Chapter 2

The ride over to the boutique had been fun. Warren's car – a slick silver Audi TT – was a great ride, and he handled it beautifully, zipping in and out of the crazy mid-town traffic. It actually reminded Jean very much of how Scott drove his beloved sports car. They arrived at their destination in no time.

"I promise I won't take too long," Jean assured Warren as they walked through the door of one of her favorite little Manhattan boutiques. Smiling at the sales associate behind the counter, Jean made a bee-line for the back of the shop.

Jean quickly selected two potential dresses before turning back to Warren. "I'm going to try these. I'd like your opinion on them, so don't go very far, ok?" she flashed him a smile before ducking into a change room.

Warren leaned casually forward over the jewelry counter as he waited for Jean to emerge with the first of her selections. Honestly, he couldn't imagine how the night would get much better. And it hadn't even begun. Jean Grey was presently inside, changing into a beautiful dress, which she was going to come out and model for him.

God. Whatever he'd done to deserve this luck... he only hoped he could do it again and again. He hadn't had this much company in years, and certainly none like... hers. She hadn't complained about his driving (which had convinced his mother long ago that he should have a driver at all times, which he, incidentally, hated), and she hadn't complained about his music, which at the moment was the latest from Ocean Colour Scene. And though they had yet to experience a lull in the conversation... he had a feeling that even if they did, it wouldn't be so terrible. In fact, it might even be... good.

He'd have to wait and see, of course. But it certainly seemed possible.

That one was nice-- the platinum chain with the diamond and emerald rose charm. Matching earrings... his mother loved getting jewelry for her birthdays and such. He'd never really seen the appeal, but he wondered, offhand, if Jean liked these kinds of things. Not that he'd buy her one right now – he wasn't stupid, after all, but that emerald was almost exactly the same color as her eyes...

He heard the door to the dressing room opening, and turned to face it, with an unconscious, brilliant smile on his face.

And found that her eyes were, in fact, exactly the same color as the stone he'd been admiring.

Uncanny, that.

"Number one," she announced, pausing before turning around so he could get the full effect. "What do you think?"

Oh. Right. Dress. He couldn't stop smiling at her, ran his eyes over her, happy once again for the excuse to do so. The cream-colored floral dress hugged every curve of her lithe form, accenting the fullnesses and flatnesses of her perfectly. And the back view was no less lovely than the front. Unh... in fact, she was nothing short of amazing in it. She looked almost like a young princess or a...

Right, now, none of that flight of fancy bullshit. The lady asked for your opinion. And...

"You look beautiful, Jean. It's almost like it was made for you," he said, quite honestly. It suited her sweet, open nature, really. Sure, she had a temper on her, but this seemed to bring out her caring side – the side that had probably made her pity him enough to actually spend the entire evening with him. "The sleeves are lovely as well, it looks...," amazing against your god-that-looks-soft ivory skin... Hrm, ok no. That was a bit much. He chuckled at himself and his difficulties with expression, not to mention his surprisingly teenage and extremely hormonal reaction to this amazing girl, and shook his head. "I'm speechless. In the best possible way. How does that answer the question?"

Jean tried to use her hair to hide her flaming face, a trick she'd learned very young to help deal with one of the curses of being so fair-skinned. "Thank you," she said quietly, turning to look in the mirror behind her. Under the guise of studying her reflection, Jean watched Warren watch her. She was flattered by the obvious approval on his face, as his eyes continued to roam from her head to her feet. Taking a deep breath, she met his eyes in the mirror. "There's one more I'd like to try on," she told him, then slipped once again into the dressing room.

Warren leaned a little more heavily on the jewelry counter when she was gone. She looked beautiful no matter what, of course. Her museum-wear was certainly flattering... hell, a burlap sack would be flattering. But good god...

He tried to busy himself with the jewelry again, absentmindedly picking out things his mother would like, wondering if Jean would like any of it, coming back to that emerald pendant that was the exact. Same. Color. As her eyes.

God. God that dress. Her in that dress. He really shouldn't be enjoying another man's girlfriend so much... in that dress. But it was pretty difficult considering how she looked... in that dress. God.

He heard the door creaking once again, and turned to face her, surprised to find that his heartbeat had quickened at the sound...

And felt it nearly explode, when he saw her in the second dress. Slim-fitting black, v-necked to perfection. And if he'd thought the last one had fit her fantastically, he'd been sadly mistaken, because this one looked as if it had been painted on. But not in that sleazy spandex way... oh god no. In the most elegant, sophisticated, holy-god-if-I-ever-met-a-woman-like-that-I'd-take-her-home-to-mother-now way.

And god... was that her... leg? A flash of skin, as she walked, then spun...

Oh yeah. That was definitely her leg.

Warren Worthington, for the first time in years, felt his knees go weak at the mere sight of a woman, as he stared, speechless, at Jean Grey. Heart thudding fast, legs shaky, and hand clutching convulsively at the counter ledge. He opened his mouth, knowing damn well he was expected to give an opinion, though he honestly hadn't heard her ask for it this time...

"I... you... Jean...," God... idiot! Talk with your brain, not your libido! "You look... stunning. I'm uh..." He reached up and smoothed his hair now, leaving his hand on the back of his neck for just a moment, and feeling what he suspected was a really goofy grin spread across his face.

"I don't know what to say. You're just... beautiful."

Not the most brilliant thing he'd ever said. Probably not even a very good thing to say. But... well, "sexy as hell" was probably a little too strong. So that'd just... have to do. At least, until his brain started working again.

Again Jean's cheeks started to burn, but this time she didn't turn away. Her grin faded to a shy smile, and she looked up at him from beneath half-lowered lashes. "Thank you," she told him, trying to convey to him how much she appreciated his kind words. Warren's reaction was beyond anything she could have expected, ever, from anyone, and it made her feel wonderful. Jean then turned her attention to the sales associate who had been hovering nearby. "I'd like this one, please," she told the young woman. "And I'll wear it out."

X X X X X

Since Jean had expressed an interest in Italian food, Warren had suggested Mezza Luna. It seemed only fitting that they should have dinner at the premier Italian restaurant in the city tonight. All part of the adventure, Warren had insisted.

Jean was having the most wonderful day she'd had in a very long time. Warren had been the perfect companion as they wandered the halls of the Museum, taking in a variety of exhibits. He was knowledgeable about the different collections, and they exchanged opinions and critiques of different pieces. It was something she hadn't had the opportunity to do in years.

He was a fascinating man, Warren Worthington III. He was much more than she had expected him to be, based on the brief interaction they'd had before this day, so different from anyone else she'd had the opportunity to spend time with. He was a clever, charming, attentive, they shared a passion for so many things... and he was terribly handsome. In fact, as she sat there in the dimly lit restaurant she examined the angles of his regal face with an artist's eye (not to mention a woman's appreciation of an attractive man).

