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| December 23, 1894 "Crawford, where are you?" The shout echoed through the sleeping house as Schuldich slammed the door closed behind him and mentally noted that he'd have to tell the homeowner of the lock he'd just broken while trying to get in. It was well after midnight now as he trudged through the empty hallways, and to be honest, he didn't care if he woke the whole house with his yelling. His perennial ill humour was flaring full force at having to find his own way back after Crawford had left him behind at the theatre and nothing - absolutely nothing - was going to snap him out of it. There was only so much responsibility a defunct telepath like him could take before snapping. Deciding this night to check the 'Orgy' room first, he swiftly took the two turns that led him to the infamous chamber ... only to stop short at the open doorway. Shit. He was angry, he reminded himself. He was furious at Crawford for accepting that challenge from Linden and effectively destroying all the character building work he'd done this past week. He was pissed off at being abandoned in the theatre. He was ... But the solitary figure sitting on the couch beside the dying embers of the fire disturbed him in ways he'd never felt before. Strands of dark hair falling in disarray across his forehead and a fragile mask barely concealing the soul-consuming desolation on his face, Brad Crawford looked nothing like the man who had coldly faced down a homicidal drunkard a few hours ago. In fact, he looked like a little boy who had lost everything dear to him. Slowly, as if afraid he'd interrupt the brooding silence of the room, Schuldich approached. The American didn't even acknowledge his presence as he sat down beside him, preferring to concentrate on the burning orange-grey ashes that still danced in the fireplace. Being this close, Schuldich could see that Crawford had discarded his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, thereby revealing the enticing definition of his collarbone and the slight bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. Suddenly, the uncomfortably tight collar around the telepath's throat seemed to constrict even more as his body rose a few degrees in temperature. Why did the American's mussed appearance make him feel so ... so odd? It was the incongruity of the man sitting next to him, Schuldich reasoned. Yes, that was it. Crawford was always impeccable, in manners and speech as well as in image. This rumpled human was not the Crawford he had come to know: from the disheveled hair to the wrinkled clothes, this Crawford did not come close to the one he had fucked countless times. And yet ... To Schuldich, the man felt so familiar, like he was Schwarz's Crawford, like he'd been a part of his own life for what seemed like an eternity. Damn, where had that so-sweet-you-could-gag remark come from? Schuldich looked away from the object of his fascination in hopes of quelling the totally sappy sentiment that had popped into his head. He absentmindedly promised himself to do something manly like drink beer and belch while watching some vicious, bone-crushing sport when he got home. All these mushy, romantic ideas couldn't be good for him. Still, silence hung between them like a thick blanket, the serenity of the moment both comfortable and natural in a mutual agreement unconsciously induced by the two men. Schuldich wanted to say something - anything, in fact, considering the anger he'd felt before entering this room - but was hesitant to break through the calm that each had received from the other's presence. And then, his gaze fell on the small, gold box sitting beside his companion. A little larger than his hand, the opened box laid innocently on the armrest, its contents obviously rifled through. Schuldich chuckled inwardly, and smiled slightly as he peered into the box. "Chocolates, Crawford?" he inquired softly, incredulous humour sparkling in his verdant eyes. 'Well, at least he's refrained from the single malt scotch,' another voice inside his head said. Instead of responding, the American picked up the box and offered Schuldich a piece. The confection ensconced inside the tissue-like paper didn't appear like the chocolates he was used to: instead of the fancy, decorated and proportional pieces one would find, the ones in the box were thinly sliced and rather delicate looking. Automatically, the telepath took a piece and popped it into his mouth. Far be it for him to deny free food. "Ugh, it's bitter," he mumbled, nose wrinkling at the non-existent sweetness on his tongue. Crawford's lips tilted up briefly at the other man's reaction. "It's dark chocolate. It's supposed to be bitter." Schuldich swallowed. "I don't like it." The American gave him a quick glance before returning the box back to its original perch, his eyes not leaving