Something Stupid (Christian)

[EMILIE SIMONE]

OUTFIT: same as the party, claro que duh.

Twelve years ago, and he would have been dead. Annihilated in the most subtle way a clever little five year-old like herself could have thought of, there would have been no return from the point to which she’d have sent him. Then again, at age five, maybe the comments wouldn’t have made her quite so livid. Or mortified.

Emilie didn’t do well with embarrassment. It was a foreign feeling, and she despised all things emotionally alien even more than she loathed the one familiar thing from which they usually stemmed: Christian. The one person able to snatch her legs out from beneath her. He was clever, and she hated him for it. He could trick her just as often as she tricked him, and surprise her like no one else she’d ever known. In short, he impressed her, and so she found him ghastly.

Tonight was no different, save for the added layer of mortification he’d so expertly inflicted upon her back inside, when it had been all she could do not to blush scarlet. He knew her too well; there was no doubt about it. Perhaps she should have slapped him, right there in front of Kaden and that trashy little blonde. Would it have been worth it, the mocking later, just to see the look of shock on his face? Perhaps. Then again, maybe not. Emilie was one for calculating, not risk-taking. Certainly, too, she wasn’t one for dwelling on what might have been, although the look she was imagining—the little red mark she’d have left on his cheek—was nothing less than delicious.

She was stony all the way to the limo; still, the hated was carefully hidden during their required good-byes. Emilie smiled, spoke politely and silkily as always, not even bothering to make the petty effort to glare at him between farewells. Of course, it was probably the normalcy which would be her undoing. Emilie was masterful at acting unbothered, artfully apathetic in even the most emotional of situations. It was a skill perfected years ago, when she grew tired of condolences. Old habits, as they said, took far too long to die; particularly when they had served one well.

When Christian had opened the limousine’s black door for her, she nodded, lips pursed into the sort of smile that couldn’t possibly hide just how very far beyond sickeningly peeved she was. As she stepped through the door and sat down in a seat to the left, her stomach churned with leftover reminders of his words. To think, it’d been her decision to make her way to him in the first place. Had she stayed with Kaden, no doubt she could have avoided him for the majority of the evening. This ride would be nothing more than snide remarks about how enjoyable the night had been for both of them. Just another round of chess before they retired for the evening, separately seething about the other’s good time. Wondering whether it’d been true.

It was a wonderful thing, this game they chose to play.

Still, she had approached him. She’d spoken, he’d retorted expertly (as he was so obnoxiously prone to do) and here they were. Silent and spiteful, Emilie stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes when he joined her. Her legs crossed delicately over one another and she pursed her lips, pretty blue eyes narrowed at nothing in particular as she sat still and straight, head held high with a sort of silent—but no less strong for it—determination.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Christian Reichenbach would most certainly call tonight a success. He had been charming, engaging, a true and proper host. The creme de la creme of society had donated greatly to whatever charity they were doing tonight, playfully goaded by Christian to open their pocket books and purses. And still he had managed to find time to boink the little tart in the stairwell. Gave her the old in-out-in-out routine, he did. And oh, how he had performed! Of course, as usual, the kisses were met with half opened eyes on Chrsitian's part, as he glared at the gold dust that had clung to her painted black lashes. Against the wall, aided by the rail for balance, nine minutes and forty seven seconds. He had to cover her mouth to keep her from letting out a gleeful shriek.

And then? He zipped himself up, tide sticked his collar, brushed the make up off his shoulders, and wished her good day. She gave little fuss, thank God, and seemed pleased with the mutual departure of the pair. He returned up to the party, wet his tongue with a bit of champagne, and smiled pleasantly as a business tycoon and a dirty lawyer tried to pick his brain for his Grandfather's business practices. They would get nothing from Christian.

When it was all said and done, he and Emilie- Oh Millie Song Bird, the hostess to his host- they smiled and waved the guest. Oh, hail to the actress, for doth she not smile most beautifully? Comparable to the moon, both in poise and coldness. Why, she didn't even look bothered. Not even a little bit. Had Christian been on the outside looking in, he'd have believed it too. And why he believed otherwise was a mystery. Did he simply know her so well? Perhaps he was merely clinging to his illusion. He could not say for sure.

He aided his song bird to the car, opening the back of the limousine like a gentleman. Following her in, he grinned at her attempts of normalcy. How she managed that facade, Christian would never truly understand. It was a flare his Aunt Eliza had as well. Acting as if nothing was wrong. Of course, in the Reichenbach household, boys could be far more open than girls. Ladies were meant to have a delicate touch, never cause a scene or fuss. Most importantly, they were to be foundation. A strong support to their male counterparts, but never really seen or heard unless to be showed off. Never to really cause any embarrassment. Christian on the other hand could, and had, inform his family at the breakfast table that he planned to bed one of the maids and that she should be given her severance pay about a week later.

They had lost some good maids that way...

Loosening his tie, Christian slouched in his seat, draping himself as he was so prone to do. Frumping his hair out of it's neatened look, to it's more typical disarray, he looked at his pretty Aunt. And she did look stunning that night. While the model- Raven?- had been a good fuck, she had certainly lacked Millie's careful hand when adorning herself for the evenings festivities. He wondered if her outfit was done purposefully- The cornflower blue that highlighted her eyes, or the gentle curling of her hair. The pearls, oh the pearls. Christian loved to see her in peals. Though not that necklace, no. That had been his Grandmother's, the third one. Jeanne. Seems more fitting that it should go to Dearest Trina- and thus Christian's gut clenched at the idea that his former jest might have some point.

