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remix_reduxTitle: Stages of Love (Murderers in a Minor Key Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
daegaer
Summary: Crawford and Schuldig look forward to the rest of their lives. Now they have time for all their plans.
Rating: R (language)
Fandom: Weiß Kreuz
Warnings: Death
Note: Thank you to my no longer mysterious betas, the ever wonderfullouiselux and toscas_kiss!
Original story: Stages of Love bymistressrenet
I.
He was dead. Cold, wet and dead. A strong, cold hand pulled him upright. He leant against a solid, cold chest and sighed.
"We're alive," Schuldig said, his voice weak and hoarse with salt.
"Yes," Crawford said, his arms tightening briefly. "Let's get the others."
Schuldig staggered down the beach to where Nagi was tormenting the Takatori brat. He hadn't got half-way before Nagi was strolling towards him. Good. Christ, he was tired.
They headed for Crawford and Farfarello, a smile spreading across Schuldig's lips. They'd done it. They'd won.
Now they could get on with their real lives.
II.
Crawford sees what's needed. When it becomes obvious that Eszett and Rosenkreuz aren't going to stop hunting them, he splits Schwarz. Farfarello takes his woman and flees. Crawford sends Nagi into Kritiker's loving embrace. He smiles about that, making Nagi suspicious.
He and Schuldig run. They avoid obvious well-paying jobs, live on petty crime and eked-out savings. Crawford sends coded messages to Nagi: We'll be in place soon. Wait.
At night, in slum accommodation, he smiles into Schuldig's eyes, loses himself in Schuldig's body. They're poor but happy.
It's not their usual standard of living, but it won't last forever.
III.
The Eszett team lay dead at their feet, bodies twisted and broken. When you didn't have your own telekinetic, fucking with the enemies' TK's head could get you the result you wanted, Schuldig thought. He stepped over the telepath's corpse and scowled at Crawford.
"You weren't much help." He gestured back at the downed telepath. "You nearly shot me instead of her."
"I shot at where she was going to be," Crawford said. "She should've been there."
"You shot too soon," Schuldig said.
"I--," Crawford started. "I'm sorry," he said, and sounded it.
Fuck it, Schuldig thought. They were both exhausted. Even Crawford could have his off moments. "Let's get some dinner," he said, and bent to rifle through the enemies' pockets. He came up with a decent stack of cash and cards. "Looks like steak tonight!" he said cheerfully, ignoring Crawford's obvious bad mood.
"I shot where she should have been," Crawford said.
"Yeah, OK. It doesn't matter. What do you say to a hotel with hot water tonight?"
Crawford shook off the mood and smiled. "Yeah. Sure. Let's go back to Tokyo."
Schuldig blinked. "OK. Why?"
"Nagi'll need us."
Schuldig nodded. They'd be happier there. They always were.
IV.
He'll fight a fool Rosenkreuz made from his own genetic material. He'll win, that's what's important. Takatori will have to keep his bargain. They'll win; Schuldig will live and Nagi will live and he'll live. Schuldig will grin and won't be able to keep his hands to himself even though it looks unprofessional.
Afterwards, he lies on the ground, trying to remember how to breathe and trying not to panic at the stink of his own blood. He can't see properly and tries to keep awake by thinking about Nagi. The boy's made a friend of young Takatori. That's good. That's useful. He should try to think of a way they can use-- he wants Schuldig. Schuldig should be here.
"Brad! Fucking hell, Brad!" Schuldig's not smiling, and his hands on Crawford are anything but amorous. It's a disappointment. "Come on," Schuldig says, dragging him upright. He smells of smoke and hot metal.
"There are bombs," Crawford says. He didn't know he was going to speak till he heard his own voice, he thinks. "We have less than ninety seconds to get to safety."
Schuldig will get them out, they'll be able to use Nagi's influence to get medical treatment, they'll be able to live free of Eszett after this. He'll buy Schuldig a good meal once they can access their accounts without fear of surveillance. They'll have whatever sort of food and wine Schuldig wants, he won't care about the expense--
Schuldig is yelling, is slapping his face. He coughs and tastes blood.
"Jesus," Schuldig gasps. "Come on, Brad, come on." Then, panicked, to someone Crawford can't see, "Fucking sort this out!"
He's restrained, he's on a gurney, he's in a helicopter. Schuldig is holding his hand. He has no memory of how he got here.
He's afraid.
V.
"Hey, Brad."
