Impartial Constant
They had been thrown together by a force considerably less innocent than mere fate. Schuldig was the quintessential waif, an urchin flitting from place to place leaving a plague of confusion and bemused apprehension in his wake. Everything Schuldig wanted made its way to his pockets, a fact that was reflected in the impishly cocky gleam in his eyes.
It made the absolute lack of accommodation that was Bradley Crawford utterly galling.
With every bit of determination his preteen persona could muster, Schuldig made Crawford his primary project. Somewhere determination became fascination, and from there it was a short jump to obsession. An extravagant gosling following around an uninterested duck, Schuldig tethered his attention onto Crawford. Every quirk and dysfunction his personality developed settled around a drive to get those callous eyes to see him.
___________________________
Schuldig allowed his eyes to slip almost shut as he watched Crawford approach, paperwork in hand. It had never occurred to Schuldig that he would work with anyone else. Crawford was the impartial constant in his constantly shifting world. As he was handed his orders Schuldig curled his mind tight, letting none of his contentment show. His expression unfurled into a mask of sardonic amusement. Let his wranglers, his owners, interpret that as they would. Schuldig had caught a flicker of emotion in Crawford’s eyes as their team had been announced.
What else could tease a reaction out of the implacable Oracle?
______________________________
It was a fascinating, infuriating mix of insolence and indolence. It was the curve of his spine and the twist of his lips, the weight of his eyes as they measured every movement.
Schuldig had the audacity to lounge his way through every interaction. His maddening smirk was a red flag to every bullish bit of temper. He was a migraine in the making, the kink in the best laid plan. He soaked up the frustrated impressions he left in the world, and basked in them like a cat in afternoon sun. Ire & Irritation was his drug of choice, the accolade he craved.
It made the impassive expression that persisted in Crawford’s hard eyes intolerable. It was the taste of blood in the back of his throat, bile rolling like wine across his tongue. The Oracle hadn’t mellowed over time, hadn’t grown at ease with their association. Schuldig snarled his displeasure along every neuron of the first person unfortunate enough to look his way as he exited the office building, the ridiculously rhythmic sound of Crawford’s shoes on the sidewalk a goad to his temper.
__________________________
The big things didn’t work, the bodies and cities laid at Crawford’s feet, so Schuldig was forced to resort to the petty. Somewhere, there had to be a crack, a breaking point to be reached. The mighty Oracle was only human when it came down to it. God complex aside, Crawford was made of meat, just like the rest of them.
Made of muscle and musk, as infuriating as he was infatuating.
Crawford was a weakness Schuldig denied with the perverse ferocity he was infamous for.
Humans were one of the only creatures that smiled to show affection. Schuldig smiled at Nagi as a taunt, Farfarello as a threat, and his prey as a promise. In regards to Crawford, Schuldig’s smile was laced with desperation masquerading as loathing. His telepathy skittered around the edges of Crawford’s mind like spiders just outside of the flashlights glow. He didn’t dare push his luck, push his way in. Schuldig could still remember the color of the sky as he blinked at the shocked haze that filled his mind, the taste of blood on a split lip, and the look on Crawford’s face after the older youth had punched him.
Bradley Crawford guarded his secrets well. It was a lesson Schuldig was not quick to learn. He never quite managed to keep his brain to himself, giving Crawford the smallest brush and touch now and then, though he kept the fleeting attempts at contact to more of an impolite reminder than an invasive action.
___________________________
He was anyone to everyone. Confidant, lover, business associate; Schuldig could fill every role with an ease that never quite made it to his eyes. He was a smiling killer, a subtle saboteur. Crawford’s response to all his effort was lukewarm at best, sticking to mundane debriefings in the car, in the kitchen. Impartial, pointedly impersonal; if Schuldig didn’t know better he would have thought Crawford’s attitude tailor made to get a rise out of him.
That would be suggesting Crawford invested emotion in how he treated his telepath.
Schuldig bared his teeth in the feral cousin of a proper smile, tossed his coat onto the kitchen table and stalked over to monopolize the bathroom. He slipped into his off-the-clock personality, grating smile and glacial eyes firmly in place. He left the hot water running long after he was done showering, letting it run cold before deferring to the rising tempers of a portion of his team.
But it was a futile gesture, an impotent tantrum.
Crawford didn’t even look at him as Schuldig stalked past in a gust of hoarded steam. Didn’t even spare a thought.
Schuldig wrung out his hair and tossed his wet towel into the living room, onto Crawford’s favorite chair.
__________________________
In the end, it was Schuldig who broke long before Crawford.
__________________________
Schuldig could be anything Crawford wanted, but the Oracle wanted for nothing. Telepathy was a giddy march towards insanity, a loss of self amidst the whirlpool of certain uncertainty that was the world. Crawford constantly set him loose, turned him aside. Telepathic fingers skittered against a façade that had no cracks, no handholds. It was a long drop, and Schuldig was nothing if not a tenacious bastard, and was long in falling.
The Oracle had to have seen it coming, might have seen the edge in Schuldig’s expression, the glint in his eyes. The big things never caught Crawford by surprise. He held still as Schuldig’s lips slid across his own, followed by teeth that attacked with something less than affection.
But nothing near Schuldig’s affected loathing.
Crawford endured Schuldig’s lanky frame pressing into him, Schuldig’s glare tearing at him.
The instant Schuldig’s telepathy started scrabbling at the corners of his mind, Crawford’s fist slammed into Schuldig’s aristocratic jaw line. Pale eyes watched with distressingly familiar nonchalance as Schuldig stumbled back and lost his footing. His usual grace eluding him, Schuldig fell to the floor.
