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Sweet Talk	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1254 -:- 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
- 1-Sweet Talk
- 2-2
- 1
- 2
Title: Sweet Talk

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz

Series: http://cards-slash.livejournal.com/tag/hot+fussHot Fuss, to be found here: http://cards-slash.livejournal.com/tag/hot+fuss

Author(s): Card, Casey and also featuring Laila as Ken's Letter.

Rating: Nc-17 (mostly?)

Disclaimer: I wrote the disclaimer, but Card said that was still stealing. So. We don't own Weiss Kreuz, etc and anon.

Warnings: Sex, violence, slash, swearing? Why is there no s in violence?

_______________________________________

Nagi stared; from the curb where Schuldig had picked him up all the way to the hotel. (He sees the difference but doesn’t know the why and why aren’t you just bursting at the seams to gloat about it?) Silent, perplexed slant to Nagi’s eyebrows and his mouth—lips in a flatline. Stared at him when they parked, and as they moved to get out of the car, Schuldig reaching to the backseat to grab his coat, Nagi just there in the passenger seat, wide eyed. Stared as they walked across the parking lot, stared as Crawford dropped the newspaper he’d been pretending to read and gave a great show of looking at his watch.

(Late, Schuldig.)

“You’re early.” No gleam across his glasses there, because Crawford was looking at him with the same blatant confusion that Nagi had been this whole time. Crawford handled it better, shrugged it off his shoulders and said nothing about it.

“Must be a sign of the apocalypse,” Schuldig said.

Crawford rolling his eyes. (You never were funny, Schuldig.) Nagi staring without speaking and following behind with all the careful obedience of a show dog; seen but not heard. Into the lobby where the man at the front desk pursed his lips and reminded himself to be nothing but polite to the foreigners. Pale ones with friends in the big penthouse at the top, and those friends—oh, those friends were the sort of guests that this hotel paid him to grit his teeth and smile for.

Onto the elevator—just the three of them. Nobody else wanted in. (Can't imagine why not.) Schuldig leaned back against the wall, turned his head to look at Nagi. “My mouse bit me,” he said.

“It has progressed to pet names?” Crawford asked with a sneer. Something oh-so-sardonically amused in the raise of his eyebrow.

(And now what do you say?) Nagi behind him trying to figure out who the mouse was and where he possibly could have bitten Schuldig to explain the strangeness—a shirt with buttons and all the buttons but the very top one done up. Sunglasses in his hair but no bandana and—

“You have full permission to shoot me in the head if it progresses to flowers and candy,” Schuldig retorted. Watched Crawford roll his eyes again and look straight ahead—smirked at that and the memory that was hanging there. Precious Crawford, holding onto his indifference and arrogance; but everyone was young and stupid sometime.

Nagi shivering right on the edge of asking who—or where—the elevator stopped. The bell chimed and the doors pulled open silently. A short hallway, one door to the left, Crawford moved first, out of the elevator and up to the door—it opened before he could raise his hand to knock on it. Some nameless non-talent ducking his head in greeting and moving out of the way, careful not to touch Crawford, not to get too close, not to look into Schuldig eyes or even at Nagi’s shoes.

(Now that, Schnuckel—that is intimidation.)

Crawford stood straight and perfect, arms hanging down by his sides and without casting a single glance around the room. Nagi at his side doing his best imitation of the same, eyes moving around and taking in the room—looking for an exit. Schuldig sat on the couch, leaning back on it, slouching enough that it made his coat ride up against his arms.

(Yes; antagonize the man that could actually kill you and tell the short one that bears no threat that you want him to stay and let him sleep in your bed.)

Pelagatti stepping out of the bathroom—steam puffing out after him—already smoking one of his fucking cigarettes, the smoke hanging around his face as he grinned at the three of them with all the condescension in the world. Jet black hair combed away from his face. “My friends,” he said. In Italian.

Crawford’s grasp of the language was tenuous, Nagi’s was nonexistent.

“You forgot your clothes,” Schuldig said with a nod. (Yes, but he doesn’t have teeth marks across his collarbone or little pink and purple bruises on his belly—does he?) Water slipping down his bare chest and stomach and getting absorbed into the towel he had twisted around his waist.

“How nice of you to notice,” Pelagatti said. Disgusting sincere quality to his voice—warmth and harmony and all the loving acceptance of a mother’s arms; counterpoint to that smirk across his face as he raked his black eyes down Schuldig’s body. Barest twitch of his eyebrows at the height of his collar.

“I’m observant.”

Pelagatti snorting. His metal shields rippling, reinforcing—always had to remind himself to do that, always had to fortify his mind. He outranked Schuldig—outranked him enough that the bastard wore it like a security blanket around his shoulders. Safe and sound in his good standing before the Three and the smug fuck made sure that thought was bright and loud in the forefront of his mind every time he leaned in close and blew that smoke in Schuldig’s face. Outranked him; but Schuldig was a fucking god and Pelagatti was a worthless worm. “We have mapped the best location for the temple to be built,” Pelagatti said, in German. “We expect it to be fully functional in a matter of weeks. There is a prestanding structure that will make this simpler, but there are certain necessary modifications that must be made.”

There was that non-talent, all but walking with his eyes closed, holding out the packet of information for Crawford to take. Making sure his worthless little talentless fingers didn’t come anywhere close to Crawford’s hand as he took it. (Pelagatti trains them best—that’s why they keep promoting him.)

Silence in the room, Pelagatti pulling the smoke down into his lungs—eyebrows knitting in discerning thought (yeah, built himself some shields, too bad they were full of holes. I hear you, you fucking smug bastard) trying to figure out why Schuldig was wearing a high collar.

“Schwarz is, of course, considered a highly efficient team by some. I think your appointment to this task has more to do with favoritism and the unfortunate coincidence of your knowledge of the area.” Strange how the tone didn’t match the words and the words didn’t match their meaning.

