Assessments

“What the hell is a ‘sort of’ doctor?” Schuldig demanded. “And what the fuck’s wrong with Nagi? If he’s sick, why did you get a sort of doctor?”

Damn it, stupid, he was so pissed off, irritated, hung-over and annoyed, he’d asked a damn stupid question. Bickley-the-bastard was a telepath, that made him better than any mundane doctor at damn near anything.

Still–what the fuck was Brad doing, recruiting another telepath?

“I am not ‘sort of’ a doctor,” Bickley said, like anybody’d fucking asked him. “I am a doctor, licensed in the United States and several other places.” Brad shook his head, the bastard shut up. Oh yeah, nice and obedient, just the way Brad liked them. Bastard. Both of them.

And if Brad smirked one more time at Schu shifting in his chair, he was going to get a damn farmer’s market shoved up his ass.

Starting with a really big leek.

What was it with him and leeks lately?

Bickley held out a cigarette. Schu took it with a snarl, and snatched the lighter rather than let the bastard light it for him. Ooh, shiny. He caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming in from the sink window, and bounced it into Bickley’s face. Hmm. Bastard might be as good a stoneface as Abyssinian, only he smiled rather than went blank.

“Bastard” was going to get a lot of use, if this bastard stayed long. Schu didn’t feel like wasting the energy to come up with something more creative to call him.

He’d save that for Brad.

Who had not taken up the explanation, after shushing his little–hell, it was the little creative touches that showed you cared. Schu grabbed a word at random. After shushing his little pendejo* Brad had just sat there. Like he wasn’t going to answer? Fuck that.

“Jaghool*,” Schuldig growled, “what the fuck is wrong with Nagi?” The little shit did look even worse today. Farf was bothered enough he’d given Nagi the entire couch, and fetched him snacks twice now. The Irishman hadn’t done that since Prodigy came down with a very un-assassin-like case of the chicken pox.

“Nagi has been poisoned,” Brad finally answered. “Just as you have.”

His sore ass. Or at least, the poison wasn’t all Bickley was there for. If it were, Brad would have taken them to Doctor Bastard’s home turf. The Oracle was a careful, thorough man who knew that critical medical procedures belonged in medical facilities.

Maybe he’d just decided that if fucking one telepath was incredible, fucking two would be even better. In which case Bickley was going to die the most horrible death since Farfarello’s foray into performance art, back in Prague.

He might even let Farf help.

Nah.

And what the fuck was the bastard doing in his room?

Schu had been quiet too long, Brad thought something was settled. “So. In a few more days Nagi will be clean, and Bickley will start with you. Part of Bickley’s price is studying our talents.” Schu heard the sneer, though it didn’t look like Bickley-bastard did. Schwarz might let themselves be hired once in a while, but it was only moves in the game. They were no one’s lapdog.

Studying–did that lavdya* mean what Schu thought he did?

“You want to know what I can do?” he asked the blonde bastard. Cue the moron playing the accordion with his toes–Bickley-bastard smiled and nodded as Brad opened his mouth.

GONNGGG!!!! Schu whanged the baka’s shields. Welcome to the Gong Show, dumbass.

Those pretty blue eyes rolled back, Bickley-bastard fell out of his chair.

“He shoots, he scores!” Schu crowed. “Did I kill him?”

“You’d better hope not, you idiot!” Brad was all over the svoloch’*, peering under an eyelid, putting his feet up, loosening his clothes–

Okay, somebody needed to die. Eeny meeny miney mick, grab a bastard by the dick–

“You kill him, you kill Nagi, damn it!”

Scheisse. Well, Bickley-bastard was still breathing, so Bradley it was.

Except–ow. Maybe later. Gong-hammers and hang-overs did not mix. Schu propped his ringing head on his hand and sipped espresso–he’d bought another machine before Brad was even on the plane–and watched his tightass bastard try to bring the branleur* back to consciousness.

That had been seriously worth it. Schu stubbed out his cigarette, pulled the pack from the bastard’s pocket and lit another one. Bradley was rubbing the pisello’s* wrists now, he shot him a glare.

“I hope you realize,” he said, “when it’s your turn, you’ll have to let him inside your shields.”