Schuldig sat down and patted Crawford's arm. It took a few moments before Crawford turned to look at him. Schuldig smiled encouragingly as slowly, too slowly, recognition came across Crawford's face. Come on, Schuldig thought. It's me.
"Listen, you've got to work harder on getting better, OK? These hospital bills are killing me."
Crawford nodded solemnly. Too many drugs, Schuldig thought. Stupid doctors hadn't a fucking clue. He pulled out the bag of McDonald's and pasted on his most cheerful grin. Crawford reacted well to food from his childhood.
"Here you go," Schuldig said, spreading paper napkins over Crawford's lap and putting the burger in his hand. "You get your strength up."
"Thanks," Crawford said, his voice thin and uncertain. But he ate the burger happily and relaxed back in his chair. "Is it Sunday still?"
"No," Schuldig said. "It's Wednesday, Brad. Hey, don't look so worried, you just need to rest and you'll be out of here soon. I promise." Things would be better if Crawford could just stop having the seizures. Another few days, and the doctors would hit on the right cocktail of drugs, or he'd kill them all. He threw away the greasy napkins and made himself comfortable. "I got a cool job," he said cheerfully. "Some useless yakuza boss thinks I make an exotic bodyguard. He's paying more than he wanted to at first, you know how persuasive I can be."
"That's good," Crawford said. "Take him for everything he's got. You could buy some new clothes, something less noticeable."
"Oh, that's nice. Anyone would think I've got no fashion sense." Schuldig felt himself relax a little. It was refreshingly normal for Crawford to laugh at his clothes. It gave him hope that they really would be free of hospitals and doctors quickly. "Tell you what, I'll make a bargain. You get well enough to be out of here within two weeks and you can dress me for a year."
Crawford smiled wearily and looked like he was trying really hard to concentrate on the conversation. After another ten minutes he was looking more vacant, and Schuldig let his voice peter out. "Brad," he whispered, and let himself look into Crawford's mind. It was the usual maelstrom of possibilities and random images. Fuck. He looked around; they were alone. He wrapped his fingers round the base of Crawford's skull and went searching. Every time, it took longer. He refused to think about that, just grabbed hold of Crawford's conscious mind and pulled him back to the surface.
Crawford blinked. "Schuldig?"
"That's me. How're you feeling?"
Crawford wet his lips and looked confused. "OK. I think. What day-- is it still Sunday?"
Schuldig kept the smile on his lips and didn't curse. "No. It's Wednesday. You're still working on getting better, right?"
Crawford nodded obediently, like a child. Schuldig kept smiling reassuringly. The doctors'd better fix him, he thought. Or he'd kill them all.
"You'll be out of here soon," he said. "Don't worry."
VI.
Nagi will stand at the front of a large room, talking in English. It'll be some sort of college presentation, though Crawford can't quite hear what he's saying. Nagi will dress more casually than Crawford's ever seen, and he'll have a real smile on his face.
Crawford blinks, and realizes he's smiling at Nagi's happiness. He looks at the clock. Forty minutes have gone by, lost forever. He heaves himself out of the chair and goes into the little kitchen, concentrating every step of the way on the here and now. Schuldig won't be back for over two hours. Unless Crawford calls him, of course, in which case he'll drop everything and be home as fast as possible.
Crawford doesn't call. He hates knowing he wants to, hates thinking of how worried Schuldig would look, rushing in the door. He can beat this, he just needs rest. It's good to be out of the hospital, in this little apartment Schuldig has rented. He lays the afternoon's pills out on the counter and makes himself a cup of tea. I'm boiling water, he thinks. I'm getting a mug from the cupboard. I'm taking tea out of the box. He watches it steep and thinks how much he hates needing a mental running commentary just to stay in the present. The future drags at the edges of his mind. It always has, but the undertow was never so strong before.
The car will swerve as the driver has a heart attack. The woman crossing the street won't think of herself, will push her elderly mother to safety with all her might. The old woman will scream and scream and wish she had brought her daughter up to be more selfish.
The tea is cold. Crawford sighs and washes his pills down with it. Maybe if they could live somewhere in the country, he thinks, away from all these people and their myriad futures. It won't happen, he knows that even without a vision. Schuldig doesn't want to be more than a quick taxi ride away from the hospital.
