Sharing time! Other Fruits ch. 5 (first half)
Hah! So I am ready to share this. (Has it really been two years? I still don't believe it!) I was considering waiting until I finished this chapter, but....meh. I'm excited about it! I hope that by putting it up here I can give myself a little distance from it so I can finish the second half of it. I guess this could be a chapter all by itself, but I've got a few loose ends to wrap up before moving on to the final chapter/epilogue.
Applicable warnings, previous chapters, etc. can all be found here. This chapter also has dubious consent (sort of) and drug use. Definitely NSFW with explicitness.
And now, without further ado!
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Chapter Five: Entered In the Human Race
Schuldig came around to the scents of disinfectants and death, and he knew before he even opened his eyes that he was in a hospital. He reached out, instinctively, with his mind, but his awareness stopped short of leaving his body. Fear flooded him. He was stuck. Somewhere, something beeped insistently.
"Schuldig."
Crawford?
But of course the bastard couldn't hear him, which was probably for the best when his fear was leaking all over the place.
"Schuldig, if you can hear me, you need to open your eyes. The doctors said the drugs they gave you would inhibit your talents."
Schuldig latched onto the sound of Crawford's voice above the beeping, which drilled into his ears. Crawford sounded almost…panicked, just like-
-Schuldig, you'll be all right. We're close. The doctors are waiting for us. You need to stay awake. I won't allow you to die, not now-
Schuldig opened his eyes and tried to scream. Most of him just felt numb, but he was choking, he knew it, choking on the tube stuck down his throat. He tried to get it out, tried to tell Crawford to
Get it out!
But he was stuck in this useless, doped up body that he couldn't even feel to command. Schuldig twitched when unknown hands touched him. He would have shoved away, but all he could manage was to sink his head a little deeper into the pillows. There were a couple blurs of white in front of him, and one darker blob that he knew-hoped-was Crawford.
"Take it out," said Crawford. "Now, before he chokes or gives himself a heart attack."
Other voices he didn't know murmured, and Schuldig gagged as the tube in his throat slid out. When the plastic was finally out of him, he coughed and spat out slime, or tried to. Shit. He couldn't even spit without someone having to mop up after him. The beeping started to slow, and Schuldig realized, belatedly, that it was something that was attached to him that had been making all the noise.
Now that he could breathe, Schuldig took stock. Floaty from drugs? Check. Throat bruised? Check. Too weak to flip someone the bird? Check. Totally unable to defend himself with either body or mind? Big fat fucking check. Truthfully, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck.
When Schuldig tried to focus his eyes, they jittered and mostly didn't obey. Everything was fuzzy and blobby. He closed his eyes again. Screw this. He'd wait until he felt less like shit before he did anything so hard as count heads in the room. Schuldig ignored the part of him that said Crawford could be trusted to guard him in his sleep. He could wait to kick Crawford out. It wouldn't be satisfying if he wasn't all there to enjoy it. Yeah. Schuldig yawned. That was what he'd do, just as soon as he rested his eyes a minute…
The next time Schuldig woke, it was to a darkened, quiet room and the yellowish, indirect light thrown by a city's worth of light pollution. It was enough to see the outline of a man in the chair that faced the foot of the bed. That unexpected unknown, someone being right there without Schuldig knowing before he opened his eyes was more than enough to scare him. But in the next second, Schuldig knew, and the momentary spike of adrenaline dropped.
"Crawford," he said.
"The doctors say your telepathy will be fully operational tomorrow," Crawford said. "Trying anything before then is not recommended."
Schuldig tried, of course. It got him nowhere: his control was beyond shot, and all he could glean were fuzzy impressions of someone's thoughts-it could have been Crawford, but it just as easily could have been someone ten miles away.
"Schuldig," said Crawford.
The I told you so was unspoken, but Schuldig knew (without reading it out of Crawford's head) that Crawford was thinking it.
"Fuck you," said Schuldig.
The best cold shoulder he could manage was to close his eyes and turn his head-Schuldig still had all kinds of wires and tubes attached, so he couldn't actually roll over. He lay with his eyes scrunched shut for a small eternity. Crawford's breathing was too loud. It hurt Schuldig's ears in the quiet of the night.
Not to mention he still felt like a truck had hit him. Schuldig yawned. A truck full of sheep and pillows. The sheep had shit in his mouth and the pillows were currently smothering his thoughts…
Schuldig almost didn't notice when Crawford got up and left. He also almost didn't feel hurt that Crawford was leaving before Schuldig could kick him out.
Almost.
Over the next few days, Schuldig spent an increasing amount of time counting the holes in the ceiling tiles above his bed and less and less time in a heavy, drugged sleep, which also meant he had a lot more time to look (or not look) at the leg he no longer had. Of course, as long as his IV kept dripping, he didn't really give a rat's ass. He couldn't feel it, not really. It was like he was eavesdropping on someone else's pain, someone else's sudden amputation. And every time Schuldig felt himself edging too close to reality, towards a bitter hysteria over the fact that he was still alive and miserable as fuck because he had one less limb than he fucking ought to, he hit the button and waited for the drugs to wash it all away.
So, of course, as soon as Schuldig was feeling good, Crawford came and ruined it all, just like he'd ruined everything else lately.
"Good morning," said Crawford. "Are you feeling well?"
He placed a vase full of yellow tulips on the bedside table, arranging them just so.
Schuldig laughed. Crawford was like a fucking penitent, bringing flowers to his bedside like that. Pathetic. Nothing like the man he'd been that night, when-Schuldig cut himself off. How long had it been, anyway? IT was hard to tell when time ticked away between four hospital walls and Schuldig's thoughts were numbed by the appreciably strong IV drip. Maybe that was why the sight of Crawford with flowers in his hand made him laugh.
"Thank God you can't impregnate me," he said.
Crawford gave him a mute look.
"They all expect me to drop everything and make babies," he said. "For fuck's sake, I'm not a woman. I'm supposed to fuck and run, leaving the baby maker far behind."
