Deals

Argh, updating later than I was expecting since I spent the day in London. Sorry!

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 7

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The back door swung shut quietly behind Ken. If Yohji had been in the mood to be impressed with the forethought in the gesture – it was nearly impossible to make that door move quietly, what with the squeaky hinges and the fact that it didn’t quite fit the doorframe correctly – then he would have commended the younger man. As it was, it merely put what had happened earlier that evening into perspective, and made him angrier.

Ken leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, sighing. His stance was particularly un-Ken-like – one hip cocked, more of a pose than a natural sprawl – and even with Yohji’s anger it sent a frisson of uneasiness through him, because his instincts were all telling him this isn’t Ken.

Yohji shook off his doubts, however, because no matter what Ken was going through there was no excuse for what he’d said to Omi. Everything else . . . well, those could be passed off as thoughtlessness, but that was deliberate. No doubt about it. Deliberate, and malicious.

“Ken,” Yohji said flatly, fed up with waiting for the other man to notice him.

Ken opened one eye lazily, stretching. “What?” he asked.

Yohji’s fingers clenched where they rested on his arm. “Omi was very upset after you left,” he said, voice soft.

Ken smirked at him. “Everyone needs a kick in the head sometimes,” he said. “He needs to learn when to butt out.”

“When did you stop caring about him?” Yohji wanted to know. “He worries about you, patches you up when you get injured, relies on you to work hard in the shop, treats you like you’re his brother – when did all of that stop mattering to you?”

Ken’s smirk vanished. He stalked towards Yohji, a movement that the blond man had never seen Ken use before – slightly dangerous, and unconsciously sexual. He was used to being around women who had the same type of walk (not identical, because that would require Ken to have a hip transplant) but with the same purpose in mind: sex, seduction, and a silent promise. The sense of wrongness about the whole situation increased with every step, until Ken was little more than a hand’s length away from him.

“I never said I stopped caring about him,” Ken said, his voice as low as Yohji’s had been a moment before. “But sometimes? You need to back. The fuck. Off.”

Yohji straightened, staring coldly down at Ken. “And you couldn’t have explained this to him like you just told me?” he said. “What was there that meant you had to hurt him quite so badly to get that point across?”

A sharp, brilliant smile spread across Ken’s face. “Absolutely nothing,” he said, and laughed.

Yohji punched him, throwing his weight into it and knocking Ken back onto his arse. He fingers touched slightly warm metal, and he realised he’d reached for his watch without noticing. He forced himself to clench his hand around his forearm rather than touch the watch, staring down at Ken on the floor.

Ken raised a hand and touched his cheek, wincing as his fingers pressed into what would be a bruise in a couple of hours, as though wondering how that had happened. He looked up at Yohji – and there was absolutely nothing ‘wrong’ about this Ken. “Yohji?” Ken asked, voice wavering a little. “What did you do that for?”

“You damn well know what that was for,” Yohji snapped.

Ken scowled at him. “No, I don’t,” he snapped back. “If I knew what it was for, I wouldn’t be asking you!”

Despite himself, Yohji’s hand began edging back towards his watch. “Ken—” he began.

“Yohji-kun, please don’t.”

Yohji’s head jerked around to see both Omi and Aya hovering in the doorway. “Omi—” he started, then realised that neither of them were looking at him. Instead, they were both watching Ken – watching him like he was a bomb that might go off at any minute.

“We both heard Ken-kun come in,” Omi said, his eyes still fixed on Ken. “We’ve . . . been listening.”

“Listening to what?” Ken said, climbing to his feet. “One minute I’m in bed, the next I’m on my arse in the kitchen with Yohji looking like he wants to murder me.”

Yohji stared at his co-worker, his anger draining away and a deep-rooted suspicion beginning to take its place. “Ken . . .” he said slowly, “you really don’t remember what we were just talking about?”

Ken stared at him like he was crazy. “We weren’t talking about anything! I don’t even know how the fuck I got here from my room!”

“So you don’t remember going out tonight?” Aya asked.

Ken was looking from one person to the next as though searching for an oasis of sanity he could latch onto. “Of course I don’t fucking remember going out tonight,” he snarled. “Because I didn’t fucking go out!”

“Then why are you dressed for clubbing?” Omi queried quietly.

