Disclaimer: if they were mine do you honestly think that i would sit at the computer all day long? Not so much.
Spoilers: None really. Slight reference to Dreamland II, but at this point i don't think anyone could really be spoiled. We've all seen every episode or at least the effects of every episode, right?
A/N: I wrote this today in about an hour, after i ate some powdered donut holes. Also kind of inspired by the first verse of "Beautiful Disaster" by Jon McLaughlin.
"She loves her momma's lemonade
Hates the sounds that goodbyes make
She prays one day she'll find someone to need her
She swears there's no difference between the lies and compliments
It's all the same if everybody leaves her."
He knows that she prefers donut holes over regular donuts. It has nothing to do with the fact that they are bite-sized, and everything to do with the fact that donuts are no longer made from a solid circle of dough and punched through, but are simply shaped into the familiar donut shape. Donut holes should therefore be obsolete. Their existence does not make sense because the process that the donuts go through no longer results in small balls of dough. So donut holes must be made separately. The fact that neither the donut nor the donut hole came first just adds to the mystique of the whole matter. It's an irony that never fails to delight her. She'd pick powdered donut holes every time.
He knows that she prefers heeled shoes to flat. Not to make her look taller, but because the arches in her feet are so high, flat shoes do not provide enough support and tend to make her whole body ache. The height of the heel is only a bonus, but he also knows that she secretly loves being short. It's easier to catch someone off guard when you're only five feet and a few inches tall.
He knows that she would rather have a bowl of cereal than a well balanced breakfast, no matter how many times she has urged, begged and commanded him to eat the latter. Cereal makes her feel like she's five, especially when there is a prize in the bottom of the box. He pretends not to look as she dumps a disgusting amount of sugar over her Rice Krispies, pours the milk on, and listens to the trademark snaps, crackles, and pops.
He knows that given a choice, she would choose to drive rather than relax in the passenger seat. This wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, but the reason is not that she wants to feel powerful or in command. She just wants to choose what radio station they listen to.
He knows that she hates the dishwasher and would rather clean her dishes by hand. It's not because the dishwasher is so big and the number of dishes she uses in a given week is so small. It's because the sloshing of the water and the scent of the soap relax her, almost as much as a bubble bath does.
He knows that at first, she smells simply sweet. He also knows that with a little investigation it is revealed that she smells of vanilla and currants in the winter and orange and mint in the summer. It is a combination of shampoo and perfume, mingled together in the perfect amounts to produce a fragrance that he has simply labeled Her.
He knows that nine times out of ten, she will search for a pen with blue ink even if one with black ink is sitting right next to her. Blue ink looks happier, hopeful. Her paperwork is done in blue, and save for a few entries, her personal journal is also. Her notes to him are written in red, green, or purple. He likes to think that he know what that means.
He knows that she has mixed feelings about her family. Sometimes she enjoys them and wants to be near them, but most of the time she would rather go it alone. It's not that she doesn't love them, but she was always the black sheep of the family in one way or another and her job is making it harder and harder to blend.
He knows that she used to speak with an accent. The first six years of her life were spent in Mississippi, and when she gets tired and nostalgic, her past is evident. She abandoned the accent after cruel teasing from new classmates further north, the first and last time she would ever let someone else's opinion dictate what she did.
He knows that on her free weekends, she sleeps in until 10, wears glasses instead of contacts, and can often be found in jeans or sweats. She craves these weekends, and often times does not answer her phone, or respond to e-mails. He tries to respect this, but sometimes a case is too pressing, his excitement and curiosity too much.
He knows that Gone With The Wind makes her cry. She doesn't cry for Scarlett, but for Rhett, a man who loved intensely and was not cherished in return. She sees him in Rhett, his past in Scarlett, herself sometimes in Bonnie, sometimes in Melanie, and sometimes she only sees herself sitting on the couch as an observer. When she's mad at him, she's Rhett and he's Scarlett and she wants to push him down the stairs too. But the last scene always creates a terrible feeling in her gut, for she sees his eyes in Rhett's- cold, hurt, distant.
He knows that she eats her ice-cream straight out of the tub. Ice-cream is an indulgence and should not be regulated by how much can fit into the bowl. She doesn't like toppings on the ice-cream, for they mar the flavor intended by the one who made the ice-cream in the first place. Bad days drive her to hot fudge toppings, but that's as far as she'll go.
He knows that she would rather have a burger than a salad, but after all these years she still cannot give in to the temptation in front of him. At least not on a regular basis. Ordering a side of fries with her salad seems to be a happy medium. The bee pollen has become a thing of the past.
He knows that her perfectly manicured nails are done by someone else, on one of those rare weekends she has all to herself. She does it to retain her femininity while holding a gun or treating his injuries. Biting her nails would not make her any less of a woman, but he doesn't tell her this.
He knows the sounds she makes when she sleeps, from peaceful breathing to brokenhearted crying. Different dreams produce different sounds, and only twice has he heard a giggle. When he hears her nightmares, he crosses from his room into hers, via their adjoining door, holds her until she wakes, then brushes her tears away before leaving again. They are silent through the whole process and the next morning they do not speak of it.
He knows that she loves the rain, actually preferring it to sun about 300 times a year. She says that the rain is honest. Beautiful things are still beautiful and ugly things are still ugly when it's rainy and overcast. In the sun everything looks good and in the grey slushy snow of DC everything looks depressed.
He knows that when she dies she wants him there. She doesn't want anyone else, and she doesn't want to be inside. She wants to feel the wind on her face, hear birds chirping, and have his arms around her as she drifts away. She plans her death the way other women plan their weddings, but she has never been like other women. For that he is grateful.