He spends the rest of the day as productively as he can. He walks up and down the stairs a few times for exercise and out into the street, all the way to the corner and back again. That's the hard part. Everyone he passes pulls at him with all their futures, and he's pale and sweating by the time he gets back to the apartment building. Behind him he hears the screech of metal and a woman screaming, and flees inside, away from it all. He makes another cup of tea and stays in the present long enough to drink it hot. When he next loses control almost an hour goes by. He stares at the clock gratefully. He needs a shower and Schuldig will be back soon. He hasn't showered by himself since he first succumbed to the visions and cracked his head on the tiles. He remembers when sharing a shower was for fun, not necessity. Sometimes it still is, but usually it's just cramped and embarrassing, with Schuldig acting like he's a kid who needs someone to stop him from falling.
The door opens.
"Hey, Brad. I've got dinner!"
"I know," Crawford smiles. Schuldig looks worried, so he points at the calendar. "It's Monday. You always get take-out on Monday." He keeps the smile on his face as Schuldig lays out the cartons. Schuldig has always loved foods with as many artificial flavourings as possible. Now he brings in healthy, low-fat, high-fibre meals. He makes them both eat fresh fruit and vegetables, and seems to believe every fad diet that promises a cure for memory loss. Crawford obediently eats and takes his vitamin supplements. "It's good," he says, and Schuldig looks a little less depressed.
He lies about his day, making the lapses seem less distressing than they were. He can't fool Schuldig, but he can at least put a good face on it. They both need to pretend he'll be well enough to go back to work. Schuldig frowns, and Crawford tries harder to seem cheerful.
They go to bed earlier than they used to. Crawford wonders why he gets so tired from doing nothing all day. He relaxes as Schuldig wraps himself around him, his touch gentle and careful. They used to be more energetic about this, Crawford thinks. He misses it more than he wants to say, and knows if he was getting better he wouldn't be treated as if he were made of the thinnest paper. Schuldig's hand grazes over his too-prominent hipbone; Crawford closes his eyes. He's nothing worth looking at anymore, and it should be a relief to be taken care of. He should be thankful for what he's got.
He hates his life.
VII.
Schuldig climbed wearily up the stairs from the subway and stood, adrift on a sea of humanity. He shook off the thoughts and worries pushing at him from the outside and flagged down a taxi. God, he was exhausted.
Too soon he was in the elevator, getting ready to be cheerful and optimistic. Today's the day, he thought. Today he'll be standing by the window, dressed in his best suit, packing his best gun, ready to tell me his best plan. The hope got him out of the elevator, down the corridor and into the room where he sat down at the bedside and held Crawford's hand, telling him silently all the stuff the nurses had no business listening to.
"Hey, baby," Schuldig thought, "I've got a treat for you, but you have to wake up, ok? Nagi's coming today. You're going to talk to him, right?"
Crawford just kept looking dully up at the ceiling, his lips moving silently. He wasn't saying anything sensible. Schuldig hadn't tried listening since he'd deciphered the stuff about the end of the world as being predictions about which patient was due to die on this floor. He sat there quietly, his eyes on their interlaced fingers. Brad wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. A memory flickered, the Fujimiya girl as pale and quiet as Brad, the frantic fear in her brother's eyes at the thought she'd come to harm. Schuldig closed his eyes and wished he could laugh at himself.
Christ. Moping did no good. He let go of Crawford's hand and carefully cradled his head. "Wake up," he said. "If I can't do it, I'll have the nurses give you something, and you know you don't like that." He dived down, down, past the nonsense, past the ever changing predictions about him, about the nurses, about Crawford himself, past the nightmare fears from childhood grown fanged and hungry. Crawford looked at him all of a sudden, his face scared and lonely.
"Yeah," Schuldig breathed. "I'm here." He got a good approximation of his old smile back as his hand was grabbed.
"Schuldig?" Crawford said.
"Yeah. It's OK, you were just having a bad dream."
Crawford grimaced, his face naked and young without the glasses. "I can't stop it. Schuldig. Please--"
Schuldig tightened his fingers and drew an angry breath.
"Kill me. Please, Schuldig."
"Not that again. No. You hear me? No."
Crawford subsided. "Please," he whispered.
Schuldig patted his arm and sat down again to wait, talking aloud now, all the inconsequential, stupid things about his day. Crawford was quiet, drifting now and then. At four-thirty on the dot Nagi came in, fresh from his Takatori-sitting. What he saw in Mamoru, Schuldig couldn't fathom but hell, love was blind.
"Schuldig," Nagi said quietly. Then, "Crawford? It's Nagi."
"It's Nagi, Brad," Schuldig said. "Like I promised, remember?"