"There's no fucking involved," said Crawford. "Unless you think a sample container is going to suddenly develop sentience and assent or reject your advances once you get your dick near it."
"Fuck you," said Schuldig. "It's a metaphor."
"It's a bad metaphor," said Crawford.
"And I suppose your family wants to whisk you off the second conception's confirmed," said Schuldig.
"Sooner," said Crawford. "As soon as you agree, I leave my sample with your family's laboratory."
Unspoken was that, despite everything Schuldig had tried to distance them, Crawford wanted to stay. Schuldig heard it anyway, in the space inside Crawford's head. He didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand.
"You just like that I tell you no," said Schuldig.
"There's that," said Crawford.
There was more, too, but Schuldig didn't want to hear it. He pushed the IV drip button in his hand and let himself float a little further from reality.
"And anyway, what if losing my leg traumatized me?" said Schuldig. "Maybe I'll be impotent the rest of my life."
Schuldig couldn't actually feel the hurt: the abrupt end of his left leg was an abstract covered by the hospital's sheets. He'd forget, even now, staring down at the stump, that there wasn't anything attached. He kept expecting that, when he shifted around in the bed, there'd be a knee and an ankle and a foot moving as well.
"I doubt that," said Crawford. "If you are impotent, I'm sure it's with deliberate effort on your part."
Schuldig laughed like a dying car's engine: shudder, shudder, full stop. Crawford didn't change. He could count on that. The flowers were part of some elaborate plot, because obviously Crawford didn't have feelings, and he only wanted Schuldig well so that he could continue his cockeyed seduction.
Schuldig waited for Crawford to say something else. He could feel that Crawford was holding himself back, but he didn’t dig to find out what that something was. He told himself that it would be much more satisfying to watch Crawford squirm and, eventually, break, but it wasn’t satisfying at all.
Just like scratching at where his leg used to be didn’t do anything to satisfy the fucking itch that was there.
Crawford ended up leaving without saying a word, and Schuldig’s skin continued to creep. He waited a tortuous ten minutes before he allowed himself to claw the skin just above his bandages.
The itch didn’t go away.
“Let’s fuck,” Schuldig said.
Sometimes, he even surprised himself. But then, ever since they’d taken him off the good stuff and had moved him from the regular hospital to a recovery center, he’d been more and more aware of how much his non-existent leg hurt. It burned and itched and kept him awake.
And now Crawford was here, sitting at the foot of his bed without a hint of lust, without the slightest suggestion that he ever wanted to do anything with Schuldig. It made Schuldig crazy.
“Unless, of course, you’re put off by the shitty job you did amputating my leg,” said Schuldig.
He watched Crawford's face twitch. A whiff of guilt emanated from his mind. Shit. Not the kind of reaction he wanted to provoke.
"It's my own fucking fault," Schuldig said.
"Is it now?" said Crawford.
Though Schuldig still wasn't convinced that Crawford hadn't set him up, somehow, he was equally unsure that Crawford would traffic with a monster like the Other. Something deep inside Schuldig shivered. He tried to squash the feeling by stretching in the bed, and he felt, rather than saw, Crawford's attention reroute itself to the skin Schuldig presented.
"I'm irresistible," said Schuldig. "It's my curse. As soon as that thing got the scent of me, how could you expect it to let me go?"
The tedium of being down a leg was unbearable. Even fucking Crawford had to be better than thinking about his leg some more.
"I don't consider that to be a recommendation," said Crawford. "What? Ten out of ten ghouls would bite?"
Crawford's transparency, his inability to actually make a joke that was funny… Schuldig thought it was hilarious. It made him feel fond of Crawford, the way a person would feel fond about a particularly stupid dog.
"So how about it?" said Schuldig. "You get what you want, I get a little distraction. Itches scratched, no muss, no fuss."
Crawford studied his face, and Schuldig felt his mind working, trying to figure out this latest turn. Schuldig's non-existent leg began to twinge, then itch, and he fought the urge to scratch until he bled while Crawford had his boring, internal debate.
"I don't understand your motivation," said Crawford.
Schuldig rolled his eyes. Honestly.
"What's there to understand?" said Schuldig. "Me. On my back. Or side, front, whatever. We have sex. You get what you want, and I get the pleasure of never seeing you ever again."
Crawford sighed.
"I ought to tell you no," he said.
"But will you?" said Schuldig.
He flipped back the sheet and blankets so Crawford could see, up close and personal, what Schuldig had to offer. Conveniently, this move obscured the leg that wasn't there. The stump's end was underneath the discarded blankets.
"I take it you have decided the matter of your impotence," said Crawford.
"You want a guarantee?" said Schuldig. "Fine. I swear my sperm will be wriggly and fresh and perfect. Do you want kids with red hair, or would you prefer brunettes?"
It might have been an exaggeration of his control to suggest that, but Schuldig was tired of dancing around. He wanted Crawford to say yes so they could just…get it over with. So that he could fucking deal with his leg without Crawford hovering around, observing, criticizing. Schuldig was beginning to envision his own future as a stylishly tragic morphine addict, attended to in sumptuous style by the sexiest nurses his family could afford, and he couldn't do that with Crawford dogging his every move.
He was looking forward to everything being numb again.
Schuldig sighed and allowed himself the luxury of feeling the tiredness in his body--he wasn't anywhere near one hundred percent, not yet, but he didn't expect that to change any time soon. He looked at Crawford, then to the door, and back to Crawford, expectant. Schuldig's heart beat harder than he would have liked.
Crawford took forever getting to the door, and Schuldig's insides swirled until he thought he was going to puke. His leg screamed at him, and the weight of the blankets did nothing to muffle it. Thank Christ Crawford couldn't read minds.
The click of the lock engaging was almost inaudible over Sculdig's heartbeat in his ears and the sawing of his breath. He felt weird about it, just giving Crawford what he wanted-what his family wanted. But at this very moment, Crawford's wants and Schuldig's need to blot everything out were aligned, colliding. If Schuldig were lucky, the collision would stop him from feeling his leg for a few precious minutes.
