And Other Fruits of Men, part two...now with italics! (I hope.)
I have my ducks in a row today! I bring to you the entire of part two of "And Other Fruits of Men."
The first part along with all attendant summaries, ratings, and the like, is found here.
Additional warning for this part: gore. Also, a brief mention of hookers.
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And Other Fruits of Men
Part Two: Of Orthodox Biology
Schuldig arrived at the hotel just as the last rays of the sun disappeared and the hotel's valets were closing their gated lot. He tossed his keys to them, grabbed his bags, and hit the lobby. He loved the Brandt hotel chain: you could choose between talking to a human clerk or going the beautifully, blissfully, fully automated route. Just for fun, he checked himself into the honeymoon suite. The computers clicked and registered him, swallowed and spat out his credit card, and politely requested he enter the elevator to his right. Said elevator swept him up to his suite.
His room came complete with an enormous water-bed, wall to wall animal skin carpets, and three beautiful, charming hookers. It pained Schuldig, deeply, to send them away. He couldn't have sex with them, couldn't afford to do anything that might end in producing a child. His control was good, but it wasn't one hundred percent, not when he was fucking his way into oblivion.
Being gifted had its perks. Schuldig had great looks, preternatural speed, telepathy (which tended to make him downright euphoric), and the very unique, very special ability to control the viability of his genetic material: be it hair, skin, or the, heh, sample he'd left with the car-rental guy. Hence, his extended family's failure to pressure him into fatherhood. Schuldig's consent had to be absolute, and he didn't trust those vultures an inch.
Schuldig kept himself shut down all the time. No unintended baby-making, thank you very much, and a big fuck you to the family. But there was always the chance that he'd mesh too deep into his partner, and he might, unconsciously, give his body the green light when he didn't mean to. Read: no sex with the hookers the hotel had so thoughtfully provided. Though why hookers came with the honeymoon suite, he couldn't begin to guess.
Schuldig settled his things in the armoire, sloshed on the bed, ran his bare feet through the carpets, and went back down to the lobby. He'd spotted the requisite the requisite high-end coffee shop adjacent to the concierge, and he could kill for some caffeine right about now. It had been a long day's drive.
Thinking about nothing in particular, he studied the menu. The cashier was a young thing, pretty enough and entertaining vague thoughts about the real color of Schuldig's hair and if he might be any good in bed. Schuldig smelled nice and she wondered if it was his cologne. The cashier didn't have a chance and she knew it. Her dinner break was coming up soon and she had an eye on one of the pastries in the case as the perfect dessert.
Her low-level, barista misery was, unsurprisingly, bitter like coffee in Schuldig's mind. He drank it down.
"Give me the biggest coffee you've got," said Schuldig. "And how about that danish?"
He pointed to the very pastry she'd wanted. The cashier looked at him briefly and turned away to fill his order. Her misery cranked up a notch. The machines hissed and clanked, spouting jets of coffee into an absurdly large cup. The cashier took his money and gave him back change. Schuldig wiped his hand on a napkin afterward and glared daggers. Bitch. She needed to do something about that warm-and-sweaty thing she had going on. Was she sick? She'd better not give him the flu or something.
And just as he was laying hands on his coffee, everything went horribly, horribly wrong. The smiling cashier doubled over the danishes and came back up foaming at the mouth. Wild eyed, she grabbed for Schuldig, who jumped back in horror. Shit. The cashier had ghoul blood, somewhere back in the line, and he'd touched it off.
Schuldig would kick himself later for not having noticed the signs. Right now, he had more important things to think about, like staying alive. The ghoul surged forward, scrambling half-over the counter, and Schuldig kicked it back. Hooray for steel-toed boots. The ghoul's shoulder went crunch and it stumbled back against the rack of coffee flavorings. Some of the bottles shattered. As soon as it righted itself, the ghoul tried to vault the counter again, its back shedding broken glass like driven snow. It snarled and went straight for Schuldig, kicking in the bakery case as it tried to get at him. The ghoul shrieked its frustration and yanked its leg free, spraying blood under the warm glow of the display lights.
The customers around them screamed, and Schuldig took a second to sneer at the peanut gallery. This ghoul was nothing. It was newly awakened and was both slower and stupider than the average ghoul. It hardly counted as dangerous. The ghoul finally scrambled over the counter and Schuldig dodged its clumsy attack, avoiding the claws and the, eww, dripping mouth by a wide margin. The ghoul launched itself at him again. It growled and its hunger pressed hard on Schuldig's mind. Schuldig was suddenly starving. He shook his head, dizzied. The hunger wasn't his. The ghoul's claws caught in the sleeve of his jacket, and Schuldig twisted out of the way before he was disemboweled. The thing was getting faster. Shit. He tore out of his jacket and found himself with his back against the wall that divided the coffee shop from the rest of the lobby. The ghoul looked at him and it drooled. Starving.
