So uh, there's actually a brand of vibrator called The Mighty Max, and themantis decided it would be great fodder for a story. And I agreed, because I am sick. Crack!fic. Contains Max/Bea subtext if you look for it. Rated PG-13 for mature-ish subject matter; it's generally silly and meant all in good fun, but there you go.
Plugging Away
The day before their big project for History class is due is pretty much exactly when Max remembers that, one, it was assigned, and two, it's not finished. It's not that he intentionally forgot; it's just that Bea's his partner, and Bea learned long ago that if she just does all the work herself and hands Max a set of ready-made cue cards five minutes beforehand, the whole thing will go down with far fewer tears (usually Bea's).
It's different with Felix. Felix spends about half of his time smoking weed, and the rest watching TV, bouncing a hacky sack from one foot to the other, and thinking about scoring more weed. Whatever interest he may have formerly displayed in his youth regarding mini-fusion reactors and computer science has since been replaced by being able to recite every episode of MASH verbatim, complete with voice inflection. (He swears this will one day become a greatly admired skill.)
Anyway, Max knows he can't really rely on Felix, and it's not as if he's a total moron himself. His grades are more than passable, and thanks to Virgil, he knows more about calculus than he ever probably wanted to. He can probably partially blame his boredom regarding school on his missions as the Capbearer - both regarding his lack of time to study and also how dull book learning is compared to actually traveling around the world approximately every other week - but in truth, he'd just rather be playing video games and shooting hoops than planning a ten-minute presentation on World War I.
That's basically what he's been doing for the past couple of weeks, in fact. Their History teacher had a reminder on the whiteboard about their projects back on Friday, which was when Bea elbowed him kind of hard in the ribs and told him that it was taken care of. That was Mighty One-code for, "all right, I get to spend the weekend playing World of Warcraft". But then Sunday afternoon rolls around, and Bea's voice on the answering machine is both groggy and frantic enough that it totally interrupts Max's ritual chomping into a thick piece of leftover pizza: "Max," she rasps, and there's a small coughing fit. "I came down with something on Saturday," Bea says weakly. "I've been sick all weekend, and the project's not finished. I can't even sit up for ten minutes without wanting to puke, let alone type up the report ..."
"Aw, crap," Max mutters, grabbing up the phone. He tries to sound as not-irritated as possible, reminding himself that it's technically a group project and so far his only contribution has been the ass prints in the couch he's been occupying for two straight days. He also doesn't have any of the project materials, which is how he finds himself parking his bike in the Collins' driveway some forty minutes later.
Bea answers the door in her robe; her eyes are watery and her feet are adorned with Popples slippers. "I didn't even know they made those anymore," Max laughs.
"They were my mom's. An ancient relic, passed down from generation to generation." Bea chuckles and then winces. "Ow." She moves aside and gestures upstairs. "I've got all the sources and stuff in my room."
"You think you're even going to be at school tomorrow?" Max sounds concerned as he trails behind her. "You uh, you've looked less homicidal."
"Yeah, well, trying to put together a ten-page report and a Powerpoint presentation when I'm hunched over the toilet every five minutes doesn't really make me feel very charitable," Bea bites out, and Max suddenly becomes very interested in his shoes. "I suppose you've spent your time pigging out on Hot Pockets and trying to get to Level 40?"
Max coughs. "So the report!" he says hastily. "I'll finish that up. How much have you got done?"
Bea turns to him tiredly and leans heavily on the handle of her bedroom door. "The title page." Her room is tidy as always, but looks lived in; the bed is unmade, the tiny garbage can is three-quarters full, and the desk is covered with an array of writing utensils, school books, and dirty dishes. It's still better than Max's room after a cleaning spree, however, and he tells Bea as much, trying valiantly to get back in her good graces. She rolls her eyes - good-naturedly, Max notes with satisfaction - and starts rummaging around on the desk, plucking various papers and books of various sizes from the small clumps of mess.
