Archive of Our Own

Schuldig glanced sidelong at the bloody figure half-reclining in the seat next to him. "Crawford," he drawled, "you're bleeding all over my posh leather interior." Crawford's brown eyes opened into narrow slits.

"It's not your Mercedes, Schuldig. You stole it." His voice was tight and controlled, barely showing any of the pain he must have been feeling. Schuldig could feel it seeping around the edges of Crawford's considerable shields, rather like the half-formed memory of an injury from childhood. He'd never let anything like that slip before. Schuldig didn't know whether to be concerned or to press his advantage. But then, he'd always wanted a look at what Brad Crawford kept locked away in the depths of his mind…

"Don't," Crawford suggested, turning his head to shoot a glare at Schuldig. The telepath smirked.

"Why not? I could probably get in right now."

"We're being tracked by the remnants of Eszet. You didn't shut those telepaths down quickly enough, and one of them got through. They'll be sending in the cleaners soon, if they haven't already."

"I would have had that freaky little pair if you hadn't shoved me and got shot." Schuldig scowled.

"It's a lot less trouble this way, I assure you. I'm much better equipped to deal with a bullet lodged in my shoulder than you are. We should—" Crawford stopped mid-sentence, his gaze distant. Schuldig waited patiently, his mind catching the blurred edges of visions fluttering out from Crawford's wavering shields.

"What?" he asked when Crawford blinked and bit back a groan. The precog was hurting more now; the effort it took to keep both the pain and visions from spilling out and pulling Schuldig along with them was more than Crawford could easily handle. That was worrisome. Crawford had the most impeccable shields and perfect control of his gift of anyone in or out of Rosenkreuz, and he'd never had this much trouble before. Not even the time he'd been gut-shot. Why was this different?

"No hospital. They'll be looking for us. We're going to have to do this ourselves."

"What?!?" Schuldig tried not to let the car swerve as he jerked in surprise. "No. No, no, no."

"You have no choice. It's that or get caught, Schuldig, and you know what would happen." Yeah, he knew. Reprogramming for them if they were unlucky, lobotomies if they weren't. The third option, which was the most likely, he couldn't even bear thinking about.

"Shit." Schuldig's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"If I hadn't shoved you out of the way, it'd be a lot worse, Schuldig. Trust me."

"Somehow I doubt this could have been any worse," Schuldig mumbled. Crawford closed his eyes, exhaustion and hurt and…something else that Schuldig couldn't quite identify…radiating from him as he wrestled with his pain and his gift. Schuldig shifted in his seat, unaccountably nervous. There was no way Crawford was going to die and leave him alone. Not from a little bullet in the shoulder, even if he was bleeding all over the place. None. Schuldig was gripping the steering wheel so hard now that his knuckles were white. Crawford couldn't. He couldn't.

"Just trust me," Crawford sighed. The hand he had clamped over the bleeding hole in his shoulder relaxed, and he slumped against the window, grimacing. Schuldig waited until he was certain that Crawford was fully unconscious and looked over at him.

"I do. I shouldn't, you bastard, but I do."

*******

Farfarello had been torn nearly in half by the time they found him. The fire in his eyes was beginning to dim.

"Crawford," he choked, single eye jerking in its socket as the Berserker sought out his former leader.

"I know," Crawford said, raising his gun.

"Crawford, WAIT," Schuldig cried. Crawford frowned and Farfarello coughed, blood bubbling between his lips.

"They're coming, Schuldig," Farf said. "They're coming..." Crawford cocked the gun.

"WAIT," Schuldig insisted frantically, throwing his mind up against Farfarello's. "He can still—"

"Let go." Crawford's voice was steel. "Schuldig, let go."

"…let go…" Farfarello echoed. Schuldig's lips moved with Farfarello's words, blue eyes locked on Farfarello's single yellow one, the telepath refusing to respond. Crawford shivered once – perhaps from a vision? – and then stood still, a pillar of iron, cold and unbending.

"LET GO, Schuldig! They're—" A mental attack sliced across the bond between them, and Farfarello screamed, the sound wet and raw. His body might feel no pain, but his mind… Schuldig's mouth stretched wide as he screamed with the Berserker, though no sound emerged. Crawford's finger twitched.

"Schuldig, LET GO!" he yelled again, kicking out sideways. His foot connected and Schuldig staggered, but the telepath's gaze stayed locked on Farfarello's face.

"…go…" Farfarello whispered. Schuldig mimicked him.

"God damn it," Crawford muttered. Farfarello screamed again and Schuldig whimpered as another vicious assault tore across their minds, stronger this time. Sharper. A drop of blood swelled at the bottom of Schuldig's left nostril before sliding down, leaving a sticky red trail across his lips and down to his chin. It hung there for a breath before dropping to stain the pristine collar of his shirt, the red startling against the brilliant white. Farfarello watched as another bead of blood grew, fat and heavy, this time from the lanky German's right nostril, before jerking his eye back to Crawford, the expression in it close to begging. Oracle. The Berserker should never beg, he thought faintly across the mental ties that bound what was left of Schwarz.

Crawford nodded once, completely closed himself off from the shared link, and pulled the trigger.

Farfarello shuddered from the impact, a dark hole appearing in the center of his bloody forehead as the last hint of intelligence in his eye dimmed and flickered into nothingness. Schuldig cried out and clawed at his face as Crawford lunged forward, fist connecting. Everything went black… and Schuldig woke up, covered in sweat and shaking. His hand flew up to his mouth and pressed under his nose, coming away damp but not sticky – sweat then, not blood. The edges of his mind felt raw, thin. He poked at his shields experimentally. They were raw and thin, just as they'd been once he'd finally begun to recover from the trauma of Farfarello's death. No, of dying with Farfarello.

The shaking wouldn't stop, and nausea crawled up Schuldig's throat. He lunged out of the bed and into the shitty little residential motel bathroom, collapsing to his knees and emptying his stomach. No. He couldn't be doing this. He was strong; he'd recovered from the break his mind had sustained when he'd died with Farfarello. Crawford had helped him put himself back together; he was stronger than that. He had to be, or the cleaners would definitely find them this time, and Crawford would be helpless to stop them. He'd be helpless to stop them. They'd break him and then piece him back together, and chances were he'd end up as nothing more than a science experiment, a half-mad, semi-aware marionette in a tank somewhere, a mere plaything for the scientists and geneticists, no, stop thinking that, no…

"Schuldig." Crawford's voice cut through the new wave of nausea threatening to swamp him. "Schuldig, let it go. You have to." Crawford still sounded sick, still sounded exhausted and like he hurt, but the undercurrent of strength was back. He wasn't broadcasting his pain so much anymore, wasn't relying on the painkillers so much now, and – Schuldig tested it – his gift was finally locked down. Not much chance that Schuldig would get dragged in too far and snap one of their minds in trying to break free if Crawford had a string of strong visions. If he somehow managed to get pulled in now, Crawford would be able to shove him out again only a little worse for the wear, even with his mind already in rough shape. Schuldig sighed with relief, but his hands were still shaking. It had been a long four days, and his nerves and shields were shot from trying to block out the uncharacteristic mental overflow from his companion. Even with the painkillers, which should have dulled his Talent as well as his pain, Crawford had struggled with reining in his Sight more than Schuldig had thought possible.

"Ja, Herr Crawford," he drawled, standing up to wipe his mouth. He imagined Crawford's scowl and flashed himself a sickly little grin in the mirror. Crawford hated it when Schuldig called him that. Heh. He grinned a little wider. Schuldig flushed the toilet and splashed water on his face, then brushed his teeth, the grin turning to a grimace as he tried not to think about Farfarello or his breakdown months back. Or of the blood and swearing (Crawford's and his, respectively) when he had sliced Crawford's shoulder open four days ago to dig around for the bullet, finally pulling a few metal fragments free and sewing his partner back up. He focused instead on Crawford's improved shields, on his regained control and growing strength. Except… The brittle edges of Schuldig's shields splintered a little and let in some of the buzz from the minds outside, and then they slipped back into place, a bit stronger. Schuldig felt Crawford's shields expand slightly, running down their shared link and brushing the edges of his own to shore up the quiet with their strength and density. The way they had when he'd been weak, his shields too thin and his mind too fragmented. Definitely feeling better, damn him. Crawford was a fucking machine. He could probably take over the world on his own if he had to. Bastard seemed never to need anybody – ever. If he'd been on his own... Even shot and with his control slipping, Schuldig was sure he could have made it alone. Alone… Schuldig frowned.

"It would have been easier for you without me," Schuldig said, exiting the bathroom and moving the five steps it took before he could sit on the edge of Crawford's bed. "After Farfarello. You shot him because he was too much of a liability; we couldn't take him with us, and we couldn't leave him alive for them to… But—I—" He was silent for a moment, watching Crawford's pale, slightly sweating face carefully. "I was just as much of a liability, wasn't I? With my mind almost completely broken. It would have been easier for you on your own."

"Yes." Crawford's voice was flat, his eyes almost wary.

"Why didn't you just put a bullet in my head and leave me with Farf, then? Crawford?" Crawford was silent. "Why didn't you?" Schuldig pressed.

"You're Schwarz," Brad said finally, looking away. Schuldig's eyes narrowed.

"That's it? All that trouble for a broken telepath because we're Schwarz?"

"Yes." Crawford closed his eyes, signaling that he was done talking and that he intended to sleep again or, at the very least, to pointedly ignore Schuldig. Fucking Crawford. Anger and nervousness always made Schuldig feel reckless, and he hated to be ignored. His mind shifted restlessly, searching for some sort of cue to follow, some hint to use to make Brad Crawford re-engage. Something fluttered out past the edges of Crawford's mental barrier, a strange, sharp sensation that Schuldig didn't quite recognize, though he thought he might have felt something like it oozing from Crawford's mind right after he'd been shot. That was interesting. He wondered exactly how much better the other man was feeling. Was he really recovering? Well. This is one way to find out… Schuldig pushed his mind against Crawford's shields and felt them flex.

"Schuldig…" Crawford's voice was sharp with warning. Schuldig bared his teeth and shoved again.

"You don't need me to stay alive," Schuldig said, a little viciously. "But I need you. I'm a liability, Crawford. Why am I still here? Are you planning to use me as a bargaining chip if you do get caught?" Another sharp mental shove, and Crawford's eyes flew open.

"Yes." The word was short, the inflection cruel. Schuldig shoved once more, in shock and anger, and felt a crack. He seized it, pushing tiny mental fingers through and trying to pry it open. If fucking Crawford meant to use him, then they would die together. Right now, him and that bastard. Schuldig jabbed deeper and hit something before Crawford thrust him back, crowding Schuldig's mind against the opening in his shield. Schuldig slipped back behind his own shaky mental barrier and felt Crawford's shields snap closed, the minuscule opening now gone but the mind behind them a little bruised. What…? Schuldig's shock at having been successful – I shouldn't have been able to do that, what's wrong with him? – was quickly pushed aside by his anger. He had Seen it. He'd brushed the surface of Crawford's mind and Seen old possibilities that had never come to fruition.

"You liar," Schuldig rasped. "You fucking liar, you might have been able to save Farfarello – there was a chance, you might have…" Schuldig was breathing fast, his growing rage leaving him unable to catch his breath fully before gasping out the next accusation. "You could have – He was Schwarz, you goddamn bastard, like us, like me, and there was a chance… He…He could have lived and I wouldn't have broken and still be weak now, and he– he—" Schuldig lashed out with his fist, but Crawford caught his wrist before the punch landed. His grip was surprisingly sure.

"No. There was a chance, Schuldig, but if he'd lived, they would have found us only a short while later. They'd have taken you, Schuldig. Do you understand? They'd have killed him and taken you." Crawford's fingers tightened, leaving red marks on Schuldig's pale skin.

"And what about you?" Schuldig sneered. "You'd have your position back? Be back in Rosenkreuz and Eszet's good graces once again?" Crawford glared, appearing to struggle with himself for a split second before answering, his grip on Schuldig's wrist relaxing slightly.

