yaoi_challenge fic: Zusammen Stehend (WK, C/S)
This is the first of two stories written for yaoi_challenge under the name guilty_as_sin. Honestly, this needs more work: it was very rushed, because I procrastinate too much.
Title: Zusammen Stehend (Standing Together)
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Crawford x Schuldig, Schuldig x Crawford
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Coarse language, implied sex.
Summary: Set post-Gluhen. The angst never showed, but the snark made an appearance. "You spoil me..."
***
Sometimes Crawford is such a bastard.
"Move it, Schuldig. We have exactly two minutes before the building explodes."
Well, I’d be moving a whole lot faster if I wasn’t dragging a heavy American with more of his blood outside than in at the moment to the nearest exit. But I manage, and sneak us out just in time.
Weiss think we’re dead, again. Even with Nagi working for Takatori now, they just never learn. I send Nagi a little mental salute, just enough to aggravate the headaches we both have, and lug Crawford back to our latest home.
Home is the penthouse suite at The Grand Hyatt Tokyo. For all the money Crawford spends on this place--and he does insist on paying full price, makes him feel powerful, which is just stupid-- it does have its benefits, including taking up the entire 21st floor. The last thing I need right now is a large number of minds nearby pressing upon mine: shielding has never been my strong point, and after nearly being fried by Geisel, then getting Crawford here without anyone ‘seeing’ our injuries, I’m exhausted.
No rest for the wicked, though; we need a doctor. I summon the hotel’s medical staff, and by the time they’ve patched us both up and been mindwiped on their way out, I need a bottle of aspirin, a hot bath, and a good stiff drink, but all that will have to wait. Brad’s already unconscious, taking up more than his share of the bed, and I have to fix that. Minutes later, having reclaimed two-thirds of the bed, I’m fast asleep.
***
"Schuldig. Wake up."
"Huh?" Hey, I’m tired, so don’t expect sparkling repartee, or even coherency. Sue me.
"Get up. We have plans to make."
"Shit." That’s Crawford for you. Nearly dead two days ago, and now back to his usual Businessman of Death persona. Screw that. He’s cleaned up, dressed in one of his immaculate business suits--one without ruffles and a twenty-inch waistline, thank God, but still a fashion disaster--and glaring at me. The sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows catches his monocle just right, enough to send the legendary Shiny Glare of Doom right into my unprepared eyes. Ouch.
"Your glasses made for a better effect, Brad. A monocle just doesn’t scream ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know,’ it says ‘Bullies Still Beat Me Up and Take My Lunch Money.’"
"At least I don’t wear suspenders," Crawford sniffed, "and dainty hats." The hell? I know the suspenders are a bit out there, but my hat? It is a jaunty, manly hat. At least, it was, before it went up in flames. If Geisel wasn’t already dead, I’d snap his neck into two again just for that.
"Some of us are just ahead of our time," I snark, watching Crawford’s right eyebrow arch in response. I wonder, how he does that without dislodging the monocle? "Do try and keep up, Brad."
"Please, just get cleaned up," he answers, as I head towards the bathroom. "You smell like fried chicken." The strangled noise I make over that insult sounds far too much like a squawk.
Crawford is going to pay for that one.
***
Crawford and I are a team: despite our arguments, we work well together. Over the years we’ve learned, often the hard way, how to mesh our talents and personalities together. So it doesn’t take very long for us to ‘collect’ payment from Kritiker--much as Crawford and I want the remnants of Esset destroyed, we certainly don’t work for free-- and wire most of the profits to our various bank accounts across the globe.
After dealing with finances, we find a quiet cafe that caters to tourists, using their Internet connection to complete the usual discreet inquiries with interested parties: making sure there’s no contracts out on Schwarz while browsing through offers from potential clients. After a job this big and with us still recovering from our injuries, we’re in no rush for new business, but it pays to stay informed.
While at the cafe I insist on lunch, and Crawford is quick to agree. Neither of us have eaten much in the last few days, and it’s time to make up for lost time. I smile agreeably at Crawford when he suggests I try the fried chicken, and watch as he immediately becomes suspicious of my good nature.
I love making him paranoid, especially when he has good reason to be.
We’ve both over-used our powers, and need time to recover. Crawford’s deliberately not searching out future events, and only visions of an immediate threat to his life would be able to override his shielding. I’m not actively reading the minds of the people around me, though the usual murmur of mundane thoughts remain in the background, nor am I manipulating the strangers around us to do my bidding. However, I don’t need my powers to cause trouble, but Crawford needs his to prevent me. Score!