Schuldig wondered if Crawford had foreseen them having sex.
Crawford came away from the door, stood next to the bed and untied his tie. Before Schuldig lost his leg, he'd probably have found it sexy and infuriating how Crawford smouldered as the tie slithered across the back of his neck and to the floor. He undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt next, then at the throat, the chest, and down to reveal the gleam of his belt buckle.
Schuldig's throat was painfully dry, and he chewed his tongue to wet his mouth. He wondered if Crawford thought Schuldig wanted him, if he saw the way Schuldig swallowed and thought it was a calculated, coy move. Schuldig didn't know if he was going to be able to get hard without goosing his own brain.
"Hurry it up," Schuldig said.
Crawford arched an eyebrow at him. He took off his shirt and draped it on the chair that sat, alone, in the corner of the room. Crawford's arms were corded muscle-Schuldig turned away the thought of the light-wire pulled tight and smoking-his chest hard and defined and with a light scattering of hair. Schuldig couldn't decide whether he liked it or not; mostly it pissed him off because he knew that Crawford was a priss and had probably calculated the exact amount of hair it would take to look good without making it obvious that he was trying to be attractive to Schuldig's tastes. It galled him and, weirdly, felt flattering at the same time. Clearly Crawford put more effort into pleasing Schuldig than his ass-hattery might suggest.
"I don't do everything just to please you," said Crawford. "I do have other interests."
But Schuldig felt how amused Crawford was, how much he liked having Schuldig look at him like that. Schuldig wondered what he looked like to Crawford, what it was about him that gave Crawford that pleasant twist in the gut.
Crawford's belt buckle snicked open, and Schuldig watched as he unbuttoned his pants. For a second jealousy stabbed at him; he hadn't worn actual clothing-least of all pants-since the night he'd been bitten. Even in recovery, he sulked in a robe because a robe meant he could pretend that he still had two legs, could pretend that he was at a particularly dull hotel somewhere, waiting for room service to arrive.
The way his skin crawled told Schuldig everything he didn't want to know, destroyed the fantasy even before it was fully formed. It was a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Shit," said Schuldig.
"Hmm?" said Crawford.
Crawford should have looked attractive like this, hair mussed and easing the waistband of his briefs down to the floor with his very nice ass displayed to advantage, but Schuldig just…couldn't. He couldn't appreciate Crawford's body like he should, and there was no way he'd be able to do anything that would culminate in coming for science.
"This isn't going to work," said Schuldig.
Crawford frowned. He sat beside Schuldig, in the space that would have been the rest of his leg if…well. No point in dwelling on that now, not when he had the rest of his life to think about it. Crawford’s hand brushed against Schuldig, and he flinched. The hand did not return.
“Would you prefer I left you alone?” Crawford said. “Although it would be best if I could verify the…contribution firsthand, I believe it would be believed even if I lied.”
Schuldig blinked at Crawford.
“It’s funny,” Schuldig said. “You joking about me not being able to get it up, and now that may actually-”
Schuldig stopped. Crawford had one of his hands on Schuldig's fist--Schuldig hadn't even realized his hands were white-knuckling the sheets until that moment--and he was gently prizing the fingers outward from the palm. Crawford glided over the marks Schuldig’s nails had dug into the skin, and then he deposited a pair of pills there: uniform, white, ovals perhaps the size of Schuldig’s pinky nail. No markings, no nothing. They glistened when Schuldig rolled them.
“What are they?” said Schuldig. “Viagra?”
He felt bitter all over again. Maybe he'd never stopped. Of course Crawford had a plan B. He fucking knew everything, didn’t he?
"It’s Spanish fly," said Crawford.
"You can't be serious," said Schuldig.
It was so old-fashioned, so quaint-Schuldig had always known Crawford was a hipster in disguise. In other circumstances he'd take great pleasure in mocking, but the words were trapped in his throat by the humiliation of it all. He turned the pills over in his hand again.
"You know this kind of crap only works because of the placebo effect," he said. “These could be sugar and as long as I thought they’d work, they’d work.”
Crawford's smug certainty pressed on Schuldig's mind, and Schuldig wondered what was actually in the pills. Nothing that would hurt him, but there were plenty of drugs out there that wouldn’t hurt him. Well, fuck it. Schuldig just hoped whatever it was would wipe his memories.
While Crawford watched, Schuldig swallowed them dry. And when Crawford brought him a paper cup of water, he drank it. He almost choked too, because it wasn’t water after all, but some seriously strong booze. Vodka? Grain alcohol? Whatever it was sizzled at the back of his throat and burned its way into his sinuses. Schuldig hacked a few times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Next time warn me, you prick,” he said.
Schuldig crumpled the cup and threw it at Crawford. Warmth spread from his throat all the way down, and Schuldig felt his skin flush.
“Another?” said Crawford.
Schuldig shook his head, and the room tilted sideways. He felt his mind go fuzzy, and he made a grab for Crawford’s thoughts to steady himself. He couldn’t read half of them, but through Crawford’s perception of him, he was able to keep himself from drifting further outside his body.
That was fast.
“It’s a normal response time,” said Crawford. “You should feel better soon, Schuldig.”
Schuldig didn’t know if he’d actually said it out loud or if he’d spoken directly into Crawford’s head-leaning so close on another person’s mind could have side effects. Schuldig pushed his head back against the pillows.
His eyes felt gummy, the lids heavy. Every blink blotted out the sun, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to open them again. The warm feeling spread from his throat and chest into his stomach. From there it radiated out. Schuldig felt the soles of his feet start to sweat. Or was it only one foot? Could phantom limbs sweat? The flush rose up through him, hot enough that his nipples tightened and rose in a useless attempt to regulate the sudden heat. He felt sweat trickle along his collar bones, down his neck and across his shoulders into the sheets.
