Fanfic Archive: Redemption, 12
May. 28th, 2009 03:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texchan(Written: 2004)
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence. Shounen-ai (implied)
Summary: Yohji and a critically injured Aya find themselves drummed out of Weiss and on the run from Kritiker. Against this backdrop, they must locate and retrieve something very precious to the man who betrayed Aya ... a man Aya still calls his friend, despite all that has passed between them. When their options run out, the boys have no choice but to undertake a foolhardy mission that will end up putting Aya at Schuldich's mercy. Will our kittens be able to extract themselves from this mess and return to Weiss? Or will Schuldich get his revenge, after all?
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Author's Note: Story #3 in the "Nowhere Man" trilogy. Story #1: Nowhere Man. Story #2: Betrayal
Redemption
Chapter 12
Yohji entered the Kitty's Cup, pulling the door closed behind him with a clang of the bells attached to it. The warmth of the shop was a welcome relief from the chilly, damp wind outside, and the homey smells of roasting coffee and sizzling eggs and bacon that greeted him seemed to warm him from the inside, as well. He paused in the doorway for a moment, drinking in the smells and scanning the store's interior. The shop had only been open for about twenty minutes, so it wasn't very crowded. It didn't take long for Yohji to spot Bradley Crawford seated at the dark booth in the very back of the shop, the same booth from which Aya had disappeared what seemed like an eternity ago.
The tall blonde was still surprised at how quickly the past several days had flown by. Omi and Ken had, true to their word, accompanied him to the yacht. They had stayed with him up until this morning, when he had finally insisted they leave to return to the Koneko and Kritiker's fold before they risked being hunted, too. He didn't want to admit it, but he had been terribly grateful for their company. Omi had spent the last several days attempting to track Schuldich down through the computer, in the hopes of avoiding this meeting with Crawford, while he and Ken had followed up on various leads in town. Unfortunately, nothing solid had panned out, and, when it became obvious to Yohji that this game was far from over, and that he'd have to go through with the scheduled meeting, he had insisted his two younger teammates return home. He had already involved them much further than he had ever wanted to, but he thought Kritiker would probably cut them some slack for their unexplained absence. Considering that their team had, only recently, been slashed in half by circumstances beyond their control, Yohji figured Manx and Persia probably expected Ken and Omi to go a little off the deep end. He was counting on that, at any rate. When he got Aya back, he didn't want to have to explain to the redhead that Ken and Omi were now on the run with them, too. He knew it would make the swordsman furious, and, for his part, Yohji didn't want to face his friend's wrath. Aya could be pretty darn scary when he was really angry.
Yohji frowned briefly as he watched Crawford calmly reading his paper. He couldn't help but wonder if the man had intentionally chosen to sit in that particular booth, knowing it was the one where Aya and Schuldich had had their last meeting. Probably. After all, Crawford was Schwarz, and a precog, to boot, all of which added up to make him one of the craziest, most off-balance mother fuckers Yohji had ever met. Out of all of Schwarz, Crawford seemed the most "normal", from the outside looking in. But, during Weiss' association with Schwarz, Yohji had quickly decided the semblance of "normality" probably made Crawford the most dangerous out of all the Schwarz operatives. You were so busy looking out for the crazy Irish fucker or the sneering German bastard that you never noticed the "normal" American until Crawford was twisting the knife in your heart. Crawford might not, necessarily, be an enemy at all times, depending on where his own interests lay, but he was definitely not someone to ever consider an ally. Yohji just hoped his interests and Crawford's were, in this one thing, aligned enough that he could trust the man to lead him to Schuldich, and, hopefully, Aya. He knew he couldn't hope to get more than that from the man, and he didn't expect it. If Crawford's information, or visions, or whatever the hell they were, led him to Aya, it would be enough.
He crossed the floor slowly, shedding his coat as he walked. As he passed in front of the counter, he waved and shot a charming, crooked, boyish smile at the dark-haired, dark-eyed waitress who had so captivated him on his previous visit.
'What was her name, again?' he wondered, 'Oh, yeah, Kat … something.'
It didn't matter what the girl's name was. In his mind, she would always be "Lola" --- his little Lola of the whipped cream. Yohji smiled again, a small, half-grin to go along with the wanting and lust he knew shone from his eyes, as he, once again, thought of that girl, naked and covered with whipped cream … or chocolate sauce … or anything, for that matter --- just so long as it allowed him to run his tongue all over her perfect, firm body. Yohji sighed and chased the unbidden thoughts from his mind, using almost all the self-restraint he had. He didn't have time to pursue it now, but he fervently hoped that, once all this mess with Aya had settled down, she would call him, or he would find some other way to get her to warm his bed, at least for a few nights.
His mind still absently toying with thoughts of the lovely, young waitress, Yohji slid into the booth across from Brad Crawford, tossing his jacket to one side as he sat. Crawford was dressed in a dark, gray flannel business suit with a blue, linen shirt underneath, and a dark blue tie. Although he never looked up at the arrival of his companion, he shifted slightly as Yohji sat down, affording the tall blonde a glimpse of the dark-colored, patterned vest, gold pocket watch, and automatic pistol which the American wore under his suit coat. There was a matching, gray flannel overcoat hanging neatly on the hook at the end of the booth. Although he couldn't see them, Yohji was certain Crawford was wearing shiny, black lace-up wing tips and matching, dark grey socks.