"It wasn't a bad evening, for a charity event." Christian spoke conversationally, eyes looking out the window. "People are so generous during the Holidays. Like children trying to make up all their wrongs before they have to face Santa. Disgustingly beautiful. Beautifully disgusting. It's all the same." There was a lackadaisical quality to his tone, as if the whole thing didn't require or deserve his attention. Which, in his opinion, it did not. "You didn't dance much. You're usually first on the floor... Kaden not one for a good waltz?" He smiled, face devilishly innocent, as if merely curious. Still, there was a glint behind those pale blue eyes that was similar to a child hovering over and ant hill with a magnifying glass.

Malicious.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Unable to help herself, Emilie scoffed slightly at his comment, eyes halfway through rolling before she stopped. Lips thinning, she continued the hard gaze out the window, directed at a point just three inches or so above his head. If she looked at it long and hard enough, perhaps it would simply crack. But then, that would be too simple. As if he didn’t know already just how displeased she was. Oh, and he was probably grinning on the inside as well, perhaps even more so than she could see on those repugnant, too-wide lips. It was that knowledge that pained her most. Maybe even more than the comment itself. Words, after all, were fleeting things no matter how powerful. The two juggled them like knives, tossed them back and forth like fire, and swallowed the subsequent burns, scrapes and bruises for breakfast. They were digested, nutrients found in malice and loathing and underlying meanings neither of them always cared to admit existed. And it was delicious at times, watching the other one choke.

Unfortunately, nails didn’t seem quite so savory when making their way down your own throat.

“That’s quite poetic, really,” she spoke curtly, voice dry despite the way the words glided off her tongue. Though her voice was accent-less, it carried the same flowing tilt that so accompanied her native French, and the words came out a drawl, silken and smooth despite the acutely daggered glare they shrouded. Perfectly innocent, and perfectly menacing.

She shifted slightly in her seat at the mention of dancing, knowing full well that to ignore him was to sign a letter of surrender. It would be pointless to deny that she liked dancing in the first place. Idiotic, too, as no doubt it would only goad him further. And while Emilie’s life was typically spent finding instances in which to prod at this particular male’s buttons, now was one of those rare occurrences when such was not the case. She wouldn’t have gone home with him at all, had the option been presented. Still, it was bad enough arriving with a date. Leaving with one—particularly one as old as Kaden—was not only beyond forbidden, but practically begging for repercussions, should a certain omnipotent cretin catch wind of it. She wasn’t fond of punishment any more than she was Christian; in fact, on occasion, they appeared to be one and the same.

Smoothing out the folds in her dress, Emilie moved her gaze to as to stare directly at him, no longer looking out the window, as it did nothing but accentuate her anger. Best to stay level-headed. Subtle. Even if he saw straight through everything, there was comfort in knowing she’d wrapped him around for a bit, caused even the slightest sliver of doubt.

Lips pursed in that typically grave, moderately condescending smile she so expertly donned, she spoke with lightened words, apparently unbothered by the way he watched her. “He prefers conversation. That’s all.”

Oh, how she’d love to slap that smile clean off his face. One day, perhaps. Soon, if she was lucky.

“You seemed to enjoying yourself,” she continued lightly, watching his face for some form of betrayal, however slight. “Tell me, was Regan as good a dancer as she claimed?”

Honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. It was a guessing game these two played. Sooner or later, however, someone had to hit a nerve.

Unfortunately for her, however, Christian already had.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Well, somebody was certainly a grumpy Gus, weren't they?

Her icy reply left a cool, proverbial, sheet of frost against Christian's face, as his neck rolled to face her. He wanted to grin, and to laugh. Oh, it would be cruel. But Christian was not well known for his mercy. Searching pockets and hidden caches of the limo. Ostentatious, especially as they were on their way to The Hampton House. It was a small place, right on the beach, and the brisk air outside would certainly make the tourist trap baron and the flowers dead in the ground. Christian could have simply drove, as he rarely drank enough to become intoxicated. But, no, Adolfo Reichenbach hardly knew the meaning of subtly. That was something, in fact, that Christian had adopted.

Finding some gum in the smokers box- where a pack of cigarette, cigar, and a few shot glasses sat- he opened the pack with a snort at the comment of Kaden liking to converse. Oh, so that's what he was about, was it? Conversation. Well, that certainly was a comfort to Christian, wasn't it? A person who'd rather talk politely across the table when their was ample excuse to rub against a creature like his Dear Aunt Emilie Simone.... Homosexual or impotent. Christian rather liked Kaden for the latter.

Ah, but the his Sweet Millie Bird turned the conversation to him. Being a selfish little creature, Christian grinned at her inquiry. Despite his nod, in truth he had been bored to tears for the majority of the souriee. "Yes, I said it was a rather enjoyable evening. Weren't you listening?" He lied, an amount of mocking clouding his tone. But then, for only a second, she stumped him. "Regan?" Who the hell was Regan? His brows furrowed as he sorted through the ladies he had danced with that evening. "Regan... Regan... OH! Golden girl. I had thought her name was Raven. Now who doesn't listen, eh, Auntie?" He laughed, popping a piece of sweet mint gum into his mouth.

Not that he needed it.

This was far sweet enough.

Still, it gave an effective air of nonchalance that he just couldn't resit. Heaven help him, he was one for the theatrics.

