Another World (The take me home remix) [Weiss Kreuz.; Crawford/Aya; PG-13]
Title: Another World (The take me home remix)
Author: lady_ganesh
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Crawford/Aya (mention of past Crawford/Schuldig)
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Starts at the end of Gluhen. Thanks to andmydog and toscas_kiss for beta work.
Original Story: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik by seraphim_grace.
Summary: Crawford takes home a lost kitten.
Crawford had dreamed of it for years; the one thing he tried to stop, the one thing he was powerless to avoid.
"You son of a bitch," Schuldig said. "I expected more from you than this."
I tried, he wanted to say, but what was the point? Schuldig was dying, was dead already, blood staining the familiar orange hair rust, his breaths coming shorter and shallower. "I'm sorry."
"Fuck," Schuldig said, which seemed to be all the breath he could manage. Stop blaming yourself, you dumbass. He coughed, and more blood spattered against Crawford's suit. It was good while it lasted, huh?
"Yeah," Crawford said. "It was." But there was no one left to talk to.
It wasn't like everyone was dead. Nagi had his kitten; Farfarello had his witch. But Crawford had lost his team. Schuldig had been a remnant of that, however brash and annoying he could be at times.
However pleasant fucking him had been.
Schwarz was over, gone, and Crawford was a solo agent now. It had its perks; Crawford had to remember that. Greater security. Greater autonomy. No one to argue with over what was on TV that night.
He moved back to America. Why not? The Midwest was ripe for plucking; so many of its corn-fed, white-bread citizens eager, happy even, to be screwed out of their homes, their savings, their lives. The political machinations were delicious, the crime lords grasping and eager, and the opportunities near endless.
And it was home. Crawford missed it, in a strange, masochistic way. He missed the fields and wide expanses of sky and the occasional tornado to break up the monotony.
He lasted all of a week before he sold his apartment and flew to New York.
He didn't want to stay in the city, either, but it was a good stopping point, big and busy enough to get lost in, to lose himself in a thousand different troubles.
His funds were more than adequate. He was more than bored.
He was walking back to his hotel, considering a move to a war zone, when he heard the noise: more animal than human, a whimper, a sound a little like dying. His foresight told him quickly enough that it was dying, or would be if he took no further action.
Instead, he gathered Fujimiya Aya carefully into his arms and walked him to the nearest ER. When they explained that they were a private hospital, not a public one, and that they required proof of insurance, he slid a credit card over to them and requested that they check the limit.
He spent the next hour and a half in the waiting room.
He was reading a cheap novel when a nurse came out to get him. "Mr. Crawford. Are you related to Mr. Fujimiya?"
He looked up from the pages-- he knew how the damn thing ended anyway-- and said flatly, "We have a domestic partnership."
"Ah," the nurse said, looking slightly taken aback. "Is there a Durable Power of Attorney--"
"There is," Crawford told him. "I can produce it tomorrow, if--"
"That'll be fine," he said, smiling a little. "With HIPPA, we have to be careful, that's all."
Crawford nodded. "I understand completely."
The nurse took him to a tiny, immaculate 'family room,' where a doctor sat down and gravely told him everything he already knew about Fujimiya's condition. "It will be a long and difficult recovery," he said. "If you have family--"
"Not really," Crawford said. "His have passed away, and mine...." He let his voice trail off, so the doctor could imagine estrangement, bitterness, homophobia.
"I understand," the doctor said, looking so grave and concerned Crawford wanted to laugh. "We'll have one of our social workers drop by."
Fujimiya Aya woke up several days later. Crawford was halfway through Dubliners, and he stayed still as Aya reached for a weapon, then stopped as his body informed him of its current limitations.
"You were stabbed," Crawford said. "You have...a good number of stitches. I wouldn't strain them if I were you."
"I didn't want to be saved," Fujimiya said.
"I didn't ask you if you did," Crawford answered, and turned the page.
"Why are you doing this?" Fujimiya asked, much later.
Crawford peeled the top off the single-serve orange juice for him and said, "I'm not entirely sure."
Fujimiya shot him a look that could shatter glass. Crawford shrugged. He wasn't sure. Schuldig would have told him why, but Schuldig was dead.
Fujimiya took a sip of the orange juice. "Where's the rest of your team? You've never told me."
"Gone," Crawford said. That was answer enough.
"I want to get out of here," Fujimiya said.
