(fic) A Posteriori
Dec. 26th, 2006 08:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cicerIt's the day after Christmas, so what do we need? Morbid and depressing Weiss Kreuz fic, clearly! The title is Latin for 'from what comes after'.
One
Crawford steps out of the way at the spray of blood. The shirt he is wearing can be laundered and, more importantly, dry-cleaning expenses are deductible, but he’d rather not have to go to the trouble. It’s a very expensive shirt as well as one of his favorites and frankly, blood stains never really come out of silk.
He hears Schuldig’s laughter from the shadows and knows he saw his careful motions to ensure his clothing would remain clean. Schuldig will harass him about it later, but that’s all right. Three shots from Schuldig’s gun and the bodies of his victims thud loudly as they fall to the floor. Schuldig steps up next to him, sliding his gun into the holster at his hip. He is smiling; brilliantly, ecstatically. There are spatters of blood against his cheek and a thick splash across the leg of his pants. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Schuldig looks terribly happy.
Crawford reaches out to wipe some of the blood off Schuldig’s face with his fingers, and then cleans his hand on the pristine white handkerchief in his pocket. Schuldig laughs, genuinely amused, and grabs his shirt and kisses him. Crawford lets him and slides a hand down to Schuldig’s hip. Schuldig likes to fuck after they kill someone, and Crawford doesn’t mind obliging him. He doesn’t have the same passion for it as Schuldig, but he does admit there’s a certain pleasurable sense of taboo in having sex by the corpses of their enemies. It’s a bit melodramatic, certainly, but it pleases Schuldig, so Crawford is glad to go along with it.
Two
Schuldig is lying on the bed, bright hair splayed against the white sheets. He kicks his booted feet against the comforter. Crawford stands in front of the mirror, putting on his tie. He makes a face. Schuldig grins at him.
“Who are you so cleaned up for?” he asks. Crawford finishes arranging his tie and smoothes the creases out of his crisp white suit.
“A meeting,” he says. Schuldig rolls his eyes.
“Ah, really? I’d never have guessed. I thought maybe you were going dancing.” He rolls on his side and props his chin on his hand to watch Crawford clean his glasses and run his fingers through his hair. He snickers. “You’re such a girl, Brad,” he laughs.
Crawford tries to ignore him. He goes through the plans of what he will say, listens to the responses he knows the man will give, and tweaks his own speech accordingly. Schuldig lies back on the bed and stretches out. His shirt rides up a little so Crawford can see the dip between his stomach and hipbone. Schuldig catches him watching and his grin widens. Crawford does not need telepathy to know what he is thinking.
“I can’t be late,” he chastises, even as his feet carry him over to the bed. He can’t; he knows what will happen if he falters in this game for even a second. He sifts through percentages of probability and chooses the best ones.
Schuldig shrugs and reaches up to play with his tie. “We can be quick,” he says, and sends an amused glance at Crawford’s suit. “I’ve always dreamed of being fucked by an ice-cream man, you know.” Crawford sighs. He briefly considers pointing out Schuldig’s own dubious fashion choices, which might very well kill the mood and get him to his meeting on time. He leans down and kisses Schuldig instead.
Three
When they make love, Schuldig wraps his legs around Crawford’s hips and digs his nails into Crawford’s shoulders. He runs his foot down the back of Crawford’s leg and twines it around Crawford’s knee. Crawford leans forward, on his hands and knees over Schuldig’s exposed body and kisses him hard. Schuldig’s hands move from his shoulders to his hair and tug roughly. Crawford can hear him breathing in ragged gasps. When they kiss, Schuldig’s breath seems to move into his lungs, hot and heavy, making it hard for him to breathe, too.
Schuldig pushes up with his hips, hard and insistent, and Crawford thrusts harder until Schuldig isn’t breathing at all. He leans his head against Schuldig’s shoulder, face buried in Schuldig’s neck, until they are both finished. He lies there for a while afterwards. When he can breath again, Schuldig reaches up and strokes his face and kisses him again, longer and softer this time. Crawford can still feel Schuldig’s breath inside his lungs, and he exhales into the kiss, trying to give some back.
After a few minutes, he pulls out and lies on his back on the crumpled sheets. Schuldig is still pressed against his side, and he can feel Schuldig’s hair tickling his cheek.
