Deals

Okay. Um. This is where things get a little bit complicated, because this fic was originally intended to be a oneshot - but it happens to be very, very long. As in, novella-length-this-could-have-been-my-NaNoWriMo-if-I-wasn't-far-too-lazy-to-write-something-this-long-in-a-month long. So to that end, this fic has been split into eight parts which I will upload one per day until it's finished, because I don't want to flood people by putting them all up in one go.

However. What this means is that a fic intended to be a oneshot has become a multipart, and I have no idea how it's taken the separation. So the point of this note is to say please bear that in mind when reading the fic!

Right, I'll shut up now.

Pairing: I AIN'T SAYING. Because it's complicated, whut. Just so you know, though, the three main characters of the fic are Ken, Crawford, and Farfarello.

Warnings: Graphic violence, graphic sex (twosome and threesome - what is it with me and writing porny threesomes?), spoilers, AU by the end of the fic, and mental disorders up the wazoo. Yeah. (It's got Farfarello in it. Of course there's stuff about mental disorders. ;P)

Disclaimer: Me no own. Me no claim me own. You no sue.

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Deals Part 1

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Morning shift was usually okay to work, Ken reflected. The squealing fangirls never turned up in the mornings, mostly because they slept for as long as possible before they had to go to school, meaning they had no time to stop by a flower shop when they did get up.



Besides the lack of squealing fangirls, morning shift was also in general only very rarely busy. This meant that while there were usually two people timetabled to work, only one of them ended up doing so – and the fights over who got to stay in bed which morning were, on occasions, nothing short of spectacular. Unfortunately for Ken, he was usually timetabled with either Yohji or Aya (Omi having school most mornings) and whenever he got put on a morning shift with Yohji he always ended up being the one that worked. Yohji was quite definitely not a morning person. His brain did not function until he’d been on his feet for at least two hours and had had an absolute minimum of four cups of coffee and two cigarettes.



And Ken had been put on the morning shift with Yohji that day.



He gazed at the bright sunlight outside the store wistfully, wanting nothing more than to be out in it teaching the kids football at the park. Or, well, just anywhere that wasn’t the Koneko. But if he abandoned his post, Aya would kill him – and that would be nothing compared to what Omi would do.



So Ken pulled out the battered copy of his favourite sports magazine that sat under the desk, and propped himself up to read.


The morning dragged by with depressing slowness, every minute seeming to take an hour. Ken had four customers throughout the entire morning. The first was an elderly lady who ordered an arrangement to be delivered as a congratulation on her granddaughter’s engagement, the second was a husband looking for a gift for his wife, the third was an abashed-looking young man who asked what it would be best to get as an apology to a girl – and the last one walked in, browsed, and walked out again.



Ken found himself almost longing for the hectic rush that came with the fangirls.



At half past eleven, the door to the shop opened for the fifth time that day. Ken hurriedly stowed his magazine under the counter, praying that this customer would end up taking enough time to relieve him of some of his boredom. He stood up and walked to the front of the store—



And stopped dead. “You,” he hissed, taking a step back and casting his eyes around wildly for a weapon to use.



“Me,” Crawford replied, amused.

“What the hell do you want?” Ken snarled at him. His eyes landed on a large, unfilled flowerpot – if he could just get to it, and hit Crawford over the head the weight alone might be enough to bring him down—



“I’m here to buy flowers, of course.”



Ken snorted, carefully manoeuvring around the edge of the store towards the flowerpot. “Yeah, right.”



“Your store was recommended to me, and I see no reason why a few . . . professional disagreements should deny me the best service available.”



“You expect me to believe that you came here to buy flowers, Schwarz?”



Crawford regarded him coolly. “Oh, I know you don’t believe me, despite it being the truth. However, one would expect you to at least consider the possibility, and not attempt to hit a potential customer over the head with a flowerpot.”



Ken flushed, then growled and launched himself at Crawford, who calmly stepped out of the way and let Ken’s momentum do the rest as he crashed into a shelf of orchids. Enraged, Ken hurled himself to his feet and started to lunge at the smug bastard again—



—and the door to the shop opened, admitting a small, elderly woman walking with a cane.