the gold container as he spoke. "Sarah gave all the servants a box last year for Christmas and let them have a few days off. I thought I'd do the same this year but I must have miscalculated the number because there were a few boxes left over. I was never good at this stuff. She was good at it though ..." His voice trailed off, a hint of wistfulness tingeing its resonance, and Schuldich wasn't too sure how to respond. "So with the servants off, you'll be alone for the next few days?" Crawford nodded once, his gaze returning to the dying heat of the fireplace. "But it's Christmas," the German stated as if it was an accusation. He knew that it was no excuse, that the over-commercialized holiday was just another day of the year, but even he had the rest of Schwarz to annoy around this time in season. "Is that supposed to be important? I've survived this long alone, so this won't be any different." "Crawford ..." And it was then that Schuldich truly saw - neither with telepathy nor through psychic probing, but simply saw - the man before him. Loneliness, despair, and desolation were etched on every line of Crawford's face, their presence enhanced tenfold by the underlying tiredness that lingered in his mysterious eyes. But the man was stubborn. Schuldich gave him that much. He hid everything so well with that stone-faced mask of his, the disregard and denial of his true feelings probably the only thing that kept him going. Reacting on impulse, Schuldich stood, and grabbed the idle box along with one of the American's arms. "Let's go." Crawford gave him a puzzled look as he stood and let the telepath drag him out of the room. "Where?" The younger man didn't answer. He just continued to drag his quarry behind him, up the stairs and eventually down the hallway into the master bedroom. "Schulidich, what are you -?" Crawford never had the chance to finish. Before another word could be uttered, the telepath's mouth was on his - persistent, demanding ... and consuming. The initiator didn't know why he was doing this. Somehow, a hidden intuition told him that he need to do this ... and that Crawford needed this. He felt the taller man tense at his touch and try to pull away, but he wouldn't let him. Wrapping the arm that wasn't holding the chocolates around his partner's neck, Schulidich pulled him closer, eliminating all avenues of escape. 'Not this time, Crawford,' he said silently. 'You can struggle and hit all you want but that doesn't erase the fact that you need this as much as I do.' He sensually worked his magic on the other man's lips, kneading and teasing with a leashed-in passion that was making him as intoxicated as he was dizzy. And then, reluctantly, the stiff muscles pressed against him began to relax as Crawford started to respond, mouth moving hungrily on his. He knew he had to take it slow, the violent reactions from the previous times he'd done this coming to the forefront of his mind. But it was sheer torture to restrain himself from pushing the dark-haired devil onto the bed, and ripping off all the layers of material between them, especially when he felt an erotic hardness brush up against his upper thigh as the American's arm wrapped around his lower back to pull him closer. Involuntarily, a low moan escaped his throat, its satisfied sound fueling Crawford's hunger and fervor even more. Schuldich reacted as he had always reacted in situations like these - with an equal amount of, if not more, hunger and fervor. And yet, through the moist kisses and the blinding passion, he remembered his original plan for bringing Crawford up here. With no small amount of willpower, he pried himself away from the heated contact, a spurt of triumph darting through him at the other man's quiet cry of protest. "What are you doing?" the American asked breathlessly and watched the telepath walk over to the dresser. Had Schuldich turned to look at his face, he would have seen the uncharacteristic mixture of need and confusion written on the older man's expression. But he didn't. Nor did he answer the question. Instead, he placed the box he had been holding on top of the dresser, pulled out one of its drawers, and started rifling through its contents. Before long, he came away victorious with one of Crawford's dove-grey cravats and the red ribbon he'd stolen from that party a few days ago. "Schuldich, what are you doing?" Crawford asked again, his pleasure-glazed eyes following his companion's wicked smile and seductive movements as he neared. "Trust me," the younger man whispered as he wrapped his arms around the American's neck to continue where they had left off. "I wouldn't trust you if - " Again, his words were cut off by the aggressive German's mouth - and what a heady interruption it was. This time, it was Crawford who groaned as a searing hot sensation coursed through his veins at every one of the redheaded man's