John hated dressing up and being expected to . . . well, act like a decent person, as someone had once put it, but he saw it more as just kissing ass and taking crap when he was so not the type to go along with that. Dressing somewhat nicely and taking Wanda out was one thing; but since he was reasonably certain he didn't stand a good chance of sleeping with Mystique (though that would certainly be interesting; maybe she could morph into Eva Mendes and he could at least die happy when Wanda hurled him off a building), he wasn't so inclined. Still. As much as he loved to push others' buttons and see how far he could get before they snapped, he was smart enough to know when such a calculated risk would be worth it and when it might get his ass kicked. This was one of those times, because even though he resented the flashiness of a fancy dinner and Mystique waving her money around, he'd also developed a healthy dose of respect for the woman after watching her in training.
So, grudgingly, he sat in the back of the second cab next to Wanda, fidgeting anxiously with his lighter and occasionally drawing the driver's irritated glance in the mirror. He'd uncovered a pair of black pants that were at least mostly wrinkle-free, and the same red button-down he'd worn on his and Wanda's first date. In fact, considering they were headed to some trendy little Italian restaurant, it kind of felt like familiar territory, albeit under radically different circumstances.
"Guess it's time for the execution," he muttered, sighing when the cab stopped outside the restaurant. Pocketing his lighter finally, he stepped out onto the sidewalk and waited for Wanda to join him; if he was really going to sit through a group dinner, he damn sure wasn't doing it without at least someone on his side.