“I would advise that you cease your attack for now,” Crawford murmured into Ken’s ear, making him jerk in surprise. When the hell did that bastard move? The larger man grabbed Ken’s biceps to prevent him jumping away, continuing, “Any scene you might make right now would only serve to blow your cover. Do you want to have to kill an elderly lady?”



Ken scowled blackly, torn between jerking himself away from the American so he could rip his throat out . . . and doing the sensible thing, which was ignoring him until the obstacle between him and justified homicide was safely out of the door with whatever she’d come in to buy.



“You planned this,” he hissed under his breath, jerking out of Crawford’s hold.



The amber-brown eyes regarded him amusement. Ken had no idea what Crawford found so funny about this situation, because it was annoying the hell out of him.



“Of course I did,” the American replied. “It would have been incautious not to.”



Ken glared at him, then turned and walked stiffly over to the old lady who was sniffing the marigolds Omi had grown. The nape of his neck crawled at voluntarily putting Crawford at his back, but he could see no other way to approach the situation. Briefly, he considered yelling up the stairs for Yohji to get his arse down into the shop right now, but there was no subtle way to get across ‘Schwarz is in our shop attempting to buy flowers from us’ – and anything less probably wouldn’t persuade Yohji to get out of bed before noon.



Ken stopped beside the little old lady. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked as nicely as he could, under the circumstances.



She glanced up at him and straightened, her smile deepening the wrinkles on her face into crevices. “I think that young man was before me, dear,” she said.



Ken could have quite cheerfully killed her.



And then go after Crawford, he thought gleefully. Then he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to kill civilians. That wasn’t justified homicide, that was murder.



Something at the back of his mind whispered, There’s a difference?



“I think you’re right, ma’am,” Ken said, ignoring the little voice in his head because of course there was a difference, and smiling through a sheer act of will. “If you’d like to browse I’ll be with you in a minute.”



“You go right ahead, I’ll be just fine,” the little old lady said, still smiling that beatific smile.

Ken had no clue how he managed to keep the scowl off his face. Turning, he was faced with a small, smug smile on Crawford’s too-familiar face, and found himself wondering whether it would really matter if he killed the old lady just a teensy little bit.

Then he wondered what drugs his subconscious had been taking.

Gritting his teeth, he walked over to the American man (who still had that smug smile on his face) and put on his best professional smile. It was peculiarly easy to do that and still glare bloody murder at him. “What can I help you with, sir?” he asked, far too sweetly.

“I would like an arrangement of aconites and geraniums, please, to be sent to this address.” Crawford put a folded piece of white paper onto the counter and slid it towards Ken.

Aconites: “beware, a deadly foe is near.” Geraniums: “folly or stupidity.”

Ken gritted his teeth together, utilising every last scrap of his willpower to force his murderous instincts back. The gall of the bloody bastard. . . .

Oh yes, great all-knowing all-seeing bloody infallible precognitive Crawford-arsehole, Ken thought viciously. Waltz into the shop on MY bloody shift, why don’t you, then taunt me with the sodding arrangement you want me to make. He glanced at the paper in his hand, and scowled angrily. You fucking prick, that address is mine as well!

A distant part of Ken’s brain was telling him that the little old lady was still in the shop so he couldn’t tear the bastard limb from limb right now no matter how much he wanted to. With an effort he made himself focus on the lapel of Crawford’s suit jacket rather than the oh-so-smug (kill kill kill rip his fucking face off) smile directed his way.

“When would you like it delivered, sir?” Ken heard himself asking from a distance, and was proud of how normal he sounded.

“Oh, whenever you next make the deliveries,” Crawford said. Ken opened his mouth to pounce on the opening that provided, when Crawford cut in, “Which I see from the timetable behind you is tomorrow morning.”

Ken’s mouth shut, and he glowered at Crawford again. In the absence of an opportunity for violence, glaring was the next best option.

. . . but he really, really wanted the violence.

The American’s smug grin widened, before he suddenly leaned down and murmured in Ken’s ear, “You’d do best to hide your reactions; I think the lady is getting suspicious.” His lips brushed Ken’s ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down the brunet’s spine. Ken didn’t quite know why, but figured it had to be revulsion.

Uh huh, revulsion, that irritating little voice said. If it had a neck, Ken would have strangled it years ago. You know, to feel revulsion, you first have to be repulsed. Horny bastard.

