What good is life when you don't even really want to move? That's what I'm thinking, as I sit here in the hotel in Los Angeles, waiting for him to return. He's been gone all day, and I am sinking further and further into depression. At least I'm no suicidal yet.

We got to the hotel at about six in the afternoon. And he decided that we should have a two-bedroom suite. Bastard. I've hardly seen him for an hour since we got here, not including nighttime, when he's gone to sleep. Without me.

I finally manage to get off the couch, and onto the floor. Lying there on the carpet, staring at the ceiling, I think that it is very comfortable. I could spend my life here, on the floor of a suite, in a four star hotel. Who needs beds and tables and chairs, anyway? And I think I shall just……go to sleep……

I wake up after dark, and wonder where Crawford is, and why he isn't here. Why does he give a flying fuck about the guy at "the office", when I need him here. I'm more important than that fucker, right? But no, he isn't here with me, who really needs him. He's with that bastard and his stupid "secretary". More than likely he's forgot about me.

I roll over, shaking horribly. Who the hell did I think I was fooling, thinking all those things before? He needs, nor wants, nobody. I feel hot tears flowing down my cheeks. Why was I upset over this? Am I upset over this? What the hell am I crying for?

I hear the door open softly, and close.

"Schuldig."

The moment I enter, I can tell something is wrong. There's no TV or music going, and no sixteen-year-old jumping and me the moment the door opens. Just silence.

I walk into the main room to see him lying, face toward the couch. His shoulders are shaking, and I hear a snuffling noise.

"Schuldig," I say.

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," he snaps back.

"Lying on the floor crying is not exactly nothing," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Fuck off."

I walk over and sit on the floor next to his head. Not something I am used to doing, nor particularly fond of, but at this point, I don't care that much. I want to know what's wrong with my redhead, and how I can fix it.

"Is it a headache?" I ask, softly.

"Nuh-uh."

"Relapse," I try.

A shrug.

"I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong," I say, looking down my nose. But then, maybe that's not the way to do this.

He sits up, and pulls his knees to his chest, burying his face. I look at him, and very softly touch his back.

"I know you don't being alone in the house all day. I don't like being there myself, but it's a necessary evil to accomplish our plans," I tell him, looking over at him.

He gives a small snort. "And I'm sure ignoring me is also a necessary evil."

"I'm not ignoring you now, am I?" I ask him.

"Only because you think your telepath might commit suicide and upset your plans for world domination," he says bitterly. "Don't worry, I sure I'm replaceable."

"You know you're more important to me than that," I tell him, looking at him, to see him peeking out from under his hair. I push a lock of red hair behind an ear. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

He wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my shoulder. I hug him back, and play with a lock of his hair. He looks up at me, and I give him a soft kiss. He deepens it, and amazes me once again at his expertise at clothes removal. As he nuzzles into my bare stomach, I wonder how he manages to get me into this so fast.

A sigh, and I'm pulling him up and dragging him into the bedroom. This might be the last chance in a while.

Notes: Well, there's chapter two. Written during a "Dark Stage" for me, so it's not really that exciting or anything.

Also, I guess there's something up with the formatting here, cause I have to put big lines in the middle of my story to show a change in POV, instead of the normal stars. Oh well.