Shutterbug , a SWAC fiction

Prompt from EmbracingGrace1 to create a Christmas Channy fic. Other criteria was to include Enrique Iglesias' new song 'Tonight'. SWAC is not mine. Please review!

Here's the situation
Been to every nation
Nobody's ever made me feel the way that you do

I have been around the world and back. When I was seven, I ventured to Tuscany. There I had witnessed the biggest let down in his small frame of life. My parents had told me that I was going to see the Leaning Tower of Pizza. Yet, here I was in the middle of a tourist dense area (with not one fan mind you) staring at a crooked building.

I had been terribly confused. By the third round of explanations it had occurred to me that he was not going to get his pizza. I had dreamt all week about sinkingmy teeth into the gooey sun baked crust. When we had checked into the hotel, my first order of business was to find an ice machine. Surely nobody would notice if I brought a cooler full of cheese and pepperoni back with me.

Needless to say, once the plan had fallen through, I ordered a deluxe pizza on my arrival home. Well, my mother did. The manager refused to sell me a pie without parental permission. That, and daddy's shiny platinum.

Still, despite my infinite travels, including the marvelous Berlin, I had never found the girl to make my skin melt. I had set foot on every continent, sans Antarctica. Because let's face it. There was no way I was going to sign autographs for a bunch of penguins. No matter how big of a following I had.

When she had shown up to the studio it was different. I didn't need a map to get from point A to B. Heck, I didn't even need to hire someone to read the map for me. As if I would decipher my own map. That's what the hired help was for. I did find I was getting lost though. Unless someone had mapped out her eyes though, I was officially lost. And men never stop to ask for directions.

Sure, women like to toss around the idea that it's a matter of pride. Psh, it is not. Men just like to stick things out. It's social Darwinism. It's hot if a man can find his way around anything. In the world of Chad Dylan Cooper, being hot was the ultimate. Until she came anyway.

Curse you Sonny Munroe. Curse you and that high pitched effervescent giggle of yours that escapes your lips when you have butterflies flittering around your stomach. Curse the way you batted your lashes when you had something honest to goodness stuck in your eye and I thought you were flirting with me. Granted, I was behind the doorway and you couldn't see me. I wasn't stalking you. I was simply waiting for the right minute to accidentally bump into you. On purpose.

I hate the way your hair helicopters around your head. You turn with a triumphant hump on your heal and it swats me in the face. What's it like to purposely bury my face into your hair. Rather than experience the backlash of those dark curls of yours. Then I could finally resolve my internal debate over whether you smell like sun-kissed raspberries or blackberry sage. It's not like I've spent hours in the shampoo aisle at the store trying to figure it out. I'd rather not get clobbered by fans. I've figured out it's some sort of berry. I know it's not strawberry. That's what mom smells like.

You invited me over to your apartment to help you decorate for Christmas. I've managed to get the tree to stay upright after it nearly knocked me over. With your CD on repeat, I've heard this song three times now. I sincerely wish you'd push next. Otherwise I'm going to be up at all odd hours of the night singing Deck the Rooftop. God knows what'll be thrown at my head if I do.

You're sporting tinsel like it's some kind of feather boa. Would it be ridiculous to say you look insanely cute right now? Silver fragments are stuck to your hair. Nevertheless, you hop around with the energy of all nine of Santa's reindeer, belting out the lyrics, surprisingly on perfect key.

Somehow the tree lights find their way around the tree. The ornaments are hanging on the artificial limbs. Now all we need is to put the star on top. There's a step ladder beneath my feet, holding my up in the air. I manage to prop it up there, constantly distracted by your holiday sweater. It's unfortunate the way it disguises your every curve. It's okay, I have them memorized.

You make a comment that goes over my head. Howbeit, it throws me off balance, a rare occasion in the Cooper legacy.

I fell twice that day. Once in love, and off the ladder.

But tonight I'm loving you
Oh you know
That tonight I'm loving you

Forget the shutterbug paparazzi. We can blame it on the mistletoe.