Schuldig looked over at Crawford, saw him close the folder.

“We will just have to do our best to deserve our reputation, sir.” Crawford bowing enough to convey obedience (what a world class ass-kisser.) Then he moved to leave. The assignment was given and the task—however impossible it proved to be—must be accomplished.

Schuldig pushed himself up and straightened his coat.

Pelagatti across the room, smooth toned bastard—even with that flat look of dislike on his face as he watched Crawford pull the door open. “What happened to your usual costume, Schuldig?” Inviting little words, asking for a confession—naughty details and all the same.

“Laundry day,” he said, smirk across his face.

Knee-jerk reaction in Pelagatti’s eyes, in his mind, in the way his teeth clamped down on the cigarette in his mouth and the flex of his hands. The room shivering a little, glass clinking unhappily. (Yeah, you smug fucking bitch--I’m lying to you. And there isn’t one thing you can say about it.) “I hope you put more consideration into Estet’s order than you give to your own wardrobe.”

Schuldig said nothing, walked away—smirk broad across his face—(sure thing boss.)

______________________

Omi never bothered asking Schuldig where he was going when he left the apartment, or even when he planned on being back. He figured that was enough courtesy to extend to someone whose company he shouldn't be in to begin with. Omi kept his own schedule, for the most part--get up in the morning, run, shower, dress, find something edible in the treacherous, junk food laden depths of Schuldig's kitchen. Find something vaguely entertaining to do for a few hours. Walk back to his apartment at precisely 2:23 PM to check the mail slot.

The second day he'd stayed out after that, more to prove that he could than for any more practical reason. Schuldig didn't seem phased by this when Omi knocked on the door in the morning--just took the bag of croissants out of his hand and walked back into the living room.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Omi thought he might have wanted to unsettle Schuldig a little by that.

On the third day, he figured he might as well make himself useful and started cleaning the apartment--and when the front door opened he called out "Welcome home" out of sheer habit, despite Schuldig never announcing his arrival and the fact that Omi was elbow-deep in a soapy sink.

He was focused on a pan with something unidentifiable crusted to the bottom of it--no telling how long it had been sitting on the stove waiting to be washed--and only heard the footsteps moving from the entryway, through the living room, into the kitchen and pausing. After an extended period of silence Omi looked up, reaching up with one sudsy hand to shove his bangs back out of his eyes. Schuldig had that smirk on his face--the amused, smug-fucked one.

"What?"

Chair legs squeaking on the floor, a few more rough scrapes at the pot and Schuldig was pulling a chair around, settling it within perfect view of Omi and the sink he was involved with. Schuldig dropped into it, arms hooked over the backrest and one heel on a crosspost. "Am I really that good of a fuck?" He shook his hair out of his face, a half-annoyed toss, and stared.

Intently.

Omi dropped the pot so it drifted to the bottom of the sink with a dull metallic thud, leaning back just enough to look Schuldig full in the face, water dripping on his shirt--but it was already dirty from dusting. "Honestly?" Honestly, Omi thought, he just wanted a clean goddamn plate.

"Then consider buying a disposable one."

He was never going to get used to that.

Whatever was in the bottom of the pot was turning the water black, coating his hands with something greasy and gritty and entirely unpleasant. Omi considered sharing a spongeful of the mystery substance with its inherent owner. Dismissed the idea and continued scrubbing, let Schuldig enjoy his moment of glory.

Although, Schuldig probably heard that thought. And that one.

Omi stopped abruptly, hands on either side of the sink, staring down at the suds and the black gunk and the sponge floating amongst both like an expired goldfish. Easier than looking at Schuldig and his fluorescent ego. "Are you always in my head?"

"No, sometimes I'm in your--"

"Schuldig." Omi meant to follow that with 'be serious' or something else that wouldn't have worked, but caught himself in a laugh somewhere halfway, leaning over the sink on his elbows. He caught his breath after a few random, repressed sputters and turned just enough to look at Schuldig over his shoulder. He was still wearing that grin. "That would probably be the best time, wouldn't it?"

Grin faltered just a bit, Schuldig interrupting it with a snort. "All of you think that--" Trailed off into a superior huff and that... that stung. All of you. "What do you want?"

Omi didn't answer right away; returned to the pot first and favored it with further scrubbing. All of you. Let him stew in his lack of attention for that one, for as long as Omi could drag it out. All of you.

No. No, he's not getting away with that one.

Omi paused, lifted the pot out of the sink, turned around, and promptly dumped its contents over Schuldig's head.

Schuldig was on his feet instantly and cursing in a language that was probably German with a few choice additions. Omi turned back to the sink and just listened to the tantrum play itself out, calmly rinsing the pot, then reaching for a towel to dry it, then pointing out the open drawer of said towels when Schuldig got to the part of the tirade that involved cussing about the mystery pot's black gunk that was now in his hair and WHERE ARE THE FUCKING TOWELS anyway?

Listened until the cussing died down into the sound of annoyed pacing across the wet floor, about the time Omi had the black gunk cleaned out of the sink and was washing his hands off under the tap.

"Bastard," Schuldig was rubbing the towel over his face; Omi saw it from the corner of his eye. "One of them, you don't like being called it don't fucking act like it. And don't stand there with your stupid questions—you know damn good and well I can see in your head." Schuldig's hand on his shoulder, quick turn--not rough but nothing nice about it either. No trace of that grin left on his face now, just an annoyed scowl. "That makes you one of them, stupid fucking people.” Pulled one of the bigger chunks of black out of his hair, where it was swinging against his cheek, and flung it into the sink--punctuation, that action. “Ask what you want to know or stand around like all the other dumb fucks and act like I can’t rip your brain to shreds.”