Ken looked down at himself, and stared. By Yohji’s standards, his clothes weren’t quite dressy enough to go clubbing in – but for Ken, who usually wore loose jeans and a looser T-shirt, the tight black trousers and shirt were definitely not everyday wear.

“Huh?” Ken said finally.

Yohji’s hand fell away from his watch as he stared at Ken. This Ken was definitely not the ‘wrong’ Ken of earlier – and this Ken was hopeless when it came to lying. It was easy to see that he was genuinely confused, and Yohji was now completely at a loss as to what was going on. A quick glance to the side showed Aya still scowling in a manner that suggested he didn’t have any answers either, but Omi—

“Ken-kun,” Omi said, “can you please try to remember what you said to me earlier on tonight?”

Ken looked up at him, bewildered. “But I haven’t spoken to you since lunchtime,” he said, and that was when it clicked.

Ken hadn’t spoken to Omi.

So who had?

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“Where’s Schuldig?” Crawford asked Nagi, leaving aforementioned telepath’s room.

Nagi shrugged one shoulder, scribbling something on a notebook. “He left a couple of hours ago. Said he’d be back by morning.”

“Damn it!”

Nagi looked up from his work, startled by Crawford’s uncharacteristic outburst. Crawford stalked past him without looking at him, heading for his study. Confused, the teenager looked to Farfarello for some form of explanation.

The white-haired man caught his gaze, and shrugged one shoulder. “Schuldig’s going to get hurt when he gets back,” was all he said, and it was only then that Nagi noticed that he looked just as annoyed as Crawford did.

Nagi rolled his eyes and went back to his work. Really, he lived with such a bunch of freaks.

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Ken’s eyes darted from one face to the next before staring back down the length of his body. He was beginning to wonder whether this was all some big practical joke in incredibly poor taste – after all, he was fairly sure he didn’t even own a pair of trousers this tight. And he definitely hadn’t gone out earlier on that night.

He couldn’t quite convince himself that this was all just a big joke, however, because he knew his friends, and he knew what they looked like when they were playing a prank – and this wasn’t it.

“Ken-kun,” Omi said, catching his attention. “Please try to remember where you were just now.”

“I told you!” Ken yelled. “I went to bed, and then—”

“No, Ken-kun,” Omi interrupted, steel in his voice. “Please try to remember where you were between when you went to bed and when you. . . .” he hesitated. “When you woke up here.”

Ken stared at him, frustrated. There was nothing to remember – there never was when you went to sleep, unless you were trying to recall dreams!

Dreams . . . Ken frowned. He vaguely recalled having some strange dreams that night – but he couldn’t remember what they were about. Because they’re bloody dreams, he growled at himself. You don’t generally remember dreams at all.

Because you don’t want to, Kishou said. That’s what I’m for. You keep away the stuff I don’t want, I keep away the stuff you don’t want.

What the fuck? Ken snarled. Explain. Now.

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“You’re in trouble,” Nagi said when Schuldig stumbled through the door, reeking of alcohol. “Crawford wants to see you.”

Schuldig straightened and tried not to look like the door was all that was keeping him upright. “What does the bastard want now?” he asked.

“How should I know?” Nagi shrugged, walking into his room. He paused in the doorway, and added, “Watch out for Farfarello. Whatever’s pissed Crawford off has him annoyed, too.”

Schuldig rolled his eyes and nodded, reaching out unsteadily to ruffle Nagi’s hair. “Thanks, kid.”

“Just don’t get killed. I’ll be the one stuck on disposal duty.”

“Schuldig!” Crawford called from the direction of his study. “Get in here!”

Schuldig winced and let go of the door, staggering as he did so. “I’m too drunk for this,” he muttered, but set off to be yelled at by their fearless leader anyway.

On entering the room, all gratitude Nagi had instilled by warning him vanished. Little fucker could have told me Farfarello was in here, too, Schuldig thought, carefully ignoring the fact that Nagi probably expected he already knew. Leaning against the doorframe, he saluted idly. “Yo!”

“You knew about Siberian,” Crawford said without preamble, and Schuldig suddenly realised that he was in deep shit.

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It’s our deal, Kishou snapped back. You’re keeping up your side, so you can’t have completely forgotten.

Deal? Ken said, then blinked. He remembered something . . . some weird conversations with Kishou where he’d mentioned a ‘deal’. He remembered . . . that he took care of the violence.

But he didn’t know what that meant.

You’re a fucking moron, Kishou spat. You want to know what our deal is? I’ll show you.

