Category: J/D, more particularly Donna. Pure, pure fluff.
A/N: Written for a friend who asked me for some fluff to cheer her up. :) Enjoy.
Blonde
There is something about her effervescence that pulls me to her. Her hair shines in the reflected glow of the candles and the slightly muted lights of the ballroom. Her eyes sparkle with happiness and a hint of naivite, refreshing in a room full of oppurtunists and those whose expressions reflect their own private, slightly cynical amusement. The laughter that bubbles out of her open mouth is free and childlike, allowed to run free in its faith that happiness is a basic right rather than an idealistic, unattainable concept. A beautiful dress flows off her body, but somehow it's not important, shoved into the shadows by her face.
She's blonde, and wonderfully so. I do not love blondes, and neither does the man who rests his hand on the small of her back. Or perhaps we do, and it has taken this one, true blonde to show us what we have been missing all these years as we whiled away our lives with animalistic, argumentative brunettes. Instead, she's funny and warm and bright and fundamentally beautiful, rather than fundamentally flawed. She's a muse rather than an icon, this girl-woman holding the glass of champagne in one hand while the other one gestures at an impossible speed. The man next to her cannot possibly understand the magnitude of what she is, but occasionally I catch him glancing at her and I realise that perhaps I am not the only one who sees her this way. Perhaps she lights up his world too, and for that I am glad. I thought she could love me, once, and it took me time to realise that it was he who was meant to be with this woman.
They're alone now, and they're arguing and laughing at the same time. He focuses more intently on the conversation, letting his guard drop, and she sees the almost imperceptible change in him instantly and snatches the glass out of his hand, holding it out of his reach. He stretches his arm out, and she frowns and says something. He drops his hand, chatistised.
Watching them argue is beautiful, like a perfectly-orchestrated ballet that only they can hear the music for. There are rules there; although I do not know what they are, I know that they are there, set in stone, unmovable. They're both aware of them although I doubt that either of them has ever stopped to consider that they exist.
She puts the glasses on the tray of a passing waiter, out of his reach, and he pouts, which makes me laugh. She also begins to chuckle, and his eyes visibly light up.
"Jack?" My wife calls behind me.
He catches her hand and drags her onto the floor to dance, and I turn away, a little guilty. This is not my relationship to watch. Behind me, I know, the two of them are dancing perfectly, even though I know for a fact that he cannot dance at all if he has any other partner. I steal a quick glance back as the clock counts down to midnight, and just before my wife catches me and kisses me I see his lips meet hers, and although there may be fireworks and cheering all around them, these two are oblivious, caught up in their own private welcome to 2010.