"But as for what sort of dancer she was-" His inflection rang like a victorious shot gun fire into the air, emphasizing the euphemism for Emilie's benefit. Emphasizing the euphemism for Emilie, oh, such alliteration. Wasn't he clever after a glass or two of the French Juice of Romance, drank right from the chalice molded to the shape of Marie Antoinette's breast? "I had to lead, as I expected to, but she wasn't terrible. I've certainly danced with far worse, Millie Bird, far worse indeed. Though I did make sure she enjoyed herself. Grandfather will be pleased with how well I took care of the guests." With a chuckle, he stared back out the window, his stomach lurching sickly.

Perhaps too much wine? He'd certainly never let himself believe it was guilt, if for no other reason than she asked. He couldn't stop the venom. "Would you like a dance lesson, Song Bird. I'm a VERY good teacher." Well, at least there was truth in advertizing. So, there was that at least.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Carefully, Emilie watched as Christian opened the package of gum, tiny hint of a scowl crossing over her face. What it was about the movement that irked her so much, she honestly couldn’t say. The casual nature of it, perhaps. How he could stay so calm and yet so smug; tangible in the air between them was his arrogance, palatable and sweet.

It would be sweet. Of course. And with all the cool sting of mint, subtle as it wound its way through the air towards Emilie and she breathed, hating how even in such small quantities and such space between them, the potency seemed to burn. Still, it was only gum. He’d spit it out after a while, find a new piece. And another, and another, and still she’d find the smell of it disdainful, although all logic said she ought to grow immune after a time.

It was only candy, after all.

She ignored his childish jab completely, finding nothing of note in such petty remarks. Her blue eyes blinked, watching him with the sort of apathy often associated with statues or old, Victorian paintings. Still, her brows shot up slightly as she appeared to have stumped him. Not that it should have surprised her. He never remembered such trivial indecencies as names. It hardly counted as anything resembling a substantial hit. “Oh, I’m sure she found you perfectly charming despite all that,” she offered a minute, false smile, lips back to their thin, passive state just as quickly as they’d curled upwards.

She should have seen it coming.

Stupid, stupid, fool, to think this wasn’t headed in that direction. With Christian, it always was. He spared no time of day in talking about his exploits, whether past or future, and spared no ear either, no matter how supposedly delicate. She’d set him up most wonderfully, she knew. Still, regret was something she tried hard to keep from her repertoire, and so she shifted slightly in her seat. Head cocked a tad to the side, she listened with brows slightly raised, not bothering to shift out of the way the little curl that fell from her hair and rested itself gently against her cheek. There was only a slight amount of disgust veiling her face when he finished, for she knew full well that was what he wanted. For years, it had been his practice. She wasn’t about to give in now, not when she’d dug herself into this hole in the first place.

“Well yes, I’m sure he will be. Isn’t he always, when you come home with your tales of glory?” cool still in her speech, Emilie retained a vast amount of composure once sure he was finished. It was sickening, of course; she could feel her stomach churning at the idea of it all. But the little close-lipped, condescending smirk stayed tight on her face as she kept her eyes on him. Blinked, and turned away to look out the window herself, watching silently as the city passed them by.

When he spoke again, however, she momentarily blanched. He’d caught her off guard, and her stomach lurched both at the prospect at the words he’d said. She replied immediately, however, hardly missing a beat as the response rolled off her tongue in that light, silken way of hers. “No, I don’t think so. I’m terribly flattered, but you see, I have prior commitments, and I’d really hate to have to tell them you’ve already taught me all the steps,” fingers curled delicately around her pearl necklace, and although she was not thinking of the man who’d given them to her, her stomach did a horrible, terrible flip at the motion, she flicked her gaze to look at Christian. With any luck, such words would at least bode reaction.

Despite this sickly motion, however, smug did not begin to describe what she was feeling. It was subtle, and showed more in the eyes than the lips as she watched him for a moment before turning back to look out the window, hand falling from the necklace and back into her lap where it rested, delicately placed on the folds of her dress.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Typical Emilie. Her silky words were barbed, and laced with razors. Neither of them were made for friends, thus they were as close they could be with anyone. They were foes. Enemies. Destined to do war with each other. Christian played the part of the fallen angel: brash, crude, full of rebellion and anarchy. And Emilie, the pure angel. Heavenly, structured, rarely ruffling the feathers of her wings or sending her glowing halo askew. The point of the battle was long forgotten, it was a matter of pride now.

She knew very well he never went into detail of his exploits with his Grandfather. Any allusions were vague and informative. As clinical as a Doctor's notes, told only so Adolfo would not hear through the grapevine. It was always better for Adolfo to hear news from you than through one of his many set of eyes, for many of them had cause to harm Christian. He watched her blue eyes, so sharp and looked full of foxgloves in bloom, gazed out the window at nothing. They were alike, though she denied it. Neither looked at really anything when they were in the throws of battle, because their true eyes were set instead of victory. Why did she have to play act? It seemed so unnecessary. Her composure breaks were unseeable with an untrained eye. Fortunately it was a skill Christian possessed.

Except this reaction. For a second- only a second- he savored the blow that he had dealt. Her skin flushed white, barely a trace of the gentle peach coloring that was her flesh tone. As quickly as he had won it though, Christian lost it. Gone. Poof.

Prior commitments.

The words echoed in his mind. His blood turned to acid, and his skin felt it would melt from the inside out. His eyes lost all life, and instead narrowed into ice. Dry ice. Burning whatever it came into contact with. Christian's anger was true and real, but mostly raw. So very raw. But when he grew angry, truly angry, were he could feel it in the meat of his marrow, he did not yell. No red came to his face. His fists did not ball, and his mouth did not tighten. It was like his brain was pumping Novocaine through his body, as every muscle relaxed. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but sharp. Waspish. "I can see that." He said, eyes flicking to the stunning strong of pearls hanging from her neck. Near $15,000 worth of sea jewels hung from here austere neck. And, yes, she wore it beautifully. But everything Christian found beautiful about Emilie, was hideous to him now.

