Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chaos Came Early ❯ In Chicago In December ( Chapter 11 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: KD Sarge 
Schuldig and boredom are not a good combination. Crawford is aware of this.
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.17.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 556 | Status: Work In Progress
Schuldig and boredom are not a good combination. Crawford is aware of this.
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.17.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 556 | Status: Work In Progress
Finally! Sorry for the wait all, especially Phoenix. But I kept telling you I needed Schu. Had you sent him to destroy my house sooner...
****
“You’re an American,” Schuldig whined. “An American and a precog. Didn’t you know it snowed in Chicago in December?”
Again Crawford ignored him, his eyes on his book though he’d long since given up on reading. The German possessed a particularly penetrating whine. As usual, when he didn’t react, the boy found another target. Kacia bolted upright, then glared at Schuldig.
“Did none of your training penetrate that thick skull? Like this.”
In the dark window where the row of seats reflected, Crawford saw Schuldig wince and hid his smile. And again resisted the urge to snatch that stupid hat off the boy’s flaming hair. And Farfarello’s hat as well, if possible the Irish boy’s was worse.
No, it wasn’t, he thought as the telepaths exchanged pokes again. While the elf hat with ears was ridiculous, it was not actually painful. The Santa hat with dangling mistletoe clashed horribly with Schuldig’s hair. Of course. Crawford wondered how the boy could be so into clothes and not know about colors that should not be near each other.
It was clothes this week, wasn’t it?
Yes. Without looking up Crawford examined the sculpted hair—under the hat—the white silk shirt with poufs at neck and wrists under a blue velvet vest, the skin-tight velvet pants and slouch suede boots, and decided if it wasn’t clothes this week, the boy had an audition to join Duran Duran. Who didn’t dress like that anymore anyway.
Fashion was better than video games. On discovering such a wide world of things he’d never experienced, Schuldig had abandoned the “everything today” approach. For three weeks he had focused on music, and his clothes had been jeans and various band t-shirts, his hair slicked or teased around his head, depending on the band of the day. Then, he had gone into video games and worn the same jeans and t-shirt for days on end, while his hair attempted dreadlocks. Crawford was sure the boy hadn’t slept more than every other night. He’d only eaten if someone put food in his hand at an opportune moment in his game... They had been on a longer mission, taking up occupancy of a mountain cabin three weeks before their target rented one, so as not to alert his security. Schuldig had almost blown it anyway, he had smelled so bad. By then it was sheer stubbornness, as Kacia had made repeated pointed comments about his odor.
That had lasted until he fell asleep on the couch and woke to Farfarello stuffing him in the refrigerator for later disposal.
Fashion was better than video games.
The telepaths were still exchanging pokes, both squinting against matching headaches. Crawford sighed and decided he’d better put an end to it. He didn’t need both of them, but he did need one of them, and they were perfectly capable of harassing each other into unconsciousness. They’d done it before.
The target walked past again, snapping orders into his cell phone headset as he pulled his carry-on. Crawford wondered if the man were really conducting business on Christmas Eve or just needed to look like he was.
Either way, he was pathetic. Essett and Crawford agreed on that score, at least.
“Schu,” Crawford said without looking up, “everyone sitting needs to go to the restroom. Now.”
“Ja, ja.” The German never took his glare off Kacia as a gate-ful of stranded travelers made for the restrooms at once. A few scuffles broke out; Schuldig would never be accused of being gentle with the sheep.
“Kacia, all the women who aren’t going already.”
That was more complicated, but less effort. So their little war still stood even, and both hated him as well as each other, for not taking their side. In front of them, the target looked around, confused at suddenly being in the middle of a crowd. He cursed at an awkward teen who tripped over his bag, and walked on down the terminal, getting his exercise as he waited.
“Farfarello, get ready. Schu, leave Kacia alone.” That went both ways. Kacia would see him defending her. Schuldig would see him being protective of the weaker telepath.
