I went a little crazy. I had been saving up to spend a month in Italy, so I had enough to pay Bisitra for my wedding clothes and for this little spree as well. Victor was not going to pay for my trousseau; I was determined he should not. The bride's family traditionally pays for the wedding—he had preempted that, and there was nothing I could do about it, but my self respect demanded I pay for my own clothes. And I did…
We didn't visit any Fredrick's of Hollywood stores, with its synthetic fabrics and its sleazy, tawdry garments, or even any Victoria's Secrets. We went to the 'if you have to ask you can't afford it' shops, and I began to learn the names of makers like La Perla, Spoylt, Aubade, Chantelle, Felina, Natori, Damaris, State of Undress, and more.
I tried on, and subsequently bought, in bras, demis, balconettes, plunges, long-lines, strapless, backless, underwires and soft cups. No padded ones—nothing with built in pillows. I believe in truth in advertising. I bought panties—tangas, bikinis, high-cuts—even a few thongs (which I don't care for as a rule, but these weren't for wearing all day). I bought them in every shade from white to black and back again, except for pale orchid. When I wear pale orchid people ask me if I'm feeling all right, it makes me look that bad.
Nor did I buy only with Victor in mind, although he was never far from my thoughts. I decided to improve my entire underwear wardrobe. The castle staff was not going to be able to sneer at my underpants now…
With that in mind, we stopped at a shop known for their bra collection and for the customer service they provided in giving their client the best fit possible. I was led off to a dressing room by two middle-aged to going on elderly women, who asked me to disrobe to the skin from the waist up. One of them wrapped a tape measure around my chest, and said "36!"
Then the other reached out and clapped both her hands on my breasts. She handled them as impersonally asif she were shopping for fruit in the supermarket. "A-cup." I was too surprised to say a thing.
Her fellow fitter disagreed. "B-cup."
"No, A-cup. You check."
The measuring tape woman then manually tested my avocados—no, wait, wrong color. That was Jen. Peaches. White peaches. "On the cusp." she said. "Fetch both cup sizes."
The last statement was directed to an assistant, who scurried off to find me some bras. The ladies then went to the next dressing room, where shortly later, I heard, "48!", followed by 'G-cup!" and Jen's voice, protesting, "Hey! That's getting a bit personal!"
"I think they must do that to everybody." I called to her. "Tell me what the down side is to being built like you—do you get backaches? Something? It'll make me feel better for looking like a boy in comparison."
"Nope, no backaches. It's one of the advantages to having super-strength. But—grab a robe and come here a minute, before they get back."
I did, but I thought I had the wrong dressing room. "Oh—I beg your pardon. I thought this was my friend's dressing room," I apologized to the stranger who stood there, a too-large robe wrapped around her body.
"No—it's me. This is who Jennifer Walters is, when I'm not the She-Hulk." I knew her voice, even if it sounded different, coming from a much smaller chest. She was about 5' 4" tall, with mousy-dishwater hair and eyes. There was absolutely nothing memorable or distinguished about her—except that she had intelligent eyes.
"Truly?" I asked.
"Yes. Some difference, huh? I'm not like you and Sue and Janet. Men don't get whiplash turning to look at me. That's why I stay the She-Hulk most of the time—people notice me when I'm big and green."
"I understand, but men don't look at me. Except once in a while."
"Are you kidding me? You just must not be noticing. Wait, let me big myself back up."
Watching her transform was interesting. "I remember having a doll from America that did that when you spun her arm. Growing up—leaper? No, Skipper. 'Growing-up Skipper.'"
"I think this is interesting." she said. "What do you want to bet Sue and Janet both have screwed-up self images too?"
"Why would they? They're both lovely as the dawn."
"Because our culture does this to women. Ah, here are my tit-holsters…" The assistants were returning, with bra straps dangling from their hands.
I bought night wear as well. Short, cute nighties—long flowing nightgowns, the occasional pair of pajamas, robes. I bought one robe of crocheted mohair lace that was so beautiful I could have worn it over a silk slip and called it a dress.
In one store, which had items for men, I bought a luxurious robe for Victor, steel grey silk, with a quilted cashmere lining. Winter nights in Latveria, are intense and long, after all. I was looking forward to winter with him. I was looking forward to everything with him.
I also planned to get him more than that for a wedding present, but I wasn't sure what. I did not buy him any underwear. I had no idea what he would like, and it's such an individual thing. What might he have on under the armor? That was something to puzzle over. I resolved to ask at the first opportunity.
Where they sold sleepwear they also sold sleep masks, and there I went to town. Many lingerie lines sold matching masks, and of course I had to get those. Spoylt had them in fuchsia and lime to match their robes, the outside of the mask studded with crystals, but they were no use to me, because they tied on—very unreliable. I needed ones that would stay on. I got ones that came in a little case for travel. I got embroidered ones and hand painted and one that had dried lavender quilted into it for aromatherapy. I got some in terrycloth for relaxing in the bath. I was not going to be caught lacking again.
Another item that Spoylt made were restraints—but pretty ones. They were made like a pair of fingerless gloves that laced up the sides, like a corset, and they were joined by a crystal-studded chain. I got two pair of them, in black and in ivory. They didn't look terribly strong, but the whole idea was more symbolic than anything else. I tried to hide those from my shopping companions, but—it was inevitable—one pair fell at exactly the wrong moment.
"What are these?" asked Jen as she bent to pick them up. "Oh," she said, blankly, as she realized what they were. "This tells me way more than I want to know about you and him and your sex life."
Sue caught my eye and smiled wryly. "Jen, you've never been married, so you don't know this—and don't tell me that experience while dating counts, because marriage is different—but a bit of kink can be very good for a permanent relationship. It helps keep the spark alive."
"And that tells me way more than I want to know about you and Reed." Jen returned. "People think it's the single women who have the wild lives…"
I hardly paid attention to the She-Hulk. I had just realized in my gut, that when the Sword of Damocles—more like the Sword of Doom—fell on Reed Richards, it wouldn't only cut him. It would devastate Sue, their marriage and the happy, stable life of their little boy. I had forgiven Sue for being so blonde and beautiful and sweet, for being such a cornflake girl.
When the sword fell—when the truth about the patents was revealed, and I was sure it would, eventually—I was going to feel horrible.
I was beginning to feel bad already, in anticipation.
What could I do about it? I couldn't stop it. It would be like trying to stop gravity. Nor could I tell Victor I didn't want him to tell Reed what was going on. On that point alone, I knew he would be unmoved. I knew he would not understand.
There were really only two words that could sum up my feelings.
'Oh, shit.'
A/N: Hello, Chantrea Savann! Dean and Deluca is a well-known gourmet food shop with several locations in New York and Washington, DC. They are known for having the best of the best from all over the world. I got my information about leukemia from the internet, as I get a lot of the details for this fic--and others. What a great resource it is!
Hiya, Julietsdaughter! I've missed you--don't be such a stranger!
Gothikstrawberry: Well, the shoe has yet to drop on Jovi's identity. Wait for it...