"No, Schuldig. They'd have used you against me: a pet telepath in a vat, his mind broken and brain exposed, and their pet precog drugged and strapped to a gurney next to him, doing whatever they wanted to make them stop." Crawford's power washed into Schuldig's mind, the visions appearing in tiny, chaotic slivers that he couldn't understand. He could only catch horrifying, split-second flashes as they burned themselves into his mind's eye and then disappeared, whisked away again to wherever it was that visions went once they'd been Seen: himself floating in a tank, brain exposed with dozens of metal pins stuck deep inside, his muscles wasted and limbs jerking as an electric current ran through him, his mouth open behind a breathing mask as he tried to cry out…Crawford, strapped to a table next to him, his face turned toward Schuldig but his eyes vacant from the drugs running through the IV into his arm…Crawford covered in blood, hunched over Schuldig in the ruins of a motel room much like this one as someone in the doorway raised a gun…himself naked and sweating, his mouth wide as he gasped and moaned as though he were dying… himself floating in a tank, brain exposed with dozens of metal pins stuck deep inside… Crawford crumpled in the corner of a lab, the intelligence in his eyes fading, fading, dying…his own unconscious body on an operating table, the bone saw biting into his forehead and blood running down to pool beneath his ear…Crawford above him, his face flushed as he groaned Schuldig's name…himself floating in a tank, brain exposed with dozens of metal pins stuck deep inside…

"I don't understand," Schuldig whispered as Crawford retracted the jumble of images as quickly as he'd released them. "Alone you could probably elude them forever. With me…I'm easier to track…and if they catch us both, they'll make you…use you to…I don't understand why you—" He stopped suddenly, jerking himself back and yanking his wrist from Crawford's grasp.

"Crawford?" Schuldig sounded shocked, uncertain. Bradley Crawford met his gaze squarely for the space of three heartbeats – an absolute eternity – before Schuldig finally moved, lunging forward. His mouth met Crawford's, his weight jarring the other's injured shoulder. He felt more than heard Brad's grunt of pain, but he didn't care. He had to know. Schuldig kissed hard, sliding his tongue between Crawford's lips, and Crawford… Crawford was… kissing him back. His good hand fisted in Schuldig's hair as he returned the kiss, bruising Schuldig's mouth with his ferocity. Schuldig shifted his weight, trying to lean away from Crawford's wound, but Crawford only held him tighter, thrusting his own tongue deep into Schuldig's mouth. Schuldig made a small noise of regret and forced himself to pull away. He stared down, pale blue eyes searching brown ones.

"Fuck," said Schuldig.

"Eventually, yes," Crawford agreed. The corners of his mouth twitched a little in what might have been a smile. "But not yet." His face was paler now, his features tight with too much pain, and Schuldig smelled blood. He looked down and blanched, shoving himself off the prone body beneath him.

"Damn it! You're bleeding again!"

"So it would seem." Crawford's voice was calm, his eyes closing. "Schuldig…"

"What?"

"Don't do it."

"Don't do what?" Schuldig wondered, his eyes on Crawford's shoulder. The red stain was spreading. This is bad. "Crawford?" Brad didn't respond, his face going slack, even the ever-present lines between his brows smoothing out. Scheisse! Schuldig gave Crawford a little shake, but the precog's eyes stayed closed. "Verdammt noch mal! Crawford. Don't do what?" Schuldig stood up and kicked the nightstand when no answer was forthcoming. Fucking asshole. Pulling something like this… Schuldig ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Even without the Sight, he had the distinct feeling that the shit was about to hit the fan.

*****

It had been about twelve hours since Crawford had last been awake and coherent, and his temperature was steadily rising. Schuldig sat next to him, his fingers clasped around Crawford's wrist. The precog's pulse was racing. Fuck, Schuldig thought. They were running out of time. Alone, Schuldig knew he didn't have a chance against Eszet and Rosenkreuz's cleaners. He needed Brad Crawford. Damn it, he wanted Brad Crawford. And it seemed that Crawford at least wanted him back, even if he didn't really need Schuldig. Schuldig was enough of a narcissist that the thought gave him a brief, sharp twinge before reality reasserted itself. There would be no sex with Bradley Crawford in the near future – in any future – if he died tonight. God damn it, Crawford! Schuldig thought angrily. "Don't do it." Don't fucking do what? Couldn't you have at least told me that before you kissed me and then passed out? His mouth twisted into an ugly snarl, and he let go of Crawford's wrist to slam his fist onto his thigh in frustration. Think, Schuldig, you fool, he told himself. Think!

No hospitals. Schuldig knew that much, at least; Crawford's admonishment of five days ago would still hold true. There would be too many people around, and with his shields rubbed raw despite their returning strength, he'd have trouble keeping himself invisible to other telepaths or even to empaths. Anyone who could read the unique mental flavor of someone with a gift would be dangerous. Under normal circumstances, Schuldig knew he could hide himself perfectly; under less-than-ideal circumstances, Crawford could manage the job for them both for a time, screening a weakened Schuldig from prying minds and the noise outside by augmenting Schuldig's shields through their shared mental link – cutting everything off with his freakish mental discipline. But Crawford needed medical treatment. Schuldig had some better-than-basic first-aid knowledge; everyone in Schwarz had. He could probably even steal the relevant information from a doctor if he were 100%, but…

Crawford jerked on the bed, his breathing labored. Schuldig reached out tentatively, his cool hand coming to rest on Crawford's sweaty forehead as a thin tendril of his awareness brushed the edges of Crawford's mind. He felt nothing there – nothing at all but the burning skin under his palm. It was as though Bradley Crawford no longer existed. No. Schuldig glared daggers at the unconscious Crawford and chanced a slightly deeper probe, this time feeling the faintest buzz beneath a fever-induced blanket of silence. What was going on in there? Crawford jerked again, and images flowed between them:

...himself floating in a tank, brain exposed with dozens of metal pins stuck deep inside, his muscles wasted and limbs jerking as an electric current ran through him, his mouth open behind a breathing mask as he tried to cry out…Crawford, strapped to a table next to him, his face turned toward Schuldig but his eyes vacant from the drugs running through the IV into his arm…himself floating in a tank, brain exposed with dozens of metal pins stuck deep inside, his muscles wasted and limbs jerking as an electric current ran through him…

Schuldig yanked his hand and mind back, leaning so far away from Crawford that he fell off the edge of the bed where he'd been sitting. He lay sprawled on the floor for a moment, heart racing. Shit. Was Crawford stuck in a loop, at the mercy of his Sight? That would be bad. Really, really bad. …But no. He couldn't be. If Crawford were overrun by his visions, he was as good as dead, his mind gone. He can't... Panic clutched briefly at Schuldig's chest before reason asserted itself, sounding vaguely like Crawford at his infuriatingly (though often justifiably), arrogant best. If he were overrun by his visions, wouldn't Schuldig have been pulled in, too? He'd escaped, so surely… Schuldig cautiously reached out again, letting his perception flow against the thick silence enveloping Crawford's consciousness to the irritating buzz beneath. His brow furrowed with effort and his fists clenched as he slid inside slowly, insinuating himself into the upper layers of noise in Crawford's mind. This time he was ready for the onslaught, and he deftly separated himself from Crawford once he'd watched the series of memories – for that's what they were – play through twice. These weren't new or even uncontrollable recurring visions running rampant through Brad Crawford's fevered brain. They were just memories of visions: a regular old precognitive's nightmare. Brad Crawford wasn't trapped by his gift; he was held in thrall by his physical limitations and the bogeyman in his head. If it's just memories of visions, no matter how fucked up they are… He's got a chance. But I've got to get him help right now.

Schuldig took a deep breath and made his decision.

Three hours later, Schuldig and the unconscious Crawford were in – of all things – a "reappropriated" minivan, heading west on the highway and into the setting sun. Schuldig had left the motel in pristine condition, convincing the night manager that a group of rowdy college students had stayed in the room and trashed it before skipping out, requiring that the bed linens be incinerated ("Jesus fuck, what they hell were they thinking? The honey and chocolate will never come out of those sheets!") and the room steam-cleaned from top to bottom. So much for genetic evidence or psychic fingerprints. It had been one of his finer moments, creating the memory of the University of Iowa fratboys and their skanky girlfriends on a destructive, self-indulgent roadtrip back home for the summer vacation. Schuldig caught the edge of his own smug smile in the minivan's rearview mirror. Americans were so easy.

They'd pulled into a small urgent care medical facility about 50 miles back, and Schuldig had managed to "convince" one of the doctors taking a smoke break outside to treat Crawford where he lay in the back of the van, burning from the inside out. Crawford was so weak now that that Schuldig had to strain to hear his breathing over the quiet hum of the engine whenever they came to a stop. The doctor, one Kent Maxwell (What a stupid name, Schuldig had thought to himself as he carefully piggybacked Maxwell's thoughts and monitored what he was doing, it sounds like some idiot, washed-up baseball player), had questioned Schuldig rather dazedly about Crawford's condition.

"He was shot." Schuldig shrugged. "He bled a lot. He bled a lot more when I dug out the bullet. He was doing better yesterday, but then the fever hit."

"Ah, I see. Infection, severe blood loss, and dehydration. He hasn't had a transfusion?"

"No." Schuldig's long fingers slid into Dr. Maxwell's pocket and extracted a cigarette, lighting it up with something akin to sexual pleasure. He'd been avoiding cigarettes while Crawford was down; he hadn't wanted to leave the stupid bastard or be seen much outside the motel room in case those freak twin telepaths were around. He was sure he'd shut them down well enough that they would find tracking him and Crawford difficult despite the Oracle's warning to the contrary, but everything had happened so fast once Crawford got shot. And nobody was perfect. Particularly not Schuldig, and apparently not Bradley fucking Crawford, either. Maxwell glared at him. Schuldig gave him a little mental jab to keep him on track, suggesting that he do his job and, by the way, the tall redhead in front of him had not just reached into his pocket and liberated one of his smokes. Maxwell was easy to manipulate. He blinked once and kept going, his eyes focusing on Crawford and sliding past the cigarette in Schuldig's hand without seeing it.

"Antibiotics?"

"Only what I could administer orally." Schuldig allowed himself a lewd smirk. Maxwell refused to acknowledge the remark. Damn it, Crawford. We haven't even had oral sex yet. We haven't even really kissed properly yet. You asshole! Schuldig's smirk turned into a frown.

"He needs fluids and a strong IV antibiotic. I'd like to check the wound, make sure there's no dead tissue."

"There isn't." Schuldig didn't want any of Crawford's blood on Maxwell. He didn't trust that the clinic's cleaning crew would empty the biohazard containers soon enough to cover their tracks.

"You should at least let me put in a drain to—"

"No." Schuldig dropped a very strong suggestion in Maxwell's frontal lobe. Maxwell blinked and nodded to himself, and Schuldig suppressed a grin. Damn, he was good.

"Wait here. I'll get you some plasma, saline, and an IV antibiotic." Schuldig took a long, sweet drag on the cigarette and sent another strong mental suggestion at the doctor, who was headed back to the clinic's door. Maxwell paused mid-stride and turned around. "And a suture kit and a drain, plus oral antibiotics for when he wakes up."

"Danke," Schuldig murmured as he exhaled, his head tilted back. The hot smoke burned pleasantly as it plumed out of his nostrils, wispy spirals curling up into the night sky to wrap around the few visible stars like high, thin clouds. "Danke."

*****

Brad Crawford, Schuldig thought to himself several hours later, was one lucky son of a bitch: comatose and without a care in the world. He, on the other hand, seemed to be a magnet for misfortune. How else could he explain the fact that he was, for the second time in less than a week, up to his wrists in the Oracle's blood? He paused in his messy work, double-checking the mental maps he'd stolen from Maxwell. He'd only asked for the drain and suture kit as a precaution; it pissed him off to no end that the smug, weak-minded doctor had been right about the state of Crawford's infected shoulder. Why hadn't Crawford warned him that things were going to get this sketchy? Asshole. I don't care how hot you are or how fucking great a kisser you are. There's no way you're a good enough lay to be worth this. I goddamn hate this gruesome first-aid shit, and you know it! Schuldig snarled and forced himself to rein in his temper. He'd like nothing more than to give some innocent passerby a hefty dose of night terrors for a week to relieve some of his frustration, but because he still wasn't sure where the Eszet operatives were in their search, he couldn't risk it. If Farf were here, I'd let him cut you up and sew you back together. Serve you right. Crawford simply lay there, still and ashen but for the few stray drops of blood that had fallen on his cheek when Schuldig had reached across him for the suture kit. Schuldig sighed again, heavily and dramatically despite the lack an audience to appreciate the depth of his displeasure.

