Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz
Crawford glared down at his companion, arms crossed and a furious scowl on his face. "That mission could have ended horribly. And it would have been your fault."
"Come on, Crawford, how bad could it have been?" Schuldig drawled. The redhead was lounging on the couch, looking a little burnt around the edges but oddly satisfied.
"You would currently have a piece of steel lodged in your right leg, causing a permanent limp, and I would have three bullets in the chest. All because you have the attention span of a two year old."
"I didn't think it would actually explode. It looked harmless enough."
Crawford looked at the ceiling for help. "Schuldig, it was a bomb. What did you think it would do?"
Schuldig huffed. "A song and dance number? And anyways, you still saw the explosion in time and managed to get us out and take out the targets. No harm done."
"But I might not have, and that's the point. Then you would be applying for a handicap license plate." Crawford felt that somehow his point still wasn't getting across.
"Maybe the shrapnel would have missed me and joined that stick up your ass. It must get lonely up there by its self," the telepath sneered.
"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?"
"I'd draw you a diagram, but I don't have any paper."
"If you're implying that I don't know how to have a good time, you are quite wrong," Crawford said. Turning sharply, the oracle left the Schwarz house, with every intention of proving his telepath wrong. He could have fun, without an annoying, badly dressed redhead with an attitude problem. Finding what he thought looked like a 'fun' club, he made his way in without waiting- Crawford didn't wait and a hand full of money convinced others of this as well. Ten minutes later, there was a hand grabbing his ass non-discreetly.
"Hey there."
Red hair, Crawford noted. Cigarette hanging from smirking lips. Drawling voice. Bad choice of clothing. This means nothing he thought firmly.
Twenty minutes later, he stumbled out of the men's room with his newfound companion (Gojyo, he reminded himself. What kind of a name was Gojyo?) in tow, Armani suite in dire need of a dry cleaner. Taking a seat at the bar, Crawford turned to the redhead, trying to think up some sort of conversation.
"Come here often?" was what he came up with.
Gojyo snorted. "Naw. I normally stick to taverns."
"What's the occasion then?"
"Well," the redhead started, looking over at Crawford with strange red eyes. "I was trying to prove to my leader that I'd have a better time without that stick-up-the-ass hanging around me."
Crawford nodded, taking a drink of his Scotch. This,/, he thought, /is what irony tastes like.
He heard a distinct voice laughing in his mind.
**
AN: Gift ficlet for hungry_worm
"Come on, Crawford, how bad could it have been?" Schuldig drawled. The redhead was lounging on the couch, looking a little burnt around the edges but oddly satisfied.
"You would currently have a piece of steel lodged in your right leg, causing a permanent limp, and I would have three bullets in the chest. All because you have the attention span of a two year old."
"I didn't think it would actually explode. It looked harmless enough."
Crawford looked at the ceiling for help. "Schuldig, it was a bomb. What did you think it would do?"
Schuldig huffed. "A song and dance number? And anyways, you still saw the explosion in time and managed to get us out and take out the targets. No harm done."
"But I might not have, and that's the point. Then you would be applying for a handicap license plate." Crawford felt that somehow his point still wasn't getting across.
"Maybe the shrapnel would have missed me and joined that stick up your ass. It must get lonely up there by its self," the telepath sneered.
"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?"
"I'd draw you a diagram, but I don't have any paper."
"If you're implying that I don't know how to have a good time, you are quite wrong," Crawford said. Turning sharply, the oracle left the Schwarz house, with every intention of proving his telepath wrong. He could have fun, without an annoying, badly dressed redhead with an attitude problem. Finding what he thought looked like a 'fun' club, he made his way in without waiting- Crawford didn't wait and a hand full of money convinced others of this as well. Ten minutes later, there was a hand grabbing his ass non-discreetly.
"Hey there."
Red hair, Crawford noted. Cigarette hanging from smirking lips. Drawling voice. Bad choice of clothing. This means nothing he thought firmly.
Twenty minutes later, he stumbled out of the men's room with his newfound companion (Gojyo, he reminded himself. What kind of a name was Gojyo?) in tow, Armani suite in dire need of a dry cleaner. Taking a seat at the bar, Crawford turned to the redhead, trying to think up some sort of conversation.
"Come here often?" was what he came up with.
Gojyo snorted. "Naw. I normally stick to taverns."
"What's the occasion then?"
"Well," the redhead started, looking over at Crawford with strange red eyes. "I was trying to prove to my leader that I'd have a better time without that stick-up-the-ass hanging around me."
Crawford nodded, taking a drink of his Scotch. This,/, he thought, /is what irony tastes like.
He heard a distinct voice laughing in his mind.
**
AN: Gift ficlet for hungry_worm
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