Secrets in Trust
Title: Secrets in Trust
Recipient: Gwonam
Author: daegaer
Beta: puddingcat
Setting: Pre-series.
Prompt: Crawford/Schuldig, missionfic: one of their early jobs together, before they quite fit together like they do later on.
Warnings: Violence to canon levels.
The body hit the ground less than a metre from Schuldig's position with a heavy, wet thud. It took all his willpower not to jump in surprise and give himself away. He looked at his legs in horrified disgust, his trouser legs now splattered in brain matter and blood.
Damn it, Crawford! he thought, That nearly fell right on me! There was no answer other than a sense of dry amusement, and Schuldig felt his blood pressure rise. Just be careful in future.
He caught a flicker of movement overhead. I saw that he wouldn't hit you, and that you'd actually be able to control yourself for once.
For once? What the hell -
Schuldig! Four seconds, your left -
Schuldig spun round, his gun already up. Schneider's man had time for a look of dismay to cross his face before Schuldig shot him right in the middle of it, the sound of the body crumpling to the floor louder than the silencer. Schuldig took a breath, just to remind himself that he could, and frowned at his hand, still outstretched and aiming the gun. It looked oddly flushed - he rubbed at it with his other hand and grimaced at the fine coating of blood on his skin and sleeve. Fucking hell, he thought, bending to wipe the gun clean on the corpse's jacket. So blowback spatter was more than just one of the instructors' obsessions. He glanced between his victim and Crawford's and swallowed hard. Jesus. If he puked Crawford would never let him forget it. Move, he told himself, and ran to the door. He'd killed before, why the hell was this so fucking hard? When he was sixteen he'd taken out that pissy little pyro with a knife, which had been messier than either of his two latest dead acquaintances.
Schuldig. Are you in position?
Yes, I'm in fucking position. He took a deeper breath and looked up to the catwalk above. In position, he repeated more calmly. What can you see?
There was a pause, long enough to make him worry, then, He's got five men with him, Majorana has four. They're standing among - Sighs, exasperated or otherwise, didn't easily come across telepathically, but Schuldig had a sudden very clear impression of the expression on Crawford's face. - they're standing among several model dinosaurs. Schuldig did his best to convey the roll of his eyes to Crawford and put his hand on the doorknob, ready to enter the set.
Tell me again why we're doing this on a fucking film set?
There was another pause, then,
It's our shot at the big time. Give it six seconds, then enter.
Schuldig shook his head. He had no idea if it was a good or bad sign when Brad fucking Crawford started making jokes. He'd seemed like a humourless sort up till they'd split up thirty minutes before. Schuldig wasn't sure he wanted jokes from a team leader. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the thoughts of the men beyond the door. They were wary, but didn't seem to be worried yet about their missing colleagues. Here went nothing. He opened the door and went through in a roll, coming up on one knee, gun ready. He took down two of Majorana's men before anyone had even reacted, then was across the set and in scant cover, blessing his speed and reflexes. This was the part of the plan he really didn't like, he thought, as the bullets came his way, crashing through what he supposed was meant to be the prehistoric undergrowth. He leapt ten feet from a standing start and popped out of cover for a fraction of a second to shoot Schneider's accountant through the neck. Crawford swore that they'd be fooled for a few moments that there were several assailants, all at ground level. Schneider would believe it, he'd promised, just long enough. It would give Crawford a very small window of opportunity while Schneider, a TK exhibiting too much individuality, briefly shielded himself from the front only. At which point, Schuldig rather fervently hoped, Crawford would really be in a good position to blast the fucker from above. Schuldig eyed up the open area where the actors were due to be menaced by poorly-constructed dinosaurs. Maybe he'd go and see the film if it ever got finished, he thought, if it ever got a theatre release rather than being straight-to-VHS like the piece of trash trying to make a quick buck based on a popular box office draw that it appeared to be; he sprinted across, not as fast as he could go. Draw their fire, Crawford had said. Fucking, fucking hell, Schuldig thought, skidding round one of the models that collapsed as the bodyguards' bullets shredded it. I'm beside the entrance! he thought with all his strength, forcing it into their minds, and the gunfire switched targets. He peered up and caught the briefest glimpse of a glint of light. A second later Schneider's head exploded, his blood and shards of his skull blinding the bodyguard trying to persuade him backwards. Crawford began picking men off from above and Schuldig breathed a little easier, and got back in the fight. Three minutes later they were the only living things on the set.
