There’s no denying that; she just is.
The face of a goddess, and a body to put any goddess to shame, or Wendy might’ve paid more attention in those mythology classes instead of doodling rainbows and puppies and smiley-flowers.
But no boys’ names, surrounded with hearts and with her name pinned onto his last name to see how it looked. No girls’ names either, just so you know.
And there are really no words for the woman’s eyes.
She’s never really understood flowery descriptions of smouldering eyes, or frosty glares, or anything like that, but she could have sworn that those eyes managed both at once, made her feel uncomfortably warm and oddly chilled.
The woman is beautiful.
And, Wendy decides, throwing her sweat-dampened pillow at the wall and pouting after it, head still feeling thick and fuzzy from recently faded dreams, she bloody hates her.
Not for any of the reasons that a girl who is pretty or very pretty at best should hate a leather-clad beauty queen sex goddess. With a far-too-long made-up title.
Not because the male co-workers that she is trying to have a conversation with took one look at those eyes and that body and have no more time to spare the cute little blonde with her bunny-rabbit face and ballet dancer figure.
Not because even Frankie, who always said that looks don’t matter as much as a sweet nature and gentle spirit, would rather be glared at by that woman these days than smiled at by Wendy.
Not even because her handsome and kind and understanding boss, with whom she has, of course, been madly in love for ages now, watched the woman walk – strut, Wendy decided spitefully – very attentively indeed.
Although, she would add later when her conscience gave her unpleasant pokes over being so mean, anyone might strut if they looked like that.
If it had been the third prompting in her a seething hatred of all women born more attractive, it ought to have been put to rest, or at least soothed a little, when Mr. Joker had not an hour later that he might like her to drop by for a visit this evening. The familiar gentle glint in his eyes, now fixed on her as though he had never heard of the woman with the berry-red eyes and lips and didn’t care if he had, should have lessened the sting.
Particularly when, upon arriving at his flat at 7:30 on the dot, she had been pulled gently inside, and kissed and caressed and teased until his patience ran out and his touch became just a little bit uncontrolled. She liked these times best, because the sharp acute pleasure-pain when he tightened his hands over her hips and pulled her quickly and roughly against him made it seem realer than the whisper-light touches carefully designed to make her beg.
And this time was as much like a beautiful dream that nevertheless left her exhausted and aching a little, as always.
But now she’s beginning to think that she might flinch away the next time he touches her, and not only if he touches her where she still hurts because he hasn’t given her enough time to recover.
Because his hands are still beautiful, slim and pale with long and almost delicate fingers, and she still sighs and whimpers in pleasure when they trail gently down her throat and over her shoulders and where her waist curves in a little (but just a little, because she doesn’t have that hourglass figure like some people that she hates a lot). And yet, when she thinks about different hands, slimmer and paler, and as ice-cold as that blood-red gaze is scorching, she wonders hazily where that low moan came from, and flinches from the possibility that it was her.
Especially when Joker promptly wakes up, palm pressed to her forehead in an instant, alarmed that his little Wendy-bird is ill when he finds her tossing and turning from a fever that has nothing to do with too many hours making snow angels and catching snowflakes on her tongue and prancing down the street in her brand-new parka.
When he asks, with the gently teasing little smile Wendy loves most, if she’s been having naughty dreams again and if he might be able to help her feel better, the little blonde flushes beautifully, hides her face in her hands, and nods vigorously.
Joker has a moment of wondering if his dear little daydreamer actually is ill, when he finds himself knocked flat on his back by a Wendy-comet and covered in sweet, ecstatic girlish kisses.
He’s never seen her so enthusiastic before, but can’t bring himself to want to fight it, and happily lets those tiny hands explore him despite a hint of awkwardness that is only to be expected.
And long after, when Joker is asleep, one arm wrapped around her more protectively that he might while conscious, Wendy is still wide awake.
