Dragon Cycle

Dragon Cycle – Part 8 – Waiting for the Silent Call

Disclaimer: Of course the Weiss and Schwarz boys don’t belong to me, we just have fun together. I write this stuff for fun not profit.

Author’s Notes: As always, many, many thanks to my beta, Iron Dog.

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Showered, shaved, dressed in clean clothes and feeling more like himself, Crawford ran the comb through his damp hair one last time. Looking at himself in the dresser mirror, he once again recognized the man reflected there. The usual suit had been discarded in favor of dress slacks and an expensive wool sweater but everything else was trademark Brad Crawford; right down to the air of confidence he didn’t exactly feel, but seemed to exude nonetheless.

Circumstances hadn’t changed in the last half an hour but, somehow, just being clean and groomed had restored a sense of calm and purpose to Crawford. Setting down the comb, he looked himself over once again before turning towards the bedroom door.

In the hallway, he halted in the doorway to Schuldig’s room and glanced across to where Farfarello sat on the chair alongside the bed. Without being conscious of it, Crawford’s gaze moved to Schuldig. Nothing had changed with him. He still lay there like a corpse, unmoving and barely breathing.

‘Have we all been wrong?’ Crawford wondered. ‘Have we assumed he’s in stasis when, in fact, he’s simply dying? How do we know that Stein’s telepath is right about Schuldig recovering? What if Schuldig is lost forever inside his own head?’ He shook that thought off. It was too morbid and completely out of character for his mind to take such a turn of thought. Schuldig would be fine, he told himself. He’d wake up and he’d be fine.

He had to.

Right now, he needed to focus on Farfarello and the answers he might be able to provide. He turned his attention back to the Irishman, who sat with his feet drawn up onto the seat of the chair. He had his arms wrapped around his shins, and his forehead resting on his knees. If he’d heard Crawford arrive at the door, he’d given no indication. For a moment the precog considered that Farfarello might even be asleep. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least. Farfarello had slept in much more peculiar and uncomfortable positions.

But he needed to speak with him, so Crawford moved into the room. Arriving at the chair, he touched Farfarello lightly on the shoulder. The fact that the Irishman lifted his head, his unblinking gaze rising to meet Crawford’s, without startling or lunging in surprised violence told Crawford that he hadn’t been asleep. He didn’t look the least bit tired either. He looked, in fact, dangerously alert.

Indicating the door with a gesture, Crawford spoke very quietly. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned away. It was only when he reached his bedroom that Crawford turned. Farfarello arrived within seconds, closing the door behind him.

The Irishman was clean, freshly bandaged and wearing a change of clothes. But Crawford’s mind kept dragging up the earlier, blood-soaked image of him standing in the hallway. If Stein had been wrong; if his team had made a fatal blunder… Crawford stopped and reminded himself that it hadn’t happened that way. But it could have – that thought would not go away.

Farfarello was a member of Schwarz due to his unique and exceptional killing abilities, and a mindset that not only allowed him to love the kill but to revel in it. The fact that he did not feel pain was a bonus. Crawford suspected that, even if Farfarello were able to feel pain, he would still throw himself into the act of killing without a second thought as to his own safety.

And this, Crawford thought, is the man Schuldig chose to bed down with. Why had Schuldig done that? Why had Farfarello done it? Who had been the one to initiate the act? The questions spun in Crawford’s head and he had to wonder just who, of the two of them, was the crazier. He also wondered if he was just as crazy as the two of them for obsessing over it.

Feeling a steady gaze on him, Crawford drew himself back to the here and now.

He looked at Farfarello. “Sit down,” he said, indicating the chair against the wall on his right. He was a little surprised when Farfarello did as he’d been instructed. As soon as he was seated, Crawford continued. “I know I asked this previously but I’m going to ask it again, and this time I want you to really think about the answer. What happened before Schuldig lost consciousness?”

The Irishman sat silently, his gaze never leaving his leader. Eventually he blinked slowly.

“It happened as I said,” he replied. “His nose started to bleed, he went rigid, then he was unconscious.”

“There was nothing else; nothing unusual?” Crawford pressed.

Again, Farfarello gave silent consideration to the question before answering.

“I felt something snap in my head,” he finally revealed after several moments of silence.

Crawford’s interest was piqued. This was new. He didn’t know if it would help unravel the puzzle, but it was a clue of some kind.

“When…?” he began.

“I heard you and Nagi,” Farfarello interrupted quietly as he stared off into the distance; sounding as though he was speaking his thoughts aloud.

Crawford frowned. “Heard us?”

A slow nod from the Irishman and a concentrated look told Crawford he was still considering the events of that night. Now Farfarello blinked a couple of times and his gaze became focused once again.