Schuldig concentrated on one breath at a time. Blood swept through him like a crashing wave, and he leaned harder on Crawford’s mind. It was nice in there. Quiet. Clear. Crawford thought such complimentary things about him. How pretty, how smart, how strong.
How fuckable.
"Thank you," said Crawford.
It took Schuldig uncountable seconds to realize he was reflecting those complimentary things right back. Or the thoughts had been his all along and he was only sharing them now. The noise of Crawford setting his glasses aside startled him and changed his focus from inside to the outside world.
Schuldig let his eyes drift over to Crawford. The angle of his jaw was sharp, and Schuldig could see the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow there. He touched with the back of his hand, taking in the structure of Crawford's face with his fingertips. The smugness of the forehead, the spread of his cheekbones, the flutter of the eyelashes that, Schuldig was amused to find, were long and girly. Rough, chapped lips and the hot wash of his breath close behind.
Those lips followed his hand back, and so did the rest of Crawford. Crawford straddled him, knees on level with Schuldig's thighs, hands planted into the covers beside Schuldig's shoulders, body hovering in a flat plane above Schuldig's torso.
Schuldig was pinned, caged by Crawford's long arms and longer legs. The heat he had felt was fading to a tolerable level. He continued to pour sweat onto the covers as he struggled to breathe evenly. The room continued to make little swoops every time Schuldig moved his head, hazy and unfocused in the nicest way.
Crawford burned against him, branded him with his lips against Schuldig's neck. He followed the trails of sweat down, across Schuldig's chest. He marked the way with sharp bites that made Schuldig push up against him for more.
Schuldig hooked his leg awkwardly around one of Crawford's and pulled Crawford onto him, properly, mashing Crawford's nose against his chest and bringing his dick into friction with Schuldig. The angle wasn't quite right, but Schuldig flexed his hips and ground anyway.
"Your pills are magic pills," said Schuldig.
He was hard and he hadn't even noticed when that happened, and it wasn't just a little hard, either. He was throbbing, and every time he made contact with Crawford he could feel his heartbeat squeezing through the length of his cock.
Crawford bit the point where Schuldig's neck met his shoulder.
"Yeah," he said. "Just like that."
Schuldig needed
more
and out of nowhere Crawford's hand was on him, slick with sweat and lube. He worked his fist over Schuldig's cock, and Schuldig reveled in the feeling. Hot, tight, slippery, the skin stretching just enough to sting a little every time he pushed the head past Crawford's knuckles.
"More?" said Crawford.
"More," said Schuldig.
Inside his head the sensations howled, built higher when Crawford's knees moved to spread Schuldig's legs wide. Crawford's hand slowed, tortuous on Schuldig's dick, and his other hand made the lightest of touches over Schuldig's balls. Schuldig sucked in a deep breath, and Crawford made a second, firm stroke, separated them with a finger, then curved his palm underneath to lift them gently up. Schuldig felt each finger and a second flush rose up in him.
"Are you ready?" said Crawford.
Schuldig quivered, and all the hairs on his body, from his scalp to his toes, tried to stand on end. Crawford trailed a finger down Schuldig's cock, then up again. A drop of precome squeezed its way out, and Crawford touched it with his tongue. Schuldig tasted it too, through Crawford, tasted his excitement and the sense of almost.
"Yes," said Crawford. "Just a little--"
He massaged gently with the hand on Schuldig's balls, coaxing with the tips of his fingers. Crawford slid his thumb over the top of Schuldig's dick, swirling down and around and back up over the head.
Schuldig could taste it at the back of his throat like blood, like metal, like coming.
Crawford locked eyes with Schuldig and bit down on Schuldig's hip above the leg that wasn't there. Bit and licked and sucked a bruise into existence, a bruise that Schuldig felt all through his body.
Helpless and enthralled, Schuldig came. Crawford's hands never stopped, his tongue and teeth never stopped building the bruise, and each time Schuldig spurted, he felt more ready to be drawn out of him. Crawford milked him, easing every drop of come out.
It was too much and not enough and just right the way the lights burst behind his eyes and his toes cramped up and he clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his cheek bloody.
Even when Schuldig thought he would die if Crawford didn't stop, Crawford didn't stop and Schuldig kept thinking he would die.
But he didn't.
At last, Schuldig felt something in himself go slack, and he sank into the bed. His muscles jerked randomly as he came down, and he felt the sweat on him start to cool in the places where it had gathered.
The bed jostled underneath him, and he felt Crawford's thoughts move away a little. Schuldig just tried to breathe. In and out. In and out.
Eventually Crawford came back with a damp cloth and mopped Schuldig up, handling him with delicate care. Even so, Schuldig was convinced that Crawford had broken him a little.
He hissed when the cloth swept over his dick.
"Watch it," Schuldig said.
"Hmm," said Crawford. "Excuse me."
He lifted Schuldig's leg up to wipe the back of his knee and the sheet underneath. Put back down, Schuldig registered a distinct wet spot there. He looked sidelong at Crawford. Had he--? Schuldig sighed. His thoughts were too fuzzy for this. Instead, he leaned on Crawford's memories.
Yes, yes, like that, come for me, yesyesyes….
"Turned you on that much, huh?" Said Schuldig.
An awkward silence pervaded the room while Schuldig lay there like a dead thing and Crawford just…stared at him. Schuldig fought the urge to cover up.
"You got what you wanted," said Schuldig. "So…"
Crawford snorted.
"Hardly," he said. "You'll know when I am done with you."
Schuldig's stomach twisted. Crawford rested a hand on the bruise and rubbed it gently. Schuldig inhaled, fast. It might have been a gasp, but he wasn't the kind of person who gasped during sex. Schuldig's mouth was dry, dry, dry. His whole body was thirsty, and he could barely string two thoughts together.
"Your sample," said Schuldig.
Crawford's hand moved lower, and Schuldig bit his lip. He was overloaded; Crawford's touch stung but Schuldig wanted anyway. Schuldig was dizzy with the possibilities, and the room wavered at the edges. Was it the drugs? was it him? Did it matter?
