Chapter Text
“Let's pretend for a second that Lorna ain't worried about the future of the team, and that Snow isn't acting suspicious, and that Luna might not be able ta stay as long as you like. Let's just have a nice drink.”
Pietro wasn't listening. He was organizing all the alcohol on Remy's dresser by type and date, mostly because Remy had hidden them all over the place and Pietro hated how sometimes his room resembled a bomb site worse than any he'd seen when he'd been with the Avengers. And that was saying something.
The clothes, he'd leave to Remy.
“Let's go out ta dinner.”
“Are you going to kill me with spices again?” Pietro asked, shifting a bottle of whiskey around.
“I said 'go out,' not stay in,” Remy said, sneaking up behind Pietro and wrapping his arms around him. “As in, dress up and go out. There's plenty of fancy restaurants in DC. Or not so fancy if that's what you want. I know where the nearest Shake Shack is.”
“We are not going to Shake Shack,” Pietro said, pulling away and turning around. “I've been there with Luna six times. There are some places I'd be willing to try. But I chose.”
“Fine,” Remy said. “Choose away. So when--”
“Now. Get dressed. Meet me at the company car in fifteen.” And then he was gone.
Remy sighed and looked at the pile of clothes on his bed.
Twenty minutes later he was dressed and walking towards Pietro, who was leaning against the company car and tapping his foot incessantly. He didn't say a word as Remy slid into the passenger seat, just gave him a once-over before taking the driver's seat.
As they sped away from Serval, a thought occurred to Remy. “D'you even have a driver's license?”
“Why would you ask that question?” But Pietro was smirking.
The car accelerated, and for the rest of the ride Remy had to concentrate on not dying.
A few minutes later Pietro whipped the car into a parallel parking space (literally—Remy thought he heard his neck snap) and cut the engine.
Remy stepped out on shaky legs. “I'm driving back,” he said.
Pietro tossed Remy the keys, which he barely caught, and went inside the nearest building. Remy trotted in behind him.
He found himself in a dimly lit and very fancy looking Japanese restaurant. The hostess sat them in a circular booth, which seemed isolated even though it wasn't. The menu was in Japanese with English translations. Pietro ordered them both drinks—in Japanese.
“Um,” Remy said, squinting at the menu, “when did you learn Japanese?”
“A few days ago,” Pietro said, “after I asked around for restaurant recommendations.”
“A few—show off,” Remy muttered. Steaming cups were placed in front of them. “Who recommended this place?”
“Wolverine.”
“He would.” Remy took a sip of his drink. It was warm, comforting, but had a bite to it that told him it was alcoholic. He glanced over at Pietro, who had wrapped his hands around his own cup and was sipping, looking thoughtful. “I'll let you order for me.”
“I thought you were the expert on food,” Pietro said.
“Yeah but not all food.” Remy shrugged. “I'm sure you'll pick something I like.”
The waitress came back, and Pietro did order for both of them. When Remy asked what he'd ordered, Pietro said, “Raw pufferfish. Their spines are poisonous but they are removed in order to make them edible. Occasionally, a sac of poison is missed and death occurs, but I wouldn't worry about that if I were you.”
Remy blinked. “You aren't serious.”
Pietro grinned.
Remy did get a fish, but it wasn't until after dinner (after many terrified careful bites and swallows and trying not to think about how even though it tasted good it could be deadly) Pietro admitted that they didn't sell pufferfish at this particular restaurant.
Remy would've been angry if the food hadn't been so tasty.