Silken

Disclaimers: If I owned Weiss Kreuz, I would have to bear the brunt of a million envious fans worldwide every single day, so I'm glad I don't.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: *under works*

Fic length: One-shot (?)

Timeline: AU

Author's note: Exam stress does funny things to Avium's head, especially in the area of pairings. Here's my first attempt at an AU Weiss Kreuz fanfic when I suddenly decided today that I wanted to see Aya and Brad in black suits and pointing guns at each other (and probably getting it on after that). Go me ^_^

Yes – Brad Crawford is Brad Crawford. I don't quite think his full name is Bradley, and if Brad is really the short form for his full name, there are easily 101 variations out there which I wouldn't have the time to run through ^_~

/ / - denotes thoughts

:: :: - denotes telepathic speeches

-@-@-@-@-

Brad Crawford hated the rain. Aside from the fact that it was cold and wet, it also had the nasty tendency to collect on the rim of his hat and dribble down the back of his collar. It was far from pleasant, especially when he was forced to stake out in the shadows of a graffiti-covered building at 2am in the morning. But the Naoe kid was pretty firm about it – get out there and get the job done, or he would find himself done in the moment he stepped out of the youngster's door. Nobody ever said that working for Nagi was an easy task, but they never told him that putting up with that kid's bad puns was part of the job requirements as well. He had to get a new prescription from his optician before he read his next contract, he decided.

Shifting uncomfortably against the fabric that had decided to attach itself firmly to his skin, Crawford reached into his trench coat and ran his hand along the cold metal of his handgun. The water on his hand had made the grip slippery, and automatically he gripped the jacket of his suit in an attempt to brush off the water droplets. Unfortunately for him, company outfits were made to be waterproof, so water never stayed on, but ironically they stayed in very, very well.

He was fucking sure that he would catch pneumonia by the end of the assignment – and he had better get a few days off for that.

Tucking himself deeper into the trench coat proved to be a mistake, because his warm breath gathered around his spectacles and caused them to fog up instantly. Irritated, he reached up and whipped his spectacles off and shoved them into his breast pocket. Schuldich had often asked him to get contact lenses; not only were they the 'in' thing, the German also figured that it would help him reel in a few pretty ladies. It would have been a fantastic suggestion, except for one thing – Crawford was allergic to the lens solution.

::How are things over there, Brad?:: A certain redhead tapped into his mind without warning, causing him to lift his head up abruptly and in the same motion, empty a new load of rainwater down his collar.

::Schuldich! Stop stalking around in my head!:: Even though he had worked with the German for over 3 months, he was still not used to the latter's strange powers. His own brief flashes of precognition had never bothered him so much – they were only a passive ability and have been with him for so long that without them, he would have felt that an extremely vital part of Brad Crawford was missing.

::I go where I want, Schätzchen.:: Crawford heard a mental chuckle from the other end before Schuldich spoke up again - ::The little Naoe is practically pissing in his pants waiting for you to report back. Why didn't he send the both of us out tonight, I wonder…?::

::Schuldich, may I point out to you that you don't need to wonder? Just go frolic in his head and leave me to get my job done.:: The raven-haired man shrugged against his trench coat uncomfortably yet again – he really had to get a change of clothes, and preferably soon. ::And stop calling me your sweetheart.::

::Touché.:: Crawford had no trouble visualising a pout on Schuldich's face at that moment. ::Well, you go have your fun – kill a few of those small fries for me, will you? And I'll just go savour a few sweet little treats for you…:: He was extremely grateful that the German had not decided to project an image of himself over at that moment. The last thing he needed to see at that moment was Schuldich indulging in his usual dose of raunchy loving…

::Farewell, mein Herr.:: A dismissive mental wave, and the connection was broken.

Crawford sighed, welcoming the silence that had settled over his mind straightaway. Sometimes he wondered why he had agreed to work under Nagi – not only was that little brunette a mere child suffering from those unpredictable teenage mood swings, he had a one heck of a trash-talker for a working companion. The moment he had walked into the office he was almost tackled by a reasonably large ball of fire who he was later introduced to as Schuldich. Guilty indeed… Had he not been trained to counter the move, he would have found himself down on the carpet face-first and his arms painfully pulled backwards – not the best way to make a first impression with your potential employer. Of course, sitting on a pinned-down Schuldich's back while the German screamed dirty did wonders for the size of Nagi's already large Spinel-blue eyes. From the looks that the kid was giving them, he was pretty sure Nagi had never expected Schuldich to be *that* noisy.

Fortunately for them, Nagi was willing to overlook any weirdness in favour of his employee's abilities. It was a good thing too – Crawford needed a new employer after his last boss was mysterious murdered. Okay, so to the American maybe it wasn't so much of a mystery, but it was to the rest of the world, and that was good enough for him.

