Author's Notes: There's another part of this story, but mostly these are just one-shots I did with Schwarz from WK. This was started AGES ago, but I found it and I think its good enough to upload. This has gay in it, BTW, so if you don't like that, back away now.

Sharpened Angel

By Kage Chikara

Schuldig was all sharp angles. Like geometry, which young Jei had liked but Farfarello hated. He liked to watch him sometimes, his fingers tapping lightly across keys. When Crawford struck the keys, his fingers held surety, his foresight filling him with a confidence few others could equal. When Nagi's longer, elegant fingers moved across the keys, they held all the grace of a dancer at his art.

But Schuldig hit each key like it was an enemy he needed to destroy, like his fingers against the keys would crush the life out of them. Sharp arcs, wrists always raised above the keyboard so he could bring each finger down with maximum force, but a sloppy typer. His fingers didn't rest on the home keys, but instead danced across the board, bringing with them maximum chaos with minimum effort.

If you wanted to know Schuldig, all you had to do was watch him type.

"What are you doing?" Schuldig's voice is sharp, like a knife blade glinting in the dark, gathering moonlight in a downward strike and it pierces Farfarello. But it doesn't hurt. Nagi flinches away from the cutting edge, and Crawford always predicts it and meets it with a blow of his own. But Farfarello isn't afraid of pain and the sharp edge of Schuldig's voice fails to perforate him any more than literal blades do.

"Watching you." Eerie, that's what Schuldig is thinking—you don't have to be a telepath to know these things. The answer, the intonation—Schuldig doesn't like Farfarello watching.

Which is why, after all, he does it.

"Go to bed." He sounds tired, old, the way he has since the collapse of Eszett's fortress. Farfarello suspects it has something to do with Crawford, but he cannot be sure. He works hard to try to remain unaware of team politics. The outsider even in a group of outsiders.

"Tell me a bedtime story."

Schuldig actually stops typing. He raises his hands entirely off the keyboard to put them on the arms of the chair and spins around to stare at slender, white-haired man whose single golden eye stares back at him. A little hiss escapes his throat. "What?" He demands, as though the idea was positively heretical.

Farfarello certainly hopes it is.

"A story." Farfarello repeated with precision, a tiny giggling undertone of hysteria flavoring the words. Schuldig repeats that little hiss. Next he'll let out a rattle, like a snake warning away potential enemies. And then…then the games will begin.

"I said fucking go to bed, Farfarello." Schuldig rattles.

Silence, then Schuldig's thoughts brush up again Farfarello, feather light and the slender assassin simply blinks at him. He rises when Schuldig beckons to him, kneeling by the other man's chair. Fingers brush against his face.

"Can you feel that?" Schuldig asks.

"No." He replies softly, and something softens for a minute, the sharp angles become curves and Schuldig might almost feel something that isn't anger or hatred. One beast sees something to pity in another.

"You want a story?" The blade slices again, sharper than ever, renewed and rough fingers twine in Farfarello's hair. He can't feel them, but he knows nevertheless that they're there.

Schuldig tries to drag him to his feet using that white handhold, but he doesn't move. The telepath stares down at him for a minute, then releases him, disgusted.

"You're no fun. I should go play with Nagi." He growls, staring down at Farfarello, who looks up at him with no emotion evident in his single golden eye. They stare at each other, but Schuldig can't win that way. He turns away. "I'm working." He says softly, and Farfarello thinks its funny, because Schuldig makes it too easy. Maybe it is the slender thread of masochism that makes Schuldig always hand him the weapons, maybe it is simply that he, like the rest of them, underestimates Farfarello.

"You're afraid of Brad." He states. Questions—Farfarello has too many questions for God, but no questions the rest of humanity can answer. He doesn't ask questions very often.

Schuldig hits him, which shows who is really in control here. He shoves the unresisting Farfarello backwards, and they sprawl together, limbs intertwined. Then he starts hitting him, while Farfarello lies placid beneath him. He can taste the blood in his mouth, which only adds to the surrealism of the experience. He looks up at the ceiling and imagines that he can see God, watching his bastard son.

"Schu?" He asks softly. A question. A concession.

Schuldig hits him harder, fists cracking into Farfarello's collarbone with a force beyond bruising. He wants to break something, like he's typing again, his fists bruising the message he's been repeating all his life onto Farfarello's pale skin. Hate, those fists say, over and over, hitting the same keys of pain and fear—except that those keys are broken in Farfarello and they don't produce the right words. As hard as he tries, Schuldig cannot produce the right reaction, hitting those keys until they bleed and crack and break and Crawford yells and Schuldig pretends he's not afraid of the king of demons. Schuldig pretends he's a demon, but he's not.

Schuldig is a fallen angel, crisped lightly in the fires of hell and unrecognizable to all the other angels. It's a secret he tries hard to keep, too, but Farfarello can see the wings.

"I like your wings."

Same keys, harder, but they're still broken and no matter how hard he works to hit them, Schuldig can't make them connect to anything, so he's stuck punching them over and over. Crawford calls Schuldig a simple creature, but he's just desperate, trying to repeat the same message over and over again until he believes it. Only he doesn't, he stopped believing his own hatred a long time ago and now he's an angel desperately looking for a way out of hell.

Jei would tell him that Hell is forever, like God, but Farfarello believes that God can die—and if God can die, maybe fallen angels can climb out of hell.

Schuldig finally tires—not muscles, no, those could keep hitting, but of seeing that single golden eye stare up at him, lost in thoughts that were in no way connected to the violence done to his useless body.

"You want me to cut you?" Schuldig questions.

"You can if you want to." Farfarello replies, and that is that, because Schuldig won't. He threatens it sometimes, to scar his insane team member, but all the scars on Farfarello's flesh are his own doing.

Schuldig gets up and stares down at him with disgust that isn't for Farfarello. Farfarello is the mirror and the disgust that refracts from him hits his orange-haired angel squarely in the face, reminds him of how much he hates himself.

Sex is a big part of everything Schuldig does. Sex, drugs, killing—they are the triple desecrations he performs to deny his heritage. He reaches up and unzips himself, and there it is—the male brain. Perhaps it thinks, and its thoughts taste like honey. Farfarello's single golden eye fixes on it.

"Suck on it." Schuldig demands, and because he is the mirror, Farfarello does, coming to his knees, the tongue that has caressed the blood-laced steel of his dagger so many times now caressing something somewhat warmer. He does not lick tentatively like Nagi does, always casting up looks at his partner's to determine that they're watching his every move. He does not take it all in deep in his throat's like Schuldig does, burying it deep in him like another dagger, another degradation and at the same time enforcing his dominance and ability on whoever his hapless partner is.

He doesn't know how Crawford would suck cock, because Crawford doesn't. It is an act of submission and Crawford doesn't submit.

Farfarello thinks that if anyone ever did force Crawford to submit, Schwarz would be finished—that indomitable fact, that the king of demons is untouched and untouchable binds them together tighter than the mutual faith of those who love God.

But Farfarello takes the other into his mouth, about halfway, pale fingers wrapping around the base and squeezing a little, sucks on it. He can hear the little noises of pleasure Schuldig is making, above him, and he opens his mouth wider in response to the stimulation. While he sucks off Schuldig, he hopes that God really is everywhere, to watch his bastard son pleasuring his lost angel and both of them spiraling into Hell together.

And then Schuldig explodes into his mouth, and he swallows all of it, because it pleases his orange-haired lover and secretly, Farfarello realizes that he does this not because he hates God, but because, in that one moment of physical pleasure, Schuldig forgets to hate and reveals his true origins.

Caught in that moment of rapture, Schuldig looks truly angelic.