"You're not well enough," Crawford said, settling back into his chair.
"No," Fujimiya said. "After this. I want to leave the country."
"Not back to Japan."
He shuddered. "No."
"All right," Crawford said.
Fujimiya had lost weight in the hospital. It was hard to believe such a thing was possible without the man dropping dead, but he'd mostly burned off muscle tone. He looked painfully unhealthy at the airport, and Crawford wondered what the security screeners saw.
The world had a bit more suspense now, with Schuldig gone and Fujimiya here. He could judge Fujimiya's actions with dull accuracy; but his emotional state, his reasoning, his true thoughts were all locked away behind his bland, beautiful façade.
"It's supposed to be beautiful, isn't it?" Fujimiya asked, squinting at his ticket. "I've never been."
"Yes," Crawford said. "And it's not here."
"Schuldig's dead," Fujimiya said. "Isn't he?"
Crawford just nodded.
Paris was indeed beautiful. Fujimiya still sleepwalked through his days and nights, as solid and reliable as the metro trains that roared through the city, but sometimes Crawford would catch a light in his eye that he hadn't noticed in Japan, much less in America.
He kept Fujimiya busy. He found a martial arts training school and enrolled him in advanced classes; he brought in a French tutor two days a week, and a maid named Babette that cooked almost any meal they could wish for.
Sometimes he asked himself Fujimiya's question: Why are you doing this?
He still had no answer.
As for Crawford, he found work. Simple jobs, no assassinations, things that kept his hands relatively clean. Well-timed investments, protection offered when it was most needed, a few referrals.
It was not a bad life.
One night he came home to find Fujimiya staring at a piece of paper. It was in Japanese; it took Crawford a moment to recognize the language, and the style.
Fujimiya Aya, status report.
Fujimiya's younger sister was doing well in school, keeping busy at the flower shop, dating a boy around her age. The report was remarkable only for its unremarkability, for Aya's aggressively normal habits and her clockwork schedule. She and Sakura spent quite a bit of time together. They went on picnics and to movies; they cooked together and seemed to have fun.
Fujimiya Aya, in short, was still a normal girl.
"Why did you do this?" Fujimiya asked.
"I thought you would want a copy."
Fujimiya had been sitting at the kitchen table; now he turned so his violet eyes caught Crawford's. He was angry, a sharp, threatening anger. "Copy?"
"I didn't commission it," Crawford said mildly, walking to the refrigerator and opening the door. He took a bottle of Kronenbourg out and opened it. "You want anything?"
Fujimiya shook his head. "Then--"
"Takatori Mamoru keeps his promises," Crawford answered, tipping the bottle up and taking a long swallow of beer.
Fujimiya pushed the paper away. "Destroy this," he said. "Don't give me any more."
Crawford nodded and took it off the table.
Fujimiya grew his hair longer again, dyed it a brighter, truer red. He was beautiful, fine-featured, but so quiet Crawford sometimes forgot he was in a room until a moment before he spoke. It was like having a particularly self-contained cat.
"I want to work," he said one evening, and Crawford put down his book and nodded at him. "I did construction, in Japan. I liked that. Can you get me papers?"
"Of course," he said. "But construction. Are you sure? You have skills enough to--"
"There's nothing wrong with construction," Fujimiya said sharply. "And my French still isn't particularly strong. It was good work."
Crawford nodded. "All right," he said.
Fujimiya started coming home streaked with sweat and grime. In contrast, his mood lightened, clearly enough that even Babette could note the difference. He let Crawford take him out more often, to dinner, to shows, just walking along the streets of the city, watching the people, peering in shop windows.
"Should we--" Crawford began, his attention caught by a widescreen TV, when he realized he'd lost Fujimiya altogether.
There was an antique store a few shops down. Fujimiya was standing in the window, staring at....
He stepped back. A violin.
"Do you play?"
"I did." Fujimiya's eyes are lost, but the rest of his face is closed. "A lifetime ago."
"I see," Crawford said.
Babette cooked chicken stuffed with trout the next evening. She lit candles, and they ate in near-silence. "What's the special occasion?" Fujimiya asked, halfway between pleasure and suspicion.
"I have a gift for you," Crawford rose to get the violin case.
"You shouldn't have," Fujimiya said, but his eyes were lighter.
