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FIC: The Assassin's Tango (Brad/Ken, PG)
Title: The Assassin's Tango
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Brad Crawford/Hidaka Ken
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,500
Summary: Life after Weiss isn't as easy to figure out, but Ken's taking it one day at a time.
Additional Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaosraven for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
weissday challenge/fest here, this is (and will remain to be) my only venture into the Weiss Kreuz fandom, which is quite tragic, because I don't even ship brad/ken. :\
The first few weeks after they were first disbanded have been easy to figure out. Omi moves to live in a dorm in Tokyo University, Aya disappears, Yohji goes on vacation indefinitely, and Ken suddenly finds himself between trying to run the shop from its second floor apartment and teaching a growing league little boys who were mostly Sons of Single Mothers.
The first few weeks after they were first disbanded have been easy to figure out, but not as easy to actually live through. He can't sleep as well without the clacking of computer keys from upstairs, he can't wake up without itching--by habit, mostly--for a mission, and he can't quite keep up with the upsurge of female attention either.
He sighs as he closes shop that evening, feet dragging up the stairs and hands fumbling in the dark for the switch, hissing when he stubs his toe on the leg of a random chair.
He'll get used to it, he thinks, before he goes to bed fully-clothed and sleeps dreamlessly.
*
He doesn't get used to it. The orders pile up and the supplies run low, the financial statements are not updated and there's still just barely enough to cover rent on both shop and apartment. He hires a few workers but has to let the truck go, so they go about delivering flowers on bicycles.
It's good exercise, he tells them, and doubts they believe him.
The soccer lessons become shorter, the time in between them longer. He stays up late and wakes up early, and wonders what the hell he's doing running a flower shop. Close to midnight in the makeshift office space in the corner of his room he squints to read hastily scribbled numbers, blurred and faded in charcoal, and contemplates making a Sorry, Permanently Closed sign instead.
There's gas in his bike and some money saved in the bank, and he rolls the title Wandering Soccer Guru in his tongue. He decides he likes it.
The next morning he trips over his own shoes and prepares the day's orders anyway.
*
He buys a pen, and it's the best decision he's ever made. He begins to tell apart the 5s from the 8s, catches 0s before they're smudged by dirty thumbs, and miraculously this saves him enough money to hire a manager.
He sighs with relief on his first day off in nearly a year and a half, and finds time to ride through the city again. Two weeks later there are posters announcing weekend soccer classes.
He forgets to wonder how he ends up where he did, and when he takes his bike out to ride he isn't tempted to go past the city limits and never look back.
And one day Crawford comes to visit.
*
Somehow, he isn't surprised that Crawford comes alone, or that he doesn't feel the need to reach for a weapon when he sees the man walk into the shop. Schwartz had always been professional--Crawford, at least. It is an unspoken agreement that bygones were bygones. What surprises him is what Crawford says.
"I want to buy the flower shop," he says, all smooth lines and cool confidence. Crawford is a man who doesn't need introductions.
And Ken is stubborn decisions and straight answers. "No."
"No?" Thin lips quirk up, slightly amused. Ken wishes the goddamn sun would stop glinting off his glasses. "Is there no room for negotiation?"
"None." He crosses his arms to make it clearer.
"You won't even ask me why I want to buy the shop?"
Ken frowns. "I don't ca--why would you?"
Crawford smiles. "Now we're negotiating."
*
Crawford doesn't give him any reason he's sure isn't a lie, but he learns to shrug this off, begins to roll his eyes when Crawford steps into his office: first offering hefty sums, next what he can do for the shop, and then, eventually, unsolicited advice.
"The shop's getting more orders than it can handle," he'd note casually, hands in his pockets, body leaning against the door frame.
"Good, it keeps the demand high," Ken would mutter in reply, pretending to busy himself with records his manager's paid to keep.
"You can set up a second branch right now and get more customers."
"I don't need more customers."
"Everyone needs more customers."
"Not me."
"You're sticking to this building."
"Yep," Ken replies before he understands Crawford's choice of words. He furrows his brow, looks up from his desk in a moment of slight confusion.
The bastard is smirking at him.
He scowls.
*
The next time he sees Crawford he is wearing a green apron and a silver-plated tag labeled BRAD, and he asks Ken if he wants his drink grande or venti, with an extra shot of espresso or decaf.
"I just want coffee."
"Good choice, sir."
"What are you doing here?" he hisses, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"I believe in occasionally getting my hands dirty."
Ken stares at him blankly, and then he shrugs as he takes his coffee and croissant to the tables outside. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, he tells himself.
Crawford joins him five minutes later, apron gone and name tag tucked away. "How do you like my branch?"
"I don't go here often," he says. "I just ran out of coffee at home."
He primly waits for an answer.
"It's okay," he admits.
Crawford pauses. He does not smirk or look smug. He smiles, and Ken blinks. "I have to go," he says, picking up his coffee. "I'm late for soccer."
*
Post-Schwartz, Brad has decided to build himself a mini-empire. Or at least, that's what Ken figures. Apparently it's his idea of retirement. Brad points out various stores and shops in town, all of which he's managed to acquire in the last year.