"How are you, Crawford?" Nagi said, sitting on the bedside.
Crawford looked at them blankly. Schuldig tightened his grip.
"Even though you said, I didn't think he'd be like this," Nagi said. "Can I help?"
Schuldig shook his head; if he cried in front of Nagi, Nagi'd never forgive him. "Not unless you have secret Kritiker drugs on you."
"I can ask Mamoru--"
"No!" Schuldig snapped. The thought of Takatori's triumphant face-- Nagi's expression went coolly, professionally calm. He didn't stay long; Schuldig didn't blame him. He didn't particularly want to be there either, which made him feel hollow and ashamed.
He didn't see Nagi again for months. When they finally made contact Nagi had a sort of pale pinched look about him that made him seem sadder than usual.
"I was in the States," he said, shrugging. "I couldn't return your calls, sorry."
Schuldig nodded. Friends were friends, but not getting yourself killed over a stupid mistake was the important thing. "Work going OK?" he asked.
Nagi shrugged again, his face going more pinched than ever. "You?"
"I don't work so much anymore," Schuldig said.
"How's Crawford?"
He has his good days and his bad ones, Schuldig thought about saying. Last week he had a really good day and knew me for whole hours at a time. I fed him pizza bite by bite and we both pretended to be cheerful. You wouldn't believe how bad he's got at lying. "All over the place. Still asking me to kill him," he said, forcing the emotion in his voice to shade towards anger.
"You should just give him what he wants," Nagi said. He was frowning, like he too preferred anger to any other emotion.
"I can't," Schuldig said. "I'm greedy. Like you are."
Nagi said nothing, but the anger leached from his face and he looked like Schuldig felt. Things weren't going so good with Takatori, perhaps. Schuldig tried distracting himself with taking as close a look at Nagi's mind as he'd be let. Maybe he should kill Takatori, he thought. Brad had always said Nagi was too good for him.
"Stop that," Nagi said. "Stop prying, it's not your business."
"You sure you want this, kid?" Schuldig said. "It sucks."
"I know," Nagi said. "Is it worth it?"
Schuldig looked at him in silence, than squeezed his shoulder. Nagi's hand came up to cover his, warm and strong. "I should get back to him," Schuldig said softly.
"OK," Nagi said. "You'll let me know if you need anything?"
"Yeah," Schuldig said.
"Schuldig-san. Please sit down."
Schuldig looked wearily at the nurse. "What?"
"Crawford-san is very ill," she said quietly. "Would you be able to be with him full time?"
Schuldig felt time slow. He fought the urge to read her mind. "Do I need to?" he said. "He seemed stronger today." If he got angry he wouldn't have to think about this. "If he's as bad as you say, I'll want a bed in his room." They'd do that for a spouse, he thought. If they said no to him he could start yelling.
"Yes, Schuldig-san," she said.
He sat down hard, unable to speak or think.
"I'm sorry," she said, gently.
"Fuck that, he's getting better. He'll wake up."
"You should prepare yourself, Schuldig-san." She bowed and left him to sit there.
It wouldn't be so bad, living in the hospital, Schuldig thought dully. Crawford was quiet, mostly, the roil in his mind dying down. He wasn't scared anymore, and the visions were brief nonsensical things that didn't seem to hurt him. It was Schuldig they hurt, with their shining stupid images of him and Crawford in places he didn't recognize and that he knew they'd never go. He clambered up and walked slowly down the corridor. He should go pack a bag.
Nagi and Mamoru are curled together under a quilt decorated with cartoon characters. They look so young and so content.
Crawford gasps and knows he's awake. A moment later the bed dips and his hand is enfolded in strong, warm fingers. Crawford tries to make his own fingers hold tight, but he's out of practice. "I understand," he says. "Why you wouldn't--"
"Shut up," Schuldig says, and squeezes Crawford's hand. It should hurt, but Crawford can hardly feel it.
"At least the children are happy. Kritiker really thinks they're dead. Morons." Crawford opens his eyes for a moment. Schuldig is leaning over him. He's beautiful. "You know, they're in my hometown?" It's hard to look at Schuldig, he's so very bright. Crawford wants to smile for him, but he's tired. He closes his eyes, and sees forever.
Schuldig stood outside, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. They'd come for him soon, ask him what arrangements he wanted made. He'd lost touch with Farfarello, but he should call Nagi.
Yeah, it's worth it, kid, he thought, turning to face the bowing nurse.
