Chapter 1

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of Jean's favorite places to be. For years now, Jean would make the pilgrimage, alone, from Bayville to Manhattan at least once a month so she could nourish her inner artist on the feast available at the Museum. Sometimes she would visit with her sketch book and spend hours studying the sculptures of the masters, reproducing them in shades of grey in hopes of learning from them. Other days, like today, she came simply as an observer, to view the works with an appreciate eye rather than the critical observations of a one-time art student.

Jean tended to devote different visits to different areas of the Museum, since she could easily lose herself in the massive collection for days if she were to try to spend enough time with each collection. Paintings were calling to her this time, and she found herself working her way systematically through the European Collection.

Monet had always been one of her favorites, from the time Jean was first introduced to art as a small child. Something about the colors drew her in, drowning her in their beauty. Luckily, the Met had a wonderful collection of Monet's work, and she could gaze at those paintings for hours. Finally moving away on, she strolled through the gallery, admiring the works of French artists such as Renoir, Degas, Manet, Cezanne... all so magnificent.

On this particular day, Jean was feeling mildly guilty spending the day in such a frivolous activity. Back at the Institute, stacks of text books sat on her desk that needed to be read. Papers needed to be written. Training needed to be caught up on. Really, there were countless reasons why she shouldn't be there. Instead she'd decided to give herself a much needed break.

As Jean turned to examine the Gauguin collection, she caught sight of a familiar figure standing transfixed by a particular painting. Warren Worthington III. It had been some months since she'd last seen him, since the Apocalypse fall-out, as a matter of fact. Loath to disturb anyone while they were appreciating art, Jean hesitated a moment. She didn't know Warren well at all. In fact, the only time they'd ever really spoken was when they went in pursuit of the Spider Stone. And even then, they'd exchanged few words during the mission. But he'd always seemed like a nice man, and he was a friend to the X-men. So, with a deep, steadying breath she found herself walking toward him.

He'll remember me, I hope, Jean thought to herself, chewing her lower lip nervously.

As she approached she noticed the painting that had him so entranced. La Orana Maria. Not one of her favorites, Jean had to admit, but a lovely piece regardless. She stopped beside him, and saw his body tense as he realized he was no longer alone. Smiling warmly, Jean spoke softly, not wanting to startle him further, "Hello, Warren."

He visibly relaxed and smiled, a completely natural, lovely smile. It even crinkled his eyes.

"Jean," his eyes found hers, but not with the aggression of a businessman in a meeting. Still smiling, gently, he turned toward her just a little. "Hello. What brings you into the city today? Or, for that matter, to the post-impressionists?"

Her smile broadened when he spoke her name, pleased that he did, in fact, remember her, and all apprehension over making a fool of herself was forgotten. "Oh, this is like my home away from home," she admitted almost sheepishly. "Well, not necessarily the post-impressionists, but the Met itself. I've been in love with this place for as long as I can remember."

Jean let her gaze wander to the painting Warren had been admiring, noting the plaque beside it: Gift of the Worthington Family, 1983. "It's wonderful that your family contributes to the Museum's collection. Art deserves to be seen, not hidden away in a private collection," she continued.

Jean regarded the painting carefully for a few moments, examining it as if for the first time. "It's an interesting piece. Gauguin isn't one of my favorites, but I can certainly appreciate the beauty of his works."

He simply looked at her for a moment, considering her closely. His lack of response had Jean turning towards him slightly, self-consciously, wracking her brain for something to say since he apparently wasn't feeling overly talkative. But what could she talk about that wouldn't make her seem like a silly child compared to the sophisticated man beside her? She settled for something she deemed safe.

"How have you been?" Lowering her voice just slightly, she continued. "It's been some time since the Apocalypse incident, and we haven't seen you. I hope you know you're welcome at the Institute anytime. You have friends there."

He coughed slightly, and then looked back to her, and Jean felt the urge to kick herself. Wonderful, she was saying all the wrong things, obviously. But then, "Thank you. I... I talked to Scott a little the other day. I've been feeling a little cooped up lately, I guess. And Board meetings don't exactly give me any release."

Though he obviously tried very hard to conceal it, Jean couldn't miss the somewhat wistful look that crept over Warren's handsome face. Her heart went out to him, sensing in him a lost soul who desperately needed acceptance, understanding... and freedom from the conventions of the social circles in which he obviously ran. She was also surprised to hear that he had kept in touch with Scott, and made a mental note to ask her boyfriend about it when she got home.