"Don't you find it shameful, Emilie, to wear a dead woman's jewels. One of her wedding gifts, no less. One of her favorite pieces." His words were cruel, as he spoke of her dead cousin. Her dead cousin, and the one of Christian's Grandmothers to ever show him an ounce of what could resemble love. He maintained, in his pessimistic adulthood, that Jeanne Simone's care for her husband's grandson was purely out of guilt. She had felt sorry for him. He was both appreciative and repulsed by it. "Take it off. He only gave it to you, because you remind him of her. He thinks of her when you wear those, Emilie." The harshness that overwhelmed his quiet voice. "Tell that to you're prior commitment."

It had been cruel. But Christian reasoned, it had also been quite necessary.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Though she’d certainly goaded something, it was not what she’d expected in the slightest. In fact, his reaction was the complete opposite of what she’d hoped for—a nasty, loathsome retort, a snap or a snatch or a snarl—and in all honesty, she hadn’t a clue what to do. There was no feeling in the world which Emilie despised more than being unprepared. Though she loved it, too, for there were very few people in the world who could make her feel so uncomfortable so quickly, she hated it. Them. Christian.

She nodded at his affirmation, angling her body slightly so as to face him better head on. It was always best, she’d found, to watch for what was coming, even if the result was unexpected. At least then the allusion of preparation was there. Sometimes, that proved more useful than the actual thing.

Still, it was hardly a match for him here. Though she kept her gaze wary and her face stoic, there was a blush to her cheeks and a tenseness passing through her body with his words which she knew not how to hide. It was in the stiffening of her back, the slight curling of her fingers into her dress as she did not clench, but held. Carefully, like a precious doll. Subtle though the shift in itself was, she felt herself grow even sicker within as his words cut, bruising her in the innately soft spot between one’s chest and stomach. Her fingers worked their way delicately over the fabric for a minute or so before she took a breath and settled them back properly in her lap once more, the discomfort shifting and gliding from her body to her expression, where it settled in the form of narrowed eyes.

It hurt, yes, to hear him announce this, to have if affirmed aloud where exactly her jewelry had come from. She had known, of course, as it had been mentioned to her when she’d received them. Still, coming from Christian, words always stung more. They were knives, dull at all points save the ones where they touched her skin and instantly grew shaper than she ever could have imagined. Oh, how he sickened her. Putrescent words dipped in bile, they soaked through her clothes and onto her skin and suddenly, somehow, she felt filthy. He was right. It was shameful, wearing these pearls, knowing where they’d come from, having been hugged and kissed by the woman who wore them, possible while she wore them. It was different from wearing her mother’s old jewelry in an in explicable, tangible way. Jeanne was…well, for one, she most certainly had not been Emilie’s mother. They had been given as a gift, far later on than one typically passed down family heirlooms, and certainly not to the right Simone sister.

Naturally, Christian was right.

Emilie’s eyes darted to the floor of the limo. Slowly, she adjusted her legs so as to cross them at the ankles, not the knee. As though somehow, that would make what he’d said go away. “Yes, well…”

In an incredibly uncharacteristic bout of what could be mistaken as meekness, she drew her hands to the back of her neck, lifting the strand off slowly, carefully. They were precious, despite the fact that they now made her skin burn. When the sea jewels were halfway over her head, however, Emilie stopped. She reversed the movement, and again let the white hot, ice cold peals rest around her neck.

Immediately after their position had been replaced, she looked up at Christian again, a new sort of malice lacing her voice. “I suppose it’s a rather good thing he isn’t here then, isn’t it?” Well, but of course it was. Being without Adolfo was always cause for internal rejoicing. “I rather like them,” lies; they were horrid, petulant things, and she didn’t want to see them ever again after what he’d said, “And I think you’d do kindly not to tell me what I can and cannot wear, thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, hands folded neatly in her lap as she watched, well aware where these sorts of cat and mouse games usually ended, particularly when one was unsure who was which.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

Christian stared at Emilie, as she grew petulant rather than admit defeat. It was a hollow victory to Christian, who's jaw locked in anger. Why did she have to be so difficult? She had to know he was right! That was why she had moved to take it off. She just didn't want to be wrong, didn't want to show Christian that he had gotten to her. He had half the mind to back hand her, right there! She'd deserve it to. But if he got no pleasure out of his current victory, he certainly wouldn't from that. Christian could slap any woman without an ounce of guilt, with the exception of Millie Simone. Strange, given all their battles.

He sighed, a white flag. He was tired. The few glasses of wine, mixed with the evenings festivities, and this suddenly penetrating battle had left him exhausted. He slouched into his seat, and pulled his tie over his head, tossing it aside lazily. "I'm here." Christian informed, as if she had forgotten. He knew it never occurred to her that he had been quite fond of Jeanne, though she was a very foggy memory. He remembered being warm near her, and the rosewater and orchid perfume she wore. Grandfather had tried to give her a variety- Grandfather had tried to give her everything. Even Aunt Eliza had noticed, though she had hated her the same as any of his wives. Most especially Trina, who was a year or two younger than poor Eliza. Regardless, Grandfather made his Aunt call her Mother. Christian knew it was twisted, he knew. What was he to do, facing a force like Adolfo Reichenbach.

