FIC: Verb Tenses (PG-13) for purkledragon

[lauand]

Author: lauand 
Beta: avierra 
Recipient: purkledragon 
Title: Verb Tenses
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldig
Summary: Schuldig wants something. He's not really sure what.
Word Count: 4.000
Author's Notes: Thank you very much to Avierra for being awesome. Concrit welcome.


-------

It was somewhere in the middle of a confrontation with Weiß that Schuldig started to doubt. The when was far easier to pinpoint than the what.

"Schuldig."

Crawford's tone never conveyed warnings as such, but Schuldig always understood what he wasn't being told, so he jumped to the side without thinking. He heard the wire whistling where he had been standing a second before. Turning around, he spotted the man and, smirking, started to run.

Ducking another attack without losing speed, Schuldig thought it was a pity that the kittens should pay for his bad mood. He rather liked them. But he hated making mistakes. Especially in public.

The punch to Yohji's jaw made his hand hurt like a bitch, but it felt strangely good. Enough to want to repeat the experience with his left fist.

Keeping all the minds in the room present in his consciousness like a positional map of sorts, like the support screen in a videogame, Schuldig allowed himself to look in Crawford's direction. Then, he turned his attention back to the knocked-out kitten. When conscious, Yohji's angst was bittersweet, more complex than the Takatori kids'. Richer. More real. He was tempted to ask Crawford if Yohji had a future. Maybe because that wasn't what he really wanted to know. Schuldig flexed his sore knuckles and wondered what the fuck was wrong with him.

------

"It's Weiß, let's do it."

The sound of the retractile blade coming out was loud even with the noise of the engine running in the background.

"Wait," Schuldig said, "I've got an idea."

Schuldig had always had an active role in the planning. He had forgotten how rare that was. He couldn't say when he had started to contemplate as normal the way his leader delegated, the way he listened to even a madman.

"Reading her mind, huh? What is it like? Does it taste like honey?"

Schuldig shifted into a more comfortable position and wondered if Farfarello was really curious or just mocking him. It didn't really matter.

"It's not always fun, you know. Sometimes people's minds press onto mine until I'm not able to tell their thoughts from mine."

If Farfarello found that he was too profound lately, he didn't comment. Which was unexpected, given how rarely he held back. He had a taste for dramatics, much like Schuldig himself (and even if they wouldn't admit it, like Crawford and Nagi, too). Maybe that unusual show of restraint was what made Schuldig ask.

"Hey, Farf, what would you do if you killed God?"

Farfarello stared at him. Even if Schuldig kept his gaze locked on the flower shop door, it was impossible not to sense that golden eye looking at him.

"I mean, after you've killed him, what's next? Would you just die of fulfillment or something?"

Schuldig always made attempts at lightness when he talked about something important, he knew. And he suspected the rest of Schwarz knew, too. He refrained from wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers and forced his hands to stay put where they were.

"Maybe I'll turn pagan," Farfarello replied calmly. "Greeks had so many gods to kill..."

Schuldig couldn't tell if he was joking or not, but he didn't particularly care. This wasn't about what the answer was; it was about having an answer.

-------

Of course, Crawford noticed. It was his job, after all. What he did best. The blunder with Ouka had been a rather spectacular hint, after all, very hard to miss. There had been others. Schuldig knew that Crawford knew, he just chose to keep silent about it. Until the girl escaped with the avatar, the sister of the eternally pissed swordsman of Weiß. Stupid, stupid chick.

"Schuldig." The coldness in that low voice didn't invite optimism. "The kitchen. Now."

Schuldig gritted his teeth and followed him there. He took a seat while Crawford served the coffee. He knew that his back was too stiff, but he just wasn't able to force himself to relax, not even for the benefit of the cameras recording their every movement.

When Crawford sat down in front of him after having passed him his mug, Schuldig opened the telepathic link.

In the endless room lit by a million stars and the weird tunnel lamps Schuldig had insisted upon -who knew what for- there was no coffee, no table, no chairs. Not even Nagi's computer was there. No need for furniture this time, so Schuldig's mind had obligingly obviated it.

