The rest of January speeds past with all the grace of a newborn gazelle and February cold stumbles in on its heels, and Roxanne spends most of it worrying about Megamind. He's keeping a good front when the cameras are on, but he's jittery.
Relax, she wants to tell him. Please relax. I have you. You're okay. But she knows him, and she knows the odds he'll believe her when he's in this kind of mood. The world is against him and he is not safe and he will not listen and he will not slow down; he is sharp, unfriendly.
But.
"Megamind," Roxanne says on the ninth, because she cannot bear not to, "are you okay?"
He looks at her, green eyes flashing, and arches an eyebrow. "But of course! Aren't I always?"
She looks at his hands, stiff on the arms of his chair, and he follows her gaze and then flushes and yanks them back and crosses his arms over his chest instead and glares at her.
"You are," Roxanne says, slow. "But I think you've been better. You don't have to pretend with me," she tells him. "You know that."
He snorts, mirthless. "I have to pretend with everyone, my dear Miss Ritchi. Supervillain, yes?" He wiggles his fingers without unclenching his arms." I simply cannot afford mistakes."
She tries again. "Valentine's Day is coming up."
His expression slams closed. "Fuck off," he hisses, and pops to his feet and stalks to one of his control panels, pulls a lever. The Bootwheel of Death falls out of the ceiling with a deafening cLANG and begins spinning—loudly—and Megamind goes back to whatever he had been doing when Roxanne called his attention away.
She sighs.
After the plot fails and Metro Man hauls Megamind off to prison, Roxanne wakes up on her sofa to find Minion pacing her living room.
"Minion," she says, startled, trying to shake the effects of the spray off and focus her attention. Minion is actually exactly the guy she had been hoping to see at some point but had no idea how to actually contact. "Um. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I am worried," he frets. "Sir isn't usually this bad! He hates this holiday, he always has, and the auction especially, but—ohhhh, this year is taking him really badly! I don't know what to do."
She swallows hard. "Do you know what happened?" she ventures. "Last year? I…"
"I don't! I've asked. He won't talk to me about it. I just know it was bad." He sighs, his little face rumpled and upset. "I don't know what to do," he says again.
"I've got it covered this year," Roxanne says, before she can stop herself. "I have a plan. And I think it's a good one. I've…I've got his back, okay? It's not going to happen again, whatever it was. I promise."
Minion looks at her.
"I promise," she says again, earnest. "Minion. I swear. Nothing bad."
"You've got his back."
"Yes." She nods. "Yes, I do. And—and yours, obviously, of course, but I—god, do you know what he has planned, this year? Because I don't want to shit all over his plans, but–"
"Nothing," Minion says, his little face beginning to pinch. "He's refusing to plan anything this year! He said, he said—'a walk in the park,' and when I said it would be freezing he said that was the point. It'll put everything in jeopardy if the winner complains! I don't—"
"It's okay," Roxanne says quickly. "Minion, I promise. I've got it covered. Everything, the date, activities, everything. Can I ask you? What you think? I'm so glad you're here," she says in a rush, getting to her feet and only wobbling a little bit. Minion catches her anyway, big hands coming up under her elbows in case she needs them. Bless. But she keeps talking. "I'm sure, I'm sure he'll like what I have planned, but…but I'm also not sure, you know? Can I get your input?"
Minion blinks a couple times. "You—have—a date planned?"
Roxanne nods hard and twists her fingers into to the fur of his arms. "Yes! I do. I have a plan, okay? I'm going to win it. I just, I hate that they make him do this, I hate it so much. I want to help. I need to help. Okay?"
He shakes himself. He is a minion; plans are his forte. "Oh…kay? Okay? Yes. Okay. Um! A, a plan? You have a plan. What—is—the plan?"
She breathes a sigh of relief and straightens up. "Okay, so—"
Valentine's morning dawns cold and gray, with the smell of snow in the air and the promise of it on the weather channels for three zip codes. But the air is clear for the day although the sun is cold, and Megamind feels a strange sort of kinship with the light. Pale, thin, his shine gone out. He hates this. Has always hated this.
And last year's date…
It had seemed like it was going well. It really had. Larissa was nice! She had laughed, she had talked, she had touched his arm and asked questions and smiled until finally he had begun to relax and answer them…
…and then she turned on him. Just when he had begun to think—to hope—she wouldn't.