Four
The expensive hotel is gleaming in the light from slim, neat candles, glittering with the expensive jewelry and clothing of its guests. It is an obscenely expensive place, almost impossible to obtain reservations. The client, of course, has secured an entire block of rooms as well as the largest ballroom. He wants Crawford there because while he is throwing this lavish party for his business associates, he also trusts them no further than he can throw them. He pays thousands of dollars for cases of the best champagne for his guests, but does not forget to take precautions against the possibility that poison may be slipped into his own glass.
He is playing a dangerous game, but it is one Crawford is familiar with. He knows his own role in the play: to watch and wait, to keep things running smoothly from behind the scenes. Schuldig provides a good distraction for this. He keeps everyone’s attention focused on him, freeing Crawford’s hands to do what is necessary.
Crawford removes the silencer from his gun and tucks it away in his jacket, smoothing the folds carefully. One of the honored guests did have plans to kill his host, as it happened. Apparently he was not prepared to deal with a man who knew what he was going to do before he did, though. Now all that remains is to see to the body, but some of the client’s lesser employees can take care of that.
Crawford steps into the hall, intending to find the client and alert him to the situation that requires at least a moment of his attention. As he passes through the glittering room, he cannot help but stare at Schuldig. He is not the only one; there are at least a half-dozen other people listening to him speak, watching his every move. They may be bewitched by some form of telepathy; so might he. Crawford does not know or care. For a moment, he forgets his thoughts of business and just stares.
Five
When it happens, it takes Crawford several moments to process it. He can see Schuldig’s body in front of him, but he doesn’t understand at first. He’s grown too dependent on his foresight, and when events don’t line up with what he had predicted, it takes him some time to comprehend what has happened and how he got there. He has to shake himself to make sure that what he is seeing is real and not a disjointed vision of a possible, far-off future.
But no, there’s the body and there’s the blood. When he reaches down to touch Schuldig’s face, he finds his skin is already growing cool. He kneels down, fastidiously avoiding puddles of blood out of years of habit, the sort of ingrained behaviors that kick in even when the rest of the mind has shut down. He thinks that Schuldig will never laugh at him for such things again, and the concept is too great for him to accept or understand, so he doesn’t try.
He is faintly surprised when he discovers his first thoughts are of practical things, like how best to move the body while covering up the blood it will certainly leave behind. Dimly, he thinks he should either be proud of his composure or ashamed of it, and he cannot decide which.
Still, it takes a long time for him to realize that Schuldig is gone. Long after the funeral is over and Schuldig’s things have been packed away and every trace of him seems to have disappeared, Crawford feels his presence oppressively. It’s only in the brief, dark moments when he wakes up in the middle of the night and reaches out reflexively, his hand only encountering cold sheets, that he understands. Even then, he still sometimes has trouble believing it.
Six
Nagi calls him every week. They don’t talk about anything much. Their conversations tend to be stiff and somewhat stilted, and rarely last longer than ten minutes. It has become an odd ritual to go through these awkward exchanges every seven days. They converse briefly about business, mutual acquaintances and such, but are careful to keep any real information to themselves. They aren’t working together anymore, and neither of them ever forgets that.
Crawford knows Nagi only calls to check up on him and is simply too discreet to say so outright. He seems to feel that it is necessary for him to look after Crawford now, something Crawford finds appalling on a professional level and baffling on a personal one. He knows that if he ever told Nagi to stop, Nagi would do so. He would hang up immediately and never call Crawford again. Nagi takes him at his word and still has enough respect for him to maintain a certain distance, and Crawford clings to that remaining bit of professional dignity.
He doesn’t ask what Nagi’s new employer thinks of him keeping in contact with his former team leader. He never questions Nagi’s actions, doesn’t ask whether he is being careful with this person or that, or whether he knows what he’s getting into in this relationship with his employer which he thinks Crawford doesn’t know about. Nagi doesn’t work for him anymore, and Crawford is careful to remember that, always. Still, in some ways Nagi is his only link to the world, the only remaining person that he actual cares about, after a fashion. That is the only reason Crawford accepts the phone call when it comes each week.
After they hang up, Crawford makes coffee and drinks it. He showers and dresses and goes to speak to his clients, to flatter them or lie to them or manipulate them until the day is over. He returns home and sits in a chair and watches the rest of his empty life play out in front of him.
