Nightingale, Blackbird {Christian}

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Alone was certainly the best way to play music. No background noise to distract from the moment, no one peering over a shoulder with a sneer or a smile, and nothing to keep the sound from filling her up inside, every last nook and cranny. In short, playing alone was freedom. Now, perhaps that would have seemed strange to some, Emilie’s preference of loneliness when performing, but the fact of the matter was simple: alone meant she could play what she wanted. Sing what she wanted, and take whatever meaning from the song she desired. Absolutely no one had any right to say otherwise.

Today, the solitary sanctuary was Baum’s choir room. One of her favorite places at the school, it had felt like home from the minute she’d first entered two years ago, and had remained that way ever since. Having cultivated a trusting relationship with the choir director via her talent and generally respectful demeanor, Emilie had been granted permission to use the room to practice during hours of the day when it was unoccupied. Naturally, she took advantage of the privilege as often as she could, and had not once been detected save for the occasional popping in of the teacher to grab a paper or a pencil or a small thirty-second listen. Which hardly counted anyway, as he had yet to speak to her while she played, and had not corrected her once although she was aware of her mistakes. It was a pleasure, not a class, and a private pleasure at that.

Emilie’s hands smoothed out the bottom of her dress as she sat down on the piano’s bench, eyes closing for a moment as she breathed deeply. Fingers raised themselves to the keys and she began to play. Starting off soft and slow, the notes became louder and deeper as she brought herself into the song, allowed for it to swell up inside her as she sang and the room melted away into wonderful, glorious, musical nothingness.

“How can you remain,
Staring at the rain,
Maddened by the stars?
How is it you sing
Anything?”


le outfit de le Emilie: here

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

It was a haunting noise, echoing down the hall. Christian hadn't even been heading that way, when he heard the trill song bird echo down the hall, luring as a mermaid. He knew the song, of course. His Great Aunt would sing it, from time to time, when they were home. He almost thought it to be her form of rebellion, singing of envying birds, voice carrying enough weight for all the family to hear. Wasn't she clever? Clever little song bird, sick of her cage. Poor thing.

He slipped into the choir room, watching her back move as she played the keys carefully. It was an attractive, lithe. She had nice skin, pale skin. With a close eye, he watched her, he listened to her. She was a master of her craft. A mistress of her craft. Whatever the proper title, she was it. Her voice was a charming falsetto, no one could deny this. In fact, she was the one of Grandfather Adolfo's prized jewels, something sure to be displayed during dinner parties. Oh, look at how lovely my ward is- always his ward, never his sister in law- oh, look at how lovely she plays. How clever, how charming, how lovely.

Horse shit.

Bellowing over her minstrel tunes, putting on a jolly face. "NOTHING'S GONNA HARM YOU, NOT WHILE I'M AROUND!" He was not singing, so much as yelling in tune with a song in his head. "NOTHING'S GONNA HARM YOU, NO SIR, NOT WHILE I'M AROUND." He was enjoying this, ruining her 'me-time'. Why should she enjoy it so?

His relationship with his supposed Great Aunt was always a tense one. Upon marrying Katrina Simone, Adolfo Reichenbach informed his Grand son that to touch his new Aunt was a punishable crime in their household. And while he was a rebel in most cases, Adolfo Reichenbach scared his grand son sufficiently. And so, he kept the relationship teasing and borderline cruel. Not that she was any kinder. Was it any wonder that her skirts always seemed a bit shorter when in Christian's line of sight. Always testing boundaries, knowing full well he could never act on his usually boundless thirst for debauchery.

"DEMONS ARE PROWLING EVERY WHERE, NOWADAYS!!!" He stepped up on the piano bench, to the piano keys as if they were stairs. The instrument made an unpleasant noise of protest to the foot on it's ivory keys. His wide, impish, grin could not become greater. "I'LL SEND EM HOWLING, I DON'T CARE. I'VE GOT WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYS!!!" He made a low, dramatic, bow. As if she were giving him a greatly passionate applause.

She wouldn't, he knew she wouldn't. And, quite frankly, he didn't give a damn. Why should this lovely thing be pleased all the time? Yes, lovely indeed. Full lips, long eye lashes. A glorious neck. But, she was untouchable. And therefore useless to Christian, besides the occasional fun.

Or so he told himself, anyway.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

“Have you decided it's safer in cages, singing when you're told?” fingers running their way over the keys, Emilie had absolutely no idea of the intruder even as he stood in the doorway, although had she been listening, she would easily have heard him coming. Despite the subtle slither with which Emilie insisted her Great Nephew walked, she knew his steps well. Not as well as his Grandfather’s, perhaps, but well enough to be indistinguishable. He was indistinguishable.

Still (perhaps a testament to just how engrossed she was), the girl noticed nothing. Save the slight prickling of hairs on the back of her neck—a sensation easily enough attributed to the music itself—there was nothing different about her person that showed the slightest detection of anyone else in the room. “ My cage has many rooms, damask and dark. Nothing there sings, not—”

It would have been impossible not to notice him then. The way he came barging in as if he owned the room, as though this was his favorite place to go and she was some sort of invader—well, it was enough to make her blood boil. To say Emilie detested Christian would have been a grotesque understatement. She loathed everything about him, from his relatives whom he had no control over to his obnoxious, floppy blonde hair and sickly blue eyes and hideous, perfectly torturous, ostentatious personality. At the moment, however, she loathed his voice most of all. Not even the quality of it, no; the presence. It had a way of oozing all over everything wonderful. She’d say snake-like, but even that was a bit too divine. Taking a deep breath, she continued her song even as he approached. Having sung it so many times simply for the sake of getting on someone’s—anyone’s, really—nerves back home, she knew the words well enough to perform even amidst this…debacle. Or perhaps to spite it, really.

Demons truly were prowling, that much was certain. Still, she gave Christian absolutely no notice even as he came uncomfortably (at least, she told herself it was quite uncomfortable) close to brushing against her back in his ascent up the piano. The keys screamed beneath his weight, and she narrowed her eyes, although did not look up until quite finished. Unfortunately, this occurred at virtually the exact same moment he finished his little act, so she was forced to stare straight at him as he bowed, being too prideful to look up and glance away.

