Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Post and Valium ❯ Post and Valium ( Chapter 1 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
Post and Valium
“I'll get it.”
The unanticipated announcement of unsolicited helpfulness causes Brad Crawford to glance up from his newspaper with suspicion.
“No killing the mailman,” he sighs, “we need to keep a low profile.”
“That would be stupid,” Farfarello reenters the room, arms filled with a mail pile of unprecedented proportions, “if I killed him, I'd never get next month's shipment.”
The words `next' and `shipment' cause Crawford to glare at the visually innocuous packages. Anything that Farfarello found more interesting than slash entertainment was something to be wary of. Well, at least he had had no visions of exploding boxes or clouds of anthrax…yet.
“Shipment of what, Farfarello?” Crawford cautiously inquires.
“I think February is sweetbreads,” is the cryptic reply, “they try to match the meat to each month's theme, February being about hearts and all that squishy crap.”
Crawford raises an eyebrow inquisitively. “Sweetbreads?”
“Ooh, this is a good one.” Farfarello ignores Brad in favor of inspecting the contents of a white, antiseptic Styrofoam container sporting his name, and the words `keep cold.'
“Farfarello,” Brad's tone is warning, “that had better not be full of black market organs. We. Do. Not. Patronize. Our. Clients.”
Farfarello rolls his eyes…er, eye.
“What would I go ordering those for when I have a perfectly good knife and nothing interesting to do?”
“Point taken,” Brad continues, “however, I would appreciate it if you would enlighten me as to the contents of your mystery box.”
The question is met with a shrug and the vague reply, “Christmas present.”
“Christmas present?” Crawford is slightly taken aback. “You celebrate the holiday?”
“Of course,” Farfarello grins, “I find its paganistic commercialism positively delightful.”
“Ah, of course.” Crawford nods, “but please divulge the specifics as to your gift.”
“Farfarello,” Brad sighs, “Why are you receiving a box of giblets in the mail?”
“They have to come in the mail,” Farfarello explains, “I joined the international meat-of-the-month club. I think this month's batch came from Slovakia.”
“Why,” Brad is trying very hard to keep his patience here, “on earth would you want to eat Slovakian giblets?”
Farf appears puzzled. “Who said anything about eating them?”
“Wait, forget I asked,” Crawford's hands rise to his temple in a gesture that has become more or less automatic. “Just…make sure you refrigerate it when it's not…being used. I won't be able to concentrate if this place smells like rancid meat.”
“Okay,” Farf agrees, “do you want your mail now?”
Farfarello hands over a thick newsprint booklet.
“All that came was your Valium Line.”
“It's called Value Line,” Brad corrects.
“But every time you read it you get all pissy and take a handful of valium.”
Crawford is minutely disturbed by his companion's perceptiveness. “That's because the stock market is in a slump, do you have any mail for Schuldig? I'm sure he would like it if you brought it to him,” Crawford attempts to change the subject.
“Shouldn't your powers turn the market slump to your advantage?” Farf persists.
“No.” Brad almost snaps. Almost. “I have no control over my visions. If I did, we would not be in servitude to a bunch of geriatric parasites, and I'd own my own island in the Mediterranean and populate it to the specifics of Plato's Republic. But, since I don't get to chose what glimpses into the future I am burdened with, instead of getting to rule my own perfect subtropical society, I'm stuck babysitting while on an extended mandatory unpaid vacation, just pissing my time away reading Value Line and waiting for the Elders to choose which poor bastard they want kidnapped next. Got it?”
“Woah, bitter much?” Schuldig, as par usual, chooses the most awkward moment to make his appearance.
“Would I get a place on your island?” Farf interjects.
“No,” Crawford shakes his head, “I figured you would prefer your own.”
“That would be acceptable.”
“Island?” Schuldig is eager to intrude, “who's getting an island, and how does it relate to me?”
“No one is getting an island, and valium-man is bitter,” Farf supplies.
“Valium-man, eh? That's a new one.”
“Just take your subscription to Vogue and leave,” Crawford finally does snap.
“Vogue?” Schuldig fakes disdain, “I don't refer to Vogue, Vogue refers to me. Like I need fashion advice.”
Someone coughs loudly.
“So, Farfarello, what did Schuldig get in the mail?” Crawford asks with a hint of malice.
