hard enough to cause this reaction.
Then what?
Usually, even if the attack was bad enough to lay Schuldig flat, he’d wake up again within a few hours. He’d be headachy and a little unsteady on his feet, but he’d recover fully within a day. Schuldig would typically use the attacks as an excuse to laze around the house, milking the incident for all he was worth.
This time, though.…
Farfarello looked down at the pale face of the telepath.
Schu? he tried. There was no response. Schu, can you hear me?
The telepath lay there as still as death.
Farfarello’s attention was drawn to the blood on Schuldig’s chin and neck. He hadn’t wiped that up yet. He sat a moment, his gaze transfixed by the dark stain on that pale skin. Then he reached out and touched his fingertips to the cool, blood-painted throat. He could feel the scratchy beginnings of stubble as he drew his fingers slowly upwards, towards the chin. Taking his hand away he held it in front of him, gazing intently at the blood. The dim light from the lamps gave it a dark, almost black appearance, contrasting it starkly against the white of his skin.
Blood. A body’s life force. The mainstay of superstition and dark ritual down through the centuries. A thing used to seal deals and grant power. The most precious of all tangible things a body could lose.
Farfarello smiled to himself. He held no superstitions, and followed no rituals. But blood; the color and taste of it; the many ways a body could lose it and the effects of that loss, these things fascinated him.
He moved his hand a little, watching dull lights play on his blood-tipped fingers. Then he took his middle finger into his mouth and closed his eyes as he savored the coppery spicy-sweetness of Schuldig’s unique taste. Farfarello moaned softly as the exotic taste exploded on his tongue. It triggered the memory of the brief little sample he had taken from Schuldig while in the throes of mutual ecstasy.
When he was done sucking his own fingers clean, he looked back at Schuldig. There was more of the telepath’s heady tasting blood waiting for him and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity to lap it up pass him by. He lowered his head and ran his tongue over the German’s chin.
He continued to clean away the blood in this manner. As he worked, he tried to speak mentally with the unconscious telepath. He called softly; he yelled; he cajoled and threatened. There was no response; no sign of life from either Schuldig’s body or mind.
Sitting back on his heels Farfarello considered that, had it not been for the slight rise and fall of the German’s chest and the sounds of his breathing, it would be easy to believe he was dead. Farfarello felt his throat constrict and his chest grow tight. He didn’t like the way that thought made him feel.
Wake up, Schu. The thought whispered through his mind.

