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The jeep, Schuldig decided, was pretty much fucked.
He tossed his wrench into the engine in disgust, straightening up and stretching; the sun was hot on his bare shoulders and he'd have a sunburn soon if he wasn't careful. Farfarello was entirely more trouble than he was worth most of the time, as far as Schuldig was concerned, but nobody cared what he thought on the subject, as usual.
They'd have to buy another car - or not, depending on how long Crawford thought they'd be there, whether there was room for it in his carefully-planned budget. "What a pain in the ass," he muttered under his breath, wiping sweat out of his eyes with the heel of his hand; one more smear of grease wouldn't make any difference, filthy as he already was from trying to beat the jeep and all its custom parts back into some semblance of working order.
And, of course, speak - or think - of the devil, and there he was, leaning in the doorway in the cool of the garage in another impeccable suit, staring out at Schuldig, at the hulk of the jeep like some kind of ugly modern statue on the broad concrete driveway.
Schuldig scratched his head; there was already enough nastiness in his hair - tied back away from his face with his bandanna - from dicking around with the parts that it wouldn't matter much. Car's fucked, he told Crawford shortly, leaning back against the hot metal of the grill as Crawford came out of the shadow to get a closer look. You gonna buy a new one?
"No," Crawford said evenly.
Snorting, Schuldig turned his back, stared down into the engine again. Useless, he thought to himself, then tensed: he could feel Crawford coming closer, the pressure of his mind, the coolness of his breath against the back of Schuldig's neck. "What if we need one again?" he asked aloud, not turning around. It wasn't like Crawford to invade other people's space, not unless he thought he could get something from it - the idea of which made Schuldig interested and wary at the same time.
Crawford's face brushed against Schuldig's knotted hair, stopping inches from his ear. "We won't."
Schuldig leaned forwards, twisted away to face him again, looking him over as well as he could this close up: definitely Crawford, all right. "You can't be serious," he started to say, only to be interrupted by a kiss: hard, demanding - everything their kisses usually were, but the setting, the timing totally out of place.
Torn between annoyance and arousal, Schuldig reached up and planted his oil-stained, greasy hand right on the pristine lapel of Crawford's suit jacket, leaving a long, grayish-black smear behind. But Crawford didn't stop kissing him, deepened it instead, forcing his tongue into Schuldig's mouth. His hand gripped Schuldig's hip tight, then slid sideways, rubbed over the front of his well-worn jeans, down between his legs, over his cock and balls, bringing him hard quick as hell.
And if Schuldig went along with it for a while, so what? Crawford's hand felt fucking good, squeezing just right, then palming him as he thrust against it, and Schuldig was never one to turn down a good time. But he hadn't forgotten the fucking weird nature of this, and as much as it sucked to end it, he shoved Crawford off, hard, leaving another couple black smudges on him. He looked strange like that, messy, dirty - and fuck, but it made Schuldig even harder to know he'd caused it. "The fuck's going on?" he asked, reaching down, adjusting himself in his jeans - and not missing the way Crawford's eyes flicked down, following the movement of his hand, or the equal bulge in Crawford's pants.
"Nothing," Crawford said, and it should have been fucking illegal to sound that controlled, looking like he did. It pissed him off.
Like hell it's nothing, he thought, reaching out for Crawford's mind; he knew Crawford hated it, but he hated being lied to, so he figured it would make them about even. Problem was, it was always hard as hell to find anything in Crawford's mind that he didn't want found; sure, it was neat, ordered, organized - but according to a system that made sense to no one but himself.
And, of course, Crawford was good at noticing that kind of thing, and predictably pissed off, despite the fact that he deserved it, shoving Schuldig hard mentally, all the weight of his mind behind it. Stay out of my head, he ordered.
The force of it made Schuldig, unprepared, stumble; putting his hands back to catch himself, he brushed metal and wire in the jeep's engine, electricity biting sharp and bright at his oily fingers. He jerked back upright with a hiss, his eyes narrowing. Not that he didn't like the pain, but he wanted it on his terms, not Crawford's. No, he snapped back, reaching forwards and grabbing Crawford's tie, pulling him forwards again into an equally hard kiss.
He didn't have to fight for it, which was good; interesting, as well - maybe Crawford's visions weren't helping him out much, or maybe he just wasn't listening to them. Whichever it was, Schuldig didn't care; still holding Crawford close to him, he reached back again, groping around until his hand closed over the bare wire again, the shock jolting through them both this time. Crawford's pain was so much sweeter than his own, echoing back through to him.
It didn't last long, though; Crawford yanked them both a step away from the Jeep, reaching past Schuldig to slam the hood down, then let go of him, his hand fisting, eyes furious. But Schuldig was faster: "Suck me off," he snarled, his mind curling around Crawford's, putting all his strength into it. It was harder than they usually played, but Schuldig didn't give a fuck anymore; Crawford had been the one to start changing the rules, and he could hardly complain if Schuldig kept at it.
And yeah, fuck, Schuldig had never seen anything so hot as Crawford dropping to his knees on the dirty ground, reaching up to undo Schuldig's pants, movements unsteady with the effort of fighting Schuldig's control.
When Crawford finally got the zipper down, pulled his cock out of the tight denim, Schuldig groaned in relief - but that was nothing, less than nothing compared to how it felt a second later when Crawford's mouth closed around him, how it looked to see him following orders. He reached down deliberately, smeared his thumb black and sooty across Crawford's cheek, following the thick press of cock in his mouth, then up into his hair, pushing the carefully-ordered spikes back into an unruly mess, and pulled Crawford further down his cock. "Fuck," he breathed, hips rocking gently forwards as he shoved deeper into his mind, as well, seeing himself from Crawford's eyes, sweaty and covered in grime, jeans tight over his ass as he bent into the jeep, felt Crawford's desire, his calculations, the way he'd said fuck it and written off the cost of the car and the suit when Schuldig had stood, stretched, looked back.
Schuldig came fast and hard, the knowledge of what he was doing making it even better - the taste of his own come on Crawford's lips making him more than willing to forgive the backhanded slap that came a second later, anger almost overtaking desire on Crawford's face - almost, but not quite.
And, Schuldig found a moment later, the Jeep wasn't quite useless, after all.