Title: My Idea of Nothing To Do
Rating: R (for Schuldig's bad mouth only, I'm afraid)
Disclaimer: --

Author's Notes: An idea stuck me. I elaborated on it and, lo and behold, a fic was born. This probably takes place pre-Kapital, I think.

Schuldig was confident he knew everything there was to know about sex. He could hear people no matter how quiet they thought they were. Anything intense like that—orgasm, terror, hatred, worry—screamed at the top of its mental lungs. He read phrases like "screaming inside" and "boiling with rage" and "sighed inwardly" and laughed out loud because people really did do all of those things.

People worried about the craziest little things during sex. Shaving was a popular one. So was the debate between shaving and waxing. Did chicks actually dig hairless chests? On and on. Toenails. Orgasm faces. The kind of bellybutton you had. Size—all kinds of size, not just the obvious. Deodorant. Nobody cared, nobody noticed. But listening to people angst over it never got old.

Sex fucked people up, that much was clear. Persons not equipped with telepathy ought to know that, at least. There were TV channels that catered specifically to an audience of people fucked up by sex. Not just the writhing sweaty part, either—really it was the sex appeal obsession that nabbed people and swallowed them up. Celebrities, makeup, fashion, proper behaviour for each gender. What the fuck—just put on some clothes (or not) and fuck Patrick Dempsey if you really feel like it. There were millions of movies that revolved around sex and nothing else. All of them incorporated it. But people got addicted and there wasn't any fancy gum for it (There was a patch, though.).

And babies. Oh, God. Don't get Schuldig started on babies. What a hassle.

Schuldig already knew everything about sex. He didn't see any reason to have it, himself.

"Are the voices telling you interesting things, this evening?" asked Farfarello.

Schuldig smiled and continued staring into space. "Not really. The same old shit. Mrs. Wright is topping again, and he really loves it like that, usually, but right know he just wishes she'd—"

Crawford sighed. Nagi sighed. Schuldig laughed at them.

"Nobody cares, Schuldig," said Nagi. "Are you going to pass the butter any time this century?"

Crawford reached over and passed it to Nagi. "Not at the table, please, Schuldig. You don't want to make all of the virgin ears here present bleed—well, you may want to, actually."

"If you're including Nagi in the virgin ears category then I'm inserting myself, cracking the fuck up, here."

Nagi Did Not Blush.

Crawford wasn't watching him. He bit off another piece of potato precisely. "I don't care that he looks up porn on the internet. I'd actually be more worried if he didn't. He's not a child, in any case."

Schuldig only snickered, studying Nagi studying his plate.

"Anyway," said Farfarello, and left it at that, hiding his own smirk.

"Hey!" Schuldig was speaking around a mouthful of food and gesturing with a bread roll. "Hold on, there. If Nagi's not a child than neither am I."

"This is true. You are, however, childish."

"Still, it doesn't seem to stop you from treating me like I'm younger than Nagi and that I can't scramble your mind like delicious, messy eggs without blinking."

"I only treat you like a child when I have to." Now, for example, he added.

"I'd rather you just tied me up and locked me in a room somewhere," Schuldig shrugged. Then he registered his words and added a wink.

"The very picture of maturity, he is," Farfarello said loyally. His eyes glinted, though.

Schuldig smiled to himself. Sometimes everyone was annoyed with him. Fed up. Sometimes he liked it that way. But most of the time they were just curious to see what he'd do next. He loved performing. He should've been a musician. One of those phobia-ridden, atonal composers. And a side order of modern ballet. Yeah.

"Wake up, Schuldig! Would you pass—"

"Oh, just levitate the damned salt yourself, half-wit."

He heard Farfarello and Crawford laughing. Even Nagi admitted inwardly that he had a point.

-----

"You don't have any comments? Not anything?" Crawford was disappointed, but he talked like he was amused.

"I don't really give a damn who you molest."

Crawford laughed his short laugh. "And here I thought I could count on you for a whistle at least."

"So you foresaw whistling?"

"No. But I still expected it."

Silence ensued. Crawford rummaged through the fridge and Schuldig heard the clank of glass things and the sloshing of the 2 milk he had to have, fat free would not do and neither would whole.

"I don't know what you want me to say. I really don't care what you feel compelled to do when you see a strange and alluring woman on a job, especially considering the things I'm compelled to do when I see, uh, anything."

"I saw what would happen if I hadn't taken that particular course of action."

"Well, yeah, I know that." Defending yourself? What the hell?

"Schuldig, I must inform you that you constantly pester me with the word 'why.' I am wondering why you aren't now, that is all."

"Sometimes, it is required of a man of our profession to stick his tongue down a lady's throat in the line of duty," Schuldig said solemnly. Crawford had to see the twinkle in his eye, though.

Crawford was leaning over the refrigerator door and looking alien in the light from it. The kitchen was glowy and bedroom-coloured, but Crawford was caged by sharp light. Schuldig's train of thought started wandering to the specific lighting they used in movies, to directing flashlights up at your face when they were all kids telling ghost stories long after curfew, but Schuldig listened for any approaching teachers, and he remembered that his—

Crawford sighed. "You're not even listening, are you?"

"Nope." Crawford shouldn't be so whiny—he knew Schuldig was always in more worlds than one. "Why, did you say something important?"

"I was remarking that you only talk about sex when there is nothing remotely sexual happening. And that it'd be charming if it wasn't so deeply strange." Crawford finally decided what he wanted out of the fridge, snatched it, and sat across from Schuldig at the bar in the kitchen. It was late and Schuldig was savouring the feeling of being perfectly still on a comfortable stool after a lot of stress and exercise and killing people. He sipped more of his scalding chocolate. (As opposed to merely hot chocolate, which was what other people drank.)

