Snapshots
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Summary: Sometimes it's the little moments that mean everything; and with a shared smile, two indifferent acquaintances become friends, and two friends become more.
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Disclaimer: I don't own Drake or Wendy, although I'm planning on learning how to make a decent plushie, just so I can make my Drake-plushie and my Wendy-plushie kiss. XD
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Sometimes, it's the one you least expect.
Not the one you expect the least, but the one you don't even consider because youjust haven't noticed them – that way, or at all, really.
Like that big, muscular American man they call in as part of the field teams sometimes. The one that always grumbles about it the entire time, and glares at your boss behind his back, and at you to your face until you wonder why, if he hates it that much, he doesn't just do something else. Really, you're a little afraid of him, even though you think it's wonderful and sweet and touching that for him, everything seems to lead back to the best way to make his daughter happy.
And he's not really your type. Even if you wonder at the back of your mind if longish hair looks that good on every man; and if he would sooner pick you up and throw you out the window, or swing you around like your Daddy used to do when you were little; and why he doesn't smile more often, because he looks so nice when he does. Even if it's never at you that he's smiling.
But you don't really mind. He's not really your type anyway.
Like that little blonde who works for the pompous jackass that always makes you hate not only the organization, but the whole damn country, despite how well they're paying you. She's cute, sure – nice smile; big bright blue eyes that always make the situation seem not that bad after all; legs that made you take a second and third and fourth look; hair just long enough to brush against your shoulder during a tumble in bed, that looks so soft that you think it must just be made for resting your forehead against while you drift off to sleep after.
But you never really noticed her. Because she's also incessantly cheerful, and you think you'd like her better if she lost it just once and started swearing; and she's a klutz who's wasted more good coffee by dumping it in your lap than you want to think about; and she's an air-headed little twit who may be smarter than she acts but makes damn sure no one ever finds out. And she's crazy about that pompous jackass anyway. Probably has a shrine to him in her closet.
Not that you care. You never really noticed her anyway.
Because despite her ballet-dancer body that you think would fit perfectly against yours and be warm and firm and the perfect armful, and her little bunny-rabbit face that would go from cute to stunning with some low light and an hour or two in bed, you're pretty sure she's got nothing interesting to say.
And despite his choppy ponytail that you swear you're going to tug free of its rubber band someday, and his broad, muscular chest that always makes you want to snuggle up and take a nap when you haven't had quite enough sleep, you wonder if he would really be all that interesting.
In a word, boring.
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But after all, most people are boring until you get to know them.
Like when you find yourself stranded in an elevator that gets stuck between floors and he sees you going pale and shaky and clammy and figures out immediately that you're horribly claustrophobic. So he talks to you to keep your mind off of it, and you learn some things about him that are really very interesting. How he loves camping, and practically lived outside, with a tent and a sleeping bag, for the entire summer after high school. And even though you hate camping – hate being cold and feeling grimy and achy from sleeping on the ground and bugs in your hair and cooking over a campfire – his enthusiasm is catching, and you almost want to try it. You make a mental note to sleep out on your balcony in a sleeping bag tonight. Start slow, and all that.
Or how he and his daughter watch cartoons every Saturday morning, and make waffles for lunch. Real waffles, in a waffle iron, with lots of icing sugar and blueberries. You have your doubts about the quality of those waffles – because really, he doesn't seem like much of a cook to you – but you don't say that. It's such a wonderful ritual, for just the two of them, and even though you don't say that either, you hope that they'll always find time for it. She'll come home from college on holiday, and watch those cartoons, and have those waffles, and know that she's home, with people who love her.
Or how he likes cats better than dogs because dogs are too much like saints and make him feel guilty. And anyway, he had a dog when he was younger, and he can never have another one, because he loved that dog more than most humans he's met, and he's never going to get that attached to an animal again, because it was agony when it died. You recognize that feeling from your brother accidentally stepped on your pet bunny and killed it, and you tell him that before you think better of it. Then you wait, resigned, for him to laugh, but he doesn't; and when you look again, he's just watching you, and he really does look like he feels badly for the little girl that you were.
Or how you realize that you haven't thought about how close this space is, or how long it might be until you get out, since he started talking to you, and you'd like to talk to him some more, but the elevator's just started moving, and through the overwhelming flood of relief and the sensation that you've just suddenly become able to breathe again, you can feel a tiny pinch of disappointment.
