concurrent

Yohji & Aya:

The pack of cigarettes arced over the side of the building, a small white rectangle sinking rapidly into the darkness below. Yohji spun to face the man beside him and hissed,

"You asshole! What did you do that for?"

Aya crossed his arms over a trenchcoat-clad chest and looked down his nose at Yohji.

"I told you to cut it out."

OK, so smoking on surveillance wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, but they were way up out of sight, he was bored as hell, and Aya was in one of his moods (or rather, one of his many moods) and had been about as conversational as a brick wall for the past two hours. But dammit!

"You didn't have to do that!"

"No?"

Somehow Aya managed to fit an entire dictionary of scornful disbelief into one word. His cheek twinged, and Yohji realised he was clenching his jaw hard enough to crack walnuts. He forcibly relaxed and took a deep breath. Of non-nicotine polluted air, he noted sourly.

"Bastard. You just did that to torment me."

"I have to amuse myself somehow," Aya said evenly.

In the poor light it was difficult to tell, but Yohji was sure the other assassin's lips had quirked upward briefly.

"Was that a joke?" he asked, an incredulous upswing to the query.

Pretty though the new guy was, hilarity hadn't exactly made an appearance as part of his personality yet. That lack tended to curb Yohji’s desire to get any closer. Aya surveyed Yohji with a deadpan expression and faintly hostile stare.

"I've been assured I have no sense of humour."

Usually by you, was the unspoken rider.

"Now, how could anyone say that?" replied Yohji, sarcasm fairly dripping from his words.

Aya sneered at him, then his gaze flicked away, diverted by something below them.

"Hm. Action," he commented.

Yohji turned away from him to watch the target's car pull up.

Schuldig & Crawford:

Communing deeply with his first cup of coffee, the *snip* of the scissors was the only, and somewhat belated, warning Schuldig got. The result was the sight of several long locks of matted black and red falling to the ground as he spun around. He grabbed at his hair, disbelieving what he was seeing, but his fingers slipped unevenly through a butchered mass.

"You asshole!" he shrieked at Crawford, who was calmly seating himself at the head of the table, scissors set down beside his plate, "What did you do that for?"

"I told you to cut it out."

Crawford, he could tell, was deliberately refraining from smirking. The faint miasma of enjoyment leaking through his mental shields was unmistakeable though. Schuldig's team-mates' amusement had been insufferable after the job last night. During a heavy firefight Schuldig had hugged the ground, accidentally making intimate contact with a pool of still-wet tar. As the mission was otherwise the complete success the precognitive had foretold, Schuldig had his suspicions as to whether Crawford could have warned him to avoid the sticky pitch.

"You didn't have to do that," he snarled.

"No."

I didn't, but it was too much fun not to. Even a non-psychic could tell that was what Crawford was thinking. The smirk had edged its way out.

"Bastard," Schuldig slouched back in his chair and pouted, "You just did that to torment me," he added sulkily.

Sure, it would have taken a few days - OK, maybe weeks - to grow out, but still, Crawford didn't have the right to cut his lovely hair!

"I have to amuse myself somehow," said Crawford, eyes warming from cold bronze to amber. Schuldig's mood flipped at the sight.

"Was that a joke?" he asked, getting to his feet and moving around the table. Crawford looked up, smiling a little mockingly as Schuldig swung a leg over his and sat on his lap, sliding hands up Crawford's arms to grasp his shoulders.

"I've been assured I have no sense of humour," he replied.

"Now how could anyone say that?" Schuldig husked in a lazy early-morning voice, then leant forward, hair brushing the side of Crawford's face, breath shivering lightly over Crawford's lips. He stopped, teasingly short. Crawford's body tightened under his.

"Hmm. Action," he commented before Crawford pulled his head down, crushing their lips together.

They both ignored the snort of disgust as Nagi left the room.

next: kein romantisch