Deals

Pairing: I AIN'T SAYING. Because it's complicated, whut. Just so you know, though, the three main characters of the fic are Ken, Crawford, and Farfarello.

Warnings: Graphic violence, graphic sex (twosome and threesome - what is it with me and writing porny threesomes?), spoilers, AU by the end of the fic, and mental disorders up the wazoo. Yeah. (It's got Farfarello in it. Of course there's stuff about mental disorders. ;P)

Disclaimer: Me no own. Me no claim me own. You no sue.

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Deals Part 6

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Crawford was irritated.

Farfarello found this more than a little amusing, which wasn’t helping with the irritation.

“Did you truly expect him to come?” he asked, his eye focussed on the blade of his knife as he ran a whetstone carefully down the length. There were many more modern ways to sharpen a knife, but Farfarello preferred to take care of his blades much as a craftsman would; with care, a delicate touch, and without the use of machines. It was time-consuming, but he had little else to do.

Out of the corner of his eye, Farfarello could see Crawford scowling at him. “Of course I did,” the older man said. “There was no reason for him not to. I even checked to see that he would come, and everything indicated that he would. Do you know,” he asked rhetorically, “how much of a headache it gives me to prophesy something – and then have that prophecy not come true?”

Farfarello set the whetstone aside, and held the knife up to the light. Squinting, he could see no imperfections, but ran a finger down the length just to be sure. A thin line of blood trailed after the digit, and he grinned.

“You said you could not predict him,” he reminded the older man.

Crawford sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “I forget, sometimes,” he confessed softly. “Normally, if I get a direct vision, unless I do something to change it, everyone does what I see them doing. No other precognitive can even do that – they can only predict, not change. And I was so sure, even without precognition, that he would come.”

Placing the whetstone on the table beside him, Farfarello carefully cupped his hand around the oiled cloth next to it before applying it to the blade. He oiled the knives to remove dirt more frequently than he had to sharpen them, seeing as a good blade could hold an edge for a fair number of kills, but whenever sharpening was required he oiled the blade both before and after.

“Perhaps the answer is in what you did not do,” Farfarello said. “What you did not say, what you did not take into account.”

The sofa shifted under Crawford’s weight as the older man sat down beside Farfarello. “Perhaps,” Crawford said, softly, “but one would think that what one does has more impact than what one does not.”

“A fairly naïve viewpoint.”

“Again, perhaps.”

They sat in silence for a while, Farfarello sliding the oiled blade back into its sheath before beginning on the next one. After a few minutes, it became apparent that he had unconsciously begun timing the movement of his hand by the sound of Crawford’s breathing, and he grinned.

When Crawford sighed, it made his hand hesitate over the knife, a break in the rhythm. “The problem with thinking of what I did not do rather than what I did do is that there is no end to the possibilities,” Crawford said. “What could I have done that I didn’t? I didn’t hurt him, I didn’t argue with him, I didn’t throw him up against a wall and suck him off.”

Farfarello grinned again, tongue darting out over his lips. “That last one’s a lot of fun,” he said.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“About sucking him off?”

“Obligations come before fun.”

Crawford snorted. “You’ve been talking to Schuldig too much, to think of a relationship as the obligation that comes before sex.”

“Perhaps. You’re avoiding the question.”

Farfarello could almost feel Crawford’s smirk, so certain was he that it was there. “I sometimes wonder about myself, that I can understand almost exactly what you mean when you’re being cryptic,” Crawford said, sounding amused.

“And you’re still avoiding the question.”

“Fine. What shall I do about Ken? I shall go to the flower shop and ask him why he didn’t come last night.”

Farfarello finally looked up from his knives, blinking at Crawford. “Just ask?”

Crawford was smiling, but the rest of his face was serious. “Just ask.”

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Ken was hiding, tucked away in a tiny storage cupboard at the back of the greenhouse. It was stiflingly hot and he felt like he was going to pass out any minute, but anything was better than Omi on the rampage.

“Ken-KUN! I don’t know where you’re hiding, but you are going to get out here this instant!”

