Jean and Warren: Torn

[x-jeangrey.livejournal.com]

Jean and Warren go on their third date. Jean finally gets the information she needed on Worthington Industries. Against her better judgement, she decides to continue the date. Her emotions get the better of her.


It had been a very pleasant past week. Since their date at his home, he hadn't been able to clear his schedule any sooner. Instead, he'd found himself regularly texting her, as well as choosing to stay busy rather than socialize as he used to.

It was an odd feeling, and one he hadn't felt before, so he tried not to dwell on it. He didn't think he wanted to discover what it was about.

Tonight, they'd made plans to meet at WI. No visit to New York would be complete without a broadway show, and it would have to be a classic: The Phantom of the Opera.

It was Warren's turn to wait, and he was already uncomfortable. It'd been raining on and off. And the combination of rain and melting snow made for an unpleasant atmosphere outside.

Since going out with Warren, Jean had taken to expanding her wardrobe when it came to wearing fancier outfits. But because they were going to a play, and not, say, to a ball or something, she had decided to wear something dressy but not overly so. She'd chosen a black pencil skirt with fleece tights underneath, a teal blouse, and a black trenchcoat with a wool liner and a hood to keep out the rain.

After speaking to Charles, it was clear they needed to move, and to get as much information on Biotech as they possibly could. All the talk about the bio security measures meant getting that information would have to come from going into the belly of the beast.

"Sorry, apparently all the cabs in my general vicinity were scared off by the rain. I was about to take the subway when I finally found someone a couple of blocks down."

"I told you I didn't mind sending a driver your way." He almost leaned in to give her the fake kiss he was used to giving socialites, before he noticed and gave a smile instead.

"As always, you look delightful. I have a car waiting for us around back, unless you want to venture the subway again?" It'd probably been at least five years since he last rode the subway, but he was sure it was still the same: cramped, smelly and loud.

Jean laughed. "I think I'll take your offer next time. I was hoping the traffic would have been merciful but I was mistaken. Manhattan hasn't changed much since I went to Colombia," she said. She caught the attempt to kiss her, then his second thought and backtrack, but said nothing.

"Hmm...At this point, nice warm car rather than the giant tin can sounds delightful," she mused. She scanned the street, watching the cars as they drove past. They had to get inside, and if she didn't do something to make that happen then there was a possibility she wouldn't get the chance.

So as one of the taxis passed close by she gave things a telekinetic push, and sent a puddle of melted sludge right at his pants and shirt. Hopefully he had a change of clothes upstairs. If not, she didn't quite have a plan B yet.

There was nothing he could ‎have done before or after. In fact, it was so unexpected that he stood there, looking at himself while his mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. Eventually, he got over the shock. "Well. This was unexpected."

Jean stood there for a moment or two, her shoulders hunched, cringing at the sight. It'd worked, but she wasn't happy to do it. Still, his reaction was a tiny bit funny (she tried to push that thought out of her head).

"Yeah."

Glancing at his watch, Warren tried to calculate the time he had before the show started. "If we scrap the pre-show drinks, I have enough time to go upstairs and get dressed. Even if I went to my loft instead of the penthouse, we would barely make the first act. Unfortunately, all I have is business attire here, so if you think you can handle my dreadful fashion options, we might need to rush upstairs."

"I'm pretty sure most people would only dream of owning your dreadful fashion options," Jean reassured him. "And I think you could probably wear a sack and still look well coordinated. It's okay, I can wait."

He gave his head a shake. "You don't need to wait long. Come, let's head back inside and I'll change as quickly as I can." Motioning to the door, he walked, slightly stiff legged as he didn't want the sludge to get on his legs. He was starting to think he might actually have to take a quick shower and that thought stressed him out. It was hard to not get his wings wet, and there was no way he would have the proper time to dry them out. There was nothing worse than wet feathers.

Taking the executive elevator, he tried his best not to wince every time his wet clothing touched his skin. He hated being dirty.

Once in his suite, he showed her to the main office area. "If you'd like to use the internet, or Facebook or something, go right ahead. I'll be maybe 15 minutes at most. There's no password on that laptop, it's for guests anyways." He took his coat off, and laid it on his chair. "I'll be in that room there. Feel free to join me," he said with a wink as he walked to the adjoining room.

