Enough
Summary: "He isn't sure he likes the idea that he has that much control over her, even if he has made it clear that he will accept nothing less."
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted are not owned by the author, and are used here without permission. The passive voice is also being shamelessly abused in a way that would be the cause of much weeping and gnashing of teeth in most English professors that the author is familiar with.
Sometimes he likes to watch her. Even when he is very busy, he somehow finds a few moments in each day to simply observe her mannerisms and expressions, trying to read her thoughts.
He has become quite good at it, he imagines.
He knows that sometimes, it hurts her that she isn't smarter, more interesting, and several other things that she seems to imagine he wants her to be.
This makes him laugh, not an amused laugh, just a laugh at the irony of the fact that she is perfect for him, as she was and as she is, and does not know it.
He doesn't say that she's brilliant. Because she's not.
She is smart – he sometimes underestimates just how smart, even now – but she is not brilliant.
It takes her a lot of time and effort to understand things that seem obvious to him. It is, he knows, only fair to note that it takes most people time and effort to come to the conclusions he finds plain and simple. He rejects the idea out of hand that it is not a matter of intelligence, but of madness.
Sometimes it irritates him that she takes a few extra steps to arrive at the same place, but more often he can only bring himself to appreciate and love that she is trying so stubbornly.
He doesn't say that she's absolutely fascinating. Because she's not.
Not really.
Sometimes he thinks she might be if she would talk about anything other than their work, because he knows all about that already and really, he likes to discuss something else sometimes, but she seems terrified of annoying him with idle chatter, and he can't blame her for it, since it's his own fault for brushing past those little side-comments and remarks about her life outside of work back when she used to make them.
He doesn't say that she's beautiful. Because she's not.
Really.
A pretty face and a decent body.
Better than decent. Nice.
Better than nice. Fantastic. A body he could dream about, if his dreams weren't already filled with big blue eyes and lots of short blonde hair that he somehow knows smells faintly of fruit and flowers and sweets, and a warm smile, easily drawn to a mouth that is just too sweet and pale pink, and soft, he's sure, although he doesn't know. He hasn't done something silly, like kiss her to find out.
And sometimes he even has dreams that aren't about her at all.
Most of the time, in fact.
It isn't romantic, but it's true, and that's far better for someone like him, who isn't young or carefree enough for that sort of silliness anymore, and for someone like her, who likes that about him and aspires to it herself.
Although, he's fairly willing to bet that she hasn't always aspired to it.
He remembers the cheerful, talkative, easily-flustered child that she came to him, and wonders vaguely and maybe a little wistfully when she stopped laughing and chattering, and if it was because she stopped tripping over anything that wasn't bolted down and at least half of everything that was.
In the dream he had last night, she still had long hair and smiled a lot despite the bruises on her elbows and the scratches on her knees.
Sometimes he wonders, although not consciously, if this gradual shift to poise and cool efficiency was entirely worth those cute little mannerisms that made him laugh softly when he was sure she wasn't paying attention, and brightened his day far more than he would have admitted out loud.
Because even though it is true that a person who doesn't grow has no right to live, it is equally true that there is no point to growth if it makes one so miserable that they no longer want to.
He doubts very much that it will come to this point with her; she seems quite satisfied with the changes in her own personality.
Sometimes he wonders if this is because he is satisfied with them.
If he urged her to, if she thought he wanted it, would she try to change again?
This thought is oddly disturbing to him when he thinks about it, which is not often. He isn't sure he likes the idea that he has that much control over her, even if he has made it clear that he will accept nothing less. But he knows that no matter what else she may be, she will always just be Wendy. Relentlessly trusting and almost absurdly loyal to those lucky enough to have earned it of her, an idealist who believes herself a pragmatist, and an eternal romantic with the adorable tendency to take herself very, very seriously.
That is why, when he bothers to think of the matter at all, he knows that he will somehow recognize her after Mr. Gentleman's return, and be drawn to her.
Then, in the new world, he can look for who and what else she really is, underneath the instability of a young woman who will try to be what those around her think is best.
But not until then.
Until then, there is simply no time, and no point.
What will possibly be gained by giving himself, and her, more to lose when their goal is reached?
For now, this is how it must be.
He hopes that she understands, and he knows that she does.
After all, she always understands.
And, for now, that is enough.
End Notes: As with nearly all my pieces featuring this universe, I am doing some editing, and I think it better reflects my view of both of the characters: she's got a brain, and even uses it, and he knows that and even appreciates it. Andputters about happilyjust on the wrong side of loony. XD