"Hey, come on down," Schuldig called up. "I want to get out of here and have a shower. I'm fucking soaked in blood!" His earlier desire to vomit had receded, as long as he didn't look at any of the bodies too closely. Nerves, he thought. Just stupid nerves. There was no reply. "Crawford?" Still no reply. Shit. Schuldig got to cover, fast, and looked round. He couldn't sense anyone else, just him and Crawford up above.
Crawford?
Come up here. Please.
Crawford's thoughts were clipped and more brusque than usual, a veneer over - panic.
What's going on?
There's no danger. Just come up. Please.
Two pleases out of Crawford in less than a minute? Schuldig went for the nearest ladder, still keeping his gun out, holstering it reluctantly to climb. When he reached the catwalk he could see Crawford, sitting thirty feet from the ladder, his eyes closed and one arm tight round a strut. His other hand was clenched, white-knuckled, on the rifle.
"Hey, Crawford? Are you hit? Where'd they get you?"
Schuldig walked out, still wary, looking for traps. There didn't seem to be any, so he hunkered down beside Crawford, putting a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were rigid under the jacket and his eyes were still screwed shut.
"Crawford?"
"I'm acrophobic," Crawford said, his voice tense.
"We're indoors," Schuldig said in puzzlement.
"Heights. I don't like heights."
Schuldig sat back on his heels, surprised. People usually had those sorts of fears wiped away by Rosenkreuz. He looked over the edge. It was a long way down, and probably looked further to someone with no head for heights. "Why'd you say you'd come up here, then? And how come Rosenkreuz didn't fix the fear?"
"It had to be you down there," Crawford said. "You could make them think we had more men. I knew the adrenaline would get me through the job. I was fine while I had people to kill." He took a gasping breath, as if it were hard to speak normally. "One of my first missions," he said, "I shoved a target from this height into industrial machinery, and he nearly took me with him. The phobia grew from that."
His voice was still strained and his skin was pale and sweaty. Schuldig thought of how humiliating it had been when he thought he'd puke and felt an awkward sympathy. He put a hand on the rifle and pulled very gently. "Let me take this." It took a moment or two, but Crawford let go, and Schuldig slung it over his shoulder. "I can get you down," he said.
"I know. I saw that," Crawford said with just a wisp of acerbity.
Schuldig grinned. "Yeah. You weren't planning on growing old up here. OK, I'm going to need you to cooperate as much as possible, I don't want to give you any weird issues from trying to resist."
"Trying to resist?" Crawford said, and Schuldig had to admire the effort it took to joke in such an embarrassing situation. He was in favour of a team leader who could joke, he decided.
"Hey, I'm irresistable. Just look at my test scores. Relax - yeah, good, don't fight -" It took even more effort for Rosenkreuz survivors to trust each other enough not to resist telepathic intrusions, and Crawford's mind shrank from having to do it. He did it, though, and Schuldig coiled his will about Crawford's, snug and tight. He shifted the rifle to hang between his shoulder blades, giving him both hands free and took Crawford's hand in his. "Let go of the strut, Brad," he said, no real force, just gentle encouragement. Crawford took a deep breath and let go. "Good, turn to look at me and open your eyes -" Crawford really didn't look well, he thought, looking at him full-on. "Keep looking at me -" Don't look down, he added into Crawford's mind, so deep that he probably didn't register the words, just the prohibition. "Now you're going to get your legs back on the catwalk, come on, lift the right one -"
"My damn legs have gone to sleep," Crawford said.
