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Schuldig put on a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned it up to the top against the deep chill, and then reached out to let his fingers stroke the lapels of the white coat laid out for him. The fabric was tightly woven, soft, and felt good enough to be worn next to the skin. His fingers dipped into each pocket, unconsciously and out of habit, and found nothing. It was clean, sharp edged and was nothing like the rumpled uniforms he'd been issued up to now; it was new, unworn, and it was his. "Hn," brows lifted while he considered tearing off the pockets, and he cast that thought toward his keeper waiting outside the door to see if it had any impact.
«You're late already, we risk missing the train,» was the answer.
"Feh," he abandoned the idea and lifted the coat, swinging it open and slipping it on. Nice. He grabbed his grey uniform scarf, wrapping it tightly around his neck in a fat bundle as he headed for the door.
Twenty minutes later they'd been delivered to the quiet side of the village and began their walk to the station; Rosenkreuz didn't like the coming and going of their operatives to be noticed more than necessary, so the car had dropped Crawford and Schuldig off a discreet distance away.
It felt as if he had never been outside before, and he catalogued his impressions. It wasn't currently raining, though the air had an edge and the wind was picking up. The ground was rough under the smooth leather of new shoes. The village was quiet, the people's minds were quiet. Schuldig looked at his bare hands, then the sky, and realized he was cold, hugging his elbows to his body as he looked over at Crawford.
The precog was wearing new clothes as well; a tailored black coat, winter vest, dress shirt - fuck if he wasn't wearing a long sleeved undershirt - gloves, scarf loosely draped though the ends were tucked into his vest. He looked very well put together, and very warm.
«Fuck you, who gave out the clothes?»
Crawford pushed his glasses up with one finger and didn't stop walking. «I did. My team, my expenses.»
«Asshole,» Schuldig shoved his scarf up over his face, crowning himself. «You forgot a hat. Aren't you cold?»
Crawford paused and waited for Schuldig to stop three steps later, the synchronisity was not great but not bad for a starting point, he had already decided, and he removed his black coat and approached the telepath. Schuldig looked him over critically, silently waiting and though curious, not demanding an explanation, which was very good for a starting point, and had not been a certainty.
Crawford draped his coat over Schuldig's shoulders, tugging it into place without a word, and resumed walking.
Schuldig caught the scent of cologne rising from the warm fabric, lifted his face to the winter sun, and followed.