It's worth it.
Author:
daegaerSummary: Crawford and Schuldig look forward to the rest of their lives. Now they have time for all their plans.
Rating: R (language)
Fandom: Weiß Kreuz
Warnings: Death
Note: Thank you to my no longer mysterious betas, the ever wonderful
louiselux and toscas_kiss!Original story: Stages of Love by
mistressrenetI.
He was dead. Cold, wet and dead. A strong, cold hand pulled him upright. He leant against a solid, cold chest and sighed.
"We're alive," Schuldig said, his voice weak and hoarse with salt.
"Yes," Crawford said, his arms tightening briefly. "Let's get the others."
Schuldig staggered down the beach to where Nagi was tormenting the Takatori brat. He hadn't got half-way before Nagi was strolling towards him. Good. Christ, he was tired.
They headed for Crawford and Farfarello, a smile spreading across Schuldig's lips. They'd done it. They'd won.
Now they could get on with their real lives.
II.
Crawford sees what's needed. When it becomes obvious that Eszett and Rosenkreuz aren't going to stop hunting them, he splits Schwarz. Farfarello takes his woman and flees. Crawford sends Nagi into Kritiker's loving embrace. He smiles about that, making Nagi suspicious.
He and Schuldig run. They avoid obvious well-paying jobs, live on petty crime and eked-out savings. Crawford sends coded messages to Nagi: We'll be in place soon. Wait.
At night, in slum accommodation, he smiles into Schuldig's eyes, loses himself in Schuldig's body. They're poor but happy.
It's not their usual standard of living, but it won't last forever.
III.
The Eszett team lay dead at their feet, bodies twisted and broken. When you didn't have your own telekinetic, fucking with the enemies' TK's head could get you the result you wanted, Schuldig thought. He stepped over the telepath's corpse and scowled at Crawford.
"You weren't much help." He gestured back at the downed telepath. "You nearly shot me instead of her."
"I shot at where she was going to be," Crawford said. "She should've been there."
"You shot too soon," Schuldig said.
"I--," Crawford started. "I'm sorry," he said, and sounded it.
Fuck it, Schuldig thought. They were both exhausted. Even Crawford could have his off moments. "Let's get some dinner," he said, and bent to rifle through the enemies' pockets. He came up with a decent stack of cash and cards. "Looks like steak tonight!" he said cheerfully, ignoring Crawford's obvious bad mood.
"I shot where she should have been," Crawford said.
"Yeah, OK. It doesn't matter. What do you say to a hotel with hot water tonight?"
Crawford shook off the mood and smiled. "Yeah. Sure. Let's go back to Tokyo."
Schuldig blinked. "OK. Why?"
"Nagi'll need us."
Schuldig nodded. They'd be happier there. They always were.
IV.
He'll fight a fool Rosenkreuz made from his own genetic material. He'll win, that's what's important. Takatori will have to keep his bargain. They'll win; Schuldig will live and Nagi will live and he'll live. Schuldig will grin and won't be able to keep his hands to himself even though it looks unprofessional.
Afterwards, he lies on the ground, trying to remember how to breathe and trying not to panic at the stink of his own blood. He can't see properly and tries to keep awake by thinking about Nagi. The boy's made a friend of young Takatori. That's good. That's useful. He should try to think of a way they can use-- he wants Schuldig. Schuldig should be here.
"Brad! Fucking hell, Brad!" Schuldig's not smiling, and his hands on Crawford are anything but amorous. It's a disappointment. "Come on," Schuldig says, dragging him upright. He smells of smoke and hot metal.
"There are bombs," Crawford says. He didn't know he was going to speak till he heard his own voice, he thinks. "We have less than ninety seconds to get to safety."
Schuldig will get them out, they'll be able to use Nagi's influence to get medical treatment, they'll be able to live free of Eszett after this. He'll buy Schuldig a good meal once they can access their accounts without fear of surveillance. They'll have whatever sort of food and wine Schuldig wants, he won't care about the expense--
Schuldig is yelling, is slapping his face. He coughs and tastes blood.
"Jesus," Schuldig gasps. "Come on, Brad, come on." Then, panicked, to someone Crawford can't see, "Fucking sort this out!"
He's restrained, he's on a gurney, he's in a helicopter. Schuldig is holding his hand. He has no memory of how he got here.
He's afraid.
V.
"Hey, Brad."
