Reverberations

Schuldig didn’t make a sound. Crawford told himself he ought to enjoy it while it lasted, but that wasn’t possible. Maybe it was the way the wild child lay still–also completely unlike him–the only indication he was in pain the sweat on his face and the fact that he was still and quiet.

Bickley stood over him, making entirely too much of a show of the thing, in Crawford’s opinion. Nagi did more with a negligent flick of his hand than Bickley accomplished with all his munificent gestures and strained gasps.

Schuldig arched his back and clenched his jaw and didn’t make a sound.

Crawford would have taken some of the pain. In other circumstances Schuldig had never refused him. But from the first treatment–Crawford offered every time–from the first treatment Schu had merely given his lover a cold look, and thrown himself into the bed leaving no room for Crawford. Alone, he might have pushed the matter. In front of Bickley, Crawford took the hint.

He glanced at his watch. This session was taking longer than the others had, wasn’t it? Had Schu talked the doctor into hurrying the process again? They’d already advanced the rate of reduction as far as Bickley had said was safe, after pushing the limits with Nagi. If the bastard was trying to speed the progress to get away from Schu’s torture faster–

“Are we…boring you, Brad-chan?” Schuldig muttered, low and intense.

Jumping into the bond now might kill all of them, Crawford reminded himself. Schu might have brought him safely in, but Crawford couldn’t do it himself. He had let Schu shut him out, he couldn’t change it now. No matter how much agony screamed through his pixie’s voice and frozen form.

This was what he often forgot about Schuldig, what the flighty, flashy drama queen made it impossible to remember. What made underestimating him dangerous, possibly lethal. When Schuldig decided to do something–really decided, not just following a whim he’d abandon when the next whim hit him–when Schuldig decided, nothing on the planet would deter him. This was the man who had put himself through withdrawal from Essett’s addictive antidote, and refused to tell Essett doctors why he was dying. And then he’d done it again.

Now, though, Schuldig would be free. One more treatment–Crawford reminded himself to threaten Bickley about not giving it today no matter how Schuldig maneuvered–one more treatment, and Schuldig would be free.

One more treatment, one more day. If it wouldn’t have killed Schuldig, either now or later, Crawford would have shot Bickley where he stood. But once begun, the process had to be completed. Tomorrow evening Schuldig would be free to go wherever, do whomever he pleased. The idea tangled every thought in Crawford’s head, destroyed every plan he tried to make. Schu enjoyed ruining occasional plans–but without the wild child, everything fell apart.

Somehow Crawford had never really believed he could lose Schuldig. Not even seeing Schu shot, squeezing the water out of him on that damned beach after the derailed ritual, seeing him in Hawaii with Balinese on his arm–none of that had convinced him there could ever be a time when Schuldig would not stand behind him. Staring at his ass, making snide or sarcastic or disgusting comments, changing the fate of fifty people with a knowing smirk and a toss of his hair…

He would still be there. Schuldig was his. The German needed to recognize it. But unless he wanted to keep half his team in matching straitjackets, he’d have to convince the damned man. Reason with the wild child, talk logic with chaos incarnate–he could hear Herr Stein laughing in hell.

Perhaps he should just forget his carefully-laid plans, wipe everyone out now. Leave Schuldig without a choice, Crawford or no one.

The bastard would probably seduce Farf.

Surprising. Even after all he’d seen and done, it was still possible to disgust the Oracle.

Bickley was finishing, Crawford recognized the gestures. Schu was gasping, but still he didn’t moan or even swear. It was that more than anything, that convinced Crawford Schu didn’t mean to stay. The drama queen was choosing to show his strength instead. Never a good sign. But the worst–

Schu arced off the bed, a high-pitched whine escaping him as Bickley finished. Damn it, damn it, the man could have been more–

“Get out.” Crawford grabbed Bickley and shoved, after he’d dissolved the bond but possibly before he’d come out of trance. He didn’t care. He slammed the door behind the blonde and sat on the bed.

“Not tonight,” Schu murmured, his eyes closed. “I have a headache.”

Crawford peeled sweat-soaked hair from that pixie face. “Schu, let me help. Let me in.”