Jean was beginning to feel just a little bit guilty for how much she was enjoying Warren's company... and his attention. The way he kept capturing her eyes with his own, the way his gaze would surreptitiously scan her when he thought she wouldn't notice, the way he couldn't seem to hear enough from her, it was all so flattering. It made her feel special in a way she hadn't felt in a long time, if ever. She smiled to herself. Of course, what woman wouldn't want Warren's attention?

Watching him now as he poured over the wine list, Jean forced herself to stop feeling guilty. He's a friend, nothing more. That's how he sees you, and that's how you see him. You love Scott, you know that, Warren knows that. You're not doing anything wrong.

Warren was rather lost in musings of his own about his companion for the evening. "They have a really nice Merlot here..." he began, swallowing convulsively, but noticing with a bit of a shock that he was managing to keep his voice level. Despite the way the soft, practically candlelit glow in the restaurant played off her hair, made it look like living fire, accented the height of her cheekbones, the darkness of her eyelashes and oh god... Christ, Worthington. You're getting out of hand. She is in love with someone. This is just a fun night with a friend. A new friend, at that. So try not to look at her like she's on the menu, old pal. "But white is fine as well, I'm partial to Pinot Grigio, and this one," he pointed, furrowing his brow at it, "is fairly decent. I'm always willing to try something new too. Do you prefer red or white, in general? Uh... if you want any at all, that is," he amended, quickly, realizing quite suddenly that she might not even drink wine. He just assumed, because it was what his family did, what he did all the time...

And this was what he got for paying more attention to that V-neckline of hers than to what he was talking about. Great. And god, he wasn't even technically old enough to be buying a bottle of wine. Christ, how much of a spoiled brat did it make him look that he hadn't even thought of that at all, that he just walked into a restaurant and ordered whatever he wanted...?

He looked at her again, and couldn't help but feel a little better. Couldn't help but smile again. Because Jesus... just look at her. "They don't really worry too much about IDing here. Or at home," he explained, his grin becoming conspiratorial, despite his sudden anxiety. He conveniently left out the fact that they didn't care much about IDing Warren Kenneth Worthington III, in particular. Because they knew who he was here, that much he was sure of. But he didn't really want Jean to know that. And if she did already, he certainly didn't want her to hear it from him. "Works out nicely for nights like these, really."

"I can imagine," Jean replied, chuckling lightly. "White would be nice, but I don't really have a favorite. Feel free to order whichever you like."

Relieved at her reaction, even more than he'd expected to be, in fact, Warren happily ordered the Pinot Grigio. And started looking for something with a white sauce, to go with it.

When it occurred to him, as the waiter walked away to get it for them, that Jean was about to be subjected to this society of... well people with too much money and too much time on their hands. Which meant society gossip. And if the VanGuilders were there tonight, which they undoubtedly would be, in their box next to the Worthington one, with or without their horrible, snotty daughter Karlie, who they'd been trying to get him to marry for the past ten years of his life...

Hm. Perhaps he should prepare her for what was ahead. He was fairly certain she was used to this kind of place, this kind of thing. There was a certain composure about her, a certain sophistication that told him she was well within her element – it was never even a question in his mind. But perhaps anyone should be warned, who dared to go out on the town with him. In fact... he should have warned her before.

"I think I've decided what I want. What looks good to you?"

He glanced at the menu once, and then back to her. Difficult not to keep his eyes on her, really. He was trying... very hard. But they kept finding hers, and it felt too good to deny himself. "The primavera with the white sauce is fantastic. It'll be good with the wine," he told her, placing the menu flat in front of him now, and leaning forward just a little, to lower his voice. Not that anyone was near... but it still didn't hurt.

"Listen, I should have warned you before, but there are going to be... certain people there tonight who are going to be very interested in who you are. In fact, I'm sure I'll get a wake-up call from my mother tomorrow morning from London, asking me who the gorgeous redhead was that I was out with," he smiled as he thought of it, really. She'd be ecstatic, but want to know all about Jean immediately. He'd have a hell of a time convincing her that the mystery girl was "just a friend"...

But then, he was having a hard time convincing himself, as well. He only hoped he could be more convincing with his mother.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable – it's just the way things happen for me sometimes. And yes... it's a royal pain." He actually gave a small laugh at that, shaking his head and looking back down to the menu, feeling a small twinge of embarrassment for what this must sound like. But he was pretty sure she'd understand, whether or not she was terribly comfortable with it or not. God, he hoped she'd understand.

And then, it occurred to him that Jean was "out of the closet" as a mutant and X-Man.

And his ears flushed with shame. In truth, one of the major reasons he felt he had to separate himself from the X-Men was his secret identity as Angel. If his parents knew... he was relatively certain they would... well he wouldn't be surprised if they completely shunned him, to be honest. And as far as he'd separated himself from them in the past few years... he didn't think he could deal with that. Not at all. But god, he wished he could have the guts to do what they did...

Of course, he reasoned, being seen with Jean didn't mean that he was a mutant. And even if it did to some people, it sure as hell wasn't going to stop him now.

And as that thought hit him, he was suddenly very surprised. Because he realized that just for one night like this, he would be willing to come under question from the rest of the city. Not that he would... but it was always a possibility.

To hell with that, anyhow. He shook the thoughts from his mind, and smiled at her again, "So I wanted to make sure you're alright with that. And if not... we'll buy new tickets and sit in the third balcony, where no one can see us. But it's up to you, Jean."

Halfway though his diatribe, Jean had seen realization flash ever so briefly across Warren's face, and even without using her telepathy she knew exactly what he was thinking. Looking at him steadily, she weighed her options. The attention wouldn't bother her, she was sure. In the years she had spent away from home she had not forgotten how to handle people like the ones she knew Warren meant. She'd been taught by Elaine Grey, a master people-handler in her own right. So Jean decided to lay all the cards on the table.

"Warren," she began slowly, trying to decide exactly what to say, "quite frankly, I'm not particularly bothered by what people think. If they want to put me under a microscope simply because I'm out with you, so be it. I'm a big girl, I can handle myself." Jean paused, wondering how to phrase what she wanted to say next without insulting him. "But you know what people will learn when they find out who I am. If that's something you aren't prepared to deal with for any reason... I'll understand. Really, I will. We can end the evening now, and I'll still have had a wonderful day," she told him, a sad smile toying with her lips.

Instinctively, he reached across the table to cover her hand with his own, where it had been clutching her menu. He didn't even notice that he'd done it, until he felt how very warm her hand was... His eyes caught hers, and he knew they must seem pleading. But it was hard to care. Because he felt her slipping through his fingers. And god, it made him feel sick.