It isn't the first time someone turned on him that way in his life, it shouldn't sting so badly. But Megamind can't have nice things. Not even when he's doing his absolute best, really trying his hardest! He has hoped, over the years, that one of these dates might pan out. That maybe someone would take an interest in him, rather than buy the story of a date with a supervillain.
But screw that. He should have known better than to hope. What is he, a maiden in need of rescue? Looking for a soft Someday-My-Prince-Will-Come story? Bah. So much for the romantic; it's high time he killed that part of himself.
If he could only figure out how.
Who will it be this year, he wonders dully. He wouldn't put it past that bitch to come after him again. She's probably the type. She hasn't even used what she has against him yet, she must be biding her time. Fuck.
Well. It doesn't matter. Megamind does not fucking care anymore; they can make him participate in this farce but only as far as he wills it. He doesn't mind cold weather, he thrives in cold weather. Or so he tells himself. He'll take his date to whatever food truck is closest to City Hall, and then they'll go for a lovely after-dark stroll through Hill Park, up to the overlook or down along the frozen lake. His date will want to go home early, whoever they are, and then Megamind will be free until next year. There. That's the plan.
It's risky. But, again, he cannot bring himself to care.
"I'm not wearing the damn suit, Minion," he snaps, when Minion brings him his usual fancy-dress "normal" clothes the day of. "No. They want to date a supervillain, they can date a fucking supervillain. I'm wearing my leathers or nothing at all."
Minion swallows. "But—but Sir, what if—"
"No buts, Minion!" He gets to his feet with a hiss and glares up at his friend. Slashes his hand flat through the air like a blade as he snarls, "This is a farce! It has always been a farce! Game-show highest-bidder nonsense—they could at least make it a raffle! Introduce some semblance of chance to the game! Instead of selling me to the highest fucking entitled numpty with more dollars than sense—fuck. No. Put that away, I am not wearing it."
"But—!"
"I am not wearing it, Minion!"
He paces away with a flick of his cape, heading for the bowels of Evil Lair and his pool. God, he needs a swim, or he is going to snap.
He drags his feet as much as he dares and arrives at City Hall a few minutes after his counterpart settles in for the evening. Wayne appears to be playing on his phone when Megamind enters, squinting hard at the screen the way he always does. The thought crosses his mind (not for the first time) that he should really do something evil with that, one of these days, but taking advantage of the other alien's sensory issues just seems below the belt, even for him. Less evil and more just plain mean. Wayne can barely tolerate liquid-crystal screens; Megamind can barely tolerate the feeling of dust on his hands and the sound of glass on glass. He can sympathize.
Or, he could sympathize, on any day but today. He slouches over to his seat and throws himself backwards into it with his arms clenched over his chest and his own spikes digging into his ribs. The auction won't start for a couple minutes yet; they're probably having technical difficulties. As usual. He feels his lip curl.
"You're not dressed," says Metro Man after a while.
"Screw you," Megamind snaps.
His nemesis looks over at him, but—oddly—there's no disapproval in his expression, just a kind of steady inscrutability. "You good?"
Megamind glares at him, bares his teeth around his bitten-out, "Phrasing."
"It's just one night," Metro Man says, after a couple seconds. "It's a load of crab nuggets anyway. It'll be okay."
Well that's not even worth a response beyond a scoffed laugh. Megamind slouches down in his chair, scowling straight ahead.
He doesn't see that Wayne keeps looking at him, studying the way he's carrying his tension, studying him on several levels of perception. Doesn't see the worry lines between Wayne's brows deepen. Doesn't see him switch apps and start texting. Megamind just sits, and stares at nothing, and scowls, with anxiety and despair writhing in his stomach. It's not a fun combination.
"—re we are, ladies and gentlemen!" exclaims their host of this year's farce, the huge screen flickering to life in front of them. Metro Man flinches, and Megamind sighs, terse and resigned. "Welcome to the eighth annual Valentine's Day Superdate Auction! This year's funds will be allocated among the city's youth-oriented programs, what a lovely cause. A brief rundown of the rules for our first-time viewers—"
Megamind and Wayne are both streamed live as well: just their reactions, just visuals. No sound. In years past, Megamind has tried to play the good sport, laughing and downplaying his ee-vil reputation for the evening, but it's been increasingly difficult to do so in recent years. This year, he isn't bothering at all anymore. And the host has definitely noticed—he compliments Wayne's well-cut navy pinstripe suit, then adds, "and it looks like the bidders who prefer more of a wild card will certainly be getting their money's worth, this year!" and Megamind sneers and rolls his eyes. "Let's start the bidding at five thousand, five—ten, very good, thank you—I see twenty—"
One by one, faces appear in the previously-empty grid. Megamind doesn't look up.
