Waking Dreams (Weiss Kreuz, Schuldig/Aya)
Title: Waking Dreams
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz, Schuldig/Aya
Author: Tempest (rhosyn_du)
Recipient: Tanit (daegaer)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What you need isn't always what you want.
I
When she was young, Aya loved ghost stories. She loved stories about silent, deadly ghosts and stories about gruesome, vengeful ones. But her favorites were the quiet, lonely ghosts, left wandering for eternity.
Ran told the best ghost stories. On the nights when she could cajole him into telling them, Aya would go to their father after, eyes wide and pleading, to ask if she could sleep in her brother's room, and though he inevitably delivered a stern lecture about scary stories before bedtime, he always agreed.
Aya never mentioned that on those nights, it wasn't she who woke shaking.
II
Pain washed over him in a wave, sweeping away all other thoughts and sensations, and for an instant, his world was pure bliss. He'd been expecting some backlash, but not this. God, not this.
When he came back to himself, he was slumped against Nagi, breathing hard, eyes half-closed in pleasure. Nagi pushed him away with a derisive snort. "Are you done? Because we're on a job, in case you'd forgotten."
"Haven't forgotten." The pain was still there, shining so bright he was having a hard time pinpointing its origin. "Just need to find something before we go." It stroked his mind like a lover's fingers, provocative and insistent.
There. Kneeling in the rubble, face covered in tears and snot, trying desperately to free a body whose mind was so blank it might as well be dead already, was the targets' son. The responsible thing, of course, would be to see that the son died, as well, but they weren't being paid well enough to be responsible. Besides, it would be a pity to waste such exquisite suffering.
"Come on," Schuldig said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "We should at least say hello."
III
He knew it was another dream; he had them often enough. Still, he couldn't resist the urge to reach out for his sister's hand, even knowing he would never catch it, and he couldn't stop the tears that pricked his eyes when her fingers slipped past his, the tips just barely brushing.
"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."
He knew he shouldn't answer. Any response, verbal or not, would only encourage his tormentor. But, dreams being dreams, the moment the thought crossed his mind, he was speaking it. "Dreams are the insanity of each day's sanity."
"Dickens?" Schuldig's amusement felt like sandpaper against his skin. "I can play that game, if that's what you want." Solid warmth pressed against his back, hot breath tickled his ear, and he was powerless to stop it.
"I'd choose a different story, though," Schuldig whispered, his voice perversely intimate. "I can be your ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future. All are death, and I'm very good at death. Should I show you, Ran?"
"No," he whispered.
"Oh, I'm sorry," came the mocking voice. "It's Aya, now, isn't it? How do you think your sister would feel to know that you kill in her name?"
"No," he said louder, flinching away.
"It's not just the killing, though, is it?" Schuldig asked, arms wrapping around Aya's waist. "Not just the lives taken by your hand, not the blood that you can't quite wash off. How would she feel, Aya, if she knew you liked it?"
"No!" Aya wrenched away, and suddenly he was awake and sitting upright in his bed.
He almost didn't make it to the bathroom before he threw up.
IV
The girl wasn't quite pretty, Schuldig thought as he watched her sleep, although her brother always envisioned her that way. Her eyes were too large, her face just a bit too round.
Her dreams were another story: bright, shining things that sparkled like sunlight reflecting off the ocean. It would be so easy to reach into her mind, to twist, and send them into darkness.
Schuldig watched the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremor of her eyes beneath their lids, and let her sleep in peace.
There would be plenty of darkness waiting when the girl woke.
V
Try as he might, he couldn't stop his katana from swinging any more than he could stop the seemingly endless enemies that came at him. Each one fell at his feet in a spray of blood and gore, bodies piling higher and higher, yet somehow never impeding his movements. He fought until his muscles screamed from exhaustion, and still he couldn't stop.
"You've become such an elegant and efficient killer, Ran-kun," Kikyou told him. "I'm so proud of you."
He closed his eyes and willed the other man away, willed his hands to release the sharkskin-wrapped hilt of his sword. It was his dream, dammit; he should be able to control it.
"I leave you to your own devices for a few months, and this is the best your subconscious comes up with? I'm disappointed."
Aya refused to feel grateful as both ghost and katana faded away, refused to believe that Schuldig's presence could be preferable to his own dreamscape.