“Don’t…need you.”

::Arrogant ass,:: Crawford thought as he opened his shields a little, ::quit being stubborn!:: Schu knew the way in, Bickley wouldn’t even notice a way had been made. :: Let me help.::

Schuldig’s eyes snapped open, Crawford stiffened as fire licked at his nerves. His entire body–

::Found a conscience, Brad? Isn’t it a little late for that?::

::It’s not–:: Crawford clenched his jaw, damn it, Schu had borne it without a sound, damned if he’d do less even if he could feel his bones charring–the wild child pushed up on his elbows, more pain poured into Crawford. Ride it, let it come, get used to it, think through it–

“No?” The feel of Schuldig’s mind receded, leaving only the pain. “If it’s not guilt, why do you watch every time?” More pain, Crawford blanked for an instant and found himself collapsed into the bed.

“He’ll kill you,” Herr Stein had said. Over and over, every time they met until he forgot who he was. Crawford tried to solidify his shields, but once Mastermind was in, there was no fighting him. “He’ll kill you.”

“Maybe you like it,” Schuldig said, pushing him onto his back. “You like to watch, Brad-chan? Only now you’ve decided you want to play too.”

“Schu, don’t–“

”Oh, Bradley,” the German breathed, fogging his glasses, “you’re at my mercy again.”

No. Crawford forced his arms to move, grabbed Schu’s skull and yanked him down. Kissed him, hard and angry and just the way the bastard wanted it. Clutched fistfuls of flaming hair and held his pixie to him, ravaged that smart fucking mouth, wrestled his tongue and followed the taste of blood to its source, sucked where the German had bit his lip.

Always a slave to his passions, Schuldig moaned and writhed and lost his concentration.

Crawford shut him out and threw him off and stalked for the door.

Schuldig tackled him.

He wasn’t at his eel-fast, slippery best, though, Crawford quickly pinned the wild child to the floor. Last time the German had gotten his knee up, this time Crawford used his body to trap the smaller man.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shit, he could feel the telepath shaking, had he pushed himself too far? Bickley had been worried at how Schu refused to slow down–

Maybe the shaking was rage. Schuldig spat a stream of German–Crawford was amazed there were words he didn’t know–and gonged him. Weakly. Schu knew it too, he cursed harder.

“Stop it!” Crawford snapped. “Damn it, Schu, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

Blue eyes widened, then narrowed, Schuldig drew a slow breath.

“He’ll kill you.”

Crawford snatched both slender wrists in one hand, and slapped his pixie. Hard, had to break his concentration.

“Schuldig, stop and think! This has gone too far, calm down–“

The German’s eyes rolled back and closed. His face relaxed. Shit!

“Schuldig! BICKLEY!”

“Calm down,” Bickley said as he stepped into the room. “I did that.”

“You–did what?” Messed with Schu, the bastard had–

“I just suggested he sleep. Loudly. He has exhausted himself, Mr. Crawford, as I told you he would. Had he struck at you, he might have died. Or burned himself out, which to him would be worse.”

Burned out? Schuldig?

“Here.” Bickley tugged at his arm, Crawford realized he was still lying on Schu. “He will rest better in the bed, Mr. Crawford. Let me help–“

”I’ve got him.” Crawford shoved the blonde’s hands away before he lifted his pixie. Fucking hell! “He’s–Bickley, I’m sure he’s lost weight. A lot of weight.”

“With the amount of caffeine he’s been ingesting, I’d be astonished if he hadn’t. Put him down, Mr. Crawford, and let me examine him.”

Crawford laid the limp pixie in his bed, but found himself hovering until the man chuckled–chuckled!–and guided him to his chair, then stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

“I don’t–“

”Then blow it at Schuldig, I’m sure he’ll rest easier.” The blonde sat on the edge of the bed and checked Schu’s pulse, lifted an eyelid to peer at an unconscious eye, then stared a long moment into that unnaturally calm face. Schuldig did not sleep that peacefully–

“As I expected,” Bickley said softly. “We should leave him to sleep, Mr. Crawford. We need to talk.”