"But yes, I can understand that Gauguin wouldn't be your favorite, he's a bit... raw, maybe. Is there something you're in this wing to visit, then?"

The sudden change in subject hit Jean almost like a slap. She blinked rapidly in surprise, and tried to compose herself, fighting against anger and hurt. The good manners instilled in her by her parents warred with her temper. She didn't like being brushed off, and she didn't like being strong-armed. So that's how it's going to be, is it Mr. Worthington? Fine, she snapped at him silently, her temper finally winning.

"I was actually just wrapping up my visit for the day," Jean told him, her tone slightly clipped. "I know how busy you must be. I'm sorry, I won't take up any more of your time. It was nice seeing you again, Warren."

As she turned to leave, a hand reached out and gently grasped her arm. Surprised, she looked back at him, wondering why he was trying to stop her when he obviously had no interest in talking to her.

"Wait. I'm... don't cut your visit short because I'm a paranoid recluse." He smiled again, slightly crookedly. "I'm hopeless with polite society these days. Used to staring over a table at someone who's trying to take me for all I'm worth," he shook his head at himself, and kept smiling, if only slightly, his voice low and sincere. "If you want to stay... I'll try and remember that you're not a Board member. I'm sorry, Jean."

Watching Warren carefully, Jean weighed his words. His expression was earnest. He meant it, Jean was sure. He did seem terribly... unsure of himself, falling back on distant politeness not unlike the tone of conversations she used to endure at her parents' dinner parties. She cocked her head to the side and considered him. Handsome, rich, a powerful businessman... no wonder he had to be wary of people's intentions. He was likely pursued constantly by gold diggers, had business acquaintances trying to take advantage of him... yes, it made sense.

If she was going to get to know Warren Worthington III – and at that moment Jean decided she would force him to accept her as a friend if it was the last thing she did – she was going to have to ease him out of his comfort zone of impersonal formality, and teach him to trust people. Starting with her.Smiling brightly to let him know there were no hard feelings, Jean nodded her head once. "All right, I'll stay."

"Good," he smiled at her and let his hand drop from her arm, "my afternoon would've been completely ruined if I thought I'd chased you off with my questionable business sense."

Jean laughed softly at Warren's attempt at levity. He really did seem relieved that she'd decided to stay, and that made her smile. As he turned to her he locked eyes with Jean, and there was something about the way he looked at her... suddenly a lone butterfly started dancing in her stomach. Don't you dare, she growled at herself, mentally squashing the fluttering creature.

"Maybe, since you know the place, you could show me which paintings actually appeal to you? Since Gauguin isn't quite to your taste? And... about the Institute," he hesitated slightly, but then continued, "I... I'd like to know what's been going on since Apocalypse. I've just been... thinking a lot since then, I guess. Things are different now. For the world, for us, for me. I'm not really sure I've managed to wrap my head around the whole thing yet. I guess that's why I'm not sure how to talk about it."

Without thinking about it, Jean reached out and squeezed Warren's hand reassuringly. "It's been hard for all of us," she confided, smiling sadly. "The world, our lives... nothing will ever be the same as it was... before..." She trailed off, then shook her head just slightly to chase away unpleasant memories.

Smiling warmly again, Jean suggested, "Come on, let's go look at the Monet collection." Surprised to realize she still held Warren's hand, she gave him a gentle tug in the direction she wanted to go, and they started walking.

Jean pulled Warren through the gallery, not letting him go until they reached the Impressionist galleries. She babbled randomly about this and that, and Warren listened, seemingly intently. Which made her feel better about everything.

"Things at the Institute haven't changed all that much," Jean admitted as they strolled through the gallery. "The X-Men and the Brotherhood seem to have declared a truce for the time being. Most of the students who had left after our initial 'outing' have come back, which is wonderful. Scott and I are now junior faculty and have taken over some training duties, which is quite an adjustment for all of us." She chuckled, remembering their disastrous first teaching attempts.

Glancing at him, she said, "There's always room for another friend, Warren. I won't push the issue, just please keep that in mind, ok?"

"I do think about it," he admitted, much to Jean's surprise, "and often. At first, I didn't really understand the difference between the goals Magneto had, and the goals of Professor Xavier. Same old business sense, I guess..." And there, he had to laugh at himself. "Paranoid recluse, again. But after the Spider Stone... well, you were there. And you know that I have the same goals you have there, at the Institute. It's something... It's something amazing, anyhow. Thank you, I appreciate it. I'm obviously... in need of somewhere. Something."