I do order the fried chicken, and watch Crawford try not to sweat. It’s a fairly quick lunch, the conversation between bites centering on what other errands we needed to complete before returning to the hotel. It doesn’t take long for us to finish, though as usual Crawford gets done first, and rises from his chair before I’m ready to go.
It’s a shame that, in reaching for my napkin, I ‘accidentally’ knock over Crawford’s water glass.
It’s a shame the glass was still one-third full, and that most of the water splashes onto his (Godawful) suit.
It’s a shame, that in my rush to help Crawford minimize the staining, I ‘unknowingly’ ran my grease-slicked fingers over his sleeve. That’s one less fashion crime in the world; and people say I have nothing to offer society. Pfft.
I can’t help but laugh. It’s a small victory, a childish, petty act, but people like us don’t get to laugh very often, at least for the right reasons, and it feels damn good. When Crawford joins in I should be surprised, but instead I just laugh more. It’s silly, but we’re here, we’re alive and that’s good enough for me.
***
I’m still laughing as Crawford drives us to the Isetan department store. I like shopping there because the casual and business suits are all in one area. The layout makes it easy for me to find the more eclectic items I want, as well as keep an eye on Crawford and make sure he doesn’t pick out another suit that makes him look like the peanut guy on the label of those cans of cashews Brad likes so much.
We both must still be in an excellent mood, because when Brad tells me ‘no suspenders,’ I don’t argue with him. It’s only fair, as he actually buys a few suits that aren’t white. Maybe after all these years we are rubbing off on one another. He still chooses ugly ties, though. I guess some things never change.
Whatever happens with Schwarz, it seems that Crawford and I always stick together. It was fun working with Nagi again--it’s amazing how our boy’s grown up--and seeing Farfarello, if only in Crawford’s mind, makes me remember the good times. When both men come to their senses, we’ll always welcome them home, but in the meantime we’ll manage just fine.
Huh. First I’m pulling pranks, and now I’m going down memory lane. I obviously need more sleep, or better meds. And now Crawford’s looking at me funny-- probably because I’m spending only about a third of what I usually do for clothing, and less than Crawford, which is nothing short of amazing--but then he smiles, and pays for everything.
Maybe I’m not the only one affected.
***.
A few hours later, after a long nap, I feel good as new. Crawford looks more refreshed, and he’s lost some of that awful pallor from losing so much blood in his fight with Berger. With his hair now completely silver, he does look more refined, gentlemanly. But inside, he’s still the brutal son of a bitch that would kill you for power, for information, or even because he just wants to.
I wouldn’t have him any other way.
I take another leisurely shower, the water set as hot as I can stand. When I emerge, wearing one of the plush robes stocked in our room, I see that Crawford has already arranged for dinner to be delivered.
Dinner is a fairly quiet affair. Normally there’s a lot of conversation--business related, maybe current events--but if nothing else, we should be making fun of Weiss. Ran’s kinda hot with that braid, but Yohji--what the hell is up with the red paint on his chest, and he’s the one with a girly hat, not me! I could spend an entire day talking about the various psychological disorders those guys have, if I put my mind to it. But tonight, they just don’t seem to matter.
Tonight, it seems far more important to watch Brad--watch those hands that kill by holding a gun or simply with the force of his blows; watch those eyes that are cold facing a target or enemy but full of fire when in our bed; watch for that smile that tells me dinner’s over, but the evening has just begun.
And maybe it’s because we’ve once again survived--shit, won--a battle against the organization that ruled our lives for decades, but tonight that smile promises more than it ever has before.
And, boy, does that fucker deliver. "Mmm, Brad, you spoil me..."
***
I’ve had all kinds of sex with Crawford over the years--hasty, fumbling sex while at Rosenkreuz; casual, fuckbuddy sex in the early years of Schwarz; bouts of hatesex during especially heated arguments; and, ever since the Golf Club Incident (which I still hold a grudge over, and one day I'm gonna nail Mamoru Takatori with a nine iron, no matter what Nagi says) sex that’s more than just a physical release.
Not that I’ve ever admitted this to Brad: there’s just some things that men like us never discuss, not even with telepathy. It’s revealed in the way we touch each other, the way we kiss; it’s proven in moments after sex, when we fight for more space on the bed and a larger share of the blankets, but never consider separating. And it’s obvious in how we live our lives, standing together, keeping Schwarz alive.
We are the bad guys, the evil, remorseless assassins. We kill people for money, for influence, and sometimes because it just feels good. Weiss would tell you that we (like them) don’t deserve any measure of happiness in our lives.