Plenty of time. "Hmmm...I don't know if there's enough room in there for me, you and your ego," Jean teased, sitting down at the computer as she laced her fingers together with a grin.

"Go forth, commune with the GQ gods. I'll keep myself occupied with lolcat videos."

He had suggested that she get on the computer anyway. If his office had a camera hopefully that comment would take away any suspicion.

His outfit was disgusting. Opening up his supply closet (and why wouldn't he have suits in there? They were necessary for office work too), he hemmed and hawed between the outfits he had. None of them were appropriate for the theatre but he had no choice. If he went with his grey suit, it would clash with his tie, but his khaki suit didn't really match his shoes.

Finally deciding on the grey suit and no tie, and hoping for the best, he stripped and looked at his legs, groaning at the dirt caked on them. "No way around it," he called out. "I have to jump into the shower. Add another 10 minutes there. I'm sorry about this!" It would take some aerobics, but he'd do his best not to get his wings wet.

The USB drive that Jean had been given carefully floated out of her pocket and snaked its way around to the back of the computer, sliding along the desk to do it just in case a camera was watching. All she had to do was sit back and watch as the coding programmed into the USB infiltrated the Worthington Industries servers, allowing her access to the mainframe. Now it was a matter of trying to find the files on Biotech.

It shouldn't have been that hard to get intel on a secretive, autonomous company that was likely up to very little good, right?

"We've still got another 45 minutes. Now if you need the rest of it to fix your hair I might start sending it a search party after you."

"Ha ha," he tossed out as he jumped into the shower. Well. As he proceeded to pretend to be in the shower. There was no way to do a full body wash with his wings. He had a routine and he wasn't willing to sacrifice proper wing care in the interest of saving time.

It had taken a lot of trial and error to learn how to properly care for them, as well as theoretical calls to various vet clinics.

Working as quickly as possible, he managed to get the rest of the dirt off and was appropriately clean. Then it was a matter of his nails, restyling his hair, polishing his shoes, fixing his tie, brushing his suit clean of lint and other necessities.

"Five minutes!"

Jean might have had cause for warning but she'd already managed to find the folder. The company only tried the barest measures to hide something that was being accessed from Warren Worthington III's office. She had located the folder and was focused on copying the files onto the drive when he made the announcement. It was what a quick scan of the information held that gave her pause, so much so that she didn't answer him.

Not only was Biotech interested in bio security measures, they were fully exploring anti-mutant implantation measures. In this case, a biomechanical suit that they called a 'Sentinel.' And they had moved beyond just planning. They were working on prototypes.

Finally he was ready to his specifications. "Sorry about that, but perfection takes work." He paused at the doorway, tilting his head in concern.

"Are you alright? You're as white as a sheet. Did no one like your recent status? Or retweet you? I know I hate it when that happens."

Jean glanced up, startled when he spoke. Letting out a breath, she shook her head and clicked off. She'd thrown in a visit to CNN just to make things look real.

"No...Yeah, sorry. I was just reading a news article," she said, then managed a soft smile

"I should really avoid those if I want to be in a good mood for the rest of the night. Are you ready?"

It was getting harder and harder to not reach out and touch her. This was slowly becoming dangerous. And it reminded him why he didn't particularly care for dating. "Tonight is about having fun," he pointed out. "No news. Let's go to the show, have a few drinks and relax. You're on vacation, remember?". He picked up his coat and threw it over his arm. "The car is downstairs. Shall we?"

Jean rose from her chair, the flash drive quietly slipping from the computer and into her hand as she passed by. She could smell the soap and hint of fresh cologne as she got closer to him. Too close, she decided, so she deflected by grabbing her own coat.

"Sadly I can't turn off the world, no matter how much I try. Character flaw. But I will give it a go for you," she said with a smirk.

She nodded to him. "I'm ready."

--------

It wasn't his first time seeing Phantom, ‎and that probably added to his restlessness. Not only that, but he couldn't help noticing her every movement.

When she shifted in her seat, brushing his knee in the process, he found himself staring at his leg, wondering how it got so lucky. ‎ At some point, he caught a whiff of her hair and he spent the next fifteen minutes analyzing all the notes. Definitely grapefruit. Maybe mint.