Schuldig sat down and patted Crawford's arm. It took a few moments before Crawford turned to look at him. Schuldig smiled encouragingly as slowly, too slowly, recognition came across Crawford's face. Come on, Schuldig thought. It's me.
"Listen, you've got to work harder on getting better, OK? These hospital bills are killing me."
Crawford nodded solemnly. Too many drugs, Schuldig thought. Stupid doctors hadn't a fucking clue. He pulled out the bag of McDonald's and pasted on his most cheerful grin. Crawford reacted well to food from his childhood.
"Here you go," Schuldig said, spreading paper napkins over Crawford's lap and putting the burger in his hand. "You get your strength up."
"Thanks," Crawford said, his voice thin and uncertain. But he ate the burger happily and relaxed back in his chair. "Is it Sunday still?"
"No," Schuldig said. "It's Wednesday, Brad. Hey, don't look so worried, you just need to rest and you'll be out of here soon. I promise." Things would be better if Crawford could just stop having the seizures. Another few days, and the doctors would hit on the right cocktail of drugs, or he'd kill them all. He threw away the greasy napkins and made himself comfortable. "I got a cool job," he said cheerfully. "Some useless yakuza boss thinks I make an exotic bodyguard. He's paying more than he wanted to at first, you know how persuasive I can be."
"That's good," Crawford said. "Take him for everything he's got. You could buy some new clothes, something less noticeable."
"Oh, that's nice. Anyone would think I've got no fashion sense." Schuldig felt himself relax a little. It was refreshingly normal for Crawford to laugh at his clothes. It gave him hope that they really would be free of hospitals and doctors quickly. "Tell you what, I'll make a bargain. You get well enough to be out of here within two weeks and you can dress me for a year."
Crawford smiled wearily and looked like he was trying really hard to concentrate on the conversation. After another ten minutes he was looking more vacant, and Schuldig let his voice peter out. "Brad," he whispered, and let himself look into Crawford's mind. It was the usual maelstrom of possibilities and random images. Fuck. He looked around; they were alone. He wrapped his fingers round the base of Crawford's skull and went searching. Every time, it took longer. He refused to think about that, just grabbed hold of Crawford's conscious mind and pulled him back to the surface.
Crawford blinked. "Schuldig?"
"That's me. How're you feeling?"
Crawford wet his lips and looked confused. "OK. I think. What day-- is it still Sunday?"
Schuldig kept the smile on his lips and didn't curse. "No. It's Wednesday. You're still working on getting better, right?"
Crawford nodded obediently, like a child. Schuldig kept smiling reassuringly. The doctors'd better fix him, he thought. Or he'd kill them all.
"You'll be out of here soon," he said. "Don't worry."
VI.
Nagi will stand at the front of a large room, talking in English. It'll be some sort of college presentation, though Crawford can't quite hear what he's saying. Nagi will dress more casually than Crawford's ever seen, and he'll have a real smile on his face.
Crawford blinks, and realizes he's smiling at Nagi's happiness. He looks at the clock. Forty minutes have gone by, lost forever. He heaves himself out of the chair and goes into the little kitchen, concentrating every step of the way on the here and now. Schuldig won't be back for over two hours. Unless Crawford calls him, of course, in which case he'll drop everything and be home as fast as possible.
Crawford doesn't call. He hates knowing he wants to, hates thinking of how worried Schuldig would look, rushing in the door. He can beat this, he just needs rest. It's good to be out of the hospital, in this little apartment Schuldig has rented. He lays the afternoon's pills out on the counter and makes himself a cup of tea. I'm boiling water, he thinks. I'm getting a mug from the cupboard. I'm taking tea out of the box. He watches it steep and thinks how much he hates needing a mental running commentary just to stay in the present. The future drags at the edges of his mind. It always has, but the undertow was never so strong before.
The car will swerve as the driver has a heart attack. The woman crossing the street won't think of herself, will push her elderly mother to safety with all her might. The old woman will scream and scream and wish she had brought her daughter up to be more selfish.
The tea is cold. Crawford sighs and washes his pills down with it. Maybe if they could live somewhere in the country, he thinks, away from all these people and their myriad futures. It won't happen, he knows that even without a vision. Schuldig doesn't want to be more than a quick taxi ride away from the hospital.