"No, it's not like that at all. I want you to come... I'd love for you to come, in fact. They're going to talk, why not give them something to talk about, right?"

The idea actually made the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little bit again. It would be rather fun to see what people would say when word got out that Warren Worthington was associating with "one of those mutants." And what would they do, kick him out of the country club? Oh, god, how would he ever go on? His parents might have something to say about it... but he could handle them, on that issue, at least. Jean was accomplished and brilliant and everything they'd want for him – he could make them accept her. After all, she was only a friend...

"In fact, I think it would be good for me. I've spent a long time hiding... not that I'm ready to come out of hiding entirely, but... even this, today, so far, has made me feel more... free than I can possibly express to you. And more is better, as far as I'm concerned. I will deal with whatever comes, I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. That is my only concern."

Jean release her menu with her other hand and placed it on top of Warren's. Squeezing his hand gently, eyes locked with his, she smiled. "More is definitely better," she agreed. "And I would only be uncomfortable if I thought it was upsetting you, to be honest. I'll be fine."

He nearly sighed with relief – would have if he hadn't suddenly gotten a mental image of his father's most disapproving look in his head. Which simultaneously made him hold back the sigh, and smile again.

Then she added with an impish grin, "In fact, I'm looking forward to being able to raise some eyebrows. I think it will be fun."

And his grin reappeared in full force. "I love the way you think, Jean," he shook his head, allowing himself to revel for just a moment in the feeling of her hands, in the glow of that adorable grin, those fantastic eyes. God, he used to know how to have fun. Maybe he really hadn't forgotten altogether. Jean certainly seemed to be reminding him, either way.

But his attention was grabbed then by the waiter, who had silently appeared at his side, and was now looking at him, expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

Warren couldn't help but grin at Jean one last time. It begins. No doubt the man was speculating over the Worthington heir seemingly holding hands with a stunning nameless redhead, at that very moment.

Yes. This could be quite fun, really.

"Ready to order, sir?"

Warren nodded to Jean, in deference, and reluctantly pulled his hand back to his own side of the table. But left it lying there, just the same. Because he could still feel the warm, almost electric tingle of her touch there.

While Warren ordered for them, Jean excused herself to call Scott, just to let him know not to expect her home as early as she'd originally planned. As she returned to the table she was still frowning slightly at his reaction to her telling him she was going to be late, and that she was with Warren. He hadn't said much at all, actually. But he'd been out with his study group, and she knew he didn't like to talk on his cell phone around other people. So she brushed aside her concerns, telling herself she was just being silly.

After the wine had been delivered to their table and poured, Jean settled back in her chair sipping her drink. Warren was right, it was lovely. She looked at him across the table, over the rim of her glass, and studied him for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. She kept realizing, as if for the first time, that he was an incredibly attractive man. It wasn't something she could easily forget, but it seemed secondary to what an intelligent and genuinely nice person he seemed to be.

Jean desperately wanted to know Warren, she wanted to understand him, help him in any way she could. From what she knew of him already, she liked him very much. She was right when she'd decided, just a few hours ago, that she'd found a wonderful friend in the young man sitting across from her. Now, if she could just get him to open up a little more...

He hadn't revealed a whole lot about himself directly, but little things, a casual reference here, a subtle reaction to something there, had piqued her curiosity. So she decided to test the boundaries on their still-forming friendship.

Smiling softly, eyes on his, she spoke in a gentle voice. "Is part of the reason you're reluctant to... reveal yourself publicly because of your family?"

Warren fought hard to hold her gaze, as he tried to decide just how to answer her question. But he succeeded.

His initial reaction was the natural one for him these days-- find a way to change the subject, don't talk about your parents.

It didn't even matter why that was his reaction anymore-- it just was, and had been for years. The fact that they hated something he was, had been born as, and that he could never, never let them know... he never really thought about it anymore. Not that articulately. It was just this constant ache in the back of his mind at all times. Every time they called him. Every time they came for a visit.

God knew, he never called or visited them. But it still hurt.

And he really didn't think about it much anymore... hadn't thought about it lately... not in those words.

But at that moment, he did. Still, he held her gaze. And quickly found that it was almost reassuring, the gentle way her eyes latched onto his, looked right into him. And yes... it was flattering that she cared, really. Because she did care. This was not just polite chit-chat. Jean Grey was not the kind of woman to make polite chit-chat, and certainly not like this.

Yet another thing to adore about her.

So he took another sip of his wine, rolling the light stuff around quickly, letting it cover his tongue, and swallowed. Just for a little time. And answered her, honestly. "Yes. My parents don't know about it. When I first... manifested, I guess the word is, I was living away from home, at a boarding school. The doctor who worked with me was an old family friend, and he recommended I not say anything to them until I was certain of what was happening. At first..." he shook his head at the memory of himself as a fourteen-year-old boy with half-formed wings.

"At first, I didn't want to listen. But after I was... sent home," he paused before that, deciding that the story of how and why he'd been sent home might be something for a later conversation... if it would ever be for any conversation at all. He'd never told anyone what had happened. Not from his point of view. And this story, right here... this would be more than enough confession for his weary soul tonight, he was certain. "I found that he'd been right to advise me not to tell them. When talk about mutation started cropping up with some of the research the family funds... research I've since weeded out, of course... I found that my parents were frightened to the point of... well, you know how people are. People who don't understand. They..." And now, he looked down, into his wine, just for a moment. And then flicked his eyes back to hers, which hadn't wavered once during his entire confession. "They are not and never have been mutant-friendly. They're afraid. And if they knew, it would break them. And possibly..." me.

He offered a rather shy smile now, for him, and shook his head. "They're good people. They just don't understand. And I'm not convinced that they can. And I'm all they have."

Jean fought hard against the tears that threatened. Warren was so completely and utterly alone, and it killed her to hear the hurt in his voice. What she wanted to do was run around the table and just hold him, let him know that he wasn't alone anymore. But she didn't want to cause a scene. Instead, she set down her wine glass, reached across the table with both hands and clasped his free one. She stared into his eyes, knowing that her own must be bright with unshed tears, but not caring.

"I know there's nothing I can say that will help, that will be able to take away the years of hurt," her voice was thick, emotional. "But I'm sorry. I truly am. I wish..." Jean broke off, trying to formulate her thoughts. "You're right, you're all your parents have. And I hope that someday you'll be able to let them meet the real Warren. They should have the opportunity to meet the wonderful man their son has become, mutation or no mutation."