Lighting a cigarette, Crawford tipped his head forward slightly to prevent the rain from putting out the faint orange glow. A trickle of water now fell from the front of his hat instead; better than it all going down his suit at least. The smoke trailed lazily into the rain, the splattering moisture disintegrating the tiny billows of grey as soon as they left the shelter of the hat. Crawford coughed when some of the annoying particles travelled up his nostrils before he allowed the foul stick to drop from his lips and land on the ground softly. In the next moment the glow from the end of the cigarette was extinguished by the rain, leaving him in darkness once again.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on locating a vision from the depths of his mind. Five more minutes – that was how much longer he had to spend out in the rain before he could make his way into the building. It was not an easy job being a hitman, but at least he had his gift to fall back on – it had saved him from many a sticky situations, and he was sure it would do the same today as always.

After what seemed like an eternity under the beating droplets, he pulled back the sleeve of his coat to check his watch. The thin hands circled the watch face steadily, the normally loud ticking drowned out by the patters on the concrete ground. Crawford watched the second hand make its way halfway round the face before he pushed his sleeve back down and reached into his trench coat. His hand withdrew with the gun and a silencer. Proceeding as usual, he smoothly screwed the silencer onto the barrel before he made his way towards the backdoor of the building. He took care to avoid the few strong streetlights by pressing himself up against the cold wall – no point getting detected sooner than he needed to be.

He paused at the backdoor, somewhat surprised by the lack of guards patrolling the area. What that surprised him even more was the fact that the door was swinging slowly in the wind – a clear invitation if he ever saw one. Intelligence had warned him to be ready for a beefed-up security present to protect the transaction that was due to be carried out in the old warehouse. But if this was what they meant by beefed-up, Crawford had the sneaking suspicion that Schuldich must have been switching his mission files around *again*.

The scent would have escaped a normal person, but not Crawford who had been in the trade for over a decade – gunpowder and blood. Faint and almost dispersed by the rain; but not quite.

Squinting hard against the curtain of water, he located a body hastily thrown behind a stack of crates. While whomever that killed the door guards had some basic training, he was obviously far from being a profession. Given Crawford, he would have made the effort to drag those stone-cold buggers into the rubbish chute just a few feet away – it would make it less likely for anyone looking out from above to notice a few guys flat down on their faces.

/Should I let Schuldich know?/ Crawford pondered on the possibility of contacting the German mentally, but pushed that thought out of his head almost at once – there wasn't very much that Schuldich could do for him then anyway… And if he were really unlucky, he would have to listen to that man describe his epic fornications in vivid detail – definitely not a good idea.

Frowning at the unforeseen situation, he darted over to the door and nudged it open with his leathered foot. A few moments passed before the raven-haired man decided to peer in. The lights were on, and an overhead lamp was still swaying gently as if rocked by an invisible breeze. It cast its glow back and forth the room, bringing Crawford's attention to the few bloodied corpses lying around, all posed in various degrees of retaliation. One of them still had his gun cocked in death – a bullet that never left the barrel lingering mocking.

Crawford scowled – this was definitely something he had not expected to see. Closing his eyes, he reached out for another piece of the near future. A soft smirk touched his lips when he saw that he would be the one to kill the target in spite of the uninvited intruder, so there was no need to worry. Quietly, he removed his trench coat – once inside an enclosed space, it really proved it value at retaining heat, and the last thing he needed was for the wet material to disrupt his otherwise smooth aiming. The hat had to go too – and it was completely soaked-through. But the spectacles… Well, Crawford wasn't exactly as blind as a bat, but the extra precision would always come in useful.

The American scowled as he reached up to push wet bangs out from his eyes before deciding that he had more time to do that after the mission was over. Crawford held his gun at ready before he slowly ascended the wooden stairs. The creaking wood frayed on his nerves, and walking right along the wall didn't seemed to do the trick either. Oh well – it would just be too bad for anyone waiting for him around the corner…

Blood and gunpowder – the smell was somewhat washed away by the rain outside. Yet they registered heavily with the American as he crept his way towards the end of the 2nd floor, hinting at death and pain with each breath he drew. Of course, the corpses that he had to step over served their purpose well enough as a visual reminder too. Whoever that came in before him was probably one of those gung-ho little hoodlums – those type always preferred to leave behind a clear trail of destruction and gore. /Well, not that he is going to make it out of here alive if he went into all the rooms like this. What was he trying to do – gun down the entire company of goons?/ The first lesson in assassination had been in stealth, and nodding grimly, Crawford acknowledged the fact that very few people paid attention during the introductory lectures. Why was he not surprised to be the only one still alive after the first 3 years…?

He came to a stop in front of an opened door. There was no sign of life in the room – to the untrained eye at least. Releasing the safety catch on his handgun, he slid into the room, amber eyes never leaving the bullet-riddled table overturned to form a crude shield. Crawford smiled – this was almost too easy. With surprising confidence, he strode over to the table, gun held at ready. His eyes came to rest on a cowering figure tucked behind the table, a briefcase held over his head while his body shook violently in fear.