Before being able to consciously acknowledge all these details, Schuldig was taken by the shirt and violently thrown against a wall that, by all means, wasn't really there. His mental representation shook at the impact and somewhere in his brain, the pain center was stimulated. Fuck. He hated being beaten in his own mind. The headache later would be glorious, he just knew.

"What's wrong."

It wasn't so much a question as a demand.

"What?" he asked lightly, just to earn some time.

It was a bad idea and he knew it. Crawford obviously agreed, as he furiously shook him to then forcefully smash him again against the non-existent but terribly tangible walls. Schuldig noted this mental Crawford wasn't wearing a jacket. Just like when he intended to go boxing. Schuldig winced.

"What's wrong."

"Fuck you."

The punch in his guts was technically beautiful. A thing of perfection. Schuldig huffed and, with effort, bit back a groan. Crawford caught him by the front of his shirt again and prevented him from falling down. The precog couldn't keep him from bending, though. Schuldig panted and closed his eyes tight to keep the pain under control. The fucking bastard wasn't pulling his punches. It made Schuldig angry. The whole situation made him angry. The fear did.

"Strike two. For the last time, Schuldig. What's wrong."

Schuldig opened his eyes and tried with the truth.

"...I don't know."

"Read your mind."

Oh, that was rich. Crawford developing a sense of humor in the worst possible moment. Schuldig's answer wasn't more than a rasped whisper. Strike three.

"Read my ass."

Crawford charged, pressing Schuldig against the wall with all his considerable weight, forearm at Schuldig's throat. None of them were sure if it was possible to die of asphyxia when they weren't really breathing, but suggestion could be just as effective as a physical ailment and, anyway, the pain and the alarm were more than real.

Crawford was staring at him so hard that it was as if he could really see everything in Schuldig's eyes, as if Schuldig's face were one of his cherished encrypted reports or the economics section of the newspaper. Helplessly, Schuldig stared back. He wished he could make this easier, he just didn't know how when he wasn't even sure what the problem was.

"Maybe I will."

It took Schuldig a while to get where that sentence had sprung from. When he finally made the connection, his eyes widened. Was Crawford saying...?

Still intent to the point of unblinking, Crawford at least seemed to calm down a little after having learned whatever he had read during his staring.

"You're slipping?"

The pressure on his throat didn't eased, but Schuldig found he was still able to sigh. He knew what Crawford was asking. Telepathy wasn't the most rewarding of gifts.

"It's not that," he quietly answered.

For the first time since they had entered the extra-dimensional room, Crawford seemed to be... almost kind.

"Then, what is it."

Schuldig didn't reply. He tried to, but he just didn't have an answer. Crawford did.

"You're doubting."

Unwillingly, Schuldig conceded.

"Yes."

"It's too late to back out now."

Still caught against the wall, it irked him slightly that Crawford hadn't been able to read that.

"I don't want to back out. I... I'm just not sure I want to go ahead, either."

Forearm still steadfast against the other's throat, Crawford made an uncharacteristic show of patience.

"Then what the fuck do you want."

Schuldig closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the wall, all the pain of their quarrel vanishing as the memory of pain always did. However, the contact of Crawford's body was still there, strong enough to fool him into believing their bodies were really touching.

"You."

If Schuldig had been expecting a violent response, he soon realized he wasn't going to get it. Crawford looked just slightly puzzled -that alone might have been worth the beating- as if the answer was incomplete and he wasn't sure it solved anything to know it.

"Is that your price?"

It was? Not entirely, Schuldig guessed. For once, Crawford was offering him a present when what he really wanted was a future.

"I..."

Crawford kissed him. Forcefully, still pinning him against the wall, he kissed him. With violence, tongue demanding entry, demanding surrender, body pressed against his, face tilted to the optimal angle, he kissed him. And what really killed Schuldig was that it felt as though Crawford meant it and not as if he were exacting a payment to ensure that an all-important mission ended well.

Schuldig refrained from making any undignified mewling sounds, but he allowed his hands to go to Crawford's hair and bury themselves there.

When the kiss finally ended, he was unable to say when the arm had been withdrawn from his throat. It just wasn't there anymore.