"I miss Nagi," he muttered. "He never would have let your shoulder get this bad even without access to a hospital. That damn kid..." Schuldig paused in the middle of his last stitch, the thread pulled taut in his bloody, latex-covered fingers. "Nagi... Nagi! Nagi would know if you've ever had a problem like this before." Schuldig looked down. "He could tell me what to expect if y— when you wake up. And he might even be able to find out something about those bastards from Eszet." He twisted his wrist expertly and looped the thread into a better-than-decent knot. "Ah, Nagi, you were always so reliable. Even if you were a bit uptight. Now I just have to figure out how to get in touch with you." Schuldig finished dabbing away the rest of Crawford's blood and covered the angry-looking line of stitches with antibiotic ointment and a wad of gauze. He yanked the gloves off and stuffed them into the small bag with the rest of the gross bits from the impromptu surgery – he'd burn everything in it in the morning, just sneak into a building with its furnace lit on his way to a telecommunications center to try to get ahold of Nagi. Now he just needed to decide whether he was going to leave Crawford here in the little residential cabin's bedroom or – Schuldig's back twinged in protest at the thought – put him back in the van for a quick getaway. He was certain that they wouldn't want to linger once he'd talked to Nagi. Though broken and scattered to the winds with most of its power, influence, and personnel lost, Eszet was still an entity to be reckoned with. Especially if you had a dead weight on your hands. Schuldig gently wiped the blood from Crawford's cheek. It smeared slightly before he managed to get rid of it by scrubbing a little, leaving Crawford's cheekbone stained with an almost healthy blush that faded all too quickly. Schuldig sighed again.

He was lonely. He always had the chatter of other minds in the background, though sometimes they could get to be too much. But those were just white noise, really. And even though the Oracle's mind was pretty much closed to him all the time and the man himself wasn't much for long, involved conversations, he was still always there: a solid, silent presence linked to Schuldig's mind and permanently in his orbit. That's what he was missing. The mental intimacy that he'd shared with all of Schwarz, first during their time as Takatori's bodyguards and later as conspirators in the greatest coup in Rosenkreuz history, had accustomed him to having another's close mental presence as a near constant, and his gift, even when his shields were at their best, meant that he was never, ever completely alone in his own mind. The only times he ever experienced true stillness were when Brad Crawford shut everything out because he and Schuldig needed to communicate in absolute security or because Schuldig needed the silence for the sake of his sanity. His mouth quirked. "Not that I'm particularly sane by even our admittedly abnormal standards, but after seeing the rest of Schwarz in action, I feel a little less freakish. At least I know how to have fun. But still, you're always there. I can feel you even if I can't hear you. Just... Just not right now." Crawford's eyelids shivered slightly, and Schuldig leaned forward so fast that he almost overbalanced and landed on Crawford's chest.

"Crawford?" Schuldig rested his fingers against the Oracle's carotid, feeling the rhythmic jump of Crawford's pulse under his fingertips. It was a little fast, but it was stronger than it had been since before he'd gotten the fever. Schuldig was hopeful, sliding his hand down until it cupped Crawford's uninjured shoulder. He gave a very gentle shake, his eyes sweeping across the unconscious man's face and down his body. "Crawford?" A small, spastic jerk of Crawford's fingers made him tighten his grip on Crawford's shoulder. "Hey, Crawford! Crawford!" Schuldig watched very carefully as he shook him again. "Brad. Brad!" Nothing. Schuldig only rarely called Crawford by his first name, usually when he wanted to get a rise out of the other man. He hadn't done it much in the few years since they'd thwarted Eszet's plans for immortality and started their own life on the run, and he definitely hadn't done it since Farfarello had... Schuldig's mind skittered around the edges of that thought. He could think about Farfarello, even mention his name, but to remember his death... He was still too close the dream, to the memory that had replayed in the stillness of slumber. His mind was stronger now than it had been even twelve hours before, despite the lack of sleep and the continuing stress of their situation, but... But it was better not to invite the memory back, to give it a foothold in his unconscious mind so it could sweep over him in his sleep and start dragging him back to that terrifying place where he wasn't Schuldig at all. He was pretty sure he could fight his way through it on his own this time – not that he had any choice, right? since it hadn't been as devastating as the actual event, that dream – but he didn't think that he or Crawford would last much longer if he had to stop and piece his cracked psyche and shields back together again without help. It would take too long, and they would either be found, or Crawford would die.

Crawford's fingers twitched again, and Schuldig's attention snapped back to him. He wasn't responding to voice or touch, so it was time to try things the other way. Schuldig gathered himself carefully, still wary of getting lost in Crawford's mind despite the fact that he couldn't feel anything from the precog unless he delved deep. He eased his way in, slipping under the silence and into the jumbled buzz of Crawford's continuing nightmare. Schuldig was ready for it this time and pushed the horrible images aside, going still deeper with little effort. He let his awareness spread out, tendrils of thought probing into dark corners and into the very center of Crawford's mind. He found nothing: no evidence of Crawford's Sight other than what he'd already seen and, far more worrying, no hint of Crawford himself. All that Schuldig could feel was himself and the background noise of himself floating in a tank, brain exposed with dozens of metal pins stuck deep inside, his muscles wasted and limbs jerking as an electric current ran through him, his mouth open behind a breathing mask as he tried to cry out…Crawford, strapped to a table next to him, his face turned toward Schuldig but his eyes vacant from the drugs running through the IV into his arm…his own unconscious body on an operating table, the bone saw biting into his forehead and blood running down… Schuldig heard himself make a little noise of distress, deep in his throat, and snapped completely back into his own mind, behind the safety of his own shields. His heart raced, and he fought down the rising, skin-crawling itch of fear. "If by some miracle you haven't lost it yet, you stupid bastard, I'm guessing it's just a matter of time."

*****

Schuldig hadn't really wanted to leave Crawford in the cabin when he tried to contact Nagi – What if you wake up while I'm gone? That'd be so like you, you ass!– but he hadn't really relished the thought of carrying him back to the van and reattaching his IVs and catheter, either. Catheter, for fuck's sake! While Schuldig wanted to get up close and personal with Crawford's dick, he hadn't wanted his first interaction with Brad Junior to be so clinical. Or icky, truth be told. Schuldig shuddered delicately and turned his thoughts back to the issue at hand. It just seemed smarter (and so much simpler) to limit himself to no more than a couple of hours for the whole endeavor: travel time, a quick detour to incinerate the bag of motel surgery detritus, connection hacking time, and actual communication time. Fortunately, there was a small telephone switching station only thirty miles from where they were staying. Schuldig had made it there quickly, the roads empty due to the early hour and the somewhat rural nature of the area. He'd casually parked a short distance behind the building and flipped open the laptop he'd swiped two states and several days ago. In no time flat, he'd hacked his way into a secure connection and piggybacked it anonymously to an old backdoor in the Takatori network, one of several that Schwarz had used to use to steal information and to communicate when they were out of mental range. It had been a long time since he'd sneaked into the Takatori servers, and he was frankly rather surprised that neither Nagi nor that squeaky little blue-eyed Weiss had closed it up. Unless Nagi had left it open on pur—

Crawford? What are you doing in here? The next scheduled contact isn't for another month. The familiar hiragana and kanji scrolled across the screen, and Schuldig nearly wept for joy as he answered in romanized Japanese.

Nagi, is that you? It's Schuldig. I don't have much time. Crawford's been shot, and it got pretty bad. He's been in a coma for a little while, but he seems to be on the mend physically. I just can't find him, Nagi. All I can find are some recent memories of visions he's had. We're as fucked as we've ever been. We're being hunted by a freaky pair of telepaths, twins I think, and can't stay in one place very long. I think we're being boxed in.

Schuldig, what do you mean, you can't find Crawford, all you can find are recent memories of visions?

That's it. He had a dangerously high fever because the wound got infected, but I think he was having trouble with his Sight before that. And now there's nothing. I look in his head, and there's nothing: no Sight, no awareness, no Crawford. Just those memories of the visions. And they're bad, Nagi. It's the cleaners and one of Eszet's leftover labs, and that's all there is. I think it's all he's been Seeing recently. If I can get through his shields, I should be able to find something there even if he's in a coma, right? Has this ever happened to him before? Before Schwarz, I mean. Nagi, I can't do this on my own. We need his Sight to keep us out of Eszet's hands.

I don't know. I still have a few ways into the Rosenkreuz network, and I think that Mamoru and I can get in and out of the Eszet archives without getting caught. It's going to take a little time, though. I'll need a few days if you don't want them to know what I'm doing.

We don't have that long, Nagi. I need to know if there's any chance for Crawford, and I need to know what we're up against.

48 hours, then. That's the best I can do without giving you or me away. Check the old data-drop point in Kyoto in two days.

Thanks, Nagi. Forever Schwarz, huh?

Something like that. Schuldig?

Yeah.

You'd better get going. It's unlikely that anyone's got a bug in this system, but you used a really old access point. Eszet never trusted Takatori and might have put a trace on it back in our bodyguard days. I'm going to permanently close this backdoor in a minute. We've already been online too long.

I've got to get back anyway. 48 hours, Nagi. I'm counting on you.

Schuldig disconnected, staring at the empty dialog box for a minute before he switched the laptop off and tossed it onto the seat next to him. He drove back as quickly as he dared and was back in the cabin, sitting at Crawford's side and changing out his bags of saline and glucose in less than ninety minutes after he'd left.

"You'd better stop with the Sleeping Beauty act, Crawford. You're going to get bony if you don't wake up and eat properly, and I don't like skinny men. Not even if they're hung." Schuldig flopped down onto the other bed and stretched out. He'd give Crawford another 24 hours to show some improvement before he moved them again. He rolled over onto his side, facing his patient and studying him for a moment before closing his eyes. He wasn't sure how long he could give Crawford if Nagi couldn't come up with any useful information on him, which meant he wasn't sure how long he could give himself. He didn't know how much time he'd feasibly have or even want to give himself without Crawford, at this point. Nagi would probably invite him into the Takatori fold – assuming he could get out of North America without being captured – if it came to that, but Schuldig knew that Takatori Mamoru would never trust him and could probably never forgive him for the things he'd done. Schuldig didn't care. He'd rather be on the run than working for any Takatori, even a sane one, again. And if he couldn't run from the cleaners forever with or without Crawford... Schuldig yawned and fell asleep. He dreamed of Weiss and Takatori and Schreient. The memory of his own cruel laughter and Crawford's superior smirk woke him a few hours later, the images and sounds echoing in his slumber-fogged mind. Schuldig sat up quickly, the confusion of waking disorienting him and giving him a brief jolt of hope.

Crawford wasn't smirking. He wasn't doing anything but breathing steadily and quietly. Schuldig watched him for a moment before letting out a bark of bitter laughter. "You asshole," he said quietly, lying back down. He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or to Crawford.

And at this point, it probably didn't even matter.

*****

Ah, Montana, thought Schuldig as he accelerated around a curve. There were some serious upsides to Montana, but the state had its downsides, too. For instance, in some of the less populated areas, it would have been virtually impossible to hack into a communications hub and hijack its connections to the data-drop in Kyoto. Fortunately, Montana wasn't all wilderness. Schuldig glanced over his shoulder. Crawford lay there in the back on the makeshift bed, as still and quiet as before, but with a little more color. His mind, though... His mind was still empty of anything and everything except that endless nightmare. Schuldig had pulled the drain from his shoulder the day before, right after he'd contacted Nagi for a second time. He'd retrieved the data from the drop in Kyoto and gone over it a dozen times, but nothing in there was of much use to him when it came to Crawford. He'd gotten as much information as he needed on the telepaths dogging them, though: identical twins, left over from the last-ditch breeding effort of something called the "Epsilon creche" in the experiments overseen by the Epitaph supercomputer. Once Epitaph had been destroyed, the pitiful remains of Eszet had tried to salvage the remnants of their experiments. Apparently the twin freakshow was the last and best weapon Eszet had. They were the product of a high-level telepath's genes, possibly even Schuldig's (Schuldig had sniffed in irritation when he'd read that), spliced with a mid-level empath's. The embryos had been carefully cultivated and subjected to a fast-growth hormone in order to bring them up to full strength in less than half the time it should have taken. They weren't particularly formidable or interesting on their own, but being perfect genetic copies of each other down to the nuclear level, they had the unique ability to share both their brain capacity and their gift simultaneously. Fighting them was like fighting two independent yet perfectly harmonized halves of a very large, very agile whole. It was how they'd managed to confuse and evade Schuldig's attacks so easily: every time he'd begin to surround and tear apart the consciousness of one, that twin would link effortlessly to his sibling, and the two would flow either against or away from Schuldig, like a sentient ocean current. It wasn't anything like making use of a perfect mental link such as the one that Schuldig had built into Schwarz's minds, and it wasn't anything like completely overrunning another mind with your own. It was just like shifting your thoughts around in your own head, something that was completely instinctive to a telepath. The trick, Schuldig figured, was just to get them apart, even for a split second. If the one didn't have access to the other, they'd be effectively crippled. Even if they could function completely independent of each other, without that second mind available, neither twin would be a match for even a weak Mastermind.