caresses. After a sufficiently extended period of contact, Schuldich pulled away slightly so they could both regain their breaths. Wicked gleam still shining in his eyes, he said again, "Trust me." Wordlessly, Crawford nodded, which was enough consent for the telepath to resume his game. He smiled at the American's easy acquiescence, and advanced, seductively and subtly maneuvering the older man toward the bed. As engrossed as Crawford was with the attentions Schuldich lavished on him, he didn't sense the back of his legs hit the foot of his bed. Nor did he notice falling helplessly onto it with Schuldich landing on top of him. The feel of his annoying houseguest's wet lips against his own was enough to drive him insane. He was vaguely aware of his shirt buttons being undone, of the hand that ran through his dark locks, and of the sensuous fingers that caressed the sensitive skin of his now-exposed chest. He knew he was hard: he could feel his erection straining against the confining material of his trousers, but as he moved to divest himself of the restricting material, Schuldich grabbed his wrists and yanked them above his head. "Schu -!" "Trust me," the other man rasped, the litany of those two words being repeated over and over in his head like a sacred mantra. And with that, Schuldich continued to seduce, trailing his warm, arousing mouth over the expanse of his torso and then returning again to reclaim his partner's lips. He felt the American buck slightly at his motions, pushing his hips upwards and thrusting his hard length against him. The German almost gave up his whole game right there, but with an unknown source of renewed resolve, he continued with his plan. Crawford didn't know how it had happened, so blinded was he by the expert ministrations of the other man, but the next window of awareness that hit him found his eyes blindfolded and his arms tied to the bedpost. He pulled automatically at his restraints. "What the - " "Crawford, trust me," he heard the other man say lowly and soothingly. A sudden dip in the bed told him he'd been abandoned but then, he felt something glide along his lips, playfully seeking entrance inside. Parting them just a little, he allowed whatever it was in, and was slightly surprised at the bittersweet taste of chocolate on his tongue. He sucked in the rest of the piece then, only to find Schuldich's mouth on the other end. He broke the candy with a gentle snap and continued to devour the remnants of the confection on the lips poised above him, eagerly darting out his tongue to soak in a sweetness that was not from the chocolate. Schuldich complied easily enough with his captive's demands, and opened his mouth to taste a bit of Crawford himself - all dark chocolate and heady alcohol with a hint of mint. They teased and taunted each other, jousting and asserting for dominance, but after a few minutes, Schuldich pulled away and started to trail his attentions down along the vulnerable underside of his partner's jaw, then his neck, and then his bared chest. He had always loved the muscle definition of Crawford's pectorals, not overly bulky but not imperceptible either, and right now, with the man lying helplessly underneath him, he had a chance to admire them even more. He noticed the American's head tilt to one side, as if trying to sense what he was up to through the cravat-turned-blindfold over his eyes. Schuldich smiled devilishly at the action. 'A little anxious, aren't we, Crawford?,' he said mentally. Satisfied with the short delay, he lowered his head and took one of the man's nipples in his mouth, slowly laving circles around the puckered flesh with his tongue until the body beneath him writhed at the riot of sensations that must have been coursing through its blood. Finishing his ministrations on one, he nipped the nub gently with his teeth and moved to lavish the same attention on the other, all the while soaking in the gasps and groans that came from Crawford's throat. And through it all, he heard the bed frame rattle as the bound man struggled to free his arms from the red, silk ribbon. He smirked evilly at the sound. God, how he had missed this. Finally deciding that he'd paid enough homage to the struggling man's upper torso, he decided to move lower. He placed a string of fluttering kisses over the lightly muscled abdomen and continued to the waistband of the man's black trousers. The pants themselves were made short work of as he quickly yanked them off and freed Crawford from the confining material. The turgid erection stood up boldly from the nest of dark curls, and Schuldich didn't hesitate as he took it into his mouth, alternatively sucking and gliding his tongue along the velvet-on-steel feel of his partner's penis. In doing so, he became uncomfortably aware of his own erection straining against his pants, but refrained from rushing the moment. Crawford arched