Enjoy this last chapter! Woo! :D

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) Craig McCracken.

The Tuxedo
Chapter 3: Girl Extraordinaire

And — on an incredibly ironic note — so dawns the 'tomorrow night' that is the date.

– – –

A shadowed figure pressed her back against the wall, her eyes darting left, right, then left again.

Coast clear!

Silently she swept her way across to the other side of the hallway, next to a door with a horridly pink sign:

Do Not Disturb!

Buttercup snickered. "Rules are meant to be broken, signs are meant to be changed," she told herself. She whipped out a black marker pen and scrawled all over the 'Not' until it was one black mess.

The TV set continueed to blast from the other room.

Her mission was now one-third accomplished. She was still in danger zone.

She picked up the hideously pink receiver from its usual place on the personal telephone, and stuck out her tongue at it. "You suck," she mouthed at it.

On the phone itself, she dialled twelve zeroes and waited. Someone picked it up after several hundred rings, and mumbled lazily into the other end. "Yeesh?"

Buttercup cleared her throat. Here goes.

"Well, we meet again, MJ," she growled in a deep voice.

– – –

Mojo sat up in his observatory.

"You! We meet again? Do I know you? I have never heard from you before! I have never seen you before! How can you meet someone you have never ever—"

"Oh, shut up! Have you done what I've told you to do?"

"Oh, so it is you. Sure I did. I did what you told me. It is done by me." The primate scratched his gigantic turban and sighed. "But this time I could not find any snails, so I was clever enough to put in frills instead, because there were no snails. But — curse the accursed Powerpuff Girls — now they have gone all soft like those girls! They are not the Rowdyruff Girls! They ought to be rough and rowdy like boys and not powdery and puffy like girls! And they have run away somewhere like girls do!"

"Okay. It's their presence that matters, not the stuff that goes into their making." In the short pause in between Mojo thought he heard some low chuckling at the other end. "Now, you have another chance to get hold of more Chemical X."

"Again? What you gave me the last time was so dilute! So diluted it was that I, Mojo Jojo, could not do anything with it! There is nothing to be done with Chemical X of that concentration! What can there—"

"I promise a stronger concentration this time."

The diabolical ape pondered for a second. Fortunately, he weighed the pros and cons carefully this time. Unfortunately, he did not see through the disguise of the person at the other end of the conversation. "Deal. It is a deal, and Mojo has dealed a deal with you. Now what do I do?"

– – –

Click.

This time, the receiver did not snap into half. And Buttercup was utterly pleased with herself. She had actually taken into consideration her handprints on the phone, and furiously rubbed them away until till the keypad and receiver were squeaky clean.

Mission two-thirds accomplished.

– – –

"Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!" This was the annoying Hotline buzzing.

Blossom picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Sfpchrrunk!" This was the Mayor's distress call.

"The town's being attacked by a million giant army ants?" Then, to herself, "At this time? That's strange!" Then, back to the Mayor, "We're on!"

"Aww," Bubbles whined, while enjoying her daily dose of The Urnshole Gang. "Just when it's getting so exciting . . ."

"Ah, quit it!" demanded Buttercup. "Let's get moving!"

Blossom raised an eyebrow at her. For once she decides to side with me, she thought.

"Be careful girls," the Professor called from his laboratory downstairs. "It's getting dark. And come home in time for dinner!"

Halfway across the town a few seconds later, the green trail suddenly lagged behind the pink and blue. Blossom and Bubbles executed a hairpin turn, then braked themselves to a stop in front of Buttercup, who was cringing in pain and just being a pretty convincing actress.

"Hey, you guys," she groaned. "I think I've got a stomachache . . . I needa go home quick! Go without me . . . I'll get back home first . . . argh it hurts like . . ."

"Like what?" Blossom prompted suspiciously.

Buttercup narrowed her eyes down at her. "I know you won't allow me to say that word, smarty-pants," she retorted.

