FicWad

Schuldig kept a pair of rose-tinted glasses perched on top of his head, but never wore them.

Irony had always been his greatest source of amusement afterall.

Of course, Crawford would argue with that in a heartbeat. The man could be amazingly vain at times and seemed to think that Schuldig's sole purpose in life was to torment him. And while that might hold true on some days, or most really, Crawford's reactions had become rather predictable over the years. Something the telepath's attention span had never been able to tolerate for long.

But irony. Irony was ever changing, different twists and turns. It was a sucker punch in the face or chill up the spine, that sigh of disappointment and resignation. It was random patterns that you watched with a sense of dread, before it became something more.

It was the perfect playmate for Schuldig.

He had once watched in glee as a passing stranger forewent the 'Do Not Walk' sign, late for work and stopping for no one, thinking hurriedly that the cars always stopped for pedestrians like him. Always.

Farfarello would have enjoyed the splat sound the suit-and-tie made as the bus turned the corner sharply.

The scenario would play out over and over again, the same but still so very different. Wives thinking that their dutifully working husbands would never find out as she's being screwed into the mattress every Thursday by the electrician, right before the front door opens. Kids thinking their parents won't notice that missing bottle of vodka, right before dear old Dad gets the urge for a Martini. Pilot's saying there's no need to panic, right before the plane explodes.

Honey-sweet and addictive.

And sometimes he feels like he should help it all along. Take all those hopeful, almost pleading thoughts that pressed down on him everyday and crush them with a mental pull here, a loss of motor skills there. Hours of entertainment, fun for all ages.

Still, Schuldig loved irony only slightly more than he hated. Because like everything else, its only a matter of time before it'll turn its terrible grin towards you. The redhead knew that before he ever entered the game and had a grin to answer it back. And he had Schwarz. Had Crawford, who could See the future but not the television screen five feet away. Nagi, who could lift a tank with his powers but could fit in an overhead storage compartment. Farfarello, whose greatest weapon was the body his hated God had given him. And he had himself, the sharp-edged knife of his talent and voices that grew louder every day.

They were damn near invincible. Untouchable. Gods among ants and all those other cliché phrases.

"We won't fail," Crawford had told him, every bit as confident as he sounded. "Our plans will succeed." At that point, only Schuldig had been privy to exactly what those plans were and mostly he just thought of it as Crawford's Patented Cunning Plan. He didn't care much for the details of it, just that it meant freedom for them all, and decided early on to just go along with Crawford to offer back up, questions, and sarcasm. Not necessarily in that order. He didn't care about what would happen afterwards. He'd survive no matter what.

"We can survive anything," Crawford had murmured into his ear, steel and satin mixed together. The shiver that had run up the telepath's spine made the oracle smirk and Schuldig freeze, feeling as though something ha just been sealed with those words.

But then Crawford had pulled him away from those thoughts, back flat on the couch and back into thoughts of their chaos and victory. It wasn't a surprise to anyone that they ended up together. There was too much lust and power, stretched out over years of fights until it finally snapped back at them full-force.

It had only been a matter of time.

No one was surprised that they ended up together.

They were surprised when they started to /care/.

It was a whole new game for Schuldig to play, but one that neither he nor Crawford was particularly good at. They were getting too attached, protective and possessive, something they couldn't afford.

By the time Crawford's plans were being set into motion their lives were far more entwined than they once had been, intricate knots and messy tangles blurred together until Schuldig couldn't tell where is started and where it ended.

If it ended.

"We'll survive," Crawford said again, eyes hidden behind glass. "We can survive anything."

What else could he do but believe? Afterall, the only obstacle left was a bunch of normals who tortured themselves more than Schwarz did and could hardly stand one another.

Then Crawford's hand had been shot.


Later, when Schuldig blinked open tired blue eyes and shifted on fine white sand, he decided that irony truly sucked. Turning his head to the side, he caught a glimpse of black and white and red; strained to see if the older man was still breathing, reached out with his mind to catch hold of those ties that bound them.

Cut. Frayed. Ruined.

Then Schuldig noticed how absolutely silent everything was and screamed.