Ken winced and shut his eyes, pretending that Omi didn’t exist. No, that he didn’t exist. If he didn’t exist then Yohji couldn’t tease him about being so desperate to get away from the blond menace that he’d break the rusted padlock on this cupboard and squash himself into the tiny space. At least the cupboard was empty, he reflected. He had no clue what he’d have done if there actually were things in it.

He supposed he should be happy, though, that the disgust from the night of their mission had vanished so quickly. In the time it took to take one shower, in fact.

“I’m going to give you until the count of three, Ken-kun. I’ll even count slowly. One. . . .”

Shit, Ken thought frantically. He’s going to find me in here sooner or later – do I dare hope that the ‘later’ will be late enough for me to sneak out?

Screw that, I want to know how the hell you ended up in this situation in the first place, the voice said, sounding amused. It was much louder now than it had been when he’d first begun conversing with it like this, Ken decided in annoyance. Made it that much more difficult to ignore it.

You’re me, he thought. Shouldn’t you know already?

The voice snorted. I’m not you, it said. I wouldn’t be so stupid as to get myself into these situations. So, how did you manage it this time?

Fuck off. Ken scowled at the cupboard door, a few centimetres from his face. If you’re not me, who the fuck are you?

Call me Kishou, the voice said.

Kishou, one who knows his own mind. Hah ha, very funny, Ken thought sourly. My subconscious is a comedian. At least you’re still male.

You’re hiding in a cupboard, scared to death of a kid that’s a head shorter than you and a whole lot skinnier, and you call me the comedian?

Fuck. Off.

Ooh, I’m all a-quiver.

“Two. . . .” Omi continued.

Ken desperately tried to decide what to do. Did he go out now and face the Wrath of Omi, or did he stay in here and pray for deliverance?

You know, if you tell me what happened, I might be able to help, the voice – Kishou – said.

You’re part of me! You should know already! Ken yelled back.

But I don’t, so tell me anyway.

Ken blinked. That . . . made sense, in a way. Okay, he said. But you laugh, even once, and I will find a way to disembowel you.

Cross our heart and hope to die, Kishou replied, sounding amused.

Well, Omi has this girl he likes, Ken said. Yohji found out about it, I don’t want to know how. Anyway, she comes to the shop occasionally and Yohji thinks she likes him as well, so we decided that we’d try to set them up together next time she comes in. She came in today, and it went a bit . . . wrong.

How wrong?

Um . . . I kinda accidentally made Omi dump a bucket of water on her and then knocked him into her so he landed face down on her crotch and then she started screaming and hitting him and saying that she thought he was so nice but he’s just a pervert like all the other boys and ran out the shop crying. And then Omi tried to kill me.

The voice was silent.

Voice? Ken ventured. Kishou?

You told me not to laugh, Kishou said, a strangled note to his voice. I’m trying not to.

Fuck you, Ken snarled.

“Three!” Omi yelled, and ripped the cupboard door open.

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Crawford waited until late afternoon before attempting to contact Ken. It had been entertaining, watching his quarry be chased around the back room of the Koneko by an irate Tsukiyono, but it wasn’t conducive to a nice long chat about the merits of keeping appointments. It appeared that all of Weiss was working today, too, and Crawford wasn’t as reckless as Farfarello. There was no point in inviting trouble by going in there when Ken was not alone.

Eventually, however, Tsukiyono stomped up the stairs to do his homework, Fujimiya and Kudou leaving the grounds to go their separate ways for the rest of the afternoon. It appeared that Tsukiyono had decided the rest of Ken’s punishment was cleaning up the shop on his own, and judging from the loud swearing emanating from within, it was a particularly nasty punishment.

Crawford couldn’t help but feel a little bit of vindictive satisfaction at that.

He slid around the side of the building and walked calmly into the shop via the back door, ignoring the “employees only” sign. Ken had pulled the grate down at the front of the main shop, and was muttering to himself as he mopped the floor, his back to Crawford.

He really is quite attractive, Crawford thought to himself, pausing in the doorway. Ken’s loose jeans and looser T-shirt did nothing to emphasise the build underneath them, but his shoulders pressed and flexed against the material, and every so often a piece of fabric would pull tight against his skin. With someone who had a body as good as Ken’s, even watching him clean up was fascinating.

