Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chaos Came Early ❯ Chapter 7
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: KD Sarge 
Sometimes Schuldig is quiet.
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.15.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 585 | Status: Work In Progress
Sometimes Schuldig is quiet.
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.15.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 585 | Status: Work In Progress
It’s short, I know, but it didn’t want to be longer.
****
Maybe he’d been naive, Crawford thought, though that word hadn’t applied to him in years. Maybe he’d been naive, but he’d never imagined being a team leader would entail this.
“Ooh,” cooed yet another woman, softly, as he stalked to the elevator. “How sweet!”
Exactly what was sweet about a fifteen-year-old drooling on his neck?
“Farfarello,” Crawford snapped quietly, “quit smirking.”
“Ja wohl, mein Herr.” With a smirk.
“You should have woke him up in the car.” He should have realized something was wrong himself, Crawford admitted, when Schuldig shut up. He should have checked, not breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed the silence.
“Last night you wanted him to go to sleep. Now you don’t?”
“If he naps now, he could be up all night again.”
“So wake him up.”
“No.”
Farfarello shrugged and darted ahead to push the button. Crawford paced himself, to walk straight in as the doors opened.
In their suite–their new, larger suite, Crawford knew team members often resented telepaths their careful treatment, and he had no intention of disaffecting Farfarello by making him sleep on the couch, or losing him by letting him sleep in the adjoining room–in their suite, he put Schuldig to bed again, and wondered if this were going to become a pattern. He pulled off the sneakers, the jacket, the jeans and the half-gloves. The gloves were the only new item Schuldig had worn out of the clothing store, claiming the rest was “a surprise.”
The gloves and the sunglasses. Crawford growled as the damn things tugged at the boy’s hair, and had to untangle them before he could set them on the nightstand. Silly. Schuldig loved the glasses, but he was too vain to cover his beautiful eyes. So he spent a hundred marks on a pair of sunglasses he never intended to wear.
With those and more–and less–sensible purchases, the boy had easily blown through five thousand marks in one trip. Crawford had tried not to keep count, though even with all his net worth, he still found it hard not to track every penny. Today he had just kept reminding himself he was investing in his plans. Schuldig would be useless broken. He had to lure the telepath into following him.
Fortunately, the boy was easy.
More fortunate, he was asleep. That yapping mouth quiet, the constant movement stilled. In America he’d have been drugged into obedience long since, America had no tolerance for bright noisy children.
In America, he’d have been stolen, his family murdered, and he still would have been in Essett.
Crawford set a package of Gummi Bears on the nightstand and looked around for anything else he should do before he left. He didn’t want to chance coming back in and waking Schuldig, it was his sincere hope the boy would sleep through the evening and the night, and not start talking again until at least 5 a.m. He could handle five a.m. if he had to.
“Schu-Schu’s” bedroom faced west, the setting sun streamed in the window. Weakly, it was early winter in Berlin, but when it reached the bed, it regained its vigor, rekindled by a stronger fire. Crawford pondered how fitting it was, that his wild child telepath was a redhead. And those elfin features–he should be the Irish one. Obnoxious little leprechaun.
Heh.
Crawford’s fingers itched to draw the boy, surprising him. He hadn’t drawn anything in years. But now–maybe a charcoal sketch. No color, never could he truly capture the hair, but a simple sketch might be worth the effort. Just a suggestion of the beauty of the original–
Those itching fingers were suddenly touching, brushing strands of flame away from the face, lightly tracing the lines of features, mapping how the shadows fell...Crawford jerked away and left.
Drawing accomplished nothing. He had left it behind for a reason.
Farfarello had turned on the TV in the outer room, he was eating his leftover mozzarella sticks from the point of his new knife while he chuckled over The Simpsons. Leather-clad or not, the one-eyed psychotic didn’t look dangerous, sprawled out on the couch with one leg hanging over the back.
Being scary all the time would be too much to ask, Crawford told himself.