Like when you watch her out of the corner of your eye for a while after that day in the elevator, and find out some little things about her that are really kind of funny. How she drinks tea out of habit, but periodically swears away her first-born for a cup of really good strong black coffee.
Or how she loves jeans, and sweatpants and jogging shorts and those strappy t-shirts that girls wear to go to the gym, and is usually in some combination of them when she's called in very urgently; but she still flushed pinkly with just a bit of feminine pride when she showed up in that slinky red dress because she'd been called in from a friend's wedding, and turned more heads than she probably knew.
Or how, the more you watch them together, the more you think you might have been wrong about her being madly in love with her boss, because if she was, she probably wouldn't tease him as much as anyone can get away with, or giggle fondly and silently behind his back like an adoring little sister who might see her big brother as a hero but doesn't overlook his faults. Or question his decisions sometimes with a confidence that surprises him and leaves you stunned.
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Sometimes, the world can surprise you.
Like when you run into him at a theatre on your way from a movie you've finally made the time to see, because you've always loved stories about spaceships and giant bugs and alien cities ever since you started stealing your older brother's science fiction novels when you were eleven. You're surprised when he asks, smirking a bit, if you feel like seeing it again, but warns that if you spoil the ending, he'll kill you. You're even more surprised when it occurs to you that this hopeless realist, this complete technology snob, likes sci-fi.
And then, even though the movie was really bad, you go with him.
Like when you run into her at a theatre on your way to a movie that you're seeing to kill some time the night before the mission that was supposed to begin two days ago. Sci-fi's always been your thing when you don't have anything better to watch; even though you rarely find stuff that's good enough to make you really believe it could happen, the occasional one that pulls it off keeps you watching. You take a fifth and sixth and seventh look at her legs in that little blue sundress she's barely wearing, before it hits you: this prim, innocent little thing likes sci-fi.
And after, you realize that even though the movie was the most godawful piece of crap you've seen in years, you had fun.
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Sometimes, people can surprise you.
Like when he stops you in the hallway on his way out after that mission and asks if you wanted to do the movie thing again, because his flight doesn't leave until the following day, and he doesn't feel like an evening of bad television in a cramped hotel room. And anyway, he doesn't know anyone else here who likes this kind of movie.
Or when she drives right past your hotel after the movie and acts like it was the most natural thing in the world when she took you home with her. And it starts to feel pretty natural to you, too, when you're sitting on that big plushy blue sofa of hers – ugly as hell, but the most comfortable sofa you've ever seen – and finishing your fifth cup of coffee, because you've got nothing better to do, and she seems to like you being here.
Like when he doesn't pull away when you move closer and snuggle up at his shoulder. He even forgets to look annoyed about it, and his smirk is almost a real smile as his arm slides around you to pull you closer.
Or like when she climbs into your lap and almost makes you drop your damn coffee, but you realize you don't really care because she's soft and warm and purring like the kitten you keep swearing you're going to get for your daughter someday, if you can ever find a neighbour to look after it when you're gone.
Like how he doesn't pull away, either, when he makes a side-comment about Maggie being with her mother this weekend, and you ask with a little laugh to cover up your trepidation at venturing into a minefield, why he just made a face like he had toothache. Instead, he tells you all about Carol, all about how warm and friendly and energetic and irresistible she was. And then, all about how immature and self-centered and thoughtless and hurtful she could be. You listen, half-hearing and half-feeling the story because his voice is low and a little rough with old pain drudged up again by the thoughtless idiot that you think uneasily must remind him of her at times, as he tells you about a stupid boy in his early twenties who fell for a girl who was too insecure in her own skin and her own head to love anyone yet. As he tells you about that stupid boy's certainty that she really loved him, and she would want to change for him, and he would help her, and together they could get through anything. Then he stops, abruptly, and you look up like a kitten, sleepily annoyed because its owner has stopped scratching its head. But he doesn't tell you the rest, and when he changes the subject abruptly and with all the subtlety he can muster, you don't try to stop him; you just hope that maybe someday, you can find out how the story ends.
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Sometimes, people can really surprise you.