And then the world fell apart.

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“Knew what?” Schuldig replied innocently.

“Don’t play games with me.”

“’m not playing games. There’s a lot of things to know about Siberian. True, most of ’em aren’t very interesting, but there’s still a lot. Which one are you talking about?”

“His mental abnormalities,” Crawford replied, his eyebrow twitching.

“You should get that looked at,” Schuldig blurted before he could stop himself, then winced at the dark looks from both of the other men. “Okay, okay, Siberian. He’s completely bugfuck insane. You know that, because otherwise you wouldn’t be quizzing me about it. What else is there to know?”

“The nature of his insanity.”

“He has a weird form of DID.”

“Dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as multiple personality disorder,” Farfarello said.

Schuldig glanced at him. “That’s the one,” he confirmed.

Crawford glowered at him. “We knew that,” he said. “Details, Schuldig, give me details.”

“He’s got another identity called Kishou,” Schuldig said, shrugging. “Kishou takes over in sexual situations, while Ken is dominant in most of the non-sexual situations, though that’s changing. He’s completely in control in violent situations.”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s changing’?” Crawford asked.

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Crawford kissing him—

Farfarello’s mouth on his dick—

On his back on a table, Crawford on top of him—

Omi – Omi – asking what was wrong and the sound of his own laughter, sharp-edged and mocking, while he said precisely what he knew would hurt the most—

Crawford’s dick in his arse, Farfarello laughing while he panted and moaned and begged for it harder—

Ken came to on the floor with his back pressed against one of the cupboards, head in his hands.

Bastard, he thought weakly.

It’s what I’m made to be, Kishou responded.

You – I – shit—

Hey, hey, that’s one kink I never did like much, Kishou said, sounding amused. Aw, is it too much for the poor widdle baby?

Anger clouded Ken’s vision, making him snarl. I take care of the violence, right? he said. Then how’s this?

His claws sinking into flesh, blood spurting from the wound – the satisfying thud of his fist against flesh – standing over Matsushina’s body, wanting him to be alive so he could kill him over and over again—

Dimly, Ken heard his teammates in the background, calling his name and speaking in worried tones – he heard the words ‘doctor’ and ‘Manx’, but blocked them out in favour of calling up his most violent memories, focussing on them until it was like he could feel his opponents’ flesh under his fist, feel their hot blood on his skin, and the fact that he enjoyed it—

Stop! Kishou screamed, and Ken did.

Fuck, truce, Kishou said, the memories of what he’d – what Kishou – had done with Crawford and Farfarello and – shit, was that Kase? – vanished, leaving Ken with the intellectual knowledge of what had happened, but no true memories to go with them. Just a list of events, like it’d happened to someone else.

Which, in effect, it had.

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“What do you mean, ‘that’s changing’?” Crawford asked.

“So long as Siberian wasn’t getting into sexual situations, Kishou figured he wasn’t needed,” Schuldig said. “So he kind of lay dormant at the back of their mind. He’s been nothing more than a little voice in the back of Ken’s head for the past couple of years, since they weren’t getting any. Then you two interfered, and Kishou figures that if they’re dealing with violence and sex in equal amounts, then he should have an equal share of the time in control of the body.”

“How long has Hidaka had this disorder?” Crawford asked.

“Since he was about four,” Schuldig said.

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“The doctor will be here soon,” Omi said, eyeing Ken anxiously. After Omi had asked him to try to remember what had happened that night, he’d stared blankly into space for a few moments, frowning – then screamed and grabbed his head, staggering backwards into the cupboards and falling over, scrabbling along the floor until he was jammed into the corner, screaming and sobbing. None of them dared to touch him – when Aya had tried, Ken screamed again and lashed out wildly, clocking the redhead in the eye.

A few moments later, he had just . . . stopped, head in his hands, only the movement of his chest and the faint hitches in his breath giving any indication that he was still alive. Omi had called Manx and the same doctor who had treated Ken for his injuries from the fight with Farfarello, now convinced that there was something very, very wrong.

“Shit, Omi, what do you think is happening to him?” Yohji asked, a cigarette in his mouth. He’d lit up nervously when Ken had stopped screaming, and Omi hadn’t the heart to tell him to either put it out or take it outside. Ken was strong and a skilled fighter, after all, and if something went wrong it might take all three of them to take him down – and right now, Omi envied his friend the artificial calm a cigarette bought him. He wasn’t cruel enough to deny it to Yohji.