“I hate you.”
Crawford didn’t deign to reply before walking away.
It made the absolute lack of accommodation that was Bradley Crawford utterly galling.
With every bit of determination his preteen persona could muster, Schuldig made Crawford his primary project. Somewhere determination became fascination, and from there it was a short jump to obsession. An extravagant gosling following around an uninterested duck, Schuldig tethered his attention onto Crawford. Every quirk and dysfunction his personality developed settled around a drive to get those callous eyes to see him.
___________________________
Schuldig allowed his eyes to slip almost shut as he watched Crawford approach, paperwork in hand. It had never occurred to Schuldig that he would work with anyone else. Crawford was the impartial constant in his constantly shifting world. As he was handed his orders Schuldig curled his mind tight, letting none of his contentment show. His expression unfurled into a mask of sardonic amusement. Let his wranglers, his owners, interpret that as they would. Schuldig had caught a flicker of emotion in Crawford’s eyes as their team had been announced.
What else could tease a reaction out of the implacable Oracle?
______________________________
It was a fascinating, infuriating mix of insolence and indolence. It was the curve of his spine and the twist of his lips, the weight of his eyes as they measured every movement.
Schuldig had the audacity to lounge his way through every interaction. His maddening smirk was a red flag to every bullish bit of temper. He was a migraine in the making, the kink in the best laid plan. He soaked up the frustrated impressions he left in the world, and basked in them like a cat in afternoon sun. Ire & Irritation was his drug of choice, the accolade he craved.
It made the impassive expression that persisted in Crawford’s hard eyes intolerable. It was the taste of blood in the back of his throat, bile rolling like wine across his tongue. The Oracle hadn’t mellowed over time, hadn’t grown at ease with their association. Schuldig snarled his displeasure along every neuron of the first person unfortunate enough to look his way as he exited the office building, the ridiculously rhythmic sound of Crawford’s shoes on the sidewalk a goad to his temper.
__________________________
The big things didn’t work, the bodies and cities laid at Crawford’s feet, so Schuldig was forced to resort to the petty. Somewhere, there had to be a crack, a breaking point to be reached. The mighty Oracle was only human when it came down to it. God complex aside, Crawford was made of meat, just like the rest of them.
Made of muscle and musk, as infuriating as he was infatuating.
Crawford was a weakness Schuldig denied with the perverse ferocity he was infamous for.
Humans were one of the only creatures that smiled to show affection. Schuldig smiled at Nagi as a taunt, Farfarello as a threat, and his prey as a promise. In regards to Crawford, Schuldig’s smile was laced with desperation masquerading as loathing. His telepathy skittered around the edges of Crawford’s mind like spiders just outside of the flashlights glow. He didn’t dare push his luck, push his way in. Schuldig could still remember the color of the sky as he blinked at the shocked haze that filled his mind, the taste of blood on a split lip, and the look on Crawford’s face after the older youth had punched him.
Bradley Crawford guarded his secrets well. It was a lesson Schuldig was not quick to learn. He never quite managed to keep his brain to himself, giving Crawford the smallest brush and touch now and then, though he kept the fleeting attempts at contact to more of an impolite reminder than an invasive action.
___________________________
He was anyone to everyone. Confidant, lover, business associate; Schuldig could fill every role with an ease that never quite made it to his eyes. He was a smiling killer, a subtle saboteur. Crawford’s response to all his effort was lukewarm at best, sticking to mundane debriefings in the car, in the kitchen. Impartial, pointedly impersonal; if Schuldig didn’t know better he would have thought Crawford’s attitude tailor made to get a rise out of him.
That would be suggesting Crawford invested emotion in how he treated his telepath.
Schuldig bared his teeth in the feral cousin of a proper smile, tossed his coat onto the kitchen table and stalked over to monopolize the bathroom. He slipped into his off-the-clock personality, grating smile and glacial eyes firmly in place. He left the hot water running long after he was done showering, letting it run cold before deferring to the rising tempers of a portion of his team.
But it was a futile gesture, an impotent tantrum.
Crawford didn’t even look at him as Schuldig stalked past in a gust of hoarded steam. Didn’t even spare a thought.
Schuldig wrung out his hair and tossed his wet towel into the living room, onto Crawford’s favorite chair.
__________________________
In the end, it was Schuldig who broke long before Crawford.
__________________________
Schuldig could be anything Crawford wanted, but the Oracle wanted for nothing. Telepathy was a giddy march towards insanity, a loss of self amidst the whirlpool of certain uncertainty that was the world. Crawford constantly set him loose, turned him aside. Telepathic fingers skittered against a façade that had no cracks, no handholds. It was a long drop, and Schuldig was nothing if not a tenacious bastard, and was long in falling.
The Oracle had to have seen it coming, might have seen the edge in Schuldig’s expression, the glint in his eyes. The big things never caught Crawford by surprise. He held still as Schuldig’s lips slid across his own, followed by teeth that attacked with something less than affection.
But nothing near Schuldig’s affected loathing.
Crawford endured Schuldig’s lanky frame pressing into him, Schuldig’s glare tearing at him.
The instant Schuldig’s telepathy started scrabbling at the corners of his mind, Crawford’s fist slammed into Schuldig’s aristocratic jaw line. Pale eyes watched with distressingly familiar nonchalance as Schuldig stumbled back and lost his footing. His usual grace eluding him, Schuldig fell to the floor.
“I hate you.”
Crawford didn’t deign to reply before walking away.