Emilie blinked several times, not the slightest hint of anger in her face. She couldn’t give that away—it was what he wanted, after all, and if Emilie lived for no other small thing, it was to keep Christian as far away as possible from what he wanted. Lips pursed slightly, she tilted her head, fingers sliding their way off the keys and into her lap where they rested, not quite clasped together. “You know,” she began lightly, voice as sweet as buttermilk, resisting the sudden urge to simply dislodge him from his perch and be done with it. Maybe he’d even crack his skull. “I think you may have been a tad off, there on the last bit. But still, it was a good try. Now shoo, will you? Auntie has work to do,” condescending was the key tone here. No hint of anger, or even tenseness. Her blue eyes grew round, innocent, as if utterly ignorant to his efforts to completely destroy what a wonderful time she’d been having. Of course, he would know better, having lived with her for so long. There was always a gear or two ticking behind those chilly blue orbs.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Her face was quite laughable. By not reacting with anger- or really, at all- Christian knew full well that she was livid. Delicious. His smirk widened as she attempted to shoo him away, as if that was going to work. His eyes said 'Come now, Great Auntie Emilie, you can't have thought that was really going to work'. He had to up the anty though, and she really had no one to blame but herself. Honestly, acting as if she was not upset. That only made him want it more. It would be like a savory dish, when he finally got her to explode.

Filling, warm, incredibly satisfying.

Holding up his finger as if telling Emilie darling to hold that thought, he sat on the bench next to her, and let his fingers start to dance along the keys. Did she think she was the only one to know of songs in musicals? Oh, lovely, naive, Emilie. You know not what you do.

The music became rather nice. A slow, lazy, spring time tune. He smirked at her, as he began to sing, his voice rather rich and smooth. "I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god." There were only slight lilts to his voice, as he made this musical oath. Pretty blue birds would envy the calm motion of the tune he was striking in the room right now. "In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost. Amen." Blasphemy. Few could do it better than Christian. The piano number played on a bit, before he continued to sing.

But when he did so, he did it with a smirk, despite the calm and soothing tone that remained in his voice. It was almost snaring you into a trap. "Sod-omy." He had to look away in order to keep his poker face, wanting to put on the impression that he had no idea this would be in anyway offensive. To some, he might have fooled, but Christian knew before he even began that Emilie would not be fooled. They knew each other too well. "Fella-tio" This was utterly fantastic. He almost wished he had opened with this bit. "Cunni-lingus. Pede-rasty. Father, why do these words sound so nasty?"

Looking right into Emilie's eyes, with an intensity that Christian was he, himself, shocked he had, he sang out the next word. "Masturbation." Oh, dear Lord, he had to look away. Looking back at the keys, Christian contained himself, letting his torso move with the music gleefully. "Can be fun. Join the holy orgy!" Everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts. That was the level Christian Reichenbach was on at this very moment in time. "Kama Sutra, Everyone!"

With a clever hand, Christian finished his number, face dignified and proud with what he had accomplished. If nothing else, prudent and perfect Emilie would be uncomfortable. And that was most certainly a start. Smirking at her, Christian's pale eyes scanned her for reaction, dancing across her face with a great amount of mirthful joy.

This pervy song brought to you by: HAIR. It's a legit song, lol.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Oh, he was insufferable. Had it not been for the fact that they were in school, or that the action would have betrayed her more completely than most anything else, Emilie would have slapped him. As it was, she watched. Scooting ever-so-slightly away from him as he sat on the bench beside her, her eyes betrayed her as they began to narrow, watching the way his fingers started to dance over the keys.
The music that came from the keys was horrid. She hated him for it instantly, despised with her entire being just how pleasant the notes sounded; and what was more, she loathed that smirk on his face. What she wouldn’t give to wipe it clean off with a slap or a…No, she couldn’t think of such things. The idea was at least twice as sickening as his presence itself.

She’d recognized the song, of course. When he’d first begun playing there had been no hiding the slight furrow of her brows, confusion spread over her face for a good few seconds before it hit her. But he wouldn’t. Not even Christian. Although, come to think of it, it was only because he was Christian…He could get away with it. Anyone else, and they would have been dead before they’d entered the room with such intentions. Why exactly she was so lenient with him was simple enough to deduce, were one looking solely from the outside; Emilie couldn’t stand him. She hated him more than she hated anyone else she’d ever met (save his grandfather, although Emilie hardly counted Adolfo as human half the time), and so she let him continue, perhaps in hopes of finding some sort of crack in that steely shell and bringing him down entirely. It’d be nice, that was certain, to watch him actually bleed for once. Right between the eyes.

During the first few seconds of the tune, Emilie acted the part of an unconcerned, oblivious audience wonderfully. It was easy, when it was just the one word. But he didn’t stop after one. Christian never did. Just one jab was never satisfying enough, not for either of them. No one ever won these sorts of things with just one hit. She fidgeted a bit, unable to stop herself, as he continued, hands moving from her lap to under her legs, where they rested for a moment before she again changed position with a slight clearing of the throat and a crossing of her legs—which were determined not to move the slightest bit in time with the tune, no matter how wonderfully he played without the words.

She’d avoided looking him in the eyes, of course. It would only make the whole situation worse, and infinitely closer to what she was sure he wanted—uncomfortable beyond belief. As if it wasn’t already. She felt sick. And then he had to go and look at her—actually look at her—and how was she supposed to keep looking away, when he’d turned his head clear as day in her peripheral vision? It was a twisted strategy and she knew it, but she couldn’t help but meet his eyes, and for a moment, a very brief moment, she felt as though she was burning. Surely he hadn’t meant…? With that exact word…? Emilie blushed slightly (much to her displeasure) as she turned away again, making sure to put another few inches between them on the bench while her mind ran rapid, useless circles. Of course it was just an accident. Or intentional, but for the sole purpose of her discomfort. He’d wanted to see her blush, probably, and she’d gone and given him what he wanted. Squirmed, too, which no doubt pleased him. Still…he’d never looked at her like that before.

Before she could give the probably-insignificant action any more thought, however, the song ended mercifully. Unable to help herself, Emilie’s eyes refused to meet his gaze for a few seconds longer as her insides twisted and knotted and she resisted the urge, yet again, to slap him so hard he fell off his seemingly-victorious perch. After a deep breath and a hard swallow, however, she looked up, blue eyes narrowed just slightly enough to be peeved, hiding the utter loathing emanating from everywhere else about her person. Her cheeks betrayed her yet again, however, as did the almost half foot of piano bench she’d cleared between the two of them during his little tune.