"You are helping, though," he admitted, offering a rather sad, yet grateful smile. "A few hours and I'm already talking. You don't know...You don't know how much it helps. I'd tell you if I could, but you're the one with the words, and I'm definitely no poet. It's just good to be with someone who can understand. Even if your family was understanding, you know what it would be like..." He paused and considered her. "Were they?" he ventured. "You don't have to answer, just because I did, if you don't want. But... how did they take it?"

Jean slowly straightened, pulling her hands back as she went – out of necessity, not out of desire. She wanted to be able to keep comforting him, but she knew she couldn't keep holding his hand.

She picked up her wine glass and took a sip before answering. "Well, to be perfectly honest, they were just so relieved to know what was actually wrong with me that the fact I was a mutant was almost secondary."

She realized she'd have to explain further in order for Warren to understand. It wasn't something she liked to think about, let alone talk about, but she decided it was something she needed to do, for Warren's sake.

"My telepathy manifested when I was very young – eight years old. As with many adolescent mutants, the manifestation was triggered by an emotionally traumatizing experience." Pausing, she dropped Warren's gaze and began fiddling with the salad fork. She heard the formal, clinical language she was using, and frowned to herself. Stop detaching. "When I was eight, my best friend and I were outside playing. She... Annie... was hit by a car. As she was dying, I felt myself being pulled down, pulled into Annie's mind. She was scared, confused, and in her panic, her mind latched on to mine. I felt her die."

Jean paused again, glancing quickly at Warren before focusing on the table cloth once again. "I don't know exactly what happened after that, to be honest, I suppose it was just too much for me to process. All I know is that I slipped into a coma. Some months later, I woke up, but then I went completely catatonic. My parents consulted specialist after specialist, and none of them could explain why I wasn't responding to treatment. They couldn't identify the cause of the catatonia. What they didn't know was that my telepathy, running unchecked, was allowing me to absorb the thoughts and memories of anyone who came within 10 feet of me. So my mind had effectively shut down in order to cope. For close to two years I remained a true medical mystery," she told him with a soft chuckle.

"But then finally, as a last resort, my parents were advised to consult Professor Xavier. After visiting me at the hospital, he knew right away what was wrong and he suppressed my telepathy completely. As soon as he did, I effectively 'came back'. My parents were so happy they didn't care that the Professor had just revealed to them that I was a mutant."

At first, Warren was simply stunned. The story of the accident that had caused her powers to manifest... so young. God, so young to deal with death and mutation and any of it. His own experience, which had only been horrific by association, the fire-starter Marc Bordeaux and the aftermath of his last explosion... none of it had done to him what this had done to Jean.

And here she was, talking about it. Fully in control of it. She could face it, what had happened to her. Certainly, her fidgeting, her difficulty holding his gaze, spoke volumes about the fact that it still wasn't easy to talk about. He didn't think for a moment that it didn't hurt her, remembering it all.

But god. So strong.

Jean took a deep breath and smiled crookedly as she looked over at Warren. "I was living at the Institute full time when my telekinesis manifested, so luckily my parents didn't have to live through that nightmare," she added, a wry smile on her lips. "My abilities make my family a little bit nervous, so I'm very careful not to use my powers around them. My mother gets especially on edge if I try to move her good china telekinetically... so of course, I do that at least once every visit home." She chuckled softly. "But my parents love me for all of who and what I am. Do they like the fact that I'm different? Of course not. What parent would wish that kind of stigma on his or her child? But they do accept me, and I'm grateful for it. I know I'm one of the lucky ones, and I'll never take that for granted."

Taking a deep, calming breath, Jean smiled, a little self-consciously. "I'm sorry, that was a very long, convoluted answer to a simple question. Aren't you sorry you asked, now?"

He returned her smile, even gave a little laugh, picking up his forgotten wine-glass again. He'd been so interested in her every word, he'd let it sit untouched as she spoke. He wanted to touch her again, sensing from her past actions, the way she'd known just how to touch him to make him feel her reassurances, that she was receptive to such forms of communication. Maybe even craved it, like he used to.

Like he did.

But now was not a good time. Not after they'd both given up so much. Scraped raw. He was pretty certain he'd already be harboring a massive, completely futile crush on her once the night was over, if he wasn't already. No need to add insult to injury.

So he took a sip of his wine, shook his head, still smiling gently, and settled for talking instead. "No, actually, I'm not sorry in the least. I can't even imagine... what it was like for you, so young. It explains how you ended up being so strong today, though. And your family sounds wonderful-- which also explains a lot about you. I... hope talking about it doesn't make you too uncomfortable. But I'm glad you felt like you could... tell me."

And he looked back into his wine glass again, which was starting to run a little low actually. Which gave him an excuse to pour more for them.

Which he figured they both might need, at this point in the evening.

The rest of dinner was much less eventful. Jean made an effort to keep the conversation light and pleasant after their darker revelations, as they both needed to focus on happier things. The wine kept flowing, mainly into her glass since Warren needed to be able to drive, and by the time they were finished dessert, they were both feeling... really good.

In fact, Warren felt much better than he had in a long time, walking out of that restaurant with Jean on his arm. He hadn't avoided a single eye, like he usually did. He had even smiled slightly.

And when she leaned on him outside, hanging on his arm like she belonged there (or maybe it was just that he was thinking she belonged there, which was really more likely, all things considered), he was even happier. Warren turned his head to look at her in the strange glow of the outdoor lighting, as they waited for the car to be brought round, face turned upward, flushed just so, probably from the wine. And his heart felt like it would explode inside of him.

Just like they always said, in the books.

And he knew it was stupid to entertain such thoughts. But, not being sure when he would have another chance to feel such a thing, he thought he could let it go. Just for tonight. Just for the experience of it.

Jean looked over at Warren and smiled warmly, giving his arm a squeeze. "Thank you again. Dinner was fantastic," she said, shivering a little as the breeze kicked up slightly. New York was in the middle of an Indian Summer, so even though it was the very beginning of October, the day had been very warm. The evening, however, was cooling off quite quickly. "I can't remember the last time I had such a wonderful evening."

He furrowed his brow, feeling her shiver against him. If he were anyone else... he could fix that. But he wasn't. "I'd give you my jacket, Jean, if I could. But I'm afraid we'd definitely make the society pages in the Daily Bugle if I took this off." He smiled gently, despite his very strong wish to accommodate her, wings twitching slightly in irritation, strapped tight to his back under the offending coat. She'd understand. As long as she knew he wanted to, after all. "I didn't think the air would turn so cool tonight. Here," he took his arm out of hers, and put it around her, his left hand on her left arm. Cool skin, slightly raised bumps, with the cold. She seemed so small, standing so close to him, despite the fact that she was quite tall. Despite her shivers, he could feel the warmth of her against his jacket. Could feel her shake slightly, as the faint breeze kicked up. As if in a dream, not really thinking of what he was doing, he ran his hand down her arm, then back up, trying to warm her.

