Chapter Text
The autumn air carried a crisp bite that Emma Frost found almost refreshing after months of stifling summer heat. Fallen leaves crunched beneath her Louboutins as she approached the café, her steps measured and unhurried despite being precisely three minutes late.
Being late was a calculated choice. Emma was never late by accident.
She spotted him through her designer sunglasses—Peter Parker, seated at a corner table on the café's outdoor patio, fidgeting slightly with a napkin. He hadn't noticed her yet, which gave Emma a moment to observe. Parker looked more put-together than she'd expected, wearing a fitted navy t-shirt that suggested he made at least some effort for this odd meeting. His hair was its usual disheveled mess, but somehow it worked for him. She noted with mild amusement that he'd already ordered drinks—a simple black coffee for himself and what appeared to be a cappuccino waiting at the empty seat across from him.
How presumptuous. How... oddly thoughtful.
Emma approached the table, her expression a carefully composed mask of polite indifference.
"Mr. Parker," she greeted him, her tone cool but not unfriendly. "This is unexpected."
Peter looked up, momentarily startled. He stood quickly—too quickly, almost knocking over his coffee before steadying it with reflexes that betrayed his other identity.
"Ms. Frost! You came," he said, seeming genuinely pleased. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Curiosity is a powerful motivator," she replied, sliding gracefully into the chair opposite him. "It's not every day Spider-Man invites me to brunch."
Peter glanced around nervously at her casual mention of his alter ego, then relaxed when he confirmed no one was within earshot. Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't need to read his mind to know what he was thinking—his face betrayed every emotion with frustrating transparency.
"I took the liberty of ordering you a cappuccino," he said, pushing the cup toward her. "The barista said it was their specialty."
Emma removed her sunglasses, tucking them into her blazer pocket. She regarded the coffee with a skeptical eye before taking a cautious sip. It was, surprisingly, excellent.
"Acceptable," she conceded, which from her was high praise. "Now, perhaps you'd care to explain why I'm spending my Saturday morning with you rather than attending to more pressing matters?"
Peter's nervous energy shifted to something more genuine, his expression brightening. "Well, first of all, happy birthday."
Emma's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose slightly. She hadn't expected him to know that, and she certainly hadn't expected anyone to acknowledge it. Her birthday was information she kept closely guarded, irrelevant to most of her current associates.
"You've been doing your homework, Mr. Parker," she said, unable to keep a note of surprise from her voice.
He shrugged, that boyish smile still playing on his lips. "I keep track of everyone's birthdays. Occupational hazard of being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."
"I wasn't aware the 'neighborhood' extended to mutants who've tried to kill you on at least one occasion," Emma replied dryly.
"Water under the bridge," Peter waved dismissively. "Besides, that was, what, three teams ago for you?"
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Emma's mouth. His irreverence was refreshing, even if she'd never admit it aloud.
"To what do I owe this... celebration?" she asked, gesturing between them.
Peter reached down beside his chair and produced a small, elegantly wrapped package that Emma hadn't noticed before. The wrapping was tasteful—white paper with a silver ribbon—suggesting either remarkable taste on his part or, more likely, help from someone else.
"I got you something," he said, sliding the box across the table. "Well, not exactly got. It's more complicated than that."
Emma stared at the package with well-concealed surprise. She made no move to take it immediately, her natural suspicion flaring briefly before she tamped it down. A lifetime of manipulation and betrayal had taught her caution, especially regarding unexpected gifts.
"Is this the part where I'm supposed to be touched by your generosity?" she asked, her tone deliberately dismissive to mask her genuine curiosity.
Peter didn't take the bait. Instead, he looked oddly serious, almost vulnerable.
"You don't have to be anything," he said simply. "It's just a birthday gift. No strings attached."
Something in his candor caught her off guard. Emma considered herself an excellent judge of character—both through her telepathy and her natural intuition—and she detected no deception in his words. With elegant fingers, she finally reached for the package, noting its weight as she lifted it. Something solid, but not heavy.
She unwrapped it with precision, carefully removing the ribbon and unwrapping the paper without tearing it—a habit born from her privileged childhood when proper etiquette was enforced even in moments of excitement. Inside was a black velvet box, the kind that typically held jewelry.
Emma hesitated, glancing up at Peter with a questioning look.
"It's not going to bite," he assured her with a small smile.
She opened the box and felt a moment of genuine surprise. Inside, nestled against black velvet, lay a pearl necklace. It wasn't the ostentatious jewelry she typically wore—no diamonds, no excessive design—but a single strand of perfectly matched pearls with a vintage silver clasp. They had a warm luster that spoke of age and quality, the kind of piece that had history behind it.
"This is..." she began, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
"It was my Aunt May's," Peter explained, watching her reaction carefully. "Well, before that, it belonged to my grandmother. Aunt May gave it to me a while back, said I should save it for someone special."
Emma's eyes snapped up to his, suddenly sharp. "I'm hardly—"
"No, not like that," Peter interrupted, a flush creeping up his neck. "I meant—I've been thinking about what to do with it. MJ and I are... well, we're taking some time apart. Felicia's disappeared again. And keeping it in my apartment just seemed wrong, like it should be worn, not hidden away."