“Herr Crawford,” Farfarello said, picking his fingernails with a splinter from the bone of his fried chicken, “I’m always ready.”
The target came back, shaking his head over the lines out the doors of both restrooms.
“Kacia, start picking people at random to give up and leave. Three or four now, then one person or group every few minutes.”
The brunette bit her lip and began as Schu glared at Crawford. He kept his eyes on the book, even after the target came walking back and headed into the now empty men’s room.
“That one, Farfarello. Schuldig, go with him. No blood, no witnesses. Make it look accidental.”
The Irish boy sauntered through the door, followed by his friend. Crawford didn’t follow, he’d carefully set this up so they could do it alone.
He did wonder why the hell Farfarello took his dinner with him.
Five minutes later both boys sauntered back out. Crawford picked up his carry-on bag and stood. Wordlessly his team fell in around him, and they joined the slow trickle towards the taxi stand.
“What are you snickering at?” Kacia demanded of Schuldig as they stepped into the snow. The German grinned.
“Poor man. Choked on his chicken on the fucking can.”
Crawford managed not to laugh as he guided them to the taxi he’d arranged. As expected, Schuldig had quickly adapted his acquired English to his personality.
Kacia sighed when the taxi took them to the train station. Schuldig grinned at her, but only to be obnoxious. He was certainly tired too.
He’d planned for that. He walked Farf and Schu to their shared room—odd as it was, they got in less trouble when he kept them together, at least for the first six waking hours. After that, the inverse was true. But they weren’t going to be out of his sight for six waking hours, he’d made quite certain the entire team was exhausted. Kacia was across the hall from them, he guided her last so the boys wouldn’t see she had as large a bedroom as they, to herself.
Crawford had even more, but he wasn’t revealing that yet. He sat in his sofa to outline his report while the details were still fresh in his mind. A lot of planning had gone into that apparently-simple mission. When he finished, he put the laptop away and put on his pajamas, made certain his robe was handy.
Unpredictable Schuldig might be. But Crawford was still betting he got invaded very early in the morning.
******
[insert usual beg for reviews here] For any new to me—if I’m breathing, I’m still writing! So even if you find this fifty pages back on mm.org, will you review anyway? Please?
****
“You’re an American,” Schuldig whined. “An American and a precog. Didn’t you know it snowed in Chicago in December?”
Again Crawford ignored him, his eyes on his book though he’d long since given up on reading. The German possessed a particularly penetrating whine. As usual, when he didn’t react, the boy found another target. Kacia bolted upright, then glared at Schuldig.
“Did none of your training penetrate that thick skull? Like this.”
In the dark window where the row of seats reflected, Crawford saw Schuldig wince and hid his smile. And again resisted the urge to snatch that stupid hat off the boy’s flaming hair. And Farfarello’s hat as well, if possible the Irish boy’s was worse.
No, it wasn’t, he thought as the telepaths exchanged pokes again. While the elf hat with ears was ridiculous, it was not actually painful. The Santa hat with dangling mistletoe clashed horribly with Schuldig’s hair. Of course. Crawford wondered how the boy could be so into clothes and not know about colors that should not be near each other.
It was clothes this week, wasn’t it?
Yes. Without looking up Crawford examined the sculpted hair—under the hat—the white silk shirt with poufs at neck and wrists under a blue velvet vest, the skin-tight velvet pants and slouch suede boots, and decided if it wasn’t clothes this week, the boy had an audition to join Duran Duran. Who didn’t dress like that anymore anyway.
Fashion was better than video games. On discovering such a wide world of things he’d never experienced, Schuldig had abandoned the “everything today” approach. For three weeks he had focused on music, and his clothes had been jeans and various band t-shirts, his hair slicked or teased around his head, depending on the band of the day. Then, he had gone into video games and worn the same jeans and t-shirt for days on end, while his hair attempted dreadlocks. Crawford was sure the boy hadn’t slept more than every other night. He’d only eaten if someone put food in his hand at an opportune moment in his game... They had been on a longer mission, taking up occupancy of a mountain cabin three weeks before their target rented one, so as not to alert his security. Schuldig had almost blown it anyway, he had smelled so bad. By then it was sheer stubbornness, as Kacia had made repeated pointed comments about his odor.