"Don't worry. - And the left -" Crawford was sitting fully on the catwalk now, grimacing as his legs started to wake up. Schuldig managed to get him in a position from which he could rise, and stood easily, still holding his hand. "Brad," he said, and put as much force into it as he could, "stand up."
Crawford looked at him in desperation, clutching his hand crushingly tight. Then he gasped for air and stood, his eyes fixed on Schuldig's face. Schuldig reached out and took his other hand and stepped backwards, leading him to the ladder. He got Crawford to step onto it, and to hold on to it instead.
"Can you get down?" he said. "I can go down and climb up beneath you if you need."
"I'll be OK," Crawford said, and made himself climb down, with very little mental help, which Schuldig kept as unobtrusive as possible. There was a line between being helpful and causing permanent humiliation, and Schuldig wanted to be able to keep working with his assigned team leader. Once back on the ground Crawford was himself quickly, strolling around and looking amused at the death he'd caused.
"We should go," he said, bending to retrieve Majorana's gun. "Nice," he said absently, looking over at Schuldig quizzically and offering it.
"You keep it," Schuldig said. "Yeah, let's go. I really need a shower." He paused. It wouldn't be a bad idea to give Crawford something to balance what Crawford had been forced to reveal to him. "I nearly threw up when that guy went splat beside me," he said. "And later. I really thought I was going to puke like some kid on their first live target shoot."
"Just nerves," Crawford said firmly.
"Yeah," Schuldig said. "We'll be fine from now."
Crawford nodded and smiled, which made him look a decade younger. "We will, I've seen it. Come on, I'll buy you a drink. After your shower."
They left, Schuldig holding on to the thought that they'd be fine in the future, that they had a future. When Crawford had enough distance to analyse this day, he thought, he'd offer to help him erase the phobia. It would make good sense to deal with that before it got worse, and before Rosenkreuz or Eszett came to think of Crawford as faulty goods. Schuldig smiled to himself at the thought of their undoubtedly successful future. The next job would be better and more rewarding, he thought, and they wouldn't have to embarrass themselves at all.
Recipient: Gwonam
Author: daegaer
Beta: puddingcat
Setting: Pre-series.
Prompt: Crawford/Schuldig, missionfic: one of their early jobs together, before they quite fit together like they do later on.
Warnings: Violence to canon levels.
The body hit the ground less than a metre from Schuldig's position with a heavy, wet thud. It took all his willpower not to jump in surprise and give himself away. He looked at his legs in horrified disgust, his trouser legs now splattered in brain matter and blood.
Damn it, Crawford! he thought, That nearly fell right on me! There was no answer other than a sense of dry amusement, and Schuldig felt his blood pressure rise. Just be careful in future.
He caught a flicker of movement overhead. I saw that he wouldn't hit you, and that you'd actually be able to control yourself for once.
For once? What the hell -
Schuldig! Four seconds, your left -
Schuldig spun round, his gun already up. Schneider's man had time for a look of dismay to cross his face before Schuldig shot him right in the middle of it, the sound of the body crumpling to the floor louder than the silencer. Schuldig took a breath, just to remind himself that he could, and frowned at his hand, still outstretched and aiming the gun. It looked oddly flushed - he rubbed at it with his other hand and grimaced at the fine coating of blood on his skin and sleeve. Fucking hell, he thought, bending to wipe the gun clean on the corpse's jacket. So blowback spatter was more than just one of the instructors' obsessions. He glanced between his victim and Crawford's and swallowed hard. Jesus. If he puked Crawford would never let him forget it. Move, he told himself, and ran to the door. He'd killed before, why the hell was this so fucking hard? When he was sixteen he'd taken out that pissy little pyro with a knife, which had been messier than either of his two latest dead acquaintances.
Schuldig. Are you in position?
Yes, I'm in fucking position. He took a deeper breath and looked up to the catwalk above. In position, he repeated more calmly. What can you see?