"Right." Omi didn't say more than that, just stared back, arms folded, unimpressed with all of this. The tantrum and the attitude and--better take him like he is, Tsukiyono, or quit your bitching. He wanted to be direct, so--let's be direct. "Can you see everything? All the..." Conditioning. Programming. Nice little brainwashing job or post-hypnotic suggestion or whatever you called it. Omi tried to say them all and those self-same strings tugged, stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth, stamped CONFIDENTIAL NEED TO KNOW in bright red block across his consciousness. "...additions." Schuldig had to have seen that, the way his mind clamped down on itself. Had to have. "And the deletions." About ten years' worth.

And that one little whisper, somewhere in the back where it would never make its way to his mouth, because that, that was going too far. Kritiker may have made a grave error in failing to plan for the unlikely event of a telepath, but taking advantage of that--Omi had no more than that one speck for so much as a single consideration for the possibility.

Can you undo it?

"Yes." Flat word, no tone to it, no indication of which question was being replied to--maybe all of them. Schuldig shifted on his feet, pulled a rubber band out of his pocket and pushed his hair back from his face, little bits of black still clinging to it and sloughing off onto his skin. Hands twisting a ponytail and--

Stared.

Omi stared back. Imagined, maybe, that he could feel little movements in his head, Schuldig slinking around and nudging at this and that. It wasn't fair, really, Omi thought--wasn't fair that Schuldig could crawl around in his head and see anything and everything he wanted and all Omi could do was stand there and stare back and wonder what the hell was going on. Whether Schuldig was really reading his mind or just being a pain in the ass; trying to unnerve him, maybe, trying to see if Omi would balk and try to shove him out. Maybe he was just staring.

If it went the other way, though, what would you look for? Some kind of answer or explanation, why he is what he is--or do you just want to know why he asked you to stay?

"Okay." Omi said the word slowly, drawing out the silence afterwards just to see--what? Confirmation, maybe. Some kind of smirk or frown or some reaction. Anything. "That's all I wanted to know."

And there it was, in all it's neon glory--that knowing, nerve-grating smirk.

________________________________________

This was where they all got it wrong--all of them, everyone from the average moron on a street corner to Pelagatti who should have had the schooling to teach him better to Omi sitting on his lap, still bearing that sting in his head from days ago. He just didn't like being referred to as one of them. Too bad about that because he was one of them. Not the worst of them (not like Pelagatti with his stinking fucking cigarettes blowing smoke in his face and smiling at him so fucking smugly, ordering him to do whatever he wanted just for the sheer amusement of it. Bringing around a new world order and Pelagatti was the Three's favorite. Too bad he was too concerned with Schuldig's wardrobe to notice all those little things that Crawford kept changing.) And Omi had the aptitude to change--he didn't have much time left to do it in, but he had the aptitude.

This was where they got it wrong, the snuggling warm heat up high along the inside of the thigh, damp breath against the tender skin of an exposed throat and the eager touch of fingers pushing their way down into the back of a shirt collar. A dozen little heartbeats and for every throb of a pulse there was another thought that rose and fell. Hair across skin, caught between fingers, pulling--warm, wet mouth, teeth tongue touch--this is where they got it wrong. Even if he had wanted to get into Omi's head (which he had, more than once, and long before little Tsukiyono had even known about it) there were better times to do it. The mind broke down with sex, followed the body, one association after the other, rubbing smoothly along just like every slippery wet sex metaphor a man could think of. Distracting; that slide, grind--like chaos. Too much to work through and disturbing the flow broke the moment. It was possible, there was a ten second window--the perfect opportunity, Hyde had always called it, to get under every defense a mind had. Ten seconds if the orgasm was really that good, more like two or three and the sheer unlikelihood of having that kind of opportunity, trying to get the poor fool there and get in their head at the same time--that was where they got it wrong. (Oh, but he'd done it. Only the idiot never did find out. Crawford took care of that end of it, simple thing to take over a mind when you knew exactly what second they were going to open up so pretty.)

Sitting on the couch, Omi resting on his lap--he had better things to do than worry about that. That warm thigh, trapped under pants. The shorts were better, easier to get his hands inside of (had to watch out for the sharp pointy things, but otherwise.) Easier to find warm skin, he could feel it here through the fabric and it was a tease. Like those fingers pushing down the back of his shirt and the brush of lips against his but it wasn't quite kissing--had been, stopped, breathed and he moved his hands around. Pulled Omi closer to him, little sighing noise as he slouched and that was just about right. Smile, wasn't his, felt it against his mouth and there it was, the kiss that had stopped for no good reason. Let his hands wander up under the T-shirt that Omi was was wearing--why was he wearing so many damn clothes to start with--and another noise, encouraging.

(2:23.) Better than an alarm clock--it wasn't quite that time. Two twenty maybe, didn't matter, the thought rose up in Omi's mind just the same. (2:23) Kritiker's programming like a well-wound watch. The whole of it, all of what they'd put into that mind, was a thing of beauty. Craftsmen with years of practice couldn't have duplicated the simple beauty of what Kritiker had created. (And him, with too much time on his hands, might just have taken the opportunity to utterly destroy that kind of beauty--but what was the point when the world was ending.) A thing of beauty that worked too well, and as it stood, worked against him. Omi was moving away, hand out of his shirt, a nibble at his lips like an apology and he was pushing himself backward off the couch.

It was time to go. Kritiker could want him back, after all, had to check the mail, after all, couldn't just not go home to check because Kritiker could be waiting for him.

Schuldig held onto him, not hard just tugged him back. "You've got three minutes." At least the woman down the hall figured he did, but her time wasn't always accurate.

There went the eyebrows just asking him what the hell he was going on about and if he was trying to be funny. Like that--like, what--"What exactly do you propose we do in three minutes?" The incredulity dripping from his voice as his hands got harder and more insistent. Quite a bit of muscle in that little body and it was all going stiff and resistant in his lap. Itchy fingertips thinking about where all those nice sharp pointy things were. Kritiker's brilliant trained killer, couldn't fight that programming for half a second. It helped, of course that he wasn't trying. Addicts minds worked like that, the next fix, the next fix, the next fix and where was it who had it when could they get it--Omi's was simple. The fix was an empty mailbox.

