Henry paced the corridor, periodically checking his watch. His fur was brushed, his bow tie was on straight, and he had a full dental kit in his pocket for food emergencies. All he needed now was a companion and a ride—but there was a hitch. Brand started screening his calls to her as soon as she forced him out the day before, so while he could arrange every detail of their outing together to perfection, he was unable to check with her about any of it, or even what time they should start their day together. He was up by seven and ready by eight, but, being unsure of her sleep schedule, he had no idea when would be appropriate to meet up. Nine was too early and ten was too late, so he settled for nine-thirty on the dot. It was currently nine-twenty seven.

Trying to take his mind off the time, he considered how best to open the conversation. "Abigail," he muttered to himself, "do you recall the request I made of you yesterday? Well, after you forced me out your door, I made some… no…." He tried again. "Hey, Abby. Let's go out on the town." That didn't feel like something he would say. He furrowed his brow, trying to think of a better alternative.

"Okay."

Henry jumped. Brand leaned against her doorway, hands in her pockets. "How long have you been watching?" he asked, dreading the answer.

She shrugged. "Not long. I heard you talking to yourself a while back, though." She smirked. "I was waiting to see if you had the guts to knock on my door."

He checked the time on his phone. Nine forty-five. Strange. "I wasn't sure what time would be appropriate to rouse you." He looked her up and down. "Is that what you're going out in?"

She was defiant. "I'm wearing it, aren't I?"

He frowned. "That won't do at all." Pushing his way past her, he headed to the closet. "Let's find something better."

"Hey!" Her protests came too late—he was pawing through her clothes before she could say a word. "This is an invasion of privacy. What if I had something personal hidden in there?"

Henry inspected a turtleneck before putting it away. "Oh, please. You're far too intelligent to hide anything of import in your closet or your underwear drawer."

Brand eyed the bureau. "Is that what you're planning to inspect next?"

"I don't know," he said over his shoulder, "can I trust you to pick out something that doesn't look like you've just returned from the gym?" He reached the last of the hangers of clothes. "Please tell me you own something more fashion-forward than a single threadbare cocktail dress."

She crossed her arms. "I don't think I should be taking advice from a guy who thinks a bowtie is the height of style. Besides, where are we going that this matters so much?"

"I won't stoop to your level by insinuating that your choice of clothing is without taste—which it is—but I will say that as a representative of the best S.W.O.R.D. has to offer, when you see the sights of a city as culturally significant as New York it is highly advised that you put your best face forward. And that includes what you're wearing." He leaned halfway out of the closet to grin down at her. "Let me guess: you've never been to New York outside of S.W.O.R.D. business."

He saw her hide a smile behind a fake brush of the hair. "Nailed it."

He thrust three hangers at her. "These slacks with that shirt and this jacket."

She took the clothes from him. "Is this what I'm wearing for our day out, or is this the preliminary fashion show?"

"You'll keep those on until we can get you to a clothing store."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You're gonna spend money on me?"

Henry steered her into the bathroom. "Yes, I am. With your permission, I would like to consider this the first of a long line of wildly successful dates that the two of us will be embarking upon." He moved to close the door. "Now if you would be so kind as to dress yourself quickly? We'll need at least two hours to shop for what you're actually going to wear and the show starts at one."

She clutched the clothing to her chest, startled by the extent of his plans. "Show?" she asked, her voice weak.

"Broadway. I take it you've never been." Fear replaced the amusement on her face. "You'll be fine, I promise. Now go change!" He shut the door.

Descending into the atmosphere, Brand took him through the basics of maneuvering a standard S.W.O.R.D. ship. "Ease back the speed a bit," she said, leaning into his side of the cockpit to turn down the projection of a dial.

"I can do it myself," he protested, and used the opportunity to touch her hair tie instead. "Take the ponytail out."

"I know you're eager to get to this store or whatever, but I don't want us to reach terminal velocity too fast. Sucks up all the power, to be cooling off the outer shell." She reached over him to tap a screen. "And the ponytail stays. I let you boss me around enough as it is."

He put his face close to hers. "Just this one thing. I promise I'll let you direct me in how best to lavish affection on you, which gifts you would most enjoy receiving…." She turned her head away to hide her expression. "Come now, you can't tell me you're not going enjoy this."

"You're still on my shit list," she said, but she was smiling. "It's going to take a lot to make me change my mind."

"Be careful what you wish for, I can be embarrassingly romantic," he warned. "You have beautiful hair, and more people would notice if you didn't keep it tied back." He took a closer look at her profile. "And pierced ears? We'll get some nice earrings."

"You know, the money you're spending is going to come out of my payroll. Not sure I'm okay with you spending S.W.O.R.D.'s money on me."

"I didn't agree to work for S.W.O.R.D. for the money, Abigail. Being one of the top scientists in the world means I do have savings of my own." He checked a monitor. "Besides, you're probably unsure of this because none of your previous amors draped you in their homeworld's finest fabrics and jewelry like you deserved. Am I right?"

Brand looked out the window. "You make it sound a lot more glamorous than it was." Her expression was more faraway than he wanted.