Jean's heart broke a little at how... alone he sounded, and she suddenly wondered how much of her life she'd taken for granted. After she awoke from the coma induced by her telepathy exploding, Jean had found refuge at the Institute, where she was accepted and loved for who and what she was. And because her mutation didn't manifest itself in a physical manner, she'd never needed to hide. Having watched so many of her friends struggle with their own mutations – particularly Scott, who desired nothing so much as to be able to be able to control his optic blasts – Jean knew she'd been one of the lucky ones. But her friends had all found a place of unconditional acceptance with Xavier, and that had made all the difference in the world for some of them. Kurt, for example, who couldn't be seen in public before acquiring his image inducer, and Scott, who would still be blind today had it not been for the ruby quartz glasses.

Warren had never had anywhere to go that would offer him that same level of acceptance, that permission to be himself, to enjoy his abilities and be proud of his differences. Dammit, he deserved to have a safe haven as much as anyone else. She was glad to hear he was at least considering the Institute as a potential retreat. Jean hurt for him, and wanted so very much to be able to make everything better.

"But I'm glad to hear that the Brotherhood and the X-Men are getting along. Magneto's daughter was on my team, when we fought Apocalypse... she was... interesting. Very... focused."

But they had arrived at the Monets, by this time. Jean felt his hand on her back, suddenly, guiding her gently, and it felt... right. It felt nice, and she had to fight the urge to arch into his touch like a cat asking to be petted.

Knock it off, she ordered herself.

"Do you like the Water Lilies series? I like to sit in front of that one sometimes."

The question snapped Jean out of her reverie, and she found herself looking up at Warren and smiling again. "I love the Water Lilies. I can get lost staring at these paintings. According to my parents, I've been drawn to Monet since I was old enough to look through their art books – around 2 years old, I think. I would climb into my father's armchair and just... stare at the pictures of Monet's paintings for hours." Jean laughed a little self-consciously and shook her head. "I was a strange little girl. I guess some things never change," Jean admitted with a grin.

Warren simply ginned back, and guided her toward the large canvas that hung near to them. He stopped just behind the bench in front of the pastel canvas. "Well, I suppose we were all strange as kids. And some of us just never really got over it-- you and me, for example."

Jean chuckled and nodded in agreement, and tried not to stare at him as he smiled. This smile was different than the others. It was wide and completely unselfconscious, and it transformed Warren's entire face. Jean was momentarily taken aback by how truly handsome he was when he smiled like that, and wondered how many girls had lost their hearts as a result.

"I guess I never would've been into art at all, if not for the... mutation."

Jean didn't miss his hesitation, and she understood it. Once upon a time, she had felt the same way, hesitated ever time she had to say the "M" word. It was only through her time with Xavier that she grew not only comfortable with the term, but proud of being able to claim it for herself and her friends.

Warren pressed on. "I was an athletic kid, more than anything else. Big soccer player. But spending six years pretty much confined to the house, and needing something to entertain me, I guess you could say I've made it my hobby to find out about those 'finer things' my mother was always pressing."

Warren left her side and moved as close as possible to the painting without setting off the alarm. The loss of Warren's hand on the small of her back left her feeling cold. She'd liked how it had felt there, like it fit somehow. Scott never made gestures like that... not anymore, anyway. And she couldn't remember if he ever had. Then she mentally scolded herself for making the comparison.

Jean watched, head cocked slightly to one side, as Warren approached the painting. How on Earth is he able to hide his wings so well, she wondered silently, taking in the slim line of his suit, the way it fit his frame just so.

Warren moved as close as possible to the painting without setting off the alarm. The entire canvas was unevenly covered in oil paint, gigantic and overwhelming and undeniably... impressionist. He held out a hand to her, once he'd reached his position, and smiled at her, where she stood watching him. "Here, let me show you what it is I like about this one."

She came to his side and stood close, to try to get as close to his perspective on the painting as possible. He pointed with the hand he'd gestured to her with, at one small section of the painting he was almost touching his nose to-- a particularly rough section. The surface was heavy there, with layered yellow and light red, over the pastel purple and green base that was to be the pond and one of the lilies. The yellow and red were thick, and the green and purple beneath light and smooth.

"I like this spot. This four square inches of this painting amazes me. I know Impressionism isn't meant to be looked at like this-- it's about stepping back and taking in the whole view, right? This is just one little piece of what he used to create that impression. But the color, right here, how thick this paint is... it says everything about his method, and it's... beautiful, really."