For all the world, there he sat hanging on to Omi like he cared if he stayed or didn't, feeling this twist of hate in his chest that he was being left and--shook his head, hands up on Omi's shoulders and shoved him backward, watched his balance overtip and stood up all in the same movement. Faster than he should have moved, sneering down at him. At the little programs on endless repeat, at the stupid little boy that wasn't even going to fight back against them. "Get out." And he took a step away from him, slowed down because he was supposed to go slow and didn't turn to look at him. Listened to the scuffle and movement, the indignant flinch of Omi's mind because he had been being nice about it damn it.

He had to go check the mail, he did it every day. He was trying to be nice (he was trying to get out of the door with the least amount of confrontation was what he was doing). A coward and a wimp. Except the way he stood there, jerking his shirt straight and glaring at his back, or maybe just looking. Omi's face didn't often match his thoughts. "What?" the question.

"The door," Schuldig said with a motion toward as it as he walked away from him. One hand brushing his hair back over his shoulder as he went, wondering at the tangles there and not giving one damn what Omi's little mind was building up to.

Omi didn't seem to notice or otherwise care that the door was in the opposite direction as he was going. Feeling his mind boiling up like that, heard the way he was throwing his hands up somewhere in there but it was anger festering in his head and: "What, just like that?" Something sounded like a smack, hand against pants leg or-- "You don't want me to leave to check my goddamned mail and so that's it? What the fuck." Some half formed thought about getting into his face but something held that off, those itchy fingers again, thoughts of weapons and no, not thinking about that because there were more pressing demands. Didn't get in his face but he got around him. "No, really, I think you had a point about lowering yourself to the standards of the rest of us pathetic human beings and proving you really can be as shallow as the rest of us if you're just going to drop me because I'm not fucking convenient enough for you." All he needed was his hands on his hips and he'd be someone's angry wife.

Schuldig cocked up an eyebrow and let his hand fall from his hair, slipping back, fingertips inside his pockets and just staring. Look at that fancy brainwashing now. It was riddled with pock-marks. Dents. Little tiny holes that would look like stars if there were any light shining through. But there wasn't. Just anger, annoyance, because Omi damn sure wasn't going to get dropped over a damn mailbox.

Wouldn't Kritiker be proud?

A smile spreading across his face as he tipped his head a little, hair sliding back over his shoulder, off his neck, the length of his bangs in his eyes because he wasn't wearing the bandana. "You think you're more than that?" He wanted to laugh at him and didn't. Stared at the holes and wondered how long it would take to tear one far enough to give Tsukiyono a fighting chance. Just to see what it would do, just to cause a little chaos on his way out anyway--just to make this game more amusing (because that was all it was, surely, just a game. Just a game and that's why he was jealous of a damn mailbox, too).

Omi's hands in fists. (Oh he figured that one out all on his own. Good boy.) "Then that would make two of us, wouldn't it?"

The smile didn't falter, got a little crueler maybe, a little broader across his face as he shrugged. Simple movement, shoulders up and down and no other need to express himself. A convenient fuck was what he was, an enemy too and Omi was going to get back around to that very soon. Basic defense of the program, really, whatever challenged it was considered a threat, whatever threatened the program threatened whoever controlled it and that was dealt with decisively. It was a wonder that Omi wasn't holding those nice sharp little shuriken already. (And there you are, waiting to push your luck.) He took a step forward and Omi didn't move, another one and he still didn't move, hand out of his back pocket. (This is going to end in bruises.) Over Omi's shoulders against the wall he wasn't more than eight inches from anyway and bending down. Other hand out and pushing against Omi's collarbone, gentle push and next to no give there. "You know what barbed wire is?" he asked.

Narrow little glare, mental processes flexing and trying to figure that one out. Omi moved half a step since there wasn't any real danger in doing so. "Yes."

(Oh and check the time, that was coming soon. Pock marks, holes and dents aside, there it was and gathering strength to get back the control that it was losing.)

"That's your mind," he said. It was the simplest explanation to someone that hadn't seen it before. No way to show him what it looked like--well, there was but he was too damn lazy to put that much energy into it. "It isn't so bad when you lay still like a good boy; and you're damn good at laying still like a good boy, aren't you?" He cocked his head to the side and smiled. "You don't want to be one of them, another idiot that gets mindfucked without even knowing it--stop obeying your master like a good little beaten dog." That close he could feel the nasty way the programming twisted, louder in the forefront of his mind than anything Omi could think under it. Hurt, and Schuldig closed his eyes under the wash of it. Mouth open to breathe. "So go," he said simply and pushed back away from him. "Better run if you want to make it."

Omi leaned back, hand up and fingers rubbing at his head. Grimace in there because he was fighting against that compulsion to run. That at least was interesting. Compulsions were funny beasts that could eat a man alive and there Omi stood looking at him, working through the pain in his head just to keep his feet still. "I'm not leaving." Most times, people didn't know they were fighting their own mind. It was all subconscious, it was when it bled over that you could do anything about it. "We're not done yet." Omi knew it was there which meant the bleed had started, through those little holes.

That made him more interesting. Unless he destroyed his mind all for the sake of being stubborn and what exactly did he want out of this--standing there looking at him like that. He laughed, it wasn't nearly as cruel as it could have been, just acknowledgment of the stupidity he was watching. "You're going one way or another--" There it was, reluctant little thought that was all but a whisper and barely coherent but he could feel it, knew the way it felt because it had been there before, brushing up against his mind when they touched, slept, when Omi stopped eating at his table to look over at him sometimes, caught between disbelief and heavy thinking. Schuldig knew that thought, the strangeness of it. "I like your mind in one piece, so go." And that was all he was giving.

(You're so getting laid.) Yes, well.