By the time intermission came around, he was wound up. They had just arrived in the VIP lounge, and he'd ordered a scotch immediately. "Water?," he asked.

As a rule Jean didn't read people's minds without permission. But her telepathy wasn't perfect. The walls she'd put up to keep people's thoughts out sometimes resembled a door. And sometimes, if something was loud enough, it'd resonate, like an echo of an emotion. Warren's mind was working over time. She could feel the faint buzzing in the background, like a bee. She tried to ignore it.

It didn't mean he was bad company, though. Despite his clear obsession with wanting to get to know her more than just in conversation he was still engaging. He was smart and funny. They seemed to get along well. Since she'd gotten the information she needed she could hand it off to Charles and be done with it.

That meant severing ties. But not tonight, not yet. She didn't want to draw suspicion, right? And she really didn't find herself wanting to leave.

"I'm thinking whiskey. Do you have any Crown Royal Apple?" she asked the bartender.

Warren gave her an approving smile. "Cheers," he said, toasting her with his drink when she received hers. "I wouldn't have taken you for a whiskey drinker. Now it's my turn to be impressed and pleased that I didn't order you a drink. We would've both been sorely embarrassed." ‎

Jean grinned, taking a slow, approving sip after they'd toasted. "My classmates and I frequented one of the bars in DC so much during med school that we had a booth permanently reserved for us. We never drank on the job but afterward it could get pretty lively," she said.

"Now that is to say I wouldn't have minded what you ordered. I've yet to find something I haven't liked. Except some types of beer. I'm more oriented to the sweet and smooth rather than the bitter. I suppose that might be considered a motto when dealing with people as well."

"You're telling the wrong person that." He gave her a cheeky grin.‎ "I have a limitless tab, and the entire evening. I'm sure we could find something you don't like."

"Mixing liquor is bad for you, you know," Jean said matter-of-factly with a smirk. "Well, bad for me. I'm happy with my whiskey. But you're free to drink until you decide that lampshade would make a great hat."

"I look amazing in anything. And have you been to fashion week before? Lampshades would be an improvement on some of those outfits.". He gave a little shudder. "Personally, I like to drink until a toga is an appropriate fashion choice. Much easier to move in."

"And how many times has this conclusion been realized?" Jean mused curiously, resting her chin in her hand. "I really only see mention of togas in movies. I had no idea people were actually doing it in real life." She shook her head.

"And no, never had the pleasure of fashion week. Most of the time I usually had an exam to study for."

"Boarding school was the last time," he answered. Right before his wings grew in, actually.‎ "In that case though, togas were part of the dress code." And it was only males, but he didn't add that part.

"I believe they did it occasionally at Harvard too....and if you're back in town around Fashion Week, you should let me know. High fashion is surprisingly interesting, as are the catwalk shows. I tend to build my year's wardrobe based on what I see."

Jean took another sip of her drink, enjoying the bite of apple. "Fashion is a neat concept but I find it seems to be designed more for art than function. I want to look good but I don't want to suffer for it," she said, her elbow propped up on the bar thoughtfully.

"So often designers only want to choose the former. Which is why I tend to go for the basics, and not the studded ensemble with the peacock feathers."

"What's wrong with feathers?" he blurted out. ‎ "I happen to think they're very fashionable."

"On special occasions, yes. But they're hard to wash. And generally uncomfortable to wear for long periods of time," Jean said, shrugging. The way he got incredibly defensive was curious, but she passed it off.

She took a drink. "I'm more than happy to wear them to something like a ball or a wedding."

You have no idea, he thought to himself. Instead, he downed his drink, and motioned to a waiter for another one.‎

"Fair enough. They're not necessarily considered commonplace‎, but there has been a resurgence of late. Did you know that feathers were actually the first known clothing decoration, dating back to early Neanderthal man?"

Jean quirked a brow. "No, I didn't." She leaned in closer. "You seem pretty obsessed with them, though." she mused, no longer able to pass the curiosity off anymore. She shrugged.

"I dunno, I've always had a thing with fire. I mean...I'm not a closet arsonist but...I used to like to watch the fire in the fireplace at my parent's house for what felt like hours when I was a kid."