She tries dutifully to think how wonderful this evening has been, spending special time with the person she loves most in the world, and all she can see is that woman.
Those infuriating, amazing eyes.
The same eyes that sparkled with scornful, mocking laughter at Wendy’s dismayed little yelp when her shoe caught at the edge of the rug and a cup of coffee seemed to jump off the heavily laden tray she was carrying and would have ended up in that woman’s lap but for that woman’s razor-sharp reflexes.
“Now I see why you’re doing secretarial work,” she had murmured from directly behind the flustered little blonde blotting desperately at the coffee stain on the couch, sniffling back humiliated tears despite Joker’s reassuring pat as she had hurried past for some rags and stain remover. “Too bad; you’d be a decent model if you could take three steps without breaking something. I know I'd love to see you skipping around in some frilly panties and knee socks.”
It took the younger girl some time to recall how this breathing thing worked anyway, and that horrible woman had noticed. On her way out of the room after the short meeting, she’d called over her shoulder, gesturing to an industriously hyperventilating Wendy,
“By the way, Joker, it smells like an attic in here. Crack a goddamned window before your secretary passes out.”
If she had noticed two frosty glares, one in blue and one in green, following her out, she gave no indication of it.
After that had come an awkward little cuddle from Mr. Joker, and assurances that she was doing just fine and was not to listen to grumps with nothing good to say about anyone. This time she had been comforted, probably because that mocking gaze was no longer burning twin holes in her and making her stumble.
And when he had suggested that he might enjoy her company this evening if she would care to oblige, she had been far more than comforted.
Yes, thank-you, Mr. Joker, she had cared very much to oblige, and had thought no more on bloody gorgeous women who said cryptic things to confuse little blondes, until she was alone in her own little room at home.
With a soft hmph, Wendy snuggles closer into his arms and hopes fervently that she can manage to avoid running into that woman again.
Nevertheless, her last conscious thoughts, blurred at the edges by the beginnings of sleep, are of blood-red eyes and deep purple hair and all the witty comebacks she’ll have the next time that woman says something mean and mocking.
-----------------------------------------------------
Her luck holds for just a little over a week, during which she almost manages to forget why the sight of Nancy Makuhari made her so angry in the first place.
But, as everyone is well aware, luck never holds forever, and soon enough, Wendy is trying to look cool and disdainful while inwardly stomping about and pounding the floor and generally throwing a tantrum, as the gorgeous dark-haired woman slides into the chair across from hers in the café where she is attempting to have a life outside of work.
“Hello, Ms. Makuhari,” she greets boredly, trying very hard to emit an aura of leave-me-alone instead of please-don’t-laugh-at-me.
Nancy sends the younger girl a smirk.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit formal, Wendy-bird?”
“No,” the blonde huffs, bristling that this girl's casual use of Joker’s special, silly, teasing little pet-name for her. “And I think you’re being far too forward. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m meeting someone any minute now.”
“Actually, you’re not; you’re at home in bed with a flu. Don’t worry, I gave him the message for you.”
Big, puzzled blue eyes blink, and Wendy learns first-hand that that woman’s laugh is really kind of pretty, when it’s not malicious.
“How on earth did you end up speaking with my older brother?”
“I have my ways,” Nancy replies with an absent shrug. “By the way, you can tell him that he’s kind of sexy, in a really childish, innocent, dopey-sweet way. Just like his baby sister. You don’t have to tell him that part,” she adds with another smirk.
Wendy sighs.
“Did you need something?”
“Just trying to get to know my co-workers a little better,” the older girl says mildly. “But you don't seem to want much company right now.
Wendy chews the corner of her lip as Nancy moves to go. Logically, this is probably a trick of some kind. Some way to rope the stupid little office girl into acting like an idiot for her own amusement. But hasn't Mum always said that if you always assume the worst, that's what you'll invariably get? And hasn't Joker always said that her willingness to trust is something to cherish and protect?