"I'm not after just a sample," said Crawford. "I want so much more from you."
And Crawford bowed his head over Schuldig's lap.
Oh.
"Yes."
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Praise and concrit welcome with open arms. Gawd, I feel so rusty!
~later
Applicable warnings, previous chapters, etc. can all be found here. This chapter also has dubious consent (sort of) and drug use. Definitely NSFW with explicitness.
And now, without further ado!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Chapter Five: Entered In the Human Race
Schuldig came around to the scents of disinfectants and death, and he knew before he even opened his eyes that he was in a hospital. He reached out, instinctively, with his mind, but his awareness stopped short of leaving his body. Fear flooded him. He was stuck. Somewhere, something beeped insistently.
"Schuldig."
Crawford?
But of course the bastard couldn't hear him, which was probably for the best when his fear was leaking all over the place.
"Schuldig, if you can hear me, you need to open your eyes. The doctors said the drugs they gave you would inhibit your talents."
Schuldig latched onto the sound of Crawford's voice above the beeping, which drilled into his ears. Crawford sounded almost…panicked, just like-
-Schuldig, you'll be all right. We're close. The doctors are waiting for us. You need to stay awake. I won't allow you to die, not now-
Schuldig opened his eyes and tried to scream. Most of him just felt numb, but he was choking, he knew it, choking on the tube stuck down his throat. He tried to get it out, tried to tell Crawford to
Get it out!
But he was stuck in this useless, doped up body that he couldn't even feel to command. Schuldig twitched when unknown hands touched him. He would have shoved away, but all he could manage was to sink his head a little deeper into the pillows. There were a couple blurs of white in front of him, and one darker blob that he knew-hoped-was Crawford.
"Take it out," said Crawford. "Now, before he chokes or gives himself a heart attack."
Other voices he didn't know murmured, and Schuldig gagged as the tube in his throat slid out. When the plastic was finally out of him, he coughed and spat out slime, or tried to. Shit. He couldn't even spit without someone having to mop up after him. The beeping started to slow, and Schuldig realized, belatedly, that it was something that was attached to him that had been making all the noise.
Now that he could breathe, Schuldig took stock. Floaty from drugs? Check. Throat bruised? Check. Too weak to flip someone the bird? Check. Totally unable to defend himself with either body or mind? Big fat fucking check. Truthfully, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck.
When Schuldig tried to focus his eyes, they jittered and mostly didn't obey. Everything was fuzzy and blobby. He closed his eyes again. Screw this. He'd wait until he felt less like shit before he did anything so hard as count heads in the room. Schuldig ignored the part of him that said Crawford could be trusted to guard him in his sleep. He could wait to kick Crawford out. It wouldn't be satisfying if he wasn't all there to enjoy it. Yeah. Schuldig yawned. That was what he'd do, just as soon as he rested his eyes a minute…
The next time Schuldig woke, it was to a darkened, quiet room and the yellowish, indirect light thrown by a city's worth of light pollution. It was enough to see the outline of a man in the chair that faced the foot of the bed. That unexpected unknown, someone being right there without Schuldig knowing before he opened his eyes was more than enough to scare him. But in the next second, Schuldig knew, and the momentary spike of adrenaline dropped.
"Crawford," he said.
"The doctors say your telepathy will be fully operational tomorrow," Crawford said. "Trying anything before then is not recommended."
Schuldig tried, of course. It got him nowhere: his control was beyond shot, and all he could glean were fuzzy impressions of someone's thoughts-it could have been Crawford, but it just as easily could have been someone ten miles away.
"Schuldig," said Crawford.
The I told you so was unspoken, but Schuldig knew (without reading it out of Crawford's head) that Crawford was thinking it.
"Fuck you," said Schuldig.
The best cold shoulder he could manage was to close his eyes and turn his head-Schuldig still had all kinds of wires and tubes attached, so he couldn't actually roll over. He lay with his eyes scrunched shut for a small eternity. Crawford's breathing was too loud. It hurt Schuldig's ears in the quiet of the night.
Not to mention he still felt like a truck had hit him. Schuldig yawned. A truck full of sheep and pillows. The sheep had shit in his mouth and the pillows were currently smothering his thoughts…
Schuldig almost didn't notice when Crawford got up and left. He also almost didn't feel hurt that Crawford was leaving before Schuldig could kick him out.
Almost.
Over the next few days, Schuldig spent an increasing amount of time counting the holes in the ceiling tiles above his bed and less and less time in a heavy, drugged sleep, which also meant he had a lot more time to look (or not look) at the leg he no longer had. Of course, as long as his IV kept dripping, he didn't really give a rat's ass. He couldn't feel it, not really. It was like he was eavesdropping on someone else's pain, someone else's sudden amputation. And every time Schuldig felt himself edging too close to reality, towards a bitter hysteria over the fact that he was still alive and miserable as fuck because he had one less limb than he fucking ought to, he hit the button and waited for the drugs to wash it all away.
So, of course, as soon as Schuldig was feeling good, Crawford came and ruined it all, just like he'd ruined everything else lately.
"Good morning," said Crawford. "Are you feeling well?"
He placed a vase full of yellow tulips on the bedside table, arranging them just so.
Schuldig laughed. Crawford was like a fucking penitent, bringing flowers to his bedside like that. Pathetic. Nothing like the man he'd been that night, when-Schuldig cut himself off. How long had it been, anyway? IT was hard to tell when time ticked away between four hospital walls and Schuldig's thoughts were numbed by the appreciably strong IV drip. Maybe that was why the sight of Crawford with flowers in his hand made him laugh.
"Thank God you can't impregnate me," he said.
Crawford gave him a mute look.
"They all expect me to drop everything and make babies," he said. "For fuck's sake, I'm not a woman. I'm supposed to fuck and run, leaving the baby maker far behind."
"There's no fucking involved," said Crawford. "Unless you think a sample container is going to suddenly develop sentience and assent or reject your advances once you get your dick near it."
"Fuck you," said Schuldig. "It's a metaphor."