The problem with ghouls was, assuming they didn't kill you, their attack-the slightest drop of saliva in an open wound-would turn you into one of them. And ghouls were always hungry, always ready to bite and chew. If you were quick enough, you might survive, provided you amputated your arm or leg or whatever part of you had been bitten.
Schuldig didn't want to have to do anything so drastic.
He pulled his gun and splattered the ghoul's head all over the espresso machine. The bullet nicked a tube and steam vented in a great, coffee-scented cloud. The lobby was silent for a second, and Schuldig heard the little bits of brain matter and bone hitting the walls and the machinery. Plink. Plop. The ghoul twitched once, took a half step forward, and went down. Its corpse slumped to the floor, leaving behind a slimy, dark red swathe all over the pre-packaged ground coffee display. Squelch.
And then everything got noisy. The closest customer vomited, then passed out. Yuck. Wouldn't want to be her when she woke. The emotions of the crowd swept over Schuldig and he felt…nice.
He smiled down at the gun in his hands. Schuldig loved his gun. Why hadn't he used it earlier and saved himself a near miss? Well, it wasn't like he'd planned on killing a ghoul tonight. And he'd gotten the job done in the end, hadn't he? Schuldig gave his gun a pat and stuck it back in his now-ruined, three-hundred and fifty dollar jeans. He eyed himself and felt a far-off irritation. The ghoul blood would never wash out. Oh well. The hotel could buy him a new pair. It was their fault, the dumb-asses, for hiring a ghoulie in the first place. There were tests for that, and fuck them if they hadn't pre-screened. Schuldig had only come down for a coffee, after all. Mmm. Coffee.
Schuldig looked at the mess in the coffee shop and grimaced. He zeroed in on his extra-large. Fuck. It was covered in ghoul-slime. He couldn't drink it now. The other customers milled around, some crying hysterically, others on their cell phones, and security-discreet, high-end security-started approaching. They were a little late to the party, now weren't they?
"You're welcome," he said.
He nudged the ghoul corpse aside with the toe of his boot and leaned up over the counter to see if there was anything there safe to drink. Shit. Everything that looked good had been ghoul-splattered. He needed caffeine, dammit. The hotel had to have coffee somewhere.
"How efficient of you."
Schuldig jumped. His hand went to his gun and his mind went searching. Crawford, again? Did the bastard follow him everywhere?
"Don't do that!" Schuldig said. "Unless you want me to shoot you."
"I like to protect my interests where I can," said Crawford. "But I see you have it well in hand. I assume you are uninjured."
Crawford looked the same as ever: calm and in control. He stepped with great care around a pool of congealing ghoul blood. He reached out to Schuldig and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Schuldig slapped his hand away.
"Protect this," he said.
He flipped Crawford off. Crawford merely smiled.
Screw it. Schuldig needed a shower and room service. He went as quickly as he could for the elevator without it looking like he was running away. Crawford followed him. As Schuldig waited impatiently for the elevator car to arrive, Crawford gave the security personnel a nod. The men returned to their former positions, scattered around the lobby. The elevator dinged. Schuldig got in, and Crawford got in as well, though Schuldig tried, without success, to get the doors to close on him. It burned Schuldig that security allowed themselves to be waved off. What if Crawford were a nut job, a stalker, somebody dangerous? Schuldig laughed to himself. Crawford was dangerous. There was no question of that. Maybe he'd scared the security guards off by sheer force of personality. Hell, with his powers, he might have warned the hotel management already that Schuldig would take care of the incident. Wouldn't that be a pisser?
"Tell me what you're thinking," said Crawford.
"I'm thinking that you're going to convince the hotel to give me a new outfit for my trouble," said Schuldig. "That almost might make up for you following me here."
"Would it really?" said Crawford.
Schuldig rolled his eyes.
"You know it wouldn't," he said.
The elevator stopped and its doors opened on Schuldig's floor.
Schuldig paused.
"You wouldn't be following me to my room, would you?" he said.
"And if I did?" said Crawford. "Don't think you'll be able to convince security to escort me off the premises. I've already briefed them."
Schuldig flipped him off again, and once more Crawford smiled. He followed Schuldig all the way back to his room. Crawford was too quick for Schuldig to slam the door in his face. Pity. It would have been very satisfying. Maybe if he'd broken Crawford's nose doing it, Crawford would finally take the hint and leave him the fuck alone.
To Schuldig's surprise, there was a new outfit already laid on the bed. The jeans were the same as the ones he had on. Schuldig glared at Crawford.
"I took the liberty of informing the management," said Crawford. "They send their sincere apologies."
Schuldig extended both middle fingers in Crawford's direction and made a strategic retreat to the bathroom.
After stripping out of his ruined clothes, Schuldig took the world's quickest shower. He left his gun on the vanity, just in case something else weird happened, but all he did was knock it off the counter when he reached for a towel after he showered. He sighed. At least the safety was on.
He wrapped his hair up and dried himself off. No way was he going out in front of Crawford in just a towel. Schuldig dressed quickly, then ran a comb through his hair. He sent his mind searching. Ugh. Crawford was still there.