"You're cruel," Schuldig accused, fingers still tangled in dark tresses. Before he could be prompted to give a truthful reason, he offered one. "You only kiss me when I'm not in my body to feel it."

"You know I can't do it outside. Not now."

The cold detachment of that voice clashed violently with the way Crawford was still technically holding him. Just as he was holding Crawford.

"Fuck you."

This time, Crawford didn't take offense. There had been no real insolence in the words, after all. Only resignation.

"Anyway," Crawford tried to reason, "feelings aren't in the flesh, but in the mind."

"Sensuality is in the touch."

Crawford didn't correct the inaccurate comment, but didn't let go, either. Schuldig wondered why.

"The pleasure center is still in the brain, you should know that."

"I think you're carrying the 'intelligence is sexy' saying a bit too far with me."

"Would you rather I demonstrate?"

Schuldig was still at odds with himself about how he should react to Crawford saying such things with a totally dispassionate tone. He should have been playful, teasing. But he was being deadly serious and Schuldig simply couldn't compute what was being said and how it was being said. He silently cursed Crawford, even as he leaned to kiss him.

This time, it was less frantic. And precisely because he had the time to enjoy it, Schuldig felt the parts that were missing all the more. Crawford's mouth was hot and wet, his lips soft and his weight solid. But Schuldig couldn't smell him, since the memory can't evoke that sense, only recognize it and link it to past events, and most of the sounds they should be generating -their breathing, the rustle of their clothes, the disgusting wet noises- weren't there. And Schuldig wanted them. Schuldig wanted it all. It was almost unfair that it still felt so good, pleasure unadulterated by the transit through long nerves and imperfect synapses.

With a quiet sigh, Schuldig broke the kiss and licked a jaw that didn't particularly taste like anything.

"Your glasses..." he whispered against Crawford's ear, "you have them on, but they're not in the way," he gasped when he felt Crawford nuzzling his neck and then nipping his earlobe. Schuldig swallowed. "I want the real thing."

Crawford didn't bother explaining why he couldn't have it. They both knew.

"Nothing is more real than what's in your mind, Schuldig."

Hands roaming Crawford's hair, Crawford's shoulders, the nape of his neck, Schuldig gritted his teeth.

"Stop patronizing me. I'm not a kid. I'm not stupid. I'm not that horny."

"Yes, you are."

Without specifying what he was replying to, Crawford kissed him again.

Before Schuldig could tighten his hold and melt into the kiss, he found himself in the kitchen, staring dazedly at an untouched mug of coffee. Crawford had dissolved the meeting. The precog was in fact starting to stand up to bring his own empty mug to the sink.

Furious and hungry and with a headache, Schuldig forced himself to drink his coffee instead of throwing it to Crawford's face.

--------

"Are the preparations for the ritual proceeding?"

"Everything is in order."

Finally, the Elders had decided to get to the point. Schuldig hated the pleasantries. Especially since they were just a way to personally remind every one of them that they were being monitored. That they were remembered. That they were controlled. The creepy cheerfulness of those old relics only made the reminder stronger, more effective. There was something wrong about them, from the smiling masks they had for faces to the strange disguises they chose for attire: the bald one in his blue cassock, the wench in her respectable dress and string of pearls, the one with the moustache in the outfit of a nineteenth century golf player. They were a warning in themselves.

One step behind his leader, Schuldig managed, with the ease of long practice, to keep his mind blank and his opinions buried deep. Nearly as deep as what had transpired between Crawford and him the day before.

"We heard our special element has been transported, when can we see her?"

"We are still making final adjustments," Crawford informed them. Once the other team members had been acknowledged, they were to remain silent.

The old man let his eyes open and gleam dangerously, belying the light tone of his voice.

"You are taking an awfully long time."

It was only then that Schuldig noticed Crawford was sweating.

"Her condition is very exceptional, so we're being careful."

The Oracle was a masterful liar. His labored breathing didn't make sense. What was wrong?

"Will she be ready for our ritual tomorrow?"

"Or course," Crawford panted.