Yohji couldn't suppress a smile as he thought of the contrasting picture he and Crawford must paint --- one man spotlessly, impeccably dressed in a beautiful, three-piece business suit and matching shoes, his dark hair slicked back neatly from his face, the other one wearing wrinkled jeans he'd had on for the last five days, an equally-wrinkled, slightly torn, slightly stained, cream-colored sweater, and heavy, scuffed, leather boots, his tangled hair drawn into a low, messy ponytail at the nape of his neck. Yohji figured anyone who saw them meeting would probably think he was Crawford's drug connection or something like that. He didn't know why, but the thought of the up-tight, always-in-control Schwarz leader using drugs struck him as incredibly funny, probably because it was just so damn improbable.
He hadn't ever seen or encountered Crawford when the man wasn't impeccably, neatly dressed, and, in fact, Yohji had long entertained the notion that the man was a dyed-in-the-wool neat freak, a factor, which, in his mind, signaled just how mentally unstable the American Schwarz operative was. For his part, Yohji had always been a leave-your-clothes-where-they-land kind of guy, so Brad Crawford's apparently super-neatnik tendencies struck him, not as odd, but as downright sick. Sure, they all teased Aya about being a neat freak, because the redhead was constantly picking up after them in the apartment, re-organizing the shop, or something like that. But, with Aya, it seemed more like a coping mechanism --- a way to assert control over a life that, too often, seemed to tilt crazily and completely out of control and run along on its own whim or the whims of others who treated you like nothing more than a pawn in their game. If Aya had been like Crawford, Yohji knew he would have killed the redhead a long time ago --- or Omi or Ken would have. Nope, there wasn't any comparison between the two. Aya was just super-organized. Crawford was sick. That was all there was to it.
Thoughts of his missing friend seemed to draw Yohji from his reverie, and he looked up, wondering exactly how he had managed to go down the mental rabbit trail of comparing Aya and Crawford, to find the American looking at him over the edge of his paper. Dark blue eyes bored into jade green ones for a long, silent moment, as if Crawford was searching for some kind of revelation or universal truth. It was enough to make Yohji squirm, at which point Crawford smirked, as if that was the reaction he had been waiting for from the tall blonde, all along. Yohji couldn't suppress a sudden flash of hatred and rage at the sight of Crawford's smug, little smirk. For about the millionth time since he had contacted the American, he thought that he probably was making the biggest mistake of his life --- and, possibly, Aya's, too --- by meeting with this man.
"Pretty girl," Crawford commented, as he folded his newspaper, revealing, for the first time, the half-full coffee cup it had previously hidden.
"Yeah," Yohji replied. He watched Crawford fold the paper in half, once, and then, in half again. "Don't suppose you've seen any visions involving say … me and her? Or, if you had, don't suppose you'd like to share … you know, man-to-man? Help out a fellow guy and all?"
Crawford sighed as he placed the paper onto the table in front of his coffee cup. He started to pick up the cup, but, noticing that the paper was crooked, he frowned and, instead, straightened it out, squinting slightly in an effort to assure it was perfectly, symmetrically aligned with the edge of the table and the cup's saucer. Once that was done, he reached again for the cup, slowly raising it to his lips to take a quiet sip.
"I'm sure all will reveal itself … in due time," he said, replacing the cup on its saucer with a small clink of china hitting against china.
He stared, silently, at the table top in between his paper and Yohji's hands for several seconds before running his hand through slicked-back dark hair, which, despite the sudden attention, remained, as always, perfectly in place. Then, he squirmed around briefly on the bench before reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve two items: a small cloth and a photograph. He tossed the photograph onto the table, next to Yohji's hand. Then, he removed his glasses, and began to clean them with the cloth.
"I want to make clear, straight away, that taking Fujimiya wasn't my idea. I wasn't behind it, and it didn't have anything to do with Schwarz," Crawford commented, without looking at Yohji. He never looked away from his glasses, which he continued to rub with the cloth, despite the fact that they were already spotless.
"So? Then why didn't you stop it?" Yohji asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
Crawford sighed again, and, finally looked at Yohji. The tall blonde was surprised to see something that seemed, almost, to resemble regret or sorrow float across the man's eyes for an instant. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the emotion was gone.
"I tried," he said, looking steadily at Yohji with dark blue eyes that no longer betrayed any emotion. "But, as you can see, I wasn't able to convince Schuldich to give up this foolish plan of his."
"But, you're the leader," Yohji insisted. "You should have done something to stop him."