"Oh no!" wailed Bubbles. She pointed to a cluster of skyscrapers in the distance. "That big black mass over there! It's coming closer! We'd better go now!"

"And actually . . ." Buttercup feigned a sheepish look and confessed, "I'm kinda scared of ants."

This was a lie.

"Hah!" Blossom hovered above her sisters smugly, having not realised Buttercup's fib about her phobia. "See you, then. And do take care," she added with a scoff. She sped off with Bubbles to the turbulent black mass that was an army of giant savage ants, and proceeded to knock them all into oblivion.

Mission accomplished.

"Woohoo!" Buttercup whooped and sent a laser punch into the air. A red streak of energy shot from her hand, bounced off a stray cloud in the evening sky, and landed as a small explosion somewhere near the park. She blew at her hand, pretending it was a pistol that someone like James Bond would have.

"A date," she declared, grinning impishly. "Now how's that for a change . . ."

– – –

". . . change meeting place. Should I? Or shouldn't I?" Butch cracked open just one eye shakily, and stared at the sizzling tree a few metres from his bench in the park.

The boughs of said tree were perfectly singed to carbon, with smoke trails twirling rather prettily from them. In a melodramatic moment, a reasonably large branch cracked off the trunk and fell onto the ground into cinders. It had been struck by a strange bolt of red lightning just less than a minute ago, and that had shaken him and his 'date mood' up really bad.

Eventually Butch sighed. "It'd almost six," he mumbled to himself. "Maybe she was just kidding. Maybe she didn't want to come after all. Maybe she fooled me!" He slammed the small, wrapped box in his hand — hard — down onto the bench in a moment of frenzy.

"Oops." This was realisation at the latest possible moment.

Fumbling with the simple white ribbon and the complicated white butterfly bow, Butch tugged at the wrapping of the box. After a few grunts and mutters he finally managed to get all the ribbons undone, and impatiently opened the box.

"So, trying to keep that present for yourself before I'm here?"

– – –

This, of course, was Buttercup.

Butch whirled around on his seat and gasped to see his date, with her usual frock and shoes, and an expression of sheer annoyance —

— which quickly turned into a mixture of shock, surprise and what could only be 'a hint of trying too hard not to burst into laughter'.

"Eh?" Buttercup exclaimed. "I thought Halloween's over? What's with that getup?"

Butch cringed. The entire day had been one big cringe. He had been cringing for about two hours straight. He had no more cringe energy left. "You were the one who suggested it!" he wailed to her helplessly. "And here I am waiting and just looking stupid and formal in this thing—" he tugged at his lapels — "and eleven fossils had already come and seen me and pinched my face and cooed 'Oh soooo cute!' and—"

By then, Buttercup was already rolling on the ground and laughing the Mary Janes off her feet. Butch glared at her, suddenly irritated.

"Hey, if you don't stop I'm not gonna give you this—"

And before one can say 'okay I'll stop it', Buttercup was already sitting obediently beside her so-called beau, and staring down at the contents in the box.

"Are those chocolates?"

"Swiss chocolates," Butch corrected in a mumble. "Exchanged it with ninety-nine tickets at the arcade." He sighed for perhaps the thousandth time that day. "If I have that winning streak every time I'm there . . ."

"You cheapskate." But she gingerly picked one shell-shaped chocolate anyway, and popped it into her mouth.

Butch looked on worriedly with his innocent dark green eyes.

And PLOW he was sent flying into the trunk of the scorched tree, and with a very promising groan the whole thing came crashing down on him into a small mountain of ashes.

"You know," Buttercup mused, looking at the box as if nothing had gone wrong, "the expiry date says 31 February. Weird taste, though." She continued to chew thoughtfully.

"That's—" a voice spluttered — "That's because there's no such date!" Butch's head popped out from the top of the pile and yelled, "Argh! Ptui! This tastes like pencil lead!"

