Masks

By Shahrezad1

Disclaimer: I love Incredibles (as well as a variety of other movies referred to), but not enough to own it. I'm poor, in school, and all my money goes into art supplies. Please don't sue.

Summary: Here was a fellow friend. Someone who would rather watch the proceedings from the shadows, categorizing people and taking notes, than being stuck in the scene itself. Synlet pairing.

~/~/~

"Well, we all fall in love,

But we disregard the danger.

Though we share so many secrets,

There are some we never tell.

Why were you so surprised,

That you never saw the stranger?

Did you ever let your lover,

See the stranger in yourself?"

-The Stranger,

Billy Joel

~/~/~

"I am so sorry! Is there any way I can possib--hmm. Guess not. All right then," It was Violet's fourteenth time apologizing that night, and her most recent recipient had just walked off in a huff, fur muff liberally drenched in what she assumed was an alcoholic beverage.

To be honest, the woman and her over-stuffed accessory had been watching the Super all evening, and she was somewhat glad to see the lady go. The other guests, however, a mix of elderly businessmen, doddering old ladies, and wealthy heiresses, she couldn't help but feel some measure of sympathy for. They were truly innocent bystanders, caught in the path of her destruction.

And all because of a dress!

The young woman, chronologically twenty-one but looking hardly a day over seventeen, much to her dismay, didn't know why she'd allowed her mentor to talk her into coming, much less wearing the humiliating piece of artwork she was currently swathed in. It seemed that she had received more lewd looks in the past half hour than she had ever earned the rest of her short life.

It was truly a blessing her parents weren't present. Or quite a few men, both young and old, wouldn't be leaving the party with both of their legs intact.

Of course, even as she mentally ranted and raved, blushing furiously as eye after eye caught her gaze then dipped lower, another part of her was already smoothing over the anger.

After all, Edna really, truly was an inspired designer. She had an eye for what looked good on each individual, and when a muse struck was gifted in her inspiration. And besides, it was the least Violet could do in light of E's fundraiser. Each of her assistants was wearing one of her creations for the masked costume ball, rather than wearing their own costumes or going with monotonous neutral 'assistant' colors, and Vi was no different. With a cause so benevolent, being for the bereaved families of those Supers that lost their lives in the line of work (be it Syndrome, other villainous plots, or cape-based accidents), she could somehow just barely justify the outfit she wore.

Repeating these words of truth within her mind like a mantra, the inexperienced socialite took up a glass of she-had-no-idea-what-it-was from a passing waiter, one of the few people in the room wearing plain domino masks, and turned to hide herself within the folds of nearby curtains, a flash of red against the striking marble columns. It was there she found herself with a conundrum.

Someone had found her hiding spot before she had.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I'll just, um, be leaving now," great, her fifteenth apology that night, she thought to herself even as she pasted a smile upon her face.

The stranger said nothing, merely staring at her with an arm outstretched, as though about to speak. And in that moment she allowed herself to assess his figure, just as she had been taught to do with many-a villain.

Tall, broad-shouldered and darkly blonde, he had the presence of a linebacker. The jaw was long and round, breaking up the description that was slowly heading toward 'false perfection,' with a boyish bashfulness that seemed genuine. And deep set, behind a hawkish nose and a wide mouth, were eyes of the clearest blue. Dressed in a tuxedo of fine quality, but not a name-brand cut and definitely not made to represent any sort of costume, he looked fashionably out of place. Like a reporter invited to an event, only to find themselves out of their element.

He has a purpose for being at the fundraiser, and it isn't to show off. That was the final conclusion her mind came to, but before she could delve further into that puzzle he acted.

By coloring clear to his hairline, then withdrawing his hand before pausing to pat down the starched shirt he wore. It took him intentionally clearing his throat before he would finally speak, and even then he had the hardest time looking her in the eye; instead finding her hair far more interesting.

"Um, no. I can go if you'd like. You probably need this more than I do."

"Thanks."

The single word, so sarcastic and so underlined with irony, stopped the man before he could take more than few steps forward, coming to a halt with a laugh.