A bevy of bellboys must have been at work, Schuldig’s purchases lined an entire wall. Crawford ignored the bags, started a pot of coffee and took off his jacket. Crackle of paper–oh.
Vain bastard that he was, Schuldig couldn’t walk past a photo booth. At least he had included his teammates the second time, though Crawford would willingly have passed.
At least it was a good picture of Schuldig. Farfarello had his eye closed, and was looking the wrong way besides, and Crawford looked as annoyed as he’d felt, crammed in close quarters with two teenagers and knowing Schuldig was getting powdered sugar all over his suit–but draped across Crawford’s shoulders, Schuldig looked beautiful. Happy. That had been the goal. Mission accomplished.
“Pretty,” Farfarello said, Crawford managed not to jump. So quietly he moved–on his feet, the boy looked deadly. Oh, yes, this was his killer. Death on two legs.
“But I like mine better.” Farfarello held out his picture, where Crawford still looked annoyed, but Farfarello was smiling and Schuldig was caught mid-swear, after his Irish friend poked him for a snide remark.
“I’m not surprised.”
Schuldig’s picture was the last one, where he had grabbed both his teammates in neck-hugs and demanded “smile for the camera!” The resultant picture had given him a fit of laughter that left him leaning on a wall, exhausted and wiping his eyes.
“Why is he guilty?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I haven’t.”
“He let me have the jacket, do you think he’d let me have these?” Farfarello held up a pair of handcuffs. Real, unpadded ones, not the kind they’d seen at the mall.
“Where did you get those?”
“Mail.” Farfarello nodded at the coffee table.
Stein, again? What the hell was he up to?
“Did they come with a key?”
“Somewhere.”
“Take them. If he cares, I’ll buy you your own.”
Farfarello shackled his hands together, then went back to the TV as the commercial break ended. Crawford shook his head. Another happy team member.
Happy had been half the goal today, Crawford reminded himself as he sat at his laptop. The other half was to convince Schuldig to accept training, but Crawford had seen no sign the telepath realized his lack.
So he would need to be shown. Where there’s a will...
“D’oh!” Homer Simpson shouted behind him.
****
Maybe he’d been naive, Crawford thought, though that word hadn’t applied to him in years. Maybe he’d been naive, but he’d never imagined being a team leader would entail this.
“Ooh,” cooed yet another woman, softly, as he stalked to the elevator. “How sweet!”
Exactly what was sweet about a fifteen-year-old drooling on his neck?
“Farfarello,” Crawford snapped quietly, “quit smirking.”
“Ja wohl, mein Herr.” With a smirk.
“You should have woke him up in the car.” He should have realized something was wrong himself, Crawford admitted, when Schuldig shut up. He should have checked, not breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed the silence.
“Last night you wanted him to go to sleep. Now you don’t?”
“If he naps now, he could be up all night again.”
“So wake him up.”
“No.”
Farfarello shrugged and darted ahead to push the button. Crawford paced himself, to walk straight in as the doors opened.
In their suite–their new, larger suite, Crawford knew team members often resented telepaths their careful treatment, and he had no intention of disaffecting Farfarello by making him sleep on the couch, or losing him by letting him sleep in the adjoining room–in their suite, he put Schuldig to bed again, and wondered if this were going to become a pattern. He pulled off the sneakers, the jacket, the jeans and the half-gloves. The gloves were the only new item Schuldig had worn out of the clothing store, claiming the rest was “a surprise.”
The gloves and the sunglasses. Crawford growled as the damn things tugged at the boy’s hair, and had to untangle them before he could set them on the nightstand. Silly. Schuldig loved the glasses, but he was too vain to cover his beautiful eyes. So he spent a hundred marks on a pair of sunglasses he never intended to wear.
With those and more–and less–sensible purchases, the boy had easily blown through five thousand marks in one trip. Crawford had tried not to keep count, though even with all his net worth, he still found it hard not to track every penny. Today he had just kept reminding himself he was investing in his plans. Schuldig would be useless broken. He had to lure the telepath into following him.