"The least you could do is order me room service!" said Schuldig, through the door. "I'm going to die without something to eat!"
The bastard laughed at him. Schuldig unlocked the bathroom door and threw his wet towels at Crawford. Crawford caught them as if they'd planned the whole thing, and Schuldig felt cheated.
"I still have a gun," said Schuldig.
"It's very impressive," said Crawford. "Your gun."
Crawford's eyes roamed over Schuldig, and Schuldig felt Crawford's brain change gears into a level of dirty that Schuldig might have appreciated if it had come from anyone else. Instead, Schuldig did his best to ignore Crawford, and the best avoidance tactic he knew was to spend more of the family's money.
Schuldig ordered room service: rare steak, warm mushroom salad, baked brie wrapped in pastry, fresh fruits, and a bottle of the best wine they had, which cost a pretty penny in itself. The hotel had sent him a complimentary bottle, but it was mid-priced shit. He didn't care about the price of the wine, really. What he cared was that he was going to eat his meal in front of Crawford and he was not going to offer so much as a single crumb to him. He knew Crawford had a thing for wine, too. Schuldig considered whether or not to taste it, call it shit, and pour it down the drain. It was petty, but he liked being petty, at this moment.
The room service delivery was prompt. Schuldig made nice with the bellhop, who was practically pissing-his-pants level afraid of Schuldig and Schuldig's gun. He considered it an amazing exercise of self control not to give the kid a compulsion of one kind or another…Like how about if he pissed himself every time the concierge bell rang? Pavlov had nothing on Schuldig.
The bellhop left, and Schuldig was alone with his meal. Well, almost alone. Schuldig wondered what he could do to get Crawford to leave. If he fried Crawford's neurons, he'd be in serious, serious trouble, and anything less than brute force-like, say, the stray thought that Crawford had left his car unlocked-wasn't going to work. Crawford had too much discipline of thought for that.
Crawford settled into the other chair at the table.
"I already ate," said Crawford. "Having foreseen this remarkably small attempt at revenge. No coffee?"
Schuldig made a face at Crawford and did his best to ignore the smug bastard.
He ate the salad first. Crawford watched. The sound of Schuldig's silverware and the sound of chewing were the only noises in the room. Schuldig swallowed, and he felt Crawford's eyes on his throat, tracking the course of the bite as it squeezed its way south.
"Quit that," said Schuldig.
"Hmm?" said Crawford.
"I can feel you getting turned on," said Schuldig. "I'm eating a fucking salad, for fuck's sake. You're fucking up my appetite."
And it was true. He had to actually put down his fork because every mushroom he ate tasted like Crawford. Crawford didn't say anything, and the press of his lust grew neither less nor more. Schuldig raised an eyebrow.
"You're only going to give yourself blue balls," he said.
He took a sip of his wine. That, at least, was left untouched by Crawford's intents and desires.
"I booked the suite next to yours," said Crawford. "Just in case you need me."
Schuldig choked on his wine and he ended up blowing some of it out his nose. He spat the rest of his mouthful into his napkin.
"You don't mean that like you said it," said Schuldig.
"How, exactly, did I say it?" said Crawford.
Shit. Crawford was doing that scary, button-down smoldering thing, and Schuldig knew that this was a seduction. Shit. Schuldig couldn't even eat a meal in peace. Crawford was hot to go, which infringed on Schuldig's consciousness and made Schuldig horny too. But mostly it pissed Schuldig off that Crawford thought he could handle Schuldig like this.
Schuldig shoved himself away from the table. He dialed room service again and told them to come pick up his dishes. He didn't feel like eating any more. Without a word to Crawford, Schuldig left. He felt Crawford's eyes boring into him even after the room's door shut behind him.
Schuldig was hot and angry and-absolute truth-a little shaky now that the ghoul-induced adrenaline was wearing off. His meal would have helped if he'd been able to eat more of it, but he couldn't handle Crawford's attitude any more than he could the man's not-so subtly thrumming lust and ham-fisted attempts to get Schuldig into bed, and so he'd gone to find the next best thing to a good meal: alcohol, served by a human being at the Brandt's very nice in-hotel bar.
If he could have, he would've gone out, but it was definitely night, and he'd already had one ghoul encounter more than he wanted. Schuldig wasn't in the mood for whatever else might be roaming around this time of night, so the bar it was. At least the bar was at an angle to the coffee shop and it wasn't in his line of sight.
Schuldig slung himself onto a stool, ordered a double whisky, and waited with impatience as the bartender poured. Schuldig drank it down and motioned for another.
Which was how he met Yohji. Someone sat on the stool to his left and ordered what Schuldig was drinking. The man-and it was, indeed, a man-got the bottle of whisky and waved the bartender away. The man drank for a minute, quiet, then reached out and refilled Schuldig's empty glass.
"Hi," said the man. "I'm Yohji."