There was a pause, long enough to make him worry, then, He's got five men with him, Majorana has four. They're standing among - Sighs, exasperated or otherwise, didn't easily come across telepathically, but Schuldig had a sudden very clear impression of the expression on Crawford's face. - they're standing among several model dinosaurs. Schuldig did his best to convey the roll of his eyes to Crawford and put his hand on the doorknob, ready to enter the set.
Tell me again why we're doing this on a fucking film set?
There was another pause, then,
It's our shot at the big time. Give it six seconds, then enter.
Schuldig shook his head. He had no idea if it was a good or bad sign when Brad fucking Crawford started making jokes. He'd seemed like a humourless sort up till they'd split up thirty minutes before. Schuldig wasn't sure he wanted jokes from a team leader. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the thoughts of the men beyond the door. They were wary, but didn't seem to be worried yet about their missing colleagues. Here went nothing. He opened the door and went through in a roll, coming up on one knee, gun ready. He took down two of Majorana's men before anyone had even reacted, then was across the set and in scant cover, blessing his speed and reflexes. This was the part of the plan he really didn't like, he thought, as the bullets came his way, crashing through what he supposed was meant to be the prehistoric undergrowth. He leapt ten feet from a standing start and popped out of cover for a fraction of a second to shoot Schneider's accountant through the neck. Crawford swore that they'd be fooled for a few moments that there were several assailants, all at ground level. Schneider would believe it, he'd promised, just long enough. It would give Crawford a very small window of opportunity while Schneider, a TK exhibiting too much individuality, briefly shielded himself from the front only. At which point, Schuldig rather fervently hoped, Crawford would really be in a good position to blast the fucker from above. Schuldig eyed up the open area where the actors were due to be menaced by poorly-constructed dinosaurs. Maybe he'd go and see the film if it ever got finished, he thought, if it ever got a theatre release rather than being straight-to-VHS like the piece of trash trying to make a quick buck based on a popular box office draw that it appeared to be; he sprinted across, not as fast as he could go. Draw their fire, Crawford had said. Fucking, fucking hell, Schuldig thought, skidding round one of the models that collapsed as the bodyguards' bullets shredded it. I'm beside the entrance! he thought with all his strength, forcing it into their minds, and the gunfire switched targets. He peered up and caught the briefest glimpse of a glint of light. A second later Schneider's head exploded, his blood and shards of his skull blinding the bodyguard trying to persuade him backwards. Crawford began picking men off from above and Schuldig breathed a little easier, and got back in the fight. Three minutes later they were the only living things on the set.
"Hey, come on down," Schuldig called up. "I want to get out of here and have a shower. I'm fucking soaked in blood!" His earlier desire to vomit had receded, as long as he didn't look at any of the bodies too closely. Nerves, he thought. Just stupid nerves. There was no reply. "Crawford?" Still no reply. Shit. Schuldig got to cover, fast, and looked round. He couldn't sense anyone else, just him and Crawford up above.
Crawford?
Come up here. Please.
Crawford's thoughts were clipped and more brusque than usual, a veneer over - panic.
What's going on?
There's no danger. Just come up. Please.
Two pleases out of Crawford in less than a minute? Schuldig went for the nearest ladder, still keeping his gun out, holstering it reluctantly to climb. When he reached the catwalk he could see Crawford, sitting thirty feet from the ladder, his eyes closed and one arm tight round a strut. His other hand was clenched, white-knuckled, on the rifle.
"Hey, Crawford? Are you hit? Where'd they get you?"
Schuldig walked out, still wary, looking for traps. There didn't seem to be any, so he hunkered down beside Crawford, putting a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were rigid under the jacket and his eyes were still screwed shut.
"Crawford?"
"I'm acrophobic," Crawford said, his voice tense.
"We're indoors," Schuldig said in puzzlement.
"Heights. I don't like heights."
Schuldig sat back on his heels, surprised. People usually had those sorts of fears wiped away by Rosenkreuz. He looked over the edge. It was a long way down, and probably looked further to someone with no head for heights. "Why'd you say you'd come up here, then? And how come Rosenkreuz didn't fix the fear?"