"Don't wear them in front of him." He spoke suddenly, an unsure protectiveness taking his voice. Sneaking a look to her with his clearly blue eyes, he added as an after thought: "Please?" Ugh, that word. Not only did Christian hate to ask, but he hated even more to beg. It was loathsome. What did it matter to him if Grandfather got his kicks watching his sister in law, making her sing like a trained bird, and dance for his entertainment? Despite trying to stay disinterested, his fists had balled, and his knuckles had gone white.

Obviously it mattered.

But he was not interested in looking into it tonight.

Christian looked over at Millie, who was most certainly just as tired as he. That weak little shawl that clung to her- he knew it clung, as he could see her skin right through the cloth it was so thin- could hardly be keeping her warm. With another sigh, he removed the jacket he wore, and placed it gently upon her lap. His eyes were almost presumptuously indignant, knowing she'd question the gesture. He could be nice. If he wanted to be... Just because it wasn't often didn't mean it wasn't possible.

Leaning closer, Christian examined her face. Fearless. She was utterly fearless, his Millie Song Bird. Well, not literally. Though she was a stunning creature, she was a human one none-the-less. But they were locked away, all those fears, in her striking blue eyes. Along with all the other secrets Christian was sure he was doomed to wonder. With a small smile- not a smirk, but a smile- he reached up and placed his index finger and thumb on her ear. Damn her soft hair, like a sheet of silk, spun into a golden-honey-brown. Nimbly, he took the pearl earring from it, before returning proper to his seat.

Christian wasn't a charitable man. She had his coat, he had her earring. That's business.

Though, Christian thought as he rolled the stone between his fingers, it wasn't a trade. It was a price. A piece of Millie's that could be his. No, he wouldn't give that up. Not for anything.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

It was easier than she’d thought it’d be, keeping the strand hanging round her neck. Partially, she was relieved. Still too, a small bit of her couldn’t help but wish he’d snatched them instead of sighed; he was prone to bouts of temper, Christian, and it would not at all have surprised her, although she’d certainly have acted offended. She could hardly take them off now. They were heavy, burdened with significance she’d been aware of but he’d only just now brought to light. And though Emilie very much liked knowing all she could, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that occasionally, it was best to forget the details.

“I can see that,” she nodded simply, offering him nothing more than a quirk of her pretty, pristine brow. The meaning of his statement, whatever it’d been, was disregarded as she watched him remove the tie. Though she very much shared in his clear exhaustion, Emilie remained in the same straight position, never one to hunch her shoulders even in the comfort of her own room, alone in the evening. Certainly not in front of Christian. Comfort wasn’t something to be found so near him, no matter how much she sometimes wished it to be so. After so many battles, constant nagging and prodding and searching, surely a few minutes’ respite was warranted?

Still, she’d never be the one to call it. Pride was, after all, one of Emilie’s most revered weapons, and he’d already dented the shield enough this evening.

Here, however, it seemed luck, fate, or some other manner of good fortune was on her side. Having turned back to look out the window a few seconds prior to his speech, Emilie paused a moment before turning to him, though the question was written on her face as she watched the outside world pass them by. She tilted her head to look at him, genuine surprise etched slightly into her features at his last word. A tiny smirk began to spread over her lips. For a moment, she paused. Considered. It was certainly not Christian’s way of things, to ask. She couldn’t deny she was pleased. And perhaps slightly touched, that he would ask something from her instead of demand it, as he so often did.

Perhaps, just this once, respect was warranted.

Emilie nodded once, her voice quiet, although certainly not timid. “Of course.”

And why would she wear the things around Adolfo, anyhow? She despised the way he looked at her already, abhorred everything about him; certainly Christian didn’t think her foolish enough to invite more attention. There was something in his tone which had caught her attention. A sort of sting, though not of the malicious sort, and a tiny glint of something in his eye. It pleased her, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

She turned away from him again, not wanting to bother assessing or contemplating or wondering or speaking at the moment. She was tired. Not of fighting entirely, although perhaps a that was truly the case. It was the party. A long night of polite nodding and listening and very little speaking of anything consequential, and though she had quite enjoyed her time with Kaden, she couldn’t deny that it—along with the drinks she’d sipped—had worn her weary, even if the make-up did an exemplary job of not showing it. Involuntarily, she shivered. It was slight, more of a tremble than anything else.

He seemed to notice, however. Hearing movement beside her, Emilie flicked her gaze in Christian’s direction without turning her head, watching with a momentarily bitter expression as he removed his coat and placed it in her lap. Seeing no smugness in his eyes, however, the look turned to one of curiosity, and she glanced down at the jacket and back to him, only to find he’d brought himself closer to her face.

She watched him, blue eyes impassive on the surface, though beneath they held a strange sort of weight. Without meaning to, she held her breath. The touch of his hands—surprisingly warm—against her earlobe rendered the tiniest hint of goosebumps along her neck; though she cursed them, however, she did not draw away. He plucked the earring from her and again she found herself perplexed, although not entirely shocked, as he sat himself back down in his seat.

Silently, Emilie looked away from him and down to the jacket. For a moment, she frowned. Slowly, she eased the jacket over her shoulders, not looking at him as she did so and silently hating how much it smelled like him, how much she liked that fact. When she’d adjusted the garment properly, Emilie turned to him again, curious blue eyes flickering down to his hand, where he held her earring. Extending her own out, palm up, she spoke to him simply, voice demanding despite the light tone and un-narrowed eyes. There was curiosity in them, as much as she hated to deny it. Christian never ceased to puzzle her as often as he annoyed. “Give it back. It’s hardly useful as half a pair.”