Schuldig looked sideways into green eyes, blond hair, and a charming smile that reached the man's eyes.
"Fuck off," said Schuldig. "Not in the mood."
Yohji nodded, taking a sip of his drink.
"You have a fight with your boyfriend?" said Yohji.
Anger uncurled inside Schuldig. Fuck this guy and his assumptions.
"He's not my boyfriend," said Schuldig. "He's not anyone."
"Okay then," said Yohji.
Yohji raised an eyebrow but didn't actually express his doubts out loud. Too bad Schuldig could read minds.
"So I've got to ask about earlier," said Yohji. He gestured in the direction of the coffee franchise, currently roped off and darkened so no one would think it was open, despite the nasty smears of ghoul blood and brains all over the place.
Schuldig groaned. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. Yohji's fingers brushed against his, and Schuldig startled.
"Security," he said. "You're security."
Of course Yohji was security. Schuldig dug just far enough in Yohji's mind to confirm. If Schuldig hadn't been feeling the aftereffects of Crawford's hormones, he would have already known to avoid Yohji. Still, the man's hand was pleasantly warm.
"I'm off-duty," said Yohji. "If that helps. I'm just a curious by-stander, is all."
"Isn't everyone," said Schuldig.
He leaned back in his seat. The alcohol was, finally, starting to do its job. The press of the minds of all the hotel guests blurred comfortably together, and his own thoughts acquired a certain comfortable distance. He felt his muscles relax a hair.
"Go ahead," Schuldig said. "Ask. I can tell you're dying to."
"Now me, I'm normal with a capital N," said Yohji. "But you, you had a ghoul flip on you and you killed her. It. Whatever."
"So?" said Schuldig. "Shooting a ghoul in self-defense isn't a crime."
"I'm just wondering who you are. You didn't even blink," said Yohji. "I take it this happens to you a lot."
Schuldig laughed a good, long time. Yohji watched him, his curiosity apparent.
"You have no idea," said Schuldig.
"Your gun legal?" said Yohji. "Carrying concealed is a crime, even if you did shoot a ghoul and save a coffee shop full of people."
Hah. That's rich. He thinks it was heroic.
"I've got a permit," said Schuldig.
"So if I go upstairs with you, what are the odds it'll happen again?" said Yohji. "You shooting your gun, I mean."
Giving Yohji's mind a scan, Schuldig felt some of his unhappiness be subsumed by predatory instinct. How easy it was, sometimes, to flip from off to on.
"Depends on which gun you mean," said Schuldig. "And who says you're coming with me?"
Yohji smiled. For a so-called capital-N normal, he was very charming, and Schuldig felt himself pulled in by that charisma. Schuldig had had his share of freaks for the night, and it was a relief that this man was ordinary and, apparently, quite willing to scratch the itch that Crawford had inadvertently passed on to him.
"We can have a good time," said Yohji. "Maybe that nothing-to-you not-your-boyfriend will see what he's missing."
Yohji's words mirrored Schuldig's thoughts but, miracle of miracles, Schuldig hadn't had to lean on Yohji's mind at all. The jealousy-provoking sex was all Yohji.
"You're reading my mind," said Schuldig. "How convenient."
He smiled at Yohji in return.
"So," said Yohji. "You going to tell me who you are?"
It was almost cute how Yohji's mind screamed "what" when his lips said "who."
Schuldig set down his glass.
"I'm not going to do anything freaky," said Schuldig. "Well, at least, not anything you won't enjoy."
"Oh?" said Yohji.
Schuldig touched the pleasure centers of Yohji's mind. He smiled when Yohji just about slid under the bar. Yohji recovered his calm quickly, for a normal. He sat up again and reached for another drink. It took him a minute to speak again.
"That it?" said Yohji.
It was a flip thing to say, but his voice was gratifyingly shaky, and Schuldig noted the bulge in his pants with a great deal of prideful interest.
Schuldig touched his mind again, this time just to chat.
Not exactly.
Schuldig cackled at Yohji's bug-eyed surprise.
"Ah," said Yohji. "So…"
Minds read, fortunes told. Well, no, I lie. I don't do fortunes.
Schuldig rummaged in Yohji's memories, getting to know him in a fraction of the time any clumsy, normal pick-up ritual would take. Schuldig liked what he saw: Yohji was going to be such fun.
"You said something about wanting to inspect my hotel room, mister off-duty security," said Schuldig. "That is, if you think you're up for the challenge."
He winked at Yohji and watched realization dawn. Yohji set his glass down very carefully on the bar. He set some money down too, enough, Schuldig saw, to cover both their drinks. And a gentleman, too.
"I'm always up for a challenge," said Yohji. "Lead the way."
So Schuldig did.
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I feel so...unburdened! Also, I am happy to report that my italics are in place. For some reason, LJ ate my italics despite my coding for them, but I've done it up right this time around.
Now all I have to do is write something like a sex scene for Schuldig and Yohji. (And the pressure of the unwritten returns! XD) At least I've already got some of the afterwards written.