Jean listened attentively as Warren explained to her what appealed most to him about the painting. It wasn't something she'd ever considered before, the process behind the painting, and she suddenly felt very superficial. He was right, it was fascinating when you looked at it from this perspective, close enough to see every detail of the tiny parts that made up the magnificent whole.

When he paused and turned to her again, she noticed that Warren's eyes were the same shade of blue as the paint used in other parts of the painting. Jean had to force herself not to stare.

His smile turned slightly apologetic, once he'd said it, and he looked back to her, meeting her eyes once again. "I like Jackson Pollock, Franz Hals. Artists who let you see their motion, their brushwork, their method. And then you step back, and it's this... this picture. Built from tiny things like a mess of oil paint or a few lines on a canvas... ok now, I'm really going off." He laughed quietly at himself. But he laughed, gently again, and offered a joking, "I don't suppose that's what drew you to the Monet book at the age of two?"

Jean burst out laughing at the thought. "No, not exactly." She sobered somewhat, but kept smiling broadly. "To be honest, I've never examined any painting that closely. You're right, it's beautiful. I appreciate paintings, I have a deep love of them, but if I really want to concentrate on the practical theory behind a work, I study sculptures." She blushed slightly and looked away from him, pretending to examine the Monet again to hide her embarrassment. "I used to think I wanted to be an artist – a sculptor, actually," she admitted. "Then I realized that was... not the most realistic career goal, and I grew to love sculpting as a hobby more than anything. I still love it, though I haven't created anything in a while."

Why she'd felt the need to confess that to a man she barely knew, Jean wasn't sure, but she was confident Warren would be able to understand. Jean was beginning to believe she had discovered a dear and true friend in the Angel.

She turned back to him and met his eyes. "So, Mr. Worthington, shall we continue our tour of the Met?"

In the past six years of his life combined, Warren hadn't smiled as much as he had in the past two hours. He was sure of it. No exaggeration.

It was truly amazing just how much his perception of Jean had change over that time. When she'd first approached him, he'd known her only by the most basic definitions: Jean Grey. X-Man. Telepath. Telekinetic. Scott's girlfriend. Beautiful girl.

He'd known she was probably more than any combination of those things, but he really hadn't known her very well at all. He'd barely seen her during the Apocalypse fallout, she'd been on a different team, and the whole issue with the Spider Stone felt like years ago, since all that had happened.

Her presence had been unexpected, obviously. But the conversation was even more so. The more he got to know her, the more he liked her, and the more he wondered why they'd never talked that much.

And to find her there, of all places. One of the few spots in the city he could force himself to appear in public at, one of the few places that could make him feel at ease. He hadn't been exactly surprised to hear a similar sentiment from Jean. Just that... he wasn't used to talking to anyone at all, really, in a context outside of business. And to hear her say something that... that really, he could've said himself... was nice. Normal conversation. Not analysis.

And now, they sat in the cafe at the Met, him with his usual mocha-with-an-extra-shot cradled in both hands, as he smiled at her over it. Funny, how he'd been planning to go home right after looking at the Gauguin... and now he thought he could spend all day at the Met, really. Or anywhere. Assuming that lovely, disarming, god-what-a-beautiful-laugh Jean Grey was there.

He sat forward in his seat-- he usually did in chairs like this one-- they tended to make it all-too-obvious that there was something not-quite-right about his back-- but he was genuinely feeling... relaxed. Maybe it was the familiarity of the museum. Maybe it was her smiling at the Rodin. Maybe it was talking to her outside of all that... X-Men insanity. Not that he didn't like what they did, he had the utmost respect for Xavier and his aims... but she was just so... real here. So. Very. Real. He was drinking it up like he'd never hear it again, parched for it. And god, he hoped he'd hear it again...

But now was not the time for that. She was here, now, looking at him. Shining red hair falling over her shoulders, black eyelashes heavy over those brilliant eyes... not that it meant anything, her being here. A man and a woman could have a nice time together, could enjoy each others' company, in a purely platonic way. Particularly when one of them was already obviously head over heels for someone else, as Jean was for Scott. Who was obviously the luckiest man on the planet, for a lot of reasons... but mostly for that one.

He cleared his throat, suddenly, realizing that he was staring. Which was ok, since she was taking a sip of her own coffee. But... think fast. "So you like the Rodin room? What kind of things are you interested in sculpting, yourself? I've never really been very artistic but... obviously, I'm amazed by anyone who is."