"But you're the leader," Crawford parroted back in a whining-mocking tone, a scowl on his face. "That's funny, really funny. I've always figured that Fujimiya, and, maybe, that Tsukiyono kid were the only real brains in your outfit, but are you really that dense? In case you haven't figured it out, Sherlock, Schwarz doesn't exactly operate the same way Weiss does. I'm not the leader of anything, other than, perhaps, a flea circus full of madmen that, occasionally, resembles an assassin troupe. You people in Weiss have, somehow, come to regard each other as a sort of make-shift family or something. It's pathetic, and it's why we all hate you. Maybe it's jealousy because you people, somehow, manage to cling to your humanity by clinging to each other, despite the fact that you kill, just as we do. I don't know. At any rate, Schwarz isn't like that. We're just a bunch of people thrown together by some crazy, outside organization. We don't even like each other. Only the fear of the organization's retaliation keeps us from killing each other off. So, the idea that I could talk Schuldich out of anything he wanted to do, or prevent him from doing anything he wanted to do, short of appealing to his own self interest, is ludicrous. And, in this instance, I wasn't able to convince him that taking Fujimiya was not in his best interests. He's a little off balance lately." Crawford paused, as if thinking over what he had just said, and added, "Well, more off balance than normal, that is."
When it became obvious that Yohji was at a loss for words, Crawford nodded toward the photograph he'd tossed across the table. He took a sip of coffee, and asked, around the cup, "Recognize him?"
Yohji picked up the picture. It showed a tall man in a gray business suit, much like the one Crawford was wearing today, black shoes, and black leather gloves. The man, who seemed around Yohji's age, had bleached-blonde hair cropped in a buzz cut. Yohji couldn't see his eyes, because he was wearing sunglasses, but he was brandishing a semi-automatic rifle in one hand, making a peace sign with the other, and smiling at the camera. Yohji still didn't recognize him, but he knew it was one of the men Aya had killed during that mission, several months ago, when they had infiltrated and broken up a gambling and white slavery ring. He knew it was the same man Aya had seen in Schuldich's thoughts when the German had attacked him at the Koneko. With a shaking hand, Yohji flipped the photograph over to read the inscription on the back: "To My Schu: Bad Ass forever. Love, Sergei".
Yohji's eyes narrowed at the inscription. He remembered what Aya had told him about Schuldich being crazed with some kind of strong emotion, like rage or grief. Now, looking at the photograph of the man Aya had killed and reading the inscription on the back of the picture, Yohji's mind was finally putting two and two together to come up with four. Everything was finally starting to fall into place, and, in a crazy, out-of-kilter way, it all made sense.
"Yeah," Yohji replied, sliding the photo back across the table to Crawford. "Aya … Aya killed him, like, seven, eight months ago, I think. Who is … was he?"
Crawford stopped the photograph's crazy slide by placing his hand, flat, palm-down, on top of it just before it fell off the side of the table. He glanced at the picture briefly, before replacing it in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Before answering Yohji's question, Crawford signaled the waitress for a refill on his coffee. He and Yohji sat, silently staring at each other, as she came over and re-filled his cup.
"You want anything?" she asked Yohji as she paused, uncertainly near the table.
He shook his head. She shrugged and walked back to the front counter.
"Sergei," Crawford said, as he added cream and sugar to his coffee and stirred it, almost absent-mindedly. The clinking sound of the spoon hitting against the cup's side seemed almost deafeningly loud in the sudden, heavy hush that had descended over their table. When Crawford continued, the sudden intrusion of his voice into that little, silent space almost made Yohji jump.
"He was one of Schwarz's operatives, from Russia. He and Schuldich were … close … were … lovers," Crawford continued, seemingly uncomfortable at having to explain the German's sexual preferences.
"I never realized Schuldich was…," Yohji began.
"He's not," Crawford said, cutting Yohji off before he could finish his sentence, "At least, not really." The American sighed and continued, "It's a little hard to explain, but suffice to say that Schuldich isn't strictly gay or strictly straight, at least not by conventional definitions. Schuldich likes whatever is pretty, whether it's man, woman … boy … girl … whatever." Crawford's face was turning a warm shade of pink, and he nervously ran his finger under the buttoned collar of his shirt and loosened his tie before he said, "Anyhow, you get the picture. For whatever reason, Schuldich thought Sergei was pretty, and he enticed the man into being his lover. At any rate, they … I don't know … connected on some, much deeper level, which is unusual for Schuldich, apparently. When Sergei was killed, Schuldich slowly started to go crazy, until he became totally, completely fixated on getting revenge against Fujimiya for Sergei's death. His telepathic abilities have, also gone slightly out of whack, maybe because he's so fixated on getting revenge, maybe because he was devastated by the loss … who knows. Suffice to say, he's extremely mentally unstable right now … and extremely dangerous."Yohji stared at Crawford, unsure for a moment of what he should say or how he should respond to the American's revelations. For his part, Yohji didn't really care whether Schuldich was straight, gay, bi, or whatever. The tall blonde had decided, quite a while back, that he was perfectly, gloriously straight, but, being the adventurous sort that he was, he had experimented a bit with "alternative relationships" before coming to that conclusion. Consequently, Yohji didn't really care about or take the time to dwell on other people's sexual preferences, but it was obvious Crawford was very, very uncomfortable with Schuldich's lifestyle choice, as evidenced by the man's bright pink face and nervous gestures during his explanation of Sergei's identity. Once he stopped to think about it, though, Yohji figured Crawford probably didn't particularly care that Schuldich had been involved in a gay relationship. The American was so up-tight that it was probably the idea of sex, period, that made him nervous and uncomfortable, no matter if it was straight or not. If the situation and subject matter of what they were discussing hadn't been so deadly serious, Yohji would have taken great pleasure in watching Crawford squirm around nervously, and the American's discomfort would have, probably, even solicited a laugh. As it was, though, Crawford's words only heightened Yohji's fear for Aya's safety. Schuldich had always been unstable, at best, but, if the German really had gone off the deep end, it seemed his chances of getting Aya back in one piece were getting slimmer by the minute.