~later
The first part along with all attendant summaries, ratings, and the like, is found here.
Additional warning for this part: gore. Also, a brief mention of hookers.
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And Other Fruits of Men
Part Two: Of Orthodox Biology
Schuldig arrived at the hotel just as the last rays of the sun disappeared and the hotel's valets were closing their gated lot. He tossed his keys to them, grabbed his bags, and hit the lobby. He loved the Brandt hotel chain: you could choose between talking to a human clerk or going the beautifully, blissfully, fully automated route. Just for fun, he checked himself into the honeymoon suite. The computers clicked and registered him, swallowed and spat out his credit card, and politely requested he enter the elevator to his right. Said elevator swept him up to his suite.
His room came complete with an enormous water-bed, wall to wall animal skin carpets, and three beautiful, charming hookers. It pained Schuldig, deeply, to send them away. He couldn't have sex with them, couldn't afford to do anything that might end in producing a child. His control was good, but it wasn't one hundred percent, not when he was fucking his way into oblivion.
Being gifted had its perks. Schuldig had great looks, preternatural speed, telepathy (which tended to make him downright euphoric), and the very unique, very special ability to control the viability of his genetic material: be it hair, skin, or the, heh, sample he'd left with the car-rental guy. Hence, his extended family's failure to pressure him into fatherhood. Schuldig's consent had to be absolute, and he didn't trust those vultures an inch.
Schuldig kept himself shut down all the time. No unintended baby-making, thank you very much, and a big fuck you to the family. But there was always the chance that he'd mesh too deep into his partner, and he might, unconsciously, give his body the green light when he didn't mean to. Read: no sex with the hookers the hotel had so thoughtfully provided. Though why hookers came with the honeymoon suite, he couldn't begin to guess.
Schuldig settled his things in the armoire, sloshed on the bed, ran his bare feet through the carpets, and went back down to the lobby. He'd spotted the requisite the requisite high-end coffee shop adjacent to the concierge, and he could kill for some caffeine right about now. It had been a long day's drive.
Thinking about nothing in particular, he studied the menu. The cashier was a young thing, pretty enough and entertaining vague thoughts about the real color of Schuldig's hair and if he might be any good in bed. Schuldig smelled nice and she wondered if it was his cologne. The cashier didn't have a chance and she knew it. Her dinner break was coming up soon and she had an eye on one of the pastries in the case as the perfect dessert.
Her low-level, barista misery was, unsurprisingly, bitter like coffee in Schuldig's mind. He drank it down.
"Give me the biggest coffee you've got," said Schuldig. "And how about that danish?"
He pointed to the very pastry she'd wanted. The cashier looked at him briefly and turned away to fill his order. Her misery cranked up a notch. The machines hissed and clanked, spouting jets of coffee into an absurdly large cup. The cashier took his money and gave him back change. Schuldig wiped his hand on a napkin afterward and glared daggers. Bitch. She needed to do something about that warm-and-sweaty thing she had going on. Was she sick? She'd better not give him the flu or something.
And just as he was laying hands on his coffee, everything went horribly, horribly wrong. The smiling cashier doubled over the danishes and came back up foaming at the mouth. Wild eyed, she grabbed for Schuldig, who jumped back in horror. Shit. The cashier had ghoul blood, somewhere back in the line, and he'd touched it off.
Schuldig would kick himself later for not having noticed the signs. Right now, he had more important things to think about, like staying alive. The ghoul surged forward, scrambling half-over the counter, and Schuldig kicked it back. Hooray for steel-toed boots. The ghoul's shoulder went crunch and it stumbled back against the rack of coffee flavorings. Some of the bottles shattered. As soon as it righted itself, the ghoul tried to vault the counter again, its back shedding broken glass like driven snow. It snarled and went straight for Schuldig, kicking in the bakery case as it tried to get at him. The ghoul shrieked its frustration and yanked its leg free, spraying blood under the warm glow of the display lights.
The customers around them screamed, and Schuldig took a second to sneer at the peanut gallery. This ghoul was nothing. It was newly awakened and was both slower and stupider than the average ghoul. It hardly counted as dangerous. The ghoul finally scrambled over the counter and Schuldig dodged its clumsy attack, avoiding the claws and the, eww, dripping mouth by a wide margin. The ghoul launched itself at him again. It growled and its hunger pressed hard on Schuldig's mind. Schuldig was suddenly starving. He shook his head, dizzied. The hunger wasn't his. The ghoul's claws caught in the sleeve of his jacket, and Schuldig twisted out of the way before he was disemboweled. The thing was getting faster. Shit. He tore out of his jacket and found himself with his back against the wall that divided the coffee shop from the rest of the lobby. The ghoul looked at him and it drooled. Starving.
The problem with ghouls was, assuming they didn't kill you, their attack-the slightest drop of saliva in an open wound-would turn you into one of them. And ghouls were always hungry, always ready to bite and chew. If you were quick enough, you might survive, provided you amputated your arm or leg or whatever part of you had been bitten.
