Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Past the Mission ❯ One-Shot

Disclaimer: Not mine. Someone else's. Not trying to infringe on any damn copyright. Trust me on this one. In fact, you can have Crawford. Please.

Notes: The title is taken from a Tori Amos song which inspired this story. Watch out for low-flying puns. I'm taking liberties with Crawford's past and the nature of his precognition. *sigh* I might just as well call this an AU. It was supposed to be a snippet, goddamnit, and look what happened. Bloody Muse.

Much thanks should go to Kiki for beta-reading.

Rating: R

Warning: Violence, child abuse, sex, and bad language. Oh, and Crawford. I think he merits a warning of his own.

Pairing: Crawford x Yohji

A boy ran down a corridor. White curtains, dusty with age, diffused the sunlight streaming through tall windows. Still it blinded him, making him turn away, tripping on the threadbare carpet. He fell.

Outside, a cloud passed by.

He saw again.

It just wasn't possible to see what hasn't happened.

It was, however, possible to see a universe where what will happen has happened.

The understanding that time is linear, theoretical physics and philosophical debates aside, does not preclude the possibility of parallel universes where their time runs a little ahead of our time.

All you had to do was open a window into the right universe.

This was Bradley Crawford's secret. As a child he hugged it to himself, protecting it from the probing of SS scientists and the beatings administered by his guardians. They stopped, eventually, when his eyesight was damaged by a particularly harsh session.

SS had other means of breaking him, but by then his secret was encased in ice, hidden by a diamond-tipped smirk. He learned how to read the people and situation around him, turning into instinct the knowledge of exactly which window to open. They still thought his powers were simply limited precognition.

He turned seventeen. He was good with a gun, better with his fists. The first person he killed was a female scientist who'd been kind to him when he was younger. She had (inexpertly-dyed) platinum blonde hair, sad brown eyes, and a smile that always made him feel better.

It was bad professionalism to retain emotional ties when they could get in the way of a greater plan. He made her death quick and mostly painless.

SS was annoyed, of course, but she was hardly irreplaceable. He knew her death made them wary -- they'd been expecting him to kill the guard who had taken his virginity when he was twelve. The assumption amused him. He never had nightmares of his childhood at the hands of SS. Why should he? Nothing lasts forever, and all men are mortal. The past was only important in the sense that it got him here.

He despised his tormentors, but he did not hate them. Hate would only drive him to exact irrational revenge now, threatening the neat denouement he had planned for them. He thought he might have loved the woman, as he must have loved the mother he lost, but he killed her before he could feel anything stronger than a faint affection.

Sometimes Crawford dreamed of her hands.

A boy ran down a corridor. White curtains, dusty with age, diffused the sunlight streaming through tall windows. Still it blinded him, making him turn away, tripping on the threadbare carpet. He fell.

A shadow blocked the dazzling light and he blinked, trying to see the figure crouched beside him. The figure held out a hand. Its fingers were short and tapered, and the skin around the fingernails was ragged. An acid stain marred the thumbnail.

He reached out towards the vision.

Bradley Crawford allowed himself sexual release every five weeks, always careful never to go to the same place too often. This time he lurked in a fairly respectable bar in Roppongi, where a questionable taste in 80s music was offset by the excellent Australian beer it served. He'd have to secret a crate of Boag's Premium Lager before the end of the world, he thought, and smirked.

Cold amber eyes scrutinized the patrons of the bar, finding them to fall short of his exacting standards. Possibility after possibility flashed in his mind. Too macho, too effeminate, too demanding, too clingy, too enamoured with mind-fucking... if he wanted the last, Schuldig was only too keen to demonstrate.

Sex with one -- or more -- of the Schwarz members would be more convenient than cruising for anonymous partners, but not necessarily easier. Schuldig, he knew, found his mystique both irritating and intriguing. It was a blow to the German's pride that he was unable to entice Crawford into his bed, and each failure kept him coming back for more.

He felt a fleeting regret. Schuldig was attractive enough, if you were prepared to fight for dominance.

A movement at the bar's entrance caught his eyes. Blond hair momentarily turned gold under a fluorescent spotlight, enriched into honey deeper in the dimly-lit bar. His smirk flickered, and he waited.

His timing was perfect. "Good evening, Balinese."

"Who the--Schwarz!"

"I'm off-duty." Only then did he turn around, looking up into glinting jade eyes. "Join me, Kudou."

The Weiss assassin seemed to recover some his usual aplomb. "And rule the galaxy as father and son?" he grinned casually, belying the tense lines of his slender limbs.

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "I'm not into incest."

There was a wary silence from the blond man as he took a seat at the bar, trying not to look too disconcerted. Amazing, thought Crawford. The man has made slouching into a graceful art. Before he could order a drink from the hassled bartender, Crawford pushed a bottle of beer at him, leaving a streak of condensation on the polished bar top.

"My treat."