"What? Not even a word of thanks for saving you from your nightmare?"
"This is my nightmare."
"Oh, no, kitten. If I built a nightmare for you, I promise you'd be screaming." Schuldig smiled in a way that made Aya's stomach twist. "I think I'd like to watch you scream.
"Your night terror was right, you know," he continued, and Aya couldn't quite find the will to move away when surprisingly gentle fingers combed through his hair. "You're remarkably elegant when you kill, full of passion and focused fury. Stunning."
"There's nothing 'stunning' about murder," Aya stated with a cold glare.
"I've seen you when you kill. I've felt you. Do you really expect to convince me that you don't take pleasure in it?"
Aya found he had no answer.
VI
In the light of morning--glistening splatter faded out to a dull, flaking brown, shoulders slumped beneath the elegant duster, shadows visible beneath weary eyes--Aya was far less striking. The killing rage, honed to a sharp, brilliant edge over the years, was gone, and Schuldig found himself annoyed by its absence.
"How long are you planning to stand there?"
Aya didn't move. "Don't think I won't kill you just because you helped us take out Epitaph."
"You're welcome to try, kitten."
No response. Dammit.
"It doesn't matter, you know," he continued conversationally. "He could walk up the hill and hand you your sword right now, and it still wouldn't change the fact that Weiss is done."
"I know." Aya's eyes never left the smoldering ruins of the academy.
"Do you even know why you're still waiting?" Schuldig would be happy to enlighten him if the answer was no. He was helpful like that.
"I have nothing better to be doing."
It wasn't really the lack of response that bothered him, Schuldig realized as he turned to leave; he'd just always thought that when Aya finally broke, he'd be the one responsible.
VII
The night was quiet, his bed soft and warm. He hadn't known what to expect when he came to London, but he couldn't complain about what he had found. He was part of a team again, a skilled team, even, that worked well together. His employer appeared far more ethical than Persia ever had, and he was free to question any mission they were given.
His sister was safe and happy back in Tokyo.
It was far better than he deserved.
Aya watched the second hand tick its way around his bedside clock and wondered why he still couldn't sleep.
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz, Schuldig/Aya
Author: Tempest (rhosyn_du)
Recipient: Tanit (daegaer)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What you need isn't always what you want.
I
When she was young, Aya loved ghost stories. She loved stories about silent, deadly ghosts and stories about gruesome, vengeful ones. But her favorites were the quiet, lonely ghosts, left wandering for eternity.
Ran told the best ghost stories. On the nights when she could cajole him into telling them, Aya would go to their father after, eyes wide and pleading, to ask if she could sleep in her brother's room, and though he inevitably delivered a stern lecture about scary stories before bedtime, he always agreed.
Aya never mentioned that on those nights, it wasn't she who woke shaking.
II
Pain washed over him in a wave, sweeping away all other thoughts and sensations, and for an instant, his world was pure bliss. He'd been expecting some backlash, but not this. God, not this.
When he came back to himself, he was slumped against Nagi, breathing hard, eyes half-closed in pleasure. Nagi pushed him away with a derisive snort. "Are you done? Because we're on a job, in case you'd forgotten."
"Haven't forgotten." The pain was still there, shining so bright he was having a hard time pinpointing its origin. "Just need to find something before we go." It stroked his mind like a lover's fingers, provocative and insistent.
There. Kneeling in the rubble, face covered in tears and snot, trying desperately to free a body whose mind was so blank it might as well be dead already, was the targets' son. The responsible thing, of course, would be to see that the son died, as well, but they weren't being paid well enough to be responsible. Besides, it would be a pity to waste such exquisite suffering.
"Come on," Schuldig said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "We should at least say hello."
III
He knew it was another dream; he had them often enough. Still, he couldn't resist the urge to reach out for his sister's hand, even knowing he would never catch it, and he couldn't stop the tears that pricked his eyes when her fingers slipped past his, the tips just barely brushing.
"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."
He knew he shouldn't answer. Any response, verbal or not, would only encourage his tormentor. But, dreams being dreams, the moment the thought crossed his mind, he was speaking it. "Dreams are the insanity of each day's sanity."
