Hello on this fine Tuesday, how are you? Never mind that, pre gala wonderfulness awaits you. Enjoy!
She was pulled out in the middle of econ like it was fourth grade.
"Maximum Rogers-Stark, your aunt is here for you," the loudspeakers boomed and all eyes shot to Max with accusing glares. She sighed and picked up her messenger bag from the floor, slinging it over her shoulder. Her professor gave her the stink eye as she hurried from the room, her coat wrapped around her left arm.
She rounded the corner and came face to face with Natasha, almost toppling over into the oncoming pathways of students.
"So you're my aunt now?" Max raised an eyebrow. The agent was dressed in a normal light blue button down and jeans, a black leather jacket resting on her shoulders. Max could tell there was a knife or a gun hidden in there somewhere, but she really didn't want to go looking.
"Pepper couldn't make it," was all Natasha said as they walked out of the finances building and into the parking lot. A taxi was waiting. "You have a fitting for dresses today."
"Ugh, don't remind me." Max scooted across the seats to make room for Natasha. "Whoever said that girls wearing suits wasn't appropriate can go and jump off of a cliff into a vat of boiling acid."
"You've been reading too many comic books," Tasah remarked, giving the cabbie an address.
"Who needs comic books with a life like this?" Max gestured to the space around her. "Limousines and fancy galas. What more could a girl want?"
"Ha ha," Natasha said sarcastically. "You're too funny."
"With your sense of humour, someone has to be." The taxi pulled over onto the curb of Bloomingdale's. Tasha gave the driver some money and he took off to pick up more passengers.
"Just remember," Tasha said as they entered the store. "If I can fight in a formal dress, so can you."
All of them looked terrible. Tasha and Pepper, who arrived half an hour later, didn't say so, but Max thought so. They either constricted her wings or showed them off to the public like prize pigs.
"Can't I just wear a jacket?" Max asked after she put on a long-sleeved lace getup that had her feathers poking through the back.
"You know perfectly well that you can't," Pepper said, sipping complimentary champagne. "You've done this before, why make a big fuss?"
"Because I hate dresses and it's always so hard to find one that fits me," Max replied, looking at herself in the 180 mirror. Her wings were too bulky, as always.
"Try this one," Tasha handed her a blue dress from the rack that they had in their private fitting room. Max shrugged and took it, peeling off the lace one and zipping this one up. It was strapless with a twist at the bust, falling to just above her toes in accordion pleats. She looked at herself in the mirror, shifting her wings so they were laying outside the dress.
"This one would be good if my wings weren't showing." Max flexed them a bit, straightening the feathers. "I'll be the freak of the entire damn dinner."
"Lots of heroes have physical mutations," Tasha pointed out. "Beast will be there and he's blue with fuzzy mutton chops."
"He's also a member of Congress," Max countered. "I'm just some brat that occasionally chips in on the saving Earth effort. I can't flaunt these babies, it'd be like having excessive cleavage."
"We all know you don't need help in the boob department." Pepper and Tasha began to snicker and Max gave them a withering glare.
"I'm going to change," Max declared, stomping off into the dressing room.
"C'mon, don't give up now!" Pepper said, glancing around for another dress. She found a dress and picked it up, flinging it into the dressing room. "Try this one on."
"Okay, but I won't promise that it will look good." Max came out of the dressing room and stood before the mirror. The dress was light mustard in colour with a loose bodice that was cinched by a teal cord. Below the cord the mustard yellow gave way to a teal art deco pattern with silver beading. The neckline was high and her shoulders covered with a loose overlap of fabric around the bust, allowing for her wings to be easily and comfortable concealed.
"It'll do," she said critically.
"It'll do?" Tasha repeated. "It's perfect."
Max looked back at her reflection. "It'll do."
They never took a limousine to outings like this. Steve had insisted upon it, saying things like that were superfluous gestures of their wealth and gaudy in relation to their character. Plus, he always thought the interiors felt sticky.
Max, Tony, and Steve were waiting at the front of the house for the car to be brought around when a different car pulled up to the door and someone who was very different from the usual driver stepped out.
He was tall, taller than Max, with broad shoulders and some serious muscles underneath his dark blue and silver suit. His skin was lightly tanned with blonde hair and blue eyes. His face betrayed him in age, making him took around 22 years old.
"Warren," Tony shook the man's hand with a sarcastic smile. "How is your dear father?"
"He is well," Warren said. "A little too well."
