I should be doing something. Not sitting here, pulling a comb through my hair and marveling at its perfection in the mirror. Except, I really don't feel like it. What does he want me to do, anyway? And on that subject, where the hell is he?
But there he is in the doorway to the small living room, and now we're heading down to the mess hall to eat the complete shit they call food.
Did I ever mention that Rosenkreuz in perhaps the shittiest place to stay in?
The other teams at the long table spare us a glance, before turning away. This is a lot, considering the number of people that pass through the building. It's rare to ever spare anybody a second glance. But I know that we look good together. I am well known here as the wild card. Crawford's reputation precedes him, as well. And together, we are truly formidable. Don't cross us, we bite.
I watch him as another leader addresses him, and he gives a short answer. Cold as always, and I can tell he's judging the man behind his mask. It's amazingly sexy when he's like that. Hard, icy power is the heat he radiates. He owns the situation from the moment you make yourself known to him.
I start eating the oatmeal, not taking my eyes off him. Besides the fact that it's eye candy just to watch him, if I pay too much attention to the food I might vomit. They'll serve breakfast's leftovers, which tastes like a bowl of snot when it was hot.
Finally I tune into their conversation. Or, at least I meant to. Except that it's already over. He's turned to his food, and the other man is looking at him with annoyance. I push the food away, and give the man a doubtful look. He's looking me up and down, and I lean back and look around the room. Never give anybody too much interest. It will take away from your appearance.
"I want you ready to leave tonight."
I turn to Crawford, and he's pushed his own snot away. He's getting up to leave, and I move to follow.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
He doesn't answer me. Of course, that's the way it always works. It doesn't matter, I'll find out soon, anyway.
It's hard to say who belongs to whom in our relationship. For example, when my class was up for grabs as team members, everybody wanted to be chosen by Crawford; he's rich and he's a powerful precog, and dammit, he's sexy. When I got chosen, I spent the last two weeks of the "card marking" strutting around the building, because Brad Crawford was mine, and not anybody else's. I think that's the way it works for him, too. Because I'm the wild card, nobody can tame me. That is, nobody but him. We belong to each other, and that's that.
I spend about ten minutes packing my stuff. I know I would have more, would we stay in one place for more than a few days. At least, one place that wasn't Rosenkreuz. I briefly remember that I still owe him 500 American dollars, and 700 German marks. I stole it from him after my short "internship" that was considered part of our training. But then again, I stole about a hundred thousand American dollars in all from various leaders.
I know that he's going to tell me to get some sleep. And so after a few hours of television, I head to "his" room. More like the room we have shared for the last week or so. What can I say? I have an addictive personality. Although I know I'm not going to get any tonight, I still like having a warm body next to mine. It's an added benefit that the warm body just happens to belong to a sexy precog. He gives me a suspicious look when I climb into bed after him. However, when I make no move to initiate anything, he relaxes again.
I can tell he's considering speaking. Once, he acts as if he is going to. However, he changes his mind and closes his mouth. And no amount of nagging is going to make him say what he decided not to say. It must not be that important I think, just before I fall asleep.
He's still in bed when I get up. But that's nothing new. I stare down at him for a few moments. Or rather, his form, as the only part of him I can see is the red of his hair. He'll probably wake once I get up. That's the way it always works. And as much as he hates routines, we have one of our own.
I get out of bed and pick up the pants, shirt, and tie that I had laid out the night before-something that he would never do. I hear rustling from the bed, and a muffled sigh. I don't need to look around to know that he's sitting up in bed, watching me dress. It's all part of our morning routine, of course.
"Get up," I tell him. "We're leaving before breakfast. And that's in about half an hour."
And in the act of defiance that he shows every morning, I hear the flump, and turn around to see that he's pulled the blankets back over his head. I refuse to force him out of bed. No.
I mill about for a little while. I know that he's listening to me, and probably watching when he thinks I don't know. And so I put on my coat, and pick up my bags, and leave.
It's amazing how fast he's out of bed, dressed, and chasing me down the hall. He caught up to me two minutes after I left. I'm sure that he just broke a record. In a way, it's a shame that he still hasn't realized that I would never leave him behind. But it got him out of bed in time, so it's not that much of a shame.
"You still not saying where we're going?" he asks.
"We're going to L. A., to work for one of Esset's associates."
Associate meaning somebody not publicly tied to Esset. They're probably piling favors on top of the guy, so that he'll never be able to pay them back. But really, that's none of our business, as much as it might peak my curiosity. Well, really, not so much mine as Schuldig's, as he's used to knowing everything about them after the first meeting. Which will probably happen, the way he is. Then he'll tell me, and I'll tell him that I don't care, as long as we continue to get our weekly salary. Who knows, if he pays us enough, I might just keep him alive longer than two weeks.
"So we're just protecting this guy?" he inquires, pushing his hair behind his shoulders.
"That's why he'll think," I say. "However, Esset fears he might bolt."
"Oh, I see. So we're going there to keep the guy in one place."
"Exactly."
And now, we're out of Rosenkreuz and being chauffeured to the airport. And, as usual, he is complaining both mentally and vocally the whole way.