While she gathers everything together, Max's gaze travels to other pockets of the room. It's done in lots of pastels, standard girly fare, and it makes him kind of glad he doesn't have a sister because it is just far too much pink to stomach on a regular basis. Even the bed is adorned with a heavy quilt, turned down (rather, cast off quickly, probably in Bea's haste to make it to the bathroom) to reveal pale pink sheets. A corner of the quilt is lopped on the floor, and Max reaches down helpfully and tugs it up.
And that's when the vibrator rolls out, tapping the side of his sneaker.
"Hey, whoa!" Max jumps, then plucks the object up curiously. It's white and about a foot long, and a small switch on the side makes it buzz in his palm. The sound is what makes Bea turn around, first regarding him warily, and then with abject horror as she realizes what he's holding. "Oh my God," she gasps, her face growing paler if at all possible. "Max, give that to me!"
"I think something else is already taking care of that," Max grins. He bounces the object from hand to hand, holding it above his head when Bea tries to snatch it, then swinging it in a graceful arc behind his back. He holds it up to eye-level. "Say hello to your little friend."
"Give me that," Bea demands, but Max is squinting at something on the handle. "Look, it's clean if that's what you're won-"
"Is that ... it's called the Mighty Max?" he chortles. "You bought a vibrator named after me? Holy shit," he guffaws. He's still laughing and hunched over three minutes later, and Bea finally manages to secure the item, shoving it in her dresser drawer. "Oh man, wow," Max snorts. "I never knew you cared, Bea."
Bea looks mortified, yet slightly amused. "Yeah, well. Here's all the stuff for our report." She gestures to the small pile, then crosses her arms with mock sternness. "Get moving."
Max salutes her playfully. "Yes, ma'am." He shoves everything into his knapsack. As he's zipping it up, his cell phone jangles from the front pocket. "Who's calling me from the arcade?" he wonders aloud. "Hello? Felix?" he says into the tiny receiver curiously, figuring his best friend wants to continue their twenty-fourth Street Fighter rematch.
"I should say not, Mighty One." Virgil's voice is tired-sounding. "How close are you to the video arcade?"
"I ... wait. Why are you calling me on a phone? You know, like a regular person. And how'd you even get this number?" Max demands. Bea raises an eyebrow, apparently as surprised as he is. "I mean, shouldn't you be spelling out a message in cat litter or something?"
"You don't own a cat, Mighty One. Now, if you please, there's a mission requiring your urgent attendance. How quickly can you get here?"
"I've got my bike," Max replies, still a little weirded out. Across the room, Bea holds up 'An Anthology of World War I' and frowns severely. "But can't it wait? I've got this report due tomorrow, and-"
"I'm sorry, Mighty One, but the fate of the world simply does not wait until you've completed your homework ... which, I might remind you, if you'd bother to start before spending hours trying to reach Level 40 on that childish video game -"
"- he's already on Level 40?" Norman's voice in the background sounds impressed.
"- then your priorities would be arranged to reflect a much more studious and less adolescent mindse-"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'll be there in ten minutes, okay?" Max groans. He shuts the phone with an audible snap, shoving it deep into the pocket of his jeans. "Looks like duty calls," he says by way of explanation. His friends are used to his running out on a moment's notice, after all.
"Uh-huh." Bea crosses her arms. "And what about the report?"
Max waves his hand airily. "No sweat, I'll get it done. Don't worry, Bea. You just keep, uh, plugging away," he says, grinning suggestively.
Bea glares and smacks him on the arm. "Okay, okay. Now get out. Go save the world or something. And then do your homework." She shoves a still-giggling Max out of her room. "Go!"
Max snickers all the way down the stairs and lets himself out. He wonders idly how he's going to get anything done for school, and then brightens. He may not have any lingering about his superhero antics taking up most of his free time, but that doesn't mean he can't guilt-trip Virgil into thinking otherwise.