“Wait,” she calls, clambering from her own chair and hurrying after Miss Makuhari. “Can I buy you a coffee while you're here? As thanks for making my brother go away,” she hurries on as one narrow purple eyebrow lifts slightly. “I think he was just going to ask for money again. He's an actor,” she adds, as though this explains anything.
Now Nancy looks like she's trying not to laugh, and Wendy is on the verge of retracting the offer she's already starting to regret, when she shrugs.
“I don't really like the coffee here, but there's a place a few blocks from here that does a killer Crantini.”
Well, I tried, Wendy thinks with a tiny inward sigh as she hurries to keep up with the older girl.
----------------------------------------------------------
It's only so long before Wendy begins to suspect motives aside from general neighbourliness, in some of the questions that that woman has been asking about Mr. Joker's plans and superiors, and about what exactly an “administrative assistant” does all day.
A tiny frown wrinkles her forehead, and she tries very, very hard not to feel hurt that there was another reason, that the girl next to her in this leather-lined booth isn't here just for her dazzling company. She looks very closely down at her fingers.
“Miss Makuhari--”
“Nancy.”
“Sorry; Miss Nancy, those are things that only Mr. Joker is supposed to know. For that matter, I don't even know how you know that I know, but I really can't pass on that sort of information.”
“Fair enough,” 'Miss Nancy' shrugs. “Business out of the way, now for pleasure.”
She leans swiftly forward then, and if she has any idea that the little blonde in her arms is tumbling quickly towards complete meltdown, she gives no sign of it.
Wendy holds completely still, not daring to move, uttering bewildered little cries and squeaks that are swallowed by those lips, not smirking for once, on hers.
She’d kind of like to do something other than sit here making stunned noises, because this is far more fun than she’d ever imagined having around Miss Makuhari, and she suspects that it’s rude to make her do everything.
But she also suspects that Miss Makuhari has done this with more people than she even knows, and probably has deplorably high standards. And while Wendy feels no particular need to be the best at everything she does, or at anything she does, she would like to be considered a respectable average.
She knows she’s not very good at this. Mr. Joker has nice names for it, charming innocence and simple inexperience, but she feels quite certain that Miss Makuhari would call it dumb kid and not worth my time if she were to squeeze too hard, or not hard enough, or sneeze at the wrong time, or get a fit of the giggles – she’s awfully ticklish, you know.
But finally she works up the courage to touch this girl back, and obviously she’s done something right, because when she runs her fingers through impossibly soft strands of purple at the back of the girl’s neck, she’s rewarded with a noise something like a growl and shoved hard back against the wall of the booth.
When Miss Makuhari’s hand slides down the back of her jeans, she brushes her fingers tentatively against the side of the other girl’s breast, and when she finds her hand seized and held there, her cheeks go from pink to flaming red.
When she massages hesitantly, Miss Makuhari laughs softly against her mouth.
“What, you want to get out of here or something?” she murmurs.
Wendy takes a long moment to mull this over…
…and promptly panics.
“Em, I think I should get home now, actually,” she stammers, trying to scramble over Nancy’s lap and out of the booth. “Jinx – my kitten – will be lonely, and he’s a terror when he’s alone too long, and I’m sure someone’s waiting for you somewhere, right?”
And that now that smirk’s returned in full force.
“Suit yourself,” she shrugs, giving the blonde a helpful little shove out of the booth, before catching her hand. “Just one thing. How about you don’t mention to anyone that I was asking questions?”
“O-of course not,” Wendy agrees hastily.
“And in return, I won’t mention to Joker that his little daydreamer’s been making new friends.”
Wendy stares, gaping helplessly, as Nancy breezes past her.
“I hate you, you know,” she finally manages with the most emphatic pout she can manage.
Nancy merely laughs.
“I know.” She stops briefly to ruffle a mass of sunny blonde hair and deliver a playful swat to a firm little posterior, before heading for the door. “Sweet dreams, Wendy-bird.”