Crawford knew there was something wrong when he pulled into the driveway at 6 a.m., and before he reached the garage their neighbor was waiting in a wrinkled kimono and haggard face. He opened the car door and throbbing waves of Queen rolled over him.
“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS.”
“Stay in the car,” he told the others.
“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS.”
“Crawford-san,” the woman said with a slight bow. “I should have known you were not home.”
“NO TIME FOR LOSERS.”
“Takanata-san, I will deal with this.”
“‘CAUSE WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS...”
“It isn’t–“ the woman bit her lip.
“…OF THE WORLD!”
“It isn’t just the noise, Crawford-san. My husband came over earlier to ask them to be quieter. He…hasn’t come home yet.”
“How much earlier?”
“Six hours ago.”
Damn it. If Schu let Farf kill him, they were both going in straitjackets. The Takanatas were good–meaning tolerant, unobservant, and patient–neighbors. “I’m sure he will be home soon, Takanata-san. I’m also sure a woman of your–quality–does not wish to see what is going on inside.” Though there had better not be blood.
The woman paled and bowed again. “Arigatou, Crawford-san.”
Crawford waited until she went through her door to take out his gun. With Schu in a partying mood and only Farfarello’s judgement to restrain him, anything could be going on inside that house. The car’s passenger door opened.
“Are you sure you don’t want me with you?” Nagi asked. Crawford looked him over and decided again that the boy needed rest. No matter what was in there.
“I’ll handle it.”
“I CONSIDER IT A CHALLENGE BEFORE THE WHOLE HUMAN RACE,
AND I AIN’T GONNA LOSE!”
If that was his CD, and there was one bit of dust or blood or any other bodily fluids on it, Crawford promised himself he would investigate Schuldig’s worst nightmares. His music collection had suffered enough recently.
Not to mention his Freddie Mercury bust would never be the same.
Crawford reached carefully for the door.
It didn’t explode, just opened into the kitchen, onto the dregs of one hell of a party. Booze bottles, pizza boxes, take-out cartons, ashtrays and things that weren’t ashtrays but had been used as such, an inflatable doll half-deflated, random clothing including a stocking hanging from Farf’s rafter…the chainsaw was worrying, but it wasn’t bloody. Crawford dismissed it.
“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS.
AND WE’LL KEEP ON FIGHTING TILL THE END.”
In the back yard the dog was straining at its chain, barking at the house. At least, it looked like it was barking. Crawford couldn’t hear it. He went for the next door, gun still at the ready, but behind his leg. Takanata was in here somewhere. He hoped.
“WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS.
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS.”
“Hey, batter, batter, batter, batter, batter!” Farfarello, and a woman’s squeal. What the–Crawford pushed the door open.
“NO TIME FOR LOSERS.”
The coffee table had been–hung from the ceiling. The carpet had been–he hoped that was paint. Red in a circle, and Takanata-san was on one side. Three women were on the other, Takanata and the women wearing only sumo-wrestler loincloths–all three women wore the same one. As he watched the combatants charged giggling into the ring. The women fell before Takanata even got to them, and Farfarello whooped and swung on the coffee table. He had a woman too. She was wearing Pippi Longstocking braids and Farf’s straitjacket. Farf was wearing–well, Crawford assumed those were her clothes. He hoped they didn’t belong to Farfarello. Schuldig was nowhere–oh.
The pink feather headdress looked eerily familiar.
“‘CAUSE WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS…OF THE WORLD!”
“Foul!” Farfarello called. “Penalty, blondie on the bottom!”
Crawford put his gun away and stepped into the room.
“A thousand yen on Crawford!” Farfarello yelled. “Five to one odds!”
Takanata leaped to his feet. Crawford pointed at the door, then stalked past him to turn the stereo off.
“Hey!” Schuldig yelled. “I was listening to that!” He sat up, bashed his head on the ceiling, and flopped back. “Scheisse…”
“Get off,” Crawford growled, “my entertainment center.” He caught the eye of all three sumo-wrestlers, and pointed at the door. Two ran around snatching up clothes, but the third stood firm. And naked. In his living room.
“Schu-Schu promised me a bonus,” she announced, crossing her arms. “I did a good job.”
“And I’ve been naughty!” the bound girl said, giggling. “Farf has to punish me!”