And god, she felt good, against him like this.

But there was the car. Reluctant, but unwilling to look her in the eye just then, for more reasons than he was comfortable thinking of just then, he pulled away, and opened the door for her before the valet could get to it. And then, finally, he met her eyes again. "Shall we?"

X X X X X

The New Amsterdam was a beautiful theater, one of Jean's favorites on Broadway. That they were seeing Les Misérables made her almost giddy – she had always loved that show, and she'd seen it many times. In fact, the soundtrack held a prized spot in her CD collection and she knew the score by heart.

Strolling through the lobby, Jean found herself once again holding Warren's arm. It felt right to her. Her mind kept drifting back to outside the restaurant, where she had stood briefly with Warren arm around her, pressed close against his side. His hand running up and down her arm, so gently, in an attempt to warm her... it had been so very nice.

They climbed the staircase to the boxes, and were given their programs and shown to their seats by their usherette, a young woman who couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from Warren. The usherette blushed when he smiled his thanks to her, and Jean grinned to herself. He was quite the charmer, whether he realized it or not.

Jean took her seat and surveyed the theater, filling slowly with the audience. The society types were easy to spot, and she couldn't help but smile at the curious looks being shot toward their box. Oh, if they only knew... Jean leaned closer to Warren and spoke in a low voice, her eyes gleaming mischievously. "So are any of those certain people you were worried about here tonight?"

Warren grinned as Jean leaned in closer to him. He nodded his head to the right, and spoke low, almost into her ear. "That family right there, wants me to date their older girl – the bleach blonde one. They're staring hard enough to melt us because they are sure you're ruining her chances at grabbing me up. And she doesn't even like me. She likes coke-heads who drive really large SUVs... preferably H2s. And I know all this because my mother talks to," and with that, he gestured slightly with his left hand, past her, to where the Bexleys were sitting in their box, pretending not to watch him, "that older woman over there all the time. She's the one who'll be calling my poor mother as soon as she gets out of my line of vision long enough to pick up her phone. I'd be willing to bet that she doesn't even wait till she gets home."

He raised his eyebrows now, and felt his grin become even wider. "I think I'll introduce you around. A little fun at intermission might help us shake off the French melodrama induced depression, really."

At first, it had been a bit too distracting for Warren, having her sitting so close, with her arm against him like that and her knee right there so that if he moved his just a very little bit they'd be touching... And he could still smell her hair. So he really couldn't be blamed.

But before too long, the music had taken him away. He was well aware that he loved music and art because it provided him with experiences he simply didn't have for himself, any longer. And this emotional roller-coaster ride of a show one of those he remembered loving best. And he'd remembered right.

He'd always identified with Javert, for some reason. While the romance was all well and good, it was a bit much to think about at the moment, while he could feel, smell, practically taste Jean so near, and had that small, fluttering crush growing larger and larger in his stomach all the while. So he stuck to the main plot, as best he could, and by the time his favorite, Stars, was up, he was so far into it, he was lucky he wasn't an emotional wreck.

Not that he would've cried, especially with Jean there. Just that music had that effect. It wasn't a particularly sad song, it was just such an emotionally strong number that he always had a little trouble with it. And really, what kind of man concerned with right and wrong, as Warren very much was, wouldn't feel that?

After the chorus belted out the final strains of Do You Hear the People Sing?, the audience applauded loudly, and the house lights came up. It was only then that Jean realized how she had been sitting, how she had been pressed up against Warren, and she flushed slightly. She forced aside her embarrassment and met his eyes with what she knew must be a dreamy look on her face. Les Misérables always had that effect on her.

"Well," Jean said brightly, trying to push aside the emotions brought on by the show, "this is a spectacular show so far. I've never see a better Jean Val Jean." She brushed at her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles as a distraction from Warren's piercing blue eyes. She was having a difficult time meeting his gaze all of a sudden. Mentally shaking herself, she looked up at him again and grinned. "Would you like to go stir things up a bit?"

Despite the fact that he had been suddenly very aware of how close he was to Jean again once the lights were up, he managed to lead her to the VIP lounge for a drink. They stepped into the crowded room, and Warren raised an eyebrow at her playfully – suddenly, blessedly, feeling some more of the heaviness slide off of him, as it had when she'd first grinned and suggested they come "stir things up." It didn't escape him that every head in the room, minus two or three, turned to look at them. Some tried to be discreet. Some just didn't care. But everyone noticed.

Warren never made appearances here, when he came to the theater. Usually just sat in his box. And it was taking quite the effort not to laugh aloud at the reaction he was getting.

The Bexleys were making a beeline for them. Mrs. was already halfway across the room, and Mr. wasn't far behind. And she had a glass of champagne in her hand, not surprisingly. "That's Mrs. Alva Bexley," Warren said, under his breath, still trying not to laugh at her purposeful stride toward them. "I'd bet anything she's already half gone-- one drink and she's gone, her liver has been done in for about twenty years, so my mother says." And then, he looked up at the oncoming rush of old-lady-fussiness. And smiled. But not really at Mrs. Bexley. More at the fact that Jean was on his arm.

When she reached them, she immediately started in on him. "Warren Worthington, how lovely to see you out with a young lady at last! We were beginning to think that you'd never agree to it, and I can't tell you how happy I am to see you with this beautiful girl!"

Warren tried to keep his eyebrows and smile in check, but he was fighting against nature. Hard. "Mrs. Bexley, this is Jean Grey, a friend of mine." He took a slight step away from her, knowing that she'd be expected to link hands with the older woman, and no doubt her husband, the minute he kicked it into a high enough gear to make it across the room.

Releasing Warren's arm, Jean took the older woman's hand and smiled winningly. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bexley. How are you enjoying the show?" The older woman chattered away, and Jean pretended to listen, nodding and smiling when appropriate.

But there was someone in the room projecting very loud, decidedly unfriendly thoughts, and as much as Jean strengthened her shields, she couldn't completely tune it out. Surreptitiously glancing around the room so as not to appear rude to the still-rambling Mrs. Bexley, Jean's gaze finally landed on a blond woman who was glaring in their direction. Jean recognized her as the girl Warren had pointed out in the box next to theirs, the one whose parents had been trying to play matchmaker. Warren had said the young woman didn't like him. Jean wasn't so sure about that, if the thoughts she was hearing were, as she suspected, coming from the blond... who was, at that moment, approaching them.

Warren noticed that Karlie VanGuilder was no longer just staring, but was actually coming in their direction, and he suddenly stopped smiling. Great. Of all the times to decide she needs to talk to me.

