Fic - The Assassins at the End of the Universe; Weiss Kreuz/Hitchhiker's Guide; Crawford/Schuldig; G
Title: The Assassins at the End of the Universe
Author: daegaer
Fandom: Weiß Kreuz/Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Rating: G
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldig
Warnings: highlight to read: temporary comedy death
Word count: 500
Prompt: AU - Assassins in spaaaaace!
Notes: Thank you to puddingcat for beta -reading!
Summary: Sooner or later, everyone goes to Milliways.
"When you said you'd take me to the end of the world, this wasn't really what I had in mind," Schuldig said, waving the waiter over. "Bring me another one of those Pan-whatever drinks."
"It is Sir's own funeral," the waiter said obsequiously, and scampered away on too many legs.
"It's a Hexocentaur," Crawford said as Schuldig frowned. "Please stop making me foresee your speciesist remarks, I'm getting a headache."
"I'll give you a headache," Schuldig muttered, grabbing his drink from the tray as the waiter scampered back, and tearing the little parasol, the stick of celery, the slice of lemon and the throbbing plutonium swizzle stick out of it before downing it in one large gulp.
"I will contact the medical staff for Sir," the waiter said cheerfully, catching the glass as Schuldig slumped gently down on the table. "We can revive almost ninety per cent of our patrons in time for the show," it said confidingly.
"What if he's in the ten per cent you can't?" Crawford asked.
"Did the young gentleman leave a will?" the waiter inquired and, at Crawford's shake of the head, tutted its thin lips. "Oh, dear. We're normally so careful to advise that when someone makes a reservation."
"We came on spec," Crawford said. "Please do fetch the doctor." The waiter scampered away again as the compere came on stage.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the compere trilled, his face flashing up annoyingly in an advertisement on Crawford's wine menu. Max Quordlepleen is also available for private functions: birthdays, weddings, funerals and solemn invocations of the Coming of the Great White Handkerchief! Reasonable rates! Altarian dollars only.
Ignoring the hysteria building in the crowd as Quordlepleen announced the imminent death of the universe in overly-excitable shrieks, Crawford looked to the entrance just before the target arrived. Beeblebrox stood in the doorway grinning at the crowds with identical blinding smiles on both his faces, two arms around a girl, and one waving casually at creatures he recognised. Crawford smiled, and - although he would never do such a thing whilst Schuldig was actually alive - gently stroked the coppery hair back from his forehead, making him look a little neater. Crawford sat back just before the restaurant doctor hurried over, an enormous injection of adrenaline already primed in her hand. A smiling lawyer followed close behind. Schuldig's entire body convulsed as the needle went in and he sat up, staring round him in confusion and automatically scrubbing his fingers through his hair, returning it to its usual wildness. The restaurant's lawyer pressed a pen into his fingers and helped him sign the waivers before full mental faculties returned, and then withdrew, to allow them to enjoy the rest of their dinner and the apocalyptic entertainment.
Crawford smiled, and set his pistol firmly to kill. The real show was about to begin.
Author: daegaer
Fandom: Weiß Kreuz/Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Rating: G
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldig
Warnings: highlight to read: temporary comedy death
Word count: 500
Prompt: AU - Assassins in spaaaaace!
Notes: Thank you to puddingcat for beta -reading!
Summary: Sooner or later, everyone goes to Milliways.
"When you said you'd take me to the end of the world, this wasn't really what I had in mind," Schuldig said, waving the waiter over. "Bring me another one of those Pan-whatever drinks."
"It is Sir's own funeral," the waiter said obsequiously, and scampered away on too many legs.
"It's a Hexocentaur," Crawford said as Schuldig frowned. "Please stop making me foresee your speciesist remarks, I'm getting a headache."
"I'll give you a headache," Schuldig muttered, grabbing his drink from the tray as the waiter scampered back, and tearing the little parasol, the stick of celery, the slice of lemon and the throbbing plutonium swizzle stick out of it before downing it in one large gulp.
"I will contact the medical staff for Sir," the waiter said cheerfully, catching the glass as Schuldig slumped gently down on the table. "We can revive almost ninety per cent of our patrons in time for the show," it said confidingly.
"What if he's in the ten per cent you can't?" Crawford asked.
"Did the young gentleman leave a will?" the waiter inquired and, at Crawford's shake of the head, tutted its thin lips. "Oh, dear. We're normally so careful to advise that when someone makes a reservation."
"We came on spec," Crawford said. "Please do fetch the doctor." The waiter scampered away again as the compere came on stage.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the compere trilled, his face flashing up annoyingly in an advertisement on Crawford's wine menu. Max Quordlepleen is also available for private functions: birthdays, weddings, funerals and solemn invocations of the Coming of the Great White Handkerchief! Reasonable rates! Altarian dollars only.
Ignoring the hysteria building in the crowd as Quordlepleen announced the imminent death of the universe in overly-excitable shrieks, Crawford looked to the entrance just before the target arrived. Beeblebrox stood in the doorway grinning at the crowds with identical blinding smiles on both his faces, two arms around a girl, and one waving casually at creatures he recognised. Crawford smiled, and - although he would never do such a thing whilst Schuldig was actually alive - gently stroked the coppery hair back from his forehead, making him look a little neater. Crawford sat back just before the restaurant doctor hurried over, an enormous injection of adrenaline already primed in her hand. A smiling lawyer followed close behind. Schuldig's entire body convulsed as the needle went in and he sat up, staring round him in confusion and automatically scrubbing his fingers through his hair, returning it to its usual wildness. The restaurant's lawyer pressed a pen into his fingers and helped him sign the waivers before full mental faculties returned, and then withdrew, to allow them to enjoy the rest of their dinner and the apocalyptic entertainment.
Crawford smiled, and set his pistol firmly to kill. The real show was about to begin.