Omi almost nodded, didn't, some half thought as he stepped forward like he should kiss Schuldig, maybe, didn't know, it wasn't a full thought and then it wasn't a thought at all. Shoes were a thought, they were by the door and he was late, that was a thought. Shoes, late, past 2:23 by now and movement. He was yanking on his shoes by the door and on his way.

Which left Schuldig exactly back at the beginning, with rats in his hair.

________________________________________

He was dreaming... something. It had something to do with caterpillars and standing outside his senior classroom with a bucket of water in either hand, though what those two things had to do with each other even the dream didn't seem to know for sure. There was a moment of half-waking, of the awareness of the real world in relation to the dream and a brush of cold on his shoulder, and he tugged his one blanket up further, curling in, because Schuldig still didn't comprehend how to share his bed with a second person.

When he returned to the dream, it had shifted to become something about bicycle chains and buttering toast, and this was the point at which something elbowed him in the ribs.

Ow.

Half-awake again, Omi squirmed away from the intrusion, waving one hand idly as though to bat something away--which was probably ineffectual, as his hands were still under the blankets and the elbowing was clearly coming from elsewhere and in an entirely different direction.

A knee landed on his thigh and he wriggled again, blankets flapping and resettling over his face. "Nnf. Go away."

And then there was a weight and--there was no creature in the universe with that many knees and elbows. He was clearly still dreaming, and so thought nothing of shoving at the weight and all the joints it might possess, rolling enough that it didn't land on anything sensitive.

Thump on the floor and the weight vanished, and all his squirming tugged the blanket off his face and shoulders and he half sat up, elbows propped on the mattress and blinking at the bedroom around him like he'd never seen such a thing in his life, particularly just after battling a knee-and-elbow monster intent on impaling him.

Schuldig was standing alongside the bed, one hand caught in a tangle in his hair and muttering something in German while trying to free his fingers. Sweatpants sliding a little low on one hip.

"Did you just... crawl over me?" Omi's voice came out thick and breathy with sleep, one hand reaching up to rub at his eye.

Schuldig glared over his shoulder and grumbled something--realized he was still speaking in German and backtracked, scowling and yanking his hand out of his hair. Reaching down to straighten his pants. "You're on my side of the bed." It was annoyed and arrogantly cowed; trying to pretend he hadn't just slipped. Like a cat that fell off the windowsill on its ass then stood up and sauntered away like that hadn't really just happened. You were imagining things.

Omi blinked, first at Schuldig (and the way his back was curved and stretching, shoulders shrugging up and then down, lean muscle under skin) and then at the bed, shoved into the corner as it was and himself lying on the outer edge. "You don't have a side of the bed, Schuldig. You take up the whole goddamn thing and I sleep wherever there's a bare inch left to do so."

Schuldig was still scowling, and it was muffled and half-awake and nothing near intimidation. "Next time, make sure that bare inch is over there." He gestured, one finger towards the wall with every expectation of Omi relocating there immediately, despite the fact that sleep was clearly over for the day. He'd almost turned around to shuffle off to the shower, intent in the set of his shoulders and his cell phone was lying open on the bedside table; Omi didn't remember hearing it ring. Paused to look back again. "And what the hell are you complaining about, anyway? You can't need more than one or two inches of space anyway." He made another gesture, in a general kind of way. Eyebrows drawn together and then turned on his heel, stalking off to the door. Then, like an afterthought: "Shorty."

...Omi blinked, yet again, because he did not just say that. Clearly, he was still dreaming. Clearly.

"You prefer midget?" Tossed over Schuldig's shoulder as he stepped through the doorway.

No, Omi thought as loudly as he could. No, I am not short, I'm Japanese, and you are just freakishly tall.

There was laughter, somewhere in the hall, before the bathroom door closed.

He dropped back off his elbows, onto the bed--Schuldig's side of the bed or whatever, but he noted when he rolled onto his side, face sinking into the pillow that he could smell his shampoo. Omi slid halfway into the idea of returning to sleep when the pipes creaked as the shower turned on, tugging the blanket back up. Thought about getting up and going for a jog. Thought about the race to the mailbox the other day, cool afternoon and the sun on his shoulders and how his mind had dropped everything that had just happened until he arrived at the little apartment, sadly abandoned now with the futon still unrolled and unused on the floor and Ken's card still sitting in the window.

He had to stop, then, just inside and on the floor after finding the box empty--stop and backtrack and pull back the pieces of what had happened despite his mind dismissing them as unimportant in the face of that compulsion. Mail time.

Omi thought about rolling further into the center of the bed, where Schuldig's body heat was still trapped under the blankets, and curling up there. Whether he slept any further or not was unimportant.

When Schuldig returned to the room, shower-damp with a towel over his head (and none around his waist, it should be noted), Omi watched him from over the edge of his own cocoon of blankets. Watched him wrap himself into clothes intended to accentuate and suggest and attract interest, and he'd been doing that for a few days now and he had to hear the questions rising up in Omi's head. What was with that, what he was doing. A very small concern for who.

But then, he always had that distracted, irritable expression, so maybe he wasn't listening. Omi closed his eyes, snuggled deeper into the warm center of the bed.

Schuldig made a noise--a bitter kind of snort, just loud enough to jerk him back to attention, eyes open and watching him stalk across the room. "I wouldn't fuck that arrogant asshole with a nail studded pole." Spat the sentence like a bad taste out of his mouth, pausing beside the bed to pick up the cell from the bedside table and snap it shut. Staring down at Omi, meeting his eyes, expression settling and relaxing into something like contemplation. "Jealousy is like sauerkraut, you know."

Omi wasn't entirely sure what sauerkraut was, or what it tasted like, but Schuldig didn't appear to find the idea particularly disgusting. And Omi had the idea, just for a minute, shifting a little to pull the blankets down--of sitting up, reaching out and pulling Schuldig down to him, convincing him back under the covers and back against his skin and kissing and wrapping around him until he decided that work wasn't so important, after all. Whatever 'work' happened to be that day.