“Lovely, really,” she spoke curtly, sarcastically, trying not to think of the fact that he did actually have quite a good voice. She’d already known that, though. Damn that look in his eyes, and that smirk. If only there was a way to get him back…she would, somehow. She knew it.

“Wonderfully crude. Does it…excite you…singing about all that?” It seemed she needn’t think about revenge, however, as her subconscious was already in action; whether it was sad or brilliant that she could act so quickly when Christian was around, it mattered not. Emilie only cared that he squirm just as much as she did, if not two times more. Her legs were crossed, sure, but her skirt was rising slightly—just an inch or two, but it would be enough for now—as she shifted to face him better, sweet, almost sickly sweet, curious smile on her lips as she watched. Unable to help herself, she allowed for the side of her foot to graze gently past his leg, just lightly enough to be accidental. A small, apologetic pout flashed across her face before the smile returned, innocent and devious all wrapped up in one. “I can only imagine.”

His move.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Emilie was angry. Oh, God in Heaven, she was never at her most beautiful than when she was angry. Her eyes flashes, her cheeks flushed a beautiful red, her shoulders drew back so as to not show any weakness, and her lovely white fingers twisted at her skirt, hiking it up those sweet creamy thighs. Christian watched her come off her anger like one waits for a loved one to come down from a high. Attentively, watching for any slips. Unlike those who watch their loved ones come down, he would have loved a slip. It'd do her well, to scream every once in a while. Anger was truly the purest thing a person could feel. Sadness was marred with pity and sickness, happiness was fleeting and superficial, and Love. Of all things this four letter word was ugly to the spoiled little poppin jay. So vulnerable, so naked, so selfish, so hateful. They say that being in love means never saying you're sorry, but from what Christian had seen, being in love means ONLY saying you're sorry. Sorry until the word basically means beans.

She poised herself, as Emilie's are prone to do, after slewing out a sarcastic and weightless remark. But her question, this made Christian's head cock like a cat who has just found a tantalizing string. What did she say? Does it excite him? His eyes flicked down to her legs, as the dress inched up even further, before returning to her eyes and feeling her foot graze his leg.

His eyes narrowed, his expression became frozen, but hard. No, she knew exactly what she was doing, even as it happened. Emilie, sweet Emilie who was hateful and vindictive, knew Christian possibly best of all save his other Aunt. The Aunt he was related too. And perhaps, in some ways, even more than she. And one thing she knew was that Christian loathed rules. Especially when it came to boundaries.

Emilie knew SHE was a boundary.

Still, Grandfather was miles and miles away. Over where miles became kilometers. So, perhaps, just this once, a game of cat and mouse. Emilie did so love a game of chase. In fact, hadn't it been she who inquired on a game of tag, in the labyrinth like halls of Reichenbach Manor when they were five? They were still playing tag, and she was still hiding in the Grandfather clock. Only now they were older, and the clock became the word of an old man who was the equivalent to law in his world- and thereby their worlds. And the game had become more subtle, with glances instead of stopping foot patters against teak wood floors, and with gentle and discreet and oh so innocent touches other than hard victorious shoves.

"Dearest Aunt, I had no idea what excites me was of such interest to you." He spoke in a voice, mocking a conversational tone. His fingers dances skillfully over the keys, a soft tune that had no author other than whimsical fingers that moved on the fly. "But no, if I must say. I've never taken much fancy to simply talking about things. Doing them is far more my style..." His pale blue eyes turned to her, a slight and sardonic pinching grin peaked his face. "Though I suppose, Dear Great Aunt, that you have no practice in such things, do you? So you must rely on words and thoughts and maybe pictures if you dare be so risque- which I very much doubt, pretty little puritan- when you are in your bed at night and your fingers decide to explore." He was lying, though he hadn't meant too. Because, whether he admitted it or not aloud, it did excite him to think of Emilie late at night... so close to his own room...

But right now, he was trying to get her riled. He knew full well she would not walk away, not that they had engaged in a battle of the wits. Yes, witty pretty Emilie found a need to finish all tasks she started. As much as she knew him, he knew her right back, and was comforted in the knowledge that she would not go until both were exhausted from battle.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

She hated him. There was no way around it. No, loathed was probably a better word—despised, abhorred, detested, any and all of the above. He was a vile, putrescent, manipulative, horrid little brat of a boy, infinitely worse now than she ever could have dreamed upon first meeting him all those years ago. Oh, how she wished he would just crawl off into some manner of hole and rot. Although were it to actually happen that way, Emilie had the strongest feeling she wouldn’t feel quite right about that, either. There was something wonderful in it, after all, riling him. She couldn’t help herself. It was far too easy—unfortunately, for both parties—and always had been. Sooner or later, chances were it would be all out war, of the sort in which neither party leaves without collateral damage.

Good. At least she’d gotten something, small as it was; Emilie couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride at the way his eyes narrowed, confident as ever in her ability to toe that invisible tightrope so precariously stretched over the canyon that was whatever awaited them if their games were to be discovered. Not that it was a game. It’d ceased to be just that the moment they first met each other, children or not, and had only increased in stakes since. Though, there were still clear winners. Losers. Sacrifices and strategies. Yes, it was most definitely war of the world-ending sort, or had the potential to be. Again, why they operated in secret and subtlety, their two greatest specialties.

She raised her brows as he spoke, eyes darting to his fingers as they danced, lips pursed slightly when she realized it was not a tune of memory. There he went again, just playing along. Making it up as he went—God, how she hated that about him. Everything always on the fly; it was much easier, when someone else thought they knew what was coming next, to read in and intercept. Change the tempo, switch up the harmony. He knew her too well.

“Oh, believe me, it isn’t,” she spoke slowly, innocently, eyes wide with shock that he would ask such a thing, “You know I only hope to look out for you. Make sure you’re staying…on the right track,”[/color] she spoke the last few words slowly, letting them slide off her tongue individually, sure not to look anywhere but at him.

