Hey guys! I come bearing gifts; mainly ACAW fluff! There just isn't enough of it out there, you know.

I don't feel like writing a huge A/N, so I'll just say that I own nothing in this story, not even the amazing British anti-fairy and his amusing wife.

I do not love my wife. I care for her, may even go so far as to say I like her — in all her southern, crooked toothed glory — but love? No. We are married because our counterparts are married, no other reason.

"Anti-Cozzie? Where'd ya go?" Speak of the devil and he — she — shall appear. The southern accent pulls me from my thoughts, and I sigh. Then I give my wand a twirl to poof her right to me.

I almost chuckle at her confused expression. "I'm right here, dearest. Is there something you require?" She's holding a book in her hands: Scary Plotter. She's been at my fiction novels again. Why, I have no clue. Although, I usually find a few pages torn out every time I re-read a book that she's had. What does she do with the pages, eat them?

"I don't think there's nuttin' I needs . . ." She replies, but then seems to remember why she was calling for me. "Oh! Can ya reads me a story?" She grins at me through her not-so-perfect teeth. When I don't respond, she gives me puppy dog eyes. "Pleeeeeaase?"

Darn those adorable eyes. "Fine," I agree. I'm only doing this because I was in meetings all day yesterday. Not because I like reading to her or anything, just because I left her all alone with nothing but books for company. She hates 'big long chappy books', (unless she can tear out the pages) as she calls them, but loves the little picture books I occasionally bring home. Oddly enough, she likes it when I read to her (even if it is about psychology, a subject she finds most tiresome).

Her pretty pink eyes light up, and she lets out a shrill "yay!" I sigh and rub my temples. I hope I still have a few migraine pills left in the cupboard . . .

She trades the Scary Plotter novel for a book off of the bookcase in front of me, and thrusts it in my face. "This one! This is a real good story!" As soon as I take the book from her blue hands, she settles herself onto my lap. I quickly open my mouth to object, but she lays her head on my chest, and it would be so rude to ask her to move now . . . but I'm only doing it because I'm her husband, and I suppose I could allow it, just this once. Not because it feels nice, having her curled up on me, nestled into my body. Not at all. Just because I'm her husband, and it is to be expected of me to allow her some cuddling.

The story she's picked is an old favourite of hers: 101 Bulldogs. I give a little hum in approval, and open the book.

"Once upon a time, a bunch of dogs escaped from a pet store. These little puppies were all one breed: Bulldog. Black Bulldogs, white Bulldogs, even spotted Bulldogs . . ." I begin to lose myself in the story, and try to mimic the range of tones it presents me. High pitched for the puppies, low pitched for the humans, and for Antella Da Evil, a whiny drone that is not unlike that of Timothy's. Anti-Wanda giggles whenever I use her voice. After a while though, her giggles stop. When I cease reading to glance down at her, I find that she is asleep, snoring contentedly — but softly — on my chest.

I sigh, not because she's drooling —which she isn't, thank the lord — but because I'm trapped. I don't dare wake her though, because an awoken Anti-Wanda is an angry Anti-Wanda. Not because she looks so sweet when she sleeps or anything, I just don't fancy having the wrath of my wife upon me right now.

I can't help but think that it is a good thing I'm tired as I wrap my arms gently around the sleeping anti-fairy's waist, and drift off to sleep myself.

A tiny 'tap tap tap' wakes me. I blink open my eyes, and see a blue . . . something tapping on my monocle. "Ahhh!" I scream, my accent more pronounced than ever. The blue thing recedes, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see it is just Anti-Wanda's finger.

"Y'all fell asleep! Well, I did too, but first! So you's a copycatter!" A lopsided grin adorns her face, and she is kneeling on my knees with one hand layed on my chest. At some point, she must've gotten up to grab some food, because I see a plate of cookies on the coffee table.

I guess I really am a heavy sleeper.

"Darling, next time would you mind waking me a bit more . . . gently?" I ask, trying to keep from shoving her off because the close proximity is making me nervous.

She nods enthusiastically. "Sure thing, shug! I'll be as gentle as a needle in a haystack!" I let out a light chuckle.

"Thank you, my dear. I appreciate it." I say sincerely. She stretches up to kiss me on the nose, and I feel my cheeks darken in what can only be a betraying blush. Before she can comment on it I lean in and kiss her, full on, on the lips. It would be embarrassing if she caught me blushing just because of a kiss. Yes, that is why I kissed her back.

She tastes of darkness, evil, and . . . punch? Odd, but I'll not say anything about it. It's raspberry, too. My favourite. After we break apart, I scoop her up in my arms. She giggles and squirms, but she cannot escape my grip. I float upstairs, into our bedroom. Only because it's cold downstairs, and if there's one thing Anti-Wanda and I agree on, it's that we both despise the cold. I'm only taking her with me because it would be rude to just poof away alone. That's precisely why.