One
Crawford steps out of the way at the spray of blood. The shirt he is wearing can be laundered and, more importantly, dry-cleaning expenses are deductible, but he’d rather not have to go to the trouble. It’s a very expensive shirt as well as one of his favorites and frankly, blood stains never really come out of silk.
He hears Schuldig’s laughter from the shadows and knows he saw his careful motions to ensure his clothing would remain clean. Schuldig will harass him about it later, but that’s all right. Three shots from Schuldig’s gun and the bodies of his victims thud loudly as they fall to the floor. Schuldig steps up next to him, sliding his gun into the holster at his hip. He is smiling; brilliantly, ecstatically. There are spatters of blood against his cheek and a thick splash across the leg of his pants. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Schuldig looks terribly happy.
Crawford reaches out to wipe some of the blood off Schuldig’s face with his fingers, and then cleans his hand on the pristine white handkerchief in his pocket. Schuldig laughs, genuinely amused, and grabs his shirt and kisses him. Crawford lets him and slides a hand down to Schuldig’s hip. Schuldig likes to fuck after they kill someone, and Crawford doesn’t mind obliging him. He doesn’t have the same passion for it as Schuldig, but he does admit there’s a certain pleasurable sense of taboo in having sex by the corpses of their enemies. It’s a bit melodramatic, certainly, but it pleases Schuldig, so Crawford is glad to go along with it.
Two
Schuldig is lying on the bed, bright hair splayed against the white sheets. He kicks his booted feet against the comforter. Crawford stands in front of the mirror, putting on his tie. He makes a face. Schuldig grins at him.
“Who are you so cleaned up for?” he asks. Crawford finishes arranging his tie and smoothes the creases out of his crisp white suit.
“A meeting,” he says. Schuldig rolls his eyes.
“Ah, really? I’d never have guessed. I thought maybe you were going dancing.” He rolls on his side and props his chin on his hand to watch Crawford clean his glasses and run his fingers through his hair. He snickers. “You’re such a girl, Brad,” he laughs.
Crawford tries to ignore him. He goes through the plans of what he will say, listens to the responses he knows the man will give, and tweaks his own speech accordingly. Schuldig lies back on the bed and stretches out. His shirt rides up a little so Crawford can see the dip between his stomach and hipbone. Schuldig catches him watching and his grin widens. Crawford does not need telepathy to know what he is thinking.
“I can’t be late,” he chastises, even as his feet carry him over to the bed. He can’t; he knows what will happen if he falters in this game for even a second. He sifts through percentages of probability and chooses the best ones.
Schuldig shrugs and reaches up to play with his tie. “We can be quick,” he says, and sends an amused glance at Crawford’s suit. “I’ve always dreamed of being fucked by an ice-cream man, you know.” Crawford sighs. He briefly considers pointing out Schuldig’s own dubious fashion choices, which might very well kill the mood and get him to his meeting on time. He leans down and kisses Schuldig instead.
Three
When they make love, Schuldig wraps his legs around Crawford’s hips and digs his nails into Crawford’s shoulders. He runs his foot down the back of Crawford’s leg and twines it around Crawford’s knee. Crawford leans forward, on his hands and knees over Schuldig’s exposed body and kisses him hard. Schuldig’s hands move from his shoulders to his hair and tug roughly. Crawford can hear him breathing in ragged gasps. When they kiss, Schuldig’s breath seems to move into his lungs, hot and heavy, making it hard for him to breathe, too.
Schuldig pushes up with his hips, hard and insistent, and Crawford thrusts harder until Schuldig isn’t breathing at all. He leans his head against Schuldig’s shoulder, face buried in Schuldig’s neck, until they are both finished. He lies there for a while afterwards. When he can breath again, Schuldig reaches up and strokes his face and kisses him again, longer and softer this time. Crawford can still feel Schuldig’s breath inside his lungs, and he exhales into the kiss, trying to give some back.
After a few minutes, he pulls out and lies on his back on the crumpled sheets. Schuldig is still pressed against his side, and he can feel Schuldig’s hair tickling his cheek.
Four
The expensive hotel is gleaming in the light from slim, neat candles, glittering with the expensive jewelry and clothing of its guests. It is an obscenely expensive place, almost impossible to obtain reservations. The client, of course, has secured an entire block of rooms as well as the largest ballroom. He wants Crawford there because while he is throwing this lavish party for his business associates, he also trusts them no further than he can throw them. He pays thousands of dollars for cases of the best champagne for his guests, but does not forget to take precautions against the possibility that poison may be slipped into his own glass.
