It was night before we reached the Latverian embassy in New York. I had been there several times since the fateful day of our first meeting, and twice for extended times, several weeks to two months. The ambassador and his wife had regarded me almost as part of the luggage Victor brought with him—that is, except when I wound up on the evening news—which had happened twice so far. Then they looked at me as if I were a guest's partially housebroken puppy—something they had to put up with without complaint, even when I made messes.
This visit, however, they could not have been nicer—or faker. They welcomed us, expressed their joy at seeing us, and said how delighted they were I was their First Lady. Yeah, right. Madame Ambassador showed me around my suite herself, pointing out all that she had done specifically for my comfort. I was very happy when she finally withdrew, and I could shower in peace.
I could hear metallic noises coming from Victor's suite as I undressed; quarters here were closer than in the castle. He was probably undressing too. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I didn't wonder that Magneto had called me 'fairly ordinary' and 'almost plain'. I looked like I had been through the wars, and the sea air had frizzed my thick, coarse hair into something like steel wool. Soap and hot water helped, and I put a lot of conditioner on my hair and hoped that would fix it.
We ate in private. Making any more effort than putting on a robe suddenly seemed impossible. Madame Ambassador had provided not one but three brand-new nightgowns, ranging in allure from 'Not tonight, dear' to 'Take a double dose of Viagra, honey'. I went with the one in the middle, 'Let's cuddle'—and, as is inevitable with new nightwear, I promptly dropped a big blob of toothpaste on it. I resolved to brush my teeth while naked on my wedding night.
What she did not provide, however, was a sleep-mask. Consequently, Victor spent the night in his suite. I needed to buy several more of those, so I would have one on hand at all times and in all places. One never knew…
The next morning, all the doors between the suites were wide open, and Victor was wandering around in his robe and informal mask as breakfast arrived. He put a laptop down on the table as the servobot set it.
"Are you making the bed?" he asked, slightly incredulous.
"My grandmother had standards. It is not, I repeat, not obsessive-compulsive behavior."
"If it will keep your grandmother's shade from haunting you, by all means, make the bed. You'll shock the maids, however."
"They could stand to be shocked." I tucked in the last corner and arranged the spread.
On reaching the table, I accepted a cup of café au lait from the servobot and took an apricot pastry as the mechanoid helped me to an omelet. "Just out of curiosity, when do you mean to tell Reed Richards he should follow up on what happens to his patents once they leave his hands? It has been three years, after all."
"The sword of Damocles hangs over Richards' head, and he knows it not. I stand by with the shears, and can sever the thread whenever I choose. I've discovered that having that particular power and not using it has a distinct pleasure all its own. The thread can be cut but once, after all. Perhaps on one of my birthdays—or perhaps at our wedding."
"They're invited?" I sipped my coffee.
"Of course. What better way to show them—and the world—how deep and true the amity between us now runs?" he said, virtuously, sounding as fake as a three-dollar bill.
I laughed. "Your congeniality is making Richards feel like he's standing on a fire ant nest. He's sure you're up to something tremendous and he can't figure out what. You just like to watch him squirm. I've just realized why the word congenial is so chilly sounding. It's too close to congeal and congenital. "
"You know me entirely too well. Ought I to send a bomb over to the Baxter Building, to put his mind at ease?"
"No—send a lavish fruit basket. With our compliments. Once he's finished scanning and analyzing it, he'll have reduced it to fruit sauce. Then, when you see him next, you can ask him how they enjoyed it…"
He liked that thought. "What an interesting suggestion. Do you know that I often have to turn off the mask's outside feed when you're near? You seem determined to me laugh at the most inopportune moments."
"Really? I always thought you were completely unmovable. That's why I kept trying to be wittier and wittier, to get some reaction out of you. Shall I stop?"
"Definitely not. I enjoy your comments. I would miss them."
"Ah, I see it all now. You want to same money on a court jester by having me fill two roles…"
In the midst of our pleasantries, he suddenly asked me, "I have a question to put to you. Answer honestly and seriously. Am I paranoid?"
Hoo boy. Was that ever a loaded question! "I think a better question would be, are you inappropriately paranoid? Given the life you lead and the people you must deal with, I think a certain level of paranoia is a sane and healthy response. I think it has to be judged situationally."
He made a thoughtful sound. Then he explained the rage, the sense of betrayal he had felt from the time it was discovered I was missing until I had been able to send him that message from the Toad's computer. He had been sure I ran away from him, without leaving a word, without granting him the dignity of an explanation. But he had a conflicting conviction at the same time, knowing me well enough to be certain that I would never do such a thing.
When he was done, I said, thoughtfully. "You are a man of deep passions—but even at the worst, your rational self was the one in control." It might not always be so, though—something I would do well to remember.
"Not to change the subject, but you put me in mind of the two guards and the driver who Malice killed. I know it isn't rational, but I feel responsible—I am alive, and they…are not."
"They will be buried with every honor, and their families will want for nothing. I would do no less for those who die in my service. If it will ease your mind, you can keep watch over their families—you may find that it will help."
"Thank you. I—"
An aide had knocked at the door to tell me that Susan Storm Richards had called for me. He brought the phone to the table and left me to take the call.
"Good morning!" she said cheerfully. "What are you doing in town?"
"Well—"I realized that she was one of the few people to whom the events of the previous day would sound normal. "I was kidnapped by mutants and taken to the Bermuda Triangle, but Victor rescued me and I'm fine."
"Don't you just hate it when that happens?" she sympathized. "Are you going to be in town long?"
"I have no idea. How long are we going to be in town?" I asked Victor.
"I thought we might leave around this time tomorrow—perhaps a little earlier."
"Just a day." I told Sue.
"Ooooh—that's not much time. Do you think you can come to lunch with me and do some shopping?"
I routed the question through my spouse, and told her I could spend three or four hours with her that afternoon, and we said goodbye.
"What else is on the agenda for today?" I asked Victor.
"Our wedding is a public relations event of rare opportunity, not merely personally, but for Latveria as a whole. It is difficult to make the most of public relations without speaking to the public—or, in this case, the representatives thereof. The media. I am afraid you will be shoved into the spotlight, my dear."
" More like thrown to the wolves...I'm prepared to do what has to be done." I told him, as he summoned the embassy's press secretary.
"You sound as though you were steeling yourself to take a dose of nasty-tasting medicine."
"Aren't I just." I said grimly.
The details were worked out—one print interview that morning, complete with photographer, one television interview late that afternoon. I had no preference when it came to the television show, but for the print interview I insisted on one thing—that the photographer be Peter Parker, the amazing Spider-man. He had done me a good turn once, and I owed him one.
A/N: Good call, Madripoor Rose--Yes, I am a Bujold fan, and that scene from the story provided a jumping off point for me. I thoughther misunderstanding him would be funny, too--and being who he is, he would never explain!
Hello, Chantrea Savann! I've always liked Doom myself--he's so complicated!
Thanks, GothikStrawberry. I do have fun writing Joviana--like Reed not noticing that his inventions are not being put into production, and Victor not realizing how talking about himself in the third person makes him sound, she, too, is clueless in some important ways.
As for my other readers, um...I DO like feedback, you know.