“I think – it’s like there’s two of him,” Omi said. “I don’t know whether Schuldig’s been controlling him, or if this is a problem internal to Ken, but it’s – it’s not normal. It’s not right.”

Yohji snorted. “Since when have any of us been normal?” he said.

“I know, Yohji-kun, but . . . we function,” he said. “You saw how Ken was acting today. If he’s going to keep flipping like that, then we’ve got to do something about it.”

“Even if it means losing a member of Weiss?” Aya asked.

For a long, long moment, none of them said anything.

“That’s not up to us,” Omi said, but the words were weak.

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“Since he was four?” Crawford said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup.”

“How did it come about?”

Schuldig grinned drunkenly. “Ask our resident medical encyclopaedia,” he said.

Crawford looked at Farfarello, who shrugged. “The vast majority of cases of DID are due to extreme abuse in childhood,” he said. “Mostly sexual, but always physical. The victim ‘goes away’ for a while during the abuse, at which point another identity takes over. DID sufferers have, on average, between seventeen and thirty-two different identities.”

“Hidaka got put in an orphanage when he was a little bit younger than four,” Schuldig said.

“Was this ever discovered?” Crawford asked.

“Yup, and the priest and nuns got convicted. It was about then that Kishou first went dormant.”

“Priest and nuns?” Farfarello said, his eye narrowing. Crawford and Schuldig ignored him.

“First went?”

“He resurfaces whenever Hidaka gets a love interest,” Schuldig said. “Or, more accurately, whenever Hidaka gets someone interested in him. Kishou has the libido, so Hidaka’s not likely to find anyone on his own.”

Crawford’s expression did not change at that revelation. “I take it Hidaka was sexually abused, then?”

“And physically, yes,” Schuldig agreed.

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“I’m going to have to recommend that Hidaka-san be admitted to a mental institution,” the doctor said.

“Fuck,” Yohji spat, and walked out.

The doctor winced as the back door slammed, then sighed. “I am not an expert in mental illness, but it appears to me that Hidaka-san is suffering greatly,” he continued. “I will refer him to a colleague of mine who should be able to help him.”

“Can you tell us what’s wrong with him?” Omi said pleadingly.

“I am not a psychiatrist, nor am I a psychologist,” the doctor reminded them. “And if there is one thing I have learned over my years as a physician, it is never to guess on the basis of incomplete knowledge. I shall see to it that Hidaka-san is placed under the care of Akita Junko. She is one of the leading psychiatrists in Japan, with the added benefit of being on the Kritiker payroll.”

“Thank you,” Omi said, but he looked distressingly downhearted.

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“And physically? Why, then, does he only have one alternate identity?” Farfarello asked.

Schuldig gave him a pitying look. “Because Ken is Kishou’s alternate identity,” he said. “And Kishou is Ken’s. Ken takes the violence, Kishou takes the sex. They protect each other.”

“Then why—”

Crawford’s breath hissed between his teeth abruptly, cutting Farfarello’s words off. Both his teammates looked at him, realising from the tense grip he had on the arms of his chair and his wide open, unblinking eyes that he was in the grips of an intense vision.

“I thought he was controlling them better than this,” Schuldig said softly.

“He is,” Farfarello replied, “but sometimes he cannot stop them coming or channel them to a better time, if the future has changed in a drastic way.”

“Heh. Learn something new every day,” Schuldig said, slouching against the doorframe and closing his eyes.

A few seconds passed before Crawford blinked, his fingers uncurling from the punishing grip he had on the chair. Closing his eyes, he slammed a fist down on the desk. “Shit!”

“What?” Schuldig asked, eyes snapping wide open.

“Hidaka has been committed to a mental institution,” he said. “He will never be a part of Weiss again.”

“Then – the plan—”

“That plan is gone,” Crawford confirmed.

“Fuck,” Farfarello said, with feeling.

“We’re not done for yet,” the American snapped. “There might be a way out. Schuldig, I need you to explain absolutely everything to me about Hidaka’s condition, down to the very last detail. And then I need you to tell me, in all honesty, how this affects your talent. Weiss is gone, but Hidaka could be very useful indeed.”

“Oh?” Farfarello asked, raising an eyebrow.

Crawford smirked. “It is our duty to report any possible threat to the Elders, after all.”

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TBC

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