"With all that said," Crawford said, finally managing to bring his embarrassment under control, as he broke into Yohji's thoughts, "I'm not particularly interested in helping you recover Fujimiya."
"Dammit!" Yohji hissed, slapping the table, hard, with his palm. It stung, but he ignored it. "Why the hell did you agree to this fucking meeting, then, you arrogant prick?"
"Don't misunderstand me," Crawford said, calmly, unfazed by Yohji's sudden outburst. "Just because I don't care what happens to Fujimiya doesn't mean we don't have a common interest." He pushed his glasses up higher onto the bridge of his nose as he continued, "You want your precious leader back. I want to retrieve my property. Thus, I believe we can work together."
"Retrieve your property?" Yohji asked, not sure he understood what Crawford meant by those words.
"Yes," the American replied calmly, as he took another sip from his coffee cup. "My property … Schuldich. He's gone rogue, you see. I can't get him to come in, and I need him back so that we can go through the process of … how shall I say it? … reconditioning him. I don't like the man, but he is a member of Schwarz, and, as an assassin, he's too valuable a commodity to leave out on the streets, unmonitored. He's dangerous, to himself and the public, in general, in the state he's in now, but, I think he's still too valuable to just dispose of. With the proper reconditioning, I believe we can still use him in Schwarz."
"Look," Yohji said, shaking his head. He didn't know why, but he was surprised at the callous, cold way Crawford spoke about his teammate. It was as if Schuldich was a dog, or even less, to the American. "I don't have any plans of turning Schuldich over to you, even if you help me get Aya back. I'd like to kill him, for what he's done, but, realistically, I have to give him to Kritiker, in exchange for letting Aya … and, I guess … me back into Weiss. Otherwise, we'll have to run from them for the rest of our lives, and I, for one, don't want to live like that. It is one of the few scenarios for my life that actually seems worse than the nightmare I live in now."
Crawford shrugged. "I don't have any problems with that. I never expected you to cooperate to the extent you'd just give Schuldich back to me. But, if he's in Kritiker's hands, it's easier for me to retrieve him. Saves me the effort of having to hunt him down and capture him myself."
Now it was Yohji's turn to shrug. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't understand Crawford or figure out the man's motives. This one time, though, he told himself not to question it too much. It seemed, at least for the immediate future, that Crawford felt their interests aligned, which would, probably, be enough to get Yohji what he wanted, which was Aya. The tall blonde had to admit that, once Aya was safe and back in Weiss, he didn't really care what happened to Schuldich, and, for all he was concerned, Kritiker could go fuck itself. So, if Schwarz breached Kritiker's security and managed to retake Schuldich, it really wasn't any of Yohji's concern.
"OK," Yohji said, shaking his head slightly. "You know where he is?"
"I … have an … idea … as to where he's hiding," Crawford said, hesitantly. He pulled a piece of paper from his inner pocket and handed it across the table to Yohji.
The tall blonde took the offered address and looked down at it, recognizing it as belonging to a deserted building in the warehouse district. He stood, shrugging into his coat, and said, "All right. Thanks."
As he started to leave, he paused. Something in Crawford's tone of voice made him uneasy, causing him to hesitate before walking away. He turned back toward the table and asked, holding up the address Crawford had given him, "You've seen something? Something about this?"
Crawford sighed, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, before he finally answered, "Just … be … careful, Kudou. This may not … it may not have the outcome you're … expecting."
Yohji's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he stared at Crawford, trying to read the man. Finally, he gave up and asked, "What … what did you see? My death?"
Crawford shook his head, no.
"Schuldich's death?" Yohji persisted.
Again, another negative head shake from the American.
Yohji's voice was shaking, and a feeling of dread filled him. His stomach flip-flopped like a dying fish as he asked, "Aya's?"
"It's only one possibility," Crawford said, softly. "The future doesn't work like that … it's not … set, but …" His voice trailed off, and he stared at the table top in front of him, obviously uncomfortable with this conversation, and, apparently, unsure why he had even taken the trouble to warn Yohji of the possible dangers and the undesirable future he'd foreseen. He had always had a certain amount of respect for Weiss' leader, so, maybe, it was because of that. Or, maybe, it was because Fujimiya seemed to be the glue that held Weiss together, and, no matter how much Crawford hated and envied them for their familial-type relationship, the fact that these four men could maintain their humanity in a completely inhumane business held out hope that, one day, he, too, could be human again. Whatever the reason, he felt the need to tell Kudou what he had seen, and Brad Crawford was not one to take these kinds of feelings lightly. He always followed his instinct, no matter where it might lead him.
"Did you see any other … possibilities?" Yohji asked, hesitantly. His voice was shaking slightly, and Crawford could tell the tall blonde was struggling to keep his emotions in check.