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

At her request, Christian just smiled, showing the earring in the palm of his hand, looking like child who found a cat's eye marble. "They don't stop being a pair just cause they're separated." He closed his hand, savoring the cool weight in his palm soothing. "But I've taken a liking to it. I think I'll keep it. You can keep that one though." His tone was very 'that's that', eyes going out the window. He didn't speak for the rest of the trip, content the rest of the trip to sit slouched in his seat.

As with all things, he was Millie's opposite here. She was all angles and lines, where he was curved as a J. She was polite, serious minded, and shrewish. Christian was brash, careless, mercurial. Neither were good, nor were they bad. As they entered the ghost town like bridge to the Hampton's, Christian could stop his rhetorical musings. "I sometimes wonder, Millie... Would we have been friends, had we been born to different people... Do we really hate each other? Or were we raised to hate everyone, and just happen to be around each other most?" It was obvious he didn't want an answer. After all, it was a completely pointless to think about. You couldn't change who you're parents are.

They ended the trip by finally arriving to the Hampton House. It was three stories, twenty odd rooms, not including bathrooms and other such things. Christian exited the car, holding it open for Millie. The snow crunched beneath his feet, and the wind whipped through the island with a fury. Like a gentleman, more out of habit than a genuine wish to be a gentleman, he helped her out and aided her inside. Slipping the jacket back off her shoulders once in their warm home, he gave a little nod to her and folded against his arm. "Sweet dreams, Millie."

With quick steps, Christian made the trek to his room. It was one of the smaller rooms- by choice- on the top floor. His tastes were cluttered, none of his furniture matching and most of it beaten looking from his own carelessness. An impressive book collection, and a large and spacious bed that had seen many of trisque. On usual nights, upon coming to The Hampton House (or any of his Grandfather's estates) he would have called a pretty maid to his room. One who may have flirted with him, who may have hopes to marry him and share his future vast fortune. And he'd play with them while home and then have them fired upon leaving. It was easiest this way.

Tonight, he wanted none of that.

Tonight he showered, and he changed into a pair of starkly white lounge pants that were loose around his ankles. He would towel dry his hair, and then climb into bed, and stare at his ceiling in his darkness while Ludwig Van played him sweet music from his iPod. But sleep would not come. He simply laid there, rolling the pearl earring in his hands. It was both soothing and disorienting, finding his connection to the piece of jewelry both appalling and perfect. He finally gave up on sleep, after about two hours, before walking down to the kitchen to try and find something to relieve his boredom. Making himself a cup of tea, Christian began to return before crossing the path to Millie's room.

He had to stop.

Millie.

His Song Bird...

[EMILIE SIMONE]

“Well of course not, but they’re—” Emilie rolled her eyes in exasperation, snapping her mouth shut when he didn’t cease talking. For a moment, she glared. He’d made it clear enough that there was to be no more discussion on the matter, and although she very much wanted her earring back, it could wait until later. Why he wanted it in the first place, she hadn’t a clue. Knowing him, it was all for the sake of a reaction; one that this time, she was determined not to give. So, Emilie turned away from him again and watched out the window, silent for the remainder of their trip, though the tightness in her jaw lessened significantly the longer she spent looking away from him.

She continued to keep her gaze out the window as they crossed the bridge into the Hamptons, and though she offered no response to his words, she’d listened closely. It was a question she’d never bothered to ponder herself, as Emilie despised pondering things she might not like the answers to, but still, perhaps it boded a tad of curiosity to say the least. Would she have been his friend? It was hard to imagine. The word sounded foreign in any context, but especially one concerning Christian. He was nothing but her enemy. Perhaps that made them closer than anyone she’d ever met before, but it was nothing near friendship. Emilie Simone didn’t have friends. Kaden, perhaps, was now the closest thing to it and still, she found Christian to be closer.

It was quite the paradox, their hatred.

Pushing his rhetorical speech to the back of her mind, Emilie accepted his help getting out of the car and to the door, though she immediately took a small step back once they’d reached indoors and she was safely out of the clutches of the jacket. She nodded wordlessly back to him, lips pursed in what could either be a smile, a frown, or some distinct combination of the two.

She followed him up the stairs slowly, stopping at the second floor landing so as to make her way to her own room. It was a large thing, although not so large as one might lose themselves, and painted a pink so pale it was practically white. Emilie took off her heels only after she’d entered and shut the door, pausing to put them in their proper place in the closet despite how desperately she wanted to sink into bed and drift away. It was a struggle, keeping her eyes open as she removed her jewelry (while the necklace went back to its proper spot on the organizer, the lone earring found its resting place atop the ornate wooden jewelry box that had once housed her mother’s diamonds) and showered, washing the make-up off her face before she climbed her way into the four-poster bed, hair still slightly damp.

Weary as she was, Emilie fell asleep immediately beneath the pristinely made sheets and crisp down comforted that adorned her mattress and so reflected the neatness around her. There was not a speck of dust out of place in the entire room, not a single piece of mahogany furniture crooked nor a book or piece of music on the shelves tilted in a manner that was anything but just-so. Emilie was a pristine girl who found comfort in order and straight lines, narrow corners and few places to hide but those she created herself. Here, now, curled beneath the warm white sheets in her pale blue nightgown, she found it a soothing place to drift off, for it was hers and hers alone, and not at all prone to intrusion.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

It was too tempting to ignore. Perhaps this was where he had been going the entire time. The door knob in front of of him was both so far away, and so close. Christian was suddenly so aware of everything around him. The wind hitting the window at the end of the hall, the heat of his cup of tea burning his hand, the coolness of the Calamander wood floor beneath his feet. He swore he could hear her breathing inside, soft and even inhales and exhales. Restful in her sleep. Yes, far too tempting. Christian entered.