She narrowed her eyes down at him. "No such date huh?" she repeated, in a rather dangerous manner. "Then let's call it off. Get your butt outta there or I'm going home."

Since Butch — a new version as created once more by Mojo Jojo — was made of frills instead of snails, he became all soft to this emotional blackmail again. "Don't," he mumbled. "I risked a lot for this date you know." He floated out of the ashes like a sorry phoenix, and back to the bench, rubbing the top of his head and wincing.

"Like?" Buttercup sneered.

"My pride, my money, my—"

"My foot!" she spat. "That's peanuts! I risked my life for this."

Butch looked at her in surprise. "Really?"

"You can say that again." Buttercup shot another laser beam to the pile of ashes, to which an "Ack!" squeaked from it. A squirrel shot up from inside as if it had just sat on a needle, and scurried away in fright, singed bushy tail and all.

Buttercup laughed to herself at this self-conjured piece of dark humour. "Professor's going to kill me when I get back."

This Butch understood. "You sneaked out?"

"Sort of."

The two of them finished the remaining chocolates as the sky turned deep blue. A cool evening breeze started to blow. And given the couple's size, one could call it a gale.

"Er. Are . . . are you cold?"

"Nah. I'm hungry."

"Aw, shut up. You're such a pig." Butch ignored Buttercup's glare, and took off his black suit. "That's all I can loan you for now," he added.

He tossed the suit over Buttercup's small frame and — surprise! Buttercup started to blush. Rather furiously.

"What's that for?" Buttercup hissed, all the while glaring at her knees and not at Butch.

"Nothing." He forced a sheepish grin. "It's just . . ." Then he continued, in a very low voice, "It's just because I like you."

"What?"

"Huh? Oh, um . . ." Butch started to tug nervously at the sleeves of the white shirt he was in, his face turning into one ripening apple like Buttercup's was. (The only difference was that Butch had a cowlick that looked like the stalk of an apple, and Buttercup did not.) "Damn. I mean . . . I've been wanting to tell you this . . . I . . . Damn! I mean, I mean . . ."

"Mind if I say something?" Buttercup cut in.

Butch broke out in both cold sweat drops and hot blood vessels. Oh no, he thought. Is she going to say she likes me too? Is she? Or maybe more than that! Or maybe she's going to say that—

"You're a total failure!" Buttercup hollered at him. "First you ask me out. Then you get this stupid suit. And the tacky chocolates — but they taste quite good anyway — and now you're not saying what you're supposed to say and you're wasting my—"

Bip! This was a button on a controller box that had been inside the pocket of Butch's black trousers, and now whipped out of the pocket by its new owner.

Make her shut up! Butch thought desperately, still holding down the button with all his might. Make her shut up and make her listen to what I want to say and make her know what I don't have the guts to say and—

Bip! This was the return of silence.

For Buttercup herself was suddenly frozen in the midst of her tirade, and now staring blankly at Butch. Everything remained in this manner for a good minute — except the fact that her eyes were now swirling like two confused lollipops of vanilla and green apple.

Meekly, Butch stole a glance at the tiny flashing screen on the controller.

WARNING!
INFORMATION OVERLOAD!

Oops, he thought.

Bip! This was the return of normal.

Buttercup promptly snapped out of her trance. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes returned to their normal colours as they blinked the aforementioned lollipops away.

Butch, bless him, decided to try again. "Okay, look here, Buttercup . . ."

"Look here?" his date screeched. "What do you mean, look here? You're ordering me? D'you think I'm the type that always get bossed around? Speak for yourself, you scaredy-cat!"

Butch spluttered at this outburst that was just not supposed to happen. "W . . . what?"

"Now I know everything about you, Butchie-boy. Everything." Buttercup sneered at him. "Poor thing — you can't even sleep without a light. And you're still wetting your bed! Ahahaha!" Her uncontrollable laughter lasted for some thirty seconds, and finally it stopped.