It wasn't the violin in the shop; this one was newer, in far better shape. The woman at the shop assured him it was an ideal instrument for an adult playing again after a long absence. Fujimiya unlatched the case and carefully took the instrument out. "Good quality," he said. "Probably needs tuning." He put it to his shoulder anyway.
Mozart; a concerto, the first, Crawford thought. It was halting and slow, but there was a loveliness to it. The violin did need tuning, but it was good enough, Ran's playing growing more confident as the tune continued.
Crawford saw it only half a moment before it happened; the smile was genuine, beautiful, real. Fujimiya was astonishingly handsome, his fingers long and gentle on the instrument, despite the calluses that had already started forming from his work.
Crawford rose and walked into the kitchen. He took Babette by the arm and led her into the dining room. They watched him together until Fujimiya finished. Babette applauded; Crawford crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"Thank you," Fujimiya said, and put the instrument back down in his case.
"You should play more," Babette encouraged.
"Avec plus de pratique," Fujimiya said. "Je promet."
"Very good!" she said, and applauded for him again.
Fujimiya arranged for his own lessons, using his halting French to describe his level and negotiate a rate. He didn't bother asking Crawford about money; he just took a stack of bills from the American's wallet one evening and left with them.
Crawford smiled at that. It was good to have a little rebellion back in his life.
Fujimiya practiced nightly, gaining in skill and confidence. Crawford got used to reading his evening newspaper to tedious, seemingly endless exercises in fingering and bowing. He would usually put down the paper when Fujimiya got to a piece; Mozart or Vivaldi, usually.
"Much improved," he said one evening, as Fujimiya carefully put the violin away.
"Thank you," Fujimiya said, a smile creeping over his face. The smiles were still fleeting and rare, but Crawford saw them more often now.
"Have you ever decided?" Fujimiya asked, as he snapped the case closed. "Why you picked me up out of that alleyway?"
Crawford shook his head. "Does it matter? Perhaps I just like redheads." He folded the paper, keeping his eyes on Fujimiya. "Of course I don't even know if you are a redhead, really."
Fujimiya pushed the hair back from his face. "You could find out," he said, looking down at the case. "If you'd like."
"I believe I would," Crawford said, setting his paper aside and getting up.
Fujimiya's lips were dry under his, but warm, and his hair was thick and soft under Crawford's hand. "Let's give Babette the night off," he said, and Fujimiya nodded in agreement.
Author: lady_ganesh
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Crawford/Aya (mention of past Crawford/Schuldig)
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Starts at the end of Gluhen. Thanks to andmydog and toscas_kiss for beta work.
Original Story: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik by seraphim_grace.
Summary: Crawford takes home a lost kitten.
Crawford had dreamed of it for years; the one thing he tried to stop, the one thing he was powerless to avoid.
"You son of a bitch," Schuldig said. "I expected more from you than this."
I tried, he wanted to say, but what was the point? Schuldig was dying, was dead already, blood staining the familiar orange hair rust, his breaths coming shorter and shallower. "I'm sorry."
"Fuck," Schuldig said, which seemed to be all the breath he could manage. Stop blaming yourself, you dumbass. He coughed, and more blood spattered against Crawford's suit. It was good while it lasted, huh?
"Yeah," Crawford said. "It was." But there was no one left to talk to.
It wasn't like everyone was dead. Nagi had his kitten; Farfarello had his witch. But Crawford had lost his team. Schuldig had been a remnant of that, however brash and annoying he could be at times.
However pleasant fucking him had been.
Schwarz was over, gone, and Crawford was a solo agent now. It had its perks; Crawford had to remember that. Greater security. Greater autonomy. No one to argue with over what was on TV that night.
He moved back to America. Why not? The Midwest was ripe for plucking; so many of its corn-fed, white-bread citizens eager, happy even, to be screwed out of their homes, their savings, their lives. The political machinations were delicious, the crime lords grasping and eager, and the opportunities near endless.
And it was home. Crawford missed it, in a strange, masochistic way. He missed the fields and wide expanses of sky and the occasional tornado to break up the monotony.
He lasted all of a week before he sold his apartment and flew to New York.
He didn't want to stay in the city, either, but it was a good stopping point, big and busy enough to get lost in, to lose himself in a thousand different troubles.
His funds were more than adequate. He was more than bored.
He was walking back to his hotel, considering a move to a war zone, when he heard the noise: more animal than human, a whimper, a sound a little like dying. His foresight told him quickly enough that it was dying, or would be if he took no further action.