“Si, si.” From where he lay across the entertainment center, Schuldig waved an arm covered in writing like the rest of him. Around patches of brown, anyway. “Pay her, Brad-chan, she was perfect!”
Sudden hate surprised him, Crawford resisted the urge to shoot the witnesses, and take his time with this one. And then Farfarello, and last Schuldig…he really didn’t have time to deal with the bodies.
“Thank you for turning it off,” the girl said in English. “Do you know how many times I had to listen to all that, to get the words?”
A second look revealed that Schuldig’s ink was Queen lyrics. And one breath told him the brown patches were peanut butter.
Crawford reminded himself of the most important thing in dealing with Schuldig–whatever happened, don’t laugh. And paid the girl, and freed and ran off Farfarello’s admirer, and got the Irish bastard down from the coffee table. He was nagging a complaining Schuldig down when the kitchen door opened.
“I can see why you called me,” Bickley said. Schuldig lit up.
“A present?” he squealed, bouncing up to the blonde. “For me? Brad-chan, you shouldn’t have!” Nagi choked and looked away. Farfarello, who had stiffened at a stranger in the room, relaxed. Bickley raised one eyebrow.
“Something tells me you’re Schuldig.”
“You’ve heard of me!” The German struck a pose. “Well? Do I exceed your expectations?”
“In every way.”
The pixie smirked and walked around the stranger. Crawford fought to keep his face blank. He, Nagi, and Bickley were fully dressed. Farfarello was at least wearing clothes. Schu–except for the peanut butter, the ink and the headdress making him look like a diseased, tattooed, gay Indian chief–Schu was completely naked. And he didn’t even notice. He stopped in front of Bickley and stared into his face. After a long moment he cocked his head, his “as obnoxious as humanly possible” smirk shrinking into a smaller but more genuine one. Nagi looked to Crawford, he shook his head. Bickley, if anything, looked more composed. Schu tossed his hair and the headdress.
“You,” he said softly, “are going to be fun.” He spun away, to stagger into Crawford. “Bradley! I missed you so much!”
Shit, ink and peanut butter all over his last Armani!
And a naked, wriggling wild child in his arms.
“Is that a leek in your pocket?” Schu asked, “or are you just happy to see me?”
Crawford bit back a sigh and set the German away. “Go get a shower, Schu.”
“You’re mad at me,” his pixie pouted. “Mou, Brad-chan! I was so lonely! I had to distract myself, didn’t I?” He grinned and struck another pose as a sheet wrapped around him. “Feeling inadequate, Na–Scheisse!” He reached to lift Nagi’s chin. “As in, you look like! Better slow down, little one. You’ll go blind.*”
“Schuldig!” Crawford snapped as the boy blushed. “Meet Bickley. He’ll be staying for a while. Bickley, Schuldig.” He didn’t comment as Schuldig snagged a mostly-empty bottle of spearmint Schnapps to shove into Bickley’s hand. “And this,” he waved, pretending his vicious psychotic wasn’t wearing a bustiere, mini-skirt and fishnet stockings, “is Farfarello.”
“Watch him,” Schu said. “He bites.”
Farfarello’s crescent-hilt blade came out of nowhere, he stabbed beyond Bickley, then offered the tip to him. “Hamster?”
Nagi blanched, Bickley smiled thinly.
“Thank you,” he said, and took the body. “I’m pleased to meet you, Farfarello.”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” Farf said over his shoulder. He slipped the blade through the straps of a pair of stiletto heels and spun them as he walked up the stairs. Schuldig pulled a pack of cigarettes from Bickley’s pocket and lit one.
“Brad, stop watching Farf’s ass,” he said with a grin. “I might get jealous.”
Crawford decided that a cross-dressing Farfarello was really the least of his worries, and turned his eyes to Schuldig. Who was wiggling and grinning, possibly because of the hamster in love with his bare foot. That made two–three with the one behind the fake palm, and–hell. He didn’t even want to know.
Bickley took Nagi’s arm before Crawford could decide if there was anything he did want to know. “This young man needs rest, Mr. Crawford. Where is his room?”
“I know the way,” Nagi grumbled, pulling away. Schuldig threw his arms around Bickley.
“Now’s your chance!” he exclaimed. “I’m really drunk, and Brad’s mad at me!”