“If he’s that weak–“

”May I remind you he exhausted his strength in an attempt to kill you? If he wakes to you sitting there…”

Schu wouldn’t try it again–probably–but he would gong Crawford, just out of sheer pissed-off pouting. And if he was that weak–Bickley tilted his head.

“There. I’ve asked Nagi to come watch over him. We do need to talk, Mr. Crawford.”

“Mr.” Crawford was getting seriously sick of this bastard. Who did he think he was, directing Schwarz? And ‘suggesting’ anything to Schu? How the hell did he do that anyway? Bickley’s power next to Schu’s was–was like comparing Tsukiyono’s little delivery-buggy to the new BMW.

One more treatment, and some answers. Then maybe he’d kill Bickley himself. If Schu didn’t beat him to it.

Bickley smirked at the space room, Crawford didn’t ask what conclusions he’d leaped to because of the design. He sat in his chair and waited. Bickley sat on the sleeper sofa and lit a cigarette.

“First,” he exhaled a plume of smoke, “I was not exaggerating when I said he was trying to kill you. In gathering himself, he dropped his shields. I’ll be surprised if none of your neighbors acted on the fury he was broadcasting.”

“With Schuldig, attempted homicide is a semi-regular occurrence.” Attempted murder of Schu was even more frequent. Damn the pixie, Crawford still ached from the phantom pain. And his head–even a weak gong was enough to make his head ring for hours. “You had no right to interfere.”

“I’d hate to lose you, Mr. Crawford.” Bickley spread his hands with a thin smile. “You haven’t paid me yet.” The smile faded. “And as I said, it would have killed him, or burned him out. I acted to protect my patient.” He opened his mouth, but stuck the cigarette in it instead of speaking. Crawford shook his head.

“Say it.”

“There was a reason you brought me here instead of bringing your team to me. But every time I have brought up your other concern, I have received the distinct impression that I had better drop it again.”

“If you have something constructive to say, I’m listening.”

“Constructive?” Bickley waved the cigarette. “I doubt it. But it may be possible to avoid destruction. Your concerns are warranted, Mr. Crawford, your telepath walks a narrow line.”

“Give me facts, Bickley.”

“Very well.” He held up a fist, lifted the index finger with the other. “He drinks constantly, you’ve observed that.” Another finger. “The binging, you’ve observed that for yourself also. These are coping mechanisms, you can see they aren’t working.” Another finger. “His cruelty towards me and others. Including his teammates. This is a control mechanism, a way for him to feel in charge of his environment. This also is not doing what he needs it to do.” The last finger. “His…spontaneity. Crawford, he is beyond attention deficit, beyond hyperactive. Not all of that is him. Surely you’ve noticed how he changes thoughts, sometimes even languages, in the middle of a sentence?”

“He does that to be annoying.”

Again that thin, unamused smile. “Mr. Crawford, I have spent quite a bit of time observing Schuldig being annoying. This is more. Part of why Schuldig needs to be noticed so much, is to be reminded who he is. He’s the annoying one.”

No. He had to be wrong, Schu was stronger than that. Schu was the strongest telepath–

The stronger they were, the sooner they died, was an Essett telepath truth.

Still. Schuldig. He didn’t believe it. But was that only because he didn’t want to?

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a telepath in a crowd, Mr. Crawford? You’ve kept him in Tokyo for–how long? I find this place oppressive, and I’m nowhere near as powerful as your Schuldig.”

“He can shield better than you can.”

“Yes, he can.” Bickley shook his head. “But you don’t understand the limitations. I’m sure at some point you and Schuldig have had a power struggle, where he was determined to read you and you were determined he would not?”

As Schu might say, duh. Bickley nodded.

“Of course you have. And I expect you poured all your energy and attention into your shields, and still wondered if Schuldig would get in. He’s very strong.” Bickley didn’t wait for an answer. “That concentration and effort is what it would take for Schuldig to shut out Tokyo completely. Twenty-four/seven, if he were determined to have his mind to himself.”

“Schuldig never wants to be alone, in his mind or anywhere else.”

“Which is probably why he has survived this long. But Mr. Crawford–it is becoming too much for him, as he told you himself before you came to me. His hold on sanity is tenuous at best. He would have killed you today. He would have killed you knowing it would kill him.”

