...Guilty.
Schuldig stumbled through the city streets with no intent or direction. His face was pale with horror, a shocking contrast to the bright light that poured down on him from the crystal clear and otherwise carefree morning sun. People grunted and cursed as he pushed through them, slicing across the crowds with his superior foreigner height and weight, several cars had to stop and almost barrel out as he stepped blindly into traffic.
The city minds hummed at him. A collection of cries and murmurs, voices he could normally tune out, but today were almost deafing: Guilty, guilty, guilty.
Those betrayed eyes...
A familiar void spread out in front of him, but Schuldig was too far gone to pay attention. He kept walking, head cast down, hair spilling around his face to cover his eyes. His hands were shoved deep in his rumpled pant pockets, his shoulders were tucked forward.
He hardly registered the pain when he slammed head forward into the stone-like body blocking the path before him. Normally, Schuldig would have looked up sharply and begin cursing anything that got in his way, but today he just flinched back and closed his eyes. God, he felt so fucking weak. Weak and...
Two arms wrapped around him and he didn't fight the embrace. He felt himself shaking, burying his face into the shadows of Crawford's coat jacket. He was led away, to the archway of a bakery where they could stand still together without the interuption of disgruntle pedestrains. Schuldig cried without reason, his face hot and pained, and Crawford held him, silent, wall-like. The only sign of warmth coming from the other man was the steady hold over Schuldig's body, the careful, light sweeps of Crawford's hand making soothing circles on the small of his back.
Schuldig tried to form words to make sense of what he was feeling, but nothing came out. Only wet sniffles of insanity.
Such a fucking girl.
And Crawford allowed it. Crawford, forebaring and perfect, never one to stand humilation in public, always more concerned about his reputation than the welfare of his teammates... Crawford was allowing him to weep on his shoulder. Allowing those around him to slow and stare at the two foreginers, locked in a midmorning embrace, oozing of mellowdramatics. Crawford was comforting him.
"I..." Schuldig started, he didn't want to pull his face away from the dark confines of Crawford's chest. He could hide here. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry-I'm sorry..."
Crawford shook his head and tightened his grip around the hysterical telepath.
Minutes passed, maybe half an hour, eventually Schuldig settled down. As his cries calmed and his flushed skin returned to a normal color, he held himself locked against the American, not ready to let go. One of Crawford's hands dropped and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his cell-phone. Crawford examined it over Schuldig's shoulder and thumbed the power off just as the small device began ringing. The phone was tucked away and the arm returned to massasing Schuldig's back.
More time passed. Schuldig breathed heavilly, not speaking.
Finally Crawford's lips parted. "Are you ready to go home?"
Maybe stories like these did have happy endings.
Schuldig shook his head, "Don't leave me alone," he whispered, "I don't want to be left alone like this."
The look on the bloodless samurai's face...
A field of daisies and sunshine.
Crawford stepped back, one arm still wrapped around Schuldig's shoulder. He lead the younger man back into the crowd, their direction pointed towards a parking lot. "I'll take care of you. This time. When you can't take care of yourself."
Schuldig nodded and slide into the car when they reached it. He allowed Crawford to pull the seatbelt across his lap and buckle it into place. He didn't want to be left alone anymore, look at the destruction he caused when he was left alone.
-
-
Farfarello met them at the front door, his amber gaze touching Crawford's eyes then lowering in silent agreement. Kneeling down he helped Schuldig out of his shoes and followed the pair to the telepath's bedroom. Farfarello pulled back the covers and brought in an extra blanket, sparing only a moment at the door before leaving Crawford and Schuldig alone.
Nagi waited for Farfarello in the living room, the teenager was still clad in his pajamas, his front blackened out from the flood of light pouring in through the wall-to-ceiling glass window behind him. "How is he?"
Farfarello shook his head, stepping aside and taking a seat on the far corner of the couch, the only sliver of the room not burned out with sunlight. His hand moved slowly to his face, pulling at his eyepatch in nervous irration. The strap stretched, he released, a dull slap against his face.