"Fifty thousand," says a woman's smooth voice, and Megamind goes cold with rage before he even lifts his eyes to the screen under his lowered brows.
Bitch.
She looks nice. Dressed to the nines, of course she is. She looks more confident than excited or hopeful; she knows, of course, that Megamind can't retaliate against her in any meaningful way without falling under immediate suspicion.
What the hell is wrong with her? Seriously, she isn't rich. She's using her inheritance to bid for this. What does she even want from him? Is it a power play? Just some sick fascination? Something else?
Doesn't matter. This is just how his life is going; it's…fine.
The bid goes up to a hundred and twenty thousand pretty quickly before people start dropping out. Megamind sits, hopeless and seething and—much to his irritation—feeling increasingly panicky as well. Becoming a supervillain was supposed to make sure he and Minion were protected from people who wanted to control them! And now he has to put up with this bullshit? Lies and humiliation and blackmail and—
"One sixty," says a new voice, clear and sharp as an electric shock.
Megamind's head snaps up.
The newcomer's screen is dark, still, while their bid pool is confirmed. But—but that was—was that—? It couldn't be—
"And…oh, wow! It seems we have a dark horse entering the running!" says their host, sounding ridiculously excited at this turn of events. "The face of KCMP News for six years running, Metro City's very own…Roxanne Ritchi!"
She appears in one of the empty slots and winks at the camera, gives a little wave and a sunny smile.
"What the fuck," says Larissa. She's still muted, but her lips are clear and her expression matches the sentiment.
Roxanne sees her, too. Megamind thinks she does, anyway. Her smile goes hard.
What is going on. What is going on. Roxanne? Bidding? With what money?
For him?
"What," he breathes, entirely without meaning to. What is—what is happening—
—Roxanne. That's. That is Roxanne up there, and Megamind isn't—he can't—
"Take it easy," says Metro Man, off to his left. Megamind barely hears him.
He stares up at the screen with his blood like thunder in his ears. This can't be possible, but he doesn't…seem to be hallucinating? Roxanne's image never wavers and the host was definitely astonished at her entry. Larissa looks pissed, and Roxanne looks calm except for the set of her jaw, which Megamind recognizes as an indication that she's angry and not backing down.
"Let's make it a nice one hundred seventy-five thousand," Larissa says. They've passed the hundred and fifty thousand mark, which means bidders each have six seconds to speak before making their bids. The spectacle drives up donations from viewers at home.
"Seems low," Roxanne returns. "Let's call it two hundred. Good round number."
"Why are you doing this?" Larissa snarls. "You can see him anytime you want! Two and five."
Two strangers bid between them; Megamind doesn't care. He feels as though he is going to faint. Is this what fainting feels like? A chest full of air, mouth and throat full of silence, ears ringing?
"Yes, I can." Roxanne's smile is cold. "And so can you, over my dead body. Two twenty."
Megamind blinks, confusion pricking at the edges of his shocked hope. Larissa had told him, last year, that she knew Roxanne. That they had gone to school together, that they were friends.
They don't look like friends. And they certainly don't sound like friends. Megamind does not have much of a basis for comparison, but he's pretty sure this is not what friends sound like.
The two women and a very few others bid to five hundred thousand before it's finally just the two of them and Larissa starts getting hesitant.
More confusion. Why is she so determined to bid Roxanne out? She got everything she wanted from him last year, plus souvenirs, so what's going on?
"What are you doing," Larissa hisses.
"Winning," Roxanne replies, grim. "Actually, you know what, screw this. It's a good cause, right? And you're boring. One million."
The host appears to be about to explode with excitement. It's a stark contrast to Roxanne's hard little smile. "I—and Roxanne Ritchi just—well, folks—I'm—wooo! Woohoo!"
Off to Megamind's left, Wayne chuckles. "Attagirl, Roxie."
Larissa makes a face that looks like she's swearing and her screen goes dark. Megamind's heart flips over. Roxanne—
—she won. She won? Roxanne won. Roxanne paid a million dollars to win. Him. A million. What's—
"Roxanne Ritchi," says their host, smile splitting his face ear to ear, "is there anything you'd like to say before we close the bidding for the evening?"