"I didn't mean it that way. I just thought that…"

"That hiding was my intent?" up went the eyebrow, the hip cocked to the side and arms quickly folded in her mother's trademark, 'Go ahead and say something stupid. I dare you,' pose. A look that had quite the different effect when wearing what she was wearing.

He swallowed as he searched for a response, throat suddenly gone dry. Then, quick as a wink, the uncertainty switched over into a smirk, "well, you're either hiding, or you're waiting. And you don't seem the type to enjoy a scandal, Sweetheart."

"I'm not your Sweetheart!" was her indignant, hissed response. But all the ferocity in a woman scorned still couldn't play down the inevitable blush that suffused features pale as the moon.

He grinned as his question was answered, shaking his head as though with the intent to disperse his mirth, "and apparently not anyone else's either. How in the world did you get into that getup?"

Her face immediately screwed up into a look of dismayed effrontery, mixed with horrified curiosity.

"How can you ask something like that? Do I even know you? And why in the world do you even want to know?"

"Wicked curiosity," the boyish innocence in his face, lighting the sparkle in his eyes, connected them for a moment in time and against her own feelings of reservation, she felt her emotional barriers weaken slightly.

Here was a fellow friend; someone stuck in a place he didn't want to be, among a social class that he didn't belong to. Someone who would rather watch the proceedings from the shadows, categorizing people and taking notes, than being stuck in the scene itself.

Still, despite the connection she felt, she had to put up a token front.

"Wicked snooping is more like it," was Violet's eventual response, expression black with fury, "And to answer your question, it was Bad luck."

"I'd say it was good luck for me," thick arched brows wiggled over eyes of lightest blue, and she resisted the urge to swat the familiar-looking stranger.

"And for every other Suit in this room."

Giving into the cringe she could no longer suppress, Violet Parr finally looked down at herself for the second time that evening (the first being when she'd first looked in the mirror and nearly fainted), and saw what the room saw.

A svelte form encased from neck to ankle in the darkest, skin-tight violet fabric, topped by a loosely worn, Japanese-inspired pseudo-kimono. A translucent affair of chiffon which melted effortlessly into what could only be described as part cape, obi, and corset. And sewn all along the edges floated butterflies of silk and iridescent beading, meandering along her form like a caress, before floating to perch, in the form of delicately shaped flowers, within the voluminous chignon her hair had been pulled up into.

Her one piece of jewelry was a striking silver and amethyst necklace, E's last heirloom from a mother long lost, known only as 'The Eye,' lay nestled in the hollow of her throat.

Unlike the rest of the guests and patrons, Edna's own assistants included, she wore no mask, merely a swirl of shimmering makeup highlighting her eyes in voluminous lavender swirls. It left a distinct impression, and made her stand out within the crowd of gaudily painted beauties. Leaving each viewer with a half-understood knowledge of what E had been intending with her living masterpiece.

That Violet's mask wasn't the one she wore, but rather the one she didn't wear.

A great inside joke for the designer, but one which caused no small amount of pain for the young protégée.

Seeing her bleak expression and sympathizing, if not understanding completely, the taller man finally took some sympathy on the young girl before him and bowed shortly, "sorry, that was low. Even for me."

"It's not your fault. I'm used to being a living doll."

Something half-clicked within his mind, and smiling he shook his head in rueful wonder, "you're one of E's assistants, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" miserably, she looked up at the man and abruptly lost her breath, nearly missing his answer. For when the dark-haired Super had looked up into the man's face, she could have sworn that she saw something else. Red hair where the blonde was, and crisscrossing scars on what seemed to be unscarred flesh, face shape somehow just slightly off. Only the eyes remained the same, cool as a forest stream and lively with interest.

The moment was forgotten in the wave of his answer, "yes. And your 'Bad Luck' comment is explained now, since you probably drew the short end of the stick when it came to E's design fury. You look like a fairy tale illustration that got hit by a flyswatter, then smeared across a Playboy cover."

Her groan forced him to amend his statement, for his own well-being if nothing else, "although a hundred times more covered. Even if the fabric doesn't really help much with that illusion…"

"You can stop now. I think you've reached the six foot requirement for a burial plot," was the muttered growl, low and deep in contrast to her usual slight lisp, "I told her I wanted a modest outfit, and this is what I get."