“That is a very tempting offer,” Bickley dropped the Schnapps and the hamster to defend himself, “but I’ll have to pass.”
“Fine,” Schuldig pouted. “If I’m not getting laid–“ His eyes rolled back and he dropped, straight down. Crawford caught him reflexively , before his brain could decide if he really wanted to bother. Bickley picked the lit cigarette and his pack off the floor and chuckled.
“You did say he was…colorful.”
Annoying as hell was what Crawford had said. He grunted and put his pixie over his shoulder. “You’ll use Schuldig’s room. It’s this way.”
“Have I mentioned,” Bickley asked behind him, “how delighted I am to be here?”
By the time Crawford came back down, Bickley was back as well, in the kitchen drinking coffee and ignoring the mess. Crawford poured himself a cup and gave the house a quick once-through for anything awkward–a wise move, as there was a woman asleep behind the couch, who insisted on leaving her name and number for Farfarello–then called the cleaning service he’d used the last time he’d been forced to leave Schuldig as good as alone.
Then he took Bickley out on the patio. And fed the damn dog.
“Well?” he said, when all the damn domestic duties were dealt with. Bickley lit another cigarette.
“How much of that was an act? He barely staggered, and his speech wasn’t slurred at all.”
“Schu’s had a lot of practice being drunk.” It felt wrong, discussing Schuldig with Bickley. It felt wrong, asking for help. No matter how many times he reminded himself he was just buying a service, that Bickley was no different from the cleaners who had arrived in record time. “I doubt he’s been sober since–“ he added time zones and subtracted days, “–Tuesday.”
“You said he just did this recently?”
“This is different. Eleven days ago he went on a binge. This is just a wild party. Like when the parents go away for the weekend.”
“So you think he sees you as an authority figure?”
Crawford just looked at him. Bickley smirked, not like Schu’s smirk.
“Right. Silly question.” He blew a smoke ring. “You didn’t mention you were lovers.”
Again Crawford just looked at him. Bickley sipped his coffee.
“If you were making plans to kill or control someone, would you find the identity of their lover to be important information?”
“Schuldig,” Crawford said, “has slept with half of Tokyo. At least.”
“Exaggeration is not helpful. There must be a million people in Tokyo.”
“Twelve million.” The grass was getting out of hand. Crawford considered turning Farfarello out of bed to mow the lawn. But that might wake Schu up, and the last thing he wanted right now was a hungover wild child on his hands. His pixie quite firmly believed that everyone should be just as miserable as he was. And the reverse–almost. Though Schu wasn’t willing to work to make others happy, he would at least share his joy with anyone in earshot.
“How do you feel about his promiscuity?”
Yet another long look, reminding the bastard he might be the only psi on the planet that Essett had seen fit to allow consultant status, but Essett wasn’t around anymore, and he was talking to the reason for that. Bickley had damn well better stick to the problem he was being paid to address.
Problems. Plural. “Nagi looks worse today.”
“Which is what I said would happen. Let me slow the pace of the treatments.”
“No.”
“If there is a timeline involved, I should be aware.”
“No.”
“Your impatience troubles me. Exceptional as they are, Mr. Crawford, your team is still human. The mind is not an exact science.”
“I do not recall you being so hesitant when we were talking finances.”
Bickley shook his head as he stubbed the cigarette out carefully. “I will do what I said I would. I believe I can do it in the time-frame allowed. But it is going to be very hard on them. I think you will regret this.” He stood and stretched, a small, modest stretch, not at all like Schu’s look-at-me sprawl. “As my patients are asleep, I believe I will follow their example and hopefully avoid the worst of the jet lag. Unless you have further need of me?”
“No.”
“A pleasant morning, then.” The blonde walked back into the house. Crawford finished his coffee before he followed.
The cleaning crew was done already. Crawford paid them double and told them to keep the hamsters.
Schuldig was, of course, still asleep. Crawford hung up his jacket and sat in his chair, picked up his paper. But with the view before him and no one to notice him looking–he folded the paper and laid it aside. Last week he had given in to irrelevance and bought blue sheets. Deep blue, knowing his pixie would look incredible on them. And he did.