Fortunately, the boy was easy.
More fortunate, he was asleep. That yapping mouth quiet, the constant movement stilled. In America he’d have been drugged into obedience long since, America had no tolerance for bright noisy children.
In America, he’d have been stolen, his family murdered, and he still would have been in Essett.
Crawford set a package of Gummi Bears on the nightstand and looked around for anything else he should do before he left. He didn’t want to chance coming back in and waking Schuldig, it was his sincere hope the boy would sleep through the evening and the night, and not start talking again until at least 5 a.m. He could handle five a.m. if he had to.
“Schu-Schu’s” bedroom faced west, the setting sun streamed in the window. Weakly, it was early winter in Berlin, but when it reached the bed, it regained its vigor, rekindled by a stronger fire. Crawford pondered how fitting it was, that his wild child telepath was a redhead. And those elfin features–he should be the Irish one. Obnoxious little leprechaun.
Heh.
Crawford’s fingers itched to draw the boy, surprising him. He hadn’t drawn anything in years. But now–maybe a charcoal sketch. No color, never could he truly capture the hair, but a simple sketch might be worth the effort. Just a suggestion of the beauty of the original–
Those itching fingers were suddenly touching, brushing strands of flame away from the face, lightly tracing the lines of features, mapping how the shadows fell...Crawford jerked away and left.
Drawing accomplished nothing. He had left it behind for a reason.
Farfarello had turned on the TV in the outer room, he was eating his leftover mozzarella sticks from the point of his new knife while he chuckled over The Simpsons. Leather-clad or not, the one-eyed psychotic didn’t look dangerous, sprawled out on the couch with one leg hanging over the back.
Being scary all the time would be too much to ask, Crawford told himself.
A bevy of bellboys must have been at work, Schuldig’s purchases lined an entire wall. Crawford ignored the bags, started a pot of coffee and took off his jacket. Crackle of paper–oh.
Vain bastard that he was, Schuldig couldn’t walk past a photo booth. At least he had included his teammates the second time, though Crawford would willingly have passed.
At least it was a good picture of Schuldig. Farfarello had his eye closed, and was looking the wrong way besides, and Crawford looked as annoyed as he’d felt, crammed in close quarters with two teenagers and knowing Schuldig was getting powdered sugar all over his suit–but draped across Crawford’s shoulders, Schuldig looked beautiful. Happy. That had been the goal. Mission accomplished.
“Pretty,” Farfarello said, Crawford managed not to jump. So quietly he moved–on his feet, the boy looked deadly. Oh, yes, this was his killer. Death on two legs.
“But I like mine better.” Farfarello held out his picture, where Crawford still looked annoyed, but Farfarello was smiling and Schuldig was caught mid-swear, after his Irish friend poked him for a snide remark.
“I’m not surprised.”
Schuldig’s picture was the last one, where he had grabbed both his teammates in neck-hugs and demanded “smile for the camera!” The resultant picture had given him a fit of laughter that left him leaning on a wall, exhausted and wiping his eyes.
“Why is he guilty?”
“You’ll have to ask him. I haven’t.”
“He let me have the jacket, do you think he’d let me have these?” Farfarello held up a pair of handcuffs. Real, unpadded ones, not the kind they’d seen at the mall.
“Where did you get those?”
“Mail.” Farfarello nodded at the coffee table.
Stein, again? What the hell was he up to?
“Did they come with a key?”
“Somewhere.”
“Take them. If he cares, I’ll buy you your own.”
Farfarello shackled his hands together, then went back to the TV as the commercial break ended. Crawford shook his head. Another happy team member.
Happy had been half the goal today, Crawford reminded himself as he sat at his laptop. The other half was to convince Schuldig to accept training, but Crawford had seen no sign the telepath realized his lack.
So he would need to be shown. Where there’s a will...
“D’oh!” Homer Simpson shouted behind him.