A/N:Everything here belongs to the super talented Sanami Matoh. I just borrow them when ideas come bouncing into my head. I hope she doesn't mind. Rated M for non-explicit illusions to sex.
Ever since he was old enough to understand what was so great about dating, Drake has spent a lot of time imagining the perfect girlfriend.
He has to admit that, in his imaginings, she never owned boxer shorts with "SWAT" emblazoned across the back, and he never teased her about them while secretly being damn proud of what she'd accomplished. She never gave him the chance to brag to his other friends about how he was dating someone who could use a high powered sniper riffle to shoot an apple off someone's head from several hundred feet away without singing a hair (nor could he count on that precision when he was running down an ally with gun drawn after the perp. of the day).
She definitely wasn't sitting on the couch with him while a game played itself out on the TV, yelling just as loud as he was. She couldn't get him to pay for pretty much every meal with simply a smile and the promise that she would always remember exactly what he was going to order and how he wanted it, even down to how he preferred his hamburgers drenched in mayonnaise but that you'd better hold the onions because he was allergic. She couldn't make him change his shirt or tie just by raising an eyebrow when he came out of the bedroom.
Neither would she buy him an extra toothbrush so it didn't matter that he was always going home still wrapped in the morning after glow and forgetting to grab his off the bathroom counter. She couldn't send shivers down his spine by chewing on a pencil and smiling at him just so. He didn't have her scent memorized, nor had his dream girl ever stolen his t-shirts to sleep in because she claimed having something near that smelled like he did ( Old Spice deodorant, off brand soap, and a hint of tide laundry detergent, he'd been told ) made her sleep better on nights she couldn't have the real thing.
She never had the power to make him feel ten inches or ten feet just by looking him straight in the eyes. And she certainly didn't sit in his lap, face bent to bury in his hair, breath coming in shallow pants as he took her, her hands gripping his shoulders to keep herself steady even as his hands gripped her waist not quite tight enough to leave marks like the ones his mouth was making on her chest. And she never, ever, answered his mother's question of "Do you love him?" with a heartfelt, honest "Yes, and I couldn't imagine my life without him in it."
These days, Drake's really glad JJ came along to save him from the perfect girlfriend, because she sounded very boring indeed.