Without the headband, the sunglasses and the smirk, the German looked young. Schu was young, somehow Crawford always managed to forget that. He wasn’t innocent, though. Schu could never look that, but asleep–maybe a softer kind of guilt. As in, here was the one who stole the cookies, no need to look further.
His flame-haired wild child was back, the green had washed out. Now the red-gold strands formed a sunburst on the pillow. The top sheet was tangled around strong, slender limbs, revealing the sweet curve of one perfect butt-cheek, only enhanced by the words of his favorite band.
Reverence was not a feeling Crawford was accustomed to having. Feeling fortunate wasn’t like him either. But looking at that exquisite creature in his bed, knowing he could touch and he’d be welcome–another time, anyway. Now all he would get was drooled on.
The German frowned in his sleep, tossing his head. One arm flung out toward Crawford, he took the pale hand. Instantly the telepath quieted.
“All right,” Crawford said. He stripped quickly and slid in next to his pixie. Schuldig wrapped around him and drooled on his neck, as he always did when he was drunk. Crawford tried to be irritated and found himself headed the other way, almost to contentment.
So he thought of things to annoy him. He didn’t have to go far. Bickley. Bickley was irritating. Crawford hated the way he kept comparing the bastard with his pixie, but it was only natural. He hadn’t been around that many, but it was becoming clear there were certain things all telepaths had in common. That knowing smirk that made him feel like he was missing something, for one thing. And the belief that he should just tell all his secrets and save them the trouble of digging.
Just when had he started stroking Schuldig’s hair? This was not about cuddling, he only wanted to help the telepath get the sleep he needed to be at his best. Though he liked the effect on his pixie. Schu relaxed his grip and his body, molding himself to Crawford with a sigh. It felt good. And it meant that despite everything, Schuldig still trusted him. As much as Schu trusted anyone, anyway. That trust was an important factor in their team.
That was the only reason the realization pleased him so much.
Bickley. He needed to think about Bickley, he needed to be sure he’d done everything he could. He needed to be exceptionally careful. As a psi, Bickley could be as dangerous as he was unreadable.
Ignoring reason, Crawford’s hand wandered down to Schu’s shoulder. He smiled as he read, “You can beat him/You can cheat him.” He’d washed the German as best he could, but he hadn’t cared to scrub the man bloody just to get rid of the lyrics. They’d wear off. Eventually.
Crawford’s other hand trailed down Schu’s hair. He let himself admire it, until his hand got to the small of Schu’s back. There it said, “It’s a kind of magic.” Crawford chuckled.
Like a magic 8-ball. How he’d driven his little brother crazy with that thing.
Okay, what should he do with Bickley?
“Death on two legs,” read Schuldig’s elbow. Fine. If he didn’t find a reason not to, he’d give the blonde to Farfarello when he was done. That would work. If Schuldig couldn’t read Farf consistently, Bickley didn’t have a chance. Especially as Farfarello was quite good at being unreadable.
What should he do about Schuldig?
“Just give me what I know is mine,” he read from the German’s neck.
Schuldig didn’t seem happy with that idea.
“It’s a hard life,” said the wild child’s fifth rib. Crawford chuckled. So how was he to convince the man?
“Passions screaming hotter.”
He could do that. Now?
“I want it all…and I want it now!”
Couldn’t get much clearer than that. Crawford rolled on top of the German. The wild child would wrestle his way out soon enough, now he wanted to enjoy the feel of Schuldig under him. He kissed his pixie, letting him wake slowly to the caress of hands and lips and tongue. God, no matter what Schu did–now he tasted like stale Schnapps and no toothbrush in days–no matter what he did, the taste of his mouth was electric…and his neck, the ink didn’t detract at all from the sweaty-sweet taste that was–Schuldig’s collarbone read, “So you think you can love me and leave me to die?”
As stupid as it was, it bothered Crawford. He moved past it.
“If I could only reach you,
That would really be a breakthru.”
Damn it! Crawford closed his eyes.
When you see only what you wish, asked that damn remembered voice, what have you done?
Made himself blind.
No, damn it, he wasn’t ignoring his power! This was stupidity, pure idiocy, random lines written by a drunken whore. Words Schuldig would never think, let alone say–
So open your eyes, Frau Sanchez’ memory mocked. Crawford refused to be haunted.
Go back to hell, you stupid bitch. I killed you and got that bastard Nils shot for the deed.