That had lasted until he fell asleep on the couch and woke to Farfarello stuffing him in the refrigerator for later disposal.
Fashion was better than video games.
The telepaths were still exchanging pokes, both squinting against matching headaches. Crawford sighed and decided he’d better put an end to it. He didn’t need both of them, but he did need one of them, and they were perfectly capable of harassing each other into unconsciousness. They’d done it before.
The target walked past again, snapping orders into his cell phone headset as he pulled his carry-on. Crawford wondered if the man were really conducting business on Christmas Eve or just needed to look like he was.
Either way, he was pathetic. Essett and Crawford agreed on that score, at least.
“Schu,” Crawford said without looking up, “everyone sitting needs to go to the restroom. Now.”
“Ja, ja.” The German never took his glare off Kacia as a gate-ful of stranded travelers made for the restrooms at once. A few scuffles broke out; Schuldig would never be accused of being gentle with the sheep.
“Kacia, all the women who aren’t going already.”
That was more complicated, but less effort. So their little war still stood even, and both hated him as well as each other, for not taking their side. In front of them, the target looked around, confused at suddenly being in the middle of a crowd. He cursed at an awkward teen who tripped over his bag, and walked on down the terminal, getting his exercise as he waited.
“Farfarello, get ready. Schu, leave Kacia alone.” That went both ways. Kacia would see him defending her. Schuldig would see him being protective of the weaker telepath.
“Herr Crawford,” Farfarello said, picking his fingernails with a splinter from the bone of his fried chicken, “I’m always ready.”
The target came back, shaking his head over the lines out the doors of both restrooms.
“Kacia, start picking people at random to give up and leave. Three or four now, then one person or group every few minutes.”
The brunette bit her lip and began as Schu glared at Crawford. He kept his eyes on the book, even after the target came walking back and headed into the now empty men’s room.
“That one, Farfarello. Schuldig, go with him. No blood, no witnesses. Make it look accidental.”
The Irish boy sauntered through the door, followed by his friend. Crawford didn’t follow, he’d carefully set this up so they could do it alone.
He did wonder why the hell Farfarello took his dinner with him.
Five minutes later both boys sauntered back out. Crawford picked up his carry-on bag and stood. Wordlessly his team fell in around him, and they joined the slow trickle towards the taxi stand.
“What are you snickering at?” Kacia demanded of Schuldig as they stepped into the snow. The German grinned.
“Poor man. Choked on his chicken on the fucking can.”
Crawford managed not to laugh as he guided them to the taxi he’d arranged. As expected, Schuldig had quickly adapted his acquired English to his personality.
Kacia sighed when the taxi took them to the train station. Schuldig grinned at her, but only to be obnoxious. He was certainly tired too.
He’d planned for that. He walked Farf and Schu to their shared room—odd as it was, they got in less trouble when he kept them together, at least for the first six waking hours. After that, the inverse was true. But they weren’t going to be out of his sight for six waking hours, he’d made quite certain the entire team was exhausted. Kacia was across the hall from them, he guided her last so the boys wouldn’t see she had as large a bedroom as they, to herself.
Crawford had even more, but he wasn’t revealing that yet. He sat in his sofa to outline his report while the details were still fresh in his mind. A lot of planning had gone into that apparently-simple mission. When he finished, he put the laptop away and put on his pajamas, made certain his robe was handy.
Unpredictable Schuldig might be. But Crawford was still betting he got invaded very early in the morning.
******
[insert usual beg for reviews here] For any new to me—if I’m breathing, I’m still writing! So even if you find this fifty pages back on mm.org, will you review anyway? Please?