"Fire is also fascinating," he responded with a smile. "See? We all have quirks. I like feathers. They're comforting. You like fire. It's hypnotic." He leaned over the table, eyes sparkling. "We could pretend to build a fire at my loft. Or even go on the roof and build an actual one. Live dangerously."‎

"I already live dangerously. I hold human hearts in my hands," Jean said with a grin. Maybe it was the alcohol, combined with the fact that she hadn't eaten since lunch. She should've left. But didn't really want to.

"Don't you have a fireplace in your apartment? I don't recall ever getting the tour I was promised. It's a little too cold for rooftop danger."

Warren shook his head. "That was my penthouse," he pointed out. "I'm talking about my loft. And it kind of has this enclosed roof area....anyways, we could build a fire there too." The light started flashing, indicating there was a few minutes before the show started again.

"Or we could go back in and finish the show.". And sit through another hour or so of agony while he did his best to distract himself from their proximity.

"You have two apartments? Oh," Jean said, not terribly surprised. She glanced back at the lights, falling silent for a couple of moments.

"I've already seen this before. We could go where ever. If you want."

Bad idea. This was probably a bad idea.

-----

This was not one of his better ideas. Halfway to the loft, he realized that she probably wouldn't approve of what he generally used the apartment for. He resolved not to bring it up unless she asked. It was the only smart move. Especially as he didn't want to explain the drawer of unused toothbrushes.

His loft wasn't as central as his penthouse was, but it was still on the island, and personally, he liked the view better. As well, there was a lovely rooftop garden, with an enclosure to ensure they wouldn't get cold.

When they got there, he didn't want to risk anything.‎ Taking the elevator directly to the roof, he motioned with his hand. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Half the roof was under a type.of glass skylight, while the other half was exposed. Traffic noises and flickering lights captured the cityscape perfectly. "Wait right here. I'll be right back.

Ten minutes later, he had returned with a bottle of whiskey, a blanket and some pillows, which he arranged on the chaise loungers that were already there. "Just in case you get cold." Having the equivalent of a down blanket on his back at all times meant that he rarely felt the cold. It was hard to remember that not everyone was similarly endowed.

"It's a much better view, I think. I like the busyness of the city. Central Park is nice, but this...this is Manhattan."‎

Jean had taken the time he was away to study the skyline. She'd traveled in her time, seen the history and grandeur of Europe. But there was something about New York. It always felt welcoming. It always felt like it had a heartbeat, like it were alive.

"Unmistakably," Jean said with a smile.

"Thanks," she then added, wrapping the blanket over her legs. She had started to lose some feeling in her fingers so she'd taken to rubbing her hands together.

"You mentioned something about building a fire? I'd be glad to help."

"Good," he said sheepishly. "I'm not exactly sure how to make one myself.‎ I'm aware a lighter is involved, and paper. Wood helps too. But," he shrugged his shoulders, "that's the extent of that."

He gave her a coy look. "I offer myself up as a warming device however, if a fire is too much work. " ‎

"How are you not cold? You look practically content. Meanwhile, my hands are about to turn blue," Jean said with a laugh. "The fire's a breeze. We used to go camping a lot when I was a kid."

The remote location helped her keep the voices out. She'd often go exploring alone, just to be able to bask in the nothingness. Until Charles helped her eventually be able to control her telepathy, it was the only peace she ever really had.

Setting up the tinder first in the firepit, she then made a teepee shape with the kindling.

"Lighter?" she said.

Reaching in his pocket, he handed her the requested item. Warren was content to watch her light the fire, ‎and had to admit, a small part was impressed at her adeptness.

"I'm always warm. I rarely feel the cold." He walked over in front of the fire, and put a hand in front of it, feeling the heat emanating from it. "I never went camping. Camping for us was not bringing along a butler.". The more he said things, the more he realized why it was easier to date girls who understood high society. Out of context, the sentence made no sense.

"If you get used to a certain routine it can be difficult when its taken away," Jean said. Her family had made a point for her and her sister to be self sufficient. They weren't exactly blue collar, but her father had come from it. He had gotten to where he was as a Professor through hard work, paying his own way through undergrad, graduate school, and obtaining his PhD. But he was smart enough that after awhile scholarships had become available.