“You are correct, sir,” Ken gritted out, wishing he had a gag he could use on a disembodied voice. “However, there will be an extra charge for the delivery, and we request you pay in advance. Is that okay?”

Crawford straightened, and Ken found himself wondering if he ever gave the smirk a rest. Or maybe Crawford was just enjoying himself immensely. That one was more likely, Ken decided.

“I’ll be glad to pay in advance,” Crawford told him, drawing a cheque book and a finely made cartridge pen out of an inside pocket on his suit. “I assume the cheque should be made out to the Koneko?”

Ken went into autopilot, giving him directions for payment without really thinking about it. The majority of his higher mental faculties were focused on what Crawford would look like with his face in tatters, blood streaking the ruin that had once been someone quite attractive.

Ken blinked, abruptly realising that Crawford was saying something. He snapped back into focus before he could fully register his last thought.

“I have one final request to make regarding this delivery,” Crawford said, tucking his cheque book back into his pocket. “Should the recipient . . . or anyone close to him ask who requested the delivery, please reply that it is an anonymous gift.”

Ken nodded before he thought about it, opening the cash register. “Certainly, sir.”

Crawford’s smile got the barest fraction wider, and the little voice at the back of Ken’s mind went, Oh shit. He regarded the larger man with trepidation, wondering what else the bastard had planned.

“I’ve been quite pleased with the service here,” Crawford was saying, and Ken found himself torn between bemusement and horror. The American seemed to sense his predicament, his grin getting still wider. “I believe I shall have to frequent this store far more often in future,” he finished, and light glinted off his glasses.

How the heck does he always manage to get the ‘dramatic bad guy’ effect, anyway? The little voice grumbled. It mumbled something Ken decided couldn’t possibly have been, Kinda sexy, though.

As he watched Crawford leave the store, Ken reflected that this was one of those days which threw up the question of whether or not he was schizophrenic. Hallucinations and hearing voices were part of that, weren’t they? It would certainly explain the day’s events better than anything else could. The sheer bizarreness of Crawford visiting the Koneko to buy flowers had him half-tempted to write the entire thing off as a particularly vivid daydream, if it weren’t for the address in his hand.

Crawford had very nice handwriting, Ken noticed.

“Young man?” Ken jumped and turned to the little old lady, abruptly realising he’d completely forgotten she was there. Putting on his best shop assistant smile, he guided her through her purchase, all the while wondering what the fuck had just happened.

----------

Farfarello was sitting against the wall, watching the light glint off his blade as he flipped it over and over, when Crawford walked in.

He could tell instantly that the day had gone very badly for someone else. The American was humming, of all things, and sauntered into the room with a bigger smirk on his face than Farfarello had seen in ages. Crawford only smirked like that when he’d caused another person a great deal of aggravation and/or physical pain, and was very, very amused about it.

He was intrigued, of course. Crawford in a good mood was a rare sight – so if there was a chance to get in on it, he wasn’t going to miss it.

As the man passed him, Farfarello murmured, “Did you have a good time?”

Crawford paused beside him, the smile still present. “Yes, I did,” he replied, looking down at the scarred man.

Farfarello blinked his sole remaining eye. “And how many corpses did you leave behind you?” he asked, his tone whimsical.

Farfarello knew that he amused Crawford sometimes, with his occasional impulse to delve into . . . interesting imagery. He also knew that due to Crawford’s long association with Farfarello, it would only take him only a moment to work out that Farfarello’s meaning was actually something closer to Care to share the details?

Whether he thought that Farfarello believed corpses had to be involved for a good time to be had was another matter, however, and one the Irish man had yet to determine. He had also yet to work out whether Crawford required corpses to be involved to have a good time – but Farfarello supposed that if the older man could be persuaded to tell him of the day’s events, that question would be answered, at least.

“Follow me, and I’ll tell you,” Crawford said, after a brief silence. With that, he turned and walked down the hall in the direction of his study.

Farfarello raised his eyebrows. Crawford certainly was in a good mood, then, to be welcoming him into the carefully-guarded sanctity of his work room. The reverent way it was held out of bounds to the rest of Schwarz frequently made him itch to see what was inside, but he wasn’t so eager to meet the false-hearted god that he’d test the limits of Crawford’s patience. Now, however, he had an invitation, so he got up in a hurry and followed the American along the corridor.