She laughed lightly at his little joke, determined not to let him see he was right, a practice she’d nearly perfected over the years; she was almost as good at it as she was lying through her teeth. Her eyes stayed locked on his as she continued, voice smooth and sticky sweet as honey laced with rat poison, a spider web dipped in sugar. “I hardly think you know the half of it, Dearest. Why, how would you have heard what I have and haven’t done? It’s hard for you to imagine, I’m sure, a reckless little renegade as yourself, but there are much more subtle ways of going about things than pictures and pretending, and they’re far more satisfying. So be careful, or you Dear Great Aunt might just—”[/color] her foot grazed his leg again and she watched, curiously, as she continued, voice softer, “—slip up, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”[/color] Now, if only he’d take the bait.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

My, my, my wasn't she the little play actress. He watched her feigned innocence so well, even Grandfather might have been fooled. He couldn't help a little scoff at being waved off so easily. "I didn't know you cared." Where were the fire works? The explosion of the mountain top, to reveal to the helpless valley below that it had not been a towering guardian watching over them, but a demonic volcano waiting til they were most comfortable. Where was the red faced anger and the narrowed flashing eyes? Like a petulant child who had been denied his favorite treat (as was very much the case), Christian sulked quietly as his fingers skipped from tune to tune. Modern to classical. Never staying on one for more than a moment, anything to try and annoy her.

But she beat him to the punch.

That last jab... It’s hard for you to imagine, I’m sure, a reckless little renegade as yourself, but there are much more subtle ways of going about things than pictures and pretending, and they’re far more satisfying. She was insinuating, what? Lovers? People being where he could not go! Where he was forbidden to go! His blood boiled. it wasn't fair, it wasn't FAIR! And the little temptress knew it, as she grazed her foot across from his leg, her voice simpering at him.

Now, Christian Reichenbach was an exceptional young man. He was handsome, and intelligent, and talented. But he also had an exceptional temper, and was known to be exceptionally rash. And true to this, he caught her foot, before it could settle, fingers wrapping firmly around where her ankle met her calf in such an elegant swoop, like a piece of calligraphy. And he pulled his Great Aunt Emilie- who was five months his junior and smelled of orchids and roses- against him in an action that could never be mistaken for tender. He was angry. And anger was something Christian never bothered to hide. Not his pure friend, who soothed him after any of his emotional orgasms.

Like now.

With his free hand, he directed her chin so close to his face that their noses touched gently, and the fingers locked against the flesh. His eyes were piercing, searching her eyes for truth. Eyes found it very difficult to lie, after all. But he saw nothing that he had never seen before. No truth, no lies. Just forget me not blue eyes watching him. His anger blinded him from telling if this was anger or fear he was inciting from her, though at this point he really did care. He had his little mousie trapped under his paw, his strong arms wrapped around her middle tightly, having abandoned her calf.

And, oh, how she melded against him perfectly, lighting a fire to undertone the fury he had at her words. Why, he could even kiss her right now, if he had the mind. Of course, he DID have the mind, but a creeping feeling in his neck warned him not too. That his omnipotent Grandfather would know. So for now he controlled himself.

"Now, listen here Auntie dear." His voice was silky smooth, and while the impromptu rhyme had been unintentional, it gave an uneasy sense of nonsensical. "I think you're a liar, do you know that. I don't think you have let anyone touch you, because you have the misfortune of knowing you are better than the people here. Oh, you'll modestly deny it, and say you're no better than anyone else, but we both know that's not true. You're a perfectionist, my Millie Song Bird, and you hate to do something unless you'll do it right. And I think you know that I'm the only one who could do it right for you- and you hate that, so you hate me." His hand slid down her neck, resting on her collarbone, wanting so badly to continue trekking along. It was like a hunger, deep in his gut. Like he was a starving man, who could smell the feast but was forbidden to eat.

And just as suddenly as she was snatched up, he pulled away from her, face pointed in another direction. This felt like it was her victory, as he had snapped. But, in another sense, it was his if he was right about her lying. It was profound, in a way. Though they were like oil and water in all things, still they managed to stay in tune with one another. In his rare moments of sincerity, Emilie would not sneer in disgust at him, but give a small and accepting nod. And when she lied, he could tell, though in his current frustration his eye sight felt clouded and he was unsure of himself.

What a truly hateful feeling that was.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Well, she most certainly had him now. And although Emilie's face showed not the slightest hint of triumphant emotion, inside she was practically beaming--it was typical, keeping the stronger expressions inside; there was less to give her away. Never mind that it had all been a lie, and of course it had, for what else could it have possibly been? Emilie was nothing like Christian in that aspect. She didn't dabble, couldn't find either boredom or excitement in stolen moments and kisses and lovers not because she was incapable, but because she never had. Kisses, yes, there had been many. But they were always short, sweet, and never quite what she wanted, and so the other pairs of lips had been dropped, limp as rag dolls, and she'd flitted away as though they were nothing, just as everything which wasn't just so was.

His reaction to the lies, however, was...unexpected. Or perhaps not, as it was so very Christian it hurt her to think she'd somehow forgotten what it was he would do, but still there was no way of stopping it. She couldn't have moved fast enough to get out of his way even if she'd wanted to. And oh, he was angry. So very angry she lost her composure for a moment, unable to help but wince slightly as his fingers wrapped their way tightly around her foot, pulled her far closer than she pretended she would ever like to be--right now, however, there was nothing gentle about the touch, and certainly nothing intimate about the lack of distance between them. Never mind the fact that she could feel the searing touch of his skin against hers, grip ice cold as it burned her skin. Faster and faster her heart leapt in its beating, and she felt for a moment as though it was in her throat, although she did not once let her eyes stray from his gaze. It was times like these when he terrified her. Reminded her just who he was related to (as though she could have forgotten anyway) and, occasionally, made her tremble, if but slightly. Today she did not shake but once, and it was a small movement of simultaneous anger and fear made up of mostly the former. He wasn’t going to win this simply because he was stronger, because he had her almost as physically trapped as she could possibly be, in a place where they both knew full well she wasn’t about to jerk out of his grasp because on some level, that would be equal to losing.

Silent as he spoke, Emilie’s eyes darted between his, careful in her attempt to assess his anger (a simple task, as he was clearly fuming) as she listened, feeling his voice sounded far more treacherous than she would have liked, given the circumstances and her undeniable vulnerability. Not that he would do anything. He couldn’t. She knew that, and she knew it well; it was, at the moment, her only advantage. With any luck, it would be the tool to his temporary incapacitation. All she had to do was keep her cool.