Schuldig didn't want to have to do anything so drastic.
He pulled his gun and splattered the ghoul's head all over the espresso machine. The bullet nicked a tube and steam vented in a great, coffee-scented cloud. The lobby was silent for a second, and Schuldig heard the little bits of brain matter and bone hitting the walls and the machinery. Plink. Plop. The ghoul twitched once, took a half step forward, and went down. Its corpse slumped to the floor, leaving behind a slimy, dark red swathe all over the pre-packaged ground coffee display. Squelch.
And then everything got noisy. The closest customer vomited, then passed out. Yuck. Wouldn't want to be her when she woke. The emotions of the crowd swept over Schuldig and he felt…nice.
He smiled down at the gun in his hands. Schuldig loved his gun. Why hadn't he used it earlier and saved himself a near miss? Well, it wasn't like he'd planned on killing a ghoul tonight. And he'd gotten the job done in the end, hadn't he? Schuldig gave his gun a pat and stuck it back in his now-ruined, three-hundred and fifty dollar jeans. He eyed himself and felt a far-off irritation. The ghoul blood would never wash out. Oh well. The hotel could buy him a new pair. It was their fault, the dumb-asses, for hiring a ghoulie in the first place. There were tests for that, and fuck them if they hadn't pre-screened. Schuldig had only come down for a coffee, after all. Mmm. Coffee.
Schuldig looked at the mess in the coffee shop and grimaced. He zeroed in on his extra-large. Fuck. It was covered in ghoul-slime. He couldn't drink it now. The other customers milled around, some crying hysterically, others on their cell phones, and security-discreet, high-end security-started approaching. They were a little late to the party, now weren't they?
"You're welcome," he said.
He nudged the ghoul corpse aside with the toe of his boot and leaned up over the counter to see if there was anything there safe to drink. Shit. Everything that looked good had been ghoul-splattered. He needed caffeine, dammit. The hotel had to have coffee somewhere.
"How efficient of you."
Schuldig jumped. His hand went to his gun and his mind went searching. Crawford, again? Did the bastard follow him everywhere?
"Don't do that!" Schuldig said. "Unless you want me to shoot you."
"I like to protect my interests where I can," said Crawford. "But I see you have it well in hand. I assume you are uninjured."
Crawford looked the same as ever: calm and in control. He stepped with great care around a pool of congealing ghoul blood. He reached out to Schuldig and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Schuldig slapped his hand away.
"Protect this," he said.
He flipped Crawford off. Crawford merely smiled.
Screw it. Schuldig needed a shower and room service. He went as quickly as he could for the elevator without it looking like he was running away. Crawford followed him. As Schuldig waited impatiently for the elevator car to arrive, Crawford gave the security personnel a nod. The men returned to their former positions, scattered around the lobby. The elevator dinged. Schuldig got in, and Crawford got in as well, though Schuldig tried, without success, to get the doors to close on him. It burned Schuldig that security allowed themselves to be waved off. What if Crawford were a nut job, a stalker, somebody dangerous? Schuldig laughed to himself. Crawford was dangerous. There was no question of that. Maybe he'd scared the security guards off by sheer force of personality. Hell, with his powers, he might have warned the hotel management already that Schuldig would take care of the incident. Wouldn't that be a pisser?
"Tell me what you're thinking," said Crawford.
"I'm thinking that you're going to convince the hotel to give me a new outfit for my trouble," said Schuldig. "That almost might make up for you following me here."
"Would it really?" said Crawford.
Schuldig rolled his eyes.
"You know it wouldn't," he said.
The elevator stopped and its doors opened on Schuldig's floor.
Schuldig paused.
"You wouldn't be following me to my room, would you?" he said.
"And if I did?" said Crawford. "Don't think you'll be able to convince security to escort me off the premises. I've already briefed them."
Schuldig flipped him off again, and once more Crawford smiled. He followed Schuldig all the way back to his room. Crawford was too quick for Schuldig to slam the door in his face. Pity. It would have been very satisfying. Maybe if he'd broken Crawford's nose doing it, Crawford would finally take the hint and leave him the fuck alone.
To Schuldig's surprise, there was a new outfit already laid on the bed. The jeans were the same as the ones he had on. Schuldig glared at Crawford.
"I took the liberty of informing the management," said Crawford. "They send their sincere apologies."
Schuldig extended both middle fingers in Crawford's direction and made a strategic retreat to the bathroom.
After stripping out of his ruined clothes, Schuldig took the world's quickest shower. He left his gun on the vanity, just in case something else weird happened, but all he did was knock it off the counter when he reached for a towel after he showered. He sighed. At least the safety was on.
He wrapped his hair up and dried himself off. No way was he going out in front of Crawford in just a towel. Schuldig dressed quickly, then ran a comb through his hair. He sent his mind searching. Ugh. Crawford was still there.