“If that fessacchione* wants to play in mein Garten,” Schu said with a grin, “he’s welcome.” He set a mental bookmark, that Italian guy knew some great words.

“Will you choose one damn language?” Brad growled. “Three in one sentence is just showing off.”

“I have a duty to my fans.” Schu blew him a smoke ring.

“Like the one that shot you in New York?”

“Can I help it if I drive people crazy?”

“You can say that again,” Brad muttered. Bickley-bastard groaned, Schu grinned and went for more espresso. By the time he got back the uccello* was in his chair holding his head. Brad dusted himself off and went back to his own coffee.

“So.” Schu sat carefully and put his fuzzy monster-feet slippers up on the table. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Yes,” the stupid tuilli* said, without a trace of resentment on his pretty face. “How did you do that? Herr Stein trained you, didn’t he? I’ve never heard of–“

”He tried,” Schu interrupted.

“You invented that yourself? A way to attack someone with strong shields?”

“Well,” Schu smirked, “that wouldn’t have knocked my darling Bradley out.” Maybe. He had poured a lot of pissed-off hung-over into it. Amazing how much better he felt, despite the headache. Both headaches, the Bickley-bastard was resonating, damn him anyway. To quote Kudou–duh. Hardly anyone could shield properly when they were in real pain. That wasn’t much use for mind-reading, since they pretty much only broadcast the pain, but it was handy in other ways.

Just for fun Schu amplified the pulses coming from the Bickley-bastard, adjusted the harmonics a little before sending them back.

“How are you doing that?” Blondie asked. Schu smirked.

“Quit…showing…off,” Brad growled. And in his head, ::How will you defend yourself if he knows your every move?::

::Nobody knows my every move, Brad-chan.:: Though that was interesting, Bickley-the-bastard did know they were talking, he’d swear it. ::And if you’re so worried, why the fuck did you turn him loose on Nagi?::

::Because in an experimental procedure, you want a patient who will listen to reason!::

Wichser*. Brad needed to learn not to use telepathy when he wanted to lie. Even he let things slip out behind the words. That–that cacacazzo*–had used Nagi first to protect his lover. From what? Bickley? Schuldig against Bickley was as even a match as Farf against the Lone Hamster. More one-sided, even, since that last rodent was so fast…focus, Schu, time to be pissed. Again.

Fuck. First Brad treated him like he was breakable, then he second-guessed him on missions, took Farf out himself after that businessman’s brat, when Schu had always held Farf’s leash before, and now this.

And fuck was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? He’d shown the cold-ass bastard another of his many talents, and now the chodya* had a better use for him. Brad had had to get himself another telepath. Because Schu had a new job.

Pet. Bedwarmer. Mistress.

Whore.

Brad Crawford was an intelligent man, and an experienced assassin. He knew death when he saw it. “Schu?”

Arrogant bastard. Probably thought being made his doxy was a fucking promotion. That Schu should be honored.

Schuldig lit another cigarette, pocketed the lighter and pasted on his most obnoxious smirk. Right. First Bickley, then Bradley. Maybe Bickley-bastard’s hideous, lingering death would convince Brad to show some fucking respect, and Schu wouldn’t have to kill the best fuck of his life.

Because he would. Damn straight.

“What’s the plan for the day, o fearless leader?”

Intelligent man that he was, Brad Crawford didn’t let Schu get behind him for days.

And after one night with his enforced roommate, he ordered a sleeper sofa for the space room.

*****

Bickley would not die. Of course, Schu wasn’t trying all that hard yet, he rather liked more sugar, only sugar, in his pixie sticks. But it would have been nice if Bickley-the-bastard weren’t oblivious to Schu’s frequent and varied attempts to bring him pain.

That wasn’t quite right, Bickley-bastard noticed. He just didn’t seem to mind, or resent, or even try to protect himself except from imminent death. He just kept smiling. He had bought at least a carton of cigarettes in the last four days, and seventeen lighters. He’d been stabbed by Farfarello, flung into a wall by Nagi, and gonged three times. And he smiled, and asked how Schu did that, wonder and admiration in his voice, pain throbbing through his shields.

Poephol.*

He followed Schuldig everywhere. And he talked. About Japan, about Brad, about telepathy and Essett and medicine and poison and how Schu should take it easy, he didn’t know what this treatment was going to do to him, he should save his strength.

