This scene is from the In Memory of the Future timeline, taking place after the additional short story written for Eines Tages.



    Farfarello bites him almost hard to be a threat, high on his neck where nothing short of a turtleneck sweater will hide the telltale bruise. Crawford doesn’t hiss at the pain, but it’s a near thing, and he manages a mild “Asshole” that Farfarello isn’t intimidated by. The Watcher hangs on a few moments longer before hoisting himself up to consider his handiwork. He knows Crawford could have stopped him but chose not to.

    Still, it isn’t good to let Farfarello think he’s won, so Crawford says, “That’s going to show. I have nothing that will cover it.”

    Farfarello’s smile is mocking, and he picks a hand off the mattress to rap at his collar. “You can borrow this.”

    It’d sit at the right height, to be sure, and it would at least save him the trouble of having an actual conversation with the missing members of their team. He has no meetings this week to worry about and therefore no clients to question the odd attire, and he can always send Schuldig to the store in his stead should they run out of anything before the bruise fades.

    Crawford weighs the irritation of Schuldig’s inevitable teasing against the more tangible rewards, and the decision is made when Farfarello sucks in a short, sharp breath through clenched teeth. Farfarello hadn’t meant it seriously and hadn’t meant Crawford to take it as such, but he’s just realized Crawford is giving it all due consideration.

    He flinches a little when Crawford reaches up and tries to hide it by batting Crawford’s hand away. He undoes the buckle himself, and Crawford pushes himself up a bit on his elbows so Farfarello has better access to his neck.

    It’s snug, almost uncomfortably so, but the look on Farfarello’s face and the nonstop flickering in Crawford’s gift say it is worth enduring for a day or two. Farfarello looks hungry enough to break in half, and Crawford knows he already has a hand between his legs again.

    Crawford catches his arm in a light grip. “Let me.” Farfarello makes a half-assed attempt to tug free, so Crawford tries again. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, very carefully. It is an unsettling thing to have to admit, but it’s not like Farfarello doesn’t know that. Farfarello almost died for that virginity eight months ago. Crawford tightens his fingers a fraction and insists, “Teach me how you like it.”

    Farfarello resists getting pushed down, because he hates feeling cornered and hates giving ground, but he goes in time and that’s all that matters. He lets Crawford take him apart and he gives up more than he realizes yet, too rattled by the sight of his collar around Crawford’s throat to hide the desperation in his need. Crawford will use this against him later when Farfarello least expects it, in all the best ways.

    Afterward they shower--twice, when the first one is ruined--and Crawford reevaluates just how much stamina the little bastard actually has. Farfarello digs a warning finger into his shoulder as he’s rummaging through his dresser and says, “No buttons.” Crawford only has so many shirts he’s willing to lose today, so he finds a comfortable black pullover he hasn’t worn in months. Farfarello twitches a little at that easy acquiescence and skims his nails over the collar before forcibly turning away.

    Crawford gets the sheets into the wash while Farfarello goes to make them a late lunch. Farfarello looks at him more than he looks at his own plate, but his self-control gets him through the meal without incident. He slips out without a word as soon as he is done, and Crawford hears the cabinets opening and closing in the living room. It isn’t long before a movie is playing. Farfarello likes the distracting noise of it, Schuldig told Crawford once. It isn’t loud enough to be a menace, so Crawford leaves him to it and starts in on the paper.

    He’s nearly through it when Nagi and Schuldig return, and Crawford keeps his attention on the paper with the same iron will that keeps his gift and rowdy team in line. Nagi is the first in the room, but he doesn’t make it far, and Crawford hears the soft thud of Schuldig running into his back when Nagi goes to an abrupt stop. The silence that falls in the room is profound, and Crawford turns the page before glancing up at them. He keeps his expression placid, like there is not a damned thing out of place, and waits out their responses.

    “Oh, it’s your fault,” Schuldig says, sounding almost delighted.

    Nagi elbows him. “You have telepathy, Schuldig. Use it.”

    Schuldig jerks a thumb over his shoulder, unable to let it go, and Crawford knows why when he says, “He’s asleep on the couch. You completely wore him out.”

    There’s an absurd amount of glee in it. On a surface level it’s a strange thing to obsess over, but Farfarello doesn’t sleep in the open. He’ll doze, sometimes, if Schuldig’s around to watch his six, but he never actually rests outside of his room and his closed door. The fact he passed out in a shared room, deep enough to miss the arrival of his teammates, is as atrociously out of character as Crawford’s temporary accessory. Farfarello is going to lash out when he realizes it.

    “Let him sleep,” Crawford says, and goes back to his paper. “You might as well put an ice pack in the freezer now.”

    “For me or you?” Schuldig asks.

    “I hate it here,” Nagi says, leaving the room before he has to endure any more of this exchange.

    “I’m going to go watch Farfarello sleep,” Schuldig says.

    It’s ill-advised, but Schuldig can’t resist his shit-eating grin being the first thing Farfarello sees when he stirs. Crawford writes him off as a loss and goes back to his paper. He only makes it a page further; there’s only so long Farfarello can sleep when someone is staring at him. Neither man speaks where Crawford can hear it, which says worlds for how prying and personal Schuldig takes it right from the get-go, but Crawford hears the distinct sound of flesh on flesh as Farfarello takes a swing.

    Crawford sighs, collects a bag of frozen peas, and heads out to referee—rather, under the pretense of playing referee. He and Farfarello have come a long way this last year, but some things about them will never change. The need to get one over one another will always be a driving force in their relationship. Farfarello will have his revenge sooner or later but right now he completely forgets whatever argument he’s having with Schuldig because Crawford is still wearing his collar where the rest of Schwarz can see it.

    “Jesus, Farfarello, keep it down at least,” Schuldig says. Farfarello scowls at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Just remember that we all use these couches before you follow through on that.”

    “You won’t after today,” Farfarello says. “Get out.”

    Crawford pretends for just a moment that this conversation isn’t happening, but when he opens his eyes again both of his teammates are still right there. “It’s too expensive a set to ruin,” he says, more for Schuldig’s sake than his own dignity. Farfarello flicks him a look of cool challenge and Crawford returns it without hesitation as he presses the peas into Schuldig’s upturned hand. “The answer is no.”

    “We’ll see,” Farfarello says, a little mulishly.

    Crawford doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing, and he leaves them to each other.


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