He was almost poised to do just that, too, but Schuldig was toying with the phone in his hand, turning it over and over in his palm until abruptly, like responding to something he'd thought, it hummed metallically and started ringing.

He'd been waiting for that. Must be nice, knowing who was going to call before they did.

Schuldig stared at him without saying anything (and he must have heard that, Omi's idea, he was too intent to not have)--flipped the phone open and held it to his ear without saying anything. Tinny sound there, some word--and in response, a slow smirk across Schuldig's face. Eyebrows tilting up. One word in return--'ja', or something like that, though Omi didn't think it meant the same thing as in his language--and then the phone snapped shut and dropped with a clatter on the surface of the bedside table. "I think your plan is better."

Omi licked his lips. "Oh?"

And he didn't have to pull, because Schuldig crawled onto the bed and under the covers and over him all on his own, hands under his shoulders and kissing, hot and intent and Omi tilted his head back, tongue teasing at the part between lips and slid his palms over Schuldig's neck. His hair was damp; it clung to the backs of his hands.

Soft sound, just in the back of his throat and he pressed up--thin, thin fabric of Schuldig's shirt between skin and skin. Slid his palms down over it, slow caress, and curled his fingers in it.

Press of hips in retaliation, down, into the mattress and a slow rub, kiss tilting and pressing harder--deeper. Shuddered. Felt it, electric down his spine. Schuldig's hand tangled in the hair on the back of his neck.

Stay. Omi gasped it in half a breath, teeth curling around the corner of Schuldig's mouth and pressing just enough to feel. Not words, just a thought there where it couldn't be missed. Want you.

There was a movement, against his mouth--a pulling, upturn of lips and it wasn't a smirk. A smile, Schuldig nuzzling his cheek, and then kissing again--hotter and harder and more intent, hands down his back and shivering. Omi's fingers traveling around the shirt, curling more, tugging harder, knees pressing against hips and hips pressing up.

Oh.

He might have cried out, later, sometime after those unnecessary clothes being tugged around and teeth and the salt tang of Schuldig's skin on his tongue. Somewhere at the end of the hot, shivering press in and in and yes, yes--somewhere there. In among the quivering orgasm at the end. Taste of Schuldig's name in his mouth.

He was still sweating and trembling, just a bit, when Schuldig climbed out of bed--and he wore that look fantastically. Buttoned his pants closed and with his shirt still askew and high on one side you could see the little red lines of scratches on his hip. Teeth marks and a small purpling bruise just above where the waistband lay. Even tugged down, the shirt was clearly wrinkled beyond his usual level of presentability--nowhere near buttoned enough to be decent and far too many red marks visible along the neckline. One bright just under his ear.

His hair was a mess, his lips were red, and the pleased level of his smirk was slightly terrifying.

Omi would have had a thought--he's seriously going out like that?--but post-orgasmic satiation kind of killed anything resembling thought. He sat up just a little, pulling the sheet around himself and Schuldig leaned down, one hand tilting his chin up to kiss him quickly. Slow trail of tongue across his lips.

"Thanks." Murmured hot and close. And he must have really been late, because a minute later he had snatched up the phone and disappeared out the door and Omi was still sitting with his head tilted back.

He really was going out like that.

Someday, Omi thought, he was really going to have to find out just what was going on.

__________________________

Oh, Omi would have kittens if he knew about the unamused telekinetic standing in the stairwell outside the apartment. Crawford must have called him or he would have come all the way up to the apartment and come right in all on his own. He was standing exactly where he had gotten the phone call, looking bored because he was incapable of a different look, wearing his school uniform for a school he never attended. Staring straight at the wall and slowly, methodically peeling the paint away from it.

It was a pointless exercise; nothing more than an isometric workout for telekinetics. Only for all his power, Nagi lacked the imagination it took to do the exercise right, he needed something to push, so he peeled paint off the wall, separating it from the granite while pushing it flat against it. The whole sheet of it was going to stay right there until someone breezed past too fast and it would fall in one fantastic mess. Ugly off white snowflakes.

“We’re late,” Schuldig announced as he went past him. Oh, and from the reactive twitch of Nagi’s mind there was no mistaking what he thought of the events leading to their tardiness, or of the smell, or of the way his shirt was rumpled and where was his jacket? Crawford would have one for him. The bastard paid excellent attention to detail like that. He gave another tug at the shirt and it didn’t do anything at all to help the look.

The old spinster lady was pulling open the door to the building when he brushed past—that was so nice of her really—and she shrieked in outrage of foreigners, of flamboyant and that wasn’t even the same boy that—the man was a pedophile, all those lovely boys and— Schuldig laughed, turned back to grin at her because he damn sure could hear her thoughts, she flinched away from him. Called him the devil and Nagi stared at him like he couldn’t be more bored.

“How many vehicular laws are we about to break,” he asked.

“I’m feeling ambitious,” Schuldig informed him and the locks on the car popped open. He opened the door and Nagi slid into the front seat, took in a deep breath and set himself to the appropriate task. Schuldig started the car, shook his hair behind his shoulders and wondered if Crawford would have a bandana too. Found his glasses sitting on the gear shift and put them on, pushed his bangs out of his face with them and hit the accelerator.

Nagi had to concentrate, fingers spread out, arms rigid, looking like a badly posed doll and Schuldig just had to think of bubbles. Big bubbles, all around, pushing people’s minds to the side, they followed with their cars, with their attention, they saw nothing at all. They passed two cops on the way and they didn’t even blink—except to wonder at the wind blowing in his wake. Nagi took care of the rest, prevented the accidents. A more practiced telekinetic could kill the engines without damaging the cars. Nagi was a powerhouse, finesse wasn’t exactly his speciality, he could total the car with a glance. His shield around Schuldig’s car sent anything it touched rebounding the way it came.