It was over too soon, however, when Ken suddenly tensed and spun around, lifting the broom handle so that Crawford was nearly whacked in the face with the wet mop.

Crawford stared at the mop, stared at the dirty water it was dropping on the floor, then looked up at Ken and raised an eyebrow.

Ken flushed and dropped the mop, holding it propped against his side. Crawford didn’t miss the fact that he placed it where it could easily be swung back up into a fighting position. “What the hell do you want, you bastard?” Ken snarled at him. “I’m in a bad enough mood today as it is.”

“Yes, I saw Tsukiyono chasing you.” Crawford repressed a grin at Ken’s black scowl. “What I am here for, though, is to ask you why you didn’t show up.”

“Show up where?”

“To the hotel,” Crawford replied.

“What hotel?” Ken snapped.

“The hotel you were going to meet myself and Farfarello at.”

“Huh?”

Crawford stared at Ken. Of all the reactions he’d been expecting, this . . . this was not one of them. And how dare the little shit actually pretend not to know what he was talking about? It wasn’t like the invitation had just been a passing comment thrown into a conversation – it was as deliberate and overt as it was possible to be!

Ken was fidgeting slightly, his gaze darting away from Crawford’s as the taller man continued to stare at him in disbelief. He kept scowling, however, as though Crawford were the one in the wrong.

“What?” Ken demanded eventually. “You never mentioned a hotel to me, you bastard, stop staring at me like that.”

Crawford frowned. He prided himself on being able to distinguish a lie from the truth, even without the aid of his precognition – catching someone when they thought they had you fooled was one of his few true entertainments while under the thumb of Estet. Not to mention that catching a lie meant he had even more information to help him in his plan to free Schwarz of that organisation. And it really did look as though Ken wasn’t lying.

Which just wasn’t possible.

“You really don’t remember,” Crawford said, and it wasn’t a question.

Ken rolled his eyes. “If I remembered whatever it is you think I should remember, then I wouldn’t be say I don’t remember, would—” Ken’s words were cut off as Crawford stepped swiftly across the space between them, and kissed him.

It felt exactly as Crawford recalled. The initial stiffness of Ken’s body gave way a few moments into the kiss, and, as though a switch had been flipped, he melted against the older man’s body. It was strange, Crawford mused as he tugged Ken into a more comfortable position against his body, how Ken could go from tensed and violent to pliant and willing in a matter of nanoseconds – strange, but very convenient.

Drawing back, Crawford took in Ken’s slightly dazed expression with a pleased smile. “Do you remember now?” he asked.

A spark of sense returned to Ken’s face. “Yes,” he said.

Crawford took the opportunity to scowl blackly at him and step backwards. “So why did you say you didn’t?” he demanded, knowing it was an unfair question even as he asked it.

“I didn’t have that good a reminder,” Ken told him, a half-smile on his face. He stepped away from Crawford and leaned against the counter, stretching in a very un-Ken-like movement that showed off the strong length of his body. “But you’re here now,” Ken continued. “Do you want to try again?”

A thread of uneasiness wound its way up Crawford’s spine. “I told you last time that Farfarello would be with me.” He gestured to the shop. “Do you see him here?”

“So on my own I’m not good enough?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Crawford frowned. Ken was acting very strangely. He was flirting, but in Crawford’s experience Ken never flirted – much less as blatantly as he was doing so now.

Ken was still giving him that half-smile. “I know. But seeing as Farfarello’s already had a taste, I’m sure he wouldn’t begrudge you anything.”

“You’re behaving oddly,” Crawford said abruptly.

“Me? I’m not the one who arranges for a meeting in a love hotel, gets pissed off when the other person doesn’t show up, and then turns down sex when he goes to confront this other person about it.” Ken folded his arms across his chest, that unnervingly out-of-character smirk still plastered across his features. “So, who’s the one acting strange here, hmm?”

“If you think all I’m interested in is sex, I have a surprise for you,” Crawford told him.

Ken’s smirk faltered, then snapped back into place. The matching amusement was gone from the rest of his features, though, which made the expression look even more out-of-place on him. “Of course you just want sex,” Ken said. “And that’s fine,” he added quickly, seeing Crawford open his mouth to disagree. “Seeing as how we hardly know each other, I don’t see how it could be anything else.”