"It's a bad metaphor," said Crawford.
"And I suppose your family wants to whisk you off the second conception's confirmed," said Schuldig.
"Sooner," said Crawford. "As soon as you agree, I leave my sample with your family's laboratory."
Unspoken was that, despite everything Schuldig had tried to distance them, Crawford wanted to stay. Schuldig heard it anyway, in the space inside Crawford's head. He didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand.
"You just like that I tell you no," said Schuldig.
"There's that," said Crawford.
There was more, too, but Schuldig didn't want to hear it. He pushed the IV drip button in his hand and let himself float a little further from reality.
"And anyway, what if losing my leg traumatized me?" said Schuldig. "Maybe I'll be impotent the rest of my life."
Schuldig couldn't actually feel the hurt: the abrupt end of his left leg was an abstract covered by the hospital's sheets. He'd forget, even now, staring down at the stump, that there wasn't anything attached. He kept expecting that, when he shifted around in the bed, there'd be a knee and an ankle and a foot moving as well.
"I doubt that," said Crawford. "If you are impotent, I'm sure it's with deliberate effort on your part."
Schuldig laughed like a dying car's engine: shudder, shudder, full stop. Crawford didn't change. He could count on that. The flowers were part of some elaborate plot, because obviously Crawford didn't have feelings, and he only wanted Schuldig well so that he could continue his cockeyed seduction.
Schuldig waited for Crawford to say something else. He could feel that Crawford was holding himself back, but he didn’t dig to find out what that something was. He told himself that it would be much more satisfying to watch Crawford squirm and, eventually, break, but it wasn’t satisfying at all.
Just like scratching at where his leg used to be didn’t do anything to satisfy the fucking itch that was there.
Crawford ended up leaving without saying a word, and Schuldig’s skin continued to creep. He waited a tortuous ten minutes before he allowed himself to claw the skin just above his bandages.
The itch didn’t go away.
“Let’s fuck,” Schuldig said.
Sometimes, he even surprised himself. But then, ever since they’d taken him off the good stuff and had moved him from the regular hospital to a recovery center, he’d been more and more aware of how much his non-existent leg hurt. It burned and itched and kept him awake.
And now Crawford was here, sitting at the foot of his bed without a hint of lust, without the slightest suggestion that he ever wanted to do anything with Schuldig. It made Schuldig crazy.
“Unless, of course, you’re put off by the shitty job you did amputating my leg,” said Schuldig.
He watched Crawford's face twitch. A whiff of guilt emanated from his mind. Shit. Not the kind of reaction he wanted to provoke.
"It's my own fucking fault," Schuldig said.
"Is it now?" said Crawford.
Though Schuldig still wasn't convinced that Crawford hadn't set him up, somehow, he was equally unsure that Crawford would traffic with a monster like the Other. Something deep inside Schuldig shivered. He tried to squash the feeling by stretching in the bed, and he felt, rather than saw, Crawford's attention reroute itself to the skin Schuldig presented.
"I'm irresistible," said Schuldig. "It's my curse. As soon as that thing got the scent of me, how could you expect it to let me go?"
The tedium of being down a leg was unbearable. Even fucking Crawford had to be better than thinking about his leg some more.
"I don't consider that to be a recommendation," said Crawford. "What? Ten out of ten ghouls would bite?"
Crawford's transparency, his inability to actually make a joke that was funny… Schuldig thought it was hilarious. It made him feel fond of Crawford, the way a person would feel fond about a particularly stupid dog.
"So how about it?" said Schuldig. "You get what you want, I get a little distraction. Itches scratched, no muss, no fuss."
Crawford studied his face, and Schuldig felt his mind working, trying to figure out this latest turn. Schuldig's non-existent leg began to twinge, then itch, and he fought the urge to scratch until he bled while Crawford had his boring, internal debate.
"I don't understand your motivation," said Crawford.
Schuldig rolled his eyes. Honestly.
"What's there to understand?" said Schuldig. "Me. On my back. Or side, front, whatever. We have sex. You get what you want, and I get the pleasure of never seeing you ever again."
Crawford sighed.
"I ought to tell you no," he said.
"But will you?" said Schuldig.
He flipped back the sheet and blankets so Crawford could see, up close and personal, what Schuldig had to offer. Conveniently, this move obscured the leg that wasn't there. The stump's end was underneath the discarded blankets.
"I take it you have decided the matter of your impotence," said Crawford.
"You want a guarantee?" said Schuldig. "Fine. I swear my sperm will be wriggly and fresh and perfect. Do you want kids with red hair, or would you prefer brunettes?"
It might have been an exaggeration of his control to suggest that, but Schuldig was tired of dancing around. He wanted Crawford to say yes so they could just…get it over with. So that he could fucking deal with his leg without Crawford hovering around, observing, criticizing. Schuldig was beginning to envision his own future as a stylishly tragic morphine addict, attended to in sumptuous style by the sexiest nurses his family could afford, and he couldn't do that with Crawford dogging his every move.
He was looking forward to everything being numb again.
Schuldig sighed and allowed himself the luxury of feeling the tiredness in his body--he wasn't anywhere near one hundred percent, not yet, but he didn't expect that to change any time soon. He looked at Crawford, then to the door, and back to Crawford, expectant. Schuldig's heart beat harder than he would have liked.
Crawford took forever getting to the door, and Schuldig's insides swirled until he thought he was going to puke. His leg screamed at him, and the weight of the blankets did nothing to muffle it. Thank Christ Crawford couldn't read minds.
The click of the lock engaging was almost inaudible over Sculdig's heartbeat in his ears and the sawing of his breath. He felt weird about it, just giving Crawford what he wanted-what his family wanted. But at this very moment, Crawford's wants and Schuldig's need to blot everything out were aligned, colliding. If Schuldig were lucky, the collision would stop him from feeling his leg for a few precious minutes.
Schuldig wondered if Crawford had foreseen them having sex.