He spends the rest of the day as productively as he can. He walks up and down the stairs a few times for exercise and out into the street, all the way to the corner and back again. That's the hard part. Everyone he passes pulls at him with all their futures, and he's pale and sweating by the time he gets back to the apartment building. Behind him he hears the screech of metal and a woman screaming, and flees inside, away from it all. He makes another cup of tea and stays in the present long enough to drink it hot. When he next loses control almost an hour goes by. He stares at the clock gratefully. He needs a shower and Schuldig will be back soon. He hasn't showered by himself since he first succumbed to the visions and cracked his head on the tiles. He remembers when sharing a shower was for fun, not necessity. Sometimes it still is, but usually it's just cramped and embarrassing, with Schuldig acting like he's a kid who needs someone to stop him from falling.
The door opens.
"Hey, Brad. I've got dinner!"
"I know," Crawford smiles. Schuldig looks worried, so he points at the calendar. "It's Monday. You always get take-out on Monday." He keeps the smile on his face as Schuldig lays out the cartons. Schuldig has always loved foods with as many artificial flavourings as possible. Now he brings in healthy, low-fat, high-fibre meals. He makes them both eat fresh fruit and vegetables, and seems to believe every fad diet that promises a cure for memory loss. Crawford obediently eats and takes his vitamin supplements. "It's good," he says, and Schuldig looks a little less depressed.
He lies about his day, making the lapses seem less distressing than they were. He can't fool Schuldig, but he can at least put a good face on it. They both need to pretend he'll be well enough to go back to work. Schuldig frowns, and Crawford tries harder to seem cheerful.
They go to bed earlier than they used to. Crawford wonders why he gets so tired from doing nothing all day. He relaxes as Schuldig wraps himself around him, his touch gentle and careful. They used to be more energetic about this, Crawford thinks. He misses it more than he wants to say, and knows if he was getting better he wouldn't be treated as if he were made of the thinnest paper. Schuldig's hand grazes over his too-prominent hipbone; Crawford closes his eyes. He's nothing worth looking at anymore, and it should be a relief to be taken care of. He should be thankful for what he's got.
He hates his life.
VII.
Schuldig climbed wearily up the stairs from the subway and stood, adrift on a sea of humanity. He shook off the thoughts and worries pushing at him from the outside and flagged down a taxi. God, he was exhausted.
Too soon he was in the elevator, getting ready to be cheerful and optimistic. Today's the day, he thought. Today he'll be standing by the window, dressed in his best suit, packing his best gun, ready to tell me his best plan. The hope got him out of the elevator, down the corridor and into the room where he sat down at the bedside and held Crawford's hand, telling him silently all the stuff the nurses had no business listening to.
"Hey, baby," Schuldig thought, "I've got a treat for you, but you have to wake up, ok? Nagi's coming today. You're going to talk to him, right?"
Crawford just kept looking dully up at the ceiling, his lips moving silently. He wasn't saying anything sensible. Schuldig hadn't tried listening since he'd deciphered the stuff about the end of the world as being predictions about which patient was due to die on this floor. He sat there quietly, his eyes on their interlaced fingers. Brad wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. A memory flickered, the Fujimiya girl as pale and quiet as Brad, the frantic fear in her brother's eyes at the thought she'd come to harm. Schuldig closed his eyes and wished he could laugh at himself.
Christ. Moping did no good. He let go of Crawford's hand and carefully cradled his head. "Wake up," he said. "If I can't do it, I'll have the nurses give you something, and you know you don't like that." He dived down, down, past the nonsense, past the ever changing predictions about him, about the nurses, about Crawford himself, past the nightmare fears from childhood grown fanged and hungry. Crawford looked at him all of a sudden, his face scared and lonely.
"Yeah," Schuldig breathed. "I'm here." He got a good approximation of his old smile back as his hand was grabbed.
"Schuldig?" Crawford said.
"Yeah. It's OK, you were just having a bad dream."
Crawford grimaced, his face naked and young without the glasses. "I can't stop it. Schuldig. Please--"
Schuldig tightened his fingers and drew an angry breath.
"Kill me. Please, Schuldig."
"Not that again. No. You hear me? No."
Crawford subsided. "Please," he whispered.
Schuldig patted his arm and sat down again to wait, talking aloud now, all the inconsequential, stupid things about his day. Crawford was quiet, drifting now and then. At four-thirty on the dot Nagi came in, fresh from his Takatori-sitting. What he saw in Mamoru, Schuldig couldn't fathom but hell, love was blind.
"Schuldig," Nagi said quietly. Then, "Crawford? It's Nagi."
"It's Nagi, Brad," Schuldig said. "Like I promised, remember?"