A rough wave of her hand caused the drink she'd been holding to go flying through the air, before landing in a spectacular ballet move that left shattered pieces of glass on the floor and left, what she assumed was, champagne splattering her companion's shoes. Yet two more casualties of 'The Dress,' as she liked to think of it.

He merely grimaced, rubbed his feet off against the curtain, then shrugged. Clothes were clothes. It wasn't the end of the world if he had sticky shoes for a while.

Yet another sign that he wasn't from the wealthy elite, she thought warmly to herself.

Then he continued, and the smile dropped into an eye-roll, "Well, it is quite," he paused, wiggling his eyebrows expressively as they fell upon the necklace, "eye-catching."

"Har har. Give the man a prize, he's a comedian," her only physical response was to drolly roll her own violet-blue orbs.

"And we're at a masquerade ball for that matter. What did she set you up to be, anyway? I mean, other than really, really, illegally hot?"

Illegally hot. Two words that in most contexts weren't used in reference to her, she noted from beneath the deep-set blush, "Edna's modern take on Madam Butterfly, I think. She even made me wear these ballet-like shoes. I've been tripping all night," rising to reveal the bemoaned slippers, she instead demonstrated the second half of her plight by way of falling directly into his arms, having slipped on the remains of her untouched drink, "Like that."

"I see," mirth lightened the rough edge to his voice as her stranger abruptly found his arms abruptly full of curvaceous woman. And as his arms settled around her waist like a steel vice, she couldn't help but note that his hands spanned the entire width of her back with ease. She was tiny, fragile, like a piece of ornamented glass in the shadow of his frame. So different than the hardened exterior she portrayed as Invisigirl, an active Super since the age of fifteen.

"You know what, how about we just…dance for a bit? Take your mind off of things," was his eventual, proffered peace offering. Uncomfortable and embarrassed, her skin prickling with awareness of the non-spider-sense kind, she nodded against his lapel.

"All right."

Their forms began swaying back and forth in a casual two-step, the tux-wearing shadow's voice lowering as she awkwardly gripped at his biceps for purchase of any kind, "what do you want to talk about?"

Her mouth opened, and a figurative pearl dropped out, "why aren't you wearing a mask?"

Of all the things she could have asked him, he obviously hadn't expected that one. Blue eyes widening momentarily, and wide mouth drawing open in surprise, she couldn't help but steal the smirk he had so ruthlessly controlled just minutes before.

"What?"

"Everyone else is wearing a mask. Why aren't you?"

The blonde-haired late-twenties-something businessman (?) avoided the question, instead parrying it with his own observation, "Well, you're not wearing a mask either."

"My lack of mask is a mask. Madam Butterfly was a Geisha. They embody mystery, emotion, and particularly in her case, sorrow," the sarcastic brow arched up as she grinned impishly, looking more like Shakespeare's Puck than any Japanese derivative, "what's your excuse?"

This time the man partook of his own measure of smirk, looking younger now than he had their entire conversation, "for your information, I am Bond. James Bond. Master of disguise."

"Yet everyone seems to know who he is," was her quip, with an impish smile, "How does that work, considering he somehow always ends up getting the information he needs? Wouldn't they have already passed on his information to the other Evil-Doers? Especially when he goes off seducing the Villain's daughter, or making off with the plans for the nuclear bomb. Or the coordinates to the hostage location."

One large hand rose from her waist to tap his nose mischievously, smirk in full bloom and ready to move along to the harvest, "Every good Secret Agent has ninja skills. Don't you know that? And every one of them knows how to hack into security systems so that they can delete the information in them, for that matter."

Another toss of her eyes expressed her opinions on that subject, but he continued anyway, on a roll, "Plus, how many times does James Bond change what he looks like? Kinda hard to track a guy, when he changes faces every five minutes." his last point was made with the seriousness of someone laughing at an inside joke.

"Changing actors doesn't count as a skill."

"It sure counts for Sean Connery."

"For your information," a hand fell to her chest pointedly, and she tried and failed to ignore the fact that her stranger's eye dropped to follow it for a second, before returning to look into her eyes, "he went on to bigger and better things! Leaving the 'ManSlut' persona behind."

