Let this be the story of my life: I was supposed to work on my term paper first thing today, and yet, having stayed awake all night thinking up the next installment, I wrote this instead. More, also, is on its way. Do please enjoy.

Green Only

What evil ate its root, what blight,

What ugly thing,

Let the mole say, the bird sing;

Or the white worm behind the shedding bark

Tick in the dark.

You an I have only one thing to do:

Saw the trunk through.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Not So Far as the Forest, II

The room is pristine in a doctor's-office sort of way, with the prickly chairs that scratch your back and the unpleasant smells of insufferable cleanliness. Like a kid at the dentist's just wanting to go to the candy store across the street, Schuldig wriggles in his seat, fingers itching for a cigarette and, just occasionally, twitching for one, too. It's all probably because he can't sit still if he won't put his mind to it, can't do anything if he won't put his mind to it, and won't put his mind to any shit he doesn't feel interested in enough to put his mind to. Rooms like this with their uncomfortable chairs no matter how you try to sit in them, and their offensive, overwhelming smells of air freshener like they're hiding all the dead bodies somewhere and have to cover up the stench, piss Schuldig off. He's wriggling around on purpose, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair or looking like he's about to pull his lighter from his pocket and start smoking in the waiting room.

"Schuldig." Crawford doesn't sound patient. "Schuldig, sit still." It's a joke, after all. Nagi's the child, of course, though he's growing quickly out of childhood now, but Crawford does not and has never had to ask the pale boy once to stop squirming. Nagi never squirmed. Nagi sits real still with his hands folded on his lap or simply resting palms down on his thighs, his back straight despite the chair. There's a grace to it, of course, or at least a level of politeness that Schuldig's personality had simply refused to adopt, back when Crawford had introduced him to it. There's just too much shit-talking gutter-rat in Schuldig to accept policy, too much warped pride. If Schuldig sits back and takes something with polite silence rather than superiority or cruelty in the quietness, then maybe he'll be somebody else. A whole lot easier to deal with, but somebody else.

"Fuck you," Schuldig snaps back, easily, "I want a smoke and I want to get out of here, fuck that 'sit still' shit." The secretary, all the way across the room, looks up, hazel eyes surprised. Schuldig clicks his teeth at her, eyes unpleasant and amused. Crawford sighs.

"And don't talk," Crawford ammends his previous statement. He watches Schuldig's long fingers swish over the fabric of his slacks, searching out the pocket with his lighter. Schuldig pulls the lighter out and flicks it on. The flame sputters for a moment, goes out. Schuldig flicks it on again, and the flame is weaker this time, lasts a second less. Schuldig repeats the action until the flame is jumping too weakly even to be seen.

"Fuck you," Schuldig repeats, distracting himself idly, "I'm not fucking shutting up now, there's only some bitch here. I've gotta be fucking quiet in front of some fucking bitch?" Schuldig brings the lighter up to his lips, his eyes on the secretary now as she outright stares at him. He bites down on that little tip, tasting slight heat and something unpleasantly like chemicals, but fuck if he wants his lighter to be acting up once he gets outside and can actually have a smoke.

"Schuldig, if you spit that in here, I'll kill you." Crawford's voice is terse. Some things are far beyond the realm of inappropriate and cross into the realm of actions that require a smack on the nose, so to speak. Schuldig winks at the secretary and stands, moving to the wire trashbin over by her desk.

"Hello," Schuldig says, in English, winking again and then spitting the nub between his teeth with a little ping into the garbage. "What are you doing after work today?"

"Get. Back. Here." Schuldig rolls his eyes and crosses the distance a second time. He flings himself perhaps too dramatically into the chair next to Crawford's.

"Yes, sir. Fuck you, sir."

"You are repulsively foul-mouthed today, Schuldig. Sometimes I can't take you anywhere." The threat behind that, of course, is that Crawford could keep Schuldig locked up and pent up like Farfarello on most occasions. Schuldig isn't sure which is worse: wasting his time in this fucking office or being unable to waste his time at all. Schuldig gives Crawford a dirty look, flicking the lighter on again, pleased at the steady flame. He returns it to his pocket a moment later, tossing his head defiantly.

"Look, you fuck, I'm repulsively foul-mouthed every day, don't act like it's a fucking news flash." Schuldig snorts. "We've been here half-a-fucking-hour longer than when this shit was supposed to start, when the fuck are we getting out of here?" Crawford looks over to the secretary, who pointedly starts doing her paperwork.

"Don't," Crawford says calmly, "make me close that mouth."

"Oh?" Schuldig smiles grimly. "You fucking make me close it, in front of Little Miss Shoulderpads over there, too, and I'll fucking keep it shut." Nagi flicks his gaze between the two of them and tries not to look too amused, or perhaps too bored at the same time, with the familiar motions. Crawford always wins, of course, always, and Nagi sometimes wonders if Schuldig knows that before he initiates each game. It's some desperate need Schuldig has to make Crawford slap him down, time and again. It's some sick compulsion Schuldig displays to make himself and everyone else and maybe even Crawford know who the fuck is really in charge. If Nagi didn't know Schuldig better, he'd say it didn't turn the German on. But that look in Schuldig's eyes he always gets when the muscles in Crawford's jaw tense tell Nagi that yeah, Schuldig brings this shit on himself when he's bored to feel just a little bit excited and a little bit aroused by the American powerhouse who still holds the German on that imaginary leash, when no one else in the world has any power over him at all.

Crawford looks up at the ceiling, a pause which tells Schuldig that he asked for it, and he needs to remember that, and then he turns calmly, looks Schuldig straight in the eye.