But Schuldig was no longer weak. He'd stuck to less-populated areas over the past several days for good reason: if he slipped up, he'd stick out far more than in a dense population center, but it would be much easier to sense another unique mind like his without the noise of the ungifted masses burbling away in the background. And his shields had strengthened considerably without the interference of too many noisy mental voices pressing in on him. Even without regular rest or a minute free from worry, Schuldig felt as strong as he had in months. And with that strength came agility and subtlety. Schuldig was certain that he was not only back up to his peak strength but also his peak ability. "And in less than a week. You should be impressed by my mental prowess, Crawford." Not that it was doing Crawford any good. Everything Nagi had been able to find on precognitives without access to their gift was not in the least encouraging.

There are two possibilities, Nagi had informed him. One, his gift has shut down spontaneously, which means that he will remain a dead mind until his body gives out or until it spontaneously reappears, which will probably overwhelm him and cause instantaneous burnout and insanity. Or two, he's done it himself, and he will either be able to get it back or it'll stay dormant and leave him without a Talent until he dies. There wasn't much information on either possibility in the archives. Neither occurrence is very common, but spontaneous shutdown is the more likely scenario. The only thing I do know for sure is that if his gift shut itself down spontaneously and he does wake up, you don't want to be anywhere near him when it resurfaces. He's already a dead man if that's the case, but if you're around and you catch the backlash, you're going to get sucked in and lose your mind, too. The good news is that he if he does wake up, it's far more likely that he's the one who closed his Talent off. If that's the case, there's no risk to you other than the loss of his forewarnings. I'm sorry there isn't any more information, Schuldig. This is all I can give you. You should stay away from the Takatori networks until things are resolved one way or the other. There was a string of tracking code embedded in that old server after all, and even though I shut it down before anyone could retrieve the data, they're going to be looking more carefully now. Mamoru and I can clean everything out on both the old and new networks, but it's going to take time that we can't really spare right now. So be careful.

In other words, Schuldig thought, hurry up and wait. Keep dragging the Oracle's useless body around with you and hope that he either never wakes up and just dies in his sleep, or that he wakes up soon and turns his Sight back on. Schuldig was never particularly patient; it had only been Crawford's assurances and admonishments that had helped him to curb his natural impatience and wait until the right time during their little rebellion against the Elders of Eszet. Even then, Schuldig hadn't managed to be as good of a boy as Crawford would have liked. Without Crawford hovering over his shoulder now, Schuldig had let his impatience get the better of him and directly contacted Nagi a second time. The data drop had probably been safe, he was sure, but after another two days of Crawford's stillness and his own growing sense of urgency and frustration, Schuldig had felt the need to do something. It wasn't a given that he would be tracked. If he only popped in to find Nagi and disconnected in less than three minutes, there couldn't be much danger. It was such a reckless thing to do, and it had turned out to be a lot less satisfying than Schuldig had hoped.

Nagi had been furious. For him, anyway, insofar as fury could make itself felt over cables and through electrons. He'd berated Schuldig in four languages (Japanese, German, English, and even a little Gaelic) and reiterated that he didn't know anything else that would help Crawford.

I'm not there, Schuldig, and even if I were, my gift couldn't help him. You're the only one who might have a chance, but if you haven't been able to find anything hiding in his mind, then there's little chance of there being anything to find. I'm sorry, but don't contact me again. I refuse to be the signpost that leads the cleaners to you and Crawford.

And that had been that. Schuldig knew he shouldn't have done it in the first place, but Nagi had seen him online, initiated contact, torn him a new one up one side and down the other, and then kicked him completely out of the network in just under 100 seconds. Surely the chances of them being tracked from that small indiscretion were slim to none. And he knew better now than to even try poking around in either the Takatori system or one of the old Rosenkreuz or Eszet archives to find more information about the ins and outs of precognition. If Nagi hadn't been able to find out anything else, the information probably didn't exist. Schuldig might be impatient and reckless, but he wasn't suicidal. Not today, anyway.

Schuldig parked the van (a new one; this one was a proper van and not a minivan – he'd ditched the minivan in a river that should wash away all physical traces and disrupt any remaining psychic energy) and walked up to the small cabin. One of the very best upsides of Montana, he thought to himself, was the proliferation of decent vacation cabins. They were often fully stocked and ready for visitors during the summer, and they were also often very isolated. And it was rather pretty here. If Crawford didn't wake up in the next couple of days... Well. A picturesque mountain cabin near a lake was as good a place for a guy like that to die as any, Schuldig decided. He picked the lock and pushed the door open with his foot, keeping a wary eye out for any rodents or other unwelcome wildlife as he walked through the four small rooms and rummaged around, organizing things to make the place feel more livable. When he found no evidence of anything larger or more frightening than a couple of long-legged spiders in a corner, he went back to the van to bring Crawford in. "You're getting way too easy to lift, Brad," he whispered as he carried Crawford across the threshold. "Your shoulder's getting better and you even look better. But..." Schuldig carefully deposited Crawford on one of the beds that he'd made up, arranging the unconscious man's slack limbs so that he would be completely covered by the thick blanket Schuldig had brought in from the back of the van. Summer nights in the mountains were cold, he'd discovered. Beautiful, but cold.

Schuldig paced back and forth for a while, eating bites of a vaguely disgusting pre-packaged sandwich and watching Crawford breathe. He sat down on the dusty couch across the room and turned on his laptop, re-reading the information on their pursuers and on precogs who'd lost their gifts. He watched Crawford breathe some more. When he couldn't stand doing that any longer, he got up and went to the doorway, inhaling lungfuls of the crisp mountain air until he was lightheaded from the sheer healthfulness of it all and wishing so much for a cigarette that he wanted to weep.

He stood outside the cabin, watching the sun set and turn the waters of the mountain lake a fiery red-gold that eventually bled into a dusky indigo, and then he went back inside to check Crawford's condition again. Crawford was still breathing strongly, and his pulse was steady. His color was actually almost normal, too. Schuldig might have even called it healthy in the glow of the single overhead lamp. But there was almost nothing in his mind – just those nightmarish images. "If you don't wake up, is that still going to be me, Crawford? Am I still going to end up in that lab even without you?" Schuldig squeezed Crawford's hand almost painfully, willing him to respond, to react, to twitch an eyelid or a finger or even a fucking toe. But nothing happened, not even when his own knuckles began to ache from the pressure of his desperate grip. Eventually, Schuldig undressed down to his t-shirt and boxers and turned out the light, curling up on the smaller bed and lying on his side to keep an eye on Crawford, as had become his habit. Not that it mattered. Schuldig burrowed under his blanket, wrapping himself in a protective cocoon. He could almost make out Crawford's outline from the pale, faint light of the moon streaming in from the window. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Crawford lying there, a gilded shadow seeming to float above the floor.

Schuldig fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with long, dark corridors and a sense of wrongness lurking behind him. He ran, stumbling blindly and falling occasionally. The terror of being more vulnerable in a prone position, no matter how fleeting, suffocated him until he dragged himself upright and ran again. The wrongness never got closer, but it never drew away, either. Schuldig's throat felt raw, and the sound of his own panicked, labored breaths was harsh and horrible in his ears. He was being toyed with. He had to get away, get away, get out of here, get out, get out, out...

The sense of urgency rose, pulling Schuldig with it. It swelled from within, the feeling sharpening in the center of his chest and pushing through him, catapulting him into a trembling, keyed-up wakefulness. His hands tightened into fists, gripping the bedclothes so hard that his knuckles turned white. What was wrong? What was wrong? It felt like the end of the world was waiting on the other side of his next breath. But it was just a dream, just a bad dream. Wasn't it?

...found us, they found us, is it too late? what... Schuldig's eyes widened, and he immediately cast the thinnest, most delicate net of awareness out over the area around him. It fluttered to the edges of his range, like the silk of a spiderweb carried on a soft breeze, and then drifted unimpeded back into his consciousness, catching against nobody else in the process. But the feeling continued to swell, and Schuldig broke out into a cold sweat, his skin prickling with heat and ice all at once. He pried his fingers from the blankets and brought his fists up against his temples, trying to hold in some semblance of calm. It's just the dream, just a bad dream! There's nobody there; I would sense them! Could it be those freaky little science experiments? Are they using their empathy? Augh! This doesn't feel like an empath's attack... What is it, what is it? Anxiety edged into the beginnings of panic, and over the thunderous beats of his own heart, Schuldig heard a choked gasp and the rustle of cloth from across the room.

"Crawford?" Schuldig slammed his mind closed completely, and the pressure of incipient panic lifted. It left him momentarily dizzy with relief as he steadied himself, and then he moved. He was across the room and at Crawford's side in a split second, the brief detour needed to flick on the light slowing him down not in the least.

Crawford flinched when the light came on, his eyes riveted to the flexible plastic tubes secured to his arm with medical tape. He drew another choked, shuddering breath and wrenched the IVs free, nails raising welts as his fingers scrabbled clumsily against his skin. He tried to lift himself, perhaps to maneuver himself to where he might stand, but his injured shoulder and weakened muscles couldn't bear his weight. He collapsed back against the bed and tried to rise again, more urgently this time. Schuldig held him down gently, feeling Crawford's heartbeat thudding against his palm.

"Crawford. Crawford!" Schuldig leaned forward into the other's field of vision and laid his hand alongside Crawford's face, forcing Crawford to look at him. Schuldig had never seen him like this before. His eyes were wide, and on anyone else, Schuldig would have classified the expression in them as something akin to "mild alarm." On Brad Crawford, this qualified as panic, maybe even terror. Schuldig had no interest in reopening his mind to discover which of the two it actually was. Even completely closed off, he could still feel the sharp edges of Crawford's anxiety, blunted though it was by his own mental barriers. The sensation was awful and familiar, and Schuldig's own eyes widened as he recognized it: it was the nagging, indefinable something that had permeated both Crawford's thoughts and the memories of his visions after he'd been shot.

So this was the Oracle, capable of feeling fear and unable to shake it: as human as anyone else. Fuck, maybe it really is the end of the world.

"Brad, it's okay."

"Sch...Schul–?" Crawford's voice cracked. His uninjured arm moved, and Schuldig felt fingers squeeze his forearm.

"Who else would it be?" His thumb stroked Crawford's cheek once, soothingly, belying the sarcastic tone he'd automatically used. "You've been in a coma for almost a week, but you should be fine now. Your shoulder's a bit fucked – it got infected, but it's clean now. Whatever. I'm sure your superhuman powers of perfection and anal retentiveness will magically heal you by the morning. And you owe me, you asshole. You owe me bigtime for all the shit I've done for you since you got shot." Crawford frowned, picking out the important parts and ignoring Schuldig's sass. Schuldig felt his heart lighten. That was more like it.

"When is it?" Crawford rasped.

"When is— Oh. About... eleven days since you walked into that bullet. And Crawford... There's no way me getting shot would have been worse than this." Crawford shivered in denial, a faint tremor that vibrated the skin under Schuldig's fingertips once, and his eyes cut away from Schuldig's. Schuldig bit back the stirrings of unease. Crawford was still anxious, and it made Schuldig nervous in turn just knowing it. Nevermind that he could feel it if he let himself. He shouldn't feel anything from the Oracle, ever. He shouldn't see anything other than smug certainty, arrogance, and – occasionally – irritation on that cold, handsome face either. He never had before, and he wanted it to stop. Now.