Entering the room for the first time in his life, Farfarello was instantly rather disappointed. “No blood? No altars to a demonic god? No evidence of lewd and disgusting deeds you have to keep hidden from the rest of the world lest those who think they have morals demand your death?” Farfarello asked, perching on the edge of the desk.

Crawford slid into the – plain, ordinary, black – computer chair and gave him a condescending look. “When would I have the time?” he replied.

True. He did work most hours keeping Schwarz at the forefront of Japan’s underworld, so Farfarello supposed he could excuse him for that. “So, you have something you wish to tell me,” he prompted.

The American snorted indelicately. “I think that would be more accurately phrased as ‘You have something I wish you to tell me.’” He shook his head. “At least you have a greater intellect than Schuldig and should hopefully be able to recognise what I’m talking about.”

Schuldig’s mental capacities were a frequent in-joke with Schwarz. Should he so choose, the German could absorb the knowledge and intellect of every person he passed and become the most intelligent man in the world, but he claimed not knowing the answers to the crossword puzzle in the morning newspaper was much more fun.

Farfarello would really never understand Schuldig.

He nodded to Crawford to continue, folding his arms over his chest. Discussing the telepath got boring after a while, because Schuldig’s unpredictability was only as predictable as the people around him – and the majority of humans were so very, very easy to read.

“I did something on a whim today,” Crawford announced, leaning back in his chair. He smirked, his eyes focussed on something only he could see. “It was so enjoyable that I’ve decided to continue with it. Perhaps. . . .” Crawford sat up. The look on his face was very familiar – it was a look that had spawned a thousand and more missions of the kind that Farfarello took a great deal of pleasure in. “Perhaps I shall even make an experiment out of this,” Crawford finished, his smirk slowly spreading.

Farfarello tilted his head to one side. “Oh?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve decided to conduct an experiment,” Crawford told him, much more decisive. His smirk spread to epic proportions, the American apparently unable to keep it suppressed any longer. He looked extraordinarily pleased with himself. “I began it today, albeit without realising that that was precisely what I was doing.”

Farfarello stared at him, waiting for him to continue. People usually did, when faced with the stare of a one-eyed, scarred man – they usually ended up falling over themselves to tell him things, in the hopes of distracting him from any potential decision to give them scars that matched his.

“This experiment shall be based on operant conditioning,” Crawford replied, his smirk never wavering. A moment later, he frowned slightly, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps more specifically, a modified form of stress inoculation therapy.”

Farfarello frowned. “That’s an alteration of thought, not conditioning,” he pointed out. “Whatever you want done, just ask the guilty one for it.”

Crawford waved his hand dismissively. “If I wanted it over with quickly, I would do, but this shall mostly be for fun,” he replied. “Whatever profit that comes out of it other than amusement is merely that – profit. I take it you are aware of what stress inoculation therapy is?”

The white-haired man nodded, and his voice took on a sing-song note that suggested he was reciting something long committed to memory. It had probably been explained to him during one of his extended stays at a mental hospital – the doctors had tried so many different explanations for his condition that he could call to mind half a library of information on mental illness. “Otherwise known as self instructional training, it is used for anxiety disorders. It suggests that it is not a situation itself which causes a certain response – usually a stress response – but the thoughts associated with it.” He blinked, once, and the sing-song tone vanished. “You pick boring experiments. Schwarz is not suited to consoling overworked middle age salarymen in stress management courses.” His grin seemed to have far too many teeth in it. “Schwarz is better at causing the stress.”

“Ah, but this is where the entertaining part comes in,” Crawford replied. “The experimental subject is a member of Weiss.”

Farfarello straightened, his attention piqued. He said nothing, but his expression demanded that the other man continue.

Still smirking, Crawford allowed it. “This morning in the course of some business, I happened to pass a rather familiar flower shop, and noticed that only one of Weiss was inside. Namely, Siberian,” he said, then blinked as a thought occurred to him. “Coincidence seems to have been on my side today, also, as Siberian is most likely the best candidate for this experiment out of those four – he’s not too bright, and can be easily manipulated via the therapy’s principles to get the correct response.” Crawford shook his head, and returned to his original train of thought. “To cut a long story short, I decided during the course of my business that I would return to Weiss’ flower shop, and order an arrangement. I timed it so that he would still be working alone in the shop, but there would be a normal customer present as well so he could not attack. I intend to do this several times over the next few months, and measure his reactions as he becomes accustomed to my presence.”

