just my idiot stepbrother.

Erich

Celia has one job, and it's one that has no set hours. Some days she gets a call, or a text, and she needs to be somewhere with an hour's notice. Some days she doesn't get back to her hotel until very, very late. Some days -- rarely -- she might not get back until morning. And then some days she is bored, she is alone and more or less friendless, she apparently spends her time camping, or going to museums, or looking wistfully at puppies in a pet store.

Today, she is At Work. And her mark has a well-known face, a public name, both of which preclude him from ever really taking her on dates in D.C. They don't really date much at all. But today he's made an exception. He's done this because Valentine's wasn't so very long ago, but he couldn't spend it with her. Of course not. That would be too incriminating, and even if everyone suspects, even if everyone knows men like him keep lovely bits of fluff on the side, there's a thick dark line between suspicion and knowledge and cold, hard proof.

He wants to make it up to her, though. That's what he wrote in the text she got. An address, a time, and: Let me make it up to you. So she took a cab, or maybe he risked sending a car; she went south and east to a quaint little vacation town called Chesapeake Bay, where the air smells like salt, where oyster shacks and seafood restaurants line the bay.

The restaurant he takes her to is three stories of glass. It has vast windows overlooking the beach, the Atlantic. At low tide the shimmering strand lies below where they sit and eat. At high tide, they stand on stilts over the water. The food is so fine and so expensive that the prices don't appear on the menus. They are starting on the appetizers, and this is when

a frisbee thud!s loudly against the window. The glass is far too thick and insulating and wellmade to shatter, but the sound is loud, and it startles several diners. Perhaps it makes her date jerk, his head flattening between his shoulders with that innate avoidance instinct of a man who might just be concerned about assassination attempts. But no: it's not a gun, not a bullet; just some guys on the beach throwing a frisbee around, one of them trotting over now to pick the errant toy up. He waves it at the diners up on the second floor, and that's when they recognize each other, Celia and frisbee-boy below, who is in fact Erich-wolf. He's wearing blue-and-green-and-yellow board shorts, and flip-flops on his feet. His frisbee is red. He stares at her a moment, head cocked.

Then he turns and jogs back to whoever it is he's throwing a frisbee with. He shouts, dimly audible through the glass, and then he sends the frisbee whipping out on a high, flat arc.

Celia and her date are on the main course when there's a stir in the restaurant. A murmuring, and some staring, and then a sudden oppressive silence. Looking entirely out of place in that sherpa-lined hoodie over his, which is zipped over no shirt and board shorts, Erich follows a reluctant greeter up the stairs to the second floor. She wants to put him in the back corner, away from the view. He breaks away from her, heading over to the big windows. His flipflops slap against the floor. He points at a small table for two a stone's throw from the one Celia shares with her date. He doesn't look at her, thankfully, or give any indication he knows her. But she can hear him quite clearly:

"Is it all right if I sit here instead?"

Amazingly, the greeter says yes. And so he sits. Celia's date has his back to Celia's sort-of-friend. Celia's sort-of-friend is keeping an eye on Celia's date. He's not as subtle as he thinks he is.

Celia de Luca

He expects her to be passive-aggressive. He expects her to give him forlorn looks and sighs when he doesn't spend the holidays with her. He expects her to make him work for it after Valentine's Day, make him coo at her and give her presents and stroke her ego until she lets him fuck her again. He doesn't realize he expects this, and would never admit that he wants it, but it's as much a part of the deal as her discretion. She has a part to play.

It's a careful line to walk between making him feel like he has to work for it and making him actually feel bad, though. It's not her job to make him feel bad. It's her job to make him feel good. Make him feel like his wife never does any more. Make him feel like a man.

That's how he feels when he has her picked up by one of his drivers, one of those quiet gentlemen who knows that his livelihood in this city for the rest of his life depends on pretending to believe that this is his boss's friend's daughter from out of town, even when she's giggling in the back seat as that boss's hands paw all over her. And he feels like a man when she gets out of the car at that restaurant in Chesapeake, because the sunlight is dancing off her cleavage in that v-necked pink cashmere she's wearing. He feels like a man when he walks her inside, sits down across from her, and teases her with the little box with its red ribbon, saying she can have it if she behaves. It makes her pout.

He feels a little like a wolf doing that. He likes that, too.

The frisbee hitting the window makes Celia yelp, then cover her mouth with her hand. That's how Erich sees her, manicured fingertips against glossed lips, her short-sleeved sweater dress low-necked but demurely hemmed, except the way she's sitting he can just make out where the skirt has rucked up a bit on her thigh. He can just make out the half-inch of skin visible above where her white stockings end, a line of sultry gold between two pastels. The startled look on her face changes slightly when she sees him. Her wide, round eyes have a trace of what the hell in them.

He runs off. Celia exhales, and lets her date hold her hand, and she manages a little giggle. They go on with their appetizers, her salad. That date is feeding her a little cube of minted watermelon when Erich comes in the restaurant, and she is chewing it when she looks over. Erich pretends not to see her or know her. Celia follows him with her eyes, a little frown between her brows, a little tightness at the corners of her mouth.

