What He wants, He takes. Farfarello/Schuldig
Schuldig was, by nature, a nosy person. He supposed that he could blame his telepathy for that. When you get used to hearing peoples' thoughts all the time it's only natural that you want to know everything about everyone. Even when you could care less. But that was only part of it and the German knew it. He was a nosy bastard because it annoyed people to be asked questions over and over again.
Schuldig realized long ago that if he had had a 'normal' childhood, he still would have been the bastard he was now. The kind that kicked the back of your chair and chanted "Are we there yet?" until his voice was hoarse. Hell, he did that anyway.
Of course, Crawford was just as much of a bastard as Schuldig was and slammed the brakes on. The redhead's nose had been crooked for days.
Speak of the devil.
Go get Farfarello.
Sighing, the German stubbed out his cigarette and turned off the TV. What the devil wants, his demons get.
At least he wouldn't he bored for the rest of the afternoon.
For someone who stood out so much, Farfarello could be nearly impossible to find if he wanted to disappear. But his mind was like a blank spot to Schuldig on the surface, calm and organized in its insanity compared to the jumbled thoughts of the people around them. It's when you dove in deeper that could drive you insane.
Or swallow you up completely.
The rusted hinges of the church gate creaked in protest as Schuldig opened them. The church was old, probably abandoned, with white paint peeling off in an effort to break free. Shingles were hanging off, a couple already missing. Schuldig absently stepped on one as he made his way up the weed-invested path.
Trust Farfarello to find this place.
Metal doors groaned as they were pushed open, the sound echoing in the empty church. Well, not entirely empty. Farfarello was kneeling on one knee in front of the broken alter, his white hair and pale skin standing out in the dark room. For a brief moment, Schuldig thought the Irishman was praying before he realized that Farfarello was chanting mentally, a simple mantra that ran circles around itself.
Curse God and die
Curse God and die
Curse God and die
Curse God and di-
"Who are you talking to?" Schuldig asked, leaning against a pew and flicking long hair over his shoulder. He remembered the quote vaguely, probably picked it up from the one-eyed wonder himself at some point. Job, gifted with everything before having it torn away to satisfy God's ego.
Schuldig could see where this was going.
"Did the Devil send you?" Farfarello asked, still not looking up at him.
Schuldig smirked. "That could be taken two different ways Farf."
"Crawford." The raspy voice was low and dangerous, a whisper lined with venom that sent heat straight to the telepath's groin. The a flash of images hit him, snapshots that were hazy and faded around the edges. Blood, scarred hands, stained hands, knives and bodies, rotting away as the life left them, screams and blackness.
Schuldig knew the story already, had since Schwarz first picked up the Irishman. He was nosy, remember? And it always amused him that Farfarello was so sure that God existed. Hated Him, yes, but was so positive that there was something there for him to hate. Enough to devote his life to destroying everything that his so-called God would hold sacred, starting with himself. Farfarello was a twisted, bitter Lazarus that was killed and reborn by his own hands.
Only now, there were no saviors with pure hearts and most virgins were really whores. Apparently two thousand years was too long of an absence. Funny how the world works.
Schuldig was almost proud to be a part of it.
"What do you want, Guilty One?" The sun had shifted in its sky, sending streams of colored light through broken stained glass. It split the Irishman into sections of color, amber eye that focused on the telepath the only thing untouched.
"To pray," he drawled, sneering and crossing the couple steps to the altar. He could hear the crunch of glass under each step. The amber eye narrowed and Schuldig chuckled. "Don't worry, I have better things to do than pray to some wooden Gods I don't believe in."
Farfarello stood, bringing him that much closer to the telepath and edging forward still, circling until the telepath was backed up against the altar. "And so you judge in his place. And are judged in return."
Schuldig raised a thin eyebrow, ignoring the feeling of sharp wood digging into his back. "I'm an asshole, Farf. I don't give a fuck about anyone but myself."
"And your Devil."
He was flat on his back, staring up at a cracked ceiling with a psycho between his legs, kissing him. Crucified on holy ground and laughing through a razor-blade smile. And if he tipped his head back just a bit more, he could see the weeping Mary and the knife imbedded in Christ's heart.
"It's better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven," Schuldig said. He tasted blood in his mouth and licked his lips.
Farfarello sat back, mimicking his actions. "We serve in Hell."
The telepath shrugged a shoulder. "I work with what I get."
Farfarello smirked, hands working on Schuldig's belt. "So do I."
The Irishman was the first to enter the house, looking smug and content. He spared a glance at Crawford before vanishing down the hall. The oracle could hear his bedroom door click shut.
The telepath that followed looked mussed and slightly disgruntled. Debauched. "He fucked me," Schuldig stated bluntly. He noted Crawford's lack of reaction and scowled. "You knew he would. You could have at least told me to bring the lube."
"I could have," the oracle admitted. "I chose not to." He shrugged at Schuldig's expression. "I like to play God."