Instead, he gathered Fujimiya Aya carefully into his arms and walked him to the nearest ER. When they explained that they were a private hospital, not a public one, and that they required proof of insurance, he slid a credit card over to them and requested that they check the limit.
He spent the next hour and a half in the waiting room.
He was reading a cheap novel when a nurse came out to get him. "Mr. Crawford. Are you related to Mr. Fujimiya?"
He looked up from the pages-- he knew how the damn thing ended anyway-- and said flatly, "We have a domestic partnership."
"Ah," the nurse said, looking slightly taken aback. "Is there a Durable Power of Attorney--"
"There is," Crawford told him. "I can produce it tomorrow, if--"
"That'll be fine," he said, smiling a little. "With HIPPA, we have to be careful, that's all."
Crawford nodded. "I understand completely."
The nurse took him to a tiny, immaculate 'family room,' where a doctor sat down and gravely told him everything he already knew about Fujimiya's condition. "It will be a long and difficult recovery," he said. "If you have family--"
"Not really," Crawford said. "His have passed away, and mine...." He let his voice trail off, so the doctor could imagine estrangement, bitterness, homophobia.
"I understand," the doctor said, looking so grave and concerned Crawford wanted to laugh. "We'll have one of our social workers drop by."
Fujimiya Aya woke up several days later. Crawford was halfway through Dubliners, and he stayed still as Aya reached for a weapon, then stopped as his body informed him of its current limitations.
"You were stabbed," Crawford said. "You have...a good number of stitches. I wouldn't strain them if I were you."
"I didn't want to be saved," Fujimiya said.
"I didn't ask you if you did," Crawford answered, and turned the page.
"Why are you doing this?" Fujimiya asked, much later.
Crawford peeled the top off the single-serve orange juice for him and said, "I'm not entirely sure."
Fujimiya shot him a look that could shatter glass. Crawford shrugged. He wasn't sure. Schuldig would have told him why, but Schuldig was dead.
Fujimiya took a sip of the orange juice. "Where's the rest of your team? You've never told me."
"Gone," Crawford said. That was answer enough.
"I want to get out of here," Fujimiya said.
"You're not well enough," Crawford said, settling back into his chair.
"No," Fujimiya said. "After this. I want to leave the country."
"Not back to Japan."
He shuddered. "No."
"All right," Crawford said.
Fujimiya had lost weight in the hospital. It was hard to believe such a thing was possible without the man dropping dead, but he'd mostly burned off muscle tone. He looked painfully unhealthy at the airport, and Crawford wondered what the security screeners saw.
The world had a bit more suspense now, with Schuldig gone and Fujimiya here. He could judge Fujimiya's actions with dull accuracy; but his emotional state, his reasoning, his true thoughts were all locked away behind his bland, beautiful façade.
"It's supposed to be beautiful, isn't it?" Fujimiya asked, squinting at his ticket. "I've never been."
"Yes," Crawford said. "And it's not here."
"Schuldig's dead," Fujimiya said. "Isn't he?"
Crawford just nodded.
Paris was indeed beautiful. Fujimiya still sleepwalked through his days and nights, as solid and reliable as the metro trains that roared through the city, but sometimes Crawford would catch a light in his eye that he hadn't noticed in Japan, much less in America.
He kept Fujimiya busy. He found a martial arts training school and enrolled him in advanced classes; he brought in a French tutor two days a week, and a maid named Babette that cooked almost any meal they could wish for.
Sometimes he asked himself Fujimiya's question: Why are you doing this?
He still had no answer.
As for Crawford, he found work. Simple jobs, no assassinations, things that kept his hands relatively clean. Well-timed investments, protection offered when it was most needed, a few referrals.
It was not a bad life.
One night he came home to find Fujimiya staring at a piece of paper. It was in Japanese; it took Crawford a moment to recognize the language, and the style.
Fujimiya Aya, status report.
Fujimiya's younger sister was doing well in school, keeping busy at the flower shop, dating a boy around her age. The report was remarkable only for its unremarkability, for Aya's aggressively normal habits and her clockwork schedule. She and Sakura spent quite a bit of time together. They went on picnics and to movies; they cooked together and seemed to have fun.
Fujimiya Aya, in short, was still a normal girl.
"Why did you do this?" Fujimiya asked.
"I thought you would want a copy."
Fujimiya had been sitting at the kitchen table; now he turned so his violet eyes caught Crawford's. He was angry, a sharp, threatening anger. "Copy?"