She leaned in really close to Butch's face, and leered slyly at him. "I shall bring your darkest secrets to light," she promised, in a dangerous whisper, "and make you cry behind your brothers' backs!"

Butch was a lot of things at once — shocked and stunned and floored and boggled and dumfounded and gobsmacked and just totally flabbergasted. "H— ho— how did you know?" he cried.

Then it struck him.

Make her know what I don't have the guts to say.

At this realisation, Butch's eyeballs nearly popped out. And so did his tears. "I . . . I didn't mean that! I didn't mean to let you know all those things! It was — it was actually . . ."

Buttercup blinked innocently. "Actually what?" she asked.

"I . . ."

"What?"

". . . I like you."

"What? I can't hear you!"

"I said I like you I really like you I really, really, really, really like you do you know that do you do you?"

From the other side of the park a group of teenagers heard this yell of confession, and they hooted and whistled in glee.

At this side of the park, though, everything was quite silent. Buttercup was staring at Butch, who by then was fighting back tears and trying to hide his face in his hands. One huge, fat tear unexpectedly made its way out of his eye and fell slowly down — so painfully slowly, as if time was dilated and everything would come to a standstill if it continued—

"No!" Buttercup reached over and whipped the tear away before it could fall onto Butch's clean white shirt.

Butch looked up in wonder.

And — surprise again — Buttercup, spitfire and tomboy extraordinaire, is, after all, a girl. And naturally she has a soft spot for something. It was only then that she herself realised what that was.

She blushed deeply.

"I . . ." Buttercup tried to force her words out as if she were trying to say to him what could only be the 'hardest word' in existence. "I— It's just that your suit looks expensive, y'know, and I don't want the . . . the tears to spoil it . . ."

Butch blinked at her. "Really?"

She glared at him. "Yes. And—" Here she continued, in the same low whisper that Butch used when he first confessed, "I think I like you too."

Fortunately, her last words were too soft for anyone to hear. Unfortunately, Butch wasn't just 'anyone'. Fortunately, Butch didn't go hysterical. Unfortunately, he did something worse than that afterwards.

"You what? You what?" Butch grabbed the startled Buttercup up by the neckline of her dress and demanded. Then suddenly he relaxed. "Say it again," he pleaded.

Buttercup gagged.

Butch's eyes shone even more brightly than the North Star about to implode upon itself. "Say it again," he repeated.

With the perfume Great Reluctance sprayed all over her, Buttercup finally blushed one final blush and whimpered, "I like you."

"Aw, so sweet!" Another old lady passed the unlikely green couple and cooed — without any cheek-pulling, though.

Butch himself was not relieved by this fact, and instead still happily basking in what Buttercup had admitted just before.

"Really? So . . . we're quits, then."

"Shut up."

For a few minutes the two of them sat on the bench, one looking like a tomato in waiter's uniform and the other looking like a tomato with a cape over a frock that looked as if it had not seen an iron for a long time. Then, Butch aimed the controller at Buttercup; with a press of the '-' button a negative charge built up, and both the suit and Buttercup's dress was rid of wrinkles.

Buttercup felt like killing herself for confessing. That was so . . . so girlish! So un-herione-like! And so disgusting! She felt like retching and punching Butch right to the other end of the Milky Way.

But suddenly there was a warm, tingly feeling swirling inside her and all and . . . it didn't feel so bad after all.

She chuckled to herself. Now she could find an excuse to stay at home and do nothing like Bubbles did after her date. (Of course, that was fine even if it meant that Blossom was the only one left to defend Townsville — she was sure Blossom alone was powerful enough to do that all by herself.)

Butch scratched his head. "Um, it's kinda late now . . . do you want to go back?" he asked timidly.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her purple eyelids overtaking the green of her irises. "You're not coming to my house, I tell you," she snapped.

"I'm not—"

"And don't think you and your brothers can move in after today!"

"I said I'm—"

"Not forgetting that you can't sneak in and—"

"Aw, shut up!"