His Millie Song Bird. As his hand slid its way down to her collar bone, Emilie held her breath. He could go no further, she knew, but there was something deep within his eyes that alarmed her, and still she stiffened. It was an involuntary motion of the kind she had when Adolfo was present—cold, stony, and unyielding, although her eyes betrayed wariness as they glanced down towards his fingers. Still, she spoke not a word until he released her, cool as crystal.

He was right, of course, in his own way. She knew he was brilliant, just as she knew he was rash, and childish and cruel. Still, not even the stinging cold of where his hand had been hurt quite as much as the truth of his words. Not that she would ever let him know just how correct he really was. Not unless he broke first.

There was a moment’s silence as she shifted ever-so-slightly away from him, just enough to assure him she was still there, but not enough to even remotely be considered a retreat. “Don’t start flattering yourself, Sweetie—we both know that only leads to trouble,”[/color] she spoke as though he’d never laid a hand on her, as though they were this close merely by happenstance, and she was only furthering whatever duel it was they had going on. Nothing had happened.

“And don’t you start jumping to so many conclusions, either, because before you know it, one of them will be proven wrong, and we know how you so hate being told off,”[/color] Was it a threat? Perhaps. He eyes narrowed slightly at him as she continued. “A brilliant analysis, perhaps, but you seem to have forgotten the fact that not once have I suggested you to be ‘perfect’—or even anywhere near it, for that matter—in the entire time that I’ve known you, and I really don’t think I ever will. Nor, in fact, do I ever recall being your ‘song bird,’ or anyone else’s, for that matter,”[/color] she trailed off with an almost apathetic tone of voice, unable to help but think for a split second longer than she would have liked about just how nice, for once, it might feel to sing only for him.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

She was cruel, his Millie Song Bird was. Cruel and mean, and he loved it. Christian was a glutton for anything bad. But right now, as he digested her words, he felt a sting sear through his veins. Like his blood was replaced by needles. He gave little thought on thought to her hidden threat, as he never thought on the future. Why should he? It was all predetermined for him anyway. True, every syllable she spoke, laced with venom and hate and contempt, stung him. But the last bit... About her not being his Millie Song Bird. True, the blow was cushioned with the assurance that there was no other who had staked claim, but the idea that he could not have- nor touch, nor feel, nor smell- irked him. He hated being doomed only to look. He hated museums.

And she knew it. She mocked him, and struck him, and wanted to see him squirm. As he loved her anger, she loved his discomfort. They ate these emotions for breakfast, sprinkled on their cereal, giving them fuel for the day. Quite the pair, Christian Reichenbach and Emilie Simone were. Even if she denied it.

But why? Why did she deny it so much? Why did she tantalize him, torture him? Even more annoying, was why did he let her?

Because he couldn't touch. Because he couldn't feel. That was all. She was a wanton little creature, of little meaning to Christian, and had he not been told no, she'd be of no importance to him (the fact that she was no more wanton than ugly was besides the point). He had to get it out of his system. Had to step over that line that Emilie used to her vindictive power. Oh, yes, that was one of the few things that were on her side. That fucking line. If he took that away, than she would have nothing.

Yes. Stepping the line. That's what he had to do. He had to get her out of his head, dispense of this nonsense once and for all. "You've never thought on it?" He asked in his velvety voice, his mercurial eyes flashing over her, a little grin spreading on his too-wide-lips. "Never thought on why I have so many fans. I'm sure you have. You're a very contemplative person, a person who likes to think on things. Things around you, and despite you hating me so much I am one of those things." He was like a panther, stalking his prey. The beautiful little song bird that is so sure of the fact that her branch was out of his reach.

Silly little song bird.

Oh, underneath his smile, he was raging. His face did not hide this well, as he was expressive when it came to those he was familiar with. It was one of the cards that he had, in these games of verbal chest with his little Millie. She hid her emotions, leaving room for him to call her out on them. Christian allotted no such luxury. He'd wear his emotions on his sleeve, and the current in the constant tempest was rage- and oddly enough- enjoyment. The face of a locked up man who is watching the jailer unlock the barred door.

His voice hushed, becoming private and intimate, though with little hints of jest at her expense. "Emilie, you think you have me so figured out. You think that that old man has me under my thumb as much as he does you?" With a little laugh, Christian waved off this very true idea. Right now, there was a fear and an excitement. His hand extended out to her, gliding half an inch above her thighs and to her pinched waist, before they rested there. He couldn't deny the rush, as his blue eyes flashed to hers. See, they told her defiantly, see how unafraid I am? I do not have any reservation about touching you. No fear. His thumb stroked the fabric of the pesky top of hers, as he leaned forward, letting his face- his too wide lips- hover over her neck. He could pull away now, he could! His Uncle wouldn't find out, if there was nothing too find out. But, no, he didn't want to do that.

With Christian wants did come before needs.

His hand touched her chin again, but this time it held the tenderness that had been absent before. His breath echoed off from her neck, and he watched the goosebumps spread despite the heat. And, yes, the smell of her rose and orchid perfume filled his nose, and made him hungry. Never that childish body mist the girls around her wore- strawberry kiwi and cotton candy bullshit. Perfume for a woman. "You can deny it all you like, Millie, but you've always been my song bird." He spoke with a thick voice, a heavy voice. Yes, they hated each other. It didn't make them less each others, he supposed. It didn't mean that their weren't others who suited their own fancy. But still, they always came back to these battles.

With a final crossing of the line, his lips touched her neck gently, and a rush of relief seethed through his every pore. Rebellion was sweet. He released her once more, lifting his face to be a mere inch from hers, his face smug. Superficially, as the relief was mild despite it crossing what felt like miles and yards. Being the greedy boy that he was, he wanted more. But first he wanted her anger.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

"No, of course not,"[/color] she spoke slowly, caution etched into every syllable almost subconsciously, not at all sure she wanted to know where he was going with this question, and certain she wasn't about to tell him the true answer no matter what he thought he could get out of her. She was not a toy, his or anyone's, and was hardly going to be treated as one under any circumstances. There would be no winding of gears here, and absolutely no puppeteering on his part. Not that there ever was. She knew what he was doing, of course, saw in his eyes how he wished to jerk the string--to make her dance. She wouldn't, though. Not to the music he wished, and never with the steps he desired. In her own way, rebellion was as etched into her being as anger in his; albeit subtle in her movements, it was certainly always there, a peculiar form of art she couldn't quite say she was anything but prodigious in practicing. With any luck, he wouldn't even notice the wire until he tripped and fell, flat on his pretty face. Oh, what she wouldn't give to break that smug smirk. How much force was needed, really?