But then he looked over at Jean again, who had obviously noticed the angry bleach blonde invasion (a perfect, scrawny nightmare in her ridiculously bright red, too tight dress, and her metric ton of makeup and fake-tan), and still looked completely at ease. And Warren smiled again, and slid an arm around her waist, resting his hand at her hip, and standing just a bit behind her, so that his leg was brushing against hers, front to back. Subtle, no huge display of affection... but enough.

He told himself it was just for appearances sake. But god... she felt good. Relax, Worthington. It's just been awhile... a long... LONG while...

Mrs. Bexley was still talking when Karlie arrived and put herself right in front of him. Warren fought the grin that was twitching at his lips, and pretended to be listening very intently to what the older woman was saying. He couldn't resist giving Jean a little squeeze, to communicate his amusement with the situation to her, as she kept nodding and smiling brilliantly.

"I thought you were going to call last week," Karlie practically barked, the moment Mrs. Bexley had to stop chattering at Jean and take a breath.

Warren squeezed Jean again and wrestled his smile down with much pain. "I wasn't aware that you needed me for something... but it's nice to see you too, Karlie. This is my friend, Jean Grey. Jean Grey, Karlie VanGuilder."

Jean tried very hard not to smirk. Having realized what Warren hoped to accomplish by his subtle display of affection, and more than happy to play along, she leaned back against him just enough to make sure that Karlie noticed. And judging by the barely concealed scathing glare directed at Jean, Karlie had definitely noticed. I bet your grandest ambition in life is to become a trophy wife for some poor schmuck, Jean said silently, her sweetest smile plastered across her face. Aloud, she said, "Hello, Karlie. It's so nice to meet you." Jean was struck by one very loud, unconsciously projected word: bitch.

Biting back a laugh at that and, without even realizing what she was doing, Jean sent a very amused message directly to Warren. -- I thought you said she didn't like you? She's ready to claw my eyes out with her fake nails.--

As soon as the thought had been sent to Warren, Jean felt panic streak through her. Oh no, what had she done? This wasn't Scott she was with, not even one of the other X-Men, someone who was used to the occasional telepathic conversation. This was a man who seemed to guard his privacy, someone who wouldn't welcome the idea of someone poking around in his head. Which was something she would never do, of course, was something she didn't need to do in order to speak with someone telepathically. But Warren didn't know that.

At first, it was a bit of a shock for Warren. A sound in his mind-- no, not even a sound. Almost like a touch, or an impression of her left on him somehow, on his mind. If it had been anyone else, he no doubt would have been... uncomfortable with it.

But it made him smile, for some reason, not to mention that he felt instinctively... comfortable with it. It wasn't just words, there was a kind of amusement that was behind them-- almost like a tone of voice, but somehow even more unmistakably expressive.

He wasn't sure if she'd be able to hear what he was thinking, if she could do that or not, without... digging deeply into his mind. So he decided to test it, holding back a laugh at the mental image of the horrific blonde girl trying to take on Jean with those... god those were rather frightening nails. --It's not me, it's my name.-- He attempted to put at the front of his mind, where he thought it might be accessible. If it was, great. If not, she'd never know the difference. And they could laugh about it later.

Finally, faintly, Jean heard Warren's reply. There was no sense of irritation in his tone, and she let herself relax. He's not mad, she thought to herself, relieved more than she could say. Thank god.

Warren kept smiling his best "please the shareholders" smile at Karlie, who was eyeing Jean up like a jungle predator, only without the innate grace. The blonde girl didn't even bother to acknowledge what Jean had said to her-- instead, she simply said, "Haven't seen you around before. We didn't know that Warren had friends outside...," she put her hand on her hip and her nose in the air, "you know. Us."

Warren shook his head, not even wanting to know who this nebulous "us" was, and slid his hand up Jean's side, just to where she... dipped. God, that was brilliant, the smooth, wonderful curve of her, just at her waist. He fought to keep his touch light, and simply could not stop smiling. "What you don't know about me, Karlie, I could write volumes on," he said, under his breath, with a slight laugh.

Jean heard the hushed comment and chuckled, then reached across her middle and rested her hand on top of the one Warren had on her waist. Karlie didn't miss the gesture, but apparently hadn't heard Warren's remark.

Warren's breath caught in his throat as he felt Jean's hand on his. Warm. And so. Close.

He forced himself back into a state of normality, however, sternly informing his blood that it really ought to stop rushing, and his lungs that they should go about their business. Nothing to see here, after all. Just a little show.

"Oh, Warren and I met quite a while back," Jean said sweetly, looking up and beaming at Warren before turning back to the blond girl. "We even spent some time together in London, actually." Well, they had. Karlie didn't have to know that it was only one night, there had been several other people there with them, and that she and Warren had barely spoken to each other the entire time. "But it's funny," Jean said thoughtfully, cocking her head to the side, the picture of innocence, "Warren often speaks of his friends, and I don't believe he's ever mentioned you."

Karlie came as close to sputtering in anger as any high society girl did. Instead she glared daggers at Jean and Warren before spinning around on her heel and stalking back across the room.

Jean couldn't help herself. It was too perfect to let go.

Just a tiny little nudge with her telekinesis, and Karlie was stumbling inelegantly - not quite enough to fall, but enough to call a good deal of attention to herself. "Oh dear, she really should be more careful," Jean said, brows drawn together in concern. She was very proud of herself for not smiling.

Warren almost lost it. He settled instead for giving her a slight squeeze, and nodding solemnly. Oh. That was far too convenient to be an accident. "Agreed. Those shoes look like Prada, and if she's going to be clumsy she really shouldn't be allowed to wear them."

As if he gave a fuck about Prada.

But he knew Karlie did.

"Well, Mrs. Bexley, if you'll excuse us we should probably get a drink before the show starts again. Nice to see you again, and tell your husband hello for me," Warren nodded in the direction that the older man had paused in his progress toward them, having been caught up by some investor of his. With that, he gently started walking toward the bar... loosening his hold on Jean a little, without removing his hand from her waist.

After all, had to keep up appearances.

"Was it me, or was that brilliant timing on her little stumble?" he whispered, leaning close to her, pretending not to be smelling her hair at all, as they came nearer to the bar.

Barely suppressing her laughter, and completely unable to hide her impish grin, Jean replied, "I don't know what you mean." Then she did lose control, and started giggling. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist. She really is horrible, and so easy to mess with."

Jean quickly sobered, though, and realized they needed to talk, just to make sure everything was ok between them. So before they reached the bar, she steered them off to the side, away from the crowd. Without stepping away from him, she turned so she could meet his questioning gaze. "Look, Warren, I'm sorry if I freaked you out by speaking to you telepathically," she told him, her voice hushed. "I forgot myself. I talk to Scott that way all the time, and I just... forgot." You mean you forgot that the man whose arm felt so good around your waist wasn't your boyfriend, she scolded herself. "I forgot that you wouldn't be used to it, that you might not even like the idea that I can do that. I don't have to go into your mind to speak to you that way, or to hear your reply. If you project it like you did, and I'm listening for it, I can pick it up without hearing anything else. I can't explain how I do it, exactly, just that I can."

