AN: Hello, and thanks a million bunches to everyone who reviewed or alerted this story, you guys are what keep me writing it! Sorry this took so long, school started and time has not been my friend of late. Anyway, many thanks, please, please review, and I hope you enjoy!

The very first thing the stupid girl did was kiss me, as soon as we were a reasonable distance away from anyone else. I had been leaning against a shelf, looking with a mild interest through a biography of Calvin Cooldige, of whom I rather approved, when she, the shameless little chit, immediately approached and leaned in, pressing her impudent mouth to my own and pretending she didn't hear my rather stammered:

"Come back for the kill, Sharp?"

Within a second the poor biography had tumbled to the floor with a thump, and I was aware that my hands were hovering uselessly in midair, unsure of what to do or where to go…

Slowly, hesitantly, I found her back, her waist, and again forgot any and everything, shivering when her tongue lightly touched the curve of my mouth…

Kissing me harder, she let her fingers creep up my neck, slowly settling into my hair as my grip on her tightened convulsively. When she broke away, I heard myself groan very softly, almost in disappointment…

For a good minute I stood there, dazed and not quite coherent even in my thoughts, oblivious to the rest of the world. Gwendolyn pressed a finger quickly to my mouth, and I noted vaguely that she was grinning enormously, saying something I didn't quite catch.

"Hm?" I murmured, in the back of my mind disgusted with how dreamy my voice sounded.

"You have lip gloss on your mouth, Bernard. Not to say it doesn't become you, but I thought you should know."

I did? Startled and slowly becoming mortified, I tried my best to remain stoic, mumbling:

"Your attack was uncalled for, Sharp."

"You didn't seem to think so two minutes ago," she countered, and there was a look in her eyes I didn't care for; it was too knowing, almost, too certain.

I blushed then, and blushed hard, heat racing up my neck and spreading over my face up to my hairline, a tell-tale sign that she was—just barely—not wrong.

I assumed the most dour expression I could muster and, desperately, said:

"Women."

Gwendolyn emitted a sigh that was strikingly similar to my own—trust Sharp to resort to something as asinine as mimicry—and intoned, in what I saw was supposed to be my voice:

"Bernards."

I almost smiled at this; the imitation was somewhat true to life. Somewhat. However, I stopped myself just in time; Gwendolyn Sharp had extracted from me many strange and horrifying things, but as of yet I still retained my basic dignity.

If I started laughing at her jokes it would truly all be over.

_888888—

A little later, she said the most interesting and intelligent thing I believe I'd ever heard come from her mouth.

"So, tell me about Megamind."

At last, a subject worthy of discourse—a topic on which I could actually wax somewhat poetic. As a force of habit, however, not wanting to show my interest just yet, I sighed and said:

"He's a blue End."

She shoved me lightly, shaking her head and staring up at me.

"No, come on, I know you like him, tell me about him. What do you know about him?"

What did I know about Megamind? I could hardly believe my ears. Only an entire miserable childhood and adolescence's worth of sometimes obsessive reading over the subject which was, besides history, my pet: aliens. When Megamind had really made himself known, the subject had only become specified, concentrated more on the individual rather than the relatively unknown race. What did I know about Megamind, indeed.

Thus provoked, I proceeded to tell Sharp exactly what I knew about Megamind, not sparing any details, and letting loose a barrage of specifics, both biological and psychological, concerning the azure dictator-turned-benevolent one.

About ten minutes into it, I realized that Sharp, rather than copying down every word of this valuable information, as any reasonable being would have done, was gaping at me, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, almost incredulous. Abruptly rather self conscious—and ashamed of this weakness within me—I murmured:

"What?"

"Bernard," she said softly, astounded. "Y-you—you care."

As most of her inane statements were, this was utter gibberish to me.

"Sharp, you're not making sense; it seems a chronic condition with you."

She didn't even seem to hear me.

"You looked—you looked so—interested," she said, starting to smile now. "Passionate. I've never really seen you like that."

I was suddenly rather embarrassed, as if she'd caught me in some dangerous or compromising position; I was Bernard Grahame, surly museum curator and notorious loner. I wasn't supposed to be passionate.

"Don't get used to it."

"Oh, the guard's back up, I see," she said, smiling a little wistfully now. "Shame. Guess I won't be hearing about Megamind anymore."

"I wouldn't count on it," I told her, concentrating on the shelf before me. Nodding, she kept silent for a moment, and then, as if struck with an idea, proposed in one of her abrupt subject changes:

"Hey—you want a quick chess game once we leave?"

The idea of trouncing the undoubtedly inept Sharp at a game of chess and leaving her thoroughly humiliated was very, very appetizing…at last, I was almost certain to be the victor…and, least of all, the conversation during the game—for someone like Sharp was never silent—would be…interesting….

"Fine."

_88888—

True to my inference, Sharp was no master at chess; she took the whole thing rather more lightly than I did—she did not understand that it was a serious game of strategy—and seemed a bit preoccupied at times.

"Good God," she murmured blankly, checking the board after I'd easily been the victor. "Did you just win?"

"I believe so."

"Ah—I'm worse at chess than I thought. Marianne's got a natural talent for it—I don't. You're lucky I played fair, though, Bernard; I could have easily cheated and made my odds much more favorable."

What on earth was the stupid girl talking about? Raising my eyebrows, I murmured:

"Cheated? How?"

She grinned, as if very glad I'd asked.

"Like this."

And then suddenly her hand was on my knee under the table, and she was kneading my leg lightly, grinning at the way my breath hitched and I had to swallow hard to keep back a small groan…

"I dunno about you, but I think this would have heightened my chances considerably, eh, Bernard?"

I didn't reply, only mumbled something about her being "fast" and tried to relax, and banish the sensation of her hand on my leg. She grinned and put the pieces back in their original spots.

"Another game, Bernard?"

_88888—

Two games later—both of which I won, of course, by a considerable breadth—she smirked and checked her watch.

"Hey, Bernard," she said airily, as again the pieces were reset. "Guess what?"

"I can't, I'm sure."

"Well, you know how today was only supposed to be for an hour?"

With a vague feeling of foreboding within me, I nodded, not sure I wanted to hear the rest. Sure enough, Gwendolyn checked her watch once more, as if re-checking, and told me, a tad smugly:

"Well, it's been two. Guess it wasn't so unbearable as you thought, hey, Bernard?"

The thing I wanted most of all at that moment was to take that absurd grin off of her face, that crowing "I was right; you enjoyed yourself" expression, and I knew nothing I could say would do the job, so I took a more—dangerous route. Without really thinking, just acting on instinct, I leant in, raised an eyebrow—and kissed her.

And, sure enough, it was an effective method indeed.