Farfarello’s eye narrowed. It sounded intriguing, to be sure, but despite his statement that this had originally been a whim, the oracle never did anything without a reason. He remained silent, waiting for Crawford to continue.

Crawford leaned back in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “My plan rests on the physiological fact that the body cannot sustain a stress response for an indefinite period of time. Should my visits go on long enough and be frequent enough, Siberian will become habituated to my presence to the point where his automatic response to my appearance will not be a fight or flight reaction, but one far less amenable to combat.”

“And the kitten will be declawed,” Farfarello finished, then frowned. “No matter the size of the claws, ours are larger,” he pointed out. “And Schuldig will not thank you for playing with his toys.”

“Schuldig needs to learn that he is not in command of Schwarz,” Crawford snapped. His good mood abruptly vanished, leaving behind a person much more familiar to Farfarello. “His whims do not control the team. I have been too lax with him recently, and this will help to remind him of his place.” He stopped abruptly, and relaxed. “Besides, it will be an entertaining diversion.”

Farfarello nodded. “However, the technique you are describing would fall better under classical rather than operant conditioning – or cognitive-behavioural,” he said, something remarkably close to sanity in his voice.

Crawford stared at him, taken aback. Then, slowly, he began to chuckle. “This is why I like talking to you,” he said, his smirk returning. “Unlike Schuldig, you don’t think operant conditioning is a hair product.”

----------

“Bastard,” Schuldig muttered, rifling through the cupboards in search of something edible that didn’t require cooking and wasn’t healthy.

“Hmm?” Nagi said absently, his pen moving across the paper on its own while he read a textbook.

“Bloody Crawford. I do so too know what operant conditioning is,” Schuldig grumbled, slumping into one of the kitchen chairs with a box of some sugar-coated breakfast cereal. “And anyway, I’m not the one who’s so bloody anal he can’t admit that he wants to play around with some poor fucker’s life – oh no, it has to be an experiment. Ha!” Throwing a piece of cereal in the air, he caught it in his mouth.

Nagi looked up from his work and raised an eyebrow at the telepath. Schuldig declined to say anything more, however, grumbling to himself and catching cereal with his mouth. Shrugging, Schwarz’s youngest member returned to his homework, mentally reaffirming his conviction that they were all idiots, anyway.

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“Ken,” Omi said, peering at a list. “Why does this say one of our orders has to be delivered to us tomorrow? Or, more specifically, to you?”

“It does?” Ken said, feigning innocence. He hoped he was doing it well, because for some reason he couldn’t even articulate to himself he really, really did not want the rest of Weiss to know about Crawford’s impromptu visit – or his promise to visit again. He still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told them the first chance he got, but . . . well, he couldn’t go back on his decision just because Omi found out about the flowers, could he?

“Ken. . . .” Omi had a dangerous tone to his voice.

. . . okay, maybe he could. Omi had that look in his eyes that said he wasn’t going to back off until he got what he wanted. It was the look that had previously spawned three weeks of Ken having to eat his own cooking, and the one that had resulted in all his football shirts being shrunk to half their original size.

Gotta think gotta think what excuse do I use? Ken thought frantically, then pounced on the first idea that came into his head. “It’s kind of embarrassing, all right?”

Okay, great. Now all I have to do is figure out exactly what was so embarrassing.

And oh dear god why did Yohji have to walk in the door right that moment. “Embarrassing?” the blond man perked up, sidling over to Ken. “Did a lovely lady come into the shop while I wasn’t there, and settle for our little Kenken over my gorgeous self?”

Ken scowled, and he mumbled some piece of nonsense, praying that Yohji would just go somewhere else and leave him alone. Omi was all right, Omi would eventually leave him alone if he acted embarrassed enough, but Yohji? Not a chance in hell.

True to form, Yohji immediately asked, “What was that?” He practically draped himself on top of Ken, as though trying to get his ear as close as he could to Ken’s mouth without actually sticking it in the orifice.

The sight of Yohji’s ear that close to him made Ken felt like biting it. “You heard me,” he growled.

