Summer checked herself over in the mirror one last time. She was never comfortable with the way she looked, far less when she dressed up. But the letter had specified formal dress, so formal dress it was, makeup, heeled shoes and all. She’d braided her long hair into a double coronet around her head and accented the burgundy dress with garnet jewellery.
Probably she ought to be grateful to have her work recognised, but then again recognition had very little to do with what she did as a heroine. It was simply something that needed doing that she was capable of doing, that was all. But the folk who had organised this charity ball didn’t seem to think so, and they wanted the empath Summer Rainault, who had, in their words, ‘helped save so many lives during and after the Manhattan Incident,’ to be one of their guests of honour while the rich and powerful of New York City celebrated the end of the cleanup.
Summer anticipated being largely ignored while the attendees swarmed around better known heroes like Captain America and Iron Man. Which, honestly, was fine by her. Making polite conversation with people who were largely unaware of her existence, all the while knowing just how little truth was in their words, had never appealed. She smiled, posed, and waved to the paparazzi on her way in, hiding how awkward and out of place she felt. Once inside the ballroom, Summer found a corner quieter than the rest, acquired a drink, and tried to ignore all the butterflies in her gut.
Normally, Tony was all for the attention press and events brought. He was always obnoxious, loud and visible, and always made sure to have a good time – probably at someone else’s expense. That night, though, between JARVIS breaking down and the migraine from hell, he was sliding quietly along between dignitaries. He’d stop to shake hands or answer the same three questions about his company. Truthfully, he and Steve were just there to make an appearance. Clint was probably around somewher— oh, yes, look, he was under the orchestra pit, I’ll be damned…
He caught a glimpse or two of Summer in the first hour or so. When the dignitaries started grating on his nerves too badly (he made one cry, he was sure, and he’d done it with a charming smile), he backtracked behind the crowds in her direction. If anyone was willing to deal with his brooding silence, it would be her.
“Hey – enjoying our party as much as me?”
“I’m not even sure that’s possible, Mr Stark.” Summer gave him a slight smile, raising her glass to him. He looked damned good as usual, elegantly turned out and perfectly at ease in it. “Your parties are legendary.” Why did it have to be him who spoke to her? As if being dressed up at a formal event wasn’t nerve-wracking enough.
Oh, they’d spoken a couple times in the past, briefly and in passing and always, always in a working environment. Summer didn’t have time for nerves when she was suited up, didn’t have time to be aware of who was really behind the golden mask of Iron Man. And the thrill of his voice down her spine was just more fuel for her abilities.