“You sounded a long way off, and surprised.”

“Could you understand anything we said?”

“No,” Farfarello shook his head slowly. “Everything happened too quickly. It was like you were there, then you were gone.”

“Was that before or after you heard the snap?”

“Before.”

“Before Schuldig’s nose began to bleed?”

“After.”

“So, his nose started to bleed; you heard me and Nagi, then the snap?” Crawford reiterated.

Farfarello gave a nod. “Then Schu’s nose began to bleed more and he went rigid. After that he collapsed and he hasn’t moved since.”

Crawford nodded slowly, turning over what he’d been told.

“How long before he wakes up?” Farfarello asked.

It seemed like such a simple question – a logical question, in the circumstances. But Crawford knew better. He looked at the Irishman. Apart from when he spoke, Farfarello sat still and silent. The look in his eye told Crawford he was focused and perfectly lucid. Farfarello had a propensity for focus that even Crawford found unnerving. Whether it was in the course of a mission, in the grips of a psychotic episode or, as now, when he was as sane as he could ever be, when his attention was fully engaged, Farfarello exhibited a focus so intense it was abnormal.

Right now, all that focus was directed at Crawford for an answer he didn’t have. He moved to the bed and sat down. He understood all too well what the Irishman was asking him to confirm with that question. Farfarello, for all his mental instability, was no fool. He’d put two and two together and come up with the right answer. It was pointless lying to him.

“I don’t know,” Crawford admitted reluctantly.

Farfarello’s expression didn’t change. “Has the boy been affected, too?”

“Apparently not.”

The golden gaze didn’t waver. Crawford could almost see Farfarello processing the information he’d been given, meshing it with his own deductions and, no doubt, making some sense of it all. He wondered just how much more of the puzzle Farfarello would piece together. There was a sharp mind buried in the insanity.

He sighed. “We’re not sure exactly what effect this event has had on us,” he said. “Once Schuldig wakes up, perhaps things will become clearer.”

After a few moments of silence, Farfarello rose to his feet. “Then we still wait,” he said and headed towards the door.

“One more thing,” Crawford said. Farfarello halted, but he didn’t look around at the precog. “We’re all here now,” Crawford went on. “Schuldig doesn’t need you watching over him. There are four bedrooms. Get some sleep.”

The Irishman continued on his way without responding.

As the door closed, Crawford sighed deeply, knowing Farfarello would do as he damned well pleased.

And that should be the least of my worries, he told himself. Whether he sleeps in a bed in one of the rooms, on a chair beside Schuldig’s bed, or hanging upside down and naked from a curtain rod shouldn’t be a concern. But it was. No point in lying to himself as to why it bothered him. Trying to bring common sense to bear on the situation seemed like a losing battle, but it was a battle the American was prepared to continue fighting.

Of course it shouldn’t matter that Schuldig and Farfarello had discovered that fucking each other was a pleasurable pastime. But it did. It mattered because there was a difference between knowing something, and having your face rubbed in it. There was a difference between knowing the person you fucked went out and screwed around, and having them bring their conquest home for the night. It was even worse when that person was someone you both knew well.

Crawford doubted either Schuldig or Farfarello viewed things that way. To them it would have been nothing more than seeing something they wanted and taking it. He suspected they’d be surprised to know he was almost…obsessing…over their behavior. Well, Schuldig might be surprised. He doubted Farfarello would care one way or the other about his reaction. Then, once the surprise had worn off, Schuldig would become unbearably smug, thinking that Crawford was jealous, deluding himself that he meant more to the American than he did. So Schuldig must never know. Usually, that was a given. Keeping the nosy German out of his head had required no effort before but now…who knew? Had the damage to his Talent affected his shields as well? Was his mind about to become an open book to an avid reader? That thought made Crawford more than a little nervous.

The low curse he’d been about to utter was strangled into silence when a knock came at his door.

“Yes?” he asked as he restored his usual ‘in-charge’ look and tone.

The door opened and Stein poked his head inside the room.

“It’s getting late and I’m hungry. I’ve ordered in some food,” he announced. “I also cleaned the phone but the cleaners will have their work cut out for them in that bedroom.”

“They’ve dealt with worse,” Crawford replied.

Stein regarded him a moment longer before obviously making a decision. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“I know this isn’t an easy time,” he began as he advanced into the room, “not for any of us. But you seem particularly tense.”

Crawford smothered the offence that rose up in him at that comment. Stein was guessing. It could be no more than that. Crawford knew of a certainty that his demeanor had betrayed none of the inner turmoil he was feeling. He knew he did not give the appearance of being tense. So Stein was stabbing in the dark figuring that, in the circumstances, his aim would be true. But Crawford still found the assumption offensive – professionally and personally.