“Kenken, a bat wouldn’t have heard you. So tell me, what was she like? A hot babe? Nice hair, long legs, perfect breasts? Of course, if a woman like that came in here, you all know she’d be looking for me instead of—”

“I said it was a guy, not a woman!” Ken burst out, then felt his throat close up as he realised what he’d said. His face burned.

Uh huh. Great idea. Now all you have to deal with is Yohji ribbing you about this for months, demanding details, and most likely telling everybody and their brother about it while trying to set you up with some guy. Nice going, Ken.

Yohji stared at him over the top of his sunglasses for a moment – and then fell over onto the floor, howling with laughter.

“Bastard,” Ken muttered, avoiding Omi’s eyes. “It wasn’t anyone I know, all right? Just some guy who came into the shop and ordered the flowers, then gave my address as the delivery one. He was probably just playing around.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ken saw Omi’s smile slowly turn evil. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think we should encourage any suitors Ken might get. He’s been alone so long. . . .” and here came the melodramatic sniffles, and wasn’t the shitty little bastard just so good at that? “It’s our duty to see he gets all the chances he deserves. Wouldn’t you agree, Yohji-kun?”

Yohji nodded helplessly, still laughing too hard to get the breath to reply.

Oh, great. Now he’s in on it too. You don’t have a hope in hell, Hidaka, so start praying.

Ken ignored the little voice. “Guys, it’s really nothing,” he protested, trying to salvage a bad situation from turning worse and trying desperately not to pay attention to the sinking feeling that it was far, far too late for that. “It was just a joke, come on.”

Yohji’s chuckles finally died down to something which left him draped over a chair with an unholy grin on his face. “Sooo, Kenken, gives us details,” he said.

“There are no goddamn details!” Ken exploded, throwing his arms in the air. “Will you just fucking drop it?”

Yohji’s grin just got bigger. “What was he like? Tall or short? Dark or fair? Gorgeous or hideous?”

And that made him think about precisely who it was they were discussing, and Ken scowled. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

And then realised what a mistake that was, as Yohji abruptly became very interested. “Oh, this sounds good,” he said. “Methinks little Kenken likes this mysterious admirer, eh?”

Ken’s face contorted into a horrified expression. “Fuck no!” he burst out, earning a startled look from Omi. “No way in hell!”

“Aha, much more than a tad,” Yohji said, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Really, Ken-kun?” Omi’s eyes got big and teary. “But you promised to love me forever!”

Yohji pounced on this opening, jumping to his feet to sweep Omi into his arms with a melodramatic flair. “He’s just a callous brute, my dear,” the blond man said, putting on an expression of overdone martyred tenderness that was almost ruined by the grin he couldn’t quite smother. “A total cad! We shall run away, you and I, run away and leave this horrible Kenken to the hopefully not-so-tender embrace of his secret paramour!”

Omi was laughing so hard he was having difficulty staying upright, collapsing into fits of giggles every time he looked Ken’s way and caught sight of his bright red face. “Oh, Y-Yohji-kun,” he stammered, the words interspersed by giggles. “We cannot simply l-leave my dear Ken-kun to the tender mercies of a man h-he says he’s never met before t-today!” With that, Omi collapsed over Yohji’s arm, convulsing with laughter.

The blond man appeared not to notice his collapse, stretching to his full height and placing his free hand over his heart. “My dear Omittchi is right!” Yohji declared. “Despite his callous disregard for the deep and abiding feelings held by the little menace here, we have a duty to—”

“What’s going on here?”

The deep voice fell like a bucket of water over the festivities. Ken had a sudden strong impulse to kiss Aya, which thankfully passed before he gave in to the temptation to act on it. He really would never have heard the end of that.

“Kenken has an admirer,” Yohji was telling Aya, still grinning although his merriment was much reduced. The redhead had that effect on people, Ken had noticed, and today he had never liked it more.

Aya raised an eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with why you’re not working?”

Yohji rolled his eyes and gave a put-upon sigh, but didn’t say anything.

Omi was looking contrite. “Sorry, Aya-kun,” he said. “I guess we just got carried away.”

Aya grunted and turned on his heel, heading back into the front of the shop. Ken used the opportunity to focus on clearing up, studiously ignoring the rest of Weiss and intensely thankful to the older man.