Amazed by a lot of things about you. But that seems like the safest one to talk about. No picking up on Scott's girlfriend... not that you could...

Jean smiled softly. "Oh, I don't think my interest in sculpting is worthy of anyone's amazement," she admitted. "As I said, it's just a hobby that I love. But I think I like sculpting people best. I find faces fascinating. The last project I finished was a bust of the Professor, and that was, oh, at least a year or more ago." Jean took another sip of her coffee. "I haven't had an awful lot of spare time to devote to art. I got heavily involved in sports at school – soccer, actually, like you – and that took up a lot of my time. The training schedule at the Institute was stepped up, so most of our free time was taken up by homework and studying. And between college and taking on more training responsibilities at home, I don't have time for sculpting now. Besides, I need somewhere I can completely escape in order to really want to sculpt, and I never seem to be able to find that anymore. I just can't seem to find the inspiration."

Warren shook his head, and leaned forward just a little further, leaning with his forearms on the table. An unconscious act to get a little closer to her. He sipped at his mocha as he listened to her, smiling behind his styrofoam cup. Soccer girl, was she? That might explain her legs, which, now that he thought about it, were really very impressive in her uniform.

"I'm sorry," she told him, smiling a little self-consciously. "I tend to ramble sometimes, you'll get used to it."

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. She had absolutely no idea... "Don't worry about that with me. It's nice... listening to someone like you talk. Someone with your kind of intelligence... perception..." His words were failing him now, as he tried to find the right word... a word that explained why she could talk all day and he wouldn't mind... but didn't sound like he was trying to feed her a bad pickup line. Because he wasn't. He was just a little... self-conscious. It had been a long time, after all.

Jean blushed just slightly, and smiled softly as she took another sip of her coffee.

"Anyhow, I'm sure you'll find your inspiration again. I don't know that I've ever had any myself. Except maybe when I'm flying. But as soon as my feet hit the ground..." Whoa there! Why would you tell her that kind of... that sounds corny and pathetic and... god... Warren felt his ears getting warm again, and he took a drink, quickly, thensmiled at her again. "So people are the inspiration are they? I'd like to see what you've done, sometime. I'm a huge fan of portraits."

She grinned and shook her head. "Oh, no. I don't generally show my work to anyone. Really. It's sweet of you to ask, but..." She just shook her head again and laughed. "And yes, you can say it. I'm one of those artists, I know."

Warren laughed at that, quiet but real. And it felt good, just like it had the million other times he'd laughed with her today. Every time, it was like more weight slipped off his shoulders, like more tension was released from inside of him. One less iron band wrapped around his stomach. A little less pressure in his head.

Jean took another long sip of her coffee. "What about you, Warren? Other than art appreciation and board meetings," she said, wrinkling her nose playfully, "what do you like to do with your time?"

God... that was cute. The way she wrinkled up her nose when she'd mentioned the board meetings. Amazing. She was beautiful, in the most elegant way... but expressive enough to appear fantastically cute at the same time.

Oh. Question. Good god, answer the question!

"I... well…" He thought for a moment, about what an average day in the life of Warren Worthington was like, and smiled. "I guess I spend a lot of time reading. Which is why I know anything about art at all, to be honest. Clearly, I've had no training. I like music, some modern things. I like the theatre, thanks to my mother. She still buys season tickets for us at the New Amsterdam..."

Hell. That was what he was supposed to be doing tonight. Les Misérables. He hadn't seen it in years, and he'd been too young to really "get it," he figured. His mother had taken him, before his interest in the theatre was really very developed...

Maybe Jean would...?

Right, no. That definitely sounded like a date. No way. She'd turn him down in a heartbeat. Hell, she probably didn't even like the theater...

"What about you, anyhow? We've been talking about art all day, and I hardly know anything else about you. What do you like?"

Jean laughed at how quickly he turned the question back on her. "For starters, I'll agree with everything you just listed. I like music, everything from classical to rock. I love the theater. Reading is one of my favorite pastimes – the library at the Institute is my favorite room. The Professor's collection is simply amazing." Jean smiled, remembering some of the days she'd spent hidden away in the cavernous room. "I like traveling. I write poetry - and before you ask nobody ever sees my poetry," she warned, waving a threatening finger at him playfully.

He laughed at that, and held up his hands in surrender, making a mental note to definitely try and get her to show him that. He was an art-lover, not an artist. A reader, not a writer. And people who were... just...