"The least you could do is order me room service!" said Schuldig, through the door. "I'm going to die without something to eat!"
The bastard laughed at him. Schuldig unlocked the bathroom door and threw his wet towels at Crawford. Crawford caught them as if they'd planned the whole thing, and Schuldig felt cheated.
"I still have a gun," said Schuldig.
"It's very impressive," said Crawford. "Your gun."
Crawford's eyes roamed over Schuldig, and Schuldig felt Crawford's brain change gears into a level of dirty that Schuldig might have appreciated if it had come from anyone else. Instead, Schuldig did his best to ignore Crawford, and the best avoidance tactic he knew was to spend more of the family's money.
Schuldig ordered room service: rare steak, warm mushroom salad, baked brie wrapped in pastry, fresh fruits, and a bottle of the best wine they had, which cost a pretty penny in itself. The hotel had sent him a complimentary bottle, but it was mid-priced shit. He didn't care about the price of the wine, really. What he cared was that he was going to eat his meal in front of Crawford and he was not going to offer so much as a single crumb to him. He knew Crawford had a thing for wine, too. Schuldig considered whether or not to taste it, call it shit, and pour it down the drain. It was petty, but he liked being petty, at this moment.
The room service delivery was prompt. Schuldig made nice with the bellhop, who was practically pissing-his-pants level afraid of Schuldig and Schuldig's gun. He considered it an amazing exercise of self control not to give the kid a compulsion of one kind or another…Like how about if he pissed himself every time the concierge bell rang? Pavlov had nothing on Schuldig.
The bellhop left, and Schuldig was alone with his meal. Well, almost alone. Schuldig wondered what he could do to get Crawford to leave. If he fried Crawford's neurons, he'd be in serious, serious trouble, and anything less than brute force-like, say, the stray thought that Crawford had left his car unlocked-wasn't going to work. Crawford had too much discipline of thought for that.
Crawford settled into the other chair at the table.
"I already ate," said Crawford. "Having foreseen this remarkably small attempt at revenge. No coffee?"
Schuldig made a face at Crawford and did his best to ignore the smug bastard.
He ate the salad first. Crawford watched. The sound of Schuldig's silverware and the sound of chewing were the only noises in the room. Schuldig swallowed, and he felt Crawford's eyes on his throat, tracking the course of the bite as it squeezed its way south.
"Quit that," said Schuldig.
"Hmm?" said Crawford.
"I can feel you getting turned on," said Schuldig. "I'm eating a fucking salad, for fuck's sake. You're fucking up my appetite."
And it was true. He had to actually put down his fork because every mushroom he ate tasted like Crawford. Crawford didn't say anything, and the press of his lust grew neither less nor more. Schuldig raised an eyebrow.
"You're only going to give yourself blue balls," he said.
He took a sip of his wine. That, at least, was left untouched by Crawford's intents and desires.
"I booked the suite next to yours," said Crawford. "Just in case you need me."
Schuldig choked on his wine and he ended up blowing some of it out his nose. He spat the rest of his mouthful into his napkin.
"You don't mean that like you said it," said Schuldig.
"How, exactly, did I say it?" said Crawford.
Shit. Crawford was doing that scary, button-down smoldering thing, and Schuldig knew that this was a seduction. Shit. Schuldig couldn't even eat a meal in peace. Crawford was hot to go, which infringed on Schuldig's consciousness and made Schuldig horny too. But mostly it pissed Schuldig off that Crawford thought he could handle Schuldig like this.
Schuldig shoved himself away from the table. He dialed room service again and told them to come pick up his dishes. He didn't feel like eating any more. Without a word to Crawford, Schuldig left. He felt Crawford's eyes boring into him even after the room's door shut behind him.
Schuldig was hot and angry and-absolute truth-a little shaky now that the ghoul-induced adrenaline was wearing off. His meal would have helped if he'd been able to eat more of it, but he couldn't handle Crawford's attitude any more than he could the man's not-so subtly thrumming lust and ham-fisted attempts to get Schuldig into bed, and so he'd gone to find the next best thing to a good meal: alcohol, served by a human being at the Brandt's very nice in-hotel bar.
If he could have, he would've gone out, but it was definitely night, and he'd already had one ghoul encounter more than he wanted. Schuldig wasn't in the mood for whatever else might be roaming around this time of night, so the bar it was. At least the bar was at an angle to the coffee shop and it wasn't in his line of sight.
Schuldig slung himself onto a stool, ordered a double whisky, and waited with impatience as the bartender poured. Schuldig drank it down and motioned for another.
Which was how he met Yohji. Someone sat on the stool to his left and ordered what Schuldig was drinking. The man-and it was, indeed, a man-got the bottle of whisky and waved the bartender away. The man drank for a minute, quiet, then reached out and refilled Schuldig's empty glass.
"Hi," said the man. "I'm Yohji."
Schuldig looked sideways into green eyes, blond hair, and a charming smile that reached the man's eyes.