Crawford looked down at the table, and said, his voice barely audible, "No."
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence. Shounen-ai (implied)
Summary: Yohji and a critically injured Aya find themselves drummed out of Weiss and on the run from Kritiker. Against this backdrop, they must locate and retrieve something very precious to the man who betrayed Aya ... a man Aya still calls his friend, despite all that has passed between them. When their options run out, the boys have no choice but to undertake a foolhardy mission that will end up putting Aya at Schuldich's mercy. Will our kittens be able to extract themselves from this mess and return to Weiss? Or will Schuldich get his revenge, after all?
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Author's Note: Story #3 in the "Nowhere Man" trilogy. Story #1: Nowhere Man. Story #2: Betrayal
Chapter 12
Yohji entered the Kitty's Cup, pulling the door closed behind him with a clang of the bells attached to it. The warmth of the shop was a welcome relief from the chilly, damp wind outside, and the homey smells of roasting coffee and sizzling eggs and bacon that greeted him seemed to warm him from the inside, as well. He paused in the doorway for a moment, drinking in the smells and scanning the store's interior. The shop had only been open for about twenty minutes, so it wasn't very crowded. It didn't take long for Yohji to spot Bradley Crawford seated at the dark booth in the very back of the shop, the same booth from which Aya had disappeared what seemed like an eternity ago.
The tall blonde was still surprised at how quickly the past several days had flown by. Omi and Ken had, true to their word, accompanied him to the yacht. They had stayed with him up until this morning, when he had finally insisted they leave to return to the Koneko and Kritiker's fold before they risked being hunted, too. He didn't want to admit it, but he had been terribly grateful for their company. Omi had spent the last several days attempting to track Schuldich down through the computer, in the hopes of avoiding this meeting with Crawford, while he and Ken had followed up on various leads in town. Unfortunately, nothing solid had panned out, and, when it became obvious to Yohji that this game was far from over, and that he'd have to go through with the scheduled meeting, he had insisted his two younger teammates return home. He had already involved them much further than he had ever wanted to, but he thought Kritiker would probably cut them some slack for their unexplained absence. Considering that their team had, only recently, been slashed in half by circumstances beyond their control, Yohji figured Manx and Persia probably expected Ken and Omi to go a little off the deep end. He was counting on that, at any rate. When he got Aya back, he didn't want to have to explain to the redhead that Ken and Omi were now on the run with them, too. He knew it would make the swordsman furious, and, for his part, Yohji didn't want to face his friend's wrath. Aya could be pretty darn scary when he was really angry.
Yohji frowned briefly as he watched Crawford calmly reading his paper. He couldn't help but wonder if the man had intentionally chosen to sit in that particular booth, knowing it was the one where Aya and Schuldich had had their last meeting. Probably. After all, Crawford was Schwarz, and a precog, to boot, all of which added up to make him one of the craziest, most off-balance mother fuckers Yohji had ever met. Out of all of Schwarz, Crawford seemed the most "normal", from the outside looking in. But, during Weiss' association with Schwarz, Yohji had quickly decided the semblance of "normality" probably made Crawford the most dangerous out of all the Schwarz operatives. You were so busy looking out for the crazy Irish fucker or the sneering German bastard that you never noticed the "normal" American until Crawford was twisting the knife in your heart. Crawford might not, necessarily, be an enemy at all times, depending on where his own interests lay, but he was definitely not someone to ever consider an ally. Yohji just hoped his interests and Crawford's were, in this one thing, aligned enough that he could trust the man to lead him to Schuldich, and, hopefully, Aya. He knew he couldn't hope to get more than that from the man, and he didn't expect it. If Crawford's information, or visions, or whatever the hell they were, led him to Aya, it would be enough.
He crossed the floor slowly, shedding his coat as he walked. As he passed in front of the counter, he waved and shot a charming, crooked, boyish smile at the dark-haired, dark-eyed waitress who had so captivated him on his previous visit.
'What was her name, again?' he wondered, 'Oh, yeah, Kat … something.'
It didn't matter what the girl's name was. In his mind, she would always be "Lola" --- his little Lola of the whipped cream. Yohji smiled again, a small, half-grin to go along with the wanting and lust he knew shone from his eyes, as he, once again, thought of that girl, naked and covered with whipped cream … or chocolate sauce … or anything, for that matter --- just so long as it allowed him to run his tongue all over her perfect, firm body. Yohji sighed and chased the unbidden thoughts from his mind, using almost all the self-restraint he had. He didn't have time to pursue it now, but he fervently hoped that, once all this mess with Aya had settled down, she would call him, or he would find some other way to get her to warm his bed, at least for a few nights.
His mind still absently toying with thoughts of the lovely, young waitress, Yohji slid into the booth across from Brad Crawford, tossing his jacket to one side as he sat. Crawford was dressed in a dark, gray flannel business suit with a blue, linen shirt underneath, and a dark blue tie. Although he never looked up at the arrival of his companion, he shifted slightly as Yohji sat down, affording the tall blonde a glimpse of the dark-colored, patterned vest, gold pocket watch, and automatic pistol which the American wore under his suit coat. There was a matching, gray flannel overcoat hanging neatly on the hook at the end of the booth. Although he couldn't see them, Yohji was certain Crawford was wearing shiny, black lace-up wing tips and matching, dark grey socks.