Still, an important lesson he and Charles taught her was the idea of perspective. You never knew how a person lived because you only had your own life to work from. It was important to try to see things from their point of view.

"I always liked the quiet. I could do with a bathroom, internet, and a shower but...it was a trade off. To get one thing I often had to lose another."

She eyed the whiskey bottle. "So when is this bottle going to be opened, hmm?" she said with a grin. The mantra of 'bad idea' kept running through her head. But she'd already had a glass already and a light dinner. Alcohol absorbed into the bloodstream quickly that way. So that mantra was being deftly drowned.

The same thought was echoing in his mind. Jean was unlike anyone he'd met before, and it was getting more and more difficult for him to remember that he couldn't be himself.

Well. His usual self. With her, he found himself being ‎more open and honest than he'd ever been.

It was a disconcerting thought and alcohol would not improve the situation

Still. The lady had asked.‎ "I forgot glasses," he said in a bemused manner. Very unlike him. He was always prepared. ‎"A whiskey like this should be properly appreciated neat. I suppose a glass is entirely optional." He unscrewed the lid and took a healthy swig, shaking his head inadvertently as the strong liquid burned down.‎ "Cheers."

Jean's mouth dropped open and she put her hand to her chest. "Why Warren Worthington the third...how uncivilized! You savage, you," she said, then motioned for the bottle with a smirk.

"Gimme," she said. She glanced around.

"You have an apartment here, right? Aren't there any in there?" she said. The fact that they'd gone right up to the roof without him even taking her in the apartment hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Not that I don't mind this method."

She wrapped the blanket around her legs, then shrugged, taking a long draw of whiskey once he'd given her the bottle.

"Don't worry, I can pretty much guess why you have two residences. You don't have to tiptoe."

Warren sat down on the chair directly next to her, but sat near the edge so he could face her more directly while speaking. ‎And he still didn't understand how any one could make fun of her hair colour. In the warm light of the fire, it looked almost like a halo, framing her face perfectly.

He had laughed at her earlier comment, but ‎that stopped when she mentioned his loft. "Then why ask if you already know the answer?" Reaching back for the bottle, he took another shot before continuing. "I think the question you would most like to ask is why I didn't invite you in." ‎

"I was just asking if you had glasses for the whiskey," Jean said with a smirk, eying the bottle as he took a drink. At the rate they were going they'd be done with it soon. Bad. Bad idea. She probably should've stopped. But he could be rather charming, and more than a little persistent. And she really liked whiskey.

"And no...I was really not. Because I get the feeling that's where you keep the whipped cream and handcuffs. And I am still not the one night stand kind of girl."

Even if things had been dry for a few years. God, the alcohol was hitting her more quickly than she thought. Bad Jean.

He gave a bored nod. "Precisely. You've made your position on that very clear, and I respect your boundaries. You're not a conquest for me."

It was all or nothing time. With a woman like Jean, it seemed honesty would get him further than all the games he knew. "I genuinely have been enjoying our time together. I'm not going to lie -- I'd love to get to know you more...intimately, shall we say. That being said, I'm fairly confident I can control the more savage part."

Jean studied him. "I..."

Why was she even still talking? Why wasn't she leaving? Any chance she'd had with him died the moment she was approached about getting intel on his company. It was a sacrifice she had to make to help people. He wouldn't want to be with her after that.

No matter how much she liked to talk to him or the fact that he had a dimple on his cheek when he smiled and how she could imagine he probably had a six pack.

This was new. He'd never seen her to have absolutely nothing to say. One thing he'd been able to count on was ‎that she always had comment. He gave a dimpled smile. "That's it? Does this mean you need more alcohol to say what's on your mind or have you had too much?"

Jean stared at the fire for a few moments, then caught the smile the moment she glanced up. It made her shake her head, taking the bottle so she could get another drink. Her head was already starting to feel lighter. Like she could float off into the skyline.

"What happens after you get to know me? Or we run out of things to say? I'm not going to be here in two weeks. And you'll go back to being busy running the world and I'll go back to sewing people up after they get broken...I don't...I don't know how this would work."