Kudou's beautiful eyes hardened into emeralds, but he readily accepted the offer. He kept his gaze on Crawford as he drank, head tilted back, polishing off half the bottle in one swallow.

Crawford deliberately let his gaze linger on the other man's exposed throat. A blatant show of seduction was, after all, part of the usual transaction.

"I'm not interested." Kudou's voice was a low, firm bass.

"Of course." Visions spun in his mind, windows opening into the inevitable outcome. His smile turning serpentine, Crawford glanced sweepingly around the bar, drawing attention to its distinct lack of female presence. "What are you doing here then, Balinese?"

"I didn't say I wasn't interested in sex." Kudou stood, abandoning his beer. "I'm just not interested in you."

Thrown for a loop, Crawford froze in the full half-minute it took for Kudou to disappear into the crowd. He clenched his jaw, nails splintering the wooden bar top, desperately trying not to show how rattled he truly was. Anger smouldered in his chest.

The damn man had slinked.

Well, he thought, regaining control. He wasn't necessarily wrong -- it was just going to take a little time and work before Kudou found himself in bed with the enemy.

He'd make sure of it.

A boy ran down a corridor. White curtains, dusty with age, diffused the sunlight streaming through tall windows. Still it blinded him, making him turn away, tripping on the threadbare carpet. He fell.

Someone picked him up, sheltering him against the sun. A man. He could feel the taut muscles of the man's chest under his cheek, and hear steady heartbeat thumping in his ear. Strong arms enfolded him, warm and comforting.

He looked up, and saw gold.

"Bradley... Bradley..."

Yohji's moans were sweet to his ears, and he pressed a biting kiss to the other man's throat as a reward. The blond arched his back as Crawford drove deeper into him, fingers clinging to the iron trellis of the bed's headboard. His jade eyes, glazed with desire, slipped shut.

Crawford bit his lover's shoulder, hard, forcing Yohji's eyes to open. He liked Yohji to watch him as he fucked the Weiss assassin senseless. He loved to see how expressive Yohji's eyes became in the throes of sex, the shimmer of pain-pleasure so different from the sorrow hiding under a practiced languid gaze.

He shuddered, feeling himself careening towards a climax. Not yet, he thought. Not yet. Just a few moments longer...

Yohji cried out under him, long legs tightening their hold around his neck. He exhaled harshly. The sight of his lover's face was almost unbearably pleasurable, taking him over the edge -- and he gladly fell, teeth clenched against a silent scream.

He rolled off Yohji a minute into the afterglow, still breathing hard. Crawford made himself take long, deep breaths, slowing the fast beat of his heart. Beside him the blond had released his grip on the headboard, slinging his right arm over his eyes. Sweat darkened his hair, plastering strands onto his forehead.

Lights from the city slanted across the bed, thrown up against their bedroom walls in a flickering display. Here and there Crawford could make out a few details, even without his glasses: the pink monstrosity of an alarm clock Yohji claimed was a gift from Bombay, the blurred rectangle that was a reproduction of a Turner self- portrait he'd put up. His clothes, folded neatly on a chair; and Yohji's, draped carelessly over its back.

Their bedroom was the only room in the apartment they bothered to furnish. Crawford had not made any promises, and Yohji never asked for them. A few stolen hours were the best they could give each other, after all, and it would be irrational to expect more from a relationship that was barely one in the first place. It was a tacit, quiet understanding.

Crawford turned to his side, running his fingers over the tattoo on Yohji's left bicep. He outlined the inverted cross with his thumb, his forefinger tracing the words spelled out in black.

When you gonna learn?

He shifted closer, the palm of his hand gliding up the blond's shoulder. Yohji lifted his arm from his eyes, watching the Schwarz assassin in silence. Crawford's hand curled around his neck, the pressure of the grip increasing until he could barely breathe.

Air reclaimed his lungs in a rush as Crawford released his throat, the amber-eyed man rolling over to lie on his back and stare at the darkness above them. Crawford blinked rapidly, the only hint of emotion on a face as cold and hard as marble.

"Not tonight," Yohji said softly.

"No," Crawford answered, his tone controlled and unyielding. "Not tonight."

Yohji lit a cigarette. Thin plumes of smoke curled up towards the ceiling like the tail feathers of a peacock, before dissipating into nothing.

A boy ran down a corridor. White curtains, dusty with age, diffused the sunlight streaming through tall windows. Still it blinded him, making him turn away, tripping on the threadbare carpet. He fell.

Outside, a cloud passed by.

He saw again. The sunlight was warm on his pale skin. It also revealed, in cruel relief, the near-silent emptiness around him. The carpet, worn as it was, swallowed the echoes of his footsteps.

He struggled to stand. Shouldn't there be someone with him? Ignoring the sting of his skinned knees, he ran to one of the windows and peered through the grimy panes. A streak of bright red slashed across the lawn, drying into brown under the sun.

-owari-

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