*** There was no way Tadokoro Jin could be a spy. He was large, and loud, and talkative. He crossed personal boundaries easily. He had a temper. More often than not, his lies tended towards “loudly denying something was happening while it very clearly was happening.” You knew where you were with Tadokoro.
Makishima Yuusuke was...more likely to be a spy than Tadokoro, but not by much. He was more awkward than charming. His looks, combined with what passed for his sense of fashion, were highly distinctive. On the occasions he attempted small talk, he either over-generalized or over-personalized. People very rarely knew where they were with Makishima, but they could feel reasonably confident he wasn't about to steal their secrets.
Tadokoro finished arranging the plate of delicate pastries, took a step back to scrutinize them, nodded, and waved for the server to wheel the dessert tray into the ballroom.
“That Takahashi-kun sounds like a real jerk,” he said. The boy sitting on the counter laughed.
“He is a jerk! A big jerk!”
“If I were you, I'd--” Tadokoro paused. He couldn't tell a kid to hit another kid, right? “I'd tell him what a jerk he is.” The boy laughed again. Crumbs covered his pajamas. There was a roar of laughter from the ballroom, and he stopped, looking guilty.
“You all done with your sweet bun?” Tadokoro asked. The boy nodded. Tadokoro swung him down from the counter and gently pat his back. “All right, go back to bed then. Good night.”
“Good night, Tadokoro-san!” the boy replied, and left the kitchen. Tadokoro smiled fondly for a moment, then sighed. He checked the clock.
Time to make the rounds.
He took a moment to straighten his shirt and make sure his pants weren't covered in flour. Then he stepped into the ballroom.
Dozens of elegantly dressed men and women filled the room, glasses of expensive alcohol in hand. Despite the string quartet playing a lively waltz in the corner, no one was dancing. They spoke in small groups, with one person occasionally leaving one group to join another.
Thus, life and death deals were made.
Tadokoro pasted a big smile on his face and looked around for the host of tonight's party, who had employed Tadokoro's catering service. And he looked for-
There. Gamely trying to talk to an elegant woman wearing a look of fixed politeness was Makishima. No doubt he had been responsible for the laughter earlier that evening.
Tadokoro walked as carefully as he could around the edge of the room, smiling and nodding vigorously every time he caught someone's eye. Large men like him always drew people's attention.
“Good evening,” he said, each time. “Good evening.”
Finally, he reached Makishima.
“...and grapes are the worst fruit, really,” Makishima was saying. The woman nodded, her eyes glazed.
“Excuse me,” Tadokoro interrupted. Makishima turned around and the woman fled, murmuring something about getting another drink. “Back of the house, second floor,” Tadokoro muttered. “It's under his desk in a safe. You can crack it, for sure.”
“Ah, our host will be making a speech shortly,” Makishima said, his voice carrying. “Try talking to him after.”
Tadokoro nodded, looking embarrassed, and went back to the kitchen. This time, he avoided everyone's eyes.
Tadokoro finished loading his van, said goodbye to the servers, and drove around the corner.
Makishima stood on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched.
“Hey, good-looking,” Tadokoro said, opening the passenger door. “Need a ride?”
Makishima snorted and scrambled in, letting his head fall back against the seat. He sighed.
“That was exhausting,” he groaned.
“Oh yeah, I'm sure. Must be tiring, drinking champagne and eating delicious food and refusing to dance.” Makishima glared, and Tadokoro laughed. “I know, I know. You hate being the distraction. You picked a good suit for it, though. What's that pattern called again?”
“Paisley,” Makishima said, not without some relish.
“Yeah. Looks like a pond. Did you get it?”
“Of course,” Makishima smiled, taking a thumb drive out of one of his pockets. “Right where you said. How did you know it was under the desk?”
“His kid woke up and came into the kitchen, so I gave him a sweet bun and talked to him for a bit,” Tadokoro shrugged. “He said he wasn't allowed to go into the office after his dad caught him playing under his desk.”
Makishima looked at him fondly.
“You never fail to amaze me, Tadokorocchi.”
There was no way either Tadokoro or Makishima could be spies. They stood out too much, weren't smooth enough, lacked the stealth people associated with the profession.