His smile widened. "So you have thought ‎about this. Too much, in fact." Folding his hands in front of him, he leaned forward and tilted his head. "Jean. I know you said you haven't had much luck in the past. And you know what the papers say about me. I'm not proposing marriage here. Two consenting adults, with clear boundaries can do whatever they want." He cleared his throat and reached for the almost empty bottle, surprised at how quickly it disappeared.

"Wouldn't you rather have two spectacular weeks instead of what-ifs? And if we never see each other again, wouldn't it be better if it was on our own terms, and not because we don't like each other? Why overthink things? Why not just let it go, and do what feels right instead of what is right?"

Because you have no idea what's going on.

Jean let out a sigh, a tangle of red curls falling in front of her eyes as she covered her face with her scarf. She then folded her hands, resting them against the bridge of her nose like she were in prayer.

"You're like the devil on my shoulder, you know that?" she said quietly.

She genuinely looked ‎confused by all this. He wasn't actually sure what to do. In his world, if you wanted something, you went for it. The only thing that mattered was the level of discretion but that wasn't an issue -- Warren was very good at keeping secrets.

"I'd prefer the angel." He rested his head on his shoulder, ‎the alcohol having calmed him down some. His eyes, half closed, with blue just peeking through. "But devil sounds apt too." Suddenly, he leaned forward and pulled down the front of her scarf slightly. "What are you so afraid of?," he whispered.

Their breaths misted in the cool night air. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him. The glow of the fire made his personal description of 'angelic' entirely too appropriate.

Call it magnetism. Call it gravity. Call it a study on the effects of too much whiskey influencing the judgment centers of her brain. Either way, she found herself closing the already nonexistent distance between the two of them. A moment passed and she'd pressed her lips against his, no longer having to imagine the way they felt.

For the second time tonight, he was surprised but this time pleasantly so. It took all of his self-control to not pull her into his arms and ravage her right there. He'd definitely lose her then. Instead, he tried to be as gentle as possible, meeting her willingness rather than forcing her.

Her lips had the lingering taste of whiskey, something he didn't find altogether unpleasant. The softness of her lips met his expectations, and he kissed her back softly.

When it ended, he leaned his forehead on hers‎. "Was that so bad?," he asked quietly, a hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

Though she didn't say anything on the outside, inside Jean's mind was like a crowded room. Usually it was other people's thoughts, this time it was all her own. Fireworks exploding in her head.

Continuing to flirt after I got what I needed was bad before. Now I'm kissing him? What the hell? She didn't care if it felt damn nice or if he made her feel happy. She was doing all these things when she should've just stopped the moment she got the flash drive. Everything after that moment was wrong. Everything before it was too, but it was necessary. Everything else was like twisting the knife. He'd asked her what she was afraid of. She knew the answer: hurting him.

Trouble was, she'd already done it. Now it was just a matter of minimizing further damage.

Pulling away, Jean quickly jumped to her feet. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that," she said. She slowly backed up, grabbing her purse.

"I can't. I can't do this," she said. The next part was softer, barely audible. "I can't hurt you anymore."

She headed for the elevator, not quite running, but close enough. If she could get far enough away maybe she could cry without him seeing her.

Warren was not a man who did anything with expectation of failure, so it was fair to say he was absolutely and utterly confused by her reaction. "Hurt me?" He turned to ask her what she meant by that but the elevator doors were already closing.

His brows furrowed, he allowed himself to lean back on the chaise and try to figure out what had happened. Everything seemed to be going well. Maybe he'd pushed too hard,but she'd seemed willing. He snapped his fingers in an aha moment. It was probably the alcohol. What he'd interpreted as a flush of passion was obviously alcohol related. It was entirely his fault.

Not normally a man to swear, he felt this situation warranted it.‎ "Well, fuck." He picked up the bottle and frowned as he saw it was empty. Getting to his feet, he blew out the fire, and tidied up a bit while he kept playing the scene over and over again until even he wasn't sure what happened.

Whatever her problem, he was confident that he could get around it. He always got what he wanted. In the morning, with a clear head, he'd put together a game plan.‎ Warren was very good with plans.

With a decisive nod, he headed for the elevator himself. ‎While this wasn't the ideal way to spend the night, he actually was looking forward to taking his wings out, and laying down on the bed in relative comfort, his feathers keeping him warm.

Tomorrow was a new day.‎