Convergence

A/N: Umm…for some reason this was nearly impossible to write. Usually that means it’s either really good, or that it’s really bad. Sometimes just that I’m really tired and need a lot more caffeine.

Hope it’s really good.

*******

Yohji had seen a lot of things in his short life. Not short because it was quite over yet, but short because by nearly anyone’s standards, he was very young. Not that he felt young. He felt–

Agh. He’d seen a lot of things. Horrible things, frightening things, things to give a guy nightmares for a week, even if he already had a resident nightmare.

What he had not seen, and never had expected to see, was impulsive, here-there-everywhere Schuldig determined and single-minded as Aya on his most intolerant day.

“Hurry up!” the telepath snapped again, from three meters ahead again. Yohji sighed and walked faster. Though every time he caught up, Schu trotted off again.

At least the bastard had let himself be convinced to go around on the beach. Yohji didn’t even want to think about the undergrowth of the interior of the island, and the effects that undergrowth would have had on his under-parts.

Talk about never–Yohji had never been self-conscious, and he’d certainly never been a prude. It was just ridiculous that he was wearing a towel.

Maybe Aya had a point about his three-sizes-too-small clothes.

Yeah. Like Aya wore sensible clothes. God, that black sleeveless he wore under his trench. Especially when he took the trench off, and it was the sleeveless and the gloves. And the black jeans. God in heaven those jeans fit his every curve and angle and damn it Aya knew they drove Yohji insane, that was why he wore them more now than he ever had before. Just knowing Aya had them on under the trench was enough to make Yohji–

“Hurry up, Kudou!”

******

Aya was…perceptive. It was one of the things that made him so good at what he did. So he knew that though his dreams said Yohji, those were not the blonde’s lips on his.

Think, then move.

“Damn you!”

Just as he’d suspected. Aya opened his eyes on Crawford clutching his face.

“Bastard,” the American growled. “Should have left you in the ocean.”

Aya sat up and glared. “Should have kept your lips to yourself.”

“I was trying to give you mouth-to-mouth! Did you think I was pinching your nose because it’s cute?”

Umm…Aya rubbed his nose.

“You broke my glasses.”

“You don’t need them.” Aya dumped the water out of his saya and wondered where the hell he was going to get oil for the blade.

“That is completely beside the point. I dragged you out instead of letting you drown, I tried to get you to breathe, and you broke my glasses. Are you always such an ungrateful bastard?”

Wasn’t that what Yohji called him? “Hn.” Aya looked around. “Is this the right island?”

“It had better be, since you let the boat sink.”

“After the Oracle aimed us straight at a fucking island!”

The American glared, then sighed and reached into a pocket. Frowned, handed Aya something squishy that wriggled out of his hand, and reached back in his pocket. Came out with a small electronic device that he took apart and poured water from.

“I can’t be sure,” Crawford said. “It had been some time since I checked our progress. You set the course–”

“On your directions!”

“–so it must be the right island.”

“You don’t know?”

Crawford gave what should have been the shiny-glasses-evil-look, but without the glasses was just him cocking his head. He realized it and stood up. “If you’re recovered, we should go.”

Aya ignored the offered hand and stood, and did not sway as the world whirled a few times before settling.

He damn well wasn’t going to throw up, either.

*******

Schuldig was pissed, and that damn Kudou wasn’t helping any. He’d been keeping up for a good five minutes, giving Schu nothing to bitch about. Nothing to think about, except that he’d been taken for a fool by a fucking -2 on the Richter scale, couldn’t take over a snail telepath and his awed admiration of Schu’s every move.

And he had no one to blame but himself. Though he’d make Brad pay for bringing the bastard home when he got the chance, Schuldig was the one who should have caught on. Brad saw pieces on a board; Schu was supposed to see behind the moves. He’d been watching Brad’s ass–and a damned fine ass it was–watching Brad’s ass for seven years, he damn well ought to know the Oracle’s blind spots. Even he had them. His biggest was that Brad Crawford, Prince of the Universe, could not comprehend anyone making themselves appear less than they were. Oh, he could understand false humility, pretended loyalty–but to make oneself seem weak? To pretend to be powerless, helpless? That simply did not compute.

That was why Brad needed Schu, well-versed in every form of human sneakiness. And he’d blown it, let himself get hijacked by some–

“Schu,” Kudou said, derailing his swearing before he even got started, “please tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s a party,” Schu growled. “And we’re the guests of honor.”