his back, unconsciously begging for more even with the absence of his sight. The mind-numbing sensations that danced along his skin, the arousing smell of sweat and sex in the air, and the lingering taste of chocolate and Schuldich on his tongue were enhanced a thousand fold without the use of his eyes. But the magic the other man was performing with his mouth put that all to shame and was almost enough to drive him over the edge. He could hear his breathing turn erratic as a dam suddenly burst inside him, all his pent-up anticipation and energy reaching one orgasmic crescendo. Schuldich felt the stream of warm fluid ejaculate inside his mouth and swallowed reflexively. His ego soared at the muffled scream-sigh that accompanied Crawford's release but they were still far from finished. He removed himself from the now-softening member and pushed up so he could stare at his partner's beautiful face. The older man's chest was heaving from the recent exertion as he tried to bring his breathing under control and again, he tilted his head to one side in an attempt to sense what his partner was up to. Taking pity on the man, Schuldich reach over and slide the makeshift blindfold off. "Fuck it all to 'ell," Crawford breathed out as he stared disbelievingly at the German. The dark-haired man wasn't aware of his slip but Schuldich chuckled quietly at it. "Just wait until Farfarello learns that you two share the same ancestors." Schuldich ignored his bedmate's puzzled expression at his words and proceeded to untie the ribbon around Crawford's wrists. "What are you doing?" the man asked as he leaned over and placed a kiss on the corner of the telepath's mouth. "Getting these off," Schuldich grunted as he loosened the knot. "I want to use them …" "You want to use ..." The American's voice died off as realization set in. With an unexpected, yet seductive, smile, he moved his bound hands to help his lover and said, "Red looks much better on you anyways." (***) "So this really is your natural colour," Crawford said lazily as he absently played with a lock of Schuldich's hair. The man in question raised his head from where he'd been resting it on the American's shoulder. They had been lying in bed together for over fifteen minutes after what - to Schuldich - had been an episode of mind-blowing sex and all the other man could say had to do with whether or not he was a natural redhead. He should have been insulted, affronted, maybe even a little hurt ... but he wasn't. "What? You didn't think I was telling the truth? Had to see me naked to believe me?" he returned teasingly and put his head back to where it had been before. A deep rumble vibrated against his ear at Crawford's chuckle, an almost melodic sound that he surprisingly relished. "So are you ever going to tell me who you are?" Schuldich should have been surprised at that question being thrown at him all of a sudden, but still basking in the afterglow of a post-climatic bliss, he wasn't. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "You won't know that unless you tell me," came the rational response. A sigh escaped the telepath's mouth. "Would you believe that I was your lover from the future and that I was sent back to reform you so we could live happily ever after?" The explanation sounded farfetched even to his own ears so he could hazard a guess as to what Crawford was thinking. "You're right, I don't believe you. Maybe I should commit you to the nearest sanitarium just to be safe." "Try and I'll tie you up again," Schuldich replied in a deadpan voice. Crawford chuckled quietly at that and once more, he felt the low rumble against his cheek. He liked it here, liked the warmth, the security ... and the rightness of it all. It would have to end some time, he knew that, but he didn't want it to yet, not any time soon at least. In an effort to keep the conversation going, Schuldich gently traced the scar he'd seen earlier on the American's hip. "How did you get this?" he inquired. "And all these other smaller ones, for that matter." Crawford was silent for so long that he was afraid he'd asked the wrong thing. Then, "I used to fight." Schuldich waited patiently for an explanation. And he got one. "I needed money when I was younger. I wanted to be rich so badly back then, and I knew how to make the money with the right investments, but first, I needed something to start with. Excess on ambition but short on capital was how I saw it. So to make the startup capital, I fought. Nothing big at first. Just a few matches in emptied warehouses. But soon, that changed to bigger venues. If I won, I got a share of the winnings, and if I lost, I got nothing. 