– – –

Slipping in was easy. Since her sisters were still out battling the army ants at the other end of Townsville, and the Professor was buried in paperwork and surrounded by chemicals in his laboratory, Buttercup could well fly in through the front window and back to the upstairs bedroom that she shared with Bubbles, pretending that she was sick.

But she didn't. Instead, she chose to enter by the small window of the bedroom, with Butch right behind. On his part, he was just relieved that his date had safely reached home.

"So . . ." he mumbled. "I'll be off now?"

"Yeah, yeah." Buttercup shoved him off the window ledge. "Now get lost."

"No wait!" He looked at her hesitantly. "You, ah, you forgot something."

"What? Oh yeah, you mean this coat?" She smacked it into his face.

"No, no, you can keep it. I mean . . . that."

"Heh?"

"You know . . ." Butch was by now a fumbling and mumbling bundle of shyness. "That."

Finally it dawned on Buttercup. And horrors! He actually asked for that! "No!" she yelled.

Butch looked hurt. "No?"

"Not that!"

"Why not?"

"I . . . you might explode."

"No I won't! I promise!"

"What d'you mean, you promise? It's just . . . it just sucks!"

"No it doesn't! It's — it's supposed to be . . . romantic!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is n—"

Smack. This was Butch who succeeded in shutting Buttercup up. For a second or two, anyway.

"Noooo!" screamed Buttercup. "You — you — you stupid . . . idiot!" And after that came a flood of other bad words that the Professor would never have allowed in the house — despite the fact that she was technically still outside it.

"No, Buttercup! I—"

"Get lost!" Then she screamed blue murder, pink assassination and green homicide.

"Okay, okay I'm going!" Butch cried, waving his arms. And with just a hint of dejection, he flew away back to his lousy apartment.

– – –

"What was all that screaming, Buttercup? I could hear it all the way from the lab! And aren't you supposed to be out there with your sisters?"

Professor Utonium was peering in from the door to the bedroom, where Buttercup was tucked up in bed and looking back at him innocently.

"I . . . it's just, my head hurts real bad," she lied.

"Is it?" The Professor tutted. "Poor thing . . . do you suppose you've got a fever?"

"Do I?"

"Yup. It looks like it. I'll take your temperature . . ."

"I ain't got no fever," she protested.

"That's bad English. You're supposed to say 'I don't have a fever'."

"Nah. Who cares."

"Buttercup!"

"Aw, okay . . ."

The Professor took her temperature with a little green thermometer.

"A hundred and one," he read.

"What?"

"You've got a fever, Buttercup. And it's real high. I'll go get some Panadol."

And as the Professor let her lie in bed after taking the medicine, she thought back to what happened in the park earlier on. The tuxedo. The chocolates. The confession. And the . . . the . . . the stolen kiss. (Ew, what a horrible word!) And how all that fitted together like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle.

And though Buttercup wasn't really the soppy-romantic type, she sure liked it.

"Especially if it's something that Blossom can't get," she mused, laughing to herself hysterically.

Now she snuggled into her light green covers. She slowly reached for the black suit that was hidden under the blanket, and held it tightly with a small smile. There was no need for any lucky blankie, she figured. The tuxedo suit was enough.

And so she slept, under the roof and the stars — and above a vial of extremely diluted Chemical X that was hidden under her bed and clean forgotten from her mind.

– – –

Brick decided to risk his life after hearing his brother gush dreamily about his first (and perhaps only) date. He swallowed hard, then picked up the mobile phone — yet to be returned, in typical fashion — and dialled a familiar string of numbers.

"Um . . . may I speak to Blossom please?"

-fin-

Now that I look at it, I should have retained the snails and switched the 'puppy dog tails' to something like 'little kitty tails' instead — since it's Butch being wimpy and all, and not Boomer.

But anyway! I hope this fic was enjoyable! I had such a rubbishy time writing it (and editing too, damn!). :D