Wasn’t that the fucking truth.

Dawn was coming, and he was still stalking down the damn beach. Should have gone through, and to hell with Kudou’s sensitive body parts. Wasn’t like he was sharing the damn things anyway. Should have just left–

No. Once he realized there was no barrier to get past, Schu had poked around in what little there was inside the villagers’ heads. And he’d come out determined. No way in hell was he leaving Balinese alone, the kitty was his. If anyone was turning him into a mindless sex toy–more of a mindless sex toy than he already was–it would be Schu.

Besides, he looked damned fuckable in that towel.

******

The house was big, and Crawford had no idea of the interior. He didn’t know how many people were in it, how loyal they were to Bickley, he didn’t know where the traps and the dead ends and the target were. With Schwarz behind him it wouldn’t have mattered, but now–

Once again Crawford dragged his mind away from thoughts of his team. He had survived, even thrived before them, he did not need them now. This was for them, anyway, he would kill the bastard and put his team back together and–

And what? Ran had been right to laugh at his plan, how had he not seen that there needed to be an “after?” Farfarello was the only one who might consider dying appropriate once they were done, he and Schu and Nagi would prefer to live.

Forever, with his pixie–

Oh hell yes, there needed to be sheep for Schu to torture. Note to self, do not kill all the mundanes.

Damn “Ran” to the seven hells. Crawford’s head hurt. And his stomach. And he had that general feeling of just shoot me he hadn’t had since Schuldig–

That night never happened.

It certainly helped the denial, that he barely remembered any of it. He’d often wondered how much, if any, Schuldig remembered.

Nothing. It never happened. He’d erased it. Killed the witnesses, destroyed the pictures, burned the negatives and the building they were in, and caused a parking garage to be constructed where the lake had been. It never happened.

That night was as non-existent as Bickley would soon be.

*******

Schuldig was pissed, Yohji was finally realizing. Not just irritated, or annoyed, or even ticked, not his usual flare and fade anger, but a continuing, growing, burning rage.

And like Aya, Schuldig in a rage was a truly glorious sight. His face was flushed, his eyes glowed, his hair snapped and crackled around his face like he’d been shuffling his feet across a deep carpet. Only he hadn’t, just stalked across the sand and into the house like–well, avenging angel could not apply. Like the devil, come for his own.

The house looked like the owner had made a deal with the devil. It was big, it was beautiful, it was crammed full of all the comfort and luxury and antiques and art it could possibly hold. It held more of the irritatingly-cheerful, none-too-bright people, so many in fact that Yohji wondered if someone had been raiding customer service departments all around the world, to build a staff that only wanted to please, but had no idea how to do so. If Yohji ate one more fish anything, he was going to explode. He didn’t care to smoke more than one cigarette at a time, and he didn’t want to drink, he had a feeling that anything that got Schu devoted to one goal for more than five minutes was something he should pay attention to. But just try telling them that.

He had, over and over, but he kept trying.

And Kami help him if he accidentally touched the clothes of whoever he was trying to fend off. That was what really made him sick, though he was sure it wasn’t what had set Schu off. If Yohji tugged the slightest bit on any idiot’s clothes, in half a second that person would be naked and smiling, offering whatever body part they thought might be of interest.

Ick.

Eager to please? You could say that. But ask for clothes, and he only got more towels offered to him.

Schuldig snapped a curse, and the two morons in front of him dropped to the floor and started doing each other–the curse had been “fuck.” The telepath stepped over them.

One thing these people had going for them, Yohji noted. Whatever they did, they did it enthusiastically. He went around, lest the view under the towel make them think he wanted to join in.

As they reached the top of the fourth flight of stairs, Schuldig snarled again, and swerved to a door on the right. Yohji followed, and stood staring.

What the hell? A hospital? Before him lay two rows of five beds, each holding a sleeping occupant. Another annoyingly-cheerful was caring for them, working her way through the rows, it looked like. The three behind her were propped on their left sides with foam blocks, the one she was dealing with was getting a sponge bath, and the other six were blocked up on their right sides. She was the first idiot to see them who didn’t come running with anything and everything they could possibly want, only wrong. She didn’t even look at them.

Yohji had seen one too many rooms like this, to believe this was any kind of care facility. What the hell was being done to these people?