Crawford blinked. Put like that, Ken’s actions made a lot more sense, because it was true – outside of their functions as Weiss and Schwarz, they really didn’t know each other. The meeting in the café had – on the surface – been intended to allow himself and Ken the time to get to know one another, but in reality no such thing would ever have happened and Crawford knew it.

So maybe Ken had a point.

But. . . .

“You’re wrong,” Crawford said softly. “I don’t know how to prove to you that you’re wrong, but I’ll find a way.”

Ken laughed, a mocking tone to his voice. “If it will make you happy,” he said.

A thumping noise sounded from above them. “Ken!” Omi yelled. “If you’re having fun down there, I’ll come down and make your day worse!”

Crawford couldn’t quite repress a smile at that. “I believe that is my cue to leave,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you later.”

Ken’s odd smile grew. “Or I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

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“Ken!” Omi yelled down the stairs, “If you’re having fun down there, I’ll come down and make your day worse!”

Just like he made mine, Omi thought grumpily, stomping back to his room. Intellectually, he knew that Ken hadn’t done any of that on purpose, but that didn’t make him any less pissed off. Or any less vindictive.

Maiko-chan probably hates me now, he thought glumly, then sighed. Well, it’s not like I could have actually done anything about how I feel about her, anyway.

So maybe, in his own way, Ken had been trying to do him a favour.

Omi considered that for all of half a second before dismissing the possibility entirely. Despite the whole problem with Yuriko, Ken still clung onto the thought that Kritiker wouldn’t interfere with their lives to the extent of preventing Omi from dating someone. Ken was probably the least likely of any of them to start questioning Kritiker – which was good, because Ken was not the sort of person to stick around for long if he didn’t trust people.

And besides, Ken was just too nice to try to do anything but help.

Yohji, on the other hand . . . Omi wouldn’t be too surprised if Yohji had tripped Ken, starting off the whole problem with the bucket of water, and Omi landing on top of her. . . .

He buried his face in his pillow, groaning. Even now, the memory burned.

But no matter how humiliated he was, life went on. Omi decided that he’d see how things were in the morning, and depending on how much grovelling Ken did . . . he might forgive him. Maybe. Besides, Ken moping was a pitifully adorable sight – he exuded so much of a wounded-puppy aura every time that Omi found himself forgiving the older man no matter what had happened.

He’d still make Ken suffer, though.

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It was late afternoon two days later before Omi finally told Ken he was forgiven.

In truth, Omi had intended to verbally forgive Ken the previous day, but a couple of times . . . certain careless comments made by Ken had got under his skin and delayed it, because for a while after each comment Omi wasn’t entirely sure that he had forgiven Ken. It would take him less than an hour to come to the conclusion that no, this was Ken, and nastiness just wasn’t in him – but every time he reached that conclusion, there would be another careless comment.

So even when Omi did tell Ken he was forgiven, he was a little edgy about it. Ken’s behaviour had been slightly off on a number of occasions over the past few days, and even though he couldn’t quite say why it had happened – or even, specifically, what was wrong with it – the feeling of ‘wrongness’ about Ken remained.

When Omi voiced his concerns, it was only in absolute private and only to Yohji. The older man would shrug, somewhat helplessly, and say that he had noticed it too – but what could they do? It was just Ken, after all. If he was going through some kind of private problem, it would be best for them to leave him alone and let him work through it – he wouldn’t thank them for sticking their noses in, particularly if the problem was something personal enough that Ken didn’t want to share. Give him time, Yohji said. Let him work it through, he’ll return to normal soon enough.

Omi wasn’t so sure.

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At eleven thirty that evening, Crawford awoke, blinking through the afterimages of the vision that had interrupted his sleep. As soon as he registered what it was that he had seen, he rolled out of bed and crossed the hallway to knock on Farfarello’s door, not even bothering to get dressed.

The one-eyed man opened the door, fully dressed and not looking the least bit sleepy. “Get changed,” Crawford told him. “We’re going clubbing.”

Farfarello’s expression didn’t change, but something about him seemed to raise an eyebrow anyway. “Stay here,” he told Crawford. “I’m going to go knock out Schuldig.”