“I expect,” Nagi said when they parked. “Fair compensation for saving your ass.”

Schuldig grinned harder, climbed out of the car and tossed the keys on the floorboard. Those were a weapon—weapon—he popped the trunk and got his gun. Pulled it on over the rumpled shirt and checked the clip. Still had bullets, must be because he didn’t ever use any. Nagi was standing on the curb looking more bored now. Except he didn’t like Pelagatti, didn’t like him at all, found him to be a creepy old man that—that served no purpose. He had no reason for his actions.

“Why?” Nagi said when the curiosity was about to kill him.

Schuldig walked up to the door of the hotel, shrugging his shoulders as he pulled opened the door. Caught the sight of another little mark on his skin and smiled at it. Wondered if his neck looked anything like how Omi had seen it and figured it must or Nagi wouldn’t be staring anywhere else so hard—and then fingers on his arm. (Crawford, offering punishment for disobedience, now smile for the birdie.) Sudden, sharp—he didn’t even flinch, moved with the motion and ended up face first against the wall. Flipped around to face front and backhanded. “Nice,” he said without looking back, spit on the floor and straightened himself up. Eyes flicking up to the camera in the little space, the people not looking at them and did his best to look annoyed instead of cowed. Crawford moved closer and Schuldig kept his face down, speaking in low toned German. “How’s our friend?”

“Nice touch,” Crawford remarked with nothing more than a thought to let him know that it was those marks on his neck that met with his executive approval. Which meant Pelagatti was going to be staring at them without stopping during the whole of the day. Schuldig couldn’t fucking wait for that, he straightened up now, pulled his shirt down again and that dragged Crawford’s attention down to his hip, red mark there. “Better.”

“Tomorrow I could just come in drag, if you think that’d help,” Schuldig said and ran his tongue across his teeth. Hated blood in his mouth. He flipped his hair over his shoulders and shoved Crawford away from him. Walking away like he was nothing but unimportant and Nagi stayed behind, he moved when their illustrious leader moved.

(Bring a lollipop tomorrow, he’ll get on his knees and beg you for it.) Crawford’s sarcasm always was as dry as a post. Pelagatti wouldn’t beg, he’d demand and he wouldn’t be on his knees. He was one of those fancy telekinetics that could kill the car engines of every vehicle in three city blocks. (And he had a startling aptitude for bio-telekinesis too.)

Schuldig took the elevator and left them on the ground floor. There was a jacket waiting for him at the top next to the elevator under the table. Brand new, pitch black, tight and fitted exactly to his waist. He pulled it on and made no effort to make it straight or presentable. Breezed passed the guards without them seeing him and opened the door.

"So sorry,” he announced in grand Italian. “I had a pressing engagement that just couldn’t wait.”

Pelagatti took a half look at him, stinking cigarette clamped between his teeth in aggravation at being kept waiting (truth be told, Schuldig wasn’t but three minutes late) and stopped short before he even started on a thought. Stopped suddenly and just stayed there at the sight of him like a record skipping. Lust and frustration and hate all in one. Oh, lust, it was easy to feel that one.

(And it’s got nothing to do with your pretty face.) A grin across his face as he shrugged the jacket backward off his shoulders, let it pull the shirt up and it bared his belly. All those cute little marks there, dried spit from the mouth that left them, didn’t make an attempt to clean up at all, he smelled—sticky—it was completely disrespectful. To Pelagatti, to Estet, to himself, to Crawford, to anyone and everyone he came into contact with today. There he stood with his stupid face and he was grinning. Pelagatti wanted to hit him—push him against the wall and fuck him.

Yeah, that one.

Schuldig tossed the coat on the couch and walked over, easy movement, not afraid, had the gun. The talentless idiots parted and scattered and Crawford made it into the room about the time Schuldig stopped next to the table Pelagatti was sitting at. Real close, close enough he could smell the stink of sweat and come and tipped his head. Let his hair—never mind how long he spent brushing it not too long ago—fall to the side.

“Did you,” Pelagatti said finally. Quiet and inviting. He looked over at Crawford who was hatefully glaring at Schuldig like he was about to take him out and beat him. That brought the attention to his mouth. (Red lips, and oh what Pelagatti would do with his lips) and the handprint across his cheek.

An absent gesture with his hand as he sat in the chair left there for him. Leaning back in the seat, arm hooking over the back of it, drawing all that attention back to his waist, his hip and crossing his legs with all the ease in the world.

“Crawford,” Pelagatti said. In his stinking Italian, rich and laden with promises of better things and the good life. The subtle rattle of glassware on the shelves and Nagi couldn’t help himself but wonder at that. The storm of things in Pelagatti’s mind would have had Nagi flattening an orphanage. “I was told you had better control over your subordinates than this.”

“He will be appropriately dressed the next time we meet,” Crawford informed him.

“See to it,” Pelagatti said with another lingering glance at his waist. (Yeah, you fucker, look all you want and think about it too. Won’t Estet be so damn proud when they find out you spent too much time drooling with your dick to pay attention to how the temple was aligned all wrong? Damn proud.) “Schuldig, do something to make yourself presentable.”

He considered that, briefly, really did and stood up, went over to the couch and picked up the jacket. (Precognitive bastard better not have (Inside pocket, the flawless little thought interrupting his.)) Schuldig held it by the collar, dug his hand down inside of it and found a hair band. He shook his hair, tipping his head back and raked the hair away from his face. Pulled it back and tied it up loosely. The long strands of his bangs fell right back like they were, he put the glasses back over them.

Pelagatti was six breaths from fucking him over the back of the couch, fat fingers ripping at his hair and Crawford couldn’t stop smirking in his head. Just all but laughing himself sick at the sight of all this. Dragging his brain back through the torture that was the official guide of rules—engagement and threats and ownership claims or whatever they had called them. Pelagatti regarded the letter opener on the table.