Crawford came away from the door, stood next to the bed and untied his tie. Before Schuldig lost his leg, he'd probably have found it sexy and infuriating how Crawford smouldered as the tie slithered across the back of his neck and to the floor. He undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt next, then at the throat, the chest, and down to reveal the gleam of his belt buckle.
Schuldig's throat was painfully dry, and he chewed his tongue to wet his mouth. He wondered if Crawford thought Schuldig wanted him, if he saw the way Schuldig swallowed and thought it was a calculated, coy move. Schuldig didn't know if he was going to be able to get hard without goosing his own brain.
"Hurry it up," Schuldig said.
Crawford arched an eyebrow at him. He took off his shirt and draped it on the chair that sat, alone, in the corner of the room. Crawford's arms were corded muscle-Schuldig turned away the thought of the light-wire pulled tight and smoking-his chest hard and defined and with a light scattering of hair. Schuldig couldn't decide whether he liked it or not; mostly it pissed him off because he knew that Crawford was a priss and had probably calculated the exact amount of hair it would take to look good without making it obvious that he was trying to be attractive to Schuldig's tastes. It galled him and, weirdly, felt flattering at the same time. Clearly Crawford put more effort into pleasing Schuldig than his ass-hattery might suggest.
"I don't do everything just to please you," said Crawford. "I do have other interests."
But Schuldig felt how amused Crawford was, how much he liked having Schuldig look at him like that. Schuldig wondered what he looked like to Crawford, what it was about him that gave Crawford that pleasant twist in the gut.
Crawford's belt buckle snicked open, and Schuldig watched as he unbuttoned his pants. For a second jealousy stabbed at him; he hadn't worn actual clothing-least of all pants-since the night he'd been bitten. Even in recovery, he sulked in a robe because a robe meant he could pretend that he still had two legs, could pretend that he was at a particularly dull hotel somewhere, waiting for room service to arrive.
The way his skin crawled told Schuldig everything he didn't want to know, destroyed the fantasy even before it was fully formed. It was a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Shit," said Schuldig.
"Hmm?" said Crawford.
Crawford should have looked attractive like this, hair mussed and easing the waistband of his briefs down to the floor with his very nice ass displayed to advantage, but Schuldig just…couldn't. He couldn't appreciate Crawford's body like he should, and there was no way he'd be able to do anything that would culminate in coming for science.
"This isn't going to work," said Schuldig.
Crawford frowned. He sat beside Schuldig, in the space that would have been the rest of his leg if…well. No point in dwelling on that now, not when he had the rest of his life to think about it. Crawford’s hand brushed against Schuldig, and he flinched. The hand did not return.
“Would you prefer I left you alone?” Crawford said. “Although it would be best if I could verify the…contribution firsthand, I believe it would be believed even if I lied.”
Schuldig blinked at Crawford.
“It’s funny,” Schuldig said. “You joking about me not being able to get it up, and now that may actually-”
Schuldig stopped. Crawford had one of his hands on Schuldig's fist--Schuldig hadn't even realized his hands were white-knuckling the sheets until that moment--and he was gently prizing the fingers outward from the palm. Crawford glided over the marks Schuldig’s nails had dug into the skin, and then he deposited a pair of pills there: uniform, white, ovals perhaps the size of Schuldig’s pinky nail. No markings, no nothing. They glistened when Schuldig rolled them.
“What are they?” said Schuldig. “Viagra?”
He felt bitter all over again. Maybe he'd never stopped. Of course Crawford had a plan B. He fucking knew everything, didn’t he?
"It’s Spanish fly," said Crawford.
"You can't be serious," said Schuldig.
It was so old-fashioned, so quaint-Schuldig had always known Crawford was a hipster in disguise. In other circumstances he'd take great pleasure in mocking, but the words were trapped in his throat by the humiliation of it all. He turned the pills over in his hand again.
"You know this kind of crap only works because of the placebo effect," he said. “These could be sugar and as long as I thought they’d work, they’d work.”
Crawford's smug certainty pressed on Schuldig's mind, and Schuldig wondered what was actually in the pills. Nothing that would hurt him, but there were plenty of drugs out there that wouldn’t hurt him. Well, fuck it. Schuldig just hoped whatever it was would wipe his memories.
While Crawford watched, Schuldig swallowed them dry. And when Crawford brought him a paper cup of water, he drank it. He almost choked too, because it wasn’t water after all, but some seriously strong booze. Vodka? Grain alcohol? Whatever it was sizzled at the back of his throat and burned its way into his sinuses. Schuldig hacked a few times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Next time warn me, you prick,” he said.
Schuldig crumpled the cup and threw it at Crawford. Warmth spread from his throat all the way down, and Schuldig felt his skin flush.
“Another?” said Crawford.
Schuldig shook his head, and the room tilted sideways. He felt his mind go fuzzy, and he made a grab for Crawford’s thoughts to steady himself. He couldn’t read half of them, but through Crawford’s perception of him, he was able to keep himself from drifting further outside his body.
That was fast.
“It’s a normal response time,” said Crawford. “You should feel better soon, Schuldig.”
Schuldig didn’t know if he’d actually said it out loud or if he’d spoken directly into Crawford’s head-leaning so close on another person’s mind could have side effects. Schuldig pushed his head back against the pillows.
His eyes felt gummy, the lids heavy. Every blink blotted out the sun, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to open them again. The warm feeling spread from his throat and chest into his stomach. From there it radiated out. Schuldig felt the soles of his feet start to sweat. Or was it only one foot? Could phantom limbs sweat? The flush rose up through him, hot enough that his nipples tightened and rose in a useless attempt to regulate the sudden heat. He felt sweat trickle along his collar bones, down his neck and across his shoulders into the sheets.
Schuldig concentrated on one breath at a time. Blood swept through him like a crashing wave, and he leaned harder on Crawford’s mind. It was nice in there. Quiet. Clear. Crawford thought such complimentary things about him. How pretty, how smart, how strong.
How fuckable.
"Thank you," said Crawford.