----------

As thankful as Ken had been to Aya, it occurred to him later on that perhaps it would have been better if he’d let Omi and Yohji tease him for a while longer. If it had gone on long enough, it might have pushed him into admitting the truth, for one thing.

And then he might actually be able to find enough peace of mind to get some sleep.

Staring at the ceiling, Ken silently cursed whatever masochistic impulse – or sadistic, he wasn’t sure yet – had made him pretend that Crawford’s visit was something other than . . . well . . . a visit from Crawford. It had hit him shortly after he lay down that what he had done was dangerous, and dangerous twice over; Crawford himself was hardly the safest of people to be around, and seeing as he had deliberately kept this a secret from Weiss he couldn’t expect any help from that quarter either.

He’d thrown away the protection of his friends and Kritiker for an enemy, and he’d done it on little more than a whim.

It was no comfort to know that Crawford had probably expected him to do just that – expected and planned on it. Stupid fucking precogs. Ken scowled, the expression more directed at his own naïveté than anything else.

At this point, there was nothing for it but to continue on with life as usual. There was nothing Ken could do to change the situation at this point, since the moment he went to one of the others with it – well, he had no illusions as to what would happen. If nothing else, Aya would have to be told at some point, and even if none of the others had reported him to Kritiker – Aya most definitely would.

Anything to keep his pay cheque coming, after all.

Ken snorted at the unexpectedly bitter turn his thoughts had taken. What it came down to was that he couldn’t trust the rest of Weiss, not wholly. Omi had been raised by Kritiker, Aya needed money too much – and was too much of a cold bastard – and Yohji . . . well, once Ken might have thought that he could trust Yohji with something like this, but that was before Yuriko. Before Yohji had demonstrated, quite comprehensibly, that he was firmly on Kritiker’s side.

It galled, more than a little, because Ken would have picked them over Kritiker any day.

But. He didn’t have the choice.

Nothing for it, then. We keep the secret.

Decision made, Ken rolled over, and spent the rest of the night trying to get to sleep.

----------

“Good morning.”

“Not you again,” Ken muttered under his breath, his tone resigned. “What do you want now?”

Crawford smirked at him. “Another order of flowers, of course,” he said.

“Yeah. Great. What this time?”

“You’re not going to attack me?” the American queried.

“Do you want me to?” Ken countered.

Crawford’s smirk deepened a fraction. “I’ve recommended your shop to my employers,” he said. “They’ve requested a small arrangement of fleur de lis, galax, and baby’s breath to be made in order for them to ascertain the truth of my recommendation. The arrangement is to be sent to this address—” he slid another folded piece of white paper across the counter to Ken, “—in exactly thirteen days’ time, before noon.”

Ken stared at him. Part of him wanted to ask why thirteen days, specifically, and not a fortnight – but the rest of him just didn’t want to know. There was a more pressing issue, though, and as there were no other customers in the shop, so he supposed he was free to speak his mind— “Why in hell would you think I would allow my frie – co-workers,” he corrected himself, cursing under his breath at the eyebrow Crawford raised at his slip. More of a slip than you know, he thought bitterly, then banished the uncharitable thought in irritation. “Why would you think I’d let them anywhere near a building that you’ve sent them to?” he continued.

“Well, that all depends.” Crawford leant on the counter, shifting to a more casual stance. “Do you really want to have to explain to them why you happened not to mention that those flowers that were sent to you came from me? You’d have to hand over the address to confirm the location, and Bombay at least is bound to recognise the handwriting, as I believe he does your accounts and thus will have already seen my previous note.” Crawford’s smirk had a hint of teeth in it this time. “Do you have a handy excuse ready for that one? I don’t think Kritiker will accept ‘embarrassment’.”

Ken settled for glowering at the older man. “Right, fine, you’ve made your order, now would you leave? I have work to do.”

“Yes, making arrangements for the funeral of an eighty-four year old man,” Crawford said. “How . . . fascinating.”

“How do you know that?” Ken asked suspiciously. Maybe that redheaded bastard was lurking somewhere close, picking information out of his brain and feeding it to the American. That would explain how Crawford knew where all his buttons were.

“The list of the Koneko’s pending orders are up on the wall behind you,” Crawford said.

. . . crap. I really need to move that board into the back room.