“None of your business!” Schuldig makes a swipe at the envelope remaining in Farf's grasp, to no avail.
“Hm,” Farf turns a large plastic wrapped item around in his hand, “it's one of those discretely wrapped magazines.”
“Porn,” Brad clarifies.
“Hey! It's not—” Schu's protest is cut off by the ripping of plastic. Farf apparently has no qualms with privacy violation.
“What is it?” Brad sounds slightly more interested than usual.
“Hey!” Schuldig protests again, making another unsuccessful swipe at his property.
“How boring,” Farf complains.
“Give it BACK,” Schu whines.
“I'm gonna go out on a limb here,” Crawford muses, “and guess its yuri manga.”
“Not even close,” Farf cheerfully replies, turning the page.
“Chicks with dicks?” is Crawford's next guess.
“Closer, but no.”
Schuldig whines, “I hate you both.”
Farfarello hands the magazine to Crawford. “Schuldig subscribes to Haute Businessman.”
“Eh?” The copy of Value Line that Brad had been pretending to read snaps closed.
Farf is grinning now, “it's full of pretty boys posed on Wall Street,” he is more than happy to supply.
“Well,” Brad's voice has taken a slightly different tone than before, “that's interesting.”
“It's not interesting at all,” Schu pouts, “it's boring. I was about to cancel it, actually.”
Brad opens it up and grimaces. “Well. I could hardly blame you. This guy on page six is wearing an ascot.”
There is a moment of awkward silence before Schuldig pipes up, “I think you would look pretty hot in an ascot.”
“Hm,” Brad mumbles before burying his face back in Value Line.
“Well I don't know about you,” Farfarello interrupts, “but this offal has a date with my knife, and it isn't getting any fresher.” Without any further good bye, Farf picks up his Styrofoam box, of which is now ever-so-slightly leaking a pink watery trail, and happily exits.
“That was awkward,” Schuldig moodily mumbles as he snatches back his violated periodical.
“No more so than any other conversation that includes our resident sociopath,” Brad shrugs.
“Well,” Crawford says practically, “if it bothers you that much, you should take a cue from Nagi and have that sort of thing sent electronically.”
Brad has to duck to avoid being hit by a cascade of indifferently flipped hair.
“Who said anything about being bothered?” Schu `s voice is nonchalant, “besides, I find it far easier to read your email undetected than your post.”
“Which account?” Brad asks, almost amused, but not quite to that point of indulgence.
Schuldig responds eloquently with, “eh?”
“Which email account?” Brad replies concisely.
“You have several?” It's a rare moment when the telepath is taken by surprise, though admittedly, Crawford is usually involved in such moments.
“I set one up with an obvious password when I noticed you snooping around my office,” Crawford says.
“Well that's disappointing,” Schu's statement is accompanied by another and more pronounced pout.
“I rather doubt it,” Brad is matter-of-fact, “my primary account would almost certainly bore you to tears.”
“So you're not laundering money for a bank in West Africa.”
“And the Austrian prostitute?” Schu's eyebrow raises with the question.
“I think that was Nagi's contribution.”
“He found it pretty entertaining that a telepath would feel the need to try their hand at hacking.”
“You're a sick man, Brad Crawford.”
“Birds of a feather, and all that.”
Schuldig finally releases the protective grip with which he had been clutching his magazine and stretches out on the sofa.
“Birds of a feather flock to their own subtropical Island of Platonic solitude?” He asks.
“You're getting the gist.”
“And you realize that having a telepath around is pretty much the ultimate form of insider trading.”
“A valid point,” Brad concedes.
“And this telepath,” Schuldig is becoming ever-so-slightly smug, “happens to have a Swiss bank account discretely collecting dividends.”
Brad now finds himself repeating Schuldig's moment of rare stupefaction.
“And you were just keeping this to yourself.”
“I was waiting until I could actually afford to tell Reiji to shove it.”
“And how long do you expect that to take?”
“Well,” Schu says slowly, flipping through his magazine, “that depends on how big of an island you require, and whether or not you're willing to share it.”
“It would hardly be polite to decline sharing with one's benefactor,” Brad's face is starting to betray the subtle hint of a smile.
“In that case, I think it's about time we picked up some change of address forms.”