Like when you wake up the next morning and you're in your pyjamas in bed, even though you don't remember getting there. And when you get dressed and go into the kitchen, you find him waiting there, drinking coffee. You giggle a bit when he assures you, before even a good-morning, that he slept on the couch and he didn't see anything when you put you in your pyjamas, and there's coffee if you want it. Strong, black coffee.
Or like when she shows up at your door a couple months later and makes fast friends with your daughter by the grace of candy and puzzles before you can get downstairs. She says she was "in town", and thought she'd come say hi, but she seems upset, and after a while you pick out of her that a friend invited her to stay the weekend, and then took off without notice, and now she's stranded here because her return ticket is for Monday. You save her the embarrassment of stammering out a request, and ask, sounding grudging but not actually, if she wants to stay here. She tries to make herself scarce during Cartoons and Waffles on Saturday morning, and you think it's kind of sweet, even though your daughter drags her forcibly out of bed way earlier than you're sure she wanted, to join the fun anyway.
Like when you discover first-hand that those waffles are really good, and you decide never to judge someone's cooking by their appearance again.
Or like when you discover first-hand that she sleeps in an old AC/DC t-shirt three sizes too big for her. You try not to think about what boyfriend she swiped that thing from, or why you don't want to think about her old boyfriends.
Like when he wanders off after Saturday Cartoons to indulge in some good, solid pottery time and doesn't yell at you when you follow him like a pillow-creased, unkempt little shadow, watching open-mouthed and blushing and far too warm all of a sudden as his hands slide wetly over and through the clay.
Or like when you happen to notice her out of the corner of your eye, watching you, intent and bright red and glassy-eyed. You ask what the hell she's staring at, and she stammers and fidgets and finally manages to choke out that you're really good, and would you consider selling her one? You work out a compromise: you'll give her one for a wedding gift when she ties the knot with her boss. It only occurs to you later to wonder why that made her stomp away, looking like a little thundercloud instead of a silly little girl being teased about that cute boy she likes.
Like when he drives you back to the airport and waits with you until your plane gets there, and catches your arm as you're walking to your gate. You spend the entire plane ride in a daze, a silly dopey little smile on lips still tingling slightly from a brusque, hasty, but completely perfect kiss.
Like when you see a noisy little shape pelting across the pompous jackass's office the next time they call you in, and you end up with an armful of cute giggling blonde. Her hair is tickling your nose and making you sneeze, but you don't notice that as much as you notice that it smells like candy and oranges.
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But not all surprises are good surprises.
Like when it leaves you stunned and speechless, with an ache of part-anger and part-God-this-isn't-happening-this-isn't-her-it's-gotta-be-a-trick, to hear that cheerful, happy chirp become low and menacing or sharp and severe by turn; to see a sweet expressive face meant for warm smiles of glitter and sunbeams drawn into a glare that seems so out of place you could almost laugh if you weren't busy loading a gas bomb to help out the ones who really deserve it even if she's the one you want to protect. You steel yourself for the possibility that she might not walk away from this if Joker takes her failure too seriously. She's made her own bed, but damned if you wouldn't like to join her in it, pull her into a bone-crunching hug and keep her there until she grows a brain and stops this and everything's okay again.
Like when you feel your heart drop straight through the pit of your stomach – which already dropped clear through the floor when they told you that your boss and big brother and best friend and lover all at once has been captured by a group you know from first-hand experience is violently unstable – when you dial Mr. Joker's cellular and a deep, gruff voice answers. You haven't heard it in years, but you remember in a second why you could listen to it for hours, feel it against your cheek when he let you snuggle up like you really were his little sister. And when you remember that he would never let you snuggle up like that now, you want to cry and beg him to forgive you because you're not a bad person but some things just need to be done and unfortunately it's you who has to do them because Mr. Joker is too busy for trifles like this, especially with being kidnapped and all. But you can't cry, or beg, or ramble like a nervous little girl, because Mr. Joker's life is in danger; you can only draw your mouth into a thin, firm line and ask with no hint in your voice of the tears clouding your vision, "Is this Drake?"
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Sometimes, you can't tell whether a surprise is good or bad.