"Do you think..." Nagi started. His voice faltered and he had to sit down. "Do you think Schuldig is having a breakdown?"
The Irishman thought back to the events of the past few days. Of Crawford and Schuldig and that damned Weiss assassin. Their words, their actions, their mistakes. Things had moved together as if in a dance, each step a perfect direction to an ultimate ending.
"People build up walls," Nagi continued, speaking mostly to himself. A hand raised to his mouth and he chewed on the edge of his thumb absent mindly. "People build up walls around their feelings, and inside those walls you can't see other people."
Farfarello sighed, tired of being asked questions. "The world breaks everyone, Nagi. And everyone needs to become strong, rebuild, and stand on those broken peices."
Crawford could only push his telepath so far before he reached his limit. Before Schuldig did something stupid. Crawford, always so confident in his visions, didn't realize he had shoved Schuldig over the edge.
But maybe...
The two younger members of Schwartz turned their attention to the hallway leading to Crawford and Schuldig's bedrooms.
- -
A week passed.
"Your head... if you hurt him again... I'll cut it off."
Schuldig was granted a leave of absence.
They fought Weiss again.
"Yes, I would appreciate that."
Crawford brought flowers home one evening. Schuldig cried. Farfarello and Nagi took their coats and went out.
Another few weeks passed, they hadn't seen Weiss in a long time. Winter came and it began to snow.
- -
"--the target has been destroyed. Get a confirmation from the south post, but hurry it up, will you? I'm freezing my nuts off here." Yohji watched from the embers die down from the smoldering vechile that laid in peices below him. From the safety of the building, he could barely feel the fire's heat. Snow fell down and spotted his hair and shoulders, a cold breeze made him shudder.
He always felt cold now.
Ready to pull off his sun glasses and head in for the night, Yohji was caught more than a little off guard when a figure shifted in the shadows in front of him. His numb fingers fumbled with taunt piano wire, the coils from his watch were strung tight and resistant in the cold November weather. Yohji's headset fell off and clattered to the floor, forced out of his ear from a jerk or surprise.
Stupid... STUPID Yohji. You're dead.
"Where's Abyssinian?" A cold quiet voice. He stepped forward, stepping into the moon light. Pure white against the pitch black shadows.
Yohji swallowed a lump in his throat.
The enemy looked from one side to another. "Hmm." He appeared to be unarmed, but with this one, looks were always decieving. "I see Siberian. The little one... Bombay... I saw him. But the red one?"
Yohji remembered the taste of blood in his mouth. "He left... a month ago. He's working somewhere else. He-he's not in Weiss anymore, so you have no reason to be looking for him!"
Farfarello tilted his head thoughtfully to the side.
Fighting to regain his composure, Yohji raised his wire in a defiant stance. "I apologize if I just off-ed one of your little contacts. I didn't know Schwartz dealt with scum in the kiddy porno ring too. You guys are so low, you'll do anything, won't you?"
Farfarello's gaze flickered to the billowing smoke clouds for a moment then shifted back to Yohji. He shook his head. "No. Not one of ours."
"Then why are you here?" Yohji snapped, his voice a pitch higher and more strained than he wanted. "Why are you asking about Aya? Haven't you done enough damage already?"
"You meant nothing to him."
Yohji's eyes widen.
The Irishman smiled in return, taking a step forward.
"What do you know? Huh? What do you know?" Yohji was screaming. "Aya LOVED me! And I fucked it up! I fucked it up with Mastermind and Aya..." He faltered, searching Farfarello face. "Aya... or do you mean... Schuldig?"
Yohji groaned and sank to the floor. He pressed his hands against the side of his temples, trying to shove a throbbing headache away. "So what," He asked after a moment, "I fucked it up between Schuldig and Oracle and that's pissed you off or something? Yeah, well... I hope they're all fucked up too, you know? They deserve it too. Jesus, I was drunk, Farfie! Why won't anyone cut me a break?"
Farfarello crouched down next to Yohji, close enough so that the other assassin could feel his breath.
"Did you come here to kill me?"
"...someone needs to tie up the loose ends."
Another sigh. "Of course... of course."
Stupid question.