Yebanat.*

Even now, as they stood on a street corner and Schu debated letting the bastard in on one more secret, just because he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn’t get some peace soon–even now, when they’d been together for hours, the man didn’t shut up.

“You’re ignoring me again. Should I be avoiding a sensitive subject?”

“Sure,” Schuldig answered, without a clue what the subject had been. There, he was back from wherever, ::Kudou!:: Schu called, and watched as the Bickley-bastard got that look. He did know Schu was broadcasting. ::Can Balinese come out and play? Bickley is adorable, I’m going to fuck him right here.:: Not even a twitch, Bickley-bastard couldn’t hear what he was projecting. So how did he know he was doing it?

::Let me get some popcorn,:: was Kudou’s answer. Of course. Ought to burn him a copy of the garage DVD. Then help Fujimiya find it.

::Forget it, just testing a theory. Meet me at the cafe?::

::Ten minutes, but only for a little while.::

::Hai.:: Schu took a roundabout way, so they only made the cafe a few minutes ahead of Kudou. He aimed Bickley at one table as he took another. “Sit over there and don’t spy, or I’ll knock you out for a week.”

“You do know you would die, don’t you? Once the treatments are begun–“

”I will kill you,” Schuldig growled, earning a startled glance from a hostess. Damn the bastún*, he was so irritating he made Schu forget to be discreet.

He did know the meaning of the word.

Kudou sat just as the waitress arrived, and smiled appreciation at his carmel mocha mocha latte. Bickley-the-bastard prodded a bit, Schu slapped him down. Balinese was his toy.

“You remembered,” Kudou said.

“You look like hell,” Schu answered. “Fujimiya keeping you awake, catching up on years of repression?” Aw, they’d been on vacation. How sweet.

“He’s not–doing so well.” Kudou glanced up, then back down. “You’re not looking your usual lovely self either.”

“Fuck you.”

“Back at you.”

“You wanna?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“How about, ‘seriously involved and not that damn stupid anyway?’”

“I’ll buy that.” Schu nodded his head. “See the blonde three tables over?” Kudou was an assassin, he didn’t have to be told not to stare. “He wants to be my best friend, and I can’t kill him yet.”

“Bickley, I presume? What happened to Crawford?”

“I’ll kill him when I’m done with Bickley.”

“Glad I’m not your friend.” Kudou sighed and looked sad as Schu lit a cigarette. He shook his head when offered the pack, though.

“I’m quitting.”

“The hell you are!” Schuldig grinned. “Fujimiya that good in bed?”

“You have no idea.”

“I might have to find out.”

“The hell you will!”

“Relax.” Schu tossed the pack in front of Kudou. “Last damn thing I need is Fujimiya getting possessive. Crawford’s more than enough.”

“Stubborn as Aya, sounds like.” Kudou shook his head and turned the cigarettes over. “You changed brands?”

“Bickley-torture.” Speaking of–Kudou was rubbing the back of his head. Schu narrowed his eyes and his focus, and caught the bastard being sneaky. Schu hated being repetitive, but–

GONGGG!

“Um–your friend just fell out of his chair.”

“He does that.” Schu blew smoke in Kudou’s face, the blonde grinned appreciation. “What’s wrong with Fujimiya?”

“His sister needs a spanking.”

“I’ll do it.” Aww, widdle Aya-chan didn’t like how big brother paid the bills?

“I almost wish you would!” Kudou chuckled. “So what’s the deal with Bickley?” the blonde asked in one of his clumsy subject changes. He did try to remember Schu was his enemy.

“He’s analyzing me.”

“Oh God. You’ve got Crawford so turned round he’s called in a couples counselor?”

“More like an exorcist,” Schuldig scoffed, even as he wondered. The first two days Bickley had done a lot more listening than speaking. He hadn’t started digging for reactions until he realized Schu wasn’t going to fill his silence.

And damn it, that had been hard. Schu was used to talking a lot, using his own voice to drown out everyone else’s. He couldn’t listen to loud music all the time, if he lost his auditory hearing, he’d lose his mind. Bickley-bastard, weak-ass telepath that he was, didn’t have that problem.

