13677/Fitting Robbie=Janet agrees to help fit Robbie for a new suit.

Fitting Robbie=Janet agrees to help fit Robbie for a new suit.
Date of Scene:	29 December 2022
Location:	Avengers Mansion - First Floor
Synopsis:	Robbie comes to Janet for a fitting appointment.
Cast of Characters:	Robbie Reyes, Janet van Dyne

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Robbie Reyes has posed:
Tis the season of peace, joy, and all that other shit that sounds nice on paper, but doesn't quite reflect the reality: frigid weather, obnoxious family members, 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' being played on repeat in every damn shopping mall.

Oh, and holiday parties. Normally Robbie Reyes is not really the partying kind of guy, but -- as he's explaining to Janet while trying not to fidget -- "It's some fuckin' fundraising gala. Whatever the fuck a gala is. I told her I'd go, but that's before I found out they got a 'dress code'."

He makes fingerquotes for that, which of course causes him to have to move. Again.

"Shit. Sorry."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Keep moving that arm around and I'm going to stop being nice with the fitting pins," Janet says out the side of her mouth. She gives Robbie a pointed look and 'accidentally' jabs him with one while pinning a panel of the suit jacket in place. It's not quite needle sharp but it's still no fun to get prodded with unexpectedly.

"Galas are events where the host is expected to serve food and drink and provide entertainment," Janet explains, speaking around the half-dozens pins in her mouth. Robbie's on a foot-tall stool which Janet circles around. For the socialite, her 'casual' attire is a pillow-yoked sweater vest in cream and a black skirt that reaches just above her knee, accented with palm-sized gold links for a belt. It's just cold enough to warrant cordovon leather booties instead of heels.

"Usually the biggest one of the year benefits the Metropolitan Arts Committee. So the art museum, historical society, the opera, so on and so on," Janet explains with a rolling of her wrist. "Which is also my main patronage, so I'm there every year. I've even hosted it a couple times."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"Ow. Fuck. Why'd you do that?" Scowling, he watches Janet bustle about him like a bee.. doing bee things. Which might be an insult to a woman whose codename is the Wasp. Do bees and wasps have a thing?

He doesn't look terribly surprised that she's familiar with galas, as well-heeled as the socialite is. The question comes, after a minute, out of left field: "Why?"

As for the rough-around-the-edges mechanic, he looks visibly uncomfortable in the clothing being fitted-- and not because of the pins. The jacket's a little tight across the shoulders, and the last time he's worn a vest was probably.. well, *never*.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Why do charity work?" Janet gives Robbie a skeptical look, but his expression seems to emphasize it's a legitimate question. "Huh. Never thought about it," Janet admits,and takes a few moments to start mating up the rear panels. A pin gets pulled and re-set, and the tension abruptly eases on his shoulders when he moves his arms.

"It's just what one does as a society member," she concludes. "Support the arts. Museums. Things that better people, and not just the wealthy. It preserves out history and it tells people that we don't have to settle for mediocre art. I like pop music as much as anyone, but I don't want to live in a world where everyone thinks Usher is more artistic than an operatic theater company."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie doesn't dare move his arms, but a little of the tension in his own lean frame eases a notch when that panel gets adjusted. Hey, the jacket almost manages to hide his ink. Almost, but not quite; the marks scrawled up the back of his right hand are still quite visible.

"Why get involved with it, yeah. Why put yourself out there like that. Why the art museum and the fuckin' opera? Do you even like opera?" The answer she gives earns a considering moue of his mouth. "Not sure I agree. That it ain't just for rich people. I think that's *exactly* who it's for."

His fingers twitch as he suppresses the impulse to scratch his itchy nose. "And for the record, Usher's awful."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Well, that is the fantastic thing about capitalism," Janet remarks. "Once you have money, *you* get to decide what fine art is, or isn't. If you want to sponsor the first Conservatory of Rap-- be my guest."

She lifts his arms up to shoulder height like a scarecrow and checks how they're fitted at the shoulder. The sleeves are relaxed enough that he can lift his arms without his whole suit jacket climbing up around his ears. She makes a minor adjustment, scribbles on it with a red marker, and moves under Robbie's arm to check the symmetry of his lapels. She tries a few different locations, holding the front together with her bare fingers. "There, can you breath OK?" she asks, and looks up at Robbie while gauging how tight is 'too tight'.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
He's pretty tall, hoisted up on that stool like he is. And he's six feet *without* it. Thankfully, he's not built anywhere near the likes of Steve Rogers or.. pretty much any given Avenger, for whom suit fittings must be absolute hell. No; the kid's lanky, until one realises the lankiness is all lean muscle.