"Legally," he amends as an afterthought, casting a sidelong glance at Ken, who snorts.
He doesn't ask what happened to the rest of Schwartz, or where they are, and likewise, Brad doesn't bring up Omi, Aya, or Yohji. Bygones are bygones. Instead he asks about his prospective investments, and Brad continues to offer unsolicited advice about the flower shop.
"I told you to get last year's model," he says as the new delivery truck rolls up the garage.
"There wasn't enough after the actual costs of renovation went over your estimation," Ken shoots back.
Brad cocks his head to the side, thoughtfully staring at the side of the truck. "The logo's not painted right."
Ken glares. "I am not having it redone."
"Suit yourself," Brad replies, in a tone that says Ken really shouldn't.
That afternoon when Brad has finally gone away, Ken calls the painters in.
*
They do not begin to nest.
Ken does not begin to know each regular's name, his soccer classes do not become daily afternoon activities, and he does not develop an affinity for coffee shops. He just starts forgetting to buy coffee for the apartment.
Brad does not make a habit of dropping by to see how the flower shop is doing. Ken's employees do not greet him by name, and he most certainly does not know each of theirs either. He is simply still interested in purchasing the shop, and does occasionally give Ken offers.
Ken refuses over coffee, shakes his head no over lunch, and asks him when he plans to stop attempting to buy the shop during dinner.
"I can make it the largest chain of flower shops in Japan," Brad tells him quietly.
"Be quiet; the movie's about to start," Ken admonishes.
*
"I could franchise it off of you, and you'd still get royalty fees," Brad proposes.
"I like keeping it small, and anyway, you've got a million other franchises to run," Ken points out, before disappearing into a sports equipment store.
*
"You'll get to focus on teaching kids how to play soccer," Brad says after he downs a glass of red wine.
Ken flicks a piece of diced carrot at him. "Stop tempting me."
*
"You're far too fixated on keeping the shop," Brad tells him, lips moving against his ear.
"I am not," Ken gasps in denial, half-moaning while he fumbles for the buttons on Brad's shirt.
"Are too," Brad insists, pressing kisses against his throat.
He frees the last button and lays his palms flat on bare chest, slides hands up to broad shoulders. "And anyway, you're too fixated on buying it from me."
Brad smirks as he manages to coax a whimper from Ken's mouth, straddling him on his leather couch. "You need to let go, dear boy," he purrs, tugging Ken's pants free.
"Says the man who converted the Schwartz office into his flat," he shoots back, arching back as his hips buck forward.
"Mm, good point," Brad murmurs, flicking his tongue against Ken's bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth, sucking on it playfully.
They don't talk much about the shop after that.
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Brad Crawford/Hidaka Ken
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,500
Summary: Life after Weiss isn't as easy to figure out, but Ken's taking it one day at a time.
Additional Notes: Written for
chaosraven for the weissday challenge/fest here, this is (and will remain to be) my only venture into the Weiss Kreuz fandom, which is quite tragic, because I don't even ship brad/ken. :\The first few weeks after they were first disbanded have been easy to figure out. Omi moves to live in a dorm in Tokyo University, Aya disappears, Yohji goes on vacation indefinitely, and Ken suddenly finds himself between trying to run the shop from its second floor apartment and teaching a growing league little boys who were mostly Sons of Single Mothers.
The first few weeks after they were first disbanded have been easy to figure out, but not as easy to actually live through. He can't sleep as well without the clacking of computer keys from upstairs, he can't wake up without itching--by habit, mostly--for a mission, and he can't quite keep up with the upsurge of female attention either.
He sighs as he closes shop that evening, feet dragging up the stairs and hands fumbling in the dark for the switch, hissing when he stubs his toe on the leg of a random chair.
He'll get used to it, he thinks, before he goes to bed fully-clothed and sleeps dreamlessly.
He doesn't get used to it. The orders pile up and the supplies run low, the financial statements are not updated and there's still just barely enough to cover rent on both shop and apartment. He hires a few workers but has to let the truck go, so they go about delivering flowers on bicycles.
It's good exercise, he tells them, and doubts they believe him.
The soccer lessons become shorter, the time in between them longer. He stays up late and wakes up early, and wonders what the hell he's doing running a flower shop. Close to midnight in the makeshift office space in the corner of his room he squints to read hastily scribbled numbers, blurred and faded in charcoal, and contemplates making a Sorry, Permanently Closed sign instead.
There's gas in his bike and some money saved in the bank, and he rolls the title Wandering Soccer Guru in his tongue. He decides he likes it.
The next morning he trips over his own shoes and prepares the day's orders anyway.
He buys a pen, and it's the best decision he's ever made. He begins to tell apart the 5s from the 8s, catches 0s before they're smudged by dirty thumbs, and miraculously this saves him enough money to hire a manager.
He sighs with relief on his first day off in nearly a year and a half, and finds time to ride through the city again. Two weeks later there are posters announcing weekend soccer classes.
He forgets to wonder how he ends up where he did, and when he takes his bike out to ride he isn't tempted to go past the city limits and never look back.
And one day Crawford comes to visit.
