Schuldig's Birthday, 10 a.m.
Schuldig's Birthday, 10 a.m.
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Kreuz characters; I’m merely borrowing them. I’ll hand them back unharmed once
I’m done with them. Promised.
It was 10 a.m., on the
day that was Schuldig’s birthday—or the day they assumed to be his birthday,
anyway, for no one really knew, not even the German telepath himself.
It was 10 a.m., and
Crawford had been busy looking over the files of their next assignment for a
good three hours. (He had yet to have a vision that would help him come up with
a fail-safe plan for the mission.) His first mug of coffee had long been
drained, the second grown cold on his desk as he had been too absorbed in his
work to take any more than a sip. And since cold coffee did by no means meet
with his refined tastes, the precognitive decided to make his way to the
kitchen and help himself to a refill.
It was 10 a.m. when
Crawford opened the door of his study and a low moan of delight drifted over
from the kitchen, just across the corridor. “Mmmmh!”
The purring sound made
Crawford stop in his tracks, hand frozen on the doorknob. Was that Schuldig’s
voice?
As if to solve that
little mystery, the voice rose again, now clearly identifiable as that of the
redhead in question: “Damn it, kid, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.
You know I love you, right?”
Before Crawford’s brain
could even process those words, the door across the corridor swung open, and
from the kitchen stepped the German telepath. He was clad in nothing but a pair
of boxers and a rumpled T-shirt, and his flaming hair stuck out in odd angles,
defying gravity in its usual, charming early-morning manner. (And yes, 10 a.m.
was indeed “freaking early in the morning” by Schuldig’s standards.) The young
man’s eyes were not quite open, and he seemed to be oblivious of his team
leader blinking at him, slack-jawed, as he steered in the direction of his
bedroom on autopilot, licking a sticky, milky white substance from his fingers
as he shuffled along the corridor.
Crawford couldn’t help
but stare after the telepath, who kept making sounds of rapture on his way and
was now (unconsciously or malevolently?) projecting emotions, too. A tingle of
second-hand delight crept up and down Crawford’s spine, evoking a soft shiver
in the man. Only when Schuldig had reached his room and his lanky form
disappeared from sight, felt the American able to move—much less think—again.
Out of habit, his hand came up to adjust his glasses, then his amber gaze
returned to the kitchen door, which the other man had never closed. From the
other side of the doorway, Nagi’s wide eyes met his.
The boy stood with his
back to the kitchen counter, holding out a bowl in front of him as if to
illustrate something. “That bastard,” he muttered underneath a snort. “I turn
my back for a second, and what does he do? Sleep-walks in here and steals half
of the icing that was meant for the cake! I swear, this is the last time I’m
baking him a cake for his birthday!”
But the boy’s voice
lacked any venom, and Crawford could only smile to himself as he stepped into
the kitchen to finally help himself to some much-needed coffee.