Crawford shook his head impatiently. “Schuldig has nothing to do with this. Ken will be going out clubbing tonight. We’re going to meet him.”

The metaphorical eyebrow raised higher. “. . . are you sure Schuldig has nothing to do with this?”

“Certain.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

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Ken had some very strange dreams that night. They came in strobe-like sequence; here was Omi’s face, lips tight and white with pain and anger; there were the bright lights of a line of nightclubs on either side of the road; here he was pressed in the middle of a sea of bodies, moving to a beat that was so loud it was more felt than heard; there he had his back to a wall, hips still moving to the music in time with the woman pressed up against him; and here he was in a toilet stall as Farfarello bit his hipbone and Crawford—

What, he thought dazedly, leaning back limply against Crawford. Too real—

Shh, Kishou murmured, his voice soothing Ken’s agitation. Go back to sleep, Ken. This is my scene, remember? You remember our deal, right?

Oh yeah, Ken murmured to himself, and dropped into the oblivion of dreamless sleep.

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“Harder,” Ken whispered, his breath coming in pants. “Harder.”

Farfarello grinned up at Crawford over Ken’s shoulder. “He wants you to go harder,” he said whimsically, his hand keeping a slow, steady rhythm on Ken’s dick.

“Does he now,” Crawford said, a little breathlessly. His movements didn’t change, and Farfarello’s eyes locked onto where he could see Crawford’s cock moving steadily in and out of Ken’s body.

“Shit,” the Weiss assassin gasped, swallowing convulsively. “Please!”

Ken was sprawled over Farfarello’s body on the hotel bed, his hips held firmly in place by Crawford’s hands. They’d all decided that the toilet stall had been just too small for the three of them, although that hadn’t stopped Farfarello from sucking Ken off, or Ken from jerking Crawford into completion.

But this, Farfarello decided, watching his long-time lover move with his new one, this was much nicer.

And God had decided this was a sin?

Ken’s mouth moved randomly over Farfarello’s shoulder, mouthing the skin as his hands clawed at the bed sheets. His hips jerked helplessly between Farfarello’s hand and Crawford’s cock, unable to decide which to focus on. Farfarello couldn’t help a small chuckle, not entirely without sympathy for Ken’s plight. Crawford had once expressed confusion that Farfarello was interested in sexual activity at all, considering that the physical sensations he received were so deadened, but instead the Irish man found it to appeal to him in the same way that harming himself did – both resulted in physical sensation resulting in a peak of what he could feel, and although it took a long time to work himself to orgasm, the part of him that was thoroughly masochistic greatly enjoyed the prolonged frustration.

However, Crawford had drilled it into his head at one point that while he may enjoy a certain amount of frustration, other people (Crawford) didn’t. Or at least, not quite that much of it. From the increasingly desperate sounds Ken (and he couldn’t think of him as Siberian, not spread out naked between them) was making, Farfarello guessed that he was also of the latter category.

By his standards, it wasn’t long before Ken gasped and bit into his neck, semen spurting over Farfarello’s hands. Crawford wasn’t long to follow, slumping on top of Ken before grunting a little and rolling to the side, splayed out over the mattress.

Ken lay panting on top of Farfarello for a few moments, before awkwardly struggling onto his knees and reaching for the one-eyed man’s cock.

“Don’t bother,” Crawford said, eyes still closed.

Ken tilted his head to one side in a strangely feminine gesture. Farfarello reflected that that wasn’t like Siberian at all, despite the grace in the movement – Siberian’s grace was composed of a sleekly trained body powered by a fiery temper, not the delicate coquettishness of femininity – but couldn’t quite pinpoint why that didn’t bother him in the slightest.

“Why not?” Ken asked, his voice hoarse. His hands were resting lightly on Farfarello’s length where it pressed against the front of his jeans, but he made no move to open them.

“Because I don’t feel it well enough to come tonight,” Farfarello said, giving Ken a toothy smile as his comment directed the other man’s attention towards him.

Ken’s eyes narrowed at this, taking it as a challenge. “I’m good,” he . . . purred, and that wasn’t like Siberian either, but then Farfarello had never been in a position to have a conversation with Ken in bed after he’d just been fucked, so who was he to say what was and was not like him?