Somehow, he isn't surprised that Crawford comes alone, or that he doesn't feel the need to reach for a weapon when he sees the man walk into the shop. Schwartz had always been professional--Crawford, at least. It is an unspoken agreement that bygones were bygones. What surprises him is what Crawford says.
"I want to buy the flower shop," he says, all smooth lines and cool confidence. Crawford is a man who doesn't need introductions.
And Ken is stubborn decisions and straight answers. "No."
"No?" Thin lips quirk up, slightly amused. Ken wishes the goddamn sun would stop glinting off his glasses. "Is there no room for negotiation?"
"None." He crosses his arms to make it clearer.
"You won't even ask me why I want to buy the shop?"
Ken frowns. "I don't ca--why would you?"
Crawford smiles. "Now we're negotiating."
Crawford doesn't give him any reason he's sure isn't a lie, but he learns to shrug this off, begins to roll his eyes when Crawford steps into his office: first offering hefty sums, next what he can do for the shop, and then, eventually, unsolicited advice.
"The shop's getting more orders than it can handle," he'd note casually, hands in his pockets, body leaning against the door frame.
"Good, it keeps the demand high," Ken would mutter in reply, pretending to busy himself with records his manager's paid to keep.
"You can set up a second branch right now and get more customers."
"I don't need more customers."
"Everyone needs more customers."
"Not me."
"You're sticking to this building."
"Yep," Ken replies before he understands Crawford's choice of words. He furrows his brow, looks up from his desk in a moment of slight confusion.
The bastard is smirking at him.
He scowls.
The next time he sees Crawford he is wearing a green apron and a silver-plated tag labeled BRAD, and he asks Ken if he wants his drink grande or venti, with an extra shot of espresso or decaf.
"I just want coffee."
"Good choice, sir."
"What are you doing here?" he hisses, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"I believe in occasionally getting my hands dirty."
Ken stares at him blankly, and then he shrugs as he takes his coffee and croissant to the tables outside. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, he tells himself.
Crawford joins him five minutes later, apron gone and name tag tucked away. "How do you like my branch?"
"I don't go here often," he says. "I just ran out of coffee at home."
He primly waits for an answer.
"It's okay," he admits.
Crawford pauses. He does not smirk or look smug. He smiles, and Ken blinks. "I have to go," he says, picking up his coffee. "I'm late for soccer."
Post-Schwartz, Brad has decided to build himself a mini-empire. Or at least, that's what Ken figures. Apparently it's his idea of retirement. Brad points out various stores and shops in town, all of which he's managed to acquire in the last year.
"Legally," he amends as an afterthought, casting a sidelong glance at Ken, who snorts.
He doesn't ask what happened to the rest of Schwartz, or where they are, and likewise, Brad doesn't bring up Omi, Aya, or Yohji. Bygones are bygones. Instead he asks about his prospective investments, and Brad continues to offer unsolicited advice about the flower shop.
"I told you to get last year's model," he says as the new delivery truck rolls up the garage.
"There wasn't enough after the actual costs of renovation went over your estimation," Ken shoots back.
Brad cocks his head to the side, thoughtfully staring at the side of the truck. "The logo's not painted right."
Ken glares. "I am not having it redone."
"Suit yourself," Brad replies, in a tone that says Ken really shouldn't.
That afternoon when Brad has finally gone away, Ken calls the painters in.
They do not begin to nest.
Ken does not begin to know each regular's name, his soccer classes do not become daily afternoon activities, and he does not develop an affinity for coffee shops. He just starts forgetting to buy coffee for the apartment.
Brad does not make a habit of dropping by to see how the flower shop is doing. Ken's employees do not greet him by name, and he most certainly does not know each of theirs either. He is simply still interested in purchasing the shop, and does occasionally give Ken offers.
Ken refuses over coffee, shakes his head no over lunch, and asks him when he plans to stop attempting to buy the shop during dinner.
"I can make it the largest chain of flower shops in Japan," Brad tells him quietly.
"Be quiet; the movie's about to start," Ken admonishes.
"I could franchise it off of you, and you'd still get royalty fees," Brad proposes.
"I like keeping it small, and anyway, you've got a million other franchises to run," Ken points out, before disappearing into a sports equipment store.
"You'll get to focus on teaching kids how to play soccer," Brad says after he downs a glass of red wine.
Ken flicks a piece of diced carrot at him. "Stop tempting me."
"You're far too fixated on keeping the shop," Brad tells him, lips moving against his ear.
"I am not," Ken gasps in denial, half-moaning while he fumbles for the buttons on Brad's shirt.
"Are too," Brad insists, pressing kisses against his throat.
He frees the last button and lays his palms flat on bare chest, slides hands up to broad shoulders. "And anyway, you're too fixated on buying it from me."
Brad smirks as he manages to coax a whimper from Ken's mouth, straddling him on his leather couch. "You need to let go, dear boy," he purrs, tugging Ken's pants free.
"Says the man who converted the Schwartz office into his flat," he shoots back, arching back as his hips buck forward.
"Mm, good point," Brad murmurs, flicking his tongue against Ken's bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth, sucking on it playfully.
They don't talk much about the shop after that.