Hello Mr. Daddy Issues, Max thought wryly.
"This is my daught, Max," Tony presented her to Warren after he had shaken Steve's hand as well.
"Worthington," Max said, looking him up and down.
"Ride," Warren replied with a quirk of the left corner of his mouth.
"You know my original name. How...interesting." Warren opened the car door for Max and she slipped inside.
"The X-Men know many things about you." Warren got behind the wheel. "We'll see you at the gala."
Tony waved as they zoomed off. "I don't trust him."
"You don't trust anyone," Steve remarked.
"I trust you." Their car pulled up and they sat in the backseat.
"Once again," Steve pecked Tony on the cheek. "Perfect answer."
Peter didn't normally cover socialite events, but he requested this job in advance. It had surprised Jameson to no end, but he allowed it. He was arranged at the end of a red carpet with other journalists and paparazzi along with a news crew from channel nine, the reporter Gemma Geralds overly-made up for the occasion. They all jostled to get a glimpse of the rich and famous, but Peter stood still. He wanted to photograph the gala for one reason and one reason only: Max.
She had told him about the gala last week when they grabbed pizza together at a dive in Greenwich. Over an entire large Napoleon pizza for her and a medium calzone for him she mentioned off-handedly that she had a function to go to.
"What kind of function?" Peter asked, spooning a glob of cheese and filling into his mouth.
"It's a stupid bridge dedication," Max said, polishing off her eighth piece. "Like we even need any more bridges."
"They sort of help to connect things," Peter pointed out.
"We're already too connected," Max bit into the crust. Her hand lay on the table next to the shaker of parmesan cheese that was 70% flour 30% cheese (and most decidedly not of the parmesan variety). Peter shifted his hand over and entangled his fingers with hers. "Everyone could just jump on their hoverboards and fly over whatever gap this bridge is joining."
"You're a little ahead of the times, Marty McFly," Peter teased.
"Oh, we don't have hovers yet?" She sounded disappointed. "Shame. I was planning on asking for one for my birthday."
"And that would be when?" Peter tried to slyly pick up information from her brain.
"None of your beeswax, Parker." She glanced down at their conjoined hands and bit into the crust with a smile.
The memory bubbled out of his mind's eye as he saw Max emerge from a town car. She looked absolutely stunning in her silk crepe dress and done up hair. She looked like a steel sculpture, something so flawlessly beautiful, but as hard as a diamond. Her eye makeup wasn't fierce but playful in a light turquoise, something he hadn't expected.
He readied his camera and began snapping several pictures of her emerging from the car. What he didn't see was the man behind her until he came and put an arm around her waist.
"Arriving now is Maximum Rogers-Stark who is here tonight with Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters graduate, Warren Worthington III." The Gemma told the camera, then hobbled over to where Max and Warren were as they made their way down towards the doors to the building. "Maximum, do you have anything to say on the superhero memorial bridge?"
Peter could see Max biting her tongue, refusing to say something scathing and sarcastic and risk sullying her parents' reputation. She smiled cordially at Gemma Geralds. "I think it is a wonderful testament to New York City as well as all of the people that strive to protect it." Read: I think it's a ton of horse shit.
"And do you have anything to comment on, Warren?" Gemma thrust the microphone up under the blonde man's light smattering of stubble.
"Nothing more than Max has already said." Warren smiled with faux warmth. Read: Could you please stop badgering us, bitch.
Gemma, sensing a lot cause, smiled with practiced precision and moved on to interview the next couple, two men in matching suits. Her camera crew followed with a sigh and an eyeroll in the direction of Gemma Geralds, ace reporter.
Max and Warren continued to walk down the row of spectators. Peter wasn't sure how he felt about her showing up at an official function with another guy. There was a deep tug in his stomach, like a zombie loosing it's guts on the bathroom floor; it was a sinking feeling as if the strings in him had broken loose somehow. But then Max, with all of the politeness of an estranged family member, took Warrens arm off of her waist and began to walk a few paces ahead of him.
That's my girl, Peter thought, triumphantly, raising his camera to fit in another few shots.
Max finally spotted him, not without a hint of surprise in her eyes, and then gave him a look that he returned with a wink. He knew that look. It said I'll see you inside.
Oooh, now we're getting to see Peter and Max's secret relationship in action. Oh the racing pulses, oh the exhilarating near-misses with gala guests. And the question of the day is...
When Warren meets Peter, how will he react?
-Acca