Emma studied the necklace again, running a finger along the smooth pearls. "And you thought of me?" she asked, genuine confusion coloring her tone.
Peter shrugged, that disarming awkwardness returning. "You'd appreciate it. The craftsmanship, the history. And you'd actually wear it, not just keep it in a drawer somewhere. Plus..." he hesitated, then finished with surprising candor, "I know you wouldn't pawn it off. It means something, even if it's not worth millions."
Emma was silent for a long moment. The gift was unexpected enough, but the reasoning behind it surprised her even more. She was accustomed to being valued for her beauty, her power, her connections—not for her appreciation of craftsmanship or her respect for sentimental value.
"This belonged to your family," she said finally, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She knew enough about Peter Parker to understand what that meant. His parents gone too early, his uncle murdered, his aunt the only real family he had left. Family heirlooms would be precious few.
"It did," he acknowledged. "And now I'm giving it to you."
Emma felt something shift inside her—a small, almost imperceptible crack in the carefully constructed walls she maintained. She was no stranger to expensive gifts from men, but they always came with expectations, with an unspoken transactional understanding. This was different. It felt... genuine.
"I'm not certain what to say," she admitted, which was rare for her.
"'Thank you' works," Peter suggested with a smile. "Or 'Parker, you're an idiot for giving away a family heirloom.' Either response seems on-brand."
Emma laughed then, a genuine sound that surprised even her. She closed the jewelry box with a soft snap and slipped it into her purse.
"Thank you," she said, meeting his eyes directly. "It's... thoughtful."
Peter looked pleased, as if her simple acknowledgment was all he'd wanted from this exchange. "You're welcome."
They fell into conversation then, easier than Emma would have expected. Peter asked about her work with the X-Men, and she found herself sharing more than she'd intended about the challenges of balancing education with superheroics. He spoke about his latest scientific research at Horizon Labs, his enthusiasm for the subject matter oddly infectious.
An hour passed, then two. Their coffee cups emptied and were refilled. Emma found herself relaxing incrementally, her usual sharp edges softening just slightly in the autumn sunlight and the company of someone who expected nothing from her but conversation.
As they finally prepared to leave, Emma found herself reluctant to end their meeting. It was an unusual feeling for someone who typically counted the minutes until social obligations concluded.
"This was... not entirely unpleasant, Parker," she admitted as they stood on the sidewalk outside the café.
"High praise coming from you," he replied with that lopsided smile. "Maybe we could do it again sometime?"
Emma considered him for a moment. Peter Parker—Spider-Man—was not someone she would have ever expected to spend a voluntary morning with, let alone enjoy it. And yet, here she was, contemplating a repeat performance.
"Perhaps," she said finally, offering neither commitment nor rejection.
As she turned to leave, her hand unconsciously moved to her purse where the pearl necklace rested. Such a small thing, and yet it carried weight beyond its physical presence—the weight of family history, of thoughtfulness without agenda, of a connection she hadn't anticipated.
Emma Frost had received countless gifts in her lifetime, most far more valuable than a simple strand of pearls. But as she walked away, she couldn't remember the last time she'd received something that felt quite so much like a genuine gift.
Later that evening, Emma stood in her penthouse bedroom, preparing for the Hellfire Gala—an annual event that brought together the elite of both human and mutant society. Her dress hung ready on a nearby stand: a stunning white creation with architectural lines that managed to be both modest and striking, the hallmark of true luxury.
She had selected her jewelry earlier that day—diamond drop earrings and a matching bracelet that cost more than most people's homes. But now, as she finished applying her makeup with practiced precision, her eyes drifted to her purse, still sitting where she'd placed it after returning from her unexpected brunch with Parker.
With a moment's hesitation that annoyed her—Emma Frost did not hesitate—she retrieved the velvet box and opened it again. The pearls gleamed softly under her bedroom lights, less ostentatious than her usual choices but undeniably elegant.
"Don't be ridiculous," she murmured to herself, closing the box. And yet, she didn't return it to her purse.
Emma finished her preparations, slipping into the gown with practiced ease. As she stood before her full-length mirror making final adjustments, her eyes kept returning to the black velvet box now sitting on her vanity. With an exasperated sigh aimed at herself, she opened it once more and lifted the necklace.
The pearls were cool against her fingers as she fastened them around her neck. They sat perfectly against her collarbone, neither too tight nor too loose. Emma examined her reflection critically. The simple strand complemented the architectural lines of her dress rather than competing with them. They added a touch of vintage elegance, a softness that contrasted with her typical diamond hardness.
"Acceptable," she decided aloud, though privately she admitted they were more than that.
The Hellfire Gala was in full swing when Emma arrived, fashionably late as always. She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a passing waiter and nodding acknowledgment to those who warranted it. The benefit of being Emma Frost was that people generally came to her, rather than requiring her to seek them out.
"Emma, darling, you look absolutely divine," came a familiar voice from her left.