Schuldig had to stop himself from thinking altogether when he finally understood. Crawford wasn't nervous. He was on the verge of a telekinetically induced heart attack. And there wasn't a damned thing any of them could do to stop it. Only to keep on standing, keep on smirking, keep on being the perfect dogs, the perfect slaves. The Elders wouldn't want more than to warn them, to show off their power. Crawford wasn't indispensable to them, but he was still useful. Biting back the fear, Schuldig forced himself to inaction.

"We are counting on you," the wench smiled. "Once in eight hundred years, all the stars enter into the house of a new moon. If we miss tomorrow, it will be nearly impossible for him to return ever again."

"Don't disappoint us," the bald one added.

Schuldig felt himself relax imperceptibly when it was obvious that the Elders' grip on Crawford's heart had loosened.

"We will not let you down."

-------

Mind screaming with the fear of both Kritiker and Eszett's people, eyes watering from the dust the falling debris had stirred and, above all, adrenaline pumping from the distress of having a wire around his neck and a self-righteous assassin tightening it with the firm intention to kill him, Schuldig realized that he had fucked up again. Big time.

Despite his bravado and assurance that he truly pursued a world of chaos, he had been doubting again. And here he was, struggling for his life as the damned tower crumbled down on him. It really wasn't fair, not after all he had done, all he had achieved.

Desperate, trying to keep that wire at bay, Schuldig kicked hard with his heel and threw his head back towards Yohji's when the man relaxed his attention because of the sudden pain.

The yells for vengeance from the kittens juxtaposed the screams in his head and all he could do was punch blindly, hoping to hit something so that the momentum didn't unbalance him. Crawford's voice was there, too, but Schuldig couldn't make out the words above the noise. He rolled to duck a falling block of stone that made a tremendous crash when it hit the floor, and got up immediately after, fighting disorientation and trying to locate his adversary.

Metallic clangs, metallic rasps, organic thuds, stones moaning as though the Earth was in pain, the roar of the sea, the minds, the scent of blood... he couldn't see a damned thing and the normally constant presence of his teammates in his mind was titillating. Was Farfarello unconscious? He crouched suddenly by reflex, only to get up again when the characteristic whistle of the wire had ceased.

He heard the swordsman shout as he always liked to shout and then, finally, the ground collapsed and Schuldig understood that there was nothing else he could do, that the future wasn't in his hands anymore. It probably never had been. Closing his eyes and attempting a last laugh, Schuldig fell. He heard Crawford commanding Nagi's name -could names be commanded? If so, Crawford was the man to do it-. Crawford...

He hoped that the egocentric bastard was happy that Schuldig's precious last thought was for him.

Then, everything went black.

---------

The sound of the waves was soothing, it had always been. There was something primal in the way water was calming to all beings alive.

The air was crisp in the impending dawn and the sand felt cold under him, colder than the sea lapping at his legs, even at his chest when the waves felt brave enough to reach that far, but he didn't find it in himself to move except to keep on breathing.

He hadn't expected to wake up, but wake up he had when the water had suddenly closed around him. He remembered no impact against it, but his head hurt anyway. It felt as if it was being hit by a hammer from the inside. In a constant rhythm. Bang, bang, bang, bang...

For a moment, he concentrated only on bringing air to his lungs. His arms burnt. Swimming was not the kind of workout he was used to.

Carefully -all in vain, because it still hurt like fuck-, he turned his head to the right.

Crawford was lying quite like he was, trying to catch his breath. He had had it tough, he had been the one to carry Nagi's unconscious body; the damned tower was farther away from the shore than one would have expected. Schuldig couldn't see the brat, but he knew he lay at Crawford's right just like he himself lay at his left. He assumed the kid had knocked himself out by trying to save them all from dying smashed by the rest of that megalomaniacal monument to futility that Eszett had spent so much time and money to build.

Schuldig sighed. He was cold. He still didn't move.

"What now," he quietly asked.

There they were, soaked, hurt, dead tired, lying on a beach, barely out of the water. The three of them, at least. Farfarello had been the first to reach ground, naked as the day he was born. He had a terrible looking gash on his thigh that would have ruined his white suit if he hadn't kicked free of it as soon as he had touched the water. After barely any rest, as soon as Schuldig was starting to crawl out of the sea, he had left. Without a word. Bare-assed. For some reason Schuldig thought that he wouldn't see him again. And he didn't like it.