She knew she was rambling again, and she knew she probably looked rather earnest in her desire for him to not be upset, but she really didn't want him to be uncomfortable with the idea of what she could do. Jean broke eye contact for a moment, staring intently at Warren's tie. "I know telepaths make a lot of people uncomfortable. It's a scary concept, the idea of someone being able to go into your mind without your knowledge or permission." Lifting her gaze again she met his eyes, hoping he would be able to see her sincerity. "I would never do that - just go into anyone's mind. The very idea of it... I would never violate anyone like that. And I won't speak to you telepathically if you have any problem with it. I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Warren resisted an almost overwhelming urge to push back a stray strand of red hair that was falling just a little too close to her eye. And swallowed hard, trying to relax himself enough to answer her properly. Because no, he wasn't uncomfortable. Not in the least.

In fact, he liked what she'd said so much... she'd forgotten to keep a distance from him. She wanted to maintain that kind of contact with him... it was so personal and private and their own little in joke that no one else would ever know about...

"No, I'm not uncomfortable with it at all," he forced out, commanding himself to maintain his control, to not sound quite as lonely as he felt, when he thought of what it would be like for the rest of the nights, without this kind of easy interaction he'd been craving for so long... the kind he could never find anywhere else because already he... "I trust you. I trust Xavier, first of all, and you're his student. I know he's a good man, an ethical man, and even if I didn't know you to be at least as ethical, which I do after today, I would trust you with your powers. And second... I'm honestly a bit... flattered, that you'd... forget that we don't know each other that well. Maybe it's backwards but... well, I'm having a good time, I guess. I forgot too. Still haven't remembered."

Jean blushed a bit, pleased that he seemed to be as at ease with her as she was with him. It was just so strange for her to feel so instantly comfortable with someone who, for all extents and purposes, she'd only just met. She was thrilled to know it wasn't one-sided.

"I admit," Warren smiled, hand practically twitching to brush that hair back, put it in its place, maybe let his fingers touch her face just a little..., "it was a bit of a shock. But... useful trick, that. You handled her beautifully, Jean. I should bring you to all public functions, maybe I wouldn't dread them quite so much."

"Anytime you want the company, Warren, I'd be more than happy to go with you," Jean told him, smiling warmly. "I've had far too much fun with you tonight. So if you want someone to help you deal with the Karlies and Mrs. Bexleys of the world, I'll be there. I think we make a pretty good team."

She could not possibly have known what those words meant to him. It was so easy for her, being friendly. Touching him like this, it probably meant nothing to her. But to Warren, who had to be careful not to get too physically close to anyone, who had to stay away from crowds for fear of someone bumping into his back, who lived with such physical and emotional distance from everyone he knew, every day...

He only hoped she meant it.

Warren's hand twitched again, and he couldn't resist any longer. He reached up and pushed the stray hair back, allowing his thumb to just barely brush the smooth, pale skin of her cheek as he did so. Maybe it lingered just a little too long. Maybe he was still standing just a little too close for such a gesture to be... okay. Maybe Jean was Scott's girl and Scott was supposed to be his friend, and she had no interest in being this close to him whatsoever aside from the fun she was having putting on this show for the horrid society types...

But he didn't care. Because it felt good anyway. "You'll be hearing from me before long then," he told her, sincerely, just... looking at her. One of those looks that he wanted to break, because it made him feel like he couldn't breathe, the way her eyes were holding his. But that he couldn't break at all. For the exact same reason.

God, it almost hurt, really.

After what felt like an eternity, despite the fact that he knew it had only been a second or two, he tore his eyes from her emerald ones (just like the stones back at the store... how can they be the exact same color?), and started to move toward the bar again, feeling quite dizzy. Drunk on the smell of her hair and that slight brush against her face and her eyes...

Not for you, Worthington.

So you'd better enjoy the company while you have it.

"Better get a drink before the second act," he forced out, in his best 'everything is perfectly normal' voice. "We can take them back with us, I suppose we've had enough fun with this crowd."

The second act of the show had been fantastic. Jean had cried openly, not at all worried that Warren would notice. He wouldn't tease her for it, he wouldn't think any less of her. So she allowed herself to be completely swept away by the actors and the story and the music, and wiped the tears from her cheeks as the audience gave the cast a standing ovation.

When Jean suggested to Warren that he simply drop her at the train station so she could catch the 11:50 train back to Bayville, he'd refused, insisting on driving her home. They were presently just leaving Manhattan, and Jean was facing forward, but watching Warren out of the corner of her eye, a small, contented smile on her lips. The glow from the dashboard lights cast strange shadows across his chiseled features, and she found herself transfixed by him. They rode in silence for several long minutes, completely at ease with each other, the quiet filled only by the purr of the engine and the soft music coming from the stereo.

"I know I've said it before, but thank you," Jean said, turning to look at him. "This day was so unexpected, nothing like I'd planned when I decided to escape real life for a day at the Museum. It turned out to be so much better than I ever could have hoped. I'm so glad we ran into each other."

Feeling a huge smile creeping up on him, Warren took his eyes off the road long enough to get a good look at her. Beautiful in the low light. Looking at him.

God. Almost over now. But she was happy. She'd had a good time. They'd talked about art. About what they loved. About beautiful things. They'd talked about themselves. Things that neither of them had said to anyone else. They'd had a laugh, or ten, at the expense of the people who made his life so bloody irritating sometimes. And he'd felt her. Her hand on his, her "voice" in his head.

All in all, he knew he was damn lucky to have had it. And even if she changed her mind tomorrow, decided that his company wasn't quite as desirable as it had seemed tonight, for some odd reason... it didn't matter.

And yes, he was aware that he was being dramatic about this. It was no big deal to her, to spend time with him. But it was a big deal to him. And between his perpetual, customary loneliness, and the emotional rawness he felt in the aftermath of the show... he didn't really give a damn. Not at all.

"You're very welcome, and you're welcome to it any time. But you don't need to thank me. I should thank you. Think of what my day would've been like without you...," he laughed softly, eyes securely, safely, back on the road. And shook his head a little at the unreality of this moment. He felt like he should tell her... just what she'd done, spending the day with him like this. But he didn't think he could, without sounding... like he was nursing the world's largest, most pathetically hopeless crush ever. Which, of course, he was. In fact, he couldn't even bring himself to look back over at her, because every time he had, he'd felt this strange hardness in his throat. And he couldn't swallow it.