"It would have been."

"Shut up." Schuldig jabbed a finger into Crawford's uninjured shoulder. "You're freaking me out, and it's pissing me off. Keep it up, and I'm leaving that catheter in indefinitely."

Crawford blinked. "You won't." It was a reflexive response, assurance and habit making the words firm and sure despite the fact that Crawford's voice was little more than a whisper.

"Try me. You're practically helpless, Crawford. At my mercy, you know. I even gave you a tattoo while you were out. Says 'Property of Mastermind' on your left ass cheek." Crawford frowned again, and the lines between his eyebrows deepened in a very familiar manner. Schuldig smirked. This was definitely more like it.

"I can take care of it myself. Now get out of the way, if you would."

"Fine." Schuldig shrugged, but his hand lingered on Crawford's face, just as Crawford's fingers continued to grip Schuldig's forearm. "Then it's a drink of water, some drugs, and more sleep for you."

"I've slept enough. We need to discuss where we're going and what we're going to do. It won't be long before Eszet catches up again, and this time, we have to finish it. Or we'll never be free of them." Crawford's unwavering gaze met Schuldig's, and Schuldig held it briefly before gently pulling Crawford into a sitting position and watching him swing his legs over the side of the bed. He looked away discreetly while Crawford did away with the catheter, ignoring Crawford's raised eyebrow and snort of amusement at his sudden delicacy. "My glasses?"

Damn it, Schuldig thought resignedly. Relief and trepidation warred as he levered Crawford onto his feet. I think I miss the coma already.

*****

Four hours later, Schuldig flung himself out of the small wooden chair and onto the bed. He groaned and threw his arms over his head, carefully avoiding Crawford, who was propped against the headboard with his long legs stretched out in front of him. "Stop it, stop it, make it stop! You're inhuman, Crawford. And creepy! Nobody ever plans in this much detail, not even other precogs." Crawford had spent the first hour grilling Schuldig about what he'd been doing while Crawford was unconscious. Schuldig had spilled everything, from Maxwell to the Kyoto data drop to both times he'd contacted Nagi. Crawford had gone very still when Schuldig had mentioned the second attempt.

"Nearly a day and a half ago?" Crawford had stared at Schuldig intently, and his glasses flashed as they caught the light of the overhead lamp. Schuldig could barely tell that he'd only just awakened from a week-long coma.

"Yes." Schuldig had been wary. He'd kept his eyes on Crawford's bare chest, occasionally letting his gaze flick to check the dressing on Crawford's shoulder and the bruises from the IV needles on his arms.

"You never listen. I tell you not to do something, and you do it anyway." Crawford had sighed and crossed his legs.

"What? You said 'Don't do it.' You never said what 'it' was!" Schuldig's voice had risen in pitch and volume. Asshole! You're all beat up and skinny and in nothing but a pair of drawstring pajama pants, and you still look like you could kick someone's ass just by thinking about it. An hour ago, you were completely helpless and maybe even dying! Aargh. You're infuriating and annoying and kind of sexy all at the same time. Schuldig's lower lip had pooched out into a slight pout. I think I hate you.

Crawford had ignored the pointed thoughts as easily as brushing aside a buzzing insect. "Didn't it seem ill-advised to you at the time?"

I definitely hate you. He'd kept that thought to himself. "...No." Schuldig had widened his eyes slightly, every line in his body shouting "innocent, innocent, innocent!" Crawford raised an eyebrow in response, and his glasses glinted. "Fine," Schuldig relented. "Yes. But what else was I supposed to do? Nagi said that you were either never waking up, or if you did wake up, you might never get your Sight back. If you didn't end up burning out and taking me with you, that is. What was I—"

"You should have waited. Your little foray into cyberspace has almost certainly brought them closer to finding us than they would have been, and we're not ready. I don't know how much time we have. They could come before dawn, or they could find us in a week. I'm blind, Schuldig; I have no way of knowing when they're going to catch up to us. We are at more of a disadvantage now than we were when I got shot."

"You mean— Bullshit. You've got a timeframe; you just said it: before dawn to a week. And you're awake now. That's not more of a disadvantage. That's a distinct advantage, particularly with the information Nagi was able to find, sketchy as it is. Don't tell me you weren't busy figuring out possible scenarios even when it looked like your brain was shut down. I know you better than that. You're always scheming, Crawford. Not having your Sight wouldn't change that."

"I closed off my Talent. I was not scheming."

No, you trapped yourself – both of us – in a nightmare. Schuldig had carefully kept that thought to himself, too. "Why would you do something like that? Why deliberately blind yourself when our situation is this desperate? The painkillers and fever would have suppressed—"

"You know what I Saw." Crawford's voice was low, and it caught a little on the last word. Schuldig blinked in surprise. "It's all I've been Seeing for weeks. For months, Schuldig. Off and on, since Farfarello. Sometimes in a different order, sometimes with the briefest instance of freedom appearing in among all of those images before another scenario ending with us in Eszet's lab took its place. I couldn't let it keep going if I wasn't going to be able to control it. I would almost certainly have lost control when the fever hit if I hadn't already closed everything off. And then we both would have been lost, easy pickings for the cleaners without a fighting chance."

"Wh-what?"

"Precognition 101: You need a keenly ordered mind to be able to cope with nearly all possible futures leading to the same end, particularly if you're struggling to find the one tiny trigger event to change those futures. A brain wracked with pain and a high fever – even one as disciplined as mine – isn't capable of that kind of order. It was worth the risk of losing my Sight permanently to give us a little more freedom and a chance to fight. It is worth the risk."

Schuldig had said nothing. There wasn't really much he could have said to a revelation like that.

"Now. What do we know about those telepaths?" Crawford had rearranged his legs, crossing them in the other direction. Apparently even Brad Crawford could be fidgety. It was disconcerting. Schuldig had refrained from pointing out that Crawford had managed to freak him out again. He had the feeling that Crawford probably knew and didn't really care. So he had started talking, constantly shifting his ass in a futile effort to get comfortable on that vile little wooden chair. And now, Gott im Himmel, he implored silently, staring up at the ceiling from his vantage point on his back, let us be done!

"We're done," Crawford assured him. Schuldig sat up suddenly. He was certain that he hadn't thought loudly enough for Crawford to hear him. "No, I just know you very well. I've spent a lot of time watching you. And you're very transparent, Schuldig. At least to me." Schuldig scowled.

"What am I thinking now?"

"You're wondering how I can truly know what you're thinking without my Sight." Schuldig's scowl deepened.

"You really are inhuman, Crawford. And very, very creepy. Are you sure there's no latent telepathy in your genes? I think you're freaking me out again. You know how I can tell? Because I'm getting pissed at you. Again."

"Always," Crawford agreed mildly.

"What? Why are you—" You're infuriating. You're an asshole! I can't believe I ever wanted you. I can't believe I still want you. We might die in an hour, I kind of hate you right now, and I... Dammit! I want you. "Fuck." Sometimes Schuldig really hated the way his mind worked.

"There's no time like the present."

"You— what?"

"You heard me."

"You have a half-healed hole in your shoulder. You were in a coma for a week! A catheter, Crawford! For a week. You just told me that Eszet could show up to make us into science projects anytime between sunrise and seven days from now, and you want to—"

"The sun's already rising, and they're not here. We're probably safe until at least this afternoon."

"'Probably?' You're as good as blind! How would you know?" Schuldig's protest was halfhearted. He was tired and on edge and annoyed, but he also hadn't gotten laid in... Mein Gott, that's depressing. Well. Far too long. And Crawford... He wanted Crawford. He supposed he had for a long time, even if he hadn't fully realized it. And Crawford definitely seemed to want him. The growing bulge in the front of his pajama bottoms attested to that.

"Schuldig." Crawford reached out and grasped Schuldig's wrist. The pressure was inexorable, so Schuldig rose to his knees on the bed and allowed himself to be guided forward until he was straddling Crawford's thighs. He settled himself down gently, trying not to jar Crawford or stick his elbows anywhere uncomfortable. Crawford frowned up at him and transferred his grip to the front of Schuldig's t-shirt. He tugged sharply, and Schuldig leaned down, almost falling into the kiss. Crawford's mouth tasted stale, but it also tasted of wanting. His tongue pressed into Schuldig's mouth, and his hand dropped to Schuldig's waist, fingers sliding over the skin there. Schuldig sucked in a breath and ran his hands over Crawford's chest. His skin was hot, but it wasn't the heat of fever. It was the heat of wanting, pure and simple. Schuldig smiled into Crawford's kiss. This, he understood. Crawford took Schuldig's bottom lip between his teeth, a sharp, delicious nip, and Schuldig felt hands on his hips, pulling him closer until they were pressed right up against each other. Schuldig pulled back from Crawford's mouth.

"You stupid... Your shoulder! Don't screw it up again." Schuldig reached down and covered Crawford's hands with his own, trying to pry them from his hips without wrenching the idiot's wound. Crawford merely raised his eyebrow again, stroking Schuldig's hip and pushing the elastic of his boxers down to expose more skin. Schuldig shivered and arched forward into his touch a little, and the tip of Crawford's erection, hard and hot and damp, pressed against Schuldig's lower belly. Schuldig felt more than heard Crawford's sharp intake of breath, and he rocked his hips, rubbing his own swollen cock against Crawford's. The sensation was electric, the friction from the cloth and Crawford's hard heat so good, so he rocked his hips again, biting his lip as a jolt of pleasure shot through him. Crawford's fingers tightened on his hips momentarily, and then Crawford reached between them, sliding his hand into Schuldig's boxers and curling it around Schuldig's cock. Schuldig groaned. "Wait, wait, let me..." Crawford ignored him, his insidious hand delving lower and cupping Schuldig's balls. Schuldig panted and moved against Crawford, rubbing like a cat in heat and leaning down to kiss him again. He sucked Crawford's tongue into his mouth, and when Crawford let out a short, breathy groan and tightened his grip on Schuldig's cock, Schuldig began thrusting into his fist helplessly. "Gott, wait, Crawford...Crawford, wait, bitte..." he murmured against Crawford's open mouth, one hand gripping Crawford's hair and the other wrapping around Crawford's erection. Crawford's cock was hot and thick in Schuldig's hand, already slick with precome, already sliding against Schuldig's palm in a rhythm that matched Schuldig's increasingly desperate thrusts.

Schuldig. Crawford nipped at Schuldig's lip again, and then at his jaw. Schuldig, I want to watch you. Schuldig's thrusts became more frantic, and he choked back another moan.

"Fuck, Brad!" Sharp teeth pinched the sensitive skin where Schuldig's neck and shoulder joined, and he threw his head back.

"Schuldig..." Crawford's voice was low and raw, echoing in Schuldig's ears and in his mind. Schuldig, I want to watch you come. Schuldig reached out and was surprised when he felt Crawford's mind welcoming him, letting him in so he could see himself through the Oracle's eyes: back bowed, face flushed, lips parted and swollen from Crawford's bites. He could feel the pleasure pooling in Crawford's groin, feel it coiling and gathering in the pit of his own belly and rushing through him. Schuldig closed his eyes and watched himself, the wanton way he surged against Crawford. He heard the low, throbbing moan that tore from his throat as he spurted over Crawford's hand, ropes of sticky white smearing across Crawford's abdomen and soaking the waistband of his pajama pants. He felt Crawford's own desire spiking as he watched Schuldig come, trembling, and Schuldig moaned again, swept away for a second time as he felt Crawford's orgasm sweep over them both. Crawford's hot breath gusted against Schuldig's neck as he sighed and shuddered from his own release.

"Y-your glasses are smudged," said Schuldig finally when he felt like he could speak. He leaned back a little, his world feeling rather smaller now that he was completely back in his own head.

"I suppose." Crawford's eyes were closed, and he was still breathing rather hard, apparently finding it difficult to catch his breath. Schuldig climbed off the bed carefully, trying not bounce or jostle Crawford, who remained slumped against the headboard. He showed no signs of opening his eyes, and Schuldig quickly looked at his shoulder. There didn't seem to be any fresh blood, and the stitches seemed to have held. That was good. "It's fine, Schuldig." Crawford's lips quirked. "Better than fine, actually, if a bit...rushed."