"Fuck off," said Schuldig. "Not in the mood."
Yohji nodded, taking a sip of his drink.
"You have a fight with your boyfriend?" said Yohji.
Anger uncurled inside Schuldig. Fuck this guy and his assumptions.
"He's not my boyfriend," said Schuldig. "He's not anyone."
"Okay then," said Yohji.
Yohji raised an eyebrow but didn't actually express his doubts out loud. Too bad Schuldig could read minds.
"So I've got to ask about earlier," said Yohji. He gestured in the direction of the coffee franchise, currently roped off and darkened so no one would think it was open, despite the nasty smears of ghoul blood and brains all over the place.
Schuldig groaned. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. Yohji's fingers brushed against his, and Schuldig startled.
"Security," he said. "You're security."
Of course Yohji was security. Schuldig dug just far enough in Yohji's mind to confirm. If Schuldig hadn't been feeling the aftereffects of Crawford's hormones, he would have already known to avoid Yohji. Still, the man's hand was pleasantly warm.
"I'm off-duty," said Yohji. "If that helps. I'm just a curious by-stander, is all."
"Isn't everyone," said Schuldig.
He leaned back in his seat. The alcohol was, finally, starting to do its job. The press of the minds of all the hotel guests blurred comfortably together, and his own thoughts acquired a certain comfortable distance. He felt his muscles relax a hair.
"Go ahead," Schuldig said. "Ask. I can tell you're dying to."
"Now me, I'm normal with a capital N," said Yohji. "But you, you had a ghoul flip on you and you killed her. It. Whatever."
"So?" said Schuldig. "Shooting a ghoul in self-defense isn't a crime."
"I'm just wondering who you are. You didn't even blink," said Yohji. "I take it this happens to you a lot."
Schuldig laughed a good, long time. Yohji watched him, his curiosity apparent.
"You have no idea," said Schuldig.
"Your gun legal?" said Yohji. "Carrying concealed is a crime, even if you did shoot a ghoul and save a coffee shop full of people."
Hah. That's rich. He thinks it was heroic.
"I've got a permit," said Schuldig.
"So if I go upstairs with you, what are the odds it'll happen again?" said Yohji. "You shooting your gun, I mean."
Giving Yohji's mind a scan, Schuldig felt some of his unhappiness be subsumed by predatory instinct. How easy it was, sometimes, to flip from off to on.
"Depends on which gun you mean," said Schuldig. "And who says you're coming with me?"
Yohji smiled. For a so-called capital-N normal, he was very charming, and Schuldig felt himself pulled in by that charisma. Schuldig had had his share of freaks for the night, and it was a relief that this man was ordinary and, apparently, quite willing to scratch the itch that Crawford had inadvertently passed on to him.
"We can have a good time," said Yohji. "Maybe that nothing-to-you not-your-boyfriend will see what he's missing."
Yohji's words mirrored Schuldig's thoughts but, miracle of miracles, Schuldig hadn't had to lean on Yohji's mind at all. The jealousy-provoking sex was all Yohji.
"You're reading my mind," said Schuldig. "How convenient."
He smiled at Yohji in return.
"So," said Yohji. "You going to tell me who you are?"
It was almost cute how Yohji's mind screamed "what" when his lips said "who."
Schuldig set down his glass.
"I'm not going to do anything freaky," said Schuldig. "Well, at least, not anything you won't enjoy."
"Oh?" said Yohji.
Schuldig touched the pleasure centers of Yohji's mind. He smiled when Yohji just about slid under the bar. Yohji recovered his calm quickly, for a normal. He sat up again and reached for another drink. It took him a minute to speak again.
"That it?" said Yohji.
It was a flip thing to say, but his voice was gratifyingly shaky, and Schuldig noted the bulge in his pants with a great deal of prideful interest.
Schuldig touched his mind again, this time just to chat.
Not exactly.
Schuldig cackled at Yohji's bug-eyed surprise.
"Ah," said Yohji. "So…"
Minds read, fortunes told. Well, no, I lie. I don't do fortunes.
Schuldig rummaged in Yohji's memories, getting to know him in a fraction of the time any clumsy, normal pick-up ritual would take. Schuldig liked what he saw: Yohji was going to be such fun.
"You said something about wanting to inspect my hotel room, mister off-duty security," said Schuldig. "That is, if you think you're up for the challenge."
He winked at Yohji and watched realization dawn. Yohji set his glass down very carefully on the bar. He set some money down too, enough, Schuldig saw, to cover both their drinks. And a gentleman, too.
"I'm always up for a challenge," said Yohji. "Lead the way."
So Schuldig did.
=====
I feel so...unburdened! Also, I am happy to report that my italics are in place. For some reason, LJ ate my italics despite my coding for them, but I've done it up right this time around.
Now all I have to do is write something like a sex scene for Schuldig and Yohji. (And the pressure of the unwritten returns! XD) At least I've already got some of the afterwards written.
~later