Well. It's not so angsty as my other ones! Revel in that. It also has nothing whatsoever to do with any of the past I've worked out for Brad and Schu. But at least it's sorta happy.


Do I stress you out
My sweater is on backwards and inside out
and you say how appropriate

"Perhaps, sometimes, it would help if you weren't such an _idiot_."


If the redhead weren't in too much pain already, the cold words would have stung. As it was, he was too busy coughing up blood to really care. The white fabric the dark haired American had pressed into his hands was already stained with red from a bleeding bruise one his high cheekbone. He hadn't dared to look at the damage done to his chest and back yet.

Something stung like all Hell throughout his right hip. He clenched his jaw and hissed softly.

"Die fichen..." he began, but trailed off, body arching to the side as pain lanced through his body. "Fich," he said instead, then, "Scheise."

"Stupid," the American repeated. "Your own fault."

The Guilty One winced again.

He had a feeling he would probably be tending to his own wounds that night.

I don't want to dissect everything today
I don't mean to pick you apart you see
But I can't help it

~Bradley Crawford watched the young German boy with flame colored locks carefully. The boy was skilled. He hadn't even felt it as the one named Schuldig raped his mind.

"Yes, I am beautiful," the Guilty One replied to the thoughts he had found there. His jade eyes flickered -- he was flattered -- and he laughed slightly. "A beautiful, petty whore." He paused, then, surveyed the entirety of the American's body with his eyes. Somehow, Crawford felt as if part of him had been violated, and he frowned. "You're much more than you appear, aren't you?" the younger boy mused. "Hidden strength beneath those suits. Hidden fire behind that ice." He smirked. "Good taste. You interest me."

"You're coming with me," the 'businessman' said crisply after a few moments of contemplation."

"Oh, goody," the German purred, "You look like you pay well, at least."~

There I go jumping before the gunshot has gone off
Slap me with a splintered ruler
And it would knock me to the floor if I wasn't there already
If only I could hunt the hunter

Crawford slammed the car door behind him, and Schuldig winced as the seat beneath him trembled, jarring through his broken body. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing for a cigarette and a whole damn lot of pain killers.

"Fucking golf club," the American growled, opening the door for the German -- his German -- a scowl twisting his beautiful features.

"Can't get out," Schuldig admitted, trying to force his body to move. Crawford sighed, slipping an arm carefully around his waist and easing him from the car.

"You bled on my upholstery," he hissed, "and if you fucking think you're going to get out of cleaning it up..."

"Alright, already," Schuldig groaned, falling against his boss, legs shaky beneath him as they ignored his orders directly, pain flashing through his chest. "Bastard cracked at _least_ one fucking rib..."

"Shut up and concentrate on walking. I'm certainly not carrying you to your bed."

"How romantic." The American smirked, his voice suddenly dry.

"You're a whore, Schuldig. I would have never thought _you'd_ be the type for romance." Still, the arms around the redhead's thin, bleeding body tightened their hold.

The German would have laughed, but it hurt too damn much.

And all I really want is some patience
A way to calm the angry voice
And all I really want is deliverance

He fell into the bed gratefully, not caring a damn about the pain that racked his body, not caring that it felt as if a rib was gouging a hole into his lung. His lungs were ruined from smoking, anyway.

"Schmerz..." he murmured softly, eyes falling shut, and he could hear the sound of silk shifting and falling against wood. Of course. Mr. Crawford would never let one of his jackets get stained with blood. Certainly not the blood of the foolish man on the bed before him, a man whose condition was his own fault entirely.

Crawford's frown deepened as he rolled up his sleeves, pulling up a chair to sit by the bed, easing the green blazer from Schuldig's thin body. The younger man groaned softly, then fell silent.

"Idiot," Crawford repeated, hands soothing the German's body.

"Thanks," the redhead sighed. "I suppose you'd kill me if I asked for a smoke."

"I would. So don't."