"Shut up. It's been a while." Schuldig felt an irrational stab of defensiveness, and then he noticed that Crawford was looking at him, the curve to his lips slightly more pronounced. "You're pissing me off again, Crawford."

"I always have. That's never going to change. And there's need to get your boxers in a twist. You'll notice that I rushed as much as you did, Schuldig. Next time, things'll go a little differently."

"Next time?"

"Mm." Crawford slowly levered himself off the bed and began pushing his sticky pajama bottoms down, wiping his hands on them as he went. They fell to the ground, a puddle of damp cotton wrapped around his ankles. He bent forward, presumably to pick them up, and made a small "ah!" noise. Schuldig scowled and dropped to his knees in front of him, tugging at the pajamas.

"Step out of these." Crawford lifted first one foot and then the other, his hand on Schuldig's shoulder for balance. Schuldig could feel Crawford looking at him (why could he always feel Crawford's eyes even when he couldn't hear his thoughts?), and he tilted his head up. "What?" Crawford had taken his glasses off and set them on the bedside table. There was nothing between them to disguise the smoldering look in Crawford's gaze when their eyes met.

You look good down there. Schuldig caught a brief flash of himself kneeling in front of Crawford, his hands splayed on Crawford's ass and his lips wrapped around Crawford's cock. He glared even as he felt himself flush a little, growing a bit warm at the thought.

So would you, Crawford, Schuldig sent back. Crawford's smirk turned knowing, and this time Schuldig saw Crawford kneeling in front of him, Schuldig's long fingers tangled in Crawford's hair and Crawford's hands on his hips, encouraging Schuldig to thrust deeper as he fucked Crawford's mouth.

"I would." Crawford's voice was quiet, but Schuldig could hear the promise in it even as he felt the weight of Crawford's gaze still on him. "Next time. Or the time after."

"Ja. Assuming Eszet doesn't find us before the next time." Schuldig stood, Crawford's pajama bottoms crumpled in his hand. Crawford took them from him and absently wiped the rest of his and Schuldig's semen from his belly, then folded them and dropped them on the small wooden chair that Schuldig had been sitting on during their debriefing. Schuldig watched him, a bit incredulous. "Precogs are so weird. Or maybe it's just you." Crawford shrugged his uninjured shoulder, turning around and heading for the bathroom. Schuldig just shook his head in disbelief. Precogs. He rolled his eyes and pulled off his own clammy boxers, wadding them up and tossing them at the large duffel bag that held his pitiful wardrobe. He missed his leather pants, damn it, and that horrible green jacket that had always made Crawford and Nagi cringe. Whatever. At least I'm not dead yet. At least I got some! He rummaged around and found clean underwear, yanking it on unceremoniously. The sheets on these beds weren't actually that bad, but he still didn't want to take the chance of chafing his willy, not when he might get to put it to good use again fairly soon. He turned back the blankets on Crawford's bed and crawled in, wondering what Crawford would say when he came out of the bathroom. It wasn't quite what Schuldig had expected.

"We need to be up in a few hours, and you're going to need to head down the mountain for a bit." Crawford said nothing about Schuldig being in his bed. He simply retrieved some clean sleeping pants from his own duffel and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling them on mostly one-handed.

"And leave you here alone? You only just woke up! You can barely pull on your own pants!" Which wasn't entirely true; Crawford had managed his pajama bottoms with an efficient one-handed elegance that Schuldig found both attractive and annoying. That asshole. Schuldig shut his mouth when Crawford looked at him. If Crawford had been wearing his glasses, they would have flashed menacingly. "All right, all right. I'm going down the mountain for a while tomorrow. What for?"

"I'm going to need to see if I can reawaken my Sight. When I do, you shouldn't be here. I'll be fine, but things might be a bit – confused – at first, and I'll need the quiet to work through them and put everything in order. I might not be able to keep everything behind my shields when I'm doing that."

"If Eszet's nearby, they'll notice."

"If any telepath is close enough to notice, they'll be close enough to get lost in the visions."

"Oh. Right."

"And as I said before, I think we have until at least this afternoon, if not another day. It's difficult to say; I missed so much, and things might have changed."

"Ja, we might be irrevocably fucked instead of just almost completely fucked."

"There is that," Crawford agreed mildly. He was much more himself now: much calmer, with none of that weird, blunted anxiety bleeding off from him. There hadn't been any sign of it when Schuldig had been inside Crawford's mind during... Not that you could really manage to be anxious during an orgasm. Schuldig couldn't, at least. "Stop thinking, Schuldig, and go to sleep." Crawford slid between the sheets next to him. Schuldig turned onto his side and stared at Crawford's profile.

"Do we really have a chance?"

"Slim to none has always been a chance, Schuldig, even if it isn't a very good one. The light, if you would?" Schuldig grumbled to himself as he got out of bed and went over to the switch – Dick, you could have done it on your way back from the bathroom – but he did it anyway. When he got back to the bed, Crawford's breaths were soft and even: he'd fallen asleep before Schuldig finished pulling the blanket up to his chin.

****

Schuldig woke up to a warm hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Bwahah?" he asked – rather intelligently, he thought, all things considered.

"It's almost time for you to head down the mountain. There's coffee, but I suggest you go find someplace to have breakfast. It should be safe to return by 2 PM. If I haven't got my Sight back by then, I probably never will." Crawford stood next to the bed, dressed in jeans. His hair was damp, and he had on a white long-sleeved shirt that was completely unbuttoned. He picked up a mug of coffee that was sitting on the bedside table and took a sip. Schuldig regarded him blearily for a moment, wondering why he suddenly had the urge to throw Crawford down and lick his way from Crawford's neck down to the waistband of his jeans, where a line of fine, dark hairs drew his eye before disappearing somewhere rather spectacular – if Schuldig's memory served him correctly. Oh. It did.

"What, now? Right this minute, just go?"

"You have time for a shower."

"That's it? Nothing else?" Schuldig arranged his face into an innocent, hopeful expression. He vaguely remembered protesting strenuous activity for some very good reasons before they'd gone to sleep, but considering how completely together, healthy, and fuckable Crawford was looking, clearly he'd been at least a little mistaken.

"Nothing else." Crawford tilted his head slightly, and his glasses caught the light and flashed. Schuldig scowled and sat up. "Later, Schuldig."

"Right, fine. If there is a later." Schuldig scooted over to the other side of the bed before climbing out and stretching, pointedly ignoring Crawford until the skin between his shoulder blades started to prickle. "What?" Schuldig turned, annoyed. The cranky fell right off his face when caught the intensity of Crawford's gaze.

"There will be."

"You can't know for sure."

"Not right now, no. But I also don't know for certain that there won't be a later." Schuldig stared at him for a moment before rolling his eyes a little and giving in.

"There's a sort of logic to that, isn't there? Fine, whatever. Coffee, shower, breakfast somewhere that isn't here. Are you going to keep looking at me like that until I go?"

"Probably."

"Are you going to look at me like that all the time now?"

"It's very likely. Is that going to be an issue? I looked at you like this before; you just didn't really know what it meant."

"Oh." Really? How did I not notice that? Schuldig thought in surprise.

"You were always pissed off at me for one reason or another or off finding people whose minds you could play in freely."

"Ah. So it's been this way for a while, then." It wasn't phrased as a question, but Schuldig was sure that Crawford would take it as one.

"I've been watching you for as long as you've been watching me, Schuldig. I just realized what it meant sooner."

"Really? I call bullshit. You had forewarning." Fucking precog. Having the Sight has got to be cheating, especially since I can't really get into your head unless you want me there.

"There is that." Crawford took a sip of coffee. "We're running out of time, Schuldig."

"Right. I'm going, I'm going." Schuldig waved his hand absently and walked into the bathroom. His shower was quick and perfunctory, without even enough time for a morning wank. He'd really better make it up to me, damn him. I demand proper sex! He dressed even more perfunctorily, pulling on jeans and an obnoxiously green t-shirt. He grinned. It rather reminded him of that green jacket that he'd loved and that Crawford and Nagi had loathed.

"You do seem to like that color even though it clashes with your hair," said Crawford from a corner of the sofa.

"I like it because it clashes with my hair," Schuldig corrected him. Crawford said nothing. "Let me check your shoulder before I go. It needs to be re-dressed after that shower."

"Already taken care of."

"One-handed? Really?"

"I have very good hands," Crawford observed quietly. His smirk was hardly noticeable at all. "My shoulder is much improved. I have a slightly greater range of motion than when I woke up last night, and there's less pain. It's fine."

"Okay, whatever." Schuldig walked over to the sofa anyway. Crawford watched as he bent down. "Don't fuck up, Brad," he said quietly in Crawford's ear.

"I don't intend to." Crawford turned his head slightly so that Schuldig's lips brushed gently along his cheek. It felt like an invitation, so Schuldig closed the rest of the distance and gave him a short, fierce kiss.

"2 PM." Schuldig straightened up and headed for the front door. "I'm going to have an omelet and hashbrowns. And cheese! There's going to be enough cheese to put one of your pitiful American dairies out of business. If you're good, maybe I'll bring you back some toast."

"I can't wait."

*****

Breakfast – brunch, really – had been a good idea. Schuldig had managed to kill 45 minutes finding a decent diner that was far enough away from the cabin for safety's sake, and 45 more eating at said diner. He dawdled through another full hour walking through the little town at the foot of the mountain, and he killed the last half hour arguing with himself about cigarettes, finally giving in and purchasing a pack, and then chainsmoking three right there in the convenience store's parking lot. The nicotine rush was so good it was almost indecent. Schuldig had to stop himself from moaning suggestively as he practically fellated his first cigarette – it wouldn't do to stand out too much. Not that he didn't stand out with his bright orange hair and very green shirt. Maybe I should have cut it and dyed it. ...No. They'd be able to tell it was me anyway, I'm sure. Schuldig checked his watch. It was 1:15 – time to head back to the cabin. He resisted the urge to throw his mind open and take a quick peek at what Crawford was doing. Crawford was at the limit of his range, but even if he wasn't losing the battle with his Sight, Schuldig didn't think he'd get anything from him, anyway. Crawford had always held himself apart from the rest of them, even with access to Schwarz's shared mental link. Theoretically, that link should have made it easier for Schuldig to find out what Crawford was up to, even at this distance, but... Crawford. The man had mental barriers built like Fort Knox and an enviable ability to close off individual sections of his mind just in case anyone did manage to get in. It was probably one of the reasons that he was so fascinating. That and the fact that he was dead sexy. Ass. Schuldig ground out his last cigarette on the sole of his shoe and dropped the butt into the empty Coke can he was carrying. It wouldn't do to leave little psychic calling cards everywhere. Even if his eventual fate was inevitable, Schuldig preferred not to make it any easier for the opposition than it had to be.

Schuldig forced himself to resist the urge to hurry on his drive back. Crawford may have been without access to his Talent, but the man could still plan and project like nobody's business. So Schuldig had a good deal of well-paced confidence in Crawford's 2 PM deadline, arriving back at the cabin at ten minutes after the appointed hour. He scratched his nose and walked through the unlocked door, calling out. "Crawford? I forgot your toast. Or forgot not to eat it myself. Ha." He paused briefly in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the cabin's slightly shadowy interior, and then he dropped the keys.

"Crawford!" Brad was slumped over on the sofa, his eyes half open. Schuldig ran over and shook him hard, calling his name, but Crawford didn't respond. No, you've got to be kidding me! There's no way! Schuldig didn't hesitate – he plunged right into Crawford's mind. Or tried to, anyway. Crawford's shields were as strong as they'd ever been, and Schuldig found himself bounced right back into his own head. "Ow! What the hell is going on? Crawford? Crawford!" He tried again, throwing himself at Crawford's mental barriers and rebounding painfully back into his own mind once more. Schuldig pressed his palms against his temples, trying to squeeze his impending migraine away. This isn't the best way to go about things; what if something's really wrong? He took a deep breath and let himself relax, sending out a small, unobtrusive probe and searching for any sort of crack or opening in the Oracle's mind. After a couple minutes of delicate probing, Schuldig's head was beginning to pound, and he was ready to give up. He had started pulling himself back into his own head when he felt a tiny twitch at the back of his mind.

Schuldig. I think I have the answer. Crawford's cool mental voice slid into Schuldig's head.