I set her down on the bed, and float over to my day planner almost automatically. Sighing, I remember that I have a meeting with the anti-fairy council tomorrow. I sit down on the bed myself, and absentmindedly run a hand through my hair while wondering what sort of plans to propose. The anti-fairy beside me copies my actions, but runs her hand through my hair instead of her own. "Soft," she murmurs, without her accent. Her fingers begin to draw pattens in my hair, tickling my scalp every so often. I smile at her child-like wonder as she draws bats and jack-o-lanterns in my hair. After a while, I just lay down and rest my head in her lap. It feels nice, her fingers massaging my scalp gently, twisting, turning, swirling, it feels almost magical. Except neither of us has their wand.

When she finishes drawing, Anti-Wanda begins to braid my short hair. It's a little too short for braids, but she manages well. I feel her hands moving rhythmically through my hair; grabbing a piece, twisting it with another, and another, then back again in a cycle only a woman could understand. I'll never understand the other gender's obsession with hair.

When I'm just about to fall asleep from the comforting motions her hands make across my head, she tells me, "Your turn."

I look at her through confused eyes, and sit up. What? "My turn for what, darling?"

She laughs at me. "To do meh hair, of course! I've done yours, now you can do mine," she tells me as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. I sigh, but don't protest. Without another word, she mirrors my position only a few moments before.

"O-Okay . . ." I've never been good with hair. Ever. But if she wants me to, I'll give it a go. The moment I touch her hair, a sweet scent hits my nostrils. Why in the world does her hair smell so good, and feel so soft? It must be my imagination. Quickly, I shake my head to clear it and try to focus on braiding the soft, sweet-smelling fluffiness before me instead of just staring at it. It is more difficult than it would seem.

I begin by taking down the big curl on the front of her head, and slowly attempt a braid. After a few unsuccessful tries, I get the hang of it. Sort of. I leave a small piece — that I think is a part of her bangs — out of the braid. When I've finished the largest portion of it, I snatch a nearby hair tie to hold the braid together. I leave the small piece that is a part of her bangs out of the braid, letting it dangle into Anti-Wanda's face. After a moment's contemplation, I tuck it behind her ear. When I finish, I look back down at Anti-Wanda. She's smiling, and seems content to watch me whilst I fiddle with her hair. Wait a minute, has she been watching me the whole time? I nearly bite my lip. What else would she be doing? A small voice scorns.

Crumpets.

"Your eyes is so focused-like when you do that," she murmurs. If it weren't for the terrible grammar, I'd never recognise it as my wife's voice. It sounds pretty, almost melodic without the southern accent.

I continue to look down at her, and try to keep my worry from appearing on my blue face. "I've finished. Do you like it?" I ask tentatively.

She zips up to the mirror, and attempts to look at the braid in the back, but fails, because she must turn her head to see the mirror, and then the back of her head faces forward. Luckily, I know what to do here. I pass her a hand mirror, and position it so it faces the vanity mirror. "Look in the hand mirror," I tell her, and she obediently glances toward the tiny reflection in her hand.

"Oooooh!" She squeals when she finally sees it. "I loves it! Darlin', you should be a hair-doer or something, instead of trying to rule Fairy World and Earth an' stuff," I feel a warmth creep into my cheeks at her praise, and blush profoundly. She turns to me and gives me a hug, and I hesitantly wrap my arms around her, too. She feels so fragile when I hold her, as if she would shatter dare I squeeze her too tightly.

So I don't. I just hold her in my arms, stroking her back softly. After a while I rest my head on top of hers, letting her soft hair tickle my chin.

"Anti-Cosmo?" She asks, her voice slightly muffled by my shoulder. I loosen my grip on her so she can speak properly.

"Yes, darling?" I look down at her, my hands sliding down to wrap around her waist.

She blinks once, twice, then: "I think I love you."

I take a moment to let the words sink in. She loves me. It brings an odd warm feeling that starts in my chest and spreads all the way throughout my body, and makes me feel giddy. I doubt she's expecting an answer, but I just . . . I just cannot not reply. "Anti-Wanda, I . . ." I hesitate for a moment, but the look in her eyes makes it impossible not to continue. "I think I love you too," I say. It sounds so simple, so plain.

Is it true? Do I love her?

She smiles through her crooked teeth, and then stretches up to plant a soft kiss on my lips. Momentarily stunned, all I can do is watch as she nestles herself into me, and wraps her arms around my torso again.

Maybe I do love her.

Maybe she'll forgive me for taking so long to figure it out.

1999 words. Dang. But cool, because it's the millenium year! I think that may just be a record! Now I'm starting to sound like Anti-Cosmo. Yeesh. Today I bumped into someone and said "my apologies" instead of "sorry".

Anyway, I should have another little one-shot for you in a few days, maybe more depending on my internet access and if my computer is accessable. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but I can tell you that it involves dancing. And one of my all-time favourite songs. Then I have another one-shot planned. It's not really close to done, but it involves Timmy. And Cupid. And you can probably figure out a few things about it from that information.

Reviews are divine, (like Godiva) favourites are pleasent, and Anti-Wanda is a very lucky anti-fairy.

-ABB