Yohji couldn't suppress a smile as he thought of the contrasting picture he and Crawford must paint --- one man spotlessly, impeccably dressed in a beautiful, three-piece business suit and matching shoes, his dark hair slicked back neatly from his face, the other one wearing wrinkled jeans he'd had on for the last five days, an equally-wrinkled, slightly torn, slightly stained, cream-colored sweater, and heavy, scuffed, leather boots, his tangled hair drawn into a low, messy ponytail at the nape of his neck. Yohji figured anyone who saw them meeting would probably think he was Crawford's drug connection or something like that. He didn't know why, but the thought of the up-tight, always-in-control Schwarz leader using drugs struck him as incredibly funny, probably because it was just so damn improbable.
He hadn't ever seen or encountered Crawford when the man wasn't impeccably, neatly dressed, and, in fact, Yohji had long entertained the notion that the man was a dyed-in-the-wool neat freak, a factor, which, in his mind, signaled just how mentally unstable the American Schwarz operative was. For his part, Yohji had always been a leave-your-clothes-where-they-land kind of guy, so Brad Crawford's apparently super-neatnik tendencies struck him, not as odd, but as downright sick. Sure, they all teased Aya about being a neat freak, because the redhead was constantly picking up after them in the apartment, re-organizing the shop, or something like that. But, with Aya, it seemed more like a coping mechanism --- a way to assert control over a life that, too often, seemed to tilt crazily and completely out of control and run along on its own whim or the whims of others who treated you like nothing more than a pawn in their game. If Aya had been like Crawford, Yohji knew he would have killed the redhead a long time ago --- or Omi or Ken would have. Nope, there wasn't any comparison between the two. Aya was just super-organized. Crawford was sick. That was all there was to it.
Thoughts of his missing friend seemed to draw Yohji from his reverie, and he looked up, wondering exactly how he had managed to go down the mental rabbit trail of comparing Aya and Crawford, to find the American looking at him over the edge of his paper. Dark blue eyes bored into jade green ones for a long, silent moment, as if Crawford was searching for some kind of revelation or universal truth. It was enough to make Yohji squirm, at which point Crawford smirked, as if that was the reaction he had been waiting for from the tall blonde, all along. Yohji couldn't suppress a sudden flash of hatred and rage at the sight of Crawford's smug, little smirk. For about the millionth time since he had contacted the American, he thought that he probably was making the biggest mistake of his life --- and, possibly, Aya's, too --- by meeting with this man.
"Pretty girl," Crawford commented, as he folded his newspaper, revealing, for the first time, the half-full coffee cup it had previously hidden.
"Yeah," Yohji replied. He watched Crawford fold the paper in half, once, and then, in half again. "Don't suppose you've seen any visions involving say … me and her? Or, if you had, don't suppose you'd like to share … you know, man-to-man? Help out a fellow guy and all?"
Crawford sighed as he placed the paper onto the table in front of his coffee cup. He started to pick up the cup, but, noticing that the paper was crooked, he frowned and, instead, straightened it out, squinting slightly in an effort to assure it was perfectly, symmetrically aligned with the edge of the table and the cup's saucer. Once that was done, he reached again for the cup, slowly raising it to his lips to take a quiet sip.
"I'm sure all will reveal itself … in due time," he said, replacing the cup on its saucer with a small clink of china hitting against china.
He stared, silently, at the table top in between his paper and Yohji's hands for several seconds before running his hand through slicked-back dark hair, which, despite the sudden attention, remained, as always, perfectly in place. Then, he squirmed around briefly on the bench before reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve two items: a small cloth and a photograph. He tossed the photograph onto the table, next to Yohji's hand. Then, he removed his glasses, and began to clean them with the cloth.
"I want to make clear, straight away, that taking Fujimiya wasn't my idea. I wasn't behind it, and it didn't have anything to do with Schwarz," Crawford commented, without looking at Yohji. He never looked away from his glasses, which he continued to rub with the cloth, despite the fact that they were already spotless.
"So? Then why didn't you stop it?" Yohji asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
Crawford sighed again, and, finally looked at Yohji. The tall blonde was surprised to see something that seemed, almost, to resemble regret or sorrow float across the man's eyes for an instant. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the emotion was gone.
"I tried," he said, looking steadily at Yohji with dark blue eyes that no longer betrayed any emotion. "But, as you can see, I wasn't able to convince Schuldich to give up this foolish plan of his."
"But, you're the leader," Yohji insisted. "You should have done something to stop him."
