love the feelin'

Not laughing, not chuckling to himself over a funny joke he had read (though Robert Edwin House would never be caught dead reading something as banal and mentally insubordinate as a comedy), but giggling. Like a high school girl over a crush.

This required further investigation. This required extensive investigation. She made a move to creep into the den, hoping she could sneak up on him, but that damned luck of his made its move at the worst possible moment, and his head, thrown back in laughter, spotted her.

“Darling!” He cried, the hour far too late for that much enthusiasm. “Come over, come look! It’s just…” 

House giggled again, pointing to the disassembled bits before him, as if that would explain everything. In his mind, maybe it did. It did not explain anything to Charmeuse, and she merely raised an eyebrow.

“Dear,” she began with the patience of a saint. “You’re allowed your hobbies, but—” “Hobbies?” House was indignant instantly. “This isn’t something as trite as a hobby, my dear. This is extensive market research. Corporate espionage, if you will. Mostly, and, frankly, it is me taking a moment of leisure—” “Which you could be spending in bed, with me,” she pointed out.

“You are a free font of affection when I need it, darling.” He waved a hand dismissively, eyes squinting at having been interrupted. He never took personal offense at being overruled, somehow he seemed to think it was a matter of not being interesting enough. That in-and-of-itself could be a problem, as a Robert Edwin House who thought he wasn’t the center of attention could be a dangerous Robert Edwin House, in more ways than one. 

House seemed to finally understand what his beau was implying, and launched into a tirade of exposition. 

“I was simply taking the time to quite thoroughly investigate General Atomic’s latest model. The ‘Mister Handy’, as if somehow adding ‘Mister’ to it would give it a sense of gravitas; an… unearned moniker of respect.”

“Says Mister House,” Charmeuse retorted, smiling.

“Hence the unearned part, my love.” House tapped a little wrench at some meaningless doohickery in the midst of all the carnage, which looked the same to Charmeuse as every other bit of robotic viscera. “RobCo’s collaboration with them on this floating Wooster-laden abomination made me curious, worried, even, over a possible worthwhile competitor. There have been some successes with some smaller companies but—”

“Dear.” “Oh don’t dear me right now, Miss Charmeuse. Look!” House tapped the doohickey again and gave a chuckle. “And here I thought they were a threat! They’re absolute amateurs!”

Charmeuse leaned in closer at the thingy, and frowned. He evidently was looking for a bit of effort from her, if nothing else, and she had developed enough of a taste for her partner’s interests to at least have a passing knowledge of his automata esoterica. After the first brain scan as a form of foreplay, one quickly got used to his antics.

She sighed. “It’s some sort of gyroscopic component.” House grinned. “Precisely!”

She smiled, gently. “And I assume it’s not a good one?”

“Oh it’s absolutely beyond terrible!” House giggled, again. “The weighting is completely off, and they’re still manufacturing anti-tilt stabilizers with ceramics! Ceramics! Evidently they’d be better off hiring graduate students than whatever circus passes for their engineering teams.”

Charmeuse nodded. “So you’re going to charge them an arm and a leg to fix it?”

“Absolutely not! RobCo was contracted to refine the design, not rectify their core internal issues. We’ve got plausible deniability, I intend to seize it.” House scratched his chin, grin turning devious. “Then again, I can certainly start charging them for… Oh let’s call it regular motorized upkeep. I certainly wouldn’t bother replacing the ceramics, merely letting them run their corner-cutting course until–”

“Dear.” House paused. “Yes, Charmeuse?”

Charmeuse finally leaned against the doorframe, making sure one strap of the negligee fell down her shoulder with all the seductive grace that had been trained into her. “It’s 1 in the morning. It’s cold in bed.”

House shrugged. “I am a billionaire, dear. Turn up the heat.” Charmeuse sighed. “I mean it is cold in bed without you.”

House opened his mouth. House closed his mouth. The message was received. “Ah. I… I assume I am working late?”

“It’s one in the morning, yes.”

“And you would like me to—”

“Keep me intimate company in our bed, yes.”

“I see, I see,” House looked back at the array of robotic nonsense. “I will be there in… Ten minutes?”

“You will be there now.” Charmeuse arched her back, ever so slightly.

Robert Edwin House, quite possibly the richest man in the world, blinked, wetly. “Yes, dear.”