'The Irish Kid', they used to call me. I had made quite a name for myself until one day, I didn't throw a match like they asked, and was attacked." "And that's how you got the scar," Schuldich supplied softly. Crawford nodded. "They waited for me to leave, and then, five guys came at me all at once. I did a pretty good job defending myself, but I didn't know one of them had a knife. It took me almost a year to learn how to walk without a limp." Schuldich involuntarily pressed himself closer to the other man, his mind unknowing of why his body needed to reassure itself of his lover's presence but accepting the action nonetheless. "After that, I had to find some other way to earn the money that I lusted after so much." Crawford stopped, his voice beginning to sound uncertain. But when Schuldich didn't say anything, he continued. "Back in the neighbourhood where I used to live, you could sell almost anything for a price ... even yourself ... " The telepath wound his arms around the older man just then, the movement unbidden and unconscious, but also unquestioned. "And so, I did," Crawford finished. "I saved up the money that I needed over the next few years, got myself out of that hellhole, and have never looked back." Schuldich didn't say anything, finally understanding the American's violent reactions toward him whenever he'd gotten physically close to the man. How Crawford must have hated him for reminding him of that time in his life. They lay there in silence for the next few minutes, each enjoying the other's reassuring presence and warmth. As far back as he could remember, Schuldich couldn't recall he and Crawford ever simply talking and cuddling after sex. Usually, it was do it, enjoy it and good night. He like it this way and promised himself to do it more often. "Crawford?" "Hmm?" "Why did you let me stay? Why didn't you kick me out?" The older man paused, as if needing time to think of an answer. "Because you kept the silence away," he finally said. "Because this house used to be full of her voice and laughter, and now it's just empty. With you here, it ... it doesn't seem as empty anymore." Schuldich didn't need to ask to know who 'her' was. "Linden's not the only one who remembers her death night after night. I do too, but I try to forget it. I don't need her ruining my life as well ... " Yet, the conviction in that sentence was almost non-existent, although the telepath thought it wise not to comment on it. He also wanted to say that going out and getting drunk every night wasn't fixing anything, but that was something Crawford would have to discover on his own. Besides, who was he to spout something so insightful? He was just some selfish, homicidal megalomaniac who had a penchant for sex with a certain dark-haired American. He wasn't qualified to give advice. Still ... he should say something, he thought sleepily and yawned. But what? "Are you going then, Crawford? To this duel?" he mumbled, fatigue now beginning to set in. "You're not going, right?" His bed partner didn't respond, but he felt himself being held tighter, causing him to relax even more in his lover's arms. The comfort, the warmth, and the security soon drowned out all rational thought in his head, and as he drifted off to sleep, it never occurred to him that he didn't get an answer. (***) /** "Brad, please, don't go," she pleaded, her voice breaking at the end of her words. "Why, Sarah? Afraid you're going to lose your lover?" The spite in Crawford's accusation couldn't be missed. "Afraid you'll have no one to warm your bed now? Afraid that you'll be forced to live with the street trash you married?" When she didn't say anything, he turned and began to walk away, his hollow steps echoing on the marble-tiled floor. "No, wait. Please, Brad, it's not what you think." She tried to stop him, tried to keep the desperation from her voice, and tried to sound rational. But it was so hard … why was it always so hard for her? His mocking laughter floated to her ears. "Not what I think? What do you take me for, an idiot? I may have come from the streets, Sarah, but I have eyes. Do you think I don't know how you look at me sometimes? Or how you look at him?" His tone was vicious, but the hidden accusation that belied it almost caused her to scream. "I gave you everything I had, and everything you could ever want, oh-darling-wife. I was blind to think that it would be enough for someone like you." With that, he walked away, the sound of the slamming door reverberating through the empty foyer like a death knell. And it was then that she finally found her voice, broken and thick with tears. "No, Brad, please don't go. I never ...I never slept with him. I was scared ... so scared of what you were doing to me ... and James was so familiar ..." But her confession served no purpose now, not standing there alone when her husband had run off to kill her supposed lover. No, there had to be a way to stop this, to end this insanity that had become her life. Resolved, she picked up her skirts and chased after Crawford. She didn't know what she was going to do when she found