"It must be a universal fact, then, that men can be unappreciative jerks."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "You know, half of them had families back home," she said. "All they wanted was—what did you call it?—a taste of every race in the galaxy."

"What terrible choices you've made in men," he grinned.

"Yeah," she agreed. "You know, there's this one guy…."

"Go on."

She put her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her fist. "He's a little obsessive. Big crush on me. I'm lucky he puts his sexual frustration towards being all polite and proper, cause the way he looks at me, he's barely holding back on ravishing me. Cute, though."

"I like him, you should stick with that one. He sounds like a winner." When she put her hand on his control panel again, he took it in his own and squeezed. "Who do I contact on the ground before we land?"

She slipped her hand from his and continued what she was doing, but she glowed with the attention. "Government helipad's in New Rochelle, which is a twenty-minute ride from the city. Manhattan's a no-fly zone. They know we're coming."

"The X-Jet and Fantastic Four fly over New York all the time."

"Yeah," she replied, still smiling, "and you're not supposed to. You guys get called in a lot."

He couldn't help laughing. "So I've been causing trouble for you long before we met!"

"I'm going to take over for the landing," she warned, then shot him a glance. "And yeah. You did."

Even when they greeted the officials on standby, Henry and Abigail's attentions were never far from each other. She kept looking his way after saying clever things and he had a hard time keeping a straight face. After making the prerequisite small talk with the people who wanted their attention, Henry nodded to the door and mentioned their car would be waiting.

"Car?" Brand echoed as they stepped outside. "We could have called in a government vehicle and ridden in style, instead of in a ta…." She spotted the car. "…Limo?"

Henry nodded to the chauffer, who opened a door for them. "I let Emma make the arrangements for us. She has impeccable taste."

Brand followed him inside, looking around the interior in wonder. "Emma, as in the half-silicone hates-my-guts Emma?"

Henry picked up an envelope on the leather seat, addressed to him. "More like the confused-about-why-we're-dating-yet-supportive-that-I've-moved-past-Trish Emma." He opened the envelope and removed its contents. "It appears she's included a message along with the show tickets." He cleared his throat and read it off. "'H—'" He paused and added, "That's me. 'H—Can't begin to understand your motivations, but I hope you have fun.'" Something fell out of the packet.

Brand picked it up. "A condom," she said, nonplussed. She put it in her pocket. "Nice of her."

Henry gave a nervous laugh before continuing to read. "'Be safe, you don't know what sort of….'" He paused. "Oh dear."

Interest flashed in Brand's eyes. "What's it say?" She leaned over to read the letter.

Henry held the letter to one side, shielding it from her. "The next part isn't very polite."

"Read it anyway!" she insisted.

He sighed and readjusted his glasses. "'Be safe, you don't know what sort of space diseases the little bint has picked up on her travels.'" Brand barked a laugh. "'All my love, Emma.'"

Brand wiped a tear of hilarity out of her eye. "She's got your best interests at heart."

"I'm surprised you're taking this so well. If one of your men said something like that to your face—"

"—He'd be taking a space walk without a suit on, I know. Emma's not one of my men, though." Brand chuckled to herself. "Can't fault her for not liking me, though. Type-A's always know when a more dominant personality walks into the room, and she thought she had the market on 'bitch' cornered." She leaned back on the seat. "At least she can console herself always knowing she'll be the sluttier dressed of the two of us."

Henry put an arm around the back of the seat, angling himself so her shoulder leaned against his. "Speaking of which, I've never seen you wear anything low-cut. When we get to the store—it's another of Emma's favorites, back when I was making plans I had a feeling we'd have to find you some better clothes—I want you to get something that goes below your collarbone."

Brand squirmed. "I don't like it all just… hanging out there."

"We'll get something tasteful," he promised, patting her hand.

"Can I see the playbill?" Brand asked, taking them out of his grip. Inspecting the cover, she raised an eyebrow. "…Did you choose the show, or did Emma…?"

Henry looked at the playbill, which proudly proclaimed the cast list for Beauty and the Beast. He put his hand to his face to hide the smile. "Apparently Emma believes herself to be quite the comedian."

"Good. Because if it was you, I don't think I could date a guy who doesn't understand the meaning of irony."

Henry allowed himself a moment of pride. "Abigail my dear, you forget to whom you speak. I am the man who cured the Legacy Virus. The brain of any competent X-Team." He leaned closer and grinned. "I could quote you Webster's definition of irony, word for word from memory, in the most lascivious of positions without losing my cool. Believe me, I know irony."

Brand reached into the mini bar and withdrew two trembling glasses. "Is that a threat?"

Henry selected a bottle of champagne and poured them each a glass. "Think of it more as a promise." They shared a chuckle and looked away, Brand out the window and Henry into his champagne. He was making boasts he wasn't sure he could live up to. He lifted the glass to his mouth and tipped it bottoms-up. Thank goodness for liquid courage.

Something drew Brand's attention. "We're slowing down. Is that the place?"