Her eyes move to the corner of her screen for a moment and her smile finally warms, and then she takes a deep breath and looks into the camera. Pauses.
Megamind waits, staring up at the screen with his heart in his mouth, barely breathing. Roxanne starts to speak—hesitates—then finally relaxes into a rare grin he recognizes as one of his very favorites.
"I'll see you soon," she says, and she winks. "I've got your back."
In the green room where he's waiting, Megamind sits in his plastic chair, dumbfounded and dizzy. She has his back? She has—his back. She—
(does she know)
(no, there's no way)
(she knows something)
She has his back. Larissa isn't getting her hooks in him again this year. Megamind is—safe. He's safe. Right? With Roxanne. With Roxanne, he is safe. He hopes. God, he hopes.
Roxanne wants. To go on a date with him. She wants to go on a date with him?
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh oh oh no, OH NO a date that Megamind has not planned at all, oh god oh FUCK—
"Whoa, hey, easy," Wayne says, from across the room. "No need for all that adrenaline. Roxie's got you covered, it's okay."
Megamind finally turns his head and tries to pin his focus on his enemy, tries to put his panic on hold for a moment so he can parse this.
"She's got it," Wayne says again. "The date? She already planned it. You should get into your suit, though." He nods at the garment bag hanging on the door to the room they're in, which Megamind had for some reason assumed was Wayne's despite the fact that the hero is already dressed.
"My suit," he says through numb lips. "My? Suit?"
"Yeah! That one's yours."
Understanding finally sinks in, pulls Megamind's heart down behind it like a stone. "...You planned this with her." He slowly straightens his spine, swallows hard. "What do you want?"
Because of course. Of fucking course it would be a setup.
But his nemesis holds up his hands, placating, and says, "Hey, don't look at me, I had almost nothing to do with it. The whole thing was Roxie's idea, I dunno why." He shrugs. Megamind stares at him, now so full of confusion and dismay and anger and exhaustion and—and hope, at the end of it all, hope and useless wishing—that he can't even tell where to start. "I guess she talked to Minion? And he said you were doing the bare minimum this year? Seriously, go get dressed."
Megamind bares his teeth again, wary. "I don't know what kind of nasty game you think you're playing," he begins, but Metro Man shakes his head and holds up three fingers close together.
"No game. No tricks, scout's honor. It's all Roxannie, you'll have to ask her. She's really been looking forward to this," he adds, lifting his eyebrows with an encouraging-looking shrug. "Seriously, you can relax. It's okay."
Megamind continues to eye him with uncertain hope and fear clawing at his gut as he tries to make any sense of this at all. Roxanne? Planned this? She wouldn't…but she, she wouldn't…would she? Hurt him? Like this? Would she…?
"It's okay," Metro Man says again. "Go on your date! Have a good time! It's for charity, come on."
Date. With Roxanne. Megamind pulls a deep breath and hauls himself out of his spiral, presses his feet to the floor and his hands to his knees. Date with Roxanne: that is all that matters. Even if it is a trick, even if it is, this is still a date with Roxanne, and for that, Megamind will go all-in on whatever hand he's dealt and lose with as much grace as a broken heart can muster.
"Right," he says, and rises. Lifts his head.
"Hey, yeah! There you go! Now, go on, go get dressed." Metro Man flits to the door and retrieves the garment bag with a rustle, then turns and thrusts it gently at Megamind's chest. "It's okay!"
The nylon of the bag crinkles in his numb fingers as he takes it.
"Heavy," he says, some surprise pricking its way through his haze of shock and suspicion and relief.
"Yeah, there's shoes in there too," Metro Man says. He's wearing an expression that, on anyone else, Megamind would have called hopeful. It's an expression Metro Man has never aimed at him, though. He isn't sure what to do with it.
"…Shoes."
"With lifts! Don't worry! They've got lifts, at least two inches."
Megamind stares down at the bag.
"Go get dressed," urges his nemesis, still wearing that weirdly hopeful-looking expression. And Megamind can't really think of anything else to do, or any particular reason not to, so…
Well. At least the dressing room will offer some privacy and let him gather his thoughts in peace. It's the last scrap of privacy he's likely to have for a while.
He hauls his spine straight with an effort.
"Right," he says again, and turns away.