"Dickens?" Schuldig's amusement felt like sandpaper against his skin. "I can play that game, if that's what you want." Solid warmth pressed against his back, hot breath tickled his ear, and he was powerless to stop it.
"I'd choose a different story, though," Schuldig whispered, his voice perversely intimate. "I can be your ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future. All are death, and I'm very good at death. Should I show you, Ran?"
"No," he whispered.
"Oh, I'm sorry," came the mocking voice. "It's Aya, now, isn't it? How do you think your sister would feel to know that you kill in her name?"
"No," he said louder, flinching away.
"It's not just the killing, though, is it?" Schuldig asked, arms wrapping around Aya's waist. "Not just the lives taken by your hand, not the blood that you can't quite wash off. How would she feel, Aya, if she knew you liked it?"
"No!" Aya wrenched away, and suddenly he was awake and sitting upright in his bed.
He almost didn't make it to the bathroom before he threw up.
IV
The girl wasn't quite pretty, Schuldig thought as he watched her sleep, although her brother always envisioned her that way. Her eyes were too large, her face just a bit too round.
Her dreams were another story: bright, shining things that sparkled like sunlight reflecting off the ocean. It would be so easy to reach into her mind, to twist, and send them into darkness.
Schuldig watched the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremor of her eyes beneath their lids, and let her sleep in peace.
There would be plenty of darkness waiting when the girl woke.
V
Try as he might, he couldn't stop his katana from swinging any more than he could stop the seemingly endless enemies that came at him. Each one fell at his feet in a spray of blood and gore, bodies piling higher and higher, yet somehow never impeding his movements. He fought until his muscles screamed from exhaustion, and still he couldn't stop.
"You've become such an elegant and efficient killer, Ran-kun," Kikyou told him. "I'm so proud of you."
He closed his eyes and willed the other man away, willed his hands to release the sharkskin-wrapped hilt of his sword. It was his dream, dammit; he should be able to control it.
"I leave you to your own devices for a few months, and this is the best your subconscious comes up with? I'm disappointed."
Aya refused to feel grateful as both ghost and katana faded away, refused to believe that Schuldig's presence could be preferable to his own dreamscape.
"What? Not even a word of thanks for saving you from your nightmare?"
"This is my nightmare."
"Oh, no, kitten. If I built a nightmare for you, I promise you'd be screaming." Schuldig smiled in a way that made Aya's stomach twist. "I think I'd like to watch you scream.
"Your night terror was right, you know," he continued, and Aya couldn't quite find the will to move away when surprisingly gentle fingers combed through his hair. "You're remarkably elegant when you kill, full of passion and focused fury. Stunning."
"There's nothing 'stunning' about murder," Aya stated with a cold glare.
"I've seen you when you kill. I've felt you. Do you really expect to convince me that you don't take pleasure in it?"
Aya found he had no answer.
VI
In the light of morning--glistening splatter faded out to a dull, flaking brown, shoulders slumped beneath the elegant duster, shadows visible beneath weary eyes--Aya was far less striking. The killing rage, honed to a sharp, brilliant edge over the years, was gone, and Schuldig found himself annoyed by its absence.
"How long are you planning to stand there?"
Aya didn't move. "Don't think I won't kill you just because you helped us take out Epitaph."
"You're welcome to try, kitten."
No response. Dammit.
"It doesn't matter, you know," he continued conversationally. "He could walk up the hill and hand you your sword right now, and it still wouldn't change the fact that Weiss is done."
"I know." Aya's eyes never left the smoldering ruins of the academy.
"Do you even know why you're still waiting?" Schuldig would be happy to enlighten him if the answer was no. He was helpful like that.
"I have nothing better to be doing."
It wasn't really the lack of response that bothered him, Schuldig realized as he turned to leave; he'd just always thought that when Aya finally broke, he'd be the one responsible.
VII
The night was quiet, his bed soft and warm. He hadn't known what to expect when he came to London, but he couldn't complain about what he had found. He was part of a team again, a skilled team, even, that worked well together. His employer appeared far more ethical than Persia ever had, and he was free to question any mission they were given.
His sister was safe and happy back in Tokyo.
It was far better than he deserved.
Aya watched the second hand tick its way around his bedside clock and wondered why he still couldn't sleep.