Fuck that. Crawford and I fought for years to lead our own lives; I’m not going to waste any time on guilt. Right now, I’m going back to bed and do a little spoiling of my own.
Title: Zusammen Stehend (Standing Together)
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Crawford x Schuldig, Schuldig x Crawford
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Coarse language, implied sex.
Summary: Set post-Gluhen. The angst never showed, but the snark made an appearance. "You spoil me..."
***
Sometimes Crawford is such a bastard.
"Move it, Schuldig. We have exactly two minutes before the building explodes."
Well, I’d be moving a whole lot faster if I wasn’t dragging a heavy American with more of his blood outside than in at the moment to the nearest exit. But I manage, and sneak us out just in time.
Weiss think we’re dead, again. Even with Nagi working for Takatori now, they just never learn. I send Nagi a little mental salute, just enough to aggravate the headaches we both have, and lug Crawford back to our latest home.
Home is the penthouse suite at The Grand Hyatt Tokyo. For all the money Crawford spends on this place--and he does insist on paying full price, makes him feel powerful, which is just stupid-- it does have its benefits, including taking up the entire 21st floor. The last thing I need right now is a large number of minds nearby pressing upon mine: shielding has never been my strong point, and after nearly being fried by Geisel, then getting Crawford here without anyone ‘seeing’ our injuries, I’m exhausted.
No rest for the wicked, though; we need a doctor. I summon the hotel’s medical staff, and by the time they’ve patched us both up and been mindwiped on their way out, I need a bottle of aspirin, a hot bath, and a good stiff drink, but all that will have to wait. Brad’s already unconscious, taking up more than his share of the bed, and I have to fix that. Minutes later, having reclaimed two-thirds of the bed, I’m fast asleep.
***
"Schuldig. Wake up."
"Huh?" Hey, I’m tired, so don’t expect sparkling repartee, or even coherency. Sue me.
"Get up. We have plans to make."
"Shit." That’s Crawford for you. Nearly dead two days ago, and now back to his usual Businessman of Death persona. Screw that. He’s cleaned up, dressed in one of his immaculate business suits--one without ruffles and a twenty-inch waistline, thank God, but still a fashion disaster--and glaring at me. The sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows catches his monocle just right, enough to send the legendary Shiny Glare of Doom right into my unprepared eyes. Ouch.
"Your glasses made for a better effect, Brad. A monocle just doesn’t scream ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know,’ it says ‘Bullies Still Beat Me Up and Take My Lunch Money.’"
"At least I don’t wear suspenders," Crawford sniffed, "and dainty hats." The hell? I know the suspenders are a bit out there, but my hat? It is a jaunty, manly hat. At least, it was, before it went up in flames. If Geisel wasn’t already dead, I’d snap his neck into two again just for that.
"Some of us are just ahead of our time," I snark, watching Crawford’s right eyebrow arch in response. I wonder, how he does that without dislodging the monocle? "Do try and keep up, Brad."
"Please, just get cleaned up," he answers, as I head towards the bathroom. "You smell like fried chicken." The strangled noise I make over that insult sounds far too much like a squawk.
Crawford is going to pay for that one.
***
Crawford and I are a team: despite our arguments, we work well together. Over the years we’ve learned, often the hard way, how to mesh our talents and personalities together. So it doesn’t take very long for us to ‘collect’ payment from Kritiker--much as Crawford and I want the remnants of Esset destroyed, we certainly don’t work for free-- and wire most of the profits to our various bank accounts across the globe.
After dealing with finances, we find a quiet cafe that caters to tourists, using their Internet connection to complete the usual discreet inquiries with interested parties: making sure there’s no contracts out on Schwarz while browsing through offers from potential clients. After a job this big and with us still recovering from our injuries, we’re in no rush for new business, but it pays to stay informed.
While at the cafe I insist on lunch, and Crawford is quick to agree. Neither of us have eaten much in the last few days, and it’s time to make up for lost time. I smile agreeably at Crawford when he suggests I try the fried chicken, and watch as he immediately becomes suspicious of my good nature.
I love making him paranoid, especially when he has good reason to be.
We’ve both over-used our powers, and need time to recover. Crawford’s deliberately not searching out future events, and only visions of an immediate threat to his life would be able to override his shielding. I’m not actively reading the minds of the people around me, though the usual murmur of mundane thoughts remain in the background, nor am I manipulating the strangers around us to do my bidding. However, I don’t need my powers to cause trouble, but Crawford needs his to prevent me. Score!
I do order the fried chicken, and watch Crawford try not to sweat. It’s a fairly quick lunch, the conversation between bites centering on what other errands we needed to complete before returning to the hotel. It doesn’t take long for us to finish, though as usual Crawford gets done first, and rises from his chair before I’m ready to go.