"Again with the flattery--it's going to get you in trouble, you know. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe not everyone finds you so charming?"[/color] tone light, almost as though they were speaking of the weather or that night's homework assignments, she watched him with wary eyes. He was furious, and she could tell better than anyone. There was a look not-so-deep within his eyes that said she'd struck a nerve, and although this pleased her greatly, it kept her well alert. The last thing one wanted to do around Christian in times like these was let their guard down--and that was if they were foolish enough to stick around and ride out the storm, which Emilie always was when not further stirring the darkened skies.

Ice blue eyes began to melt as he changed his tone of voice, although it was certainly not the sort of change in temperature which would render her helpless against him; in fact, she was quite capable of handling his silken tone and courtly teasing, for Emilie was well-versed in the art of the subtle.

This, however, was unprecedented.

Emile couldn't help herself. Her eyes widened slightly at his assurance that perhaps the tightrope she'd been walking wasn't quite so stable, and although she regained her cold composure quickly and with relative ease, she could feel the thumping of her heart pick up far faster than the steady beat of a war drum at which it had been at. Silently, she searched for a bluff. He had to be lying, of course; there was no other explanation. No other reason for years of the same constant teasing and graceful dancing, hands always separated by the thinnest of spaces between them. Yes, he had to be bluffing. He was just waiting, watching to see what she'd do, and she certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction at mere meaningless words.

But as she looked down, watching the way his hand glided its way over her and to her waist, she couldn't help but have her reservations. This touch was different than that of mere moments ago; it was softer, more gentle. She was motionless, stiff as a statue as he leaned closer, sure he must be able to sense the way she was burning up inside and cursing herself for letting him win this without hardly trying. Perhaps it would be better to play along. Pretend as though it didn't matter, what he did, like the goosebumps rising at the feel of his breath were nothing, merely part of this game. Calculated. Just another bit of the equation. As though feelings worked that way.

The way he spoke her name—the name, whether he knew so or not—only he was allowed to call her, stiffened her further. His words seemed to dance across her neck and up to her ear, thin and white and undetectable as smoke. No doubt he'd never say anything like that in public or anywhere but here, right now, in this room, and she very much tried to pretend she didn't mind that fact. Not in the slightest. It was with held breath and a rapidly beating heart that Emilie felt his lips touch her skin, and there was no denying the sudden rush it gave her. Still, it came with something akin to fear—slight and subtle, but still there. If he could touch her, pull her close and kiss her, then what weapon did she have against him? Words were hardly enough, for although they were a tireless source of ammunition, they only got one so far in the way of things.

She was silent for a moment as he drew her chin upwards, eyes wide and genuinely round in a rare moment of true shock. He had, for less than two seconds that felt like ages, rendered her speechless. In truth, Emilie was hard pressed to find a time when she’d been more unsure of herself—it simply wasn’t in her nature. She moved not from his tender grasp as she stared into his eyes, unyielding in this as she was all things with a victor, never mind the hatred she felt. Then, of course, the orbs of forget-me-not blue began to narrow, if slightly, and her voice came back to her with the same quiet, cold thunder that had won her so many duels much simpler than this. “So does it bother you, then, being imperfect?”[/color]

And imperfect he was, albeit perfectly so.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Once upon a time there was a little Prince. he was not the son of the king, but the Grandson. The father, another Prince, was dishonored and tucked away, far out of sight and influence, while the King Grandfather raised the boy. He was not a kind or benevolent king, but a cold and harsh man, who became Godly when it suited him. Except for once, many many years before, when a young woman came and enchanted his life for a small while. She was beautiful and lovely and French. If she did not love him in return, or was off put by his age- which was nearly twice hers- she never showed it. And she lavished the little Prince, who was not well loved. And with her, one holiday, when the Prince was five, she brought her cousins, one who was brimming on womanhood, and one who was the Prince's age.

The little girl instantly rubbed the Prince wrong, ever since they were playing and he demanded a toy, and she told him no. No was not a word the boy was accustomed to, until this girl came along, and he didn't much like it. And so he invented a game, where they would hate each other, and it would be most fun. For she was a grave girl, and it was difficult to break through her comfy coat of indifference. Yet, he managed. And in this game he found the closest thing he ever had to a friend, and that was an enemy.

But, sadly, the Queen died in child birth, and the girl came less often, and the boy was left lonely. The King kept the girls- The Prince's girl and her elder sister- up. For he had loved his Queen, and found them to be an extension of her. But The Prince would only come to see them every summer.

But then the girl's parents died, and it was tragic. And the King, after a few more attempts at a bride, decided to marry the sister of the Prince's oldest friend, and oldest enemy. It was a scandalous thing, but it happened, and the girl became the Prince's Aunt. Now, the King did not love the sister, as he had her cousin. He loved her beauty and her youth, but not her. So, as the girl grew into a beauty, despite being his Grandson's age, the Grandfather King's eyes followed her around. And he knew that like himself, the Prince loved beautiful things. So he forbade them to ever fall in love, or to even be in the same room alone. She was the Prince's Aunt, he said, it would be unholy.

And the Prince was once again told no, and he would watch day by day as his Grandfather grew tired of the sister, and became more entranced with the Prince's oldest friend, and oldest enemy- who was so very much like the deceased Queen.

And the Prince did not like this.

Now, as fairytale as this unfinish story sounded- with the exception of the titles of nobility, it was all very true. Christian was the Prince, and Emilie was the girl. Though Adolfo Reichenbach was not a King, he worked as an ambassador to international mobs. And business was good. He made sure that Christian and Emilie were raised with affluence and wealth. They were accustomed to drug lords, war lords, and mob bosses. Emilie herself came from a distinct French Mafia family- though murders were not there style. More white collar crimes, and blood shed when necessary. "The french-" Adolfo Reichenbach was reported to have said, "-are not made for the killing business. Always they try to make murder gentle, even when justified." He would then compare the axe to the guillotine, and Christian would lose interest, and ponder on wanton delights.

