Fashion Mishaps: A Request Prompt

“No.” Peters’ face fell.

“No? But – why not?”

He didn’t understand, really. Peters thought he was doing well with J. He had the flowers, made sure to not smoke in front of her, opened the doors like he usually did. The man peeked at his armpits. Maybe he was sweating heavily or something. Figures. When you were asking the most amazing lady on a date, the sweat glands would really get down.

“Peters, I refuse to go on a date with someone who wears that,” J snarled.

He spluttered, “But what the fuck’s wrong with wearing ombre?”

That question alone irritated her more. He cringed as she turned a slight red (not quite suitable with her pale complexion) and opened her mouth to speak, spitting venomous words at him a mile a minute.

“Those things are so goddamned ridiculous. You left me in permanent disarray because I wondered if you were stupid enough to wear a shirt that was half-wet to work today. Do you know how distracting that thing is?” she growled, and Peters gulped upon seeing the intensity of her glare. “Dark grey and light grey. You’re such a fucking idiot for even buying that – the thing looks wetter than–”

She stopped upon having him cover her mouth, J realizing that they were outside the offices. But she bit his finger and he yelped, she continuing her rant as if nothing happened.

“Disgusting – wetter than a beer soaked in condensation, you pig-brained shit!” She glared at the American who cradled his finger and folded her arms over her chest. “So, no. I’m not going on a date with you at all.”

“Just because of the shirt!?”

“Figure it out,” she snapped, and retreated back inside. Peters stood in the middle of the area, looking confused (and feeling confused, most definitely) as well as irritated just because of a petty reason like that.

Because of the shirt.

“I’d listen to her,” Olsen remarked as he poked his head from inside the building. He glanced at Peters curiously, “…did she bite you?” the Brit questioned. Peters nodded sullenly and came closer, Olsen noticing that there were bite marks on the man’s finger.

“She bit me, alright. On the finger and on the heart.”

Olsen stifled a laugh as he guided the man back in, instructing him to follow to his station. As they walked, Olsen continued, “Don’t cover her mouth next time. Or any female’s mouth. Or anyone’s mouth, even. That’s just asking for trouble.”

“Duly noted,” he replied dully. Olsen took out a small bag (“My first aid kit,” he remarked) and then checked out Peters’ finger, seeing the bleeding come to a stop before tending to it.

“So what did she actually say to you, Pete?”

“She didn’t want to date me because of the shirt,” he sighed, “Goddamn. I don’t understand why the shirt’s such a turn off. I thought it was nice. I saw a Korean modeling it and decided to buy one just to try it out and never wear it again.” Olsen carefully wrapped the band aid around and gave an appreciative hum, Peters muttering his thanks.

“You know J. She hates all that silly stuff. But I have to agree on her with this one,” Peters gave Olsen a horrified look, “That shirt is ridiculous.”

“But A thought it looked nice!” Peters protested. Olsen snorted.

“She turned to me and said that it was the ‘ugliest shirt in the whole of existence’. But look,” the Brit said, wanting to move on from the mentioning of A, “Just change your shirt. Ask her tomorrow.  Apologize for covering her mouth and even wearing the shirt. Girls tend to soften at that,” he advised, and Peters frowned.

“But this is J.”

“And J is J. A is A. Dee is Dee. Point is, apologies are usually accepted. Just be sincere about it, chap, and you’ll be fine.” The shorter of the two patted Peters’ back, “Do me a favor and please donate that thing to the nearest homeless person or organization that will willingly accept donations.” If anyone will even wear that, Olsen thought amusedly as Peters, once again, looked down at himself and questioned the silliness of the shirt.

In another office, A was listening to a ranting J, having offered her a shot or a glass of whatever she wanted. When J came in without knocking, she already knew that it was personal and reached for the glass hidden sneakily under her desk.

“I can’t believe he actually put a hand on your mouth,” A remarked. J growled.

“He thought I was going to say something dirty. As if I’d let anything come out of my mouth,” she muttered darkly as she finished her glass. “So I bit him and left. Honestly,” the curly-haired woman sighed, “If anything, it’s his being a dunce that stumped me.”

“Peters is always a dunce,” the green-eyed lady answered. J had to smirk at that. “But you’re being unfair to him, J. It’s just a shirt.”

“A fucking ugly-ass shirt.”

A had to agree. Silently. “But he was hoping to ask you out. Maybe not in that shirt,” she pointed out, and the Romanian fell silent. “Maybe tomorrow since it’s already Friday tomorrow. Or during the weekend when his schedule’s a bit clearer. You know Peters. When he’s serious about someone, he’ll want to plan it out.”

“Does he, now,” she grumbled. A nodded and couldn’t help but smile.

“Trust me, I’ve been stuck with him for three years and counting. He’s definitely got something planned.”

With that, J felt a little less angry at him and more disappointed in herself.

A weekend passed. Peters left his shirt in the farthest crevices of his closet, vowing to never wear it again. (Except on days where he was too lazy to do laundry. Maybe.) On Monday morning, he bought a bouquet of flowers – blue flowers, white flowers – and went to work in his smartest, least offending attire that he managed to purchase over the weekend.

Prior to arriving, he sent her a text.

“I’m sorry. Meet me at the entrance?”

Ten minutes later, he had received a reply.

“Okay.”

Peters was now waiting for her, bouquet in hand and feeling himself sweat nervously. He tugged at the collar of his top.

Was she coming? Was she still mad? He hoped she wasn’t mad. Peters didn’t want himself fixed up by Olsen again, God forbid. The marks were still there.

Five minutes passed. His heart sank. She isn’t coming.

Peters thought of another solution. He could leave the flowers on her desk, write a note maybe. Or actually wait by her office and do something quiet, something she’d prefer over loud apologies and flustered glances.

“Peters.”

His heart hammered and he swallowed, turning to look in the direction of the source.

The flowers nearly fell onto the hard floor.

J was looking away, looking irritated and embarrassed yet divine, so amazingly divine in her dress. He was stumped. J never wore dresses.

Nor did she ever wear one with powder rising to blue. As if it were a gradient.

“J–”

“Shut up,” she snapped, looking at him. Her cheeks flushed upon catching the look in his eyes.

Full of adoration.

Maybe confusion.

Definitely gladness with some joy mixed in.

“Shut up,” she told him once more. He obeyed, holding on tightly to the flowers. She restrained herself from punching away the goofy smile that tempted to slither onto his lips. “Lunch and movies on you. I’m paying for popcorn. And,” she moved closer and took the bouquet from his hands, “Next time, I want brighter-colored flowers.”