him. She just knew she had to do something. Closing the door behind her with a click, she began to run, all the while praying that she wouldn't be too late ... **/ (***) Schuldich jolted out of bed with a start, breath uneven and heartbeat out of control. Disorientation muddled his senses at first and made his surroundings foreign and unknown. But then, slowly, as the fog of sleep began to lift, the events of the previous night drifted back to him: the ribbon, the cravat, the chocolates, the seduction ... and Crawford. Crawford. Shit! Seeing that he was alone, Schuldich quickly looked around for his clothes, eyes traveling over the mess he and his lover had made the night before. It couldn't be past dawn yet, he noted as he pushed the covers off and exposed his bare skin to the frigid air. But Crawford was gone, and since this was the man's bedroom, it could only mean he'd left for that stupid duel. 'Calm down,' he told himself. 'He could be downstairs getting a drink or something like that.' Even as he made up the excuse, he knew he was lying to himself. "That fucking bastard," he grunted as he angrily pulled on his wrinkled pants. "After everything I did for him ..." He didn't give much thought to his appearance as he struggled into his shirt, grabbed his coat and darted out of the room. Secretly glad there were no servants to see him in his frantic state, he slid down the stair banister, and soon found himself racing out of the house. The predawn darkness hung heavy in the velvet sky, its inky fabric gloriously streaked with tendrils of the imminent dawn, but the whole scene went unnoticed by the redheaded figure making his way down the empty, lamp-lit streets. Schuldich didn't know where he was going ... and yet, it felt like he did, his feet having traversed these streets before in some distant, long-forgotten memory. And so, he let that unknown force lead him, instinctively trusting it and relying on it. Breaths misting in the winter chill and legs moving as fast as they could, she ran ... no, he ran ... she couldn't let the man she loved die ... never ... he wouldn't ... no, she wouldn't let him die ... Schuldich had an ominous feeling as he approached a park he'd never seen before that the next few moments of his life would play out like one of those slow-motion scenes from some overdramatic love story. He had no control over his body as he rushed toward the two familiar figures in the distance, standing a little over ten feet away from each other. He let out a soundless shout when he saw Crawford point his gun skyward and delope. And he watched mortified as Linden refused to honorably follow suit and aimed his own gun at the dark-haired American. Time came to a standstill then as Schuldich ran between the two men, body moving of its own accord as if guided by some invisible hand. He briefly recognized the flicker of horror that flashed onto Crawford's face at his interference, but it was so fleeting that he wasn't too sure if it was ever that at all. And then ... And then, Linden shot. (***) Present ... Nagi walked into chaos the moment he entered the room. There were doctors and nurses scurrying about, a flurry of white rushing and shouting for this and that. Then, there was Crawford, a man who looked like he'd walked through the fires of Hell as he violently shook the insensate patient on the bed. And finally, the young telekinetic noticed what had brought about all this mayhem: a piercing and condemning sound that could easily drowned out all the noise. Flatline. Eyes wide with worry, he heard a doctor yell for a crash cart, and watched with an untimely fascination as an orderly and a nurse tried to pry Crawford off the clinically dead German. "Get up!" the American yelled. "Get your fucking ass up now, Schuldich! That's an order, you hear me!" Nagi almost doubted that the man falling apart before him was the same cool and collected Schwarz leader he'd come to know and respect, but the wild fear and panic that shone in the older man's hazel eyes quelled those thoughts. He'd seen that look on Crawford only once before - almost a week ago when they had discovered that Schuldich was still in the exploding building - and he had hoped he'd never see it again. Apparently, that had been too much to ask for. "Sir, you need to step aside," one of the orderlies practically yelled as he tried to pull the crazed man off the patient. Crawford didn't budge. "Schuldich, wake up! You're not dying here in some hospital bed! It's not good enough for you. You said you wanted to die more gloriously, remember?" And the alarm continued to beep. "Crawford, you need to move away so the doctors can help," Nagi said rationally as he approached. The man still wouldn't let go. "Crawford!" the boy said a little more loudly in hopes of getting through that panicked mind to perhaps some saner one underneath. Seeing no other recourse, he