"I dunno why," he said, swinging his feet because Crawford being talkative made him attentive and wary and reassured. "Do you? You do know a lot of things."

"But not this, I'm afraid. Would you care to enlighten me?" It was always downright weird when Crawford got conversational. Mostly because it meant he wanted to Find Something Out for a Reason. He tasted his drink and Schuldig still wasn't sure if it was some Cranmangoberry concoction or just Welsh's. Rest assured it wasn't wine, though—Crawford only drank alcohol when he was desperate to see something specific in the future, and he thought Schuldig was unaware of this.

"I just don't care about it," Schuldig said, letting his normally sly voice evaporate with disconcerting effortlessness. "I get enough of it in my brain. I'm satisfied."

"You mean sex."

"No, I mean you," he said sarcastically. He drank more chocolate, and the sweetness was too shocking.

"You're certainly preoccupied enough with it."

"I'm a growing boy," he sneered. "And anyway, it's not my fault people are all so obsessed with it."

"You aren't a person, Schuldig?"

The telepath snorted. But this was improv. This was so much fun. "Far from it. Since when is super speed a human trait? I mean, look at me. I'm better than Superman."

Crawford watched him, sipped more of his drink, said nothing.

"And if I'm Superman," Schuldig continued, "you can be Lex Luthor. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Crawford nodded politely. Humouring him. I wouldn't let you foil my plans, however.

Schuldig shrugged inwardly. Whatever. He wasn't going to stop Lex Crawford, he just didn't want to be that ditzy jester woman. The new movie had sucked, by the way.

"But enough about me," he said, pushing his mug so it slid down the counter and out of the way. He propped his elbows up where it had been, held his face with his hands. "What about you and sex, Crawford, hm? Do you two know each other well?"

"Now you have an interest in my affairs?"

"Well, you made me curious."

"You're always curious."

"Well, ja."

More silence. Oh, come on, Brad.

"Wanna know why?"

Crawford rolled his eyes. "Why, Schuldig?"

He leaned closer. "You see things, and I hear voices in my head. We were made for each other."

Crawford's lips twitched. "I thought you said you didn't care about sex."

"I don't. You do," he said cheerfully.

Crawford raised an eyebrow. He was about to say something clever.

"Save it, Brad. I can get inside your head without you noticing. I'm good at what I do." He swiveled in the stool contemplatively. Then he abandoned it for one on the other side of the bar. Crawford shifted.

"Bet I'm good at getting inside other things, too," Schuldig told him. He couldn't help laughing at Crawford's inward panic.

"Schuldig—"

"You brought it up," Schuldig smiled. "You have sex on the brain tonight. You were testy about it at dinner, you ravaged a random woman with your tongue (I don't care if it got us out of there alive, you could've had one of us do it), you're asking me why I am preoccupied with sex when I just repeat what I hear because I'm a real gossip like that."

Crawford looked . . . ashamed. And strangely paralyzed. Schuldig almost fumbled for his camera phone.

"Anyway . . ." he said, thinking the best course of action was to try to kiss Crawford and see what happened. He was compelled to it because Crawford was making him curious like the countless people in his head never had. Schuldig only wanted to prove Crawford wrong. Or possibly right. It didn't matter what, it only mattered that something had to be done right now, and that it was a kiss. Crawford must have seen it coming, so it had to be okay.

Except then he pulled hastily back just when Schuldig was formulating strategies involving tongues.

"Look, Schuldig, I didn't mean to give you the impression that I was—Schuldig, I was merely curious."

"Yes, I know. So was I. I am, in fact, still very curious. I'm even more curious than before. You made me curious, Brad." He was making his gradual way back to Crawford's mouth. It was interesting there, like playing out a movie he'd seen the sequels to and the remakes of, endlessly. But unscripted. Fun. "Isn't that curious?" Curiouser and curiouser.

But Crawford wasn't having any of it. "Not tonight," he said simply, and pushed Schuldig back delicately.

Schuldig really was annoyed by this, so he barged right on into Crawford's mind, pummeled it like one of those chocolate oranges and selected the choice slices for consumption. His eyes widened. He actually felt his eyes widen.

"Oh for fuck's sake. You stupid American. Get over it, already." Really, Brad, I thought people like us had no choice in being open-minded.

Not now, Schuldig. Just not now, do you see?

"What—you were the one who was—ugh, forget it." Schuldig hopped off the stool and made sure he was in Crawford's personal space. "I am going to go listen to the Wrights fucking in the apartment above us. By this time the kids are finally asleep, and they didn't get to finish earlier, so I bet they're going at it right now. Then I'm going to sleep. How about you?"

Crawford said nothing, but his eyes were trying to make Schuldig understand. It looked silly on Crawford.

"Right." Schuldig walked away. Flirting was okay but flirting for a reason wasn't? That wasn't Crawford's style at all. Everything happened for a reason. Whatever. Maybe he'd try again later. Ja, maybe later. That was okay—

Crawford was now thinking loudly about . . . Mrs. Butterworth. What?

"I'm going to make pancakes for breakfast tomorrow," Crawford said. Oh. And Schuldig thought he was random. "What kind do you want?"

"You know what kind I want, dumbass." Schuldig gave him a look over his shoulder. "Get our your crystal ball if you have to."

Crawford was smiling enigmatically, something he was truly excellent at. "Gute Nacht." Don't let the bedbugs bite.

"Yeah, yeah," Schuldig replied, walking into the darkness of the rest of the apartment, feeling the kitchen glow slide off of him.

Schuldig didn't think many things were odd, but this definitely was. Crawford being odd was odd. And he really was curious, too. Now he was.

Schuldig just couldn't help himself. He always got a kick out of Crawford.