"Funny how I don't have to read your mind anymore, mein süß," he murmured, voice thick and drowsy and strained, body convulsing in pain as the American's pale, skilled hands searched his torso for broken ribs. "You're too damn predictable." Crawford sighed.

"Shut _up_, Schuldig," he said, patience worn thin.

"Anything for you, süß," he whispered, and then closed his mouth, smirking just slightly. He could read the annoyance in the American's body -- he didn't even have to search for it in his mind.

Do I wear you out
You must wonder why I'm relentless and all strung out
I'm consumed by the chill of solitary...

~The redhead laughed.

"So you don't want me for my wonderful sex?" he queried, smirking like a madman as he lit up a cigarette. "Pity. I was looking forward to fucking you."

"First rule," Crawford hissed, eyes narrowed like an angry cat's, "is that there will be no smoking in this house." Schuldig frowned, stretching lazily and flopping down into the chair, taking a deep drag of the cigarette in his lips.

"But rules are made to be broken, mein Herr," he purred convincingly, spreading his legs to a hardly modest distance apart. "And I'm very, very good at fucking."

"That's nice," the American said mildly. "I don't care. Put the cigarette out."

Schuldig's eyes glittered dangerously. He was a predator. He lived for the hunt.

He was going to enjoy himself with this one.~

I'm like Estella
I like to reel it in and then spit it out
I'm frustrated by your apathy

~"What do you _want_ from me, Schuldig?"

//I want you to fuck me.//

"Out of my head."

The redhead pouted and stormed out of the room.

"Bite me," Schuldig called over his shoulder, and then, "someday, oh, someday you will..." Crawford swallowed. It sounded all too much like a prediction...

"Fuck," the American muttered, and went to take a cold shower.~

And I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land
If only I could meet the Maker

Schuldig groaned.

"Hurts like a bitch," he muttered, cuddling closer to his lover's wonderfully tight arms, wonderfully warm body. "You know, it would have been funny if you _did_ carry me into bed." Crawford sighed.

"You shouldn't be so reckless, love." Schuldig allowed himself to pout for a brief moment.

"But then I wouldn't be me, you know."

What I wouldn't give to find a soulmate
Someone else to catch this drift
And what I wouldn't give to meet a kindred

~Schuldig looked down, pain flashing through him. "I fucked up," he said softly. The American's hard dark eyes were boring holes through him, and he shivered slightly.

"You fucked up. Damn fucking _right_, you fucked up. That is the biggest _fucking_ understatement I have heard in my entire _life_, do you realize that? Do you _realize_ that, you incompetent..." He trailed off, breathing heavily, eyes flashing with angry fire. "I wouldn't have died. It would have _barely wounded_ me, to you realize that?"

"You're welcome," the German hissed, eyes narrowed dangerously, hand pressed to the bullet wound in his stomach.

"The ambulance will be here soon," Crawford said after a moment, voice quiet as he sat on the curb next to the defiant redhead, slipping an arm around his shoulders, whispering softly in his ear suddenly. "Thank you. Just for that, I believe I will fuck you. What do you think?"

It was the happiest two seconds of Schuldig's life.

He promptly fainted.~

Enough about me, let's talk about you for a minute
Enough about you, let's talk about life for a while
The conflicts, the craziness and the sound of pretenses
falling all around... All around

The German had fallen asleep, finally, body relaxed at last in slumber. It was 2:30 in the morning. Crawford thought for a moment about killing Takatori, about gutting the bastard with one of his own damn golf clubs, then sighed. No use. He'd die soon, anyway, and the brat Fujimiya would do the job well enough.

Still, the idea of being able to strangle the life out of that presumptuous bastard was tempting...

Schuldig shifted, moaning softly in his sleep. As a reflex, Crawford tightened his arms around the beaten body, stroking his side softly. "Sleep, liebe, sleep..."

"Mnn..." the redhead murmured, and relaxed again. Crawford rested his head against the younger man's back and prepared himself for a sleepless night. His lover would need him in the next few hours, and he would be there for him.