Like when you find that letter in your mailbox months after everything's settled back down to normal, marked with a name you've never heard of and a return address you don't recognize. You feel something both good and bad punch you in the gut when you take out the little slip of pale-pink paper, smelling faintly of roses, and your eyes land immediately on the name signed at the bottom in her tidy, feminine script. The good almost outweighs the bad when you skim over the lines about I'm glad you lot stopped us in the end; I know we deserve whatever happens when they find us, but I hope Mr. Joker can get better first; please, please, please write back and tell me if the little girl is okay, the youngest Paper Master, you know, she didn't look like she was moving when we left and I think I can deal with anything else if you tell me that she's alright now. That sounds like the girl you used to know – your klutzy little ballet dancer with her big soft sky-blue eyes reflecting everything she's feeling, and her soft spot towards kids, especially cute little girls like your daughter was when she met her. Then your eyes catch on a different line, and the bad begins to balance with the good pretty well. I'd better go now; I still have to mail this and be back before Mr. Joker knows I'm gone – I don't think he'd like me writing to you. You'd almost decided to write back and tell her what she wanted to know, and even that you know it wasn't her fault, and she's still a good person as far as you're concerned. But that last line makes you so angry that you miss the wastebasket with the crumpled-up piece of pink rose-scented paper.
Or like when you stop by the post office on your way back after a quick run into town for some necessities, and there's a package for you under that silly name you've been giving everyone around here. The address is from the U.S., and there's only one American you even know anymore. You can feel a pair of sharp, cool green eyes on you while you rip into your present; can feel them growing sharper and cooler when you give a choking laugh of disbelief as you pull a handmade pottery bowl from amid a nest of bubble-wrap and Styrofoam. When a letter tumbles out after the Styrofoam chips, you feel your heart stop for a second, and before you know it, you're sniffling quietly into your pillow like a silly little girl over some of the lines, full of achingly familiar character however austere the typed words may look: I wasn't going to write this, but I felt bad not telling you – Anita's just fine, even though she's a hell of a lot less sympathetic towards you than I am; I know everyone makes mistakes, but you messed up big time; I guess congratulations are in order, if you're living with Joker now; I sent you the bowl I promised you for a wedding gift – it was going to be a teapot, but the damn handle kept falling off; I hope you two are happy; try to keep him out of trouble.
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Sometimes, you don't know what you're going to do until you're already doing it.
Like when you find yourself on a plane to the country you're probably least welcome in right now, because you know you won't be able to sleep again until you find him and explain that he was wrong, and a wedding gift is hardly appropriate for two roommates. Your conscience won't let you just keep it, after all. This is risky, of course, but you've planned it as carefully as you've ever planned everything; you know that you're good at staying undetected, and it doesn't hurt that you know someone, a friendship built up completely aside from business matters even though you met originally through Joker. The book you packed in your carry-on stays there, untouched, as you read and re-read that letter until it begins to fall apart.
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Sometimes, you get another chance.
Like when she shows up at your doorstep, kind of like last time but with a big pottery bowl that you made with her eyes in your mind and her voice echoing in your head and the smell of her hair sharp in your memory instead of candy for your daughter. She foregoes the blushing, stammering explanation involving disorganized and untrustworthy friends, and just shoves the box back at you.
"You were wrong; we didn't get married."
"…That's why you're here?"
"I didn't want to keep it under false pretences. Although, I was tempted; it's really nice."
"Then maybe you should try to talk him into marrying you. Just wear that AC/DC t-shirt of yours when you ask; if he's got a pulse, he'll go for it."
"I don't want to marry him."
"Huh. Well, then, let me know when you find someone, and I'll mail it back to you."
A long pause, heavy and expectant and agonizing. You don't know why tears are gathering at her lashes, forming bright, wet crescents, or why she's choking on a laugh; but you do know that when she throws herself against your shoulder, you've pretty much got to catch her, and when her hair tickles your nose, you feel like laughing too and you're sure your eyes are a bit wet, because you've just caught a whiff of candy and oranges.
Finally, her hands bunch up into your shirt, and she smiles up at you, full of glitter and sunbeams like her smile is supposed to be, even though there's a big damp spot on your shoulder from her tears.
"I think I just did."
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End Notes: Well! That was fun! I'm not sure if Drake managed to stay in character, but he felt more or less reasonably accurate.