Yeah. Wow. This girl was something. Inspired and inspiration all in one.

"And then there are my more... academic hobbies. I'm a terrible science geek," she admitting, grinning guiltily. "I love astronomy, and I'm fascinated by biology and genetics. I'm actually working toward medical school."

Warren raised his eyebrows, impressed, and took another sip of his coffee. Well, that certainly made his hobbies seem... superficial. Med school... yes, he could see it. Most definitely. And what were his goals...?

Why, I run my father's billion dollar corporation that I did absolutely nothing to earn, actually.

Christ. Maybe he should think about college.

Or about asking her to go with him tonight after all... She had said that she liked the theater, after all.

Jean paused for a moment and watched Warren in amusement. "Well, now I think you know more about me than half of my friends at the Institute do," Jean told him with a slightly self-deprecating smile, "and you're not yawning or running away. I think that's a good sign."

He shook his head, laughing at the very idea. "No, Jean, not at all. You're fascinating. Astronomy... I used to want to be an astronaut when I was a kid. I guess we all kinda did though, right?"

Well... if he was going to do it... he really should do it. He didn't want this to end, not so soon, and...

The hell with it.

"But, if you like theater... I have tickets to Les Misérables tonight, actually. I don't know if you're busy or not, but since my parents moved to London, there's always an extra seat in the box. Would you like to...," Breathe, oh god, keep breathing, "Come with me? Might give us a chance to talk more. About... astronomy. Or... anything you want. I'd like to hear more."

Please don't let me sound as desperate as... I feel.

Heart. In. His. Throat.

God. Why had he done that...?

Agonizing seconds crept by, slipped through his fingers slowly. And he watched her watching him, waited with his heart pounding in his throat, to hear what she would say.

He should have made it clear that he didn't mean it as a date. Why hadn't he said that? God, what if she thought he--

"I would love to go with you," Jean replied, beaming at him. "Thank you."

Oh god. God. Now he could breathe. His heart was still in his throat, for some reason... which he was not terribly excited about. But god... it wasn't over. And she was practically glowing, that much was obvious, she hadn't taken it the "wrong" way at all!

Warren honestly felt, for a moment, that his grin would split his face. And all he could think was, "Thank god... thank god..."

Jean paused, then glanced down at her clothes. "Do I have time to go back home to change? I'm not exactly dressed for an evening out."

Glad for the excuse to let his gaze drop below her eyes (not that they weren't lovely, because god they really were), he noticed her outfit. To be honest, she looked fantastic. And it wasn't as if anyone would question them. As much as it irritated him at times to be recognizable, he knew damn well anyone with him could wear pretty much whatever she wanted...

But hell. Her positive answer and beaming face had lifted his spirits so quickly... why not make a day of it? And anyhow, if it would make her feel better to dress up... he could do that. Particularly if it meant he got to see her smile like that, just a little longer.

"Well, we could go all the way back to Bayville. Or we could just go shopping in town. Maybe even have dinner. Just for fun." He spread his fingers wide on the table, as if it would somehow prove to her that he had no intentions, other than the ones he was expressing outright. "You came to the city to relax, have a little break. Why not do it right, have a little adventure? And keep me company while you're at it?"

And he just sat, smiling at her. Hoping to god that he wasn't pushing his luck with this offer. But something about the glint in her green eyes now... he had a feeling she was up for adventure.

Considering his suggestion, Jean watched him. "I think that sounds like fun," Jean confirmed, grinning again. "I'm always up for an adventure, and it's always more fun if you can share it with a friend."

Her smile. So. Bright.

Thank god. It wasn't over yet.

This was going to be fun. Even if it meant standing in one hundred stores waiting for her to pick what to wear-- at least he'd get to see her in every one of them.

And she'd never be his, he knew that much. But he didn't need that, not right then. He was just glad she'd said yes. Glad she wanted to stick around a little longer. And he didn't care why she had this affect, and Lisa Scallen, curator of Impressionist art at the Met, didn't.

"My car's outside," Warren told her, grin still firmly in place, but keeping his voice low. He wanted her to see he was happy, but he didn't want to sound like some teenage girl who wanted to go to the mall... "You point me in the right direction, and we can go anywhere you like. I'll call about dinner on the way out too. How do you feel about Italian? Or... French? No, Indian?"

He was practically laughing by that point. But it didn't matter. Because Christ, he was having fun today. And it wasn't over yet.