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He’s always got a hand or elbow or limb on you. It doesn’t seem to be deliberate to irritate a reaction out of you; one might almost classify it as casual, natural.
“Why not?” He asks brusquely when you question him on it. “You’re just the perfect height. Can’t help it if you were made just right for me.”
That summons a different kind of heat to your face, and an odd warmth to your stomach, ‘made just right for me’ occupying a lot of headspace in the following days.
But these are thoughts that you don’t voice and keep concealed, of course, because it would open the floodgates. And you, of course, don’t want to admit that you’ve enjoyed his touch all these times.
That when he palms the top of your head in a comforting pat as he strides past you (“Ah, there’s the pint-size again”) it makes your heart race.
Or when he rests an elbow on your shoulder when the two of you occupy similar spaces (“Hold this for me, will you, tiny?”) expecting you to bear the brunt of his weight, you have to swallow to avoid making a noise that you know you’ll deeply regret.
Or when he hucks a leg over your own when you are seated side-by-side, shooting you a cheeky “Watch the checked luggage for me, will you, honey?” you’d gladly do it. Because it means he gets to use you. And you’ve realized, embarrassingly enough, that you like getting used in this manner.
So you don’t encourage it, because you don’t want to be too obvious—but you’re not exactly discouraging it either.
And that’s exactly how you find yourself on monitor duty, with his head on your lap, the rest of his body supported by a plush lounge chair construct that holds up the rest of him. It goes without saying that the expectation of monitor duty is that he should be alert and ready to go at a moment’s notice rather than lazing about to whatever suits his whims—in this case, abusing his colleagues in such manner. But honestly, shouldn’t you be grateful for the fact he’s graced the room with his presence?
And also, that would mean that you would have to make mention of this unspoken rule to him. And there’s no fucking way you’re doing that. Not when you’ve got him exactly where you want him. Or maybe it’s exactly where he wants you. Who knows?
“See anything on the monitor?” He asks, making no movement or indication that he’s even remotely interested in looking in the direction of the beeping screen.
“That means I would have to get up to go check, Guy.” You gripe back at him without any real bite to it—technically, you could lean to the edge of your seat to look, but you’re operating on tetchy pet rules. If you force him to move his head, you worry that he’ll take flight and never return. And you’re becoming fonder and fonder of the way that this giant melon planted on your lap is making your legs slowly go numb.
“Ah, not worth it then.” He returns back easily, steepling his hands over his stomach as he lies back, eyes lazily closing shut. “I’m right where I wanna be.”
“Because you have a free pillow?” You ask, proud of yourself for articulating your words without stumbling over them, given the way that his statement is making your pulse hammer in your throat.
“Not free if it’s my go-to, is it?” He asks, cracking open an eye to direct it up at you, cocking his head back at an angle to assess your reaction.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you frown in amused bewilderment as you stare down to him.
“You offer these services to everyone?” Guy returns, a tad testily, as though the process of you being manhandled by anyone other than him is a besmirching mark upon his honor.
“No—just you.” You admit, feeling a lick of pleased embarrassment as you verbalize this admission.
“Then it ain’t free.” At this supposed problem solved, the intensity of his glare relaxes upon you. “You’re exclusive for me—right?”
You shrug with a shameless grin, spurred on by the way that the bookend of his question was a hair too accusatory—almost like he has something to lose by losing out on you.
“I dunno—”—You shrug, summoning upon great reserves of impartiality, especially as his incendiary scowl grows—“—Now that you mention it, maybe I should start offering out to other people.”
“Don’t even think about it.” He warns you, pointing a reproachful finger up at you. “I ain’t losin’ my travel-size to any other fucker on the league.”
You can’t help but let out a semi-insulted scoff at this choice of word. “‘Travel-size?’ Is that because I’m short?”
“Shorter’n me, honey.” At this, the irritation at losing your theoretical exclusivity melts away into a crooked, possessive smile. “That’s what I like about you.”
“Is that all you like about me?” You ask dryly—he tilts his head back at an unceremonious angle that makes his bangs fall backwards. Something in you is tempted to run your hands over his browline, rather than keep them planted firmly on either side of your legs, steadfastly, diligently dormant for now.
“Got a few hours?” He asks, and at this his smile transitions into an ungracious grin. You’re certain whatever he’s going to say is not suitable for television—nor is even anything remotely sincere.
“And stay past when our shift is over?” You adopt an expression of mock-horror at the prospect. “Not for all the money in the world, Guy.”
“I’m a quick talker when I wanna be