Though they're a table away, Erich can hear Celia's date ask her what's wrong quite clearly.

And he can hear her answer just as easily, a muttered: "Just my idiot stepbrother."

Which, understandably, makes Senator Wyrmpants twist around in his chair, looking at Erich.

Erich

What Celia does --

-- is quite brilliant, actually. She sees in an instant that there's no way Erich can ever be subtle about this: not his surveillance, not his protectiveness. There's no way her date won't, sooner or later, notice there's a completely underdressed guy behind him that feels like six rabid dogs in a rusted cage, and that guy is staring at him like he's just waiting for him to make his day. So: she preempts the inevitable noticing and the questions that might follow: who is that? why's he staring like that? And what she says then --

-- is the last thing Erich expects her to say. He is, in fact, staring at the back of Senator Wyrmingsworth's head when the man turns. His eyes widen, his hands clutch at his menu, for an infuriating second Celia might actually expect him to duck behind the menu like a dog too stupid to realize just because he can't see you doesn't mean you can't see him.

Then he drops the menu on the table. He gets up, and across the room some blue-haired old biddy sniffs disapprovingly at his attire, his bare, hairy calves and his almost-bare, bony feet. He ambles over to Celia and her date's table, pulling on a smile. "Hey there," he says, and then he kinda leaves that hanging because he realizes he has no idea what Celia's date thinks or is supposed to think: what her name is with this guy, what she supposedly does in DC that led to him meeting her, whether she's supposed to have a job or school or is 24/7 his mistress, where her separated parents live, which parent it is that's supposedly re-married to Erich's parent. He just sticks his hand out at Senator Wyrmingsworth. "Erich. I'm the stepbrother."

There's no way for Erich to mask the violence in his nature. So he takes a cue from Celia: he doesn't even try. If his hand is taken, he squeezes very hard. It's a boy's posturing, a boy's ploys at intimidation, a boy who has no idea what sort of man Celia's date is, and the sort of quiet, devastating power he wields.

"You be nice to my sister now, you hear?"

Celia de Luca

"Oh my god," Celia says in annoyance, as rich upper-class brat as you can get, "we're like the same age, Derek. Don't act all big brother when you've known me like, a year."

The name she calls him sounds enough like his own name that he might swing his head around upon hearing it shouted across the room. The name she calls him is in keeping with his appearance, so vastly different from her own that no one would ever suspect they're related by blood, which itself is in keeping with her story. He's known her for about a year, which means their parents got married sometime within that year. They're the same age, though he has no idea how old she's pretending to be. Young, the way she acts. The way she dresses.

His Honor Mr. Wyrmington watches Erich's approach with steely eyes, from the moment he freezes up to the moment he extends his hand. He has closely-trimmed salt and pepper hair. His eyes are blue. His suit -- for he almost always wears a suit -- is the color of charcoal, with a pale blue shirt and a tie with a gleaming geometric pattern of silvers and grays. He has more than a few extra pounds on his frame and on his face, but he is broad-shouldered and at one point in his life might have been quite physically imposing. Since he looks closer to 50 than 40, that might have been quite some time ago indeed.

There's violence in his eyes, too. Wariness. He doesn't take his eyes off of Erich to look questioningly or warningly at Celia, but takes the hand. Squeezes back just as hard; he has his own bruising strength, or at least a certain degree of viciousness and a taste for retribution. Or pissing contests.

Celia is glaring at him -- at Erich -- as she grips the sides of her chair, looking precisely like a spoiled brat. Her arms are tight, though, subtly but distinctly accentuating what's already accentuated by her dress. She scowls at him like she would very much like him to fall into an active volcano.

Her 'date' leans back when their handshake ends. "You didn't mention you had a stepbrother," he says, offhand-but-not, to Celia.

She huffs. "He's supposed to be at Harvard. Daddy got him in after the wedding."

Erich

It's a little ridiculous, really, the two men doing their level best to crush each other's hands. At least Celia's date is wearing a suit, the sleeves of which hide his arm. Not so for Erich: the sleeves of his hoodie are rolled up, and the cords in his forearm are standing out.

When they let go of each other, Erich's hand falls to the back of the empty, purely ornamental chair at their table. There really isn't enough room here to fit three sets of dinnerware; the table is clearly for a romantic couple. Erich drags the chair out anyway and -- unless dissuaded -- begins to sit.

"Call it an early spring break," he says. "I mean, have you seen the news? Boston is pretty much buried in snow right now." He holds his hands up in a weighing motion. "Snow, beach. Snow, beach. Beach. Am I right?" He's not even asking Celia; he's asking her date, eyebrows up, man-to-man. "So what's your name, man?"

Celia de Luca

Celia's date lifts an eyebrow as Erich swings a chair over from a neighboring table and plops down. Celia is staring at him, open-mouthed and horrified -- and furious -- while her date merely looks casually annoyed.

"Jack," says her date, which isn't much to go on and may not even be true. He sits up a bit straighter and takes control of the situation: "Derek, it's a pleasure to meet you, but I think your sister here is about to blow a gasket. Why don't you go get your friend and have lunch downstairs? On me."