What was interesting, though, was the bastard wasn’t only a telepath. He was that rarity among the rare, a jerk-of-all-trades. Or at least, more than one. He used telekinesis to remove bits of the poison at a time, drawing it right through the body and using his telepathy and an odd sort of healing to keep the damage recoverable.

Recoverable, but not fun. Schu had heard chemotherapy described as poisoning a patient and hoping the cancer died before the person did. Now he knew how that felt. It was taking all his will-power and nearly-constant espresso to hide it. And the increase in his pixie stick habit…just thinking about another one made his teeth hurt.

Schu had noticed Bickley-the-bastard was persistent, so this time he felt the probe begin. He got a little creative, across from him Kudou winced.

“Why did you do that?”

“How’d you guess?”

“The little flip after she dumped it. Like you do with shot glasses. Why?”

“Random cruelty.”

Kudou kept on with the meaningless babble, Bickley kept on with the attempts, Schu kept on with the retaliation. He didn’t want to incapacitate the man in the middle of his poison-control, but this wasn’t exactly the relaxing interlude of poke-the-kitty Schu had been hoping for. Finally he wrapped a shield around his toy, and almost did a Bickley out of his chair when Kudou declared a sudden sinus headache.

Balinese could feel when his thoughts were shielded?

A squib, must be, a fizzle with just one tiny useless talent. If Kudou were a telepath, Schu damn sure would have known the first time he laid eyes on the man. So–Farf-in-a-jacket. Schuldig slapped the shield around Bickley instead. Catch him by surprise, and Schu could shield Nagi. No way in hell Bickley was getting through.

Kudou winced again, the over-sensitive idiot, just because Bickley had jumped on finding himself cut off. The blonde florist/assassin shook his head.

“I can’t watch any more.” He flagged the waitress. “Next time come alone?”

“Yeah, yeah, your bitchy bastard wants you anyway.”

“Get out of his head!” Kudou snapped. Then, “Really?”

So easy. The man was pathetic. “He wants your ass, Kudou, and he wants it now.”

The blonde bounced to his feet and hesitated, looking for the waitress. Schu grinned and clarified.

“He wants you to get your ass back there right now and get the fangirls off him before he kills some.”

Kudou sighed. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“I am the bastard. The rest are poor imitations.”

“Get out of my head.” Kudou took the cigarettes back out of his pocket. “He’s not making me quit, Schu, so that wouldn’t have gotten me in trouble anyway.”

“Then give them to a fangirl. Even I can’t smoke all I’ve stolen from the kanith*.”

“Just kill him already, will you?” Kudou turned his smile on the approaching waitress–who melted, silly tart–and took his Triple Chocolate Heaven-in-a-Brownie please-don’t-gut-me redhead-bribe and left. Schu collected the Bickley-bastard and did the same.

“Mr. Crawford wasn’t kidding,” Bickley-the-bastard said. “You’re the most powerful telepath I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, it’s a fucking party being me.” Maybe he could get another treatment out of the stronzo*. He usually went on and on about how Schu’s body needed time to recover, but after enough torture, the cazzo* could be convinced to put Schu through the pain of another treatment.

At this rate, he’d be done two whole days faster than Nagi had managed.

Then he could kill the crve jadni*, and turn his complete attention to “Mr. Crawford.”

Prince of the Universe his pretty pale ass.

********

Schuldig is ‘surfing’ for swear words. Much like I did, only I’m sure it’s easier for him. If you really want to know, here are the translations, in no particular order. I found most of them on a delightful site called Swearasaurus, I do not guarantee that any are correct.

Russian Svoloch’–Bastard; Yebanat–Fuck head

Bosnian Crve jadni–Miserable worm

Farsi Jaghool–Masturbator

Marathi (India) Lavdya–Prick; Chodya–Fucker

Arabic Kanith–Fucker

French Branleur–Masturbator

Spanish (Puerto Rican) Pendejo–Stupid, dumb, gullible, asshole

Irish Bastún–Bastard; Tuilli–Bastard

Italian Pisello–Penis; Cazzo–Penis; Pisello–Penis; Uccello–Penis; Stronzo–Asshole; Cacacazzo–Shit head; Fessacchione–A fucking idiot (lit. big idiot)

Afrikaans Poephol–Asshole

German Wichser–Masturbator