"By becoming a dragon instead?" the skeptical tone in his voice was colored with laughter, and giving into the urge she echoed it's feeling with her own chuckle.

Meanwhile, across the room Edna Mode began to smile as her charge finally began loosening up for the first time that night. She couldn't help but feel that the girl was losing her life in the way of saving others'. So to hear Violet laugh was sweeter to the designer, than a positive magazine interview hot off the press.

Still, the man with her was an unfamiliar element. He seemed vaguely familiar, but in the way that all of her guests had. And he was dressed nicely, but not nice enough for one of her parties. Nor had he worn a mask, despite the invitation's emphasis on identities remaining secret.

Unless by not wearing one, he was making a statement, just as Violet was.

The smile became tempered with a thoughtful pout as she tried to place him, while the couple continued without any thought or note of this.

"Hey, he was an awesome dragon. You have to give him that."

For some reason Violet felt more at ease around this complete stranger than around many others, her family and Edna included. He was just so brutally honest, even in his comments regarding her potential for having an rendezvous of some sort (as embarrassing as that had been). It was hard not to feel comfortable in the arms of someone whose only thought was that of humor.

Wicked humor, but humor nonetheless, she thought as we went out of his way to make some graphic references to Draco's particular eating habits.

The topic was thereby saved as she abruptly changed the subject. And then suddenly she was once again the one under the spotlight, the two of them swaying to the lightest of instrumental music.

"So, what made you go into the Fashion business? You don't exactly seem to me to be a 'Fashionista' of any kind."

"I can't believe you just said that," she exclaimed in surprise.

And then she swatted him in the shoulder, her first real red flag shooting up in a single Super bound.

She was flirting. With a complete stranger! Touch was a big no-no for her, so to do something so simple as casual touch with someone was a momentous milestone. But it usually took months, if not years for her. Even she and Tony, her long-time ex-boyfriend and current long-distance-therapist, were still only at a hugging stage. How had she come so far in less than an hour? And with someone whose name she still didn't know?

Not realizing just what a profound moment had just passed, he wiggled his thick brows once more in response to her exclamation, "what, you mean 'Fashionista'?" Look, I can say it again…Fashionista. It gets better than that. Guacamole. Sombrero. Intelligente. Muy bonita," there the brow went again, raised pointedly as he slid her a roguish grin.

She couldn't not respond to a look like that, "Stop it already, you've butchered the language enough."

"Then answer the question already, before I get on a roll."

"Fine, fine," plucking at the figure's lapel, she could feel herself coloring as she searched for words, "the other assistants…they're there for the environment, you know? They love the world of glamour, and all the perks and backhanded attention they get. And they love the fact that E even notes that they exist. And me…I..."

Several minutes of silence passed, and as it did she could feel herself almost slip away into her own thoughts. Thoughts observing the warmth of his breath against her neck, the lightest breeze making the delicate strands of her hair shift. And the realization that the back of his hands were lightly dusted with freckles, a strange occurrence for a man with none on his face.

Finally, the schoolboy within the man snapped, half-jokingly and half impatient, "You gonna take all night? 'Cause I could always take a nap until you're ready to talk…"

"I like design, all right!" A huff and a laugh broke free from her mouth, head shaking in humor at her own shy streak. After all, it wasn't that hard to say. Along with sentences like, 'I like the color Moss Green,' and 'My favorite season is Autumn.'

"I like…coming up with the designs."

Work the words around your mouth, Violet, then spit them out. The mantra helped her focus on what needed to be said, what was felt, without her preternaturally self-conscious consciousness taking over, "And working out color combinations until…everything fits just right. I love being placed with a conundrum that no one can find an answer to, and being able to save the day in the nick of time with an accessory that looks intentional, but is really a last-second save."

She was on a roll, and wasn't going to stop any time soon. Not that he looked like he intended to stop her, merely content to bask in the wave of true inspiration shining out before him, excitement coloring her cheeks, "I love the makeup, and the concept sketches, and seeing the finished project! And being able to see the models as real people, instead of stick figure mannequins, with hopes and worries of their own. I love being able to say, 'I created that. That was me,' and then releasing it out into the world like a butterfly from its cocoon. I love it all."