Crawford? Where the hell are you? Schuldig could feel Crawford smirking smugly from way deep down in his own mind.

I'm in the safe room, Schuldig. I'm calling a meeting. Schuldig blinked once then felt an answering grin plaster itself across his face. Back when Schwarz had been four members planning to overthrow the Elders of Eszet, Schuldig and Crawford had constructed a virtual room of sorts in a deep corner of Crawford's mind. They'd used Crawford because of his near-impenetrable shields, his freakish ability to organize and compartmentalize his own mind, and his favored status among Rosenkreuz and Eszet's council members. It had been their war room, and it had served them well. But with their goal of destroying Eszet nearly met and Schwarz's dissolution, they'd no longer had a need for a safe place to plan their coup. Schuldig had nearly forgotten about it; the intimate mental link that he still shared with Crawford when necessary had taken the place of the safe room. He'd almost assumed that Crawford had done away with it. But then, Crawford had probably Seen that their safe room would be useful in the future. Oh, to be a precog. Somehow, even though Crawford's gift usually meant that Schuldig came out on top, too, he couldn't help feeling that sometimes, it was really a lot like cheating. Outstanding. Schuldig followed the link and blinked into the room. Crawford was sitting in the corner, waiting for him.

"You scared the shit out of me, Crawford. For a minute, I thought... Whatever. I was wrong. Anyway, you didn't used to tuck all the way in when you came here. You used to multitask."

"I trust you're in two places at once right now, then?"

"Natuerlich. Someone's got to be if you're just going to sit out there drooling on yourself."

"...You exaggerate."

"That's what you think."

"You're not the only one who gets annoyed in this partnership, Schuldig. Remember that." Crawford's glasses caught nonexistent light and flashed. "Now, this is important. When Eszet's telepaths attack, we're going to need to bring one in here. As you thought, if we can divide them, even for a few seconds, that should be enough for us to gain the upper hand. I can take care of the one in here, and you'll be left to deal with the other."

"You want to invite a hostile telepath in here? Inside your mind?"

"Yes. It worked once before, and since the Epitaph project was utterly destroyed and none of the experiments involved survived, there's no chance that Eszet has any data on how we defeated our so-called clones."

"You nearly got your ass kicked six ways to Sunday."

"I was trapped in his mind first, if you recall. This time, we'll be trapping one of them in mine from the beginning."

"You're insane. Are you sure you didn't burn out trying to turn your Talent back on? This is a really bad idea. It's got to be about as dangerous as taking on Eszet the first time around! So much could go wrong, Crawford."

"It's our only option at this point, Schuldig. I've Seen it. And the longer we put off this confrontation by running, the uglier the future becomes. They're going to start figuring us out, start adapting to us every time they get close and fail to capture us until the day they do capture us. This is our last, best chance. Do you understand?"

"I– Fuck. You're sure?"

"I can show you if you'd like." Crawford suggested. His glasses flashed again.

"No, I'll take your word for it. So your Sight is back?"

"It is."

"Great. So we just wait for those twins to show up and I shove one in here. That's it? We don't go looking for them?"

"In all likelihood, we won't have to."

"How can you be so... Crawford?" Crawford had gone still, like he was Seeing something, but Schuldig felt nothing. And then suddenly Crawford was moving, shoving sharply at both Schuldig's mental representation of himself and Schuldig's mind.

"Get out. Go now. They're here."

"Wh– fuck." Schuldig poured himself completely back into his own head in time to feel the suffocating pressure of another's strong mind wrapping around his own. So the little freaks were joined already. Not for long. Schuldig sent a quick warning down the link to Crawford and thinned his shields. Crawford already looked like he was down, and Schuldig was certain that Eszet's agents knew that he'd occasionally suffered debilitating breaks in his mental barriers. They might assume that such was the case now, particularly after their last encounter. They wouldn't have been too far off, either, except Schuldig had gotten his shit together a lot more quickly then they could have anticipated. He tried to keep the smugness out of his thoughts as he thinned his shields a little more, opening himself to the horrifying crush of another mind forcefully entering his. Smugness slid away in the wake of adrenaline. Half-panicked and not entirely faking it, Schuldig retreated down the link with Crawford and tumbled into the safe room.

Crawford was waiting. And so was Farfarello.

Schuldig froze, his heart juddering in his chest. Farf? Crawford, what is–? Schuldig began, but then he choked. He'd only hesitated for a fraction of a second in shock, but it had been more than enough. A searing pain tore through his chest, and Schuldig's mental body folded in on itself in agony, coughing up blood and falling to its knees. A bloody hand wound itself in Schuldig's hair and yanked. Schuldig, still choking, looked up and saw the face of one of Eszet's last useful telepaths.

Brother! the brown-haired teen crowed. I have him!

"No, lad, you don't." Farfarello stepped forward, sharp knife in hand. He licked the blade lovingly and then moved, a blur of killing energy. Schuldig felt himself kicked aside by the teenaged telepath's foot and he rolled away, trying to shut out the confusion and sharp jabs of pain that the other telepath was broadcasting. Every time Farfarello scored a hit and the boy screamed, Schuldig flinched.

"Schuldig. Get up. Get up!" Crawford was pulling him up, forcing Schuldig to unbend. Schuldig bit back a scream. Schuldig, it's not real. He's not real! You have to get out of here and take care of the other one. If you stay here, one of us is going to die. And if one of us dies, the other gets taken. "Schuldig. Schuldig!"

"N-not... Nnh-aaaugh!" A new form appeared, an exact copy of the boy fighting Farfarello. He flickered into existence between Schuldig and Crawford and, ignoring his embattled brother on the other side of the mental room entirely, went straight for Schuldig. Schuldig buckled under the onslaught.

Schuldig! Schuldig felt Crawford's desperate thought and looked up. The precog had leaped on the new telepath and was pounding him with his fists, trying to drag him back away from Schuldig. Schuldig! You have to get him out of here. I won't be able to hold them both off! Schuldig rose to his knees unsteadily, knowing what Crawford meant but not quite understanding. And then...

Farfarello's not really here. Shit. I should have realized... Shit! What am I doing? Schuldig surged to his feet, weaving a bit at first but then standing firm. He blocked out the pain in his chest, but he couldn't do much about the spillover from the twin slowly getting sliced to ribbons. "Crawford." Schuldig smiled, a cruel little curving of his lips, and opened his arms. "He's mine." Crawford rocked back slightly from a kick to his midsection, but he immediately stepped forward and smashed his elbow into the brunette's jaw before the other could regain his balance. The boy staggered back, eyes slightly glazed, and collided with Schuldig. Schuldig wrapped his arms around the teen and leaped mentally, forcing them out of the safe room. He could feel Crawford shoving at him, giving him and his unwilling passenger a boost out, and suddenly Schuldig was back in his own head with an interloper fighting him for all he was worth.

Sorry, kid he thought at the boy. He slammed the link to Crawford's mind closed and felt the mind trapped in his waver.

Brother! the boy cried, his whole consciousness throwing itself against Schuldig's shields. Schuldig winced and held firm.

Brother! came a faint echo, reverberating in Schuldig's head. The call was weak, raw.

Crawford and his memories of Farfarello must be making short work of the poor bastard, especially since he no longer has access to half of himself, Schuldig thought reflexively. Things were going to end very quickly, now. He was going to have to be ready— "Ack!" A dead weight dragged at him suddenly, pulling him off-balance. Schuldig looked down and shook the boy in his arms, who had suddenly collapsed, all of the fight leaving him in the space of a heartbeat. He caught the sudden mental image of the twins' physical selves standing somewhere outside the cabin, the one slumped against a tree, and the other falling to the ground, his eyes unseeing.

"Let him go, kid! Let him go!" Schuldig warned. He hauled the boy upright and shook him again. "Let him go!" Fuck, fuck, fuck! Schuldig thrust at the teen, pushing the kid's consciousness as far away from his mind as possible and bringing his mental barriers up at full strength. He didn't want to feel it when the kid snapped—

The scream built, a wash of mental, physical, and emotional agony that came crashing over Schuldig, breaking against his shields like a powerful wave. It must feel like dying with Farfarello did, maybe worse, Schuldig thought, and you don't have anyone to put you back together again. Schuldig shook, the effort of trying to keep his mind free of the boy's pain making him clench his teeth. The surge of pain and despair ebbed away and flowed back over him, stronger. Oh, no. He didn't want to have to do this; it was really going to hurt. It was going to hurt a lot, maybe even more than letting the teen dash himself to pieces against Schuldig's mind as he slowly went insane. Damn it. I don't know which is going to be worse: finishing it now, or waiting for it to be done on its own. Schuldig grimaced, his hands going up to his forehead to try to hold his mind in as another wave of mental agony crested and broke over him. Fucking... Aaugh! It seemed it was going to be better to finish things quickly. Schuldig could hold out against the kid's self-destruction, but it might prove to be too much later; stirring up the memories of Farfarello's death after a vicious pounding like this could set him back weeks. Schuldig wasn't at all interested in going through any of that again. He'd rather consign himself to a couple of days of physical hell than any more mental trauma. I'm sorry, kid. I'm so sorry. This is all I can do for you. He reached out, opening himself to the broken mind a quarter of a mile away. The boy latched onto him desperately, and Schuldig took the fragile mind firmly, wrapping it securely in his own before he twisted. The growing waves of psychic pain stopped so suddenly and so completely that Schuldig was lightheaded from their absence. He lurched up from the couch and staggered across the floor to the open door, falling to his knees and retching until he felt hollow and his stomach burned from the ache of overused muscles. Somehow he managed to push himself away from the puddle of sick, collapsing against the doorjamb and huddling there, waiting for the pain to creep back in. It didn't take long before he was in agony from the backlash of abusing his Talent and of having his shields abused in turn.

"Schuldig?" He felt hands on him, trying to pull him to his feet. "Schuldig, you have to walk. I can't carry you."

"Urfgh." Schuldig tried to stand, he really did. But every movement made his head swim with pain and his stomach rebel. "Leave me to die, Crawford, you sick bastard."

"If you're insulting me, it can't be that bad. Here, swallow this." Schuldig felt a few small, round pills pushed between his lips. They tasted bitter, and his stomach roiled. He opened his mouth to spit them out and maybe try vomiting again, but Crawford pre-empted him with a mouthful of water.

Hate you, hate you...sick fucker, hate you...you should die, never said this would happen...sadistic bastard, hate you... Schuldig continued to broadcast his displeasure until the painkillers started to kick in, at which point his brain began — Schuldig could have cried with relief — to shut down. Crawford timed his opportunity carefully, helping Schuldig to his feet and out to the van in the moments between lessening pain and absolute oblivion. Stupid fucking precog... Schuldig thought hazily before he gave in to the blackness sucking seductively at his mind.

Schuldig awoke twice more: once in the van, where he heard Crawford speaking – to himself? – in Japanese before he had more pills shoved in his mouth, and then again when the van was no longer moving. The passenger door opened and Schuldig nearly toppled out. Crawford steadied him with a strong arm around his waist and led him up a short, crunchy walkway – gravel? it made his ears want to bleed and he fought the urge to stab something – and then gently lowered him onto something soft and cool. Crawford helped Schuldig drink a few more swallows of water and choke down a couple more pills, and then everything was beautifully, blissfully nothing again.

*****

It was dark in the hotel room. At least, Schuldig assumed it was a hotel room. It was a bit difficult to tell since the heavy drapes were closed, letting only a little light filter in from the outside. Schuldig sat up gingerly, testing his head and stomach. His stomach felt a little tender and his head a little light, but the pain was gone and his mind was...fine. His shields seemed to be perfectly okay, and Schuldig was frankly surprised. Huh. I'm in much better shape than I thought. I expected to be way more screwed. He poked around the edges of his mental barriers and felt the solid strength of Crawford's mind supporting his. Should have known. Let go; I want to see how bad it is. When his mental demand failed to elicit a result, Schuldig poked at Crawford's shields a little more sharply and then reached over to poke the man himself.

"What? All right, fine." Crawford lifted his head sleepily and squinted at Schuldig for a moment before pulling his shields back and letting Schuldig's mind settle on its own. Schuldig ran an expert mental hand over his barriers and nodded to himself, satisfied. He'd be back in fighting form in a few hours. He really was getting good at putting himself back together again. Or Crawford was. He supposed it didn't make much of a difference at this point: spending that much time unconscious and reflexively rebuilding his defense mechanisms back up was becoming old hat. He fervently hoped that there was little opportunity to practice in the future.