It took Schuldig uncountable seconds to realize he was reflecting those complimentary things right back. Or the thoughts had been his all along and he was only sharing them now. The noise of Crawford setting his glasses aside startled him and changed his focus from inside to the outside world.
Schuldig let his eyes drift over to Crawford. The angle of his jaw was sharp, and Schuldig could see the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow there. He touched with the back of his hand, taking in the structure of Crawford's face with his fingertips. The smugness of the forehead, the spread of his cheekbones, the flutter of the eyelashes that, Schuldig was amused to find, were long and girly. Rough, chapped lips and the hot wash of his breath close behind.
Those lips followed his hand back, and so did the rest of Crawford. Crawford straddled him, knees on level with Schuldig's thighs, hands planted into the covers beside Schuldig's shoulders, body hovering in a flat plane above Schuldig's torso.
Schuldig was pinned, caged by Crawford's long arms and longer legs. The heat he had felt was fading to a tolerable level. He continued to pour sweat onto the covers as he struggled to breathe evenly. The room continued to make little swoops every time Schuldig moved his head, hazy and unfocused in the nicest way.
Crawford burned against him, branded him with his lips against Schuldig's neck. He followed the trails of sweat down, across Schuldig's chest. He marked the way with sharp bites that made Schuldig push up against him for more.
Schuldig hooked his leg awkwardly around one of Crawford's and pulled Crawford onto him, properly, mashing Crawford's nose against his chest and bringing his dick into friction with Schuldig. The angle wasn't quite right, but Schuldig flexed his hips and ground anyway.
"Your pills are magic pills," said Schuldig.
He was hard and he hadn't even noticed when that happened, and it wasn't just a little hard, either. He was throbbing, and every time he made contact with Crawford he could feel his heartbeat squeezing through the length of his cock.
Crawford bit the point where Schuldig's neck met his shoulder.
"Yeah," he said. "Just like that."
Schuldig needed
more
and out of nowhere Crawford's hand was on him, slick with sweat and lube. He worked his fist over Schuldig's cock, and Schuldig reveled in the feeling. Hot, tight, slippery, the skin stretching just enough to sting a little every time he pushed the head past Crawford's knuckles.
"More?" said Crawford.
"More," said Schuldig.
Inside his head the sensations howled, built higher when Crawford's knees moved to spread Schuldig's legs wide. Crawford's hand slowed, tortuous on Schuldig's dick, and his other hand made the lightest of touches over Schuldig's balls. Schuldig sucked in a deep breath, and Crawford made a second, firm stroke, separated them with a finger, then curved his palm underneath to lift them gently up. Schuldig felt each finger and a second flush rose up in him.
"Are you ready?" said Crawford.
Schuldig quivered, and all the hairs on his body, from his scalp to his toes, tried to stand on end. Crawford trailed a finger down Schuldig's cock, then up again. A drop of precome squeezed its way out, and Crawford touched it with his tongue. Schuldig tasted it too, through Crawford, tasted his excitement and the sense of almost.
"Yes," said Crawford. "Just a little--"
He massaged gently with the hand on Schuldig's balls, coaxing with the tips of his fingers. Crawford slid his thumb over the top of Schuldig's dick, swirling down and around and back up over the head.
Schuldig could taste it at the back of his throat like blood, like metal, like coming.
Crawford locked eyes with Schuldig and bit down on Schuldig's hip above the leg that wasn't there. Bit and licked and sucked a bruise into existence, a bruise that Schuldig felt all through his body.
Helpless and enthralled, Schuldig came. Crawford's hands never stopped, his tongue and teeth never stopped building the bruise, and each time Schuldig spurted, he felt more ready to be drawn out of him. Crawford milked him, easing every drop of come out.
It was too much and not enough and just right the way the lights burst behind his eyes and his toes cramped up and he clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his cheek bloody.
Even when Schuldig thought he would die if Crawford didn't stop, Crawford didn't stop and Schuldig kept thinking he would die.
But he didn't.
At last, Schuldig felt something in himself go slack, and he sank into the bed. His muscles jerked randomly as he came down, and he felt the sweat on him start to cool in the places where it had gathered.
The bed jostled underneath him, and he felt Crawford's thoughts move away a little. Schuldig just tried to breathe. In and out. In and out.
Eventually Crawford came back with a damp cloth and mopped Schuldig up, handling him with delicate care. Even so, Schuldig was convinced that Crawford had broken him a little.
He hissed when the cloth swept over his dick.
"Watch it," Schuldig said.
"Hmm," said Crawford. "Excuse me."
He lifted Schuldig's leg up to wipe the back of his knee and the sheet underneath. Put back down, Schuldig registered a distinct wet spot there. He looked sidelong at Crawford. Had he--? Schuldig sighed. His thoughts were too fuzzy for this. Instead, he leaned on Crawford's memories.
Yes, yes, like that, come for me, yesyesyes….
"Turned you on that much, huh?" Said Schuldig.
An awkward silence pervaded the room while Schuldig lay there like a dead thing and Crawford just…stared at him. Schuldig fought the urge to cover up.
"You got what you wanted," said Schuldig. "So…"
Crawford snorted.
"Hardly," he said. "You'll know when I am done with you."
Schuldig's stomach twisted. Crawford rested a hand on the bruise and rubbed it gently. Schuldig inhaled, fast. It might have been a gasp, but he wasn't the kind of person who gasped during sex. Schuldig's mouth was dry, dry, dry. His whole body was thirsty, and he could barely string two thoughts together.
"Your sample," said Schuldig.
Crawford's hand moved lower, and Schuldig bit his lip. He was overloaded; Crawford's touch stung but Schuldig wanted anyway. Schuldig was dizzy with the possibilities, and the room wavered at the edges. Was it the drugs? was it him? Did it matter?
"I'm not after just a sample," said Crawford. "I want so much more from you."
And Crawford bowed his head over Schuldig's lap.
Oh.
"Yes."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Praise and concrit welcome with open arms. Gawd, I feel so rusty!
~later