Emma turned to see Serena Shackleford, a wealthy socialite whose family had connections to the Hellfire Club dating back generations. She was one of the few non-mutants Emma found tolerable, primarily because Serena never pretended to be anything other than exactly what she was: a privileged woman who used her position to secure her interests. Emma respected honesty, even self-serving honesty.
"Serena," Emma acknowledged with a slight smile. "The event seems to be a success."
"Always is when you're involved," Serena replied, air-kissing near Emma's cheek. She stepped back, eyes traveling over Emma's ensemble with appreciative assessment. "That dress is spectacular, Givenchy?"
"Naturally," Emma confirmed.
Serena's gaze lingered on the pearls. "And those pearls—they're exquisite. Vintage? I don't recall seeing you wear them before."
Emma's hand rose unconsciously to touch the necklace. "Yes, they're vintage."
"They suit you," Serena said, sounding almost surprised. "A softer look than your usual diamonds, but somehow perfect with that dress. Tiffany's? Mikimoto?"
Emma hesitated only briefly. "Actually, they were a gift."
Serena's eyebrows rose with interest. "A gift? Someone has excellent taste." Her expression turned sly. "Anyone I know?"
"Just a friend," Emma replied, surprising herself with the honesty. She could have easily fabricated a more impressive provenance, but something about claiming the pearls were from some prestigious jeweler felt... disrespectful to their actual history.
"A friend with remarkably good taste," Serena pressed. "And generous, too. Vintage pearls of that quality don't come cheap."
"Their value isn't monetary," Emma found herself saying, then immediately wondered why she was sharing even this much.
Serena studied her with increased interest. "Well, now I'm truly intrigued. Emma Frost valuing something beyond its price tag? These must be magical pearls indeed."
Emma was saved from responding by the arrival of Warren Worthington, who swept into their conversation with impeccable timing. "Ladies, you're neglecting your hosting duties, Emma. The Japanese ambassador has been looking for you."
"Duty calls," Emma said to Serena with a slight smirk. "Do enjoy the champagne. It cost a fortune."
As she moved through the gala with Warren, he glanced at her with subtle curiosity. "The pearls are new."
"Your observational skills remain unparalleled, Warren," Emma replied dryly.
"They're lovely," he continued, undeterred by her sarcasm. "Not your usual style, but they suit you."
Emma didn't respond, but she found her hand rising to touch the necklace again—a gesture she'd repeated several times throughout the evening. The pearls felt warm against her skin now, as if they'd absorbed her body heat and adapted to her.
The remainder of the gala passed in a procession of strategic conversations, political maneuvering, and the occasional genuine exchange. Throughout it all, Emma received no fewer than seven compliments on the pearls—each one causing a strange, almost uncomfortable feeling in her chest that she refused to examine too closely.
It was nearly two in the morning when she finally returned to her penthouse, exhausted but satisfied with the event's success. As she carefully removed the pearl necklace and returned it to its velvet box, Emma found her thoughts returning to Parker's expression when he'd given them to her—that mix of nervousness and sincerity that was uniquely his.
"Appreciate it," he'd said. Not "deserve it" or "need it" or any of the other metrics by which gifts were usually granted. Simply that she would appreciate it for what it was.
Emma placed the box on her nightstand rather than returning it to her purse or jewelry safe. As she prepared for bed, removing her makeup with meticulous care, she found her gaze drifting repeatedly to the box.
A simple gift, given without agenda. A family heirloom entrusted to her not because she was Emma Frost, White Queen, but because she would "appreciate it."
It was... novel.
By morning, Emma had made a decision. Over coffee, she retrieved her phone and scrolled to a number she rarely used. She hesitated only briefly before typing a message:
Saturday. 1 PM. Bernard's on West 62nd. Their patio seating is acceptable.
She paused, then added:
Consider it a thank you for the pearls. They were admired extensively last night.
Parker's response came faster than she expected:
I'll be there! Fair warning though - saving the world might make me 5-10 minutes late. Supervillains have no respect for lunch plans.
Emma found herself smiling at the screen, which was irritating. She typed a final reply:
Tardiness will not be tolerated, Parker. Even Spider-Man can set an alarm.
She set the phone down and turned to the window, looking out over the Manhattan skyline. The autumn sun caught the buildings, turning glass to gold. Emma wasn't one for self-reflection—she generally knew her own mind perfectly well without belaboring the point—but even she had to acknowledge that she was looking forward to Saturday with unexpected anticipation.
It was, she decided, simply the novelty of the situation. Nothing more significant than that.
The pearl necklace sat in its box on her nightstand, a silent contradiction to her neat explanation. Emma ignored it as she prepared for her day, but as she left her penthouse, she found herself returning to carefully move the box to her jewelry safe—handling it with a gentleness usually reserved for items of far greater monetary value.
Just a thank you lunch, she told herself firmly. Basic courtesy, nothing more.
But as the elevator descended to the lobby, Emma Frost found herself looking forward to Saturday in a way that had nothing to do with courtesy at all.