A Different Kind of Perfect
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Disclaimer: The characters depicted and described in this piece are not owned by the guy who wrote the story, as she is not a guy, but a chick. The guy who owns the characters is indeed a guy, and would likely resent any assertion to the contrary.
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Summary: When it ends before it's even begun, and never could have worked in the first place, what else can you do but hate everything that reminds you of the happiness you almost had? Sorta Drake/Wendy.
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She hates the scent of gardenia.
Whenever she catches a whiff of it in the air, subtle and intangible as a ghost that might vanish when she looks directly, she can feel herself recalling in a sickening flood everything good that she doesn't have anymore, because people like her are never happy. Not really. Which is good. She could list on one hand – probably on one finger – everything she's done in the past decade that makes her deserve to be happy.
A prettily-kept garden. A flower cart at the side of a busy street. A girl's perfume. With nothing more, she would feel the overwhelming need to hide herself away before she broke down and sobbed like a silly child for the loss of something that was probably never all that important to him.
Whether or not it's really all that important to her when she isn't overwhelmed by everything and wishing she had a different life, she isn't certain and doesn't really want to know.
It's nicer to believe that she genuinely misses him, and misses a relationship that never could have worked because it started too late and she already belonged to an organization that he was already coming to hate.
A warm, easy friendship built up from indifference, and then mild interest, until it became warm, easy kisses.
Maybe it's those kisses that make her hate gardenias.
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She closed the door of the hospital room behind her with careful silence, trying not to wake him up if she hadn't already by tripping over that horrid door jamb and sprawling out on the floor with a squeak of dismay.
Thankfully, she had had the presence of mind to remove her extra-special cargo from the path of most direct harm; as she peeled herself from the floor, she examined the bundle carefully and reflected in satisfaction that everything seemed unharmed.
"Hey," a deep voice just now warm with amusement greeted from the bed.
"Feeling better, then?" she asked timidly.
He shrugged a little stiffly, because after all it takes more than a few days to completely recover from what he'd gone through, and really, he was incredibly lucky, and almost before she knew how, she found herself telling him that. Half-shouting that she – they – had been sick with worry, and he ought to be more careful, and what would they do if the worst happened next time, until the gathering ache in her throat choked her and she trailed off into pitiful sniffling that was absolutely ridiculous, because he was fine now.
Even more ridiculous than when, following that mission, word had come back that he was going to be miserable for several days, but he was alright. The sick terror and fingers gripping each other tightly, knuckles bloodless and aching, had given way to carefully quiet gulping sobs of overwhelming relief until Mr. Joker asked in mild alarm if she was alright, if she needed to go home. Her co-workers had thought that it was just so sweet that she had been so worried over someone who was a casual friend at best. She was the same way whenever Agent Paper was in danger. Soft-hearted little thing.
As her frantic stream of almost nonsensical words petered gradually into violent winking back of those silly tears, he looked slightly panicked, and then distinctly uncomfortable. After a long moment of silence, he gestured to the fragrant bundle she held tightly.
"Nice gardenias."
And she flushed brightly, because she had thought she was buying something else, something that meant "health and swift recovery", instead of "you're lovely" and "my secret love".
Then, after a bewildered second, she flushed some more and laughed a little.
"You read that silly book, then."
"Yeah, sure, it was interesting."
"'Better Gardening For Your Climate' was interesting?"
"You bet. I told you, you were right. It was perfect. You really know what a guy'll like."
"That's kind of funny," she said, eyes dancing impishly, "because I forgot to tell you, I sent you the wrong book. And it was a bloody pain in the arse, trying to use a book on the greatest American football players of all time to plant a decent garden at Mum's place."
"Yeah, yeah, okay, it's hilarious," he said, his annoyance nowhere near convincing to anyone who could get a good look at his eyes and notice his tiny grin, as she near-collapsed in half-hysterical giggles.
"I should have figured that you'd be the gardening type, though," she finally managed amid gasps, wiping away tears of mirth.
His smirk, patient and amused, almost seemed a challenge.
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
"Because," she replied pertly, "you obviously have a soft spot for silly, pretty little things, or you wouldn't be so crazy about me."
A slightly stunned silence, during which his eyes sought hers, shy and almost regretting her impulsive teasing.
Beckoning her over to sit at the edge of the bed, he absently twisted a lock of her hair for a moment. She leaned into his hand with a peaceful noise, and almost without thinking, turned her head slightly to brush a light kiss against his palm, rough and calloused.
He watched her in mild surprise for a long moment, and then pulled her closer and kissed her once for each of those flowers that meant the wrong thing. She returned them delightedly, with a few more thrown in just because, and both of them swore ever after that visitor's hour had been cut shorter that day than usual…
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Those kisses were strong and warmly protective and lacking any subtlety, like him, and sweet and clumsy and lacking any grace, like her.
And they were perfect.
Not the last they had, but far too close to it.
She stares for a long moment at the full, leafy bush whose identity was a delightful mystery all winter – they would find out what it was this spring, although Mr. Joker hadn't seemed to care especially, despite his attempts to feign interest to humour her. She had alternately loved and hated him for that.
Then, with a slightly shaking hand, she gathers a few of the half-grown flowers.
The tight, miserable knit in her throat has just begun to dissolve when two slim, pale hands land lightly on her shoulders and a low, quietly elegant voice murmurs against her hair that she's been playing in her silly garden long enough; he's beginning to get lonely.
This, of course, implies you've had enough time to play the carefree housekeeper, and I'm tired of being left alone with our failure while you blithely pretend it never happened.
She has learned, over the years, to translate.
While she's busy translating, he pulls her about to face him and kisses her heatedly and just a bit possessively. Maybe he knows exactly where her thoughts have been; he can always read her far too easily for her comfort, or for his.
She gives herself up and lets go of the memory of those other kisses as she sighs into his mouth and his fingers work at the buttons at the front of her blouse.
Something seems a little off, though. This would have been the moment for a sweet, gentle kiss to chase away lingering misery. She thinks that maybe a different man would have known.
But this is still perfect, in a different way, because it's him, and it's her that he's kissing, and that's all she's ever really wanted, at least until she stopped, and anyway does anybody ever really find who's perfect for them?
The little bundle of blossoms that she tucked behind her back to protect them are crushed against the side of the house as he pushes her back and presses in closely to hold her there. The perfume releases into the air, and the tears are dripping down her cheeks, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care to as he pushes her blouse back off her shoulders and presses a searing kiss to the side of her neck.
This is the way it will be, she thinks, breathing deeply the scent of those flowers as it mingles with the scent of sun-warmed soil and the drowsily hot summer afternoon and sweet grasses and a thousand other flowers that are all tied to here now and always.
She will always hate the scent of gardenias.
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End Notes: Eheh...anyone else think that if she'd run off with Drake, she'd be spending her time hating tea because it reminded her of Joker and made her sad?