"Why do you seem to think I like rap?" He lifts his arms obediently, after just the slightest twinge of resistance. Then the little socialite is appearing from underneath his arm, and he glances down at her with a faint scowl. "Is it because I'm Mexican and broke? Because that don't make any kind of sense."

After a moment's consideration, "Yeah, I guess it's fine. Just feels weird." He looks like he wants to claw it all off, but obligingly refrains from damaging the merchandise that's undoubtedly worth more than he is.

"You always look good," he points out quietly after a minute. "Don't know how you tolerate it."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet rolls her eyes at Robbie's accusations. She pulls one of his hands over to hold the jacket together while she fits it with temporary buttons. After some testing she discards all but one. The jacket will a single-button cut, more of a dinner jacket than formal tuxedo.

"I put up with it because fashion is a knife fight, and I'm the best at it," Janet explains to Robbie. She lifts up a few cloth samples on a keychain and lays them out against Robbie's chest, flipping through them with a critical eye.

"Fashion is its own language. It tells people if you're poor or rich, influential or eccentric... I can look at a man's shoes and know in a second if he does his own shoes or has a valet handle it." She picks out two colors, one a bright candy-apple red and the other a deep ultramarine blue. "And I look good because I have confidence in that language. Beautiful women are a dime a dozen and no dress will magically make a personality appear. I've worked with enough models to know THAT."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"You mean that, don't you. 'bout bein' the best." It's a statement, not a question; and there's no heat in it, either. No accusation, no incredulity. She knows who she is. *What* she is, and it's part of why she's so formidable.

Once she no longer needs him to hold the jacket closed, he flicks his thumb absently over the temporary button she's pinned there before letting his hand drop. "Okay. What do my shoes tell you, besides the fact I think anyone who needs a valet for their shoes, needs a punch in the face more." He's talking about the battered combat boots he normally wears, presumably. More like shit kickers. As in, for kicking the shit out of people. "Way I see it, you got your politics, and I got mine. Mine just involve a whole lot less bullshit."

Then he seems to clue in to what's going on with the colour swatches and points out quickly, "I ain't wearing a tie."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Of course you aren't. One wears a bowtie with a jacket," Janet explains to Robbie.

She puts her hands on her hips and looks up at him, undaunted by their height differential. "I have about fifteen people on my personal staff and there are at least five hundred people in my direct employ at the Fashion House. I have someone who tends my cars, who pays my bills, and yes, who fixes my shoes when they break," she states.

"Now, 'your politics' are pretty petty from my viewpoint. It's always about... 'rep'. Dealing short money. And street politics always end up in fights. If you're resorting to throwing punches, isn't that an admission that you've failed at diplomacy?" she asks rhetorically.

"My knife fights aren't over shitty old apartments and trash in the alley. I negotiate multi-million dollar deals every day. Jobs rely on me closing those good deals. That means people depend on me. In fact the worst thing about the whole ..side-gig," she says, waving vaguely at Jersey. "Is that I keep having to deal with morons who think the only thing that matters is violence. If they were more sensible businessmen, I could have cleared this whole mess up weeks ago."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
"Ain't wearing a bowtie either," he fires back with just a flicker of heat this time.

"What makes you think I give a flyin' fuck about diplomacy?" No, Robbie, nobody would dare think that about you. He swallows and looks away, clearly trying to suppress whatever emotion's rising quickly to the surface. And Janet knows him well enough by now to know that his temper's formidable in its own right.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and fraught with something hard to put a finger on. "That's your problem. You think everything's about money. But I ain't talking about drug deals and gang fights. I've done my time there. I--"

What he *wants* to say is that he isn't going back. But that's a little complicated now, isn't it? To wit: he never did finish that detox she requested of him. Showed up the first day, the second day, then 'refused to comply with treatment' in the words of the doctor running the show.

