This chapter sure didn't take me long - considering how long it usually takes for me to update. lol.Thanks everyone for the lovely reviews, and the impressive hits to my fanfiction page! Thanks so much! Hope you like the chapter.

- Astarii

I've gotten some wonderful questions sent to me for my Q&A, i'm excited to be able to answer them. There's still time to send in a question if you haven't had a chance yet. Details on my website. Thanks guys!

Four months later…

The phone rang at 138 North Chestnut Street, and Pan started, streaking toenail polish over the cuticle of her big toe. With a wince she set aside her polish bottle and padded across her bedroom to get her cordless.

"Hello?"

"No, not that one—hello, Pan! No, of course not. Naturally. Good afternoon! How are you this Saturday?"

"Pretty good."

"Fantastic. Say, could you jet down here and meet me? It's really important and would make my day." She put a hand on her hip.

"Trunks, I'm kind of busy—"

"With what? Doing laundry? You never do anything on a Saturday; I know you."

"What do you want?" She hiked her foot up on the bed and started scraping gooey polish off her cuticle.

"I just need your opinion on something. It will only take a second, I swear. Grab a cab and come to 67th and Valor. I'll pay the driver when you get here." He hung up.

Pan had thrown on some jeans and a sweater, and snatched her coat off the hook on her way out. She had plodded outside to the unusually bright and warm March afternoon and hailed a cab.

Now, fifteen minutes later, she was coming to the corner of 67th and Valor. It was a shopping district, and she narrowed her eyes when she saw Trunks standing at the corner, right outside a furniture store.

He trotted over happily and opened her door, and handed the cab driver a twenty, ignoring her sulky mood. They exchanged pleasantries, Trunks bright and smiling, Pan annoyed and cold. And as he opened the furniture store door, a barrage of employees greeted them.

"Mr. Brief's, sir," A balding man with a crisp business suit nodded anxiously. "Right this way, sir." He led them up two flights of stairs to their exclusive antique department, and several important looking employees dared to follow at a respectful pace.

"What is this about?" Pan asked through her teeth, but Trunks only smiled and shiftily looked around, acting as if he hadn't heard her.

The man opened a double set of doors and invited them into his exclusive showroom. There were beds, tables, dining sets, hutches, dressers, and who knew what else in every Louis, King of France style conjured, it seemed. And with the price tags, she assumed Louis the 58th himself had sat his royal derrière on most of them.

"Mr. Brief's, you were looking at the Louis the 14th and Louis the 15th beds from the Chateau series?" Trunks gave a nod, and Pan looked at him like he was crazy.

The fat bald man led them to two beds in a corner, set on their own raised daises, and he flipped a switch that now shone spotlights on them like they were the latest pop diva on stage.

"Which do you like, Pan?" Trunks asked her.

"I don't need a bed."

"Not for you, of course." He said.

"You don't need a bed." Trunks snorted.

"Not for me, either. No, it's actually a present for my mom. Her birthday's next week." Pan blinked, staring at the beds as if trying to decipher a secret code. She continued to stare purposefully before lifting her hands up and shrugging.

"They look exactly the same to me. Perhaps I could help you more if I didn't think this was an idiotic waste of money." She folded her arms and looked down at the floor. The owner of the store didn't even try to hide his alarm at her comment.

"Um, Pan? Why didn't you just say so earlier?" Pan let out a long sigh.

"How was I supposed to know that's what you were doing, eh?" Pan poked Trunks as they walked down the street, ice-cream cones in hand. "I want you to know that I was minding my own business, painting my toenails—" Trunks gave her a look, and she gave him an indignant one in return. "And you had the nerve to call me up and insist I dash down to 67th street to help you pick out furniture? I want you to know I live on Chestnut, a good, solid taxi ride away from—"

Trunks' was chuckling, and she knew she had no more hope of convincing him at this point. She gave up and they walked in comfortable silence.

"Hey," she said after a while, "why 'not me, of course'?"

"What do you mean?" He tossed the soggy remnants of his cone in the trash.

"I mean, back there, when we were looking at furniture and I said I didn't need a bed, you said 'not for you, of course'." Trunks smiled, slipping his hands into his khaki pockets.

"You're not flattered by that type of thing." He said it as if it were obvious.

"What?" She stopped walking and turned to face him, her expression curious.

"Presents, expensive dates, extravagant vacations, jewelry, all that sort of thing. Those things don't impress you. For example, most guys do that sort of thing to impress a girl. And most girls get all impressed and squishy when guys spend lots of money on them."

"Squishy?" She asked.

"Yeah, squishy. All furrowed brows and pouting, smiling lips and tilted head. And of course they all do the sound."

"'The sound'?"

