You're a falling star, you're the getaway car
He had to admit, when Sam told him they were going to the Commissioner’s daughter’s wedding, he expected to be bored out of his mind; especially when he found himself at the /tailor/ of all places. The black tux was something straight out of a James Bond movie-albeit scratchy and hard to move around in.
The snooty clerk that was fitting him kept complaining about his tail getting in the way, and “accidentally” sticking him with pins. Right around Max’s breaking point, a soft knock came from the door behind him. The clerk dropped his measuring tape and gave the lagomorph a look that said “stay still”. Max heard the door open and a prim “may I help you?” before a familiar whistle caught his attention. Sam was standing in the doorway, leaning against the white frame with his arms crossed, giving Max a bemused smile. The white suit was cut perfectly, and made Sam look taller and more imposing-but most of all, it made him look /cool/. The outfit was completed with a rose tucked and pinned expertly into his lapel, and it took everything Max had in him to shut his mouth.
“Nice suit, Sam.” Max said, trying to recover.
“You clean up pretty well yourself, little buddy.”
A jittery, weird feeling began to claw its way up into Max’s chest; like a sugar rush, or the high from plowing through the streets in the DeSoto.
“Et viola! Little lagomorph, your suit is finished.” The clerk stepped back, admiring his work.
Max let out a relieved groan and jumped down, taking his place next to Sam.
“For a couple of animals, you wear your suits well.”
The lagomorph flashed the man his signature sharp-toothed grin before following Sam out the door and into the lobby. Maybe this wedding wouldn’t suck so much after all.
----
By the time they arrived, the place was in full swing. Carlotta, the Commissioner’s daughter, was wearing a dress that was worth more than the DeSoto (when it was new) and a few months’ rent, at the very least. The Commissioner gave them a nod and a wave, and they set to blending in.
“Sam,” Max said, tugging on his partner’s jacket while gesturing with his free hand, “Sam I haven’t set anything on fire or caused physical pain to a seedy lowlife in at least seven minutes!”
“Calm down, little buddy, we’re just waiting for the informant.”
Beyond the sea of people, the band was changing out their instruments. From across the room, Max locked eyes with the man at the microphone, visibly startling him.
“Sam!”
“You’re gonna have to wait, Max. Just get some punch or so-“
“Sam!” Max interrupted with a jab to Sam’s ribs. “That guy up there looks fishy!” He pointed a fluffy white paw in the direction of the stage.
“Great galloping guinea pigs on nana’s pogo stick. I think you spotted a bad guy, Max.” Sam put a hand on Max’s shoulder, apparently not noticing the shiver that went through the lagomorph’s frame at the contact.
“Can I administer a violent smack-down? Huh, huh, can I?!” Max bounced back and forth, excited.
“I don’t see a reason not to. We should probably get up closer, though.”
“Quick, Sam, let’s tackle him!” Max was off, bounding through the crowd of people, leaving Sam to flounder after him.
---
“Max! Max?!” Sam looked around, finally making his way to the stage only to find both his partner and the singer were missing. With a resigned sigh, he made to move around and out the small door behind the food tables. Before he could get through, someone grabbed his forearm and tugged gently.
“Ey’ mac, Bernard said yer our stand-in vocalist, get up here!” The pianist was a short, fat man with thick glasses and a shock of white hair; he looked more like Santa than a crook.
“Whoa-hey! I don’t sing!” Sam’s protests went unheard as a very old-timey microphone was thrust into his paws. Behind him, a few soft notes were played, before a lively beat kicked in.
The crowd had turned to watch, as he searched the faces for either Max or the singer. When he couldn’t find a sign of either, he took a deep breath, and started to sing…
---
Max had the man rolled into a ball, and was sitting atop him, wiping sweat from his brow. Idly, he wondered where Sam had gotten off to. The singer was out cold, so Max opened the nearest closet and rolled him into it.
“Aw, he looks so cute all rolled up. Like a snug little burrito.” The lock clicked shut and Max headed off down the hallway.
“It’s kinda cute; when you smile at me you know exactly what you do.”
That voice… The crooning seemed familiar, in fact, it sounded just like…
“Sam?”
Pushing the double doors into the ballroom open, Max stopped dead. That /was/ Sam up there singing, and he was damn good at it too.
“You can see it when I look at you… And in this crazy life, through these crazy times, it’s you-it’s you. You make me sing, you’re every line, you’re every word, you’re everything…”
It looked like the rest of the crowd was as entranced as Max was. And for once in his life, he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. The only thing he could do was stand star struck, one hand still gripping the doorframe.
---
Sam was relieved when the song ended; being up in front of a crowd wasn’t his thing. He realized, belatedly, that he’d had his eyes closed almost the entire time, and when he opened them, the first thing he saw was Max gazing up at him. His fur bristled and he excused himself with a small bow, stepping off the stage and joining his partner in the crowd.
“Hey, little buddy. Did you get the guy?” He asked.
Max looked like he was fighting for words. “Uh, yeah-he’s all snug and warm in a supply closet. I locked him in so we could question him together, might be a little while before he comes round though.” Max’s smile was sheepish.
Sam followed him with a nod, continuing through the doors and into an empty hallway.
The man was still knocked out, but as it turned out-he had friends, and they weren’t jazzed about old Bernard getting locked in a broom closet. Sam flashed Max a smile as they turned to run from the sudden hail of bullets.
Max didn’t know the song was for him, of course not. At least, Sam hoped so.