gave the Schwarz leader a strong telekinetic push that ripped the dark-haired man from the telepath and sent him crashing gently against the far wall. If the medical personnel in the room had thought the abrupt departure odd, they didn't show it, so intent were they on reviving the patient. But Nagi didn't pay attention to the whole affair, his gaze instead focused on the man who once used to epitomize self-control, detachment, and rational perfection. Crawford stared sightlessly at the busy scene before him, mouth moving and saying words that were too soft for the boy to hear. As Nagi moved closer, he watched the man's legs give out, leaving the body they had been supporting to slide lifelessly to the ground. "Don't leave me alone ... don't you fucking leave me alone, Schuldich ... not again ... " the telekinetic heard the older man say repeatedly when he was near enough. He wondered if Crawford was even aware of what he was saying. Probably not, he concluded, considering the American's erratic actions just moments ago. But he couldn't do anything about it, much like he couldn't do anything for the telepath. It was all in the hands of the medical professionals now ... and Schuldich himself. (***) December 23, 1894 Funny, but he had always thought that getting shot would hurt a lot more, and yet he couldn't feel anything. In fact, as he lay on the frozen ground, Schuldich felt rather numb, as if his brain had been disconnected from his body. "Damnit, why did you get in the way?!" Schuldich looked up at the man holding him who was frantically, but futilely, trying to close the gushing wound in his chest with a hand. "Hang on, Schuldich. It's not so bad," Crawford said, desperation slowly clawing its way into his voice. His lover's blatant lie almost made him laugh; in all the time he'd known Crawford, the American had never lied to him, or if the man had, he'd never seen beyond it. "Liar," Schuldich muttered, but Crawford didn't act like he heard. Gathering as much strength as he could muster, he tried to speak again, louder this time. "Don't worry. Doesn't hurt." "Liar," Crawford returned gently, pressing down as hard as he could on the gaping chest wound, and trying not to be affected by the warm, sticky liquid seeping past his fingers. Schuldich smiled at the older man's retort. "Where's Linden? Why didn't you shoot?" he rasped. Dark strands of hair caressed his face as the American bent down to pull him closer. "Gone. I couldn't kill him. I can't. He's the only thing left that reminds me of her. If he died, it'd be like she was never in my life ... like she never existed ... " Schuldich nodded, or tried to at least. He leaned into Crawford's warm body, attempting to soak in the inviting heat the man was emitting. Christ, he was cold. Why was he so damn cold? In the back of his mind, he knew what was happening, knew he was dying and that he didn't have much time left, but it didn't seem right to have it all end like this. "I ... I don't think she hated you all that much," he breathed out. Crawford glanced down at the dying man, worry and despair now evident on his face. "What are you talking about?" "Your wife ... I don't think she hated you at all." He coughed just then, an uncontrolled spasm originating from somewhere in his chest, and forcing metallic tasting blood onto his tongue. "Shh." The American tried to quiet him, but Schuldich didn't pay it any heed. "A-and you didn't h-hate her either, did you?" After a short internal struggle, Crawford decided to answer truthfully ... to his dying lover and to himself. "No," he whispered into the wounded man's ear. The answer was something he had expected, but even so, Schuldich felt remarkably lighter in hearing it. "You know she was trying to protect you, don't you?" he wheezed out. "She didn't die protecting him ... she died protecting you ... and she would do it again if she had to." Crawford's following immobility had Schuldich worried for a few moments. And then, pulling the bleeding man even deeper into his embrace, he said in a cracked voice, "I know ... " Strangely enough, it felt good to hear that from the American. However, he didn't have a chance to revel in it as another violent cough wracked his body. Shit, what had he said about chivalry and sacrificing a life for a loved one a few nights ago? Now, he could add 'hypocrite' to his vast list of disreputable titles. Yet, with the warmth that the older man was providing him, his thoughts were easily dispelled in favour of something less rational, and something that required less of his waning energy - the feel and smell of the man holding him so tightly. It was comfortable and safe here in Crawford's arms, as it had been the night before. And just like that time, Schuldich slowly found himself drifting off to sleep ... secure in his lover's embrace.
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