Date Number Five was an illustration that sometimes, it was best to stick to what you know. Angela was a little ashamed to admit that she'd laughed outright at Peter's suggestion, assuming as anybody would that he was kidding around. Saw by the wounded look on his face that he couldn't hide that he was deadly serious. She stopped laughing abruptly.
"You'll hate it" she said, "I'm sure you will, why would you even want that?"
"Maybe I want to be romantic for a change!" Peter told her, a little more petulantly than he'd meant to, "C'mon Sparky we can't always go for fast food – I mean, it's not good for you, really… I just thought" –"
"Are you calling me fat?"
"What?! No! Of course not! Why would you –"
"So maybe I want to eat fast food all the time?"
"You don't though, do you?" he sighed. This conversation really hadn't gone as planned. He'd expected Angela to be charmed, maybe even a little woo'd by his suggestion, "I just thought it would be nice. I'm sorry"
That was when it dropped that she'd really hurt his feelings. Immediately that intense pang of guilt struck through her – hurting Peter was like kicking a puppy, and whilst his pain was genuine he couldn't have put on a better show of looking wounded if he'd tried. She fumbled for his hand, picked it gently up from the balustrade they were seated on, kissed his fingertips lightly.
"If you really want to, then sure. Let's do that"
They were words that Angela would look back on and laugh at her own foolhardiness in the not too distant future.
She had to admit, when he'd showed up at her door to pick her up, that Peter scrubbed up damned well. In a sleek, black button-down and chinos, even wearing proper shoes instead of his Converse (she hadn't even known he owned dress shoes), and with his hair smoothed down a little more than usual, he certainly looked every inch the gentleman. She could feel a blush rising into her cheeks, bit her lip involuntarily. Hoped that the crushed white velvet dress she'd picked out was as stunning as he looked. That part, at least, she had to admit was romantic as all heck. Even the taxi ride – they usually walked everywhere – was a touch of luxury that she felt just a little flattered by him having arranged. It was when they'd sat down that things began to be problematic.
Sipping red wine, her hand resting lightly against his, he seemed to be making a damn fine show of being relaxed and comfortable, though she knew he wasn't. Angela hated putting Peter into such anxiety-provoking situations – it sometimes made him physically sick to get too wound up – but it seemed that since he was here of his own choosing he could just about handle it. Until they'd been handed the menus of course, and all the blood had drained out of his face.
"Ummm.. Angie?" he asked quietly, licked his lips nervously, "You speak French right?"
"High school French. Enough to read this – you don't?"
"I seriously only know 'please', 'thank you', and 'but yes! The peanut is in my navel!'"
"Well…at least you're politely insane" she chided, laid the one menu down flat and helped him pick his way through it. The hurdle of the menu cleared, they had relaxed into idle chat, steepling their fingers together across the table in that way that only couples in the throes of love did, and that made everyone around them sick. Even the meal itself had gone without a hitch, though it looked like a painful effort for Peter not to wolf his food in his usual ravenous fashion. She'd headed off the 'which fork do I use?' debacle early with standard start-from-the-outside advice, and Peter seemed to be starting to feel a little more at ease. It was when they had been sat after dessert, enjoying the soft piano that had begun to play somewhere, that the trouble had started. Reaching for her glass of wine, Angela had been too intent on the way the candlelight picked brilliant platinum highlights in his hair to look what she was doing. Sadly not as calm as he had appeared, instead of grasping the glass by its stem and catching it before it spilled, Peter had reached out and neatly snapped the stem in two between his fingers. Half a glass of burgundy cascaded straight down the front of Angela's white dress. She hardly even had time to react before Peter was out of his seat, and a second wave of liquid drenched her, looking up to see him holding an empty glass.
"White wine gets red wine stains out" he said shrugged nervously, "My Mom said"
"If you dab the stain lightly with white wine when it's damp, Puppydog – not dump a whole damn glass over it!"
His cheeks had been flaming the entire time they had hurriedly paid, replaced the woman's glass of Chablis Peter had doused her with, and beaten a retreat, still looking distraught and embarrassed by the time they had walked out. He was shaking again, and the look he gave her when she had caught up to him and grasped his hands tightly in hers was heartbreaking.
"I'm so sorry… You were right, It was stupid of me, I'm…"
"Peter Maximoff" she said sternly, "If you say sorry for taking me out to a nice restaurant one more time so help me I'll slap you"
His lips managed to form the first shape of "I'm-" before she planted her own on them, warm and insistent. Felt a little of the tension leave his body as she gently took him in her arms and held him close. Walked on after a moment, still with arms around one another.
"Food was great, by the way" she said breezily, "And it was nice for a change. But let's not do it again"
"Oh thank God you said that…" he sighed, "I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my life"
"You're embarrassed? I look like Carrie on Prom Night and you're the embarrassed one?!"
She asked with a laugh, nudged him with her shoulder. Watched him reach to untuck his shirt, unbutton it a little. Ruffled his hands through his hair and pull it out of the confines of style. Stick one hand in his pocket and give her that shy, sidelong dimpled smile that made her insides watery.
"Thanks for letting me try" he told her, felt her arm around him squeeze a little tighter.
"Don't try so hard" she said softly back, "Romance is what you make it, Pup. And you're plenty romantic all the time"
He didn't reply, just squeezed her. Seemed to swallow a lump in his throat though he kept smiling that broad, shy smile she loved.
"Can we maybe go to McDonalds on the way home?" he asked hopefully. Angela rolled her eyes and laughed. Sat with him much more at ease in familiar surroundings, chatted and giggled together whilst he ploughed through a couple of Big Macs – honestly, the portions had been shocking at that place – and only laughed in amusement at her when she had splatted a fist down on the table and sprayed the front of his shirt with BBQ sauce in revenge.
A/N : Hey, do you recall way back in "In The Mouth of Madness" (which is actually set way after this) that Peter demonstrated his 'language skills' to his Father? He said, 'mais oui! l'arachide c'est dans mon nombril!' - aren't you so glad you know what that means now? ;-)