Jean smiled a little sadly at that. She thought he'd been joking about being a 'paranoid recluse', but apparently not. The 'paranoid' part had yet to be confirmed, but Jean now knew that he really didn't go out much, didn't spend much time with friends. It was because of his fear of being discovered as a mutant, Jean knew, which made her heart ache for him. With a physical mutation such as Warren's, there was always the chance that someone would feel it, glimpse it. It must be very nerve-wracking for him.

Warren didn't want to end the night on such a... serious note. After all, she wasn't some lonely recluse like him. She'd wanted to go out and have fun, and she had. So he made sure his smile was still in place, and continued, "And I really mean what I said, we should do this more often. Dealing with crowds is so much more fun in your company. Not to mention looking at sculpture. And I'm not giving up until I see some of yours, by the way." He laughed at that, genuinely.

Jean laughed with him, and shook her head again. Warren had no idea how insecure she was about showing her art to anyone. If she was really satisfied with a sculpture, then she would show it to the subject, as she had Professor Xavier. Otherwise, it was hidden away, never to be seen by anyone but her. Then Jean remembered that her sculptures had been destroyed along with the Institute after the Sentinel incident. She had nothing to show him, even if she'd wanted to. Maybe she'd have to find the time to start sculpting again...

"Maybe I'll send you a text soon. I can let you know what my mother had to say, when I talk to her in roughly...," he looked at the clock and shook his head, "six hours, if my calculations are correct."

"God, I'm sorry," Jean laughed. "I can't even imagine... actually, yes I can. If our situations were reversed, my mother would do the exact same thing." She shook her head, imagining the look on Elaine Grey's face is she knew Jean had spent the evening out with Warren Worthington III. That was information probably better left unshared with Mommy Dearest, Jean decided. "I've always got my phone with me, and it's always on," she admitted, "so text me anytime. It's a great way to keep in touch.

"And I meant it, Warren. Anytime you want the company, just let me know. We'll tag-team the social elite, and they'll never know what hit them," Jean told him with a grin. "But don't let that be the only time we see each other. Stop by the Institute anytime. I've told you before, you're always welcome. It would give you the chance to get to know some of the others. They're good people, and I think you'd rather enjoy some of them. I know they manage to keep me fairly entertained, when they're not trying to drive me crazy."

Warren smiled at her, shooting another glance in her direction. Feeling that lump in his throat. And liking it. "I'm sure I'd enjoy them, Jean. And I hope you understand... at least some of my reasons for being reluctant. I do appreciate all that the X-Men do, for me and for the rest of the world. You know that. But... yeah with a little time... maybe."

He knew it wasn't much, but it was all he had. As much as he'd love to be a part of something like that... there were too many factors that needed considering. And he wasn't going to jump into anything just because the most beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, clever girl he'd ever had the pleasure to meet suggested that he might like it.

Even if he knew she was right.

"Maybe I can come by this week, be Warren instead of Angel. I'll talk to Scott--" And he stopped there, blinking. Scott. Scott, whose girlfriend he now had an irrepressible crush on. Scott, who had been the first to contact him, the only one who had kept that contact...

Of course, he hadn't done anything wrong. He'd been a perfect gentleman... aside from a little touching... but that was a show, right? Nothing to feel guilty about.

He stole another glance at Jean then, pale and perfect in the moonlight, eyes practically glowing.

No. Nothing at all.

"Maybe he wouldn't mind a visit either," he finished, eyes returning to the task at hand, hoping desperately that his slight pause had gone unnoticed. Or that it could at least be chalked up to some sort of obstacle on the road, or maybe even a hiccup, or... anything but that.

Jean paused, frowning slightly, fiddling with the material of her skirt. "I'm sure Scott would welcome your visit. He... well, he's been rather preoccupied with things lately – school, the team, that kind of thing." She looked out the window again, gathering her thoughts, trying not to let Warren see how much she was bothered by the fact that she and Scott didn't feel like they could make time for each other anymore. "Anyway, I think Scott would be very happy if you visited. He'd have a fresh audience to impress with him plans for the team." Jean grinned at him again. "And of course, I'd love it if you visited, and I'll harass you until you do, so you really don't have a choice."

The conversation kept up it's pace all the way home, but Warren found he was working harder and harder to keep his smile in place as they came nearer to the Institute. But finally, it had to happen, and Warren shot her one last smile, then got out, and pulled her door open, holding out a hand to help her out of the car.

Jean accepted his hand and forced herself to keep smiling.

"Here's your stop, I'm afraid. Thanks again, Jean. I...," he swallowed hard, watching her face, white and lovely and glowing in the moonlight. "I had a wonderful time, thanks to your company. We'll talk soon."

He was saying that last part more to himself than to her, of course. But as he helped her from the car, he couldn't help but feel that it had to be true.

"Of course we will." Jean gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "If I don't hear from you, I'll just have to track you down," she threatened playfully. "I wasn't kidding about harassing you, you know."

Warren squeezed her hands back, so small, so soft in his own, and smiled, genuinely. "I never thought I'd look forward to harassment, but suddenly I very much am." And he laughed, just a little, at that.

His smile and gentle laugh did Jean in. She just couldn't help herself. She pulled her hand out of his, stood on her toes and reached her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

After the initial shock, Warren closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her waist, taking a deep breath, wondering if she could feel his heart pounding away in his chest, a thousand miles a minute and only getting faster. He turned his face slightly inward, partially burying it in her mass of red hair, and god it smelled like vanilla and lemon and it felt so soft... and she felt so right.

Warren couldn't even blame it on the fact that it had been a long time since he'd held a woman like this. He kept trying to form the thought in his mind, to calm himself, snap himself back into reality. But he couldn't. Because he knew better. He'd learned to live without affection, no matter how he craved it. But Jean... Jean was something different entirely.

So he just let it go, and smiled into her hair, eyes closed, and tightened his arms around her for what he could only hope would feel like a friendly squeeze.

He felt like he should kiss her, to be honest.

But he knew better than to think that it felt like that for her too.

So he pulled away, after a few moments, and took her hand again. "Good night, Jean," he smiled down at her, already stepping away. "And thank you again."

Jean had a hard time meeting Warren's eyes, but did, hoping that her flaming cheeks were camouflaged by the poor lighting. She smiled back at him, shyly. "Good night," she told him, trying to make her voice sound normal. Reluctantly she released his hand and headed for the main doors of the Institute. Jean tried to resist the urge to turn around, but it was too much. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Warren climb into his car. She smiled and waved, even though she wasn't sure whether or not he'd see her. Reaching the door, she turned around once again to see him pull away.

"See you soon, Warren," she said quietly, to herself.