"But you're the leader," Crawford parroted back in a whining-mocking tone, a scowl on his face. "That's funny, really funny. I've always figured that Fujimiya, and, maybe, that Tsukiyono kid were the only real brains in your outfit, but are you really that dense? In case you haven't figured it out, Sherlock, Schwarz doesn't exactly operate the same way Weiss does. I'm not the leader of anything, other than, perhaps, a flea circus full of madmen that, occasionally, resembles an assassin troupe. You people in Weiss have, somehow, come to regard each other as a sort of make-shift family or something. It's pathetic, and it's why we all hate you. Maybe it's jealousy because you people, somehow, manage to cling to your humanity by clinging to each other, despite the fact that you kill, just as we do. I don't know. At any rate, Schwarz isn't like that. We're just a bunch of people thrown together by some crazy, outside organization. We don't even like each other. Only the fear of the organization's retaliation keeps us from killing each other off. So, the idea that I could talk Schuldich out of anything he wanted to do, or prevent him from doing anything he wanted to do, short of appealing to his own self interest, is ludicrous. And, in this instance, I wasn't able to convince him that taking Fujimiya was not in his best interests. He's a little off balance lately." Crawford paused, as if thinking over what he had just said, and added, "Well, more off balance than normal, that is."
When it became obvious that Yohji was at a loss for words, Crawford nodded toward the photograph he'd tossed across the table. He took a sip of coffee, and asked, around the cup, "Recognize him?"
Yohji picked up the picture. It showed a tall man in a gray business suit, much like the one Crawford was wearing today, black shoes, and black leather gloves. The man, who seemed around Yohji's age, had bleached-blonde hair cropped in a buzz cut. Yohji couldn't see his eyes, because he was wearing sunglasses, but he was brandishing a semi-automatic rifle in one hand, making a peace sign with the other, and smiling at the camera. Yohji still didn't recognize him, but he knew it was one of the men Aya had killed during that mission, several months ago, when they had infiltrated and broken up a gambling and white slavery ring. He knew it was the same man Aya had seen in Schuldich's thoughts when the German had attacked him at the Koneko. With a shaking hand, Yohji flipped the photograph over to read the inscription on the back: "To My Schu: Bad Ass forever. Love, Sergei".
Yohji's eyes narrowed at the inscription. He remembered what Aya had told him about Schuldich being crazed with some kind of strong emotion, like rage or grief. Now, looking at the photograph of the man Aya had killed and reading the inscription on the back of the picture, Yohji's mind was finally putting two and two together to come up with four. Everything was finally starting to fall into place, and, in a crazy, out-of-kilter way, it all made sense.
"Yeah," Yohji replied, sliding the photo back across the table to Crawford. "Aya … Aya killed him, like, seven, eight months ago, I think. Who is … was he?"
Crawford stopped the photograph's crazy slide by placing his hand, flat, palm-down, on top of it just before it fell off the side of the table. He glanced at the picture briefly, before replacing it in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Before answering Yohji's question, Crawford signaled the waitress for a refill on his coffee. He and Yohji sat, silently staring at each other, as she came over and re-filled his cup.
"You want anything?" she asked Yohji as she paused, uncertainly near the table.
He shook his head. She shrugged and walked back to the front counter.
"Sergei," Crawford said, as he added cream and sugar to his coffee and stirred it, almost absent-mindedly. The clinking sound of the spoon hitting against the cup's side seemed almost deafeningly loud in the sudden, heavy hush that had descended over their table. When Crawford continued, the sudden intrusion of his voice into that little, silent space almost made Yohji jump.
"He was one of Schwarz's operatives, from Russia. He and Schuldich were … close … were … lovers," Crawford continued, seemingly uncomfortable at having to explain the German's sexual preferences.
"I never realized Schuldich was…," Yohji began.
"He's not," Crawford said, cutting Yohji off before he could finish his sentence, "At least, not really." The American sighed and continued, "It's a little hard to explain, but suffice to say that Schuldich isn't strictly gay or strictly straight, at least not by conventional definitions. Schuldich likes whatever is pretty, whether it's man, woman … boy … girl … whatever." Crawford's face was turning a warm shade of pink, and he nervously ran his finger under the buttoned collar of his shirt and loosened his tie before he said, "Anyhow, you get the picture. For whatever reason, Schuldich thought Sergei was pretty, and he enticed the man into being his lover. At any rate, they … I don't know … connected on some, much deeper level, which is unusual for Schuldich, apparently. When Sergei was killed, Schuldich slowly started to go crazy, until he became totally, completely fixated on getting revenge against Fujimiya for Sergei's death. His telepathic abilities have, also gone slightly out of whack, maybe because he's so fixated on getting revenge, maybe because he was devastated by the loss … who knows. Suffice to say, he's extremely mentally unstable right now … and extremely dangerous."Yohji stared at Crawford, unsure for a moment of what he should say or how he should respond to the American's revelations. For his part, Yohji didn't really care whether Schuldich was straight, gay, bi, or whatever. The tall blonde had decided, quite a while back, that he was perfectly, gloriously straight, but, being the adventurous sort that he was, he had experimented a bit with "alternative relationships" before coming to that conclusion. Consequently, Yohji didn't really care about or take the time to dwell on other people's sexual preferences, but it was obvious Crawford was very, very uncomfortable with Schuldich's lifestyle choice, as evidenced by the man's bright pink face and nervous gestures during his explanation of Sergei's identity. Once he stopped to think about it, though, Yohji figured Crawford probably didn't particularly care that Schuldich had been involved in a gay relationship. The American was so up-tight that it was probably the idea of sex, period, that made him nervous and uncomfortable, no matter if it was straight or not. If the situation and subject matter of what they were discussing hadn't been so deadly serious, Yohji would have taken great pleasure in watching Crawford squirm around nervously, and the American's discomfort would have, probably, even solicited a laugh. As it was, though, Crawford's words only heightened Yohji's fear for Aya's safety. Schuldich had always been unstable, at best, but, if the German really had gone off the deep end, it seemed his chances of getting Aya back in one piece were getting slimmer by the minute.