-

Come Look At My Awesome Car, Dear

Robert House, who would deny he was Robert House if anyone asked him (not that anyone would ask him, because Robert Edwin House had clearly just been seen on the television attending a global commodities summit in Cancun) had never much cared for cars or car shows.

The point, in his mind, was that a vehicle was a tool. It brought you from one place to another place, preferably with zero distractions. At that point, what else mattered about it? Make it fast, make sure it was air conditioned, and maybe make sure it could keep a glass of champagne cold and that’s about all it really needed, and if those three requirements were all that you really needed you might as well just fly.

But someone once had told him, when they were very drunk, that marriage changed a man. Suddenly another human being shared your house, your bed, and that meant you had to share your interests and share her interests in turn. She had been quite excited at his Bertone Dodge Storm Z-250.

As well she should have, the fucking thing cost him an actual fortune.

Charmeuse Magdalene Chambers, who was technically his lucky Mrs. House (but refused the last name) liked cars. Which meant that now he had to care about cars. And some cars, admittedly, were rather impressive. Which is why he was here, absolutely just a show floor MC and nothing else, at the Chryslus Las Vegas Las Corvegas Annual Concept Car Show, presenting the latest and greatest endeavor and collaboration between RobCo Industries.

Charmeuse Magdalene Chambers, who of course had insisted on an all-expenses paid ticket to the event, had passed by the RobCo booth and had, seemingly, intended to keep going. If not for his sales pitch (citing how impressed her husband would be at such an excellent, excellent car), he had panicked for a split second over the assumption she just would have kept walking.

His wife however, was not impressed. From her expression, she was vehemently not impressed, and his smile, which in his opinion was quite winning, fell a little bit.

“Well I certainly think it’s vehicular epitome,” he tried. She just raised an eyebrow.

“You took a securitron and just added three more wheels to it.”

“I did no such thing!” He said, hand over his heart in mock (and somewhat real) offense. The winning smile came back up. “After all, most of the designs came from RobCo’s visionary CEO: Robert House.”

“Uh huh.” The eyebrow ascended further, climbing away from a simple ‘really, dear?’ into the dangerous echelons of ‘we’re going to have a frank discussion about this later, dear’ that he had come to dread. Oh, the trials that came from loving a woman. “And does Robert House, RobCo Visionary CEO, understand crumple zones.”

His smile fell again.

“What about fuel efficiency? Wear and tear? I mean that–” She tweaked one of the regally designed fenders, and frowned. “The least bit of stress during some highway driving and this is going to snap right off, you know.”

His smile faded completely.

“Can you at least turn off the integrated AI? What happens if it malfunctions.”

House frowned entirely. “Now see here, we have had a 0% fatality rate for drivers and passengers during every single test. It’s perfectly safe for those in the car.”

“Sweetie,” Charmeuse leveled him with another stare. “I watched it run down multiple cardboard cutouts of Pioneer Scouts.”

House crossed his arms and looked away. “It’s the red in the uniforms. The combat AI keeps thinking it has something to do with communists.” He muttered darkly.

“You said you were a major automobile aficionado,” he said, changing the subject. “I was under the impression that you were excited to come out and support your husband in his latest endeavor.”

“I am!”

“You’ve spent all this time badmouthing what is, in my opinion, a bold achievement in the field of vehicular automation!” He motioned to the car, flabbergasted. “You can’t at least tell me it doesn’t at least look enticing.”

His wife smiled. “Looks aren’t everything, dear, and it seems like in either case you’ve had trouble keeping or even attracting a crowd.”

House folded his arms. “Apparently I overestimate the average gearhead’s taste, most of them have bypassed my spiel entirely to go stare at—”

His wife’s eyes immediately went wide, moving past him and nearly shoving him aside. “Oh Jesus Christ, is that what I think it is? Oh, wow!”

Now she did shove him aside, nearly running (because evidently those expensive black heels didn’t make for the best jogging footwear) over to the booth next to him. The booth manned by a man who had just gone from an annoying nuisance to a personal, personal enemy. Charmeuse grinned back at him.

“How are you not impressed, that’s a 1931 Duesenberg Model J!”

House frowned harder, and his wife rolled her eyes. “Well, fine. But I’m going to enjoy the interesting cars at this car show.”