But now, here he was, breaking one of the few rules set to him by his Grandfather. The one that has been stressed with the greatest of importance. He stared at forget-me-not eyes, and looked like an impish boy who had found a playing with a precious toy that he had been forbidden to touch. But there was not fear in his eyes- not at the moment anyway- but a primal joy. He had broken the rules, and it was beautiful. It was lovely. It was delicious and decadent. It was chocolate cake with chocolate ganache filling, slathered with chocolate icing.

Terrible for you, but wonderful too.

He did not mind the accusation that he might not be so charming to all, because he knew that under the weight of her loathing, she could be charmed by him from time to time. A well placed joke that their less clever class mates did not get- as when he called her Princess Tarakanova, after the pretend Russian Princess. He was implying that she was only pretending to be prim and proper, and underneath he knew that she was much more or much less, but certainly not what she presented. While the implication affronted her, she had appreciated the nonsequitor historical joke that made their peers scratch their heads.

And then what does she do? She ruins it, of course.

His face fell hard, and he could not contain the snarl at her question. Leave it to a woman to speak with such an innocent inflection, as if they don't know what they do. She knew very well what a low blow that was, kicking him in his most private of places with her monster words. Imperfect. She knew that his Grandfather was more than happy to point out his Grandson's every faults in front of everyone, and mock him, and mention how perfection is only hard if it is made to be hard.

He hated her right now.

"I never try, you should know that. But you, you try to be perfect, don't you Song Bird? So I should be asking you if you are bothered by your imperfections." His face was intently focused on hers, still in panther mode. He took her leg by under it's knee, and pulled it over the bench, so it was like she was riding a horse. Hardly proper, as she wore a skirt, which hiked up so that it was just barely remaining any sort of modest integrity. and he took her thighs in his clever hands and pulled her against his, regaining his own composure as he folded her legs around his waist. There chests barely touched, as he held her in place by the pinch of her waist- which he began to think of as his favorite place on her. With a sly grin, he asked her as if they were sitting across from each other at a tea table. "So, are you? Bothered, I mean." He enjoyed the double question- as Christian could be asking if she were bothered by her imperfections, or by how he had her placed.

His eyes gleamed with laughter and danced merrily, because what had begun as a game of chess had suddenly evolved into a game of Chicken. And Christian was no chicken.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

For a moment there, she really thought she was winning. A foolish idea, perhaps, as there was never anyone who really took the lead in these sorts of things, for they had become such a common occurrence that occasionally, there was really never any winner at all. Or they both were. It depended how one looked at it, really. Personally, Emilie was of the opinion that although entertaining when they began, these sorts of sparring matches with Christian escalated far too quickly for her liking—not that she had any intention of ever admitting such a profound weakness. Were he ever to discover that she didn’t like where things were going, or that sometimes he made her nervous, or, even more rarely, comfortable in the way she was least used to. Emilie was one to thrive on the edge of her seat—not physically, for she was by no means an adrenaline junkie—waiting to see just which way the conversation would turn, or exactly how far out on a limb one could go before it became a twig and the twig in turn snapped, taking the whole tree with it.

Fascinating, really, conversation.

Physicality, on the other hand, although not necessarily a weakness, was certainly not her forte. It was true, she’d never experienced the full depths of the word and all it entailed, and thus was naturally at a disadvantage when it came to Christian, even if it was all only teasing. Which, she very much thought it wasn’t. Perhaps a small part of her would rather it wasn’t. Either way, she was in far deeper water than she’d anticipated, and it seemed that for the moment, at least, she was without paddle or any semblance of a canoe or life vest.

Of course she’d expected a reaction. Not a small one, either, as not only was that not Christian’s style, but she’d obviously hit him much harder and lower than he was expecting, under the circumstances. Granted, a part of her was beyond pleased by this without a doubt. However, there was also no denying that oftentimes it was best to let sleeping bears lie as opposed to prodding them with the sharpened stick she’d apparently brought to the table. Obviously he would get angry. Obviously he was dangerous when angry. Obviously, the smartest thing to do for anyone with even the slightest sense of self-preservation would be to get up, nod, tell him good day, and flee the room as fast as humanly possible, if not faster. Emilie, however, possessed no such sense when around this particular boy, and only wished to delve further. One more up. Just another tally on the score board. Five more seconds until the clock ran out, and then maybe a bit of overtime, if he hadn’t forfeited, which he never did. Perhaps some could say she was addicted to the dance. Their dance.

Her eyes stayed locked to his even as she felt the cool touch of his hand on her thigh, even as he swung the leg over the piano bench and she found herself straddling it, far more exposed than she’d ever intended to be in his company, hating him far too much. It practically rolled off her in waves, the contempt she felt, although her face betrayed no such emotion. Calm, cold and unyielding as always. Until, of course, he folded her legs around him. There was no hiding the blush creeping along her cheeks, the way her breath caught for a moment—just a moment, but still—in her throat as she glanced downwards, suddenly and acutely aware of just how close they were, and just how far this was from what she’d expected. Still, she couldn’t break now. Not when he was expecting her to. Not when he was in charge—certainly not during his turn.

Still, there was a curtness to her speech which only seemed to manifest when nerves hit, a tick as subconscious as finger-tapping on a flat surface or bobbing her foot to music; a habit she hated almost as much as the heat creeping up her cheeks. “Bothered? Hardly.”[/color] Oh, but she was.

“I find it’s more satisfying patching them up only to pretend they were never there in the first place, don’t you think?”[/color] She spoke slowly, almost lazily, her right hand trailing along his arm as she spoke, winding its way to the nape of his neck where it rested, fingers curling slow, small circles in his hair as she watched him. A small move, perhaps, but she wasn’t going to sit silent and helpless, either. This was nothing if not a two person game.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Oh, cruel mistress of torture and seduction. She was Aphrodite right now, she was Venus, she was Calypso. Her blush was what his Grandfather might call Die Röte eines Mädchens Oberschenkel, and her eyes were wide at his boldness. But, as Emilie's do, she put back up her shield, and closed herself off. It didn't matter, because what Christian saw was more than enough to fuel his fire. She, underneath the hate and the loathing and the misplaced agitation at what her life currently is, she enjoyed when they were this close. She enjoyed the fact that the only thing stopping them from touching their most intimate spaces together was the clothing they wore. Testing her recovered poise, he grinded against her gently, head cocking slightly to the left, eyes inquisitive.