“I don’t recall your imagination being so vivid previously,” he replied without rancor.

Stein barked a laugh as he sat down on the chair Farfarello had recently vacated. He directed his attention at Crawford, regarding him silently. Crawford met that gaze, equally silent.

He’d looked into those pale eyes often in the past but they’d never held the chill they did now. There was no possibility of imagination taking over and allowing him to believe the years had not intervened and they were back at Rosenkreuz, sharing their thoughts on matters important and trivial. As Crawford had come to realize over the years they’d shared while at the institution, as far as any humanity was concerned, Stein was a lost cause.

It hadn’t been that evident when they’d first met, but he’d borne witness to Stein’s increasing fervor for Eszett’s doctrines and philosophies. He’d watched the man’s decline with trepidation, but he’d been unable to speak a word against the path Stein had chosen.

“It was the best thing that has ever happened to me.” That was how Stein had described his being brought to Rosenkreuz. Crawford remembered that night with clarity. They’d been talking together for hours, fuelled by mugs of strong coffee, and Stein had recounted how he’d come to be at the institution.

He’d told of a boy orphaned when he four years of age, of various foster parents who had taken him in because he was a cute, well-behaved child, and of those would-be parents returning him to the orphanage, whispering to the staff about peculiar incidents since he’d come to live with them.

This had gone on for three years, he’d said, and the orphanage had despaired of ever placing him until that day a young couple had arrived and the problem of little Stein Geringer had been solved. Stein Geringer had become Stein Altmann and, within days of adopting him, his ‘parents’ had taken him to Europe and delivered him into the clutches of Eszett and Rosenkreuz.

At the conclusion of recounting this piece of his past, Stein had smiled at Crawford and said, “It was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Those words had sent chills through Crawford and he’d begun to realize, at that moment, that he and Stein could not remain close friends. Their view points of Eszett and Rosenkreuz were too different.

“In your place, I would be tense also,” Stein said, bringing Crawford back to the present. He gave a low laugh. “In fact, tension goes hand-in-hand with the occupation, wouldn’t you say?” He gave a shrug. “We all learn how to deal with it in our own ways. Some people smoke, some meditate, some go out and get laid – anything to ease the pressure.” Something in his gaze shifted, and Crawford wasn’t sure what expression those cold eyes now held. “Personally, I don’t smoke, and I don’t meditate,” Stein went on. The corners of his mouth lifted in an approximation of a sensual smile. “And what about you, Brad?” he queried. “What do you do for sex these days?”

Crawford held back on the glare he wanted to direct at the man, instead giving him a look of mild amusement. He’d suspected this was where Stein had been heading and he was not prepared to discuss the topic.

“No lovers? No girlfriend?” Stein pressed.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to you or the situation at hand,” Crawford replied.

Stein laughed – amused. “It’s not,” he said. “I’m just curious, and the situation at hand is that we’re waiting with nothing to do but talk.”

“Then, to answer your question, I’ve always found meditation useful,” Crawford said.

Stein laughed again. “Some things never change,” he remarked as he relaxed back on the chair. He shook his head and gave Crawford a rueful look. “I chased you for so long,” he reminisced. “You were always so up-tight. For half of the chase you were oblivious; then you figured out what I wanted and you put me off with excuses. I’m not the type to give up easily, but eventually I got the message.” He stopped, his appraising gaze studying the American. “You’re still a fine looking man, Brad.”

“So are you,” Crawford admitted. “But we’re not teenagers any more, and this isn’t Rosenkreuz.”

Stein shook his head a little. “Still putting me off with words,” he chastised. His smile contained the now-familiar chill. “If that’s the way you want it,” he said with a sigh. “But I still say that it’s a shame. We could be making this waiting time so much more enjoyable.”

Even as he was speaking the doorbell rang. Stein turned his head in that direction before looking back at Crawford. “Saved by the bell, as they say,” he quipped as he rose from the chair. “Still,” he gave the American a predatory grin, “the night isn’t over yet.” He gestured towards the bedroom door. “Shall we go and eat?”

“After you,” Crawford said, getting to his feet and feeling like he had just avoided the sharp teeth of a trap he would have had a hard time getting out of.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •

Four days. Four fucking days. Four fucking days of doing nothing but sitting and waiting. It was seriously starting to wear on Farfarello’s nerves. If he had to sit around in the house with only his current companions much longer, he was going to have a psychotic episode.

Not that that didn’t have entertaining possibilities.