Much later, Crawford had arrived, dragging an unconscious Nagi with him.

"I suspect you're not referring to my plans of world domination." Crawford answered without opening his eyes.

Schuldig really hated Crawford's sense of humor. It only made its appearance at the worst moments, as if designed to piss him off. It probably was.

"I'm not talking about the fucking world."

Crawford sighed, still with the least possible movement.

"Then, what are you talking about?"

"Me."

Schuldig was sure that the show of resigned patience on Crawford's part was just another manoeuvre to annoy him.

"You're free to decide your own 'what now'."

"Okay," Schuldig insisted, "not me. You."

Crawford sighed again. Tiredly.

"What do you want, Schuldig."

Schuldig kept stubbornly silent.

After a while, Crawford finally opened his eyes and looked at him. It wasn't so dark anymore, so Schuldig could make out his features. He decided that the tousled hair became Crawford. The lack of glasses felt weird, though.

"I can't promise you a happily ever after," Crawford said serious, nearly solemnly, "if only because there's not an ever after. There's no ending, happy or not. There's always death, but that's not happy at all."

Schuldig felt himself despairing, unable to do anything about it. About nothing.

"Fuck, give me something at least! A future, whatever!"

Then Crawford surprised him.

"That, I can do."

And then, he started to talk about times to come. About Nagi, powerful and sad. About Weiß, always wallowing in their stupid angst. About Eszett, their petty vengeances and their ambitious schemes. About Epitaph. About the new Persia and how Nagi will decide to fight for his cause. About Berger, a worthy opponent. About Crawford’s mental room, so different from Schuldig's own. About Farfarello. About them, Crawford and him, both looking down a building while bantering as they always had. About freedom. About beating enhanced psychics. About being the best.

Schuldig drank from his words as if they were the elixir of life and, little by little, ignoring the heated protests of his battered body, he crept towards Crawford to finally straddle him and sprawl on his supine body.

"Schuldig," Crawford tonelessly informed, "I don't think this is the best moment for me to support your weight."

"Shut up."

Schuldig kissed him. It made his head hurt harder, but he didn't mind because Crawford's body under him was warmer than the sand, and Crawford's mouth was kissing back, and the sea was humming and lapping at them and his back was cold and his underpants damp and Crawford tasted like salt water and their noses were bumping and Crawford's stubble was scratching him like crazy and the nerves were hindering the transmission of the sensations, the system defective in its physicality, but it was still the most awesome thing Schuldig had ever felt because it was real, and it was there and then because they both wanted, and there was a future, and Crawford's arms were finally closing around him, and he had his fingers buried again in those tresses that were filthy but still soft, and they were making a lot of noise with their breathing through their noises and frantic attempts at devouring each other, and Schuldig wasn't sure he was in any condition to get it up, and the clothes they still had on were dirty and heavy with water, and Crawford's hands were slowly gliding towards his butt, and his long hair was getting in their mouths as they kissed, and maybe he still could get...

"Oh, Jesus Christ. I really didn't need to see that. Brain bleach, please."

The voice was still weak and started to cough even before ending the last sentence.

Smirking, Schuldig broke the kiss. He could feel how Crawford had tensed under him.

"Do you want me to wipe your memory for you, honey?" he teased.

Nagi slowly turned his back on them before murmuring:

"Yes, please. And knock me unconscious if I don't pass out on my own."

Schuldig chuckled. His headache let him know it had been a bad idea. He didn't stop.

"Schuldig, get off me."

"Make me."

Crawford seemed to ponder it.

"Interruptions, coldness, stubble, exhaustion, pain, hunger, pain, pain, exhaustion, pain..." Schuldig listed pensively, "and I still think that it's okay, because I'm not looking for perfection, I'd rather feel alive."

Letting his eyes close and his arms fall at his side, Crawford decided that Schuldig would tire and get off eventually on his own.

"Should I feel offended?"

"No, perfection is overrated," Schuldig reassured him, "you're fine being a fucking asshole."

Crawford smirked.

"Likewise."

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