#and most likely make a vvv bitter sour taste instead

[snickerdoodlles]

more assassin AU hot off the press for @jemmo. we’ll make it thru ep12 somehow my friend ❤❤

dimples can always lie (series tag); Pt.3, 1300w, rated T 02: “We just stopped a homicide. Congratulations?” (prompt list)

Wai’s just finished settling on the couch when he hears a key unlock Pran’s front door. “Hey!” he shouts, because letting Pran speculate on who might’ve entered his home while he was out is a mistake someone only ever makes once. “News says you stopped a homicide. Congratulations!”

He barely manages to duck in time to avoid a knife from burying itself into his skull. His strangled yelp is barely louder than the heavy thunk of the knife embedding itself into the wall behind where his head used to be. He peeks over his bowl of noodles warily just in time to see Pran storm past his living room and up the stairs.

Wai turns to Pat, who’s hanging up their bags and keys by the door. “What the hell?” Wai demands, aggrieved. “You’d think I’d interrupted his knitting again.” (Another mistake someone only ever makes once.)

Pat presses his lips together to hide his smile. Dick. “Did the news say who Pran saved?”

Wai shakes his head. “Nope. They blurred out his face though, so I’m guessing he’s someone important?”

“Of course they did,” Pat mutters with a roll of his eyes. “Paramej Chueamanee.”

Wai and Pat blink at each other expectantly. “Yeah,” Wai drawls, “Whoever they are, they’re too classy to have mob connections.”

“...Petrochemicals. Human rights violator. Constantly pays fines for the workers that die--”

“Ohhh.” Wai snaps his fingers. “That guy with the factory issues Pran bitched about last month?”

Pat just stares at Wai, unimpressed. “You know what, sure, close enough. That’s him.”

Wai rolls his eyes. Just because Pat and Pran keep mental lists of Thailand’s richest assholes and politicians to fuck over doesn’t mean the rest of them do. Wai has plenty enough to memorize with just the mafia and majia-adjacent networks, thank you very much.

“Why’d he even save him?”

Pran stomps back in with a thundercloud over his head and his long standing knitting project in his arms. “I would never,” Pran mutters. His fingers flex reflexively. Pat, a far braver fool than Wai, kisses Pran’s forehead on his way to the kitchen and the storm brewing around him calms, just a bit. “I thought the gunman was going for Pat.”

Wai whistles. “That’s rough.” For Pran and the poor gunman. Wai frowns. “But the news didn’t say anyone had died?”

Pran throws down his knitting project--and ooh, he’s even more pissed off than Wai first expected, because that’s the Murder Scarf. Wai slurps down another bite of noodles and subtly scoots away from Pran.

(The Murder Scarf had started after one of Pran’s first botched hits. They’d had to hide in a dumpster behind one of those terrible chain craft stores and had somehow wound up with a ball of cheap red yarn finding its way into Pran’s bag. He and Wai had taken the bus home and since knife throwing isn’t an option when they’re in public, Pran had started knitting to ease his irritation. By the time they’d gotten home, the shitty ball of yarn had become the start of a scarf and Pran had a new plan--one he enacted the next day with vengeance, terrifying precision, and more knives than Wai knew a person could carry--and the Murder Scarf was borne. It’s since grown over the years from a red twenty centimeter block to a trailing riot of colors and shitty scrap yarn several meters long. Anytime the Murder Scarf makes an appearance, bodies will fall.)

Pran sneers and checks his gleaming knitting needles. “I didn’t kill the gunman,” he says shortly. “I realized he wasn’t there for us right as I started moving, but then it was too late. Someone else was screaming about the gun and if we didn’t take him down, Paramej’s security would have killed him.”

“Oof,” Wai mutters with a wince. He sucks some sauce off his chopsticks thoughtfully as Pran flops down with an angry huff.

“Sooo,” he mumbles around his chopsticks, only getting a grunt from Pran. He pulls out his chopsticks and clicks them together. “…Why are you so upset?” Pran looks up darkly and Wai hunches behind his noodles defensively. “I’m just saying, you look like someone ripped up one of Pat’s sweaters! Not your typical response to saving someone’s life!”

Pat walks back in carrying a bottle of wine and three glasses. “Paramej offered Pran a job.”

Wai straightens. “He knows who you are?!”

Pat’s shaking his head before Wai even finishes his sentence. “Not that kind of job. A manager’s job.”

Wai frowns and stares between them, baffled, for a minute before it clicks and Wai chokes.

“He asked you to work for him?! In the company?!” he wheezes as he pounds his chest and hacks up bits of noodle.

Pran’s thunder cloud darkens. “All important men have enemies. When you get to my position, it becomes vital to surround yourself with those you can trust,” he mimics in a growl. “Heaven forbid killing your workers has consequences.” Pran goes back to knitting, needles clicking furiously. At the rate he’s going, Chang might not even have enough time to set up the betting pool before Paramej drops dead.

Wai pounds his chest to get the last bit of noodle out of his lungs and Pat passes him a glass of wine. “Thanks,” Wai wheezes and nods gratefully. Pat smiles, like moonlight on water, and pours Pran a new glass. Then Wai takes a sip and--

Wai gags. “Is this Barolo?” he demands, smacking his lips together to try to deal with the taste. Pat snickers. “Asshole. You know I’m eating noodles with Auntie Dissaya’s special sauce!”

Pat just shrugs as he puts down Pran’s glass in front of him, finishing off the gesture with another soothing kiss to the top of Pran’s head. He smiles at Wai unrepentantly and pours himself a glass before he settles into the seat across from Wai. “It’s one of our special wines. We picked it up on a job in Italy four years ago exactly.” Pat looks up, dark eyes wide. “We’re sharing anniversary wine with you because we love you.”

Gross. “You’re so full of shit,” Wai mutters against the rim of his glass before he takes a big defiant swig. Ugh. The inside of his mouth now tastes like bad bitter melon, or sour grapefruit, but fuck Pat, Wai will drink that whole bottle of shitty anniversary wine if he wants to go there.

The corners of Pat’s eyes tighten, but he hides most of his irritation behind an appraising sniff of his wine. Wai stares him down and takes another swallow.

“Why are you even here?” Pat mutters.

Wai shrugs and turns his attention back to the news, which is running another segment on Pran’s rescue, but this time with a statement from that Paramej guy. “Ran out of food. Coming here was faster.”

“The grocer is literally a block away from your apartment,” Pat says flatly.

“Yeah, but they don’t have cooked leftovers.” Wai looks between his noodles--also known as: Pat’s favorite meal--and Pat, and grins meanly. “And it’s free.” Pat glares back and Wai snickers. “Just remember that even if you take away my key, I know how to pick locks.”

“You’re such a vulture. I’m going to stuff you full of garbage next time I see you.”

“Oi.” Wai barks as he points his chopsticks at Pat, “Don’t insult us scavengers Pat. Waste disposal is a vital part of our ecosystem!”

Pran snorts, the first sound they’ve heard from him in the last five minutes, and pauses his knitting long enough to raise his glass. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, eyes glittering darkly as he glares at Paramej Chueamanee on the tv screen.

Wai doubts the bastard will make it past the week.