"Good day, Mr. Golding. I believe that you've been overlooked on the party guests list today…" Crawford took his time in addressing the whimpering figure – it wasn't everyday that he had a chance to drag out a kill, "I'm just going to rectify this in a moment…"

"It's… the money, is… isn't it?" He heard the man whimpered out, "I can doub… no, no – triple it! Just let me… let me go – PLEASE!"

"Why do you businessmen all say the same thing? Is this from the 'Managing Personal Crisis –What to Do in the Case of Attempted Assassination' module?" Crawford nonchalantly pushed his spectables higher up his face, his gun never leaving his target's head, "I don't want the filthy money you make from swindling old ladies and little babies. I'm only interested in your life blood – every last drop of it."

He never gave the man a chance to reply – there was no doubt that the fat fool would have tried that old "I've a wife and ten children!" bit on him as usual – so he pulled the trigger. Crawford frowned at the splatter of crimson across his leather shoes; Nagi wasn't going to be too pleased with the laundry bill after this. But no matter – the mission was over as far as he was concerned – now to report back to little Naoe and go back home to a warm cup of coff…

Everything unfolded so rapidly that Crawford just had time to leap over the table and thrust his gun forward. The silencer pressed firmly against the forehead of another man – a slightly shorter but equally built Asian. Had it not been the skin colour that gave away the nationality of the other man, the brilliant amethysts that glared back at him viciously would have baffled Crawford. And that hair colour – goodness, he was really dealing with a punk!

"Too slow, punk," Crawford smirked as he pressed his gun harder against the other man's forehead. He was keenly aware of the gun that was shoved against his heart at the same time – perhaps he had underestimated the man…

"You took my hit," the redhead glowered at him. If looks could kill, Crawford was sure that he must have been dead by then. It was a good thing that he was used to receiving such expressions in his line of work. Smirking, he addressed the stranger again, "I apologise, but he was my target as well. And I don't recall them telling us that we should ask fellow assassins if he wanted the first shot as a courtesy gesture…"

Both men remained locked in stalemate, neither willing to pull the trigger nor draw back their weapons. They had used the chance to assess each other physically, trying to estimate their chances of getting away alive if they fired their guns. From the way that their guns were positioned, it was safe to assume that neither party would walk out alive if they pulled their triggers simultaneously.

"You want some advice, boy?" Crawford was the first to break the silence, "Don't waste your time going for the lowly goons. This is not Unreal Tournament – you don't get bonuses for racking up the most kills. Just go in and get the job done. You might still have had the chance to get to Mr. Golding first." /That is, if you even stood a chance against me in the first place…/

The redhead growled, but said nothing. Crawford cocked an eyebrow in surprise when the man made the first move by pulling back his gun, lowering it to show that he had no offensive intentions. Satisfied when the handgun had disappeared into the latter's blood-stained black jacket, Crawford withdrew his weapon with deliberate slowness, his aim still firmly locked on the redhead. "New to the game, boy?" The raven-haired man asked as he finally brought his gun out of its violative posture.

"Fujimiya Aya."

"Pardon?"

"Fujimiya Aya – that's my name. Stop calling me 'boy'," There was an undignified tone in the redhead's voice. To this Crawford allowed one eyebrow to be raised slightly in amusement. /This boy trusts too much…/

"Crawford. It's been far from a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fujimiya," Crawford held out his hand in a mock gesture of a handshake. Aya glared at him suspiciously before gripping his hand in a brief handshake. The touch had been electrifying – Aya's hand cold and clammy with exertion while Crawford's was still warm from the recent kill.

Crawford used this chance to study the man further – given his name, he knew that he was dealing with a Japanese (probably a hitman as well, but seeing the way that he ploughed through his targets, he could have been a lumberjack for all he knew…). This boy had one of the strangest hair colours he had seen in a long time – blood red. He had never seen anyone with hair of such a shade, especially when it looked so natural. And those eyes – so unusual a purple that he wondered if Aya wore contact lenses instead…

"I'm guessing that this is your first time, Fujimiya. Just go home and tell your boss that you took him down – they won't bother with little details like who took him down. They usually just want the guy dead, and he is dead – lucky you," the raven-haired man threw a knowing smirk at the Japanese. "It's been nice knowing you, Fujimiya. Let's not do this again – ever."

There was no way that Aya would shoot him – Crawford saw it in those eyes. Coolly, he walked out of the room and headed downstairs, remembering to retrieve his hat and trench coat on his way out. He never heard Aya following after him, but it didn't bother him.

/Most strange a night, really./

Crawford quietly closed the door behind him as he exited the warehouse. He carefully replaced his handgun inside his trench coat before tucking his hands into his pockets and walked away from the building.

/It appears that we might cross paths again, Fujimiya. And I won't be so kind the next time…/

~ End?

-@-@-@-@-

Author's notes: Yes… It's the ending XD Like I said, I wrote this to relieve my exam stress. I may or may not continue with this fanfic, because I really don't have much of an idea how I want this fanfic plotted out. And my muses are not really obedient either…

No, don't pester me to continue with this (who the hell reads this stuff anyway?) – I'll continue with it if I do feel like doing so.