He was graceful in his steps, and was glad The Hampton House's majordomo had been mindful to keep up maintenance. The doors did not squeak, and the floors did not creak. Setting his cup on top of one of the dressers, before closing the door gently. The room was clouded with a palpable darkness, and the only illumination Christian had was by the moon. Approaching cautiously, he gazed at Emilie, as a child might their first time appreciating a sunrise. The moon did her such justice, and he could not help but connect her connection to Diana, to Artemis. Fierce and strong, strikingly beautiful, chaste. Or so he hoped.

Musings aside, Christian watched upon her, and tried to find more logical things to dwell upon instead. Like how soft her face look. It was startling, the difference from Millie in the day light. There she was stiff, controlled, never wanting to anyone to see what laid in her head. But here... here. Here her hair had curled around her face, unstyled and mussed. Her face was soft and still; her lips in neither a smile nor a frown, yet not in a way that left you wondering which was happening. He wanted to much to reach out and touch her, yet, then she would awaken. And while Christian was in no fear of being reprimanded, he wanted did not want to break this spell of beauty. It was far too precious.

The only sensible option was to merely stay. Crossing over to the other side of the bed, Christan slide carefully into the bed. Her bed was cool where her body was not taking, though the closer he inched, the more heat he could feel. Careful not to get to close, Christian laid on his stomach, nuzzling into his self designated places. And Christian watched her, a little smile on his face. Once again, he felt as a child, this time one who has a secret. He had seen Millie's true face. He had seen the song bird at ease. It was his pearl earring! Because now that this secret was his, he would never relent, never release it. In this way, his Millie Song Bird would remain his, forever, no matter what, in some way.

This was enough to allow Christian Reichenbach's eyes to fall, and a slow doze to finally take him. Not a true sleep, no. He felt as she stirred next to him, aware of the alien presence now in her bed. Still, he kept his eyes close, and his lips curled in an anticipating grin.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

In as deep a sleep as she was, Emilie noticed nothing of her bedroom door opening. Nor, in fact, did she so much as stir when a mug was set on one of her dressers, or breathe out of the soft, easy pattern of sleep when someone crossed the wooden floor and stood over her. Hands curled beneath the covers very near her cheek, she slept on, oblivious.

Even as he first slid himself beneath the sheets, all Emilie managed was a little turn, not completely, but a shift in movement just a tiny bit closer to him, adjusting her position subconsciously. Her eyes flickered subtly beneath their lids as she dreamt, though of what would surely escape her by the time she opened them. Legs curled high up, close to her chest, she slept in a near fetal position with features so relaxed, they were certainly near-foreign to such a normally rigidly controlled face.

Still, as he moved himself closer, Emilie couldn’t help but stir. She shifted again, and beneath her eyelids the flickering ceased as she began to awaken. It was a slow process, for it had been a deep sleep and she felt no imminent danger, and for a minute or so, her eyes remained closed as well. She was awake, trapped between the moment of dreamlessness and reality, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard something. Felt the weight of herself on the bed to be not quite right. Imperfect. And oh, how she loathed imperfections. Still and silent she lay there, holding her breath for a few moments so as to listen properly. The sound that greeted her—breathing that was obviously not her own—caused her to open her eyes carefully, slowly, for there was still a grogginess in her mind that came from waking from such a deep, weary sleep.

The moonlight falling through the window cast a small, jagged silver shadow over the intruder’s face, slicing him in half as she tiny beam of light cut its way through the wooden headboard. For a moment, she merely blinked. Surely, this was but another dream; no one entered here but the maids, and Trina, should she so desire. Even then, however, no one but her had even come beneath the covers. They were a sacred place of sorts, used only on the right side where she slept.

Still, there was most certainly an intruder here, for the moonlight never looked so crisp in reverie. Of course, she recognized it. Him.

As the realization pierced her thin veil of consciousness, Emilie immediately sat bolt upright. A short gasp of surprise fled her lips. Her eyes widened as she looked at him, then narrowed immediately as she drew the sheets around her further, having no desire to show off her short, silk nightgown.

“What are you doing?!” though the words were quiet and hissed, they held far more emotion than she typically allowed to pierce her diction. Emilie was livid. He wasn’t allowed here! This was her room, her corner of the house she already despised, the one place she could go where he could not follow and she could be rid of him entirely, or at least pretend to be. Oh, how she hated him now. Who did he think he was—and in her bed, no less, beneath the covers.

Suddenly, a worse though crept into her mind. How long had he been there for? How long had he been staring, or simply laying there as he’d been when she’d woke, eyes closed and nearly asleep himself? Instantaneously, her tone shifted to ice, dripping with malice and an unspoken threat she wasn’t quite sure how she’d execute. “Get. Out.”

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

He heard her gasp first, as the blankets tugged away from him a bit. Christian jaw set, forcing the smile back. Here came the fireworks. Alas, the magic had to die, didn't it. Peace, it was an ugly word anyway. War was far more passionate. You saw the true nature of the beast when they were at their angriest. He offered to open one eye- just one, for that was all he cared to spare- and looked at her illuminated figure. Her words came out like hisses, angry at his invasion. At having been caught off guard. But Christian was barely effected by the jab. "Laying." He offered, voice bored with the conversation. "I'm staying on my own side, and the beds large enough. Take to some laying yourself." His lips curled in a grin, eyelid closing once more.

