A/N: This was written, poked and inspired by friends Aria and Raye. A companion piece to False Starts, this is the story of Nigel, the guy who did not work out with Cordelia in the prologue, and what happens to him.

~*~

Downtown Edgemont was glittering with neon signs and street lamps that Thursday evening as Nigel Kent left Marciano's Ristorante and bid a polite farewell to colleagues Kiri Sterling and Thomas Ashton. Wending his way slowly down the sidewalk, Nigel glanced at the shops and restaurants as he walked by, his head held with the firm chin a precise parallel to the ground.

It was slightly ironic, he reflected. Exactly a year ago, to this very day, he'd taken a woman on a date to that very restaurant. Cordelia Wayne had been beautiful, intelligent and compatible. They both liked Mozart and Browning and their filet mignon cooked medium-well-done.

Her eyes had been sorrowful and apprehensive when she'd gently told him that it wouldn't work out, but no regrets. Somehow, he hadn't been devastated, either.

They still kept contact for a while. Cordelia was doing well, last time she emailed him. Engaged, someone from R&D whose name he forgot, but she seemed happy. "You'll find some girl, I'm sure," she'd written, a bit wryly but very honestly, "Someone who can bring out true love in you. I'm sure it's there somewhere."

He paused for a moment, his thoughts abruptly curtailed by the loud honky-tonk blaring out as he passed a bar. So different from his world-- it was noisy to the point of being intrusive; the music and raucous laughter and shouts, a sports game blaring in the background. He was almost caught in fascination (the strange slightly repulsive magnetism of the opposite) when something else shattered into his orderly world.

Nigel stumbled back, an exclamation of surprise on his lips, as someone stormed out of the bar and barreled into him, and felt, more than saw, the glass of what she was carrying slop all over his jacket. Whoever it was let out a muffled string of virulent expletives before hurriedly stepping back. Nigel glanced from his jacket, which had a spreading stain of... something on the right side, to the slim, short-nailed hand that was holding a half-empty glass, and finally up to see a loose mane of copper hair shiny enough for a Vidal Sassoon commercial, and, half-hidden behind it, a striking face, the vestiges of stormy anger in a pair of green eyes being gradually replaced by mortified horror.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the girl, who looked like a college student, exclaimed immediately. She gave a harried, ragged sigh as she stepped back, surveying the splotch of iced tea that stretched from the edge of his lapels to cover a hand-sized expanse. "I was just..."

"It's all right," Nigel replied, staring at her as she rifled through her purse. Tall, a slightly angular thin figure, dressed in a low-cut cream-coloured blouse and a black skirt that barely reached to mid-thigh, she had a long, floral-print scarf around her neck and high heeled pumps.

"Damn it," the girl muttered, shutting her purse with a snap, "I don't have any tissues... I'll go back in there and get some napkins." A furrow between her brows, she squared her shoulders as if preparing for battle, and stepped back through the door of the bar.

It wasn't necessary, but since she'd run in for them, Nigel lingered at the door, because it would be rude to leave her running a fool's errand. A sudden round of catcalls caught his attention, and he opened the door wider to see what was going on.

"Back again, Aria?" a man, whose face was shrouded in shadow, called out, his voice loud over the blaring music and game, "Gonna have a beer with me this time?"

The girl who had spilled her drink on him stiffened and continued determinedly towards the bar. More hoots followed her every step, shadowing her like persistent demons.

"Napkins," Aria said tersely to the bartender. "Paper towels. Something."

At that moment, two rather jarring, unusual things happened, almos simultaneously. The whistles and shouts of the men faded into silence, and Aria felt a smooth, cool hand on her bare arm. Startled, she looked up.

He wasn't looking at her now, but glancing a but suspiciously around the establishment, looking as out of place as diamonds in a gas station, and the tattoos-and-t-shirts that sat at the tables turned their attention to him, instead. Evidently the contrast was enough for the obnoxious comments to abate. The bartender handed her a handful of napkins, and her movement to take them turned his attention back to her.

"It's all right, really," he said again, his voice soft and civil. "Come on, let's leave." His eyes earnest, he held out his arm in a manner that she decided was very... 'old school', and she wordlessly took it. Together, they stepped back outside into the cool night air.

"Here," she held up the slightly crumpled napkins, and dabbed ineffectually at the spot on his jacket. "Look, I'm really sorry," she started, "I just... wasn't watching where I was going. My mind was elsewhere." She didn't want to admit to this virtual stranger that too many catcalls like the ones he'd just witnessed could break a person. She didn't want to talk about how often it happened, because she'd appear either narcissistic or uptight. Or perhaps both. She didn't know, but...

"Don't worry, it's just a spot," he said reassuringly, using the same sort of tone he often employed when speaking with frazzled employees working overtime. "A little water will take care of the problem." Actually, it was getting a bit sticky, but he was sure that most anyone, coming out of a place like that, would be a bit distracted. And to be completely fair, he was partially at fault as well, for lingering in the doorway.