But still. . . . Farfarello’s grin widened, becoming increasingly feral. “Nobody’s that good,” he said.

For a few moments, Ken looked as though he would like to take Farfarello up on that challenge, but eventually his hands moved to the side and he backed down, sliding off the bed. “Well, it’s been fun,” he said, sliding his trousers back on, “but I think it’s time for me to leave.” Farfarello watched, somewhat rueful, as Ken’s shirt slid over his head and hid the lovely expanse of toned muscles there, but made no move to stop him. Ken flicked them both a jaunty wave as he walked to the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you later.”

Farfarello wondered what made him so sure of that, and then a small, nasty grin curled his mouth.

The door closed behind Ken with a soft ‘snick!’, and Farfarello rolled over to pillow his head on Crawford’s arm.

And stopped abruptly.

Despite appearing completely relaxed to an observer, the muscles in Crawford’s arm were unnaturally tense. Farfarello tilted his head quizzically, peering up at Crawford’s face. From this angle, he could see that the arm over the older man’s face was actually to hide his eyes, which were wide open and cold in a manner they usually only became when Crawford was ready to kill – or ready for an attack.

Farfarello was not one to mistrust any cues his leader gave him – particularly not when said leader was precognitive. He sat up, slowly, casually bringing one leg up beside him as he slid his hand down it, edging closer and closer to the knife hidden in his boot.

“Don’t bother,” Crawford said, sharply, shifting his arm aside to look up at Farfarello. “He’s gone now, and he won’t be coming back tonight.”

“Ken?” Farfarello asked, mildly incredulous.

Crawford said nothing, merely moving his arm back into place over his eyes. Farfarello eased his leg back down again, a little disappointed at having nothing to attack – but his disappointment was minute next to his curiosity over Crawford’s judgement of Ken – Siberian – as dangerous.

He said nothing, however, content to merely wait Crawford out. Farfarello knew his mind did not work in a manner that most people’s did (which he regarded more as a failing on their part than on his), but Crawford’s mind worked in a manner even more peculiar than his, and interrupting his thoughts would not help anyone. So he was content to wait until Crawford shared his conclusions with him – which he always did, eventually, because Farfarello could outwait God. He made a point of it.

Some time later (it could have been an hour, it could have been five minutes, but Farfarello didn’t care either way) Crawford dropped his arm from over his eyes and sat up. He was frowning, a sharp line etched between his brows.

“There’s something wrong with Siberian,” he said quietly. “Whoever he was tonight, it wasn’t who I’ve been speaking to in the flower shop. I’m beginning to think there may be two of him, but I can’t figure out what triggers the switch – if there is one.”

“Two of him?” Farfarello asked, just as quiet.

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense,” Crawford replied. “Even if his behaviour was simply becoming erratic from emotional stress, I should still be able to predict it because there would be one mind, and one mind only, behind the actions. But if there’s two . . . I won’t be able to fully predict his actions, because they won’t be his.” He steepled his fingers, resting his chin on the tips. “But there’s a difficulty in attempting to work out which personality is which, also. One is aggressively sexual, and one isn’t – but beyond that, they seem remarkably similar.”

“Unless there are many different identities contained in the one body, and what we assume are parts of one identity are actually parts of several,” Farfarello pointed out.

Crawford glanced at him. “Oh?”

Farfarello shrugged. “It is usually the case in dissociative identity disorder that the patient will have several personalities, or identities,” he said.

Crawford’s mouth tugged up at one side in a half-smile. “You’re reciting again,” he said.

“Mental hospitals are enlightening.”

The smile remained for a moment more, before Crawford’s face took on a serious cast again. “If there are more than two identities running rampant in Siberian’s head, then we have a further problem,” he said, then let out an exasperated sound and dropped his chin from his fingers. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice this earlier,” he murmured, then jerked his head up. “Schuldig,” he breathed, his eyes narrowing in a dangerous way that Farfarello knew all too well.

“What about him?” the one-eyed man asked, curious.

“Schuldig knew,” Crawford replied, standing. “Get dressed. We’re going home.”

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TBC

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Two more parts to go! :)