“Although I suppose it would be more in keeping with your opinion of me if I said I’d foreseen a long, boring morning’s work ahead of you?” Crawford continued. “Or announced that Schuldig had taken the information straight out of your head?”

“Could you blame me for assuming that?” Ken demanded. “Schwarz is usually attached at the hip.”

“Schuldig has absolutely nothing to do with these meetings of ours,” Crawford told him, and Ken shuddered at the implication of mutual complicity. “Despite what you seem to think, Schwarz is not a static unit made up of completely reprehensible bastards, but a team made of individuals with their own personalities. Much like Weiss, indeed. Schuldig would not be interested.”

“So I’m not interesting enough, then?” Ken snarled, then blinked. Oh crap. I did not just say that.

Crawford appeared mildly startled, which made Ken’s embarrassment vanish at the realisation that he’d got one up on a precog, however minor. The moment passed quickly, however, as Crawford adjusted his glasses and shrugged. “What interests one person is beyond comprehension to another,” he said. “Just as one person’s perspective is always different from another’s. Where is the absolute line of interest and disinterest, or right and wrong?”

Ken rolled his eyes. “If you’re trying to get me to question what I’m working for, you could be a little more subtle about it,” he said.

A small smile appeared on Crawford’s face, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “It seems you’re more perceptive than I originally took you for,” he said. “Apologies, Hidaka-san.”

It made Ken start a little, to hear his name with the honorific attachment from an enemy’s lips. After his bitter thoughts the previous night, it warmed something, unexpectedly. And it really, really shouldn’t have.

He’s trying to get under your skin, the little voice in his head whispered. You’ll end up his lapdog eating treats from his fingers if you let him get away with it!

And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Ken shot back. If I’ve got to serve in hell no matter what, might as well get something out of my hell’s master.

Oh god, it’s started already, the voice snorted. Oi, Hidaka, you don’t want those things in your mouth. You don’t know where they’ve been.

“Shut up,” Ken muttered, then blinked and shook his head. Funny how things slipped your mind – he couldn’t quite remember precisely what he and the voice were arguing about. Although – maybe he should be more concerned that he was arguing with his inner voices than what that argument was about.

Maybe.

“Excuse me?” Crawford said, eyebrows furrowing.

Oh, wait, the argument had been about letting Crawford affect him. “Not you,” Ken told the American, ignoring the nagging feeling that something was still missing. He knew what the argument was about, true, but he couldn’t quite seem to focus on what had been said. Which was odd, considering that it had been no more than a few seconds ago.

Well, no matter – he had other things to worry about. Ken could see Crawford giving him a strange, assessing look out of the corner of his eye, but the tiny, whispering voice interrupted whatever he might have said.

You’re ignoring him. You’re letting him do what he wants while you’re absorbed in yourself!

If he wanted to do damage, he would have done it already!

Yeah, sure, you keep telling yourself that. There’s more than one type of damage he can inflict, Hidaka!

Just shut up, already.

Ken blinked and came back to himself abruptly, shutting out the yells of the little voice. It had been strangely louder than usual recently – but that was probably just due to the stress of having to deal with Crawford interrupting him at the Koneko on top of all the usual crap.

Still just a voice in his head, though. Everyone has those.

He wondered, briefly, if the rest of Weiss had them. Then he realised he didn’t care.

“Are you . . . feeling all right?” Crawford asked him slowly.

Why the hell would he show concern about you? He’s your enemy! See? You CAN’T TRUST HIM!

Ken stared at the older man. “You’re a complete bastard, you know that?” he said, and for a moment had no clue who he was talking to.

Crawford smirked. “I know.”

“What do you want from me?” Ken yelled, exploding forward across the counter. He grabbed the taller man’s suit jacket and yanked him down, both hands fisted in the fabric.

Crawford didn’t even blink – his only reaction was to slide one hand along Ken’s chin, cupping his face. The hand was gentle, but there was a suggestion of power in the gesture that hinted at a willingness to use force, if Ken didn’t cooperate. It took him by surprise, his grip loosening and eyes widening comically as Crawford leaned closer, and closer still, until only a breath separated them.

“Why do you assume I want anything?”

And then Crawford was gone, the clattering of the shop door as it shut the only evidence that he had ever been there at all.

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TBC

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So . . . second part tomorrow. :)