"Yes, the sound." He cleared his throat and held out a hand in a grand motion. "Awwwww." She smiled, shaking her head at the completely true cliché. "But those things don't make you squeal and go all cheerleader bouncy. In fact, you could care less."

"I like nice things," She argued, but he shook his head.

"Yes, you like nice things. But not to impress." This was true. She couldn't argue that. "And, for instance, when placed with a decision, say, between a platinum ring with a three carat diamond or a simple cubic zirconia with a sentimental inscription—purchased at a department store that also sells toilet paper—you would, without doubt, choose the one with sentimental value."

"You aren't status bent like most women. And you don't care about, well, all that stupid stuff."

"Stupid stuff?" Trunks knew it got on Pan's nerves when he used grammatically unpleasing and vague words like 'stuff' in sentences.

"I dunno'," He shrugged big and tossed his lavender hair from his eyes. Pan couldn't help a smile.

"Then what do I get impressed with, Mr. Brief's?" She folded her arms and he flashed a magazine-cover smile.

"You know, all the deep stuff. Valor, a noble heart," he began grandly, "quick mind, faultless sense of justice," She held up a hand to interrupt.

"You make me sound like I'm aiming for a guy straight out of an Arthurian legend." She pointed out.

"Well are you?" He teased.

"Of course not." She responded defiantly. "I don't pine away waiting for my true love to return, or swoon at the sight of an honorable knight. And I most certainly wouldn't have dumped Arthur for Lancelot."

"Who said you did?"

"Well," she continued, "all the Arthurian romances depict that that was the way for any true maiden to go."

"And you don't agree?"

"Hardly." He grinned.

"You don't think," he began loudly, "that true love surpasses any barrier, and that you must seize it at the risk of everything?"

"Guinevere gave up the only true love she had—in Arthur."

"How so?"

"True love isn't romance and adventure. It builds through time, understanding, trust and respect."

"And what of attraction?" He argued.

"Naturally that is necessary, but you can be attracted to numerous people. I mean, you've proved that yourself, haven't you?" She teased. "But we've strayed from our topic, haven't we?"

"But I've learned a lot." He said solemnly.

"Of me?" She laughed. "And what have you learned, then?"

"That I had you wrong. You don't desire a man of glory or high honor and nobility." She lifted a brow. "It's just that you will only settle for a man of character. Someone who will be the best that he himself can be." He had suddenly turned serious. "But that's the hardest impression for a man to achieve, isn't it? It isn't material. It isn't superficial or superfluous." He sighed. "And you just can't buy it."

"No, you can't." She responded simply, and after a moment the mood lightened and they both exchanged casual smiles.

"Dinner?" He asked, and she looked at him curiously. "I mean, can I take you to get some dinner?"

"Oh. Oh, um, I can't tonight. Sorry."

"All right."

"It's just," she began to explain, "I have a date tonight." He was taken aback. "But thanks a lot for the offer."

"No problem—anytime. You know that." She nodded happily. "Well, can I hail you a cab then?" And he promptly set of to do so.

The doorbell to Pan's apartment rang later that night, and Pan was happy to see her best friend, Mary.

"I just swung by to, well, I knew you had a date and thought you might want to hash," She grinned and presented a big bag of junk food. Pan couldn't help but urge her in excitedly, totally appreciative.

"So, tell, tell," Mary hopped onto the couch and Pan joined her clad in pajamas and house shoes.

"Well, nothing much. We just went out to dinner, that's all."

"Do you like him?" Mary pressed, and Pan bit her lip as she leaned forward confidentially.

"Not at all!" They both laughed over Doritos as they chatted about the night's events. That conversation led to hashings over past dating experiences and catastrophes.

"Isn't there anyone your interested in?" Mary popped a chip into her mouth and chomped noisily. Pan only shrugged.

"I'm so busy with work. I mean, I don't see anyone except, well, my boss."

"I wouldn't complain if I were you." Mary was probably the most pleased with Pan's position as personal secretary to the world's most popular bachelor. "He's simply delicious. Why do you get all the fun?" Pan snorted. "You don't like him at all?" She asked incredulously.

"Not at all." She lifted and dropped her shoulders in a stiff shrug.

"I think you're in denial." Mary confided, but Pan only shook her head.

"There's no way. I mean, he's irresponsible in his job, with his money—with his life! But besides that, he's not my type. Not even physically."

"Denial."

"There's no way I'd be interested in a guy who buys condoms in bulk and wakes up Monday's with such a hangover he has no earthly clue where he was, what he did, or who he did, over the weekend. And then finds out he spent twenty-thousand dollars on a credit card Saturday night somewhere he's ever even heard of." She commented hotly.

"Denial," Mary said. "Complete denial."