The stranger was silent a moment, then smiled, "I know exactly how you feel."

Just as she was about to respond, the room abruptly fell into the black of darkest pitch, lights extinguished in one debilitating blow even as the once-decorative curtains fell in a wash of fabric to destroy the moonlight further, spreading from her hiding place like waves of midnight. While her Super side was immediately ready and raring for a fight, recognizing the swift darkness for the ploy it was, the woman couldn't help but angrily rebel. This was their moment, together. She didn't want to leave, and neither could he. She could tell.

But all good things must come to an end.

"Well, I can honestly say that it's been lovely, but…that's my cue," his whispering voice low with humor and something more, she could feel her partner slowly come to a stop, then move to leave. Just as he began to withdraw, arms slipping from her waist, hers tightened on him. In the complete darkness, with nothing between them but sight itself, he hesitated, then huffed out a laugh against her neck.

"Ah, what the heck."

It seemed as though her last-minute act had been an act of unwritten permission, and so it was that his mouth fell upon hers fiercely, taking everything she had to give and more as he alternately caressed and lightly traced each lip; moving insistently until her own mouth was filled with heat, his rough three o'clock shadow leaving only the faintest scratch against her cheeks. Reluctantly, fervor slowly diffusing, he retreated only to be surprised.

Something had clicked within her mind as Violet kissed the man she had never met before, nor was ever to meet again. The line between Vi and Invisigirl had always been razor-thin, but it was only in that strange embrace that things fell into place, and the two women became one. Not Vi, daughter to Bob and Helen Parr. Nor Invisigirl, secondary team member in a family of Supers. But fully Violet, made of joy and sweetness and fierce emotion. Gripping his face in hers, she released her own barrage of feeling, back arching as the suddenly confident wallflower wrapped her arms around his back and neck, burrowing slender hands into his thick wave of hair. This sudden change in events spanned several long minutes, until both were huffing for breath as sparks appeared behind their eyes.

"Wow," a chuckle was in the stranger's voice as they finally came up for air, thumb absently rubbing her back of its own volition. And burying her face into the stiff white collar of his dress shirt, she couldn't help the smile that imprinted itself on her own face.

"I guess…it's my cue to go, as well," was her belated, mumbled response, and immediately she could feel the rumble of laughter go off in his chest.

"Yeah. Me too. Farewell, Madam Butterfly. Sweetheart."

"You too, Bond. James Bond."

A hand touched her hair for just a second, before lighting almost hesitantly from it in an unconscious echo of the butterflies surrounding her, "I guess I should dress up like him more often. He always gets the girl."

A swat at her companion met only air, and absently rubbing bruised lips she couldn't help but smile as she donned her Supersuit behind a dropped curtain. It wasn't until an hour later, lights back on and everything restored to semi-permanent order via the help of Invisigirl, that she realized something was missing from the outfit Edna had created for her.

The amethyst eye necklace. While she had been busy enjoying her first kiss, the cad had stolen the rare artifact.

And strangely enough, although her emotions had been at an all-time high, her mind had been aware enough to note that the skin beneath her hands hadn't been the smooth visage of an eligible bachelor, there to help Edna's cause. Rather, it had been curiously puckered with light scars.

He'd been wearing a mask after all.

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AN: Yeah, bit of a side-pairing for me, since I usually ship the traditional ones. Still, Synlet's caught my fancy despite my own intellectual arguments, and who am I to say no to inspiration? Especially where Billy Joel is involved. (Youtube the song. Seriously.)

In any case, this was inspired by the Tim Burton's Batman film, with appearances by both Catwoman and the Penguin. There was a particular scene I was inspired by, in which Bruce and Selina are the only unmasked guests in a masquerade party. Revealing the fact that maybe the masks they wear aren't the obvious ones.

Additionally, my view on Syndrome is that he really is quite brilliant, and I wanted to play upon that fact by having Violet understand in her own way. That sense of more-than-slight fanaticism, and a type of inspiration that drives your very being to create. I imagine Buddy feels that way quite often, when he gets ideas for inventions. And I'm guessing it's fairly similar to what we, as artists and authors, feel every time we sit down to a blank piece of paper.