Written for random-prophet for the April challenge at gyaku-flash. She already had wanted to see my Mrs. von Karma, so I thought I'd give her a slice of life from my headcanon as a response. Concrit is greatly appreciated, especially about if I was able to make the Mrs. come across as a character in her own right and about if certain things need to be more clear.
Celia wonders what she first saw in him besides the money and the reputation. If she's going to be honest with herself, absolutely nothing, but who does tell the whole truth? He doesn't, certainly, and neither does she.
They've learned to cover up each other's potential scandals by now: the strangely sudden deaths of certain people who had crossed her the week before, at parties when she had been at their table a half hour before, all sparkling conversation and polite smiles, so very solicitous with their drinks? He finger-snaps away any theories his detectives pose and secretly resolves to have a talk with the chief about their next performance review. The young men who've hinted at interesting stories they could tell about their work in the von Karma household? She listens to their complaints over her tea in her front room and reminds them that lying to one's employer means they're unlikely to get a good reference when they decide they finally do want to move on. Then she taps her nails on the table and asks if they would like to join her for a few minutes, take a bit of a break perhaps.
They always decline.
She supposes that's why she's stayed with him all these years. She could have taken the money and the girls and left him whenever she liked, but it's so rare to meet someone as tricky as she is. No matter how foolish the late afternoon conversation over her tea with him, he sockets away every detail into his memory. Every salacious little story about someone he barely knows will have a meaning, if next week, next month, five, ten, fifteen years later. That's just how he is.
Manfred's always liked finding weaknesses, though. He does it for a living, after all. And he brings enough work home as is, of course he'll bring that home as well. Especially when work that day has involved her.
She always knows when it has. He has no patience for gossip on those days, glaring at her over his coffee and cutting off half of her sentences, but she keeps things polite and domestic and slightly scandalous as long as she can. It's really more fun that way. The longer he has to wait, the angrier he'll be when she finally finishes, and she likes finding weaknesses as well.
Especially a certain kind. When she finally lets up to tell him about his day, he only gets through about two sentences before suddenly breaking in the middle. "You're trying to distract me, Celia."
Well now. She knew she'd been sloppy with the atroquinine this time (and perhaps she'd been just a little too delicate with her hand on his thigh under the table), but this quickly? Surprising. "I couldn't tell you what you mean by that."
"Really, now. I told you I'd been investigating that murder at your friend Barstow's."
"Oh, yes, that. You took care of it, didn't you, Manfred dear?" She flashes an innocent smile. Of course he did. He always does.
He's ignoring her today, instead getting up from his chair and stepping that one step next to her. Before he can reach down, she's shot out of her own, eyes level with his, cool affection only teasing blue anger brighter. She threads her fingers into his hair, knowing exactly what to do with her nails along the back of his neck. His face twitches and she knows what he would have done if not for the rules of this game, but she smiles at him as sweetly as before. "What would I do without you?" she asks him.
"What indeed?" He tries to straighten his back further to look down on her, but her other hand slips under his coat, tracing more nails up his spine - it wouldn't be fair if he had that advantage. She wears the heels for a reason. "You'd be rotting in prison, Celia." She's thrown back a bit as he takes her shoulders hard, pushing her away. "Or you'd be wasting your time even more foolishly than now. It would take you years to get rid of anyone," he snaps. "If you're so incompetent at something as simple as poisoning, I can't imagine what would happen if you had to take recourse to more complex methods."
She glares back at him, and Manfred catches her hand as she reaches up at his face suddenly, but all she does is slip one finger across his cheekbone, watching his eyes flicker. He's not even fighting back today. This is disappointing. Perhaps she has to push him a bit further: the weapon she has in mind is a dirty one, but neither of them have any objections to fighting dirty. "That reminds me, darling," she says, as she drops her voice low, "it seems you've been taking the easy way yourself quite a bit recently. If you're not careful, he's going to tell his mother. And you know what I'd have to do then." She leans forward against him, her hand on his chest curling slightly, and looks up that little bit. Just as good and submissive-looking as one of them. "Imagine if I stopped cleaning up your messes. I think you'd have it worse than I would."
He grabs her again and pulls her off, fingers tight against her arms. She knows he's leaving marks even through the sleeves. "You're only doing what everyone expects of you." He leans his face in close, eyes angry slits and mouth a thin-lipped snarl. "I risk my career every time I have to go out there and..."
She's heard this before, and knows he's getting close. It would be so amusing to take even this surprise from him, though, so she closes the distance between their faces and kisses him, catching him open-mouthed in the middle of a word. He starts for a moment as she wraps her arms around his waist to pull him in closer, and as her nails go up his back again she swears he gives for a second and grips her even harder and...
He shoves her away and glares again, trying to feign contempt, but she knows what's really behind that. "You've always wanted the quick solution, haven't you, Celia?" He turns to stride out and pulls the door open almost roughly. Such a sore loser. But he always was.
He still finds his way to her bed that night. Victory is victory, after all.