(Bastard.) Schuldig didn’t flinch, shook out the jacket and figured he might as well put it on. (Leave it off, Crawford’s thought. Calm as a day in May. Because he wasn’t the one about to get stabbed. You’ll need it to cover the blood.) The bastard better be the one sewing him up too. He had just about enough damn scars. He wanted to know where he was going to get stabbed. Instead he threw the coat back over the couch and put one hand on it, looking up finally and there was the stinking Italian.

“I’m presentable now,” Schuldig informed him and let the arrogance drip off his voice.

Pelagatti fingered the letter opener in his hand for a minute, thinking it over, where it would hurt, where it would heal, where it wouldn’t affect operating standards and figured that Schuldig couldn’t protect himself hand to hand even if he had to. “Let’s go,” he said.

Schuldig looked over at Crawford and he hadn’t changed the look on his face, the stance of his posture, the way his mind was humming along and waiting for the inevitable. (I’ll sew you up if you mind fuck the hell out of him for this…)

(Time loss?) And the barest glint of a smirk on Crawford’s face about the time Pelagatti changed his mind about mercy, spun around with that letter opener and—white, hot pain. Washing over red and throb, hurt, stabbing him in the damn arm, up near his shoulder, through the shirt, and into his skin, digging down, flesh and he flung his arm out. Too much kick there to be his own power, wondered if Nagi helped or—didn’t care, blood washing down his arm, the talentless morons were reaching because Pelagatti was stumbling backward, going to fall.

The master just didn’t fall. Schuldig grabbed the letter opener and yanked it out of his arm. There, that was suitable, took a snapshot of how it looked from all those minds around him (going to need that to put it right again) and then stopped them. Took seventeen seconds for the morons rushing forward, but they froze mid step, Nagi extending a little energy to blanket the room and keep them still. Pelagatti went under faster because he’d been staring at Schuldig’s non-existent tits for a week instead of concentrating on his shields. There were enough places he already had under his control that getting him into a sensory-deprived coma was a simple matter of a flipping a few switches.

“Fuck,” Schuldig snapped at Crawford. He couldn’t move, the blood spatters would give him away. “No scar,” he said, to clarify because he damn sure didn't get stabbed for anything less.

“No scar,” Crawford assured him. “Our friend needs to be taught a lesson.” With some observation as to the blood on his arm, the sweat pouring down his back and Schuldig just smirked. (Like a kid on Christmas morning—.)

For all that he could do—oh and he could do so much—he couldn’t do anything. Pelagatti was an Estet trained talent, he’d notice too much time elapsed, his mind was weak but it was aware of these concepts of time loss and manipulation. And—blood on the carpet, had to move this along. He got inside his head, through those same little channels, pushing at them and opening them wider. Nice the way his stupid Italian mind just rolled over and took it. Found the places his talent worked from and sank his fingers into them—sticky, hateful, his power all ran through him on the current of anger. Almost all telekinetics did. A few simple touches there and a new channel straight through his so called shield straight into the talent center.

Beautiful and since he was there, he dropped a compulsion. Fun little thing, slow building, annoying habit he was going to pick up, uncontrollable, easy to mistake as a medical thing. Loss of bladder control—learned that one back at Rosenkreuz.

“Time,” Crawford said.

Schuldig called up that snap shot, changed the time on the clock in the picture and projected it back out, sank through the paralyzed minds and got himself back into position. Nagi moved a half centimeter to right himself and lifted Pelagatti up enough that he’d hit the floor when he came to.

And—action.

Schuldig through the letter opener at the floor. “Bastard,” he looked at his arm, fingers through the ripped sleeve and looking at the skin, pulling it open and hissing at the sudden flare of pain that ran straight down to his elbow. “You ruined my shirt.” He went for the gun and seven of those talentless morons swarmed and stood in front of Pelagatti.

Mindless, brainless, pointless little idiots that would take a bullet or six just for their precious master. Better a bullet then having your testicles relocated to your throat from inside your body. Pelagatti trained them best, after all.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Pelagatti said. He stood up and brushed himself off, looked for his cigarette that had been extinguished. Picked it up, someone produced a lighter without fail and he sucked in a lungful of that disgusting smoke. Came around over to where he stood holding the gun, blew that smoke in his face. “I expect you to be presentable tomorrow.” Then turning to look over at Crawford. “Fix him up. We need to be at the build site in less than ten minutes.”

If they knew who the damn sacrifice was—this would be over. Forget the temple, forget the Three, the book, the artifacts—if they knew who the sacrifice was they could descend this whole stupid, stinking, ridiculous planet into chaos and fucking bastards like Pelagatti with his slick black hair and eyes that never stopped looking, always looking—they would be dead. Fuck him? Fuck them, every single one of them.

Crawford had his hand on him, his shoulder, neck, somewhere not at all neutral, pushing him toward the bathroom and he went. Yanked the gun off, the shirt, looked over at his arm, the blood still coming out of it. He stood because there was nowhere comfortable to sit and Crawford found all the supplies they’d need in the cabinet.

There was an annoying little man from Hong Kong about three floors down that wouldn’t stop thinking about cogs. Cogs, cogs, cogs—salesman? Didn’t know but he suddenly had one hell of a pain in his left shoulder that had him rolling on the floor panting like a dog and peeing on himself.

Schuldig just watched the needle pass through the flesh, watched Crawford pull it closed with precise accuracy, detached and calm. It looked pretty good when it was done and he got his arm washed off too before they headed back out. Shirt off, all of Omi’s hard work displayed without the hindrance of damn near see-through white cloth—Pelagatti grunted something about finally and couldn’t stop himself from a little hand-rub under the table where nobody could see.

Right.

“Ready boss?” Schuldig asked as he pulled the shirt back on. He let go of Mr. Hong Kong Cogs and the man wheezed in relief and passed out. The doctors would call it a seizure.

“In a minute,” Pelagatti said, because he suddenly had the unstoppable urge to go to the bathroom.
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