• • • • • • • • • •

The first clue that something was amiss became apparent as soon as he opened his eyes. Crawford stared at the clock on his nightstand in disbelief. It was after midday. Even without his glasses, he could see the large numerals. He never slept this late, not even after the most difficult of missions.
The second clue was the pounding in his head. He rarely got headaches this severe unless he had an especially nasty vision. There had been no such vision lately.
Rolling onto his back, Crawford rested his forearm over his closed eyes. He had to get up and take some painkillers for his head. He wanted some breakfast…make that lunch…and coffee; not necessarily in that order. Maybe once that was done the day would resume a mantle of normality.
He lowered his arm and pushed the covers off. Gingerly he climbed out of bed, the sudden movement making his head pound even harder. Showering could wait until he was feeling slightly human again. Pulling on his robe, he left the bedroom. All the doors along the hallway were closed, but that wasn’t unusual. It did, however, cause his memory to kick in.
Schuldig…Farfarello.
Just wonderful, Crawford groaned silently. I didn’t need to be reminded of that right now.
Reaching the bathroom, he opened the door and went in. A few minutes later he emerged, feeling no better. He’d washed his face but had decided against shaving for now. A sharp blade and slight tremors in his hands weren’t a good combination for his continuing longevity. Cleaning his teeth could wait, too. Just the thought of minty freshness made his stomach roil.
Entering the kitchen, he was surprised to find Nagi there. The boy sat at the table, his hands clasped loosely around the cup front of him, seemingly lost in thought.
“Nagi?” Crawford frowned.
On a normal morning, Nagi would fix himself something to eat and head back to his room. But, as was already clear to Crawford, this was not a normal morning.
Nagi raised his head and Crawford saw how tired and drawn he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes and he had a pinched look around his mouth.
Crossing to the table, he touched his hand to the boy’s forehead. “Are you feeling ill?” he asked.
“I’m just tired,” Nagi explained, his gaze moving over Crawford’s robe.
Crawford lowered his hand. “Were you up late last night?”
“Not particularly,” Nagi replied.
Crawford stood a moment, looking down on the boy’s dark head until the need to alleviate his pain forced him to move.
He went to a cupboard and took out a box of painkillers. He popped two into his hand and put the packet back. From another cupboard he took out a glass and filled it with water. As he swallowed the painkillers he hoped they worked quickly. He needed to get rid of the pounding in his head so he could start to think straight.
He was aware that Nagi had been following his movements even though the boy hadn’t turned his head. Thankfully, he chose not to comment on the American’s state of dress at this late hour of the day, nor his need for painkillers.
Silence descended then, broken only by small sounds as Crawford brewed some coffee. He’d changed his mind about eating when just seeing some sticky danishes in the breadbox made his stomach heave. Nagi refused his offer of food, seeming to share Brad’s queasiness at the thought of food.
A mug of the strong, hot brew finally in hand, Crawford took a seat at the table. He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. It didn’t taste as good as he’d hoped but he always drank coffee for breakfast, so he persisted with it. His stomach didn’t rebel at the coffee and he needed as much of routine as he could get today.
Looking back at the silent Nagi, he asked, “Did you have a bad night?”
“I don’t think so,” the boy answered cautiously.
A rather ambivalent answer from Naoe Nagi.
“You’re not sure?” Crawford prodded.
Nagi gave his head a small shake. “I woke up once. I don’t know why. I went back to sleep.”
“A nightmare?”
“No.” That answer was decisive enough.
Frowning to himself, Crawford tried to recall anything that might have given him a clue that today was not going to be just another day.
“I don’t think Schuldig and Farfarello are back yet, either,” Nagi said quietly.
“They’ll be fine,” Crawford assured him, meeting his dark gaze across the table. “They’re at one of the safe houses. They’ll be back once they wake up.”
Nagi gave a little nod, lowering his gaze again.
They’ll be back once they’ve finished fucking each other into the mattress, Crawford thought to himself. It was no surprise that the mental link between them was dead. That way there could be no accidental link-up with someone Schuldig really didn’t want in the loop these past hours.
But the telepath had to know that Crawford was aware of what had taken place. It would be interesting to see how he behaved once he did come home.
The American tested the link, calling for the telepath. He was not surprised at all when there was no response. He preferred to think Schuldig and his newly acquired lover were still asleep and not indulging some new kink they shared.
He knew it was foolish to be jealous. After all, he and Schuldig weren’t married. They had an arrangement of convenience, nothing more than that. They’d both screwed around with other people when it had suited them to do so; albeit that Schuldig indulged himself much more often than Crawford did, or was inclined to do.
This was different only in that the other person was also a team mate. A psychotic, blood-thirsty, sadist who delighted in inflicting pain and terrifying his victims. One who exulted in the kill and in making death as slow and as brutal as possible whenever he could. Farfarello was extremely good at what he did, but he wasn’t what most people would consider “lover” material. Crawford had to stop from snorting aloud. Trust Schuldig to be so obliging and do the opposite of what any sane person would.
And I knew he would oblige, Crawford thought to himself.
He’d Seen it would happen as surely as he’d Seen Schuldig would twist his ankle. He’d warned him to mind his step, and knew he wouldn’t. Typical of the German, and what he deserved for not listening to the warning issued.
Yet, knowing all this, Crawford hadn’t intervened. He hadn’t tried to prevent them from being alone together. The reason for this was simple. There would have been no point to it. Farfarello was going to acknowledge his attraction to the German and, eventually, achieve the outcome he had last night. If Crawford had prevented them from being alone together last night, it would have simply happened on another night. There had been an unavoidable quality to the vision that had shown him the pairing of Schuldig and Farfarello.
Crawford had learned the hard way long ago there was no point in fighting the inevitable. The trick was in knowing the difference between what really was inevitable and what wasn’t.
Control played its part as well. Control of one’s self. Crawford could not allow Schuldig to matter to him so much that he would interfere with other dalliances just to keep the telepath for himself. So long as it didn’t affect the team dynamic or put them at risk, Crawford had no argument with anything Schuldig chose to do.
The American knew he was not, by nature, a magnanimous man. Nor was he the type to delude himself. He knew his open-handedness in regards to Schuldig stemmed from two sources. The first was his need for control, especially of himself. The second was one salient fact: Crawford was Schuldig’s safe haven. He was the telepath’s refuge when the world and its madness threatened to overwhelm him. Simply put, in order to retain his sanity, Schuldig needed Crawford. That would never change.
He became aware he was being watched and glanced across the table at Nagi.
“Are you feeling any better?” the boy asked.
“A little,” Crawford replied.
Nagi gave a small nod and looked away for a moment. Crawford waited, aware something was bothering him. He didn’t have long to wait. After a few seconds Nagi looked back at him.
“I think we should go to the safe house,” he said firmly.
Crawford frowned. “Why?”
“Because I can’t contact Schuldig.”
“He’s just shut down the links. He’s annoyed with me because I told him to stay at the house overnight,” Crawford explained. “You know how childish he can be when he doesn’t get his own way. He’s sulking, nothing more.”
“But why wouldn’t he want to talk to me?” Nagi asked.
Because there are things Schuldig does that aren’t fit for young eyes or minds to witness, Crawford thought. Even Schuldig drew the lines of propriety somewhere. Letting Naoe Nagi peep in on him and his latest conquest going at it like rabbits was that line in the sand.
“I’m sure he will once he’s stopped sulking,” he said instead. Seeing this hadn’t mollified Nagi, he tried another tack. “Ring them,” he suggested
“If he won’t mind-speak with me, he’s not going to answer the phone,” Nagi reasoned, his dark gaze sliding away from his leader.
Clearly he was still unhappy with the situation. After a few moments, Crawford capitulated.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll make my report to Takatori, then we’ll tidy ourselves up and drive over to the safe house.”
Nagi looked back at him now with a strange relief in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