"With all that said," Crawford said, finally managing to bring his embarrassment under control, as he broke into Yohji's thoughts, "I'm not particularly interested in helping you recover Fujimiya."
"Dammit!" Yohji hissed, slapping the table, hard, with his palm. It stung, but he ignored it. "Why the hell did you agree to this fucking meeting, then, you arrogant prick?"
"Don't misunderstand me," Crawford said, calmly, unfazed by Yohji's sudden outburst. "Just because I don't care what happens to Fujimiya doesn't mean we don't have a common interest." He pushed his glasses up higher onto the bridge of his nose as he continued, "You want your precious leader back. I want to retrieve my property. Thus, I believe we can work together."
"Retrieve your property?" Yohji asked, not sure he understood what Crawford meant by those words.
"Yes," the American replied calmly, as he took another sip from his coffee cup. "My property … Schuldich. He's gone rogue, you see. I can't get him to come in, and I need him back so that we can go through the process of … how shall I say it? … reconditioning him. I don't like the man, but he is a member of Schwarz, and, as an assassin, he's too valuable a commodity to leave out on the streets, unmonitored. He's dangerous, to himself and the public, in general, in the state he's in now, but, I think he's still too valuable to just dispose of. With the proper reconditioning, I believe we can still use him in Schwarz."
"Look," Yohji said, shaking his head. He didn't know why, but he was surprised at the callous, cold way Crawford spoke about his teammate. It was as if Schuldich was a dog, or even less, to the American. "I don't have any plans of turning Schuldich over to you, even if you help me get Aya back. I'd like to kill him, for what he's done, but, realistically, I have to give him to Kritiker, in exchange for letting Aya … and, I guess … me back into Weiss. Otherwise, we'll have to run from them for the rest of our lives, and I, for one, don't want to live like that. It is one of the few scenarios for my life that actually seems worse than the nightmare I live in now."
Crawford shrugged. "I don't have any problems with that. I never expected you to cooperate to the extent you'd just give Schuldich back to me. But, if he's in Kritiker's hands, it's easier for me to retrieve him. Saves me the effort of having to hunt him down and capture him myself."
Now it was Yohji's turn to shrug. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't understand Crawford or figure out the man's motives. This one time, though, he told himself not to question it too much. It seemed, at least for the immediate future, that Crawford felt their interests aligned, which would, probably, be enough to get Yohji what he wanted, which was Aya. The tall blonde had to admit that, once Aya was safe and back in Weiss, he didn't really care what happened to Schuldich, and, for all he was concerned, Kritiker could go fuck itself. So, if Schwarz breached Kritiker's security and managed to retake Schuldich, it really wasn't any of Yohji's concern.
"OK," Yohji said, shaking his head slightly. "You know where he is?"
"I … have an … idea … as to where he's hiding," Crawford said, hesitantly. He pulled a piece of paper from his inner pocket and handed it across the table to Yohji.
The tall blonde took the offered address and looked down at it, recognizing it as belonging to a deserted building in the warehouse district. He stood, shrugging into his coat, and said, "All right. Thanks."
As he started to leave, he paused. Something in Crawford's tone of voice made him uneasy, causing him to hesitate before walking away. He turned back toward the table and asked, holding up the address Crawford had given him, "You've seen something? Something about this?"
Crawford sighed, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, before he finally answered, "Just … be … careful, Kudou. This may not … it may not have the outcome you're … expecting."
Yohji's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he stared at Crawford, trying to read the man. Finally, he gave up and asked, "What … what did you see? My death?"
Crawford shook his head, no.
"Schuldich's death?" Yohji persisted.
Again, another negative head shake from the American.
Yohji's voice was shaking, and a feeling of dread filled him. His stomach flip-flopped like a dying fish as he asked, "Aya's?"
"It's only one possibility," Crawford said, softly. "The future doesn't work like that … it's not … set, but …" His voice trailed off, and he stared at the table top in front of him, obviously uncomfortable with this conversation, and, apparently, unsure why he had even taken the trouble to warn Yohji of the possible dangers and the undesirable future he'd foreseen. He had always had a certain amount of respect for Weiss' leader, so, maybe, it was because of that. Or, maybe, it was because Fujimiya seemed to be the glue that held Weiss together, and, no matter how much Crawford hated and envied them for their familial-type relationship, the fact that these four men could maintain their humanity in a completely inhumane business held out hope that, one day, he, too, could be human again. Whatever the reason, he felt the need to tell Kudou what he had seen, and Brad Crawford was not one to take these kinds of feelings lightly. He always followed his instinct, no matter where it might lead him.
"Did you see any other … possibilities?" Yohji asked, hesitantly. His voice was shaking slightly, and Crawford could tell the tall blonde was struggling to keep his emotions in check.
Crawford looked down at the table, and said, his voice barely audible, "No."