A/N: Pote that I have forewarned you, right here, that this piece has absolutely no plot whatsoever - it is true fluff! However it was created in my too-long-idle mind through a moralistic conversation with a friend, I felt it would make an interesting Farfie piece, though I'm not sure if the moral in discussion really comes into play. Either way some people may be disturbed by this piece, due to Farf violence, possible blasphemy depending on which way you look at it and possibly the moral in question.

Therefore to avoid flames about under-rating my fic, it is rated R, whether or not it should I couldn't decide - so I erred on the side of caution. If you feel in any way disturbed by any of the above listed things or think that this fic might not be up you alley, as much as I like reviews, I suggest you stop reading here. What am I doing scaring off the readers?! I don't mean to scare you off, I just couldn't forgive myself if someone got offended or anything from this fic.

Please R & R, I quite like feedback on good/bad points in my fics. Enjoy! ^_^

Disclaimer: I don't own Farfarello (much to my disappointment but I don't think he'd like being "owned" by a fan-girl.) I do own the other character in this fic, he doesn't have a name, feel free to name him for me!

Only When I Sleep

The Irishman walked slowly down the middle of the deserted road. The surrounding area was darker than pitch, the only light was created by a flickering street light a feet hundred metres ahead. The heavily scarred assassin took in the area with his single, uncovered, and seemingly deadened, amber eye. He absentmindedly ran his thumb along the shining silver edge of the blade in his hand, leaving a dark crimson trail where it had been. The Schwarz bladesman seemed not to notice. After all, what was pain in the whole scheme of things? He didn't know and he didn't care.

He paused for a moment, just outside the flickering street light's aura, which it had cast out in the night's murky depths, washing away the dark shadows. It was as if he was afraid of the light, as if it would expose him, burn him, desecrate him beyond description. His lone visible eye showed no clue to his inner thoughts; it was hollow, glazed and almost trance-like. As if he were a mere ghost walking in the realm of the living, with no real place in the world he found himself in. He blinked, and in the fraction of a second his eye closed, his deadened gaze shifted. When his heavy eyelid reopened he was looking, not at the foreboding light that fought a desperate battle with the silent night, but towards the ground, where the light pooled upon granite coloured tarmac.

Lying in the middle of the pool of, to the Irishman, seemingly unstable, unsafe light, was a man. His face was etched full of deep lines, that covered all the places one could think of when the human face changes expression to one of thought or anguish. His facial hair was past the point of being mere stubble or fluff, but not yet long enough to be classified as anything more. He was curled up against the concrete gutter in an almost fetal position. His hair had obviously once been a rich mahogany colour, but it had faded and was now heavily threaded with smoky coloured strands. The man's clothes consisted of a mismatch of colour and style that would easily surpass a certain German Telepath*. His was clad in a red and black checked shirt, worn grey tracksuit pants and grubby, once white sneakers whose seams seemingly served no purpose, except perhaps decoration. The entire picture gave the impression of filth, bad hygiene, early aging and depression.

To the momentarily paused Farfarello it seemed almost ironic, to his currently partly lucid mind, that he was wary of the light, trying to avoid it if possible. While this man seemed so scared, as if this flickering, unstable light source was his only sanctuary. The Irishman's keen eye sighted from his own, far less well- lit, sanctuary, that this man was asleep. This awakened more thoughts in the lucid section of the Schwarz madman's mind.

Has God forsaken you too? Do you hate him with the same loathing I do?

The man stirred but a little before continuing on in his slumber. Peaceful.

Peace - have I ever experienced peace?

The silver haired man's golden eye sparked slightly in the closest thing to emotion it was liable to show. It disappeared almost instantly but Farfarello was disturbed by his own thoughts, and almost instantly the dominant emotion in his closed heart reared up - anger. His amber eye slowly started to glitter maliciously and a bloodthirsty hunger began to grow within its depths.

"You think you have the right to be peaceful, when He ruins lives?"

As he whispered this he glanced down at the sleeping man, weighing his blade, still edged with his own dark blood, in his hand before slowly wrapping his pale fingers tightly around it's familiar hilt.

"What gives you the right to need the light to feel safe? Don't you know He basks in light?! Don't you know he will destroy you life?! TAKE AWAY YOUR PEACE?!"

The lucid state that had trapped a part of Farfarello's mind shattered as he leapt silently forward, no utterance of his famous battle cry broke the ebony depths of the night. His mind was twisting and writhing, one phrase screaming at him,

"TAKE AWAY YOUR PEACE?!"

Landing the fatal blow on the sleeping man, his long, already bloodstained blade easily slicing through the checked shirt to cleave the unknown man's internal organs past the point of return. The Irishman glared down at the soon to be lifeless man, his blade still embedded in his victim's side, breathing hard his single amber soul window gleaming wickedly as he panted,

"You all want to die in your sleep - every human's ultimate way to die, peacefully in their sleep. Thank me for giving you your peace before He could take it away."

With that the silver haired psychopath pulled the blade freed from the man's side and the unknown victim's thick, dark ruby coloured, life fluid ebbed from the wound. Farfarello turned and as he walked away from the now "truly peaceful" man's body he raised the dripping knife to his lips and ran his tongue slowly along it's bloody edge. Feeling another emotion twinge within his anger - satisfaction.

* I truly do appreciate Schuldig and count him as my second favourite Weiss Kreuz character, after Farf, but it does take a special person to match a Hawaiian shirt with an olive green trench coat.

A/N: For anyone who got this far - well done! I thought I'd scared you off with my first A/N, obviously not. For those who were wondering - the moral in discussion which caused the creation of this fic, was: "People want to die peacefully while they're sleeping, then why is it such a bad thing to be killed in your sleep? Feel free to comment on the subject, either by emailing or reviewing! ^_^