"It had to be you down there," Crawford said. "You could make them think we had more men. I knew the adrenaline would get me through the job. I was fine while I had people to kill." He took a gasping breath, as if it were hard to speak normally. "One of my first missions," he said, "I shoved a target from this height into industrial machinery, and he nearly took me with him. The phobia grew from that."
His voice was still strained and his skin was pale and sweaty. Schuldig thought of how humiliating it had been when he thought he'd puke and felt an awkward sympathy. He put a hand on the rifle and pulled very gently. "Let me take this." It took a moment or two, but Crawford let go, and Schuldig slung it over his shoulder. "I can get you down," he said.
"I know. I saw that," Crawford said with just a wisp of acerbity.
Schuldig grinned. "Yeah. You weren't planning on growing old up here. OK, I'm going to need you to cooperate as much as possible, I don't want to give you any weird issues from trying to resist."
"Trying to resist?" Crawford said, and Schuldig had to admire the effort it took to joke in such an embarrassing situation. He was in favour of a team leader who could joke, he decided.
"Hey, I'm irresistable. Just look at my test scores. Relax - yeah, good, don't fight -" It took even more effort for Rosenkreuz survivors to trust each other enough not to resist telepathic intrusions, and Crawford's mind shrank from having to do it. He did it, though, and Schuldig coiled his will about Crawford's, snug and tight. He shifted the rifle to hang between his shoulder blades, giving him both hands free and took Crawford's hand in his. "Let go of the strut, Brad," he said, no real force, just gentle encouragement. Crawford took a deep breath and let go. "Good, turn to look at me and open your eyes -" Crawford really didn't look well, he thought, looking at him full-on. "Keep looking at me -" Don't look down, he added into Crawford's mind, so deep that he probably didn't register the words, just the prohibition. "Now you're going to get your legs back on the catwalk, come on, lift the right one -"
"My damn legs have gone to sleep," Crawford said.
"Don't worry. - And the left -" Crawford was sitting fully on the catwalk now, grimacing as his legs started to wake up. Schuldig managed to get him in a position from which he could rise, and stood easily, still holding his hand. "Brad," he said, and put as much force into it as he could, "stand up."
Crawford looked at him in desperation, clutching his hand crushingly tight. Then he gasped for air and stood, his eyes fixed on Schuldig's face. Schuldig reached out and took his other hand and stepped backwards, leading him to the ladder. He got Crawford to step onto it, and to hold on to it instead.
"Can you get down?" he said. "I can go down and climb up beneath you if you need."
"I'll be OK," Crawford said, and made himself climb down, with very little mental help, which Schuldig kept as unobtrusive as possible. There was a line between being helpful and causing permanent humiliation, and Schuldig wanted to be able to keep working with his assigned team leader. Once back on the ground Crawford was himself quickly, strolling around and looking amused at the death he'd caused.
"We should go," he said, bending to retrieve Majorana's gun. "Nice," he said absently, looking over at Schuldig quizzically and offering it.
"You keep it," Schuldig said. "Yeah, let's go. I really need a shower." He paused. It wouldn't be a bad idea to give Crawford something to balance what Crawford had been forced to reveal to him. "I nearly threw up when that guy went splat beside me," he said. "And later. I really thought I was going to puke like some kid on their first live target shoot."
"Just nerves," Crawford said firmly.
"Yeah," Schuldig said. "We'll be fine from now."
Crawford nodded and smiled, which made him look a decade younger. "We will, I've seen it. Come on, I'll buy you a drink. After your shower."
They left, Schuldig holding on to the thought that they'd be fine in the future, that they had a future. When Crawford had enough distance to analyse this day, he thought, he'd offer to help him erase the phobia. It would make good sense to deal with that before it got worse, and before Rosenkreuz or Eszett came to think of Crawford as faulty goods. Schuldig smiled to himself at the thought of their undoubtedly successful future. The next job would be better and more rewarding, he thought, and they wouldn't have to embarrass themselves at all.