Ah, and then the order to get out. Christian felt broiled, though apart of him knew he hand no reason to be. He was invading her space, in her bed, neither were particularly dressed. Now that he thought about it, he had so rarely seen Millie without all her make up on. She still smelled amazing though... Cucumber mint. So fresh and bright, not flowery or fruity. Her smell was all over, embedded deeply into the bed. But that was hardly the point. Right now she was being rude! He wasn't doing anything wrong! Why, he was being a perfect gentleman, all things considered. He was on his own side of the bed, he wasn't pawing at her. But, still, he answered with a slow and lazy drawl. "No. I'm comfortable."

Rolling on to his back, Christian looked up at her, and her angrily contorted face. Yet, his remained soft and innocent look. Almost stung by her dismissal of him. "Stop it. Don't be angry." Though it was said in the structure of an order, Christian's voice was quiet and submissive. He was not fond of when he got like this, where he sought Emilie's unreachable approval. It summed up his feelings on women. He chased the easy ones because he loved that they were so receptive. But he would never respect them. He would never love them, merely love aspects of them. One he had the potential to love would be blocked by an intense hatred, as that sort of woman would be intelligent as he. Just as biting and cruel, able to play as he plays and fights as he fights.

Reaching up, he touched her cheek with his finger tips, blue eyes very open. Very awake. She'd probably recoil at this further invasion, but Christian couldn't stop himself. He wouldn't ask for more, just a touch. His fingers traced into her hair, the index and center finger streaming a golden brown lock between them. "Don't be angry. Just let me lay here, just go to sleep. And when you wake up, I'll be gone. Just a bad dream." There was a pinch of remorse to his tone, far too tired to put on a face. Pulling his hand back, he looked up to the ceiling, wishing he'd have brought the earring to keep him company. "If you do, I'll tell you why a caged bird sings, Millie..."

[EMILIE SIMONE]

“Yes, well, I can see that,” Emilie snipped bitterly, yanking yet another bunch of comforters towards her as she pulled them up, over her chest. Leave it to Christian to act so nonchalant about the whole thing. As if sneaking into someone else’s room in the dead of night was perfectly normal; as though she’d suggested he join her earlier this evening. Well, she most certainly hadn’t. After the party and the car ride, she wanted nothing more to do with him than to not seem him until the morning, or perhaps not even then if at all possible. She watched him angrily as he closed his eyes, jaw set tight as her lips thinned.

She ought to push him off. If she truly wanted to, she probably could. All it would take was a well aimed kick, and chances were he’d squirm himself right over the edge and onto the floor.

But then, that wasn’t quite as satisfying as it could be, she told herself. “Maybe. But it’s not your bed,” she hissed again, slightly disappointed when the words warranted no reaction other than that self-satisfied grin he practically always wore, anyhow. Of course. Why would he be bothered? He was getting what he wanted, whether a reaction or her presence next to him. Obviously, this had been his idea. Never mind if she wanted any part in it; she never did, though. Mind. Perhaps that was what bothered her most of all.

Yanking again at the comforter, Emilie was slightly disappointed to find she could pull it towards her no further, for the way Christian was lying amongst the sheets had anchored them very much where they were. She frowned. Of course, now she could probably just tug upwards, and he’d tumble right out, if the thing was executed properly. But then she’d be left with no cover.

And what was worse, really? Having him see her completely, or lying far away from him beneath the covers, where all was hidden; or, at least, as far away from him as the bed would allow without her sliding over the edge. Without being too horribly obvious, as though she wasn’t already.

She looked down at him as he rolled over, drawing her knees up to her chest as she sat, wrapping her bare arms around them atop the white covers. Eyes narrowed, she gave no word as to whether or not she’d listen to the demand, though the change in his tone was noted. It was rare for Christian to speak to her in this way. Rare and much appreciated, truth be told. Her lips pursed, although not in an expression of annoyance so much as acknowledgement.

Maybe she’d be angry. Maybe she wouldn’t.

Emilie’s eyes turned wary as he extended his hand, watching his fingers from the corner of her eye as they touched her cheek, surprisingly cool against her warm cheek which had, just seconds prior, been resting on the pillowcase. She drew back. It was an incredibly slight movement, more due to the chill than the touch itself, though she very much wished to attribute the withdrawal to the latter. As he ran his fingers once though her hair, her face softened slightly upon looking down at him. She listened and frowned. Not at the words, but at their implications, and his tone. She hated when he did this. Put on a face of feeling—took down the one of cruelty, whatever it was—and spoke to her genuinely. It was irksome and a tad more than confusing and sometimes, she felt as though she didn’t quite mind it, which she only hated more.

Her forget-me-not eyes didn’t leave him even as he drew his hand away, curiosity etched in her gaze. Slowly, she slid down from her balled-up perch, legs extending beneath the covers as she let her head rest back on the pillow, eyes on the white ceiling. For a moment, she was silent, comforter drawn up just past her chest. She wasn’t going to ask what he’d meant about birds. But there was something in his voice and the way he said it and well, he did call her Song Bird…

Besides, he’d startled her. She couldn’t sleep just yet, no matter how tired she was. It was just curiosity, that was all. Idiotic of her, to fall for it. Still, she could hardly sit back up again now.

Ever so slightly, she turned her head towards him, though her eyes remained locked on the ceiling. They were closer than she’d though they were. Or, at least, it seemed that way, now that she wasn’t sitting up. Still, the bed was large, and there was more than enough space for him and a petite girl such as herself. She opened her mouth slightly, closed it, and spoke in a voice that was far quieter and far less severe than her usual. “And why would I want to know that?”

There was curiosity there, yes, genuine and pure beneath something very near apprehension—oh, how she loathed the thought—and bitterness. Bitterness that he’d gotten her, after all. Bitterness that she hadn’t protested and, quite honestly, might not have had any desire to.