He is playing a dangerous game, but it is one Crawford is familiar with. He knows his own role in the play: to watch and wait, to keep things running smoothly from behind the scenes. Schuldig provides a good distraction for this. He keeps everyone’s attention focused on him, freeing Crawford’s hands to do what is necessary.
Crawford removes the silencer from his gun and tucks it away in his jacket, smoothing the folds carefully. One of the honored guests did have plans to kill his host, as it happened. Apparently he was not prepared to deal with a man who knew what he was going to do before he did, though. Now all that remains is to see to the body, but some of the client’s lesser employees can take care of that.
Crawford steps into the hall, intending to find the client and alert him to the situation that requires at least a moment of his attention. As he passes through the glittering room, he cannot help but stare at Schuldig. He is not the only one; there are at least a half-dozen other people listening to him speak, watching his every move. They may be bewitched by some form of telepathy; so might he. Crawford does not know or care. For a moment, he forgets his thoughts of business and just stares.
Five
When it happens, it takes Crawford several moments to process it. He can see Schuldig’s body in front of him, but he doesn’t understand at first. He’s grown too dependent on his foresight, and when events don’t line up with what he had predicted, it takes him some time to comprehend what has happened and how he got there. He has to shake himself to make sure that what he is seeing is real and not a disjointed vision of a possible, far-off future.
But no, there’s the body and there’s the blood. When he reaches down to touch Schuldig’s face, he finds his skin is already growing cool. He kneels down, fastidiously avoiding puddles of blood out of years of habit, the sort of ingrained behaviors that kick in even when the rest of the mind has shut down. He thinks that Schuldig will never laugh at him for such things again, and the concept is too great for him to accept or understand, so he doesn’t try.
He is faintly surprised when he discovers his first thoughts are of practical things, like how best to move the body while covering up the blood it will certainly leave behind. Dimly, he thinks he should either be proud of his composure or ashamed of it, and he cannot decide which.
Still, it takes a long time for him to realize that Schuldig is gone. Long after the funeral is over and Schuldig’s things have been packed away and every trace of him seems to have disappeared, Crawford feels his presence oppressively. It’s only in the brief, dark moments when he wakes up in the middle of the night and reaches out reflexively, his hand only encountering cold sheets, that he understands. Even then, he still sometimes has trouble believing it.
Six
Nagi calls him every week. They don’t talk about anything much. Their conversations tend to be stiff and somewhat stilted, and rarely last longer than ten minutes. It has become an odd ritual to go through these awkward exchanges every seven days. They converse briefly about business, mutual acquaintances and such, but are careful to keep any real information to themselves. They aren’t working together anymore, and neither of them ever forgets that.
Crawford knows Nagi only calls to check up on him and is simply too discreet to say so outright. He seems to feel that it is necessary for him to look after Crawford now, something Crawford finds appalling on a professional level and baffling on a personal one. He knows that if he ever told Nagi to stop, Nagi would do so. He would hang up immediately and never call Crawford again. Nagi takes him at his word and still has enough respect for him to maintain a certain distance, and Crawford clings to that remaining bit of professional dignity.
He doesn’t ask what Nagi’s new employer thinks of him keeping in contact with his former team leader. He never questions Nagi’s actions, doesn’t ask whether he is being careful with this person or that, or whether he knows what he’s getting into in this relationship with his employer which he thinks Crawford doesn’t know about. Nagi doesn’t work for him anymore, and Crawford is careful to remember that, always. Still, in some ways Nagi is his only link to the world, the only remaining person that he actual cares about, after a fashion. That is the only reason Crawford accepts the phone call when it comes each week.
After they hang up, Crawford makes coffee and drinks it. He showers and dresses and goes to speak to his clients, to flatter them or lie to them or manipulate them until the day is over. He returns home and sits in a chair and watches the rest of his empty life play out in front of him.
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Date: 2006-12-27 06:28 am (UTC)but did you absolutely have to kill him :-).... No, I know you did...no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-27 07:19 am (UTC)I love how parts 1-4 show the different ways Crawford is enchanted by and in love with Schuldig. Part 5 just hits hard. And then Nagi in part 6. Sad!!!
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Date: 2006-12-30 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 06:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 01:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 04:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-04 10:35 pm (UTC)