"Do you ever dream of fucking my mouth?" Crawford asks the question so softly the secretary only thinks she might have heard something, but what, she'll never know. That's probably for the best. Hell, Schuldig doesn't even think he's heard it but his breath catches so slightly in his throat his body tells him he must've. Nagi hears it. Nagi hears everything. Nagi shakes his head, doesn't know where it's going but feels a little ill when he watches. Still, just like Schuldig, he can't stop.

"What. the. Hell. What the fuck'd you put in your coffee today, you crazy fuck?" The note of hysteria in Schuldig's voice betrays him. Crawford smiles.

"I had it black," Crawford replies.

"Fuck you, you had it black. Only you can fucking ask me if I wanna fuck your fucking mouth and then start talking about fucking coffee." Schuldig's fingers twitch. "What the fuck are you talking about, do I ever dream of fucking your mouth?" Crawford makes a tsk-tsk sound in the back of his throat. It makes Schuldig want to scream, how fucking calm he is, how fucking calm he always is.

"It was a simple question. Do you?"

"You don't fucking give head, Crawford, that's not your fucking style."

"That doesn't answer my question." Crawford is tiring of repeating himself. There's steel in his voice. "Do. You?"

"Fuck you."

"Answer me."

"That's my answer: fuck you, Crawford."

"I don't accept that answer." Crawford's eyes glint darkly. "Come on, Schuldig. Give the secretary a proper show. Answer me. Tell me." Crawford leans close. Schuldig finds they're eye-to-eye. Crawford exudes force, commands Schuldig without words to obey. Schuldig swallows, forces a cocky grin onto his face.

"Sure." Vulgarity is a weapon. "Sure, Crawford, I dream about fucking you in the mouth, you fucking crazy bastard."

"Mm," Crawford says thoughtfully. He stands and straightens his tie, not so much absent as it is precise. He moves, stands in front of Schuldig, then gets down like he's the king of fucking cashmere on his knees. On the Goddamn waiting room rug, no less. He puts his hands on Schuldig's knees, spreads his legs, moves so that he's between them. "Like this? Is it like this?" Is it like this. What a simple fucking question, Schuldig thinks, dazed enough to just stare, quiet, is it like this. With his hair and his eyes and his glasses and his pale skin. Is it like this.

"No, fuck you, it's like this." He grabs a handful of Crawford's hair and pulls him close, imposing what last vestige of control over the situation he has. Crawford's eyes glint, angry or bemused, it's hard to tell. "With your hair a little fucking messy and your fucking glasses taken off. Like that." Crawford moves his gaze to Schuldig's face, lifts one slim brow coolly. He removes one hand from Schuldig's thigh and takes his glasses off, puts them neatly on the desk by Schuldig's chair.

"Like this," Crawford echoes. He's still acting neat. He's still acting as if he's making somebody's coffee. More cream and sugar. Like this? Like he's fixing his tie. Like this? Like he's teaching Schuldig how to fire a gun right. Like this. Schuldig doesn't say anything, Schuldig just stares. The secretary is staring too because fuck it all if sodomy isn't about to go down in her jurisdiction. Schuldig works his mouth a little but doesn't say anything, watches Crawford, like, you wouldn't. Crawford's response isn't verbal or mental, but it's very much I will. There's no would or would not in Crawford's world.

Crawford unzips the fly on Schuldig's slacks and pulls them down just enough to be out of his way. In front of Nagi, he chides himself, what am I thinking. It's necessary, though, to beat Schuldig at his own game once in a while. To put Schuldig in his place, and sometimes in front of others.

Crawford knows Schuldig well enough by now to know that half the time he doesn't wear any underwear - analytically, Crawford's mind focuses on how uncomfortable that must be. As if it's too hard to pull boxers on in the morning. He looks at Schuldig again.

"You fucking bastard," Schuldig mouths. Nobody but Crawford hears it. Crawford's eyes narrow and his mouth settles into a tight line. Oh, Schuldig has no idea. I thought I told you to shut up, Crawford's eyes say. Do you think you can handle this? Schuldig doesn't say anything. Crawford breathes against the side of Schuldig's thigh, the muscles in his jaws work against some strain. Schuldig is too stubborn. Schuldig is too stubborn for right now. Schuldig watches Crawford and the way he moves, the way he's come to understand Crawford's movements. He is turned on by the wrong things, he thinks idly, as Crawford breathes against his erection, a slow, easy pattern of breathing that doesn't say, 'Hey, I'm on my knees about to let you fuck me in the mouth' one bit. Schuldig really hates him. Schuldig really hates him right about now. Schuldig tightens his hold on that fistful of hair and jerks Crawford forward. Crawford's mouth is on his fucking cock and he really hates him right now.

Schuldig shifts a little, thinks how much he'd like a cigarette. His eyes close but he opens them again, looks down at Crawford's face and the analytical concentration playing across his features. His hair is messy like that. Like this, Schuldig thinks. It shows on his face as his hips lift. Like this.

~*~

Afterwards, the secretary remembers nothing of the foul-mouthed redhead or the way he mouthed German words and clutched at the sides of his uncomfortable office chair when he orgasmed. She doesn't remember how the dark-haired man stood and straightened his tie, smoothed out his suit jacket, sat down like nothing had happened at all. She doesn't remember the slight, pained look on the young boy's face. She certainly doesn't remember the stunned green eyes beneath the fall of unnaturally orange hair, the way, half-glazed, they followed the broad-shouldered man. She did remember later that they'd changed color since the redhead first walked in; it was strange, really.

She didn't, of course, know that Schuldig's eyes were as green only as Crawford wanted them to be.

But the silence after all that she didn't remember? That was nice.