The Dance

It had been a while since their first encounter.

It had been a while since their second, as well.

Farfarello murmured softly to himself, feet planted firmly against the door of his room, his back pressed securely against the concrete (they'd long-since taken out his carpet).

There were sounds filtering in underneath the door. Sounds that probably meant something big was going to happen, but he didn't particularly care. No, not really.

Something flittered softly inside of him, like dying insects leaping against his ribs, and he wondered if, before a mission, it was common to feel this… detached. Did he usually care? The insects said yes, but he wasn't so sure anymore.

Their encounter. Their moment.

That mattered.

The doorknob rattled and he felt pressure against his legs, but he pushed back hard, keeping the door in place. He could feel the rustle of confusion on the other side. It wasn't like he could pull anything in front of the door. His lonely bed was bolted in place, and he had no other furniture. A small mental tendril pressed against his consciousness. Schuldig. He brushed it away.

The small window on his door snapped open, and two watery blue eyes stared down at him.

"What the hell is this?" the redhead fussed, half-entertained, half-annoyed, as was his usual frame of mind.

"Don't wanna go," Farfarello sighed, turning his head to the side, away from those prodding eyes and that prodding telepathic mind. Visual contact equaled stronger mental bond, and he really didn't care to have Schuldig in his head right now.

There was a long pause, and then, with real confusion, "Are you serious?"

"Uh-huh."

Another long pause, and the window slid shut with a snap. Farfarello rolled his eye up to stare at the window, as if, by force of will, he could keep it securely shut. But no, that would be far too easy. Members of Schwarz didn’t get out of jobs by force of will. Or by any other force. Well, except maybe death, and even then, there was a chance you'd still have to come back and finish the job.

He didn't need Crawford's precognitive abilities to see what would happen next. He braced himself against the blast he knew was coming, and sure enough…

The door flew open, sending him sliding across the floor and smashing into the opposite wall. Nagi stood in the doorway, arms outstretched, mentally keeping his white-haired teammate in place, a look of near-apology on his small face.

Crawford didn't dare step in right away (the man wasn't stupid), but Farfarello could already feel his presence, looming around the corner, a scowl twisting at that would-be-pretty mouth.

And sure enough, after Farfarello's overwhelming killing urge had ebbed ever so slightly, their leader stepped around the doorway into the room, his face a perfect match of Farfarello's mental image. And of course, the gun. Pointed at him.

"Get up," he said softly. Dangerously. Farfarello couldn't care less.

"Don't feel like it," the white-haired Irishman said, equally softly. Once he felt Nagi's mental fingers drift away, he pulled himself into a sitting position against the wall, arms at his sides.

"You don't get a choice."

"Seems like I get one," Farfarello grinned, staring into the gun barrel.

"This job is important, Farfarello. I need you there."

"Then you probably shouldn't kill me," he said, his pouty mouth twitching upwards slightly at the corners.

Crawford paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly hidden behind a wall of light reflecting off his glasses. His finger fiddled absent-mindedly with the trigger, an insignificant habit that usually meant nothing for a normal shooter, but Farfarello could practically see the visions flowing into his leader's mind, telling him the best course of action.

And that's why Crawford would win. Farfarello knew he would win.

He knew exactly which buttons to push for the best effect. Which limbs to sever. Which possessions to burn. Which people to kill.

And suddenly, Bradly's eyes were boring deep into Farfarello's, as if he could pull the answers to the universe from that single golden orb.

"Do you not want to kill anymore?" Crawford asked slowly, as if the very phrasing of the question could determine the outcome of this spat.

Farfarello's eye rolled up as he thought. The insects scratched and leapt against his insides. "Yeah, I do," he grinned.

"Do you just not want to kill now?"

The insects were drilling holes through his gut, but there was something else. Something that almost made him ignore the insects and their vicious hunger.

It had been a while since their encounter.

He could almost feel the way the blond's hands had moved against his skin...

Something new shimmered against his ribcage. Something that felt less like decay and ruin, and more like… feathers? Like wings moving against his breastbone, brushing the insects away. Like wings that stirred something strange inside him. Moved him. He didn't like it.

The Irishman held out his hand, and his leader smiled, grabbing it and pulling the man to his feet.

"Shall we?" Crawford asked, returning his gun to its holster.

"Uhn," Farfarello grunted, allowing the insects to slowly devour those disgusting wings, until they no longer beat a rhythm against his chest. Gone.

At least, he hoped they were gone.

If he knew anything, he knew that these things had a way of coming back to haunt you.

Gone. Asleep. Waiting. Resting.

Oh well, at least the insects were happy.

He sneered sadistically at his two teammates, who backed up a step in spite of themselves, and then followed Crawford out the door.