“Bra-aaddd…” Schuldig whined. Crawford lifted his face to drowsy blue eyes and an adorable pout. The vain bastard had not let the whore write on his face. Of course.
“What?” Crawford asked with a teasing smile. Schuldig stuck his lip out farther.
“Either fuck me or let me sleep, damn it.”
“Do you have a preference?” Crawford asked, rocking his hips against his pixie. Schu gasped.
“Fuck! Always, the answer to everything is fuck, and you know it!”
Crawford chuckled and let his body mold to Schuldig’s, bent his head to that beautiful mouth. His pixie would shove him off in a minute, better enjoy…but Schu only wrapped around him as he tasted, plundered, caressed with tongue and teeth and lips…Schu moaned into his mouth.
“Want you…”
“You’ll get me,” he murmured in a perfect ear. And bit. Schu squirmed, but complained.
“Tired…”
“I’ll do all the work .” Crawford closed his eyes as he moved to that delicious neck.
“Good…”
He wasn’t in the mood to take his time anymore. Crawford grabbed the lube and slid down his lover’s body. And burst out laughing.
“What the fuck is so funny?” Schuldig demanded, waking up a little more. Then gasping as Crawford slipped fingers inside him.
“Never been…afflicted by…modesty, have you?”
“Wha–unghhh!–what?”
That was enough. Crawford pulled Schu’s knees up, knelt between them and shoved inside. Schu moaned and yanked him closer, Crawford bit his lip and rode the pleasure.
“Fuck!” Schu ordered. “Now!”
Crawford put his hands on either side of Schu’s head and fucked. Watched lust and heat and passion chase across the pixie’s face, and fucked. Watched him writhe and moan and pant, and fucked. The bed was creaking, it might break, they’d go right through the mattress and the floor and down into the kitchen, that was a good plan–the headboard was slamming the wall, up through the headboard and through the wall and into Schu’s old room, let that bastard Bickley know that this man was his and he’d better think three times before fucking with him, he’d kill the man who hurt Schuldig and he’d make damn sure the dying took at least a week…
“Fuck,” Schuldig was chanting. “Yes, Brad, fuck, yes, Gott yes, fuck…”
Make it last, make it last, till every damn bastard in the house was awake and knew Crawford was fucking his pixie, till all of Tokyo knew it and knew to keep their damn hands off, this one was his…
Just give me what I know is mine…give, hell, he’d taken what was his, and he’d kill the man who tried to steal him away…kill them all, kill them, he could…
Schuldig dug into his shoulders, arching his back as he screamed. Crawford watched and the sight and feel shoved him over the cliff and into his own ecstasy.
“Damn,” Schu muttered as they both panted. Crawford rolled to the side and grabbed the top off a stack of towels he’d started keeping by the bed. The German poked him.
“All right, what was so funny?”
“You didn’t tell her to write that there?”
“Quit with the fucking runaround, Oracle. Write what where?”
“On your cock. It says, ‘I think I’m a banana tree.’”
Schuldig smirked. “Modesty is for losers.”
“I noticed. So did Bickley. Was that really necessary?”
“Yeah.” Schuldig lit a cigarette, Crawford took it and put it out. Schu lit another one. “Gotta establish superiority right away, you know?” His eyes narrowed. “Who is he and why is he here?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Bra-addd…”
“Later.” Crawford took the second cigarette and put it out. “Go to sleep, Schu.”
“Well,” his pixie muttered, trying and failing to contain a yawn, “if you insist.” He wrapped arms and legs around Crawford and was snoring within seconds.
A few minutes later Crawford felt the brush on his shields that was how Essett taught psis to communicate where trust was non-existent.
::Was that really necessary?:: Bickley asked, dry amusement in his tone.
::Yes,:: Crawford answered, and closed himself off.
Had to establish superiority right away, after all.
************
“You’ll go blind.” Schu is referring to the myth that a young man–ahem–pleasuring himself too much causes vision impairment.
All the lyrics are written by and property of Queen. I think I used Bohemian Rhapsody, It’s a Kind of Magic, I’m Going Slightly Mad, I Want It All, It’s a Hard Life, Another One Bites the Dust, and, of course, We Are the Champions. If I left out a song, it still belongs to Queen, I just forgot it. I changed those a lot.