She sighed. "Look, Mister... sir, I know how expensive suits can be. I'd hate to have damaged yours by my carelessness. I'll pay for cleaning it."

"You don't have to, really, Miss... Aria, is it?" he told her as gently as he could, "I'd never wish to give you any trouble."

"That's a first," she chuckled dryly. "But I insist. Just... allow me? It would make me feel better."

A few seconds' thought later, he acquiesced. "Very well," he remarked, "Oh, how rude of me. My name is Nigel Kent, and you are Aria---?"

"Call me Aria Dawn," she replied. Everyone did.

"Miss Dawn, then," he said formally, "Where were you headed, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Home, from work," she answered. "Was stopping for something to drink, and... well, I'll find a taxi and head on back to my apartment." She waited for him to hand over the jacket.

"I see," he said quietly, before making a sudden request. "Do you wish for a ride home? I'm parked not too far away."

She looked at him, startled and a bit astonished. Surely he wasn't offering out of the goodness of his heart, unless he believed that she was actually...

"I don't do that kind of job," she said flatly.

"What type?" he looked at her, genuinely mystified. "I was merely taking into consideration that it's rather busy around downtown right now, and a free taxi might be some time in coming. I swear that I'm not a stalker or a criminal or something..."

"You mean that you're just offering a ride, no... expectations of any sort?" her face was a wee bit incredulous. "No charge, no strings attached..."

"Why should there be strings attached?" he asked, keeping his voice light, "Unless you live in a different state or something?"

She laughed. Very old-school, indeed. "No, I don't. Just about ten minutes away," she replied, "Very well, Mr. Kent. I accept."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, and held out his arm for her once again, leading her down the sidewalk and managing to look somehow distinguished and proper despite the stain on his suit. She felt somewhat odd, though not in an unpleasant way.

He had a silver BMW, with an interior clean as an unused vase. He opened the passenger side door for her, and she crawled in, a bit gingerly. He sat down in the driver's seat, and turned on the engine. "Where do you live, Miss Dawn?" he asked politely, as classical music filtered through the stereo.

"1240 Athens Street, an apartment building..." she started, her voice soft and enthralled. "Rondo for Piano in A, by Mozart."

He looked at her, more than a little surprised as he pulled the car out of the parking lot. "You... like Mozart?"

"I prefer Beethoven, and confess to having a girlish weakness for Chopin, but yes." She smiled for the first time that evening, her eyes lighting up, "I just finished my undergrad in music." Sigh. "I suppose I'm in the 'lean years' right now. Have to establish myself before I can find reasonably steady work. Hence being stuck in my current not-as-fun job until things get better."

"I see," he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring dreamily off into the twilight through the passenger side window, and humming along with the music. Silently so as not to disturb her, he turned left from Chase Boulevard to Athens, and scanned the buildings for 1240.

"It's the ugly gray one with the ginkgo tree in the front," she remarked, and he turned into the apartment building's parking lot. Stepping out of his car, he walked over to her side, and pulled the door open. She looked up at him with an almost-sad smile. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"I know," he answered, "but I'm used to it." It was the truth. "Is it offensive?"

"Oh, no, of course not," she quickly reassured him, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm just... most guys don't, you realize."

He had a vague idea, yes. "Do you wish for me to walk you up, Miss Dawn?"

She chuckled, "I've a feeling that you're 'used to' that as well. All right, I guess." Even if she couldn't get used to this sort of rare gentlemanly behaviour, it was nevertheless pleasant to indulge in when possible. He nodded, and fell into step next to her as she quickly unlocked the door of the apartment building and started ascending the staircase.

A painted door marked with a tarnished gilt '3D', dark gold on a background the colour of mint ice cream. She turned, and held out her hand. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Kent," she said matter-of-factly. "Can I take the coat now, and perhaps you can leave me with some way of contacting you after I get it washed?"

He shrugged out of the jacket, and handed it to her before grasping her smaller hand in his, giving it a shake. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a business card. "Here," he told her, "My name, my office and cell phone numbers, as well as my email address." She glanced at it. Nigel M. Kent, Senior Analyst, Department of Finance, Wayne Enterprises. Two rows of phone numbers. nkent .com. Different world, entirely.

"Thank you," she said softly, not looking at him as she inserted her key into the lock, his business card clutched in her free hand and his coat draped over her arm.

He nodded, and stepped back as the door opened inward. She pulled the key out, and glanced at him. "Have a good night, Mr. Kent."

"You too..." he replied. She nodded, and she was just about to close the door when a sudden, random thought entered his brain. "One question."

"Yes?" Brilliant green eyes peered at him through the crack of the door.

"Is Aria Dawn your real name?" It was such a prying, personal question, and Nigel regretted it almost as soon as he'd asked it. Her eyes widened for a moment, and he was just about to leave with a polite, flustered apology, when she spoke again.

"No," her voice was soft, as she stared up into his serenely handsome face. "Aria Dawn is just the alias I use. My real name is Gwendolyn Dawn Robinson. Wendy."

He didn't seem on the verge of using that bit of information for harm. "Good night then," he said earnestly, "Wendy."