That was how Schuldig wanted it. Even dead he didn’t want to be alone, murder-suicide was always his plan.

And just how sane could Crawford call himself, when he knew that and continued to sleep with the man?

“You won’t ask for my advice, I know. But I’ll give it anyway. Retire him.”

What? “Assassins do not retire.”

“From a purely logical standpoint, I would say ride it out. Keep an eye on him, and be ready to aim him at your enemies when he blows.” Bickley poked the cigarette at Crawford. “But you care for him. Retire him, let him enjoy what sanity he has left for as long as it lasts him. It may be a long time, if you put him somewhere peaceful.”

Peaceful? Schu would die of boredom. And take half the continent with him, if he could find a way.

“I know it’s a struggle,” Bickley said gently. “It’s a side effect of your gift, Mr. Crawford. But please try to remember other people do know some things.”

This bastard did not know Schuldig.

How could he be sure Bickley was wrong, though? Crawford was always thinking how he didn’t understand Schuldig, he could never predict what the pixie would do next. He didn’t even know why Schu was so angry now, except that he was in pain and lashing out. That didn’t seem like all of it, though.

“You don’t have to commit to anything, you know. Send him on vacation. Take him on vacation. All of you, go on vacation. Come up with a mission out of Tokyo for a while, and see if I’m right.” Bickley leaned forward. “You said it yourself. There are twelve million people in this city, twelve million minds pressing on his. If you wanted to drive him insane, you could not have picked a better place.”

Bickley had that much right. Schu hated Tokyo, had started bitching before the plane even landed at Narita. And every time he ran he headed out or up. Crawford had found him in the most backward fishing village left in Japan, at an abandoned shrine, and on the roof or top floors of countless buildings. He didn’t even want to think about the time Schuldig had managed to set sail with the U.S. Navy.

And then there was Hawaii.

“It is, of course, your team. You know them best.” Bickley stubbed his cigarette out and rose. “If it’s supervision that’s worrying you, I would be willing to continue my observations, especially on vacation at your expense. I may write a book on what I have learned from our German friend.”

He would not pay to send Bickley to some remote, romantic place with his pixie.

“Or you could send him with that blonde from the flower shop. Schuldig seems fond of him, and I can’t imagine a florist is indispensable.” Bickley lit another cigarette. “He cares for Schuldig, he’d look after him.”

Balinese. Schuldig was so “fond” of Balinese, he had shared the man rather than do without his company until Bickley left.

“You have time to decide.” Bickley blew a smoke ring and smirked at it. “It would not be wise to move him before the treatments are completed anyway. And perhaps a few days to recov–“

”CRAWFORD!” rang through the house, Nagi using his power to amplify– “DOCTOR BICKLEY!”

Crawford was faster, bigger, and had better reflexes. And he’d been wanting to step on Bickley for days. The blonde was right behind him as he ran up the stairs, though, but charged into his room instead of Crawford’s. Stupid–

Schuldig writhed above the bed, his face twisted in a snarl–shit! “Hold him, Nagi!” Convulsions, the drug box was in the safe–

“Is he addicted to anything?” Bickley demanded, shoving past Farfarello and not dying for it. He had his briefcase, of course a doctor would–

“Nothing!” Nagi snapped.

“Heroin,” Crawford said. “He did heroin.”

“Years ago!”

“He would still be sensitive to it.” Bickley filled a syringe and grabbed a straining arm. The sleeve rolled up, Bickley swabbed and injected, watching Schuldig’s face. Frowned and pushed the plunger farther. Counted to ten, and then did it again. Finally that pixie face relaxed, the German went limp. Bickley stuck a Pikachu band-aid on the inside of Schuldig’s elbow and stepped back. He turned to Crawford.

“You know what happened.”

The three waking members of Schwarz exchanged looks. Crawford watched as Nagi peeled the covers back and gently tucked Schu into bed. He moved his chair to sit by the German’s head, Farfarello sank down on the rug.

“Overload,” Nagi answered finally. “He’s too weak to shield.”

“I was wrong,” Bickley said. “You have no time.”