Title: Pieces of Black (41-45)
Rating: Depending on the piece. From G to R.
Pairing: When it applies, Crawford/Schuldig
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Books, you know I love you.
Schuldig eyed the garlic-seasoned salad in front of Crawford with suspicion.
"I don't need to be a tight-assed precog to predict that, if you eat that aberration, you're not getting any tonight."
Crawford daringly brought the first bite to his mouth.
"You aren't, either," he declared without flourish.
An orange eyebrow rose.
"We'll see," the telepath replied, making it a promise, eyes slightly narrowed.
"Mission completed," the dispassionate voice of the Prodigy stated through their telepathic link.
Later, when Nagi turned in his report, he couldn't help asking.
The Oracle raised his gaze from the documents and looked at him to prompt him. With time, Nagi had gotten used to his leader's natural resilience to pose questions.
"How... how did you convince Schuldig to sleep with the target?"
Schuldig could be the biggest slut in Tokyo, but he refused to be pimped around.
Crawford smirked and said nothing.
“Can someone tell me who established the combat pairings when we fight against Schwarz? No, really, I mean... I have to fight against the fastest of them and it's not exactly easy to get my wire around the neck of someone who moves like he's got a hive of wasps up his ass, not to mention his telepathy. Isn’t it more logical that Aya takes care of him, since he's so adept at keeping his mind blank? And Farfarello, he's not only nuts, he's... what do they call him? Yes, a damned BERSERKER. Wouldn't it be safer if Omi hit him with some darts like they do at the zoo with rabid animals? Not to mention Nagi... Who the fuck decided that the only one of us that uses a ranged weapon should invest his time and energy throwing things at a telekinetic? For God's sake, why don't we rearrange things to our advantage?”
“Ok, since you seem to have studied the case so thoroughly, please, enlighten us, who would you like to fight against the next time?”
“Alright, I get your point.”
"And by the way, who suggested we use bladed weapons against villains with superpowers and firearms? Shouldn't we be granted access to, I don't know, bazookas or something?"
"Yohji, just... shut up."
Farfarello knew from the very first time. Schuldig couldn't understand how, since Farfarello’s cell was soundproofed, and their attitude towards one another hadn't changed in the slightest. Now that he thought about it, it had also barely changed in the privacy of Crawford's bedroom – his bedroom, because Crawford wouldn't step into what he had called 'your pigsty'.
No, their relationship was the same as ever. Crawford bossed him around, Schuldig acted as if it was what he wanted and not because Crawford had told him that he followed orders and, if some night the moon caught them at 2 a.m. fucking like there was no tomorrow, well… no one had to know.
Except Farfarello, who couldn’t wait to mock the telepath with his twisted and cryptic puns. And now, Schuldig deemed it time Nagi learned about it, too.
If he went directly to him and spat: 'Hi, Nagi. How was school? I'm fucking Crawford,' the kid wouldn't believe him, so he started to think about how to break the news to him.
In the end, it was pure chance. All of his teammates were in the living-room when Schuldig arrived home. That was rare, since Schwarz worked stunningly well as a group, but consisted of antisocial individuals who seldom did anything together aside from killing. Pocketing his keys, Schuldig observed the scene.
Crawford was reading the paper at the table. Nagi sat opposite him with a textbook open and the elbows on the table. Farfarello was on the couch, watching TV. Leaning as he was over the newspaper, Crawford's glasses had slipped a little down the bridge of his nose.
Moving slowly, deliberately, the telepath approached his leader and, bracing his hand on the back of Crawford's chair, started to read over his shoulder, face to face, cheeks nearly touching.
Crawford didn't react, but when Schuldig lifted his eyes from the article he had been directing his gaze at, he saw he had caught Nagi's attention.
Smirking openly at the kid, Schuldig's eyes fell on Crawford's face. Then, with the strangest sort of tenderness Nagi had ever seen the callous telepath display, Schuldig delicately pushed Crawford's glasses back up his nose.
For all that the precog reacted, it seemed as if he hadn't even noticed. Which was the strangest thing of all, considering that, in Nagi's experience, the Oracle knew it all and didn't let disrespect slide. When he finally made the connection, Nagi's eyes widened comically and trying to keep his cool, he excused himself and fled to his bedroom. Schuldig grinned.
"You owe me."
Crawford's voice had been low, his eyes still fixed on the paper. Schuldig had to repress the sudden urge to eat at his mouth.
"That I do," he whispered instead, wondering briefly how come the Oracle had chosen to indulge him and play along, but too busy watching the glasses slide back down Crawford's nose to question his luck.
Schuldig forced himself to leave the room before he could push the glasses back in place again and had to explain why he would do it when nobody was looking anymore.
The quiet moans and pants were the only sounds in the elegant bedroom, apart from the steady slap of flesh against flesh. The bed didn't creak and wouldn't hit the wall, no matter how hard they fucked on it.
After some frantic thrusts, Crawford came and Schuldig followed soon after. Barely two minutes past that, the telepath rose and started looking for his pants.
It was always like that. After catching his breath, not long enough to truly enjoy the afterglow, Schuldig always went back to his own room.
"Why do you always leave right after we're done?"
Crawford's voice was flat when asking, not making it a question at all. It wasn't the kind of inquiry Schuldig would have expected from him in any case, and that solely was reason enough for the telepath to reply.
"I'd rather die than give anyone a chance to kick me out of their beds."
He said it smirking, half joking, like every time he talked about himself.
Pants done, Schuldig picked up his shirt and started to pull it on when Crawford's voice stopped him in mid-gesture.
Slowly, very slowly, Schuldig let his arms down and turned to look at Crawford. After sex, the Oracle never seemed the same person. Hair disheveled, flushed skin, myopic eyes trying to bring the Mastermind into focus... his expression was as cold and serious as ever, though, totally at odds with his "freshly-fucked" look and with what the words he had just uttered implied.
Step by step, Schuldig walked cautiously back to the bed. Without breaking eye contact, he gingerly bent down and, bracing his hand on the mattress, gently kissed Crawford on the mouth. He didn't linger, neither did he try to take the kiss further. He then withdrew as slowly as he had approached and straightened up. He looked at Crawford for a moment and his eyes softened, a half-smile fighting to reach his lips.
"No," he softly admitted, "maybe today you wouldn't."
After that, he gathered the clothes he hadn't put on yet, and exited the room without looking back.