Henry tilted himself so he could see out the window at the same angle. He checked the street, then the address written on Emma's note. "That's the one. It's rather…."

"Big," Brand gulped. Two floors of elaborately decorated dresses twinkled in the light as they pulled up to the curb. "Are you sure you can afford a place like this?"

Henry got out and went around the side to open the door for her, but she was already out and looking around in awe. "Don't worry about price. Just try to have a nice time."

Brand's smile became less genuine and more forced. "Don't know if I can promise you that. This isn't really my thing."

Henry took her hand and started towards the door with a confidence he hoped was infectious. To the driver he said, "We'll be back at twelve-fifteen." He gave Brand's hand a tug, making her move faster. Entering the opulent store, he scoped out an employee immediately. "Excuse me, Miss."

The woman turned, saw him and gave a started jump. Regaining her composition, she plastered on a smile as fake as Brand's. "How may I help you… sir…?"

Henry took Abigail by the shoulders and forced her in front of him. "We're looking for an outfit or two that would adequately compliment my friend's hair color."

The woman and Brand eyed each other uneasily. "Er… dyed or mutant?"

He smiled wide, but retracted it when he saw the fear his fangs caused. "Neither. If you would be so kind as to help us."

"Of—of course. Right this way."

The saleswoman led them through a selection of clothing, allowing a pile to form on Henry's arm while trying to coax something, anything positive from Brand. It proved to be impossible. Finally they made it to the dressing rooms. The saleswoman made a break for it, leaving Henry sitting in a chair by a triple-paned mirror. "There," he said to the only part of Brand he could see, her thick-soled boots. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

She groaned. "I don't think I like any of these."

"Well try something on and come out of there so I can see it. There's a very nice mirror out here, you can see yourself on all sides." He checked his own reflection in it, smoothing back a few stray hairs.

"In a minute." Her boots moved and she was kneeling on the floor in the stall. She slid something across to him. "Hold this, will you?"

Seeing the object she sent his way, his eyes widened and he quickly concealed it in his suit jacket. "Abigail!" he hissed. "What are you doing with a gun in a clothing store?!"

She went back to trying on clothes. "You should know better than anyone what it feels like to have your life in constant danger."

"I don't carry concealed weapons on my days off!" He gave the doorway a nervous glance, making sure no one heard or saw him.

Brand opened her dressing room door and went to the mirrors. "You could probably bench press a car. All I got are hot hands." She twisted so she could inspect herself from the side. "There's a difference."

Henry stood and smoothed out the lapels on her blouse. "You should try tucking the shirt into your waistband." Lowering his voice, he continued. "Look, you're a strong, intelligent woman. I don't doubt that if there was an alien invasion right now, you would be capable of taking them all down without the use of a single gun." He stood back and looked her up and down. "That's a very nice combination. And I'm holding onto your weapon for the rest of the day." She opened her mouth to protest but he wouldn't hear it. "Go on," he said, ushering her back into the dressing room, "try the other skirt now."

As they made their way to the cashier, it was obvious they were being followed. The whispering salespeople and customers kept themselves at a distance, but the stares were obvious. Even as they approached the salesperson at the counter, Henry juggled the hangars as they walked, trying to get a response out of Abigail about which articles of clothing she would like to keep. She was too focused on the attention they were getting.

"How do you deal with this?" she demanded. A stunned customer came too close and she drove him away with a devastating glare.

"I got used to it," he replied, holding up a blouse. "What about this one? I'd rather not just buy what I think is nice, so your input would be appreciated."

"It's demeaning!"

He placed a selection of clothes on the counter. "So is the way your crew treats you. We all must endure little inequities." A saleswoman approached the cashier and whispered in her ear.

"Yeah, but—hey!" Brand snapped at the saleswoman, slapping her hands on the counter. "What did you just call us?!"

"Settle down," Henry said, handing the cashier his card. "It's not worth getting upset over."

Brand snatched the receipt before he could react and ignited one hand, burning it to a cinder. "They called us muties! We're not shopping here."

"Abigail, calm down—"

Even as he took her by the arm, she raged on. "Do you ignorant people even know who you're talking to?!" He dragged her in the direction of the door. "This is one of the founding members of the X-Men! He's saved this city more times than your idiot brains can count!"

He could feel her temperature rise, and aimed to get her out of the store before something bad happened. "Come on." He pushed the door open and nearly carried her through it.

Releasing her on the sidewalk, he braced himself for what came next. Would she yell at him for not defending himself, like Scott might? Or break something, like Logan? He watched her and waited. She stood rooted to the spot, green eyes aflame. In the time it took to blink, her mouth was on his, hands tangled deep in his fur. Before he had time to reciprocate, she pulled away to look him in the eye.

"Don't let the bastards get you down, Hank." She threw a glare over her shoulder at the people who watched, stunned, in the store window. "There's too many people in this world who don't know a good thing when they see it."

It took a moment to process the mood swing. The anger in her eyes, once he realized that it was not at him but for him, flooded him with gratitude. "I believe," he said, speaking slowly, "that is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Then you have crappy friends."