Patching up the little holes, oh Emilie. He found her tidiness fastidious and unable to be pleased. If there was a flaw, you cover it. A zit or a scar, and you put a film of make up over it. His mind went to the scar on her arm, where she knicked herself riding a bicycle. She covered that with make up. He felt her hands twist in her hair, and his hands traces up her narrow frame. Pretty Millie, sweet Millie, dangerous Millie, secretive Millie. Quickly he grabbed her arm, eyes firm on hers, and rubbed at her elbow with a certain roughness. There it was, after he rubbed away the well applied foundation which filmed his fingers. A pretty, pale, shiny pearl of a scar. Looking at it, he gave an approving inhale, before his eyes flicked back to hers. "I never liked patches, myself."

Perhaps the pressure to be perfect was not just Christian's to bear.

He watched her closely, not wanting her to become content. This wasn't a random lay. In fact, it was improbable that he would lay her at all. Christian found himself being daring as it was. That was a bit too far for the moment, a test of Adolfo Reichenbach's omnipotence. Had she been another girl, she would be swooning already. His former rudeness would have been kind words filled with sweet nothings. Lavish gifts instead of proverbial blows. Of course, with those, he became bored and restless. Each conquest left him feeling less satisfied than the one before. But his battles with Emilie... they left him quite full. Quite fulfilled.

"Are you a virgin?" He asked, after a long minute of simply staring at her. His voice was blunt, edged with amusement, but only slightly. "I can't have been too far off the mark, with my assumption. Tell me, what have you done?" He pressed her closer, fingers dancing along his spine. "In your dorm, late at night, suitor in after hours on a school night. Hairs a mess, bra unsnapped with his hand feeling you up, pants unbuttoned, but you have a little shudder when he comes to close?" Keeping one hand wrapped around her tightly, he had his fingers walk along her leg gently, towards the heavenly region of Undaskirt, which many a lad have fantasized about. "No, no. Shirt off, bra on, in the front seat of his car. Fingers reaching shakily for his jeans buttons, just to have a little peek, because those pictures in biology just don't do the piece justice."

As each scenario passed through his mind, sending through him a wave of both rage and excitement. He was male after all, and Emilie was pretty as a rosebud. The idea of her, letting loose, caught up in the throws of passion, was terribly arousing. Still, the presence of the male suitor, who thankfully remained faceless instead of filled in by a random student who would have been thus far hated for no reason besides bad luck, was enough to make him want to kick a small dog. "Tell me, least I keep you here, and just keep guessing until your face betrays something." He said delicately, finger tracing lines on her smooth inner thigh, barely glimpsing the bunched up hem of her skirt. Oh, yes, it was a terrible fight to not go on, yet he was a steadfast boy, once he put his mind to something. Even if nothing happened, he at least wanted it to be something trapped in the depths of her head. Something to look back on and blush, even with nothing really happening further than a sweet, hypothetical, kiss.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Curiosity, perhaps, was what was keeping her there. Just waiting to see what he’d do next, if she could have predicted it, if it would be enough to make her get up and leave, pretend this had never happened. Of course, it was far more than that, but innocent curiosity was a wonderful excuse and so it remained as her supposed motivation. Curiosity was what pursed her lips as he grinded himself against her. Curiosity brought the slight rosiness back to her cheeks as her eyes widened in momentary surprise, for it was an unexpected action. That was all, though. Unexpected. Nothing more. Why she needed to tell herself that three times, she hadn’t a clue.

And it was of course her curiosity which allowed for him to take her hand without argument, and what kept her from jerking it away even once she realized what he was doing. It kept her still and her eyes on the nasty stripe of skin as it reappeared from under the makeup, a small scowl on her face at the sight of it, wrinkled and hideous in every way. She had several of these bumps about her body (the most prominent being on the underside of her right knee from the crash, although still it was hardly noticeable), all of which were covered either with clothing or make up at all times. So smoothed over, sometimes she even forgot they were there. It was only in rare moments like these, when someone was purposeful or she accidentally caught a glimpse in such a place as the shower, that she ever saw them, and personally found the latter to occur far too often to begin with. However, she did nothing to stop Christian, not even as he spoke. For a moment she might have even found herself believing it true that patches were a pointless waste of time, but of course this was not the scenario for researching new beliefs.

His question was certainly not one she’d been expecting. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was, for lack of a better term, completely caught off guard. Now, given the circumstances, perhaps it was one she should have been looking out for; still, Emilie had never been in a situation even remotely like this before. Not that she was going to let Christian know that. He couldn’t. It would be fatal, information of the compromising sort. Why, she wasn’t exactly sure, but she knew it to be true just as she knew he was watching, waiting for the slightest sign of a slip up. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. They were at a stalemate now, if anything. Under absolutely no circumstances would she allow him to call check.

And as his fingers moved their way along her spine, pressing gentle and firm all at once, Emilie found herself breaking eye contact. She glanced at the piano keys beside them, at the floor, the space just over Christian’s left shoulder—anything, it seemed, to keep from answering the question, if just for a moment more. Her lips were tight as he continued on in his musings, determined not to answer lest she say something wrong and give herself away, but equally aware that silence was just was horrible. This was treacherous ground she was treading, and she knew it. One wrong step, and she’d no doubt plummet.

There was a glance at his fingers as they began to trace their way up her thighs, and although she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of glancing every two seconds, she could feel quite acutely the pressure of his every fingertip as they inched their way forward. Goosebumps spread their way over her skin and she cursed their innate visibility. Of course she was a virgin. How could she not be? His previous analysis had been far more accurate than she would have liked under any circumstances, and now she couldn’t help but be a bit uneasy that he’d continued to pursue the topic.

“I really don’t see why it’s of your concern,”[/color] she spoke smoothly, as though unfazed by any of his previous words. She could feel him, though. His fingers traced back and forth, higher, higher up her thigh and she shivered, the least voluntary of actions and by far the most regretted. She glanced down, quickly, at his fingers before returning her gaze to his, eyes wide and blazing and heart racing. Somehow, she was so much more aware of just how thin the fabric between them really was than she had been a mere thirty seconds ago. “And even if it was, I’m not so sure I’d tell you...Being family and all.”[/color] Silently, she prayed he’d go no further, damn the never-ending curiosity.