Fill: Team Grandstand, A3, G
Fandom: YowaPeda
Major Tags: none
Other Tags: none
Square: spies AU
Word Count: 790
I am actually genuinely into this paisley suit
***
There was no way Tadokoro Jin could be a spy. He was large, and loud, and talkative. He crossed personal boundaries easily. He had a temper. More often than not, his lies tended towards “loudly denying something was happening while it very clearly was happening.” You knew where you were with Tadokoro.
Makishima Yuusuke was...more likely to be a spy than Tadokoro, but not by much. He was more awkward than charming. His looks, combined with what passed for his sense of fashion, were highly distinctive. On the occasions he attempted small talk, he either over-generalized or over-personalized. People very rarely knew where they were with Makishima, but they could feel reasonably confident he wasn't about to steal their secrets.
Tadokoro finished arranging the plate of delicate pastries, took a step back to scrutinize them, nodded, and waved for the server to wheel the dessert tray into the ballroom.
“That Takahashi-kun sounds like a real jerk,” he said. The boy sitting on the counter laughed.
“He is a jerk! A big jerk!”
“If I were you, I'd--” Tadokoro paused. He couldn't tell a kid to hit another kid, right? “I'd tell him what a jerk he is.” The boy laughed again. Crumbs covered his pajamas. There was a roar of laughter from the ballroom, and he stopped, looking guilty.
“You all done with your sweet bun?” Tadokoro asked. The boy nodded. Tadokoro swung him down from the counter and gently pat his back. “All right, go back to bed then. Good night.”
“Good night, Tadokoro-san!” the boy replied, and left the kitchen. Tadokoro smiled fondly for a moment, then sighed. He checked the clock.
Time to make the rounds.
He took a moment to straighten his shirt and make sure his pants weren't covered in flour. Then he stepped into the ballroom.
Dozens of elegantly dressed men and women filled the room, glasses of expensive alcohol in hand. Despite the string quartet playing a lively waltz in the corner, no one was dancing. They spoke in small groups, with one person occasionally leaving one group to join another.
Thus, life and death deals were made.
Tadokoro pasted a big smile on his face and looked around for the host of tonight's party, who had employed Tadokoro's catering service. And he looked for-
There. Gamely trying to talk to an elegant woman wearing a look of fixed politeness was Makishima. No doubt he had been responsible for the laughter earlier that evening.
Tadokoro walked as carefully as he could around the edge of the room, smiling and nodding vigorously every time he caught someone's eye. Large men like him always drew people's attention.
“Good evening,” he said, each time. “Good evening.”
Finally, he reached Makishima.
“...and grapes are the worst fruit, really,” Makishima was saying. The woman nodded, her eyes glazed.
“Excuse me,” Tadokoro interrupted. Makishima turned around and the woman fled, murmuring something about getting another drink. “Back of the house, second floor,” Tadokoro muttered. “It's under his desk in a safe. You can crack it, for sure.”
“Ah, our host will be making a speech shortly,” Makishima said, his voice carrying. “Try talking to him after.”
Tadokoro nodded, looking embarrassed, and went back to the kitchen. This time, he avoided everyone's eyes.
Tadokoro finished loading his van, said goodbye to the servers, and drove around the corner.
Makishima stood on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched.
“Hey, good-looking,” Tadokoro said, opening the passenger door. “Need a ride?”
Makishima snorted and scrambled in, letting his head fall back against the seat. He sighed.
“That was exhausting,” he groaned.
“Oh yeah, I'm sure. Must be tiring, drinking champagne and eating delicious food and refusing to dance.” Makishima glared, and Tadokoro laughed. “I know, I know. You hate being the distraction. You picked a good suit for it, though. What's that pattern called again?”
“Paisley,” Makishima said, not without some relish.
“Yeah. Looks like a pond. Did you get it?”
“Of course,” Makishima smiled, taking a thumb drive out of one of his pockets. “Right where you said. How did you know it was under the desk?”
“His kid woke up and came into the kitchen, so I gave him a sweet bun and talked to him for a bit,” Tadokoro shrugged. “He said he wasn't allowed to go into the office after his dad caught him playing under his desk.”
Makishima looked at him fondly.
“You never fail to amaze me, Tadokorocchi.”
There was no way either Tadokoro or Makishima could be spies. They stood out too much, weren't smooth enough, lacked the stealth people associated with the profession.
That's exactly what Kinjou counted on.