********

Before the hour was up, they had showered and dressed. The painkillers had done their job and Crawford was feeling much better. He’d reported to Takatori, assuring him that the mission had been completed successfully. The call had taken no time at all. Now he was collecting his keys and cell phone.
He planned on trying to get some information from Nagi on the drive over. He was mostly interested in why the boy was so uneasy about the situation to the point he actually wanted to go to the house.
Nagi wasn’t one to fret over his team mates. That wasn’t to say there weren’t things, or situations, that caused Nagi concern. But Schuldig throwing his dolly out of the pram because he hadn’t gotten his own way usually didn’t fall into that category. Nagi tended to ignore the German’s tantrums, thinking of them as foolish, childish and beneath his attention.
But something was surely bothering the boy if he wanted to spend time driving across the city to the safe house to collect their colleagues. Given the other peculiar circumstances of the day, Crawford was interested to hear what Nagi had to say.
One final check around the room and he was ready to go. As he stepped into the hallway, the doorbell rang.
Looks like it’s all been for nothing, he thought.
Nagi came out of the den and looked towards the front door.
“Sounds like they’re home.” Crawford threw a quick smile at him as he went to open the door.
Brad Crawford was a precog, and an exceptionally talented one, at that. There existed little that could take him by surprise but, when he opened the front door, he discovered that life could still deal out surprises, even to him.
Years of training saved him from the embarrassment of an overt reaction, but he felt the sharp and unpleasant jolt that went through him.
He found his voice and spoke one word.
“Stein?”

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Dragon Cycle