Schuldig stalked down the rows, peering at each face. At the fourth bed on the left, he let out a stream of at least five languages, then cut off. He threw his arms down and out, his hands open, threw his head back and Yohji saw his eyes unfocus. He felt the German’s power wash over him, god, it had never been like that before, what–

Oh shit. Schuldig was laughing. Yohji wasn’t sure if he should slap him for hysterics, plug his ears, or just run.

Definitely not ‘slap.’ ‘Run’ was probably the correct choice.

*******

Aya was not surprised that Crawford had offered not one piece of information since the boat-sinking. He hadn’t really been surprised that the bastard had sailed them right into an island rather than tell Aya how close they were to their goal. He hadn’t bothered asking why he hadn’t been able to see the island from the boat, or the real reason Crawford had dragged him out of the water. He knew quite well it hadn’t been kindness, and he rather doubted it was lust. Crawford was drawn to Schuldig’s heat and passion, just as Yohji’s warmth and caring attracted Aya.

Clearly he’d swallowed too much water. He had just compared Schuldig to Yohji.

It didn’t matter. Aya knew what he needed to know, at least considering the fact that he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Crawford without taking the time and energy to beat it out of him. He knew the house belonged to someone named Bickley, that Bickley was a telepath, though a weak one, and also a telekinetic.

Bickley had kidnapped Yohji.

He knew that these servants were defective and disturbing, no matter how they smiled while offering sushi, sashimi, fried and grilled and baked fish and cigarettes and towels. He knew they didn’t care if he and Crawford walked through the house carrying weapons, and he knew that if he’d changed his mind about killing Crawford–which he hadn’t–he would have changed it back after realizing that Crawford not only did not know where he was going, he had no intention of warning Aya of that fact. He knew that this was their third time past that painting, and while Aya was quite certain it was indeed a Picasso, that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t care to see it again. He stalked past the idiot and took the lead.

It was barely dawn. Nearly any self-respecting villain would still be in bed. And anyone who liked being lord and master as much as this Bickley-bastard obviously did, would have his rooms at the top of the house.

Probably it should have bothered him that the Oracle’s power appeared to be non-functioning. But all Aya could manage was to hope Crawford enjoyed being normal.

“Enjoy” was meant sarcastically, of course. He wasn’t Yohji, but he could do sarcasm.

The house was five stories, the fifth smaller than the rest, with a large balcony surrounding it. A white wicker patio set sat before the penthouse, and under a large striped umbrella sat a man with blond hair slicked back, a cup of something, and an urbane smile he directed at Crawford. Places were set in front of two of the other chairs.

“Well, Mr. Crawford! This is a delightful surprise. I do hope you had a pleasant journey?” He waved at the table. “Won’t you join me?”

For once that idiot Crawford wasn’t in the mood to be civilized, he simply pointed his gun. “Where,” he said, “is Schuldig?”

Aya paced to the side, thumbing his sword loose in its saya. Clearly Schuldig was on the island, Crawford had been using a tracking device. Yohji was here too, he had climbed into the car of a well-dressed blonde man and there weren’t that many of those in Tokyo.

With no need for this Bickley person to answer, there was no need for him to continue breathing.

“Your friend is very eager,” Bickley said, with an amused glance at Aya. His eyes darted back and he blinked. “My goodness!” he said. “Mr. Crawford, you do know the most interesting people! Who is this?”

Reminding himself it could not be this easy, this man had gotten the better of Schwarz, Aya slashed. And wasn’t really surprised when the blonde leaped away, as fast and as far as Schuldig could have done. The chair fell in pieces. Aya stalked after the blonde. He had jumped towards the edge, not the interior, and not near the stairs. Foolish, or leading into a trap?

Not that it mattered.

Crawford holstered his gun, the telekinetic must have done something to it. He moved to Aya’s left and advanced with him. Bickley shook his head.

“Not in a talkative mood, Mr. Crawford? You take the joy from everything. I’m sure Schuldig has mentioned that once or twice.” He leaned on the low wall and lit a cigarette. Without glancing at Crawford, Aya moved; he sensed more than saw the American do the same.

Before he could complete his blow, Bickley shot aside, somehow snatched Crawford, and held him as a shield. “I am sorry,” he said, gripping the Oracle by the neck and an arm twisted behind him, “but I’m just not ready to go yet.”

“Do you think,” Crawford asked, “my body will slow his sword at all?”

Aya smiled.