Robbie turns back to watch her steadily. "Estoy hablando de venganza." The tension remains in his jaw, his shoulders, but still no appearance of the demon residing inside him. "I don't need to look at some guy's shoes to know what he's done. How he's gonna be judged." His mouth twists into a brief smile that's more than a little bit unkind.

"I just look into his fuckin' soul."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Yes, yes, it's all very scary and intimidating." Janet dismisses it all with a wave. But she bristles minutely when Robbie flashes his temper, staring pointedly at him and standing akimbo still. Petite though she is, Janet seems to have no problem staring over the cliff's edge-- refusing to back down from his ire.

"See, you're doing it right now. You're making my point for me. You're getting angry. And I'm not even *threatening* you. But you're dwelling on your demon-buddy burning someone's soul out." she observes, drily.

She picks up a marker to notate some final points on the jacket. "So you'll pardon me if I don't take financial or life advice from someone who can't play the game at my level."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Robbie snorts a laugh at that, though there's nothing particularly amused about the face he makes. It could be read as a smile, but smiles don't usually involve teeth flashed like weapons. "Ain't trying to be scary. I'm trying--"

He falters, and watches her a long while in silence.

Finally, softly, "You think you know me. But you don't." Then he breaks eye contact and averts his gaze, and tries not to flinch when he feels her marking out the last few adjustments. That last little barb does not get a response.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Yeah, well--" Janet digs out a portable surger from her little sewing kit, and runs the chattering teeth around the suit's seams. "-- you can take from that anything you like. Doesn't bother me one way or another, if you keep doing what you're doing, or learn a smarter way to be."

She steps back to examine her work with a critical eye, then beckons Robbie off the footstool. "Jacket," she prompts him,and reaches out to carefully support the garment while he doffs it. It's folded neatly over her left forearm.

"It'll be ready the day before your gala," she bids the street tough. "Don't bug me or call me about it; I've never missed a deadline. You might ask if anyone's got a watch they can lend you. Metal or leather band, and either do it in black or gold. Nothing digital, either," she warns him. "A Rolex would be best but you could get by with something from, oh... Cartier," she suggests. "Oh, and get some good Oxfords in brown or yellow leather. Proper leather, too, not the pre-polished plastic shoes." Her nose wrinkles daintily at the very thought!

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The signal that she's done with him couldn't have come sooner. He steps down off the stool, and wastes no time carefully shrugging out of the jacket so Janet can take it back. He's sporting a fitted white shirt underneath whose collar is driving him absolutely nuts. The top two buttons are unfastened with fumbling fingers; buttons are not a thing he's accustomed to dealing with on clothing.

"Sure," he mumbles, scraping fingers through his hair. "Black or gold. Leather oxfords. Okay." To his credit, he doesn't bother asking what's wrong with digital watches. The less he questions her weird rules, the better, probably.

He starts to say something more. Stops. Goes to grab his leather jacket from the back of a nearby chair, and tug it on. "I, uh. Just.. thanks. Janet. I appreciate you doin' this for me. I know we don't get along, see eye to eye, but--" Ugh, this is awkward. "It's real nice of you to help me out. I know you got a lot more important--" Rich. "--people wanting your time. What do I owe you?"

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet looks almost offended by the question. "Owe? You don't owe me anything, darling, you're an Avenger." Her tone suggests the answer should be self-evident. "I'd be remiss if I let you out in public dressing like a slob. Biker boots and leather is not a great look for black tie."

She thins her lips into a line, and then puts a palm on Robbie's tricep. "Robbie," she says, more seriously. "I don't 'get along' with a lot of people. There are two reasons for being bitchy; either it's because I want someone to go away, or because I think they're worth the effort to help along. If I really do want you gone, you'd know it." A brow rises, pointedly, and she steps back out of Robbie's space. "Okay?"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Getting in his space like that's not something a lot of people dare to try. He's gotten pretty good at building himself a reputation; first in LA, and now the back alleys of New York, for being an brass balls son of a bitch who likes to kill first and fuck asking questions.

But Janet's not a lot of people, is she? He respects her, and defers when it matters. And that says plenty.

In lieu of a reply, he simply nods. Waits motionless until she steps away, with that frission of demonic energy on him like hoarfrost, then gone again.

Softly, "See ya later." A smile -- a real one this time, dimpled and all -- and then he thumps his way off to go do whatever street punks do on a Wednesday night.