Erich

"Really." Erich seems to only be half-listening. He grabs a shrimp out of the cocktail glass they've been served in. His teeth cut through the tender sweet flesh; he flicks the tail onto the pristine tablecloth and his eyes pin 'Jack'. "Wow, damn. No wonder she likes you. Buying me dinner just to get me out of your hair. What do you buy her to get her to do what you want?"

He grins suddenly, reaches over, smacks Celia's date on the shoulder. Hard.

"I'm just fucking with you, man. I appreciate it. I'll just have 'em add it to your tab, yeah? What should I tell them -- Jack what?"

Celia de Luca

Jack is not amused. Celia all but squeaks with rage.

What he says implies that Celia is a whore. A slut. That Jack buys what he wants from her with gifts, dinners, god knows what else. He doesn't talk about her like she's his precious baby sister. And Erich may not get to slapping Jack's back or asking his last name, because Celia's chair scrapes back suddenly and she bursts up, speed-walking away from the table with her hand over her mouth, with a sound that makes the image of bright tears in her eyes spring to mind. She's rushing toward the bathroom, head down so that her hair covers her cheeks.

Erich

Erich twists around to watch Celia go -- whips back to all but shout at Jack even as he's bursting up out of his chair, "Now look what you did!"

He goes after Celia. She's rushing; he's running, skittering out of the way of a waiter balancing a tray of surf-and-turf, putting his hands on the back of another diner's chair to push them as he squeezes past. Across the room Celia's date can see Erich taking her by the elbow, can see her very likely throw him off, can hear him saying sorry and didn't know and

what he's actually saying, trying to keep his voice down, is:

"Shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. Did I blow it? I didn't know what the hell to do when you called me your stepbrother, shit."

Celia de Luca

At that point, Jack is at a loss. He can't exactly be seen chasing some young girl across a restaurant when she's gone to the ladies room to cry. Nor can he be seen, even as far as Chesapeake, throwing that same girl's stepbrother on a table and punching him in the face or just throttling him. He looks discomfited, but that is a thin veneer atop his anger. He always feels angry these days. Greedy, really. And angry when he's denied.

Celia does shake Erich off, pouting, and stomps around a corner toward the more subtly-lit hallway where the bathrooms are. There, hidden out of view finally, she has her hand over her mouth and looks at Erich, stifling laughter. Those eyes of hers truly are bright, but not with tears. With amusement.

She grabs his arms and shakes him, trying desperately not to laugh out loud. Whispering: "Oh my god, did you see his face? This is so perfect. I am fucking brilliant."

A waitress passes by behind Erich and, right on cue, Celia plants her hands on his chest and shoves him away, her face instantly a mask of loathing and petty retribution. The waitress scurries off. Celia bounces on the balls of her feet, clad as they are in a pair of high-heeled Mary Janes with lovely tooling in the patent leather along the uppers and adorned with tiny silver buttons on the straps. She looks positively gleeful, clasping her hands in front of her chest and beaming. "This is so perfect."

Erich

It doesn't surprise Erich when she throws him off. It does surprise him when he follows her around the corner to that tastefully-lit hallway with its tasteful sconces and tasteful seating and tasteful doors to the tasteful bathrooms that

and she turns around and she's not furious, she's not punching him in the nose but grabbing him and shaking him and laughing. "Wait," he saying, "you're not -- "

-- and she shoves him, a waitress looks in on them wide-eyed, thought about asking if everything was all right but decides it's above her pay-grade. Erich's back thumps against the wall. The waitress gets lost. Celia is beaming.

"Wait, what? How is this perfect?"

Celia de Luca

"Look," she says, hushed, "it'll take a little while to explain, okay? Just... I'm going to go mess with my makeup a bit. I'll text you when I go back to my hotel and we can talk. But for now you should go, and like..." She thinks rapidly, comes up with an idea she seems to think is also perfect and brilliant: "Glower at him like you'd like to tear his head off, then glance back down this hallway before you storm out. The more melodramatic the better, okay?"

Celia almost squees. She shoves Erich again, this time happily, clapping her hands on his chest in delight. In whispers: "Okay! Go! You're the best!"

And dashes into the bathroom.

Erich

"Wait, but -- "
(it'll take too long to explain)
" -- wait, which -- "
(glower at him!)
" -- should I threaten him, or --?"
(glance back!)
" -- like, angrily or worriedly or -- "
(you're the best!)
" -- I am?"

He has this confused lopsided sort of smile on his face when she dashes into the restroom. That's the last she sees of him. So she misses him straightening his hoodie, stamping his feet in place and rolling his head on his shoulders like a boxer getting ready for the ring. She misses the stomping, shoulder-swaying way he barges back out of the hallway, and the patented Get Of Thunder Lord glare he nails 'Jack' with, and the turn of his head back toward the restrooms before he just bulldozes his way out of the restaurant.

Does a pretty good job with the whole performance, actually. But then, he doesn't really have to pretend to loathe Senator Wyrmscliffe.