"There're bagels and muffins somewhere. And coffee; it should start brewing any second now." Crawford's deep, sleepy voice startled Schuldig from his thoughts.

"Where are we?"

"Utah." Crawford yawned, and Schuldig followed suit, glaring.

"How long?"

"You were asleep for almost twenty hours. We've been here for about eight."

"How long are we staying?"

"A while. I talked to Nagi while you were enjoying your drug haze. It seems that we've disposed of Eszet's last effective weapon."

"'Last effective weapon?' They were just kids." Schuldig felt a little queasy again just thinking about it. Crawford sat up slowly, careful not to put too much weight on his bandaged shoulder as he pushed himself upright.

"So were you and I when we first started. So were Farfarello and Nagi."

"I think... I think they were programmed. I mean, really programmed, in ways that we never were. They had to have been, if they came out of one of Epitaph's creches." Schuldig swallowed heavily.

"It's very likely."

"And they were the last?"

"For now. Things have changed for us now that those two are dead. The remaining influential council members at Rosenkreuz are unwilling to authorize the deployment of any more teams just for us. They weren't really that interested in the beginning, apparently. It was only those who'd had deep ties to Eszet who were invested in having us as science experiments, and they were motivated by revenge for our arrogant presumption rather than any real desire for research. I think that for the time being and for the foreseeable future, as long as we stay out of Rosenkreuz's way and don't interfere with their interests or encroach on their teams, we'll be left alone."

"Wirklich?"

"It seems so. I haven't Seen anything to the contrary, and I've Seen plenty over the last several hours. That could change at any time, of course, but we should have some forewarning if it does."

"I really don't want to do this again. Any of it, in any variation. Except for part where there was sex. We should do that again."

"Noted."

"Oh? Great. Whatever you say, Herr Crawford." Schuldig grinned when Crawford glared at him. "You said something about bagels and coffee?"

"I did."

"Excellent. I could fall in love with a man who brought me coffee and bagels."

"It's possible."

"I could show my... appreciation for a man who brought me coffee and bagels." Schuldig leered at Crawford suggestively.

"You could. You could also pass out from low blood sugar in the middle of mindblowing sex if you started something right now." Schuldig pouted, and Crawford's lips quirked. "But there could easily be mindblowing sex after breakfast."

"Right. I'm on it." Schuldig got up quickly, only staggering a little, and headed for the shower. "I'm just going to wake up a bit before breakfast and sex," he explained. Just in case Crawford had any doubt about his plans.

"You do that." Crawford looked away, his thoughts apparently already elsewhere as he reached towards the bedside table and his laptop. Schuldig rolled his eyes a little as he disappeared into the bathroom. It was the fastest shower he had ever taken, but it served its purpose. He felt more awake and refreshed when he emerged, wrapped only in a towel. Crawford raised an eyebrow when Schuldig came to sit at the small table without making a detour for his clothes.

"Oh, please. It just makes things easier later. Ooh, is that blueberry cream cheese?" Schuldig stretched across the table eagerly and snatched a bagel half from in front of Crawford. The laptop was nowhere in sight. Good. No planning or scheming. Breakfast isn't going to take long at all! He demolished the bagel in about three bites, sucking leftover cream cheese from his fingers as he reached for a second half. He inhaled that one, too, smearing even more cream cheese on his hands. Which, of course, required more licking. Crawford watched, and Schuldig smiled inside, making sure to take his time with each digit, licking and sucking suggestively. "You gave me a bagel," Schuldig purred as the last bit of cream cheese disappeared from his thumb.

"I did."

"With cream cheese. I think I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"You probably do."

"I can think of a few ways to repay you," Schuldig said, standing up. He let his towel fall and walked over to Crawford, who unfolded himself from his chair and stood to meet him. "Kind of hard to do when you have clothes on, though," Schuldig observed, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Crawford's sweatpants and tugging him over in the direction of the bed.

"Sweatpants alone hardly constitute 'clothes,'" Crawford said as he let himself be led. Schuldig ignored him and slid his hands down Crawford's back, letting his nails scratch over Crawford's skin gently. Crawford shivered slightly, his eyes half-closing in pleasure. Schuldig grinned and reached up to pluck Crawford's glasses from his face, tossing them onto the nightstand next to the bed. The precog frowned as they clattered across the wooden surface.

"Shut up; they're fine," Schuldig said, dipping his hands below the waistband of Crawford's sweats and tugging them downward. They started to slide easily but caught a couple of inches down. Schuldig grinned and let his hands wander across Crawford's hips and to his groin, thumbs pulling the cloth free and easing it down over Crawford's erection. He stepped closer as the sweatpants slid down to the floor with a quiet whisper and felt Crawford's hands on him, pulling him until they were flush against each other, cocks hard and hot between them. Schuldig reached up and twined his fingers in Brad's hair, tugging a little so that their mouths met.

How's your shoulder? Schuldig wondered, parting his lips and flicking his tongue against Crawford's.

Good enough for this, came the answer. Crawford's tongue curled around his as he deepened the kiss.

Bullshit. I bet you're still having plenty of trouble raising your arm much higher than mid-torso. Schuldig ran his fingers up Crawford's ribcage and rubbed the pad of his thumb over Crawford's nipple, which hardened immediately. He gave it a pinch, and Crawford's cock jumped a little where it was trapped between them, but the man himself said nothing. He merely turned them until his back was to the bed, and then he let himself fall backward, pulling Schuldig with him. Schuldig squawked, undignified, as he landed awkwardly on top of Crawford, twisting himself uncomfortably to avoid Crawford's bandaged shoulder. "Asshole!" he began, "You're going to hurt your–" but then he felt Crawford's hand stroking him, gently following the curve of his ass as fingers slid down his crack, rubbing over the sensitive skin there. Schuldig's breath caught. You're not wasting any time.

"I know what I want. I know what you want. We can take more time later, if you like. But right now..." Crawford captured Schuldig's lips again and plunged his tongue into Schuldig's mouth as his fingers continued to tease Schuldig's entrance.

"Right," Schuldig agreed. He wiggled a little, and Crawford's eyes darkened. Schuldig felt Crawford remove his hand, and he thought about pouting until he noticed Crawford reaching under a pillow. He licked the hollow under Crawford's ear and felt Crawford shiver beneath him, his hand momentarily stilled. That's fun. Maybe we'll take our time after all. Schuldig grinned wickedly to himself and licked again, drawing a wet line down Crawford's neck to his collarbone. He bit experimentally, his dick twitching when Crawford let out a deep "ah!" of surprise and pleasure. That was really fun, he thought. His wicked grin sharpened as he continued experimenting, licking and nibbling his way down Crawford's chest, pausing to bite at a peaked nipple and tug with his teeth. Crawford clenched his hands, twisting his fingers in the blanket, and gasped. So Schuldig did it again, this time letting his hand follow the curve of Crawford's hip as his teeth tugged. Crawford let out a small noise and arched his back. His uninjured arm flailed a little until he got his hand in Schuldig's hair and tugged sharply upward.

"Schuldig," said Crawford hoarsely. The sound of Crawford's voice, the sound of Crawford starting to come undone at his hands, made Schuldig feel a little weak as lust and a heady sense of power spread through him.

"Just this one time," Schuldig murmured, crawling back up to lick the shell of Crawford's ear once Crawford had let go of his hair. He blew in it, and Crawford shivered again. "You're really–" Schuldig began, but then a slick finger pressed between his cheeks and circled the sensitive skin of his anus. Schuldig let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

"What?" Crawford suddenly sounded smug. Schuldig tried to figure out how he'd managed to get lube on his fingers so quickly and stealthily, but he had to abandon that endeavor when he felt Crawford's finger sliding inside him. Schuldig pushed back onto Crawford's hand and dropped his head, burying it against Crawford's neck. He let Crawford slide his finger in and out, then turned his head and breathed, "more" when it seemed that Crawford was content to keep toying with him without any further progress. Jerk. He bit his lip and stifled a moan when he felt a second finger sliding inside him and stretching him, rising to his hands to give himself more leverage to push back and force Crawford deeper. Crawford's other hand curved around his hip and held him, pulling Schuldig down so that he ground against Crawford every time he pushed back into Crawford's fingers.

"D-don't fuck up your sh-shoulder," Schuldig panted, his voice breaking as Crawford added a third finger and pressed deeper still.

"No," Crawford agreed. His hand twisted, and Schuldig moaned. He'd thought taking his time was what he'd wanted, but...

"Now, damn it!" he gasped, pulling free of Crawford. He looked to the side and spotted the lube, taking next to no time whatsoever to flip the cap open and squeeze some on his fingers. He tossed the tube behind him and gripped Crawford's erection, his hand squeezing gently and sliding down from tip to root and back up again. Crawford's hips jerked upward, and he closed his eyes in pleasure.

"What happened to 'now'?" he asked hoarsely, thrusting into Schuldig's hand. Schuldig said nothing as he let go of Crawford's cock. He raised himself a little and slid into position, guiding himself down, feeling himself stretching and opening as Crawford filled him. He was still for a moment, reveling in the sensation of Crawford deep inside him. And then he began to move with short, shallow motions that quickly grew longer and deeper. Schuldig fucked himself on Crawford, grinding down and rocking his hips as Crawford thrust upward to meet him, his grip on Schuldig's hips bruising. Schuldig rode him, his breaths coming faster and harder, his eyes on Crawford. Brad's face was flushed, his lips parted as he panted and moaned with each thrust.

Fuck, Crawford... you... Schuldig arched his back, gasping as Crawford planted his feet and changed the angle of his thrusts, each one stronger and more frantic than the last. The pleasure began to build, jolts of ecstasy piling on top of each other and pushing Schuldig higher and higher every time Crawford's thrusts found the place deep inside him that made him cry out. Nearly at the crisis point, Schuldig reached for Crawford's mind and felt Crawford's passion and arousal pour into him. A low groan tore from Crawford's throat as he surged up into Schuldig one last time, wracked with pleasure, and Schuldig whimpered at the feel of Crawford pulsing deep inside him. He was so close, so close... Crawford's trembling hand wrapped around Schuldig's aching cock, and Schuldig's mind went blank as he rode out waves of ecstasy, cursing mindlessly in German and Japanese and English. He could feel Crawford moving deep inside him once more, his own orgasm making Crawford's hips rock upward again and again as he was pulled along by the echo of Schuldig's pleasure. It was nearly too much, the sensations beginning to edge across the barrier of pleasure and into pain, and Schuldig could take no more. He disentangled his mind from Crawford's and collapsed forward, sweaty and shaking.

"Mindblowing," he whispered roughly after a little while. Crawford said nothing. He just squeezed Schuldig's hip and pushed at him gently, rolling him off to the side. Schuldig flopped over bonelessly, unresisting. "Why didn't we do this sooner?" he wondered.

"It doesn't matter. Does it?" Crawford levered himself into a sitting position and tugged at the bedclothes until the sheets were exposed.

"Probably not," Schuldig agreed, smirking a little, "since we're doing it now." Crawford made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort as he slid off the bed to retrieve Schuldig's discarded towel. Schuldig watched him, moving himself around a little to make it easier when Crawford swiped it over his skin. He was starting to feel a little more energetic, rearranging himself so that he was half under the turned-down bedding. Mindblowing sex – I intend to have it again, as soon as possible, to make up for lost time, he thought as Crawford got back into the bed and pulled the blankets over them. He smiled to himself and let Crawford get comfortable before he rolled over, propping himself on his elbow to study the other man. "So what's next? If we're really free of Eszet for the foreseeable future, what are we going to do?"

Crawford tugged at Schuldig until Schuldig was draped over him. "Anything we want," he murmured into Schuldig's ear. He ran his hand through Schuldig's damp hair and down his back, the touch gentle and soothing.

"Anything?"

"Anything," Crawford affirmed. Schuldig grinned wickedly and met Crawford's eyes. He licked his lips and slid down, disappearing beneath the blankets. Crawford's breath caught in his throat as Schuldig spoke against the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, his voice muffled but still noticeably self-satisfied.

"Ausgezeichnet."

END