Farfarello stalked to the window and looked out. It had been dark for hours and it was still raining. He remained there, staring out into the gloom. He hated this inactivity. Nothing was happening. They were all waiting around, biding their time until Schuldig woke up. It was as if the telepath had gone down, and life had stopped. Yeah, things were still being done – mundane things like eating and sleeping, and Crawford had gone out a couple of days ago to see that wanker, Takatori, about his stupid fucking holiday in the mountains. Apart from that – nothing.

He’d found some books in the backpack. Nagi must have put them there, guessing they wouldn’t get out of the house in under a couple of days. But with nothing else to do, it wasn’t hard to get through a few books and Farfarello had finished reading the last of them yesterday. Re-reading them held no appeal and Crawford wouldn’t let him leave the house to go find other entertainment.

If circumstances had been different, he would have taken cruel delight in egging on the friction between Crawford and Stein. Even without his additional prodding, it had still amused him to watch them when he was in their company. But being unable to leave the house to escape the additional tension he caused made him forego that pleasure. However, after a couple of days the novelty had worn off. Now the two of them snipping at each other was enough to make him start contemplating using his knives on them just to shut them the hell up. Schuldig, unconscious and unresponsive, was still better company than those two.

And Nagi – well, he seemed to be of the same mind as Farfarello, spending as little time in the company of the two alpha males as possible before returning to his room and shutting himself in. Sometimes he’d come into the room where Schuldig lay and he’d sit a while, looking at Schuldig, or he’d join Farfarello at the window, where they’d speak together quietly about their current circumstances.

Nagi had filled Farfarello in on the identity of Stein and why he was there. He’d also eased Farfarello’s fears of a second attack on Schuldig by revealing that the telepath was being shielded by Stein’s team. Farfarello had felt a great deal of tension drain out of him upon hearing that. He and Nagi had traded theories on what was happening and what might be done about it.

So far, all they knew for certain was that Crawford’s Talent had been rendered inactive; that Stein and his team were here to lend aid, and they were avoiding mental contact. It was no more than they’d known four days ago. If Crawford or Stein knew more than that, they weren’t saying. As for what could be done to end the threat – there was no answer to that either.

Neither Farfarello nor Nagi were much for talking but, somehow, in the darkened room, they seemed to have found a connection and the words had come easily.

But there was another connection Farfarello wanted – or wanted back, if one was to be precise – and that was the mind-link with Schuldig. He wanted that in the worst possible way. Because once he had that back, it meant Schuldig was recovered and was suffering no permanent damage; it meant they could get out of this fucking house and, with the mind-links restored, it meant the danger was over and they’d be able to ditch Stein and his invisible team.

Farfarello had disliked the man instinctively when he’d first seen him. Nothing had happened over the four days they’d been in the house to change that. He still disliked and distrusted the man and he knew the feeling was mutual. He spent as little time in his company as possible and on the rare occasions when Stein ventured into Schuldig’s room, Farfarello watched him closely. Not that he thought Stein would try to touch Schuldig or speak to him. It was simply that being in the same vicinity as Stein made Farfarello’s instincts scream a warning. Farfarello might not be playing with a full deck but his instincts were above average and as sharp as his knives.

When he visited, Stein never spoke to Farfarello, but two days ago he’d popped into the room and given Schuldig a brief glance before looking at the Irishman. He’d given a soft snort before turning and leaving the room. Farfarello hadn’t bothered to try to figure out what that had been about.

Four days, he repeated silently to himself. Four fucking days!

He wanted to go to the bed, grab Schuldig and shake him until his teeth rattled. He wanted to shake him and scream at him until he woke up. He wanted him to wake up so they could get the fuck out of this place…

Something outside moved, catching all his attention. He peered into the darkness and saw more movement. Without thinking, his hand slipped inside his vest, and he withdrew his best knife. He heard one or two words spoken softly through the open window. Whoever was out there wasn’t trying for stealth. He watched as shadows moved in the darkness, approaching the front door. There was nothing furtive about the behavior of whoever was out there. The sound of the doorbell announced their arrival – and put paid to any theory they might be trying to remain unseen and unheard.

Farfarello reached the bedroom doorway just as two dark shadows filled the doorway to the living room.

“Who is it?” Crawford called.

“Hello there,” came a cheery male voice from the other side of the door. “Is Stein at home?”

Almost as soon as the stranger had spoken, one of the shadows detached itself from the living room doorway and moved along the hall, turning the light on as it went. The shadow turned out to be Stein and he reached the front door and had it unlocked and opened in seconds.

“What is going on?” he demanded.

“Your cell phone is dead,” a woman replied. “And you said to come when he was waking up. So, here we are.”

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A/N: Yes, yet another cliffhanger - sorry. I just don't seem to be able not to write them. If you hate them, let me know (probably won't stop me writing them, though!) - in fact, feedback of any kind is always welcomed.

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