"I didn't commission it," Crawford said mildly, walking to the refrigerator and opening the door. He took a bottle of Kronenbourg out and opened it. "You want anything?"
Fujimiya shook his head. "Then--"
"Takatori Mamoru keeps his promises," Crawford answered, tipping the bottle up and taking a long swallow of beer.
Fujimiya pushed the paper away. "Destroy this," he said. "Don't give me any more."
Crawford nodded and took it off the table.
Fujimiya grew his hair longer again, dyed it a brighter, truer red. He was beautiful, fine-featured, but so quiet Crawford sometimes forgot he was in a room until a moment before he spoke. It was like having a particularly self-contained cat.
"I want to work," he said one evening, and Crawford put down his book and nodded at him. "I did construction, in Japan. I liked that. Can you get me papers?"
"Of course," he said. "But construction. Are you sure? You have skills enough to--"
"There's nothing wrong with construction," Fujimiya said sharply. "And my French still isn't particularly strong. It was good work."
Crawford nodded. "All right," he said.
Fujimiya started coming home streaked with sweat and grime. In contrast, his mood lightened, clearly enough that even Babette could note the difference. He let Crawford take him out more often, to dinner, to shows, just walking along the streets of the city, watching the people, peering in shop windows.
"Should we--" Crawford began, his attention caught by a widescreen TV, when he realized he'd lost Fujimiya altogether.
There was an antique store a few shops down. Fujimiya was standing in the window, staring at....
He stepped back. A violin.
"Do you play?"
"I did." Fujimiya's eyes are lost, but the rest of his face is closed. "A lifetime ago."
"I see," Crawford said.
Babette cooked chicken stuffed with trout the next evening. She lit candles, and they ate in near-silence. "What's the special occasion?" Fujimiya asked, halfway between pleasure and suspicion.
"I have a gift for you," Crawford rose to get the violin case.
"You shouldn't have," Fujimiya said, but his eyes were lighter.
It wasn't the violin in the shop; this one was newer, in far better shape. The woman at the shop assured him it was an ideal instrument for an adult playing again after a long absence. Fujimiya unlatched the case and carefully took the instrument out. "Good quality," he said. "Probably needs tuning." He put it to his shoulder anyway.
Mozart; a concerto, the first, Crawford thought. It was halting and slow, but there was a loveliness to it. The violin did need tuning, but it was good enough, Ran's playing growing more confident as the tune continued.
Crawford saw it only half a moment before it happened; the smile was genuine, beautiful, real. Fujimiya was astonishingly handsome, his fingers long and gentle on the instrument, despite the calluses that had already started forming from his work.
Crawford rose and walked into the kitchen. He took Babette by the arm and led her into the dining room. They watched him together until Fujimiya finished. Babette applauded; Crawford crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"Thank you," Fujimiya said, and put the instrument back down in his case.
"You should play more," Babette encouraged.
"Avec plus de pratique," Fujimiya said. "Je promet."
"Very good!" she said, and applauded for him again.
Fujimiya arranged for his own lessons, using his halting French to describe his level and negotiate a rate. He didn't bother asking Crawford about money; he just took a stack of bills from the American's wallet one evening and left with them.
Crawford smiled at that. It was good to have a little rebellion back in his life.
Fujimiya practiced nightly, gaining in skill and confidence. Crawford got used to reading his evening newspaper to tedious, seemingly endless exercises in fingering and bowing. He would usually put down the paper when Fujimiya got to a piece; Mozart or Vivaldi, usually.
"Much improved," he said one evening, as Fujimiya carefully put the violin away.
"Thank you," Fujimiya said, a smile creeping over his face. The smiles were still fleeting and rare, but Crawford saw them more often now.
"Have you ever decided?" Fujimiya asked, as he snapped the case closed. "Why you picked me up out of that alleyway?"
Crawford shook his head. "Does it matter? Perhaps I just like redheads." He folded the paper, keeping his eyes on Fujimiya. "Of course I don't even know if you are a redhead, really."
Fujimiya pushed the hair back from his face. "You could find out," he said, looking down at the case. "If you'd like."
"I believe I would," Crawford said, setting his paper aside and getting up.
Fujimiya's lips were dry under his, but warm, and his hair was thick and soft under Crawford's hand. "Let's give Babette the night off," he said, and Fujimiya nodded in agreement.