"How are you, Crawford?" Nagi said, sitting on the bedside.
Crawford looked at them blankly. Schuldig tightened his grip.
"Even though you said, I didn't think he'd be like this," Nagi said. "Can I help?"
Schuldig shook his head; if he cried in front of Nagi, Nagi'd never forgive him. "Not unless you have secret Kritiker drugs on you."
"I can ask Mamoru--"
"No!" Schuldig snapped. The thought of Takatori's triumphant face-- Nagi's expression went coolly, professionally calm. He didn't stay long; Schuldig didn't blame him. He didn't particularly want to be there either, which made him feel hollow and ashamed.
He didn't see Nagi again for months. When they finally made contact Nagi had a sort of pale pinched look about him that made him seem sadder than usual.
"I was in the States," he said, shrugging. "I couldn't return your calls, sorry."
Schuldig nodded. Friends were friends, but not getting yourself killed over a stupid mistake was the important thing. "Work going OK?" he asked.
Nagi shrugged again, his face going more pinched than ever. "You?"
"I don't work so much anymore," Schuldig said.
"How's Crawford?"
He has his good days and his bad ones, Schuldig thought about saying. Last week he had a really good day and knew me for whole hours at a time. I fed him pizza bite by bite and we both pretended to be cheerful. You wouldn't believe how bad he's got at lying. "All over the place. Still asking me to kill him," he said, forcing the emotion in his voice to shade towards anger.
"You should just give him what he wants," Nagi said. He was frowning, like he too preferred anger to any other emotion.
"I can't," Schuldig said. "I'm greedy. Like you are."
Nagi said nothing, but the anger leached from his face and he looked like Schuldig felt. Things weren't going so good with Takatori, perhaps. Schuldig tried distracting himself with taking as close a look at Nagi's mind as he'd be let. Maybe he should kill Takatori, he thought. Brad had always said Nagi was too good for him.
"Stop that," Nagi said. "Stop prying, it's not your business."
"You sure you want this, kid?" Schuldig said. "It sucks."
"I know," Nagi said. "Is it worth it?"
Schuldig looked at him in silence, than squeezed his shoulder. Nagi's hand came up to cover his, warm and strong. "I should get back to him," Schuldig said softly.
"OK," Nagi said. "You'll let me know if you need anything?"
"Yeah," Schuldig said.
"Schuldig-san. Please sit down."
Schuldig looked wearily at the nurse. "What?"
"Crawford-san is very ill," she said quietly. "Would you be able to be with him full time?"
Schuldig felt time slow. He fought the urge to read her mind. "Do I need to?" he said. "He seemed stronger today." If he got angry he wouldn't have to think about this. "If he's as bad as you say, I'll want a bed in his room." They'd do that for a spouse, he thought. If they said no to him he could start yelling.
"Yes, Schuldig-san," she said.
He sat down hard, unable to speak or think.
"I'm sorry," she said, gently.
"Fuck that, he's getting better. He'll wake up."
"You should prepare yourself, Schuldig-san." She bowed and left him to sit there.
It wouldn't be so bad, living in the hospital, Schuldig thought dully. Crawford was quiet, mostly, the roil in his mind dying down. He wasn't scared anymore, and the visions were brief nonsensical things that didn't seem to hurt him. It was Schuldig they hurt, with their shining stupid images of him and Crawford in places he didn't recognize and that he knew they'd never go. He clambered up and walked slowly down the corridor. He should go pack a bag.
Nagi and Mamoru are curled together under a quilt decorated with cartoon characters. They look so young and so content.
Crawford gasps and knows he's awake. A moment later the bed dips and his hand is enfolded in strong, warm fingers. Crawford tries to make his own fingers hold tight, but he's out of practice. "I understand," he says. "Why you wouldn't--"
"Shut up," Schuldig says, and squeezes Crawford's hand. It should hurt, but Crawford can hardly feel it.
"At least the children are happy. Kritiker really thinks they're dead. Morons." Crawford opens his eyes for a moment. Schuldig is leaning over him. He's beautiful. "You know, they're in my hometown?" It's hard to look at Schuldig, he's so very bright. Crawford wants to smile for him, but he's tired. He closes his eyes, and sees forever.
Schuldig stood outside, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the previous one. They'd come for him soon, ask him what arrangements he wanted made. He'd lost touch with Farfarello, but he should call Nagi.
Yeah, it's worth it, kid, he thought, turning to face the bowing nurse.
It's worth it.
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