It’s a shame that, in reaching for my napkin, I ‘accidentally’ knock over Crawford’s water glass.
It’s a shame the glass was still one-third full, and that most of the water splashes onto his (Godawful) suit.
It’s a shame, that in my rush to help Crawford minimize the staining, I ‘unknowingly’ ran my grease-slicked fingers over his sleeve. That’s one less fashion crime in the world; and people say I have nothing to offer society. Pfft.
I can’t help but laugh. It’s a small victory, a childish, petty act, but people like us don’t get to laugh very often, at least for the right reasons, and it feels damn good. When Crawford joins in I should be surprised, but instead I just laugh more. It’s silly, but we’re here, we’re alive and that’s good enough for me.
***
I’m still laughing as Crawford drives us to the Isetan department store. I like shopping there because the casual and business suits are all in one area. The layout makes it easy for me to find the more eclectic items I want, as well as keep an eye on Crawford and make sure he doesn’t pick out another suit that makes him look like the peanut guy on the label of those cans of cashews Brad likes so much.
We both must still be in an excellent mood, because when Brad tells me ‘no suspenders,’ I don’t argue with him. It’s only fair, as he actually buys a few suits that aren’t white. Maybe after all these years we are rubbing off on one another. He still chooses ugly ties, though. I guess some things never change.
Whatever happens with Schwarz, it seems that Crawford and I always stick together. It was fun working with Nagi again--it’s amazing how our boy’s grown up--and seeing Farfarello, if only in Crawford’s mind, makes me remember the good times. When both men come to their senses, we’ll always welcome them home, but in the meantime we’ll manage just fine.
Huh. First I’m pulling pranks, and now I’m going down memory lane. I obviously need more sleep, or better meds. And now Crawford’s looking at me funny-- probably because I’m spending only about a third of what I usually do for clothing, and less than Crawford, which is nothing short of amazing--but then he smiles, and pays for everything.
Maybe I’m not the only one affected.
***.
A few hours later, after a long nap, I feel good as new. Crawford looks more refreshed, and he’s lost some of that awful pallor from losing so much blood in his fight with Berger. With his hair now completely silver, he does look more refined, gentlemanly. But inside, he’s still the brutal son of a bitch that would kill you for power, for information, or even because he just wants to.
I wouldn’t have him any other way.
I take another leisurely shower, the water set as hot as I can stand. When I emerge, wearing one of the plush robes stocked in our room, I see that Crawford has already arranged for dinner to be delivered.
Dinner is a fairly quiet affair. Normally there’s a lot of conversation--business related, maybe current events--but if nothing else, we should be making fun of Weiss. Ran’s kinda hot with that braid, but Yohji--what the hell is up with the red paint on his chest, and he’s the one with a girly hat, not me! I could spend an entire day talking about the various psychological disorders those guys have, if I put my mind to it. But tonight, they just don’t seem to matter.
Tonight, it seems far more important to watch Brad--watch those hands that kill by holding a gun or simply with the force of his blows; watch those eyes that are cold facing a target or enemy but full of fire when in our bed; watch for that smile that tells me dinner’s over, but the evening has just begun.
And maybe it’s because we’ve once again survived--shit, won--a battle against the organization that ruled our lives for decades, but tonight that smile promises more than it ever has before.
And, boy, does that fucker deliver. "Mmm, Brad, you spoil me..."
***
I’ve had all kinds of sex with Crawford over the years--hasty, fumbling sex while at Rosenkreuz; casual, fuckbuddy sex in the early years of Schwarz; bouts of hatesex during especially heated arguments; and, ever since the Golf Club Incident (which I still hold a grudge over, and one day I'm gonna nail Mamoru Takatori with a nine iron, no matter what Nagi says) sex that’s more than just a physical release.
Not that I’ve ever admitted this to Brad: there’s just some things that men like us never discuss, not even with telepathy. It’s revealed in the way we touch each other, the way we kiss; it’s proven in moments after sex, when we fight for more space on the bed and a larger share of the blankets, but never consider separating. And it’s obvious in how we live our lives, standing together, keeping Schwarz alive.
We are the bad guys, the evil, remorseless assassins. We kill people for money, for influence, and sometimes because it just feels good. Weiss would tell you that we (like them) don’t deserve any measure of happiness in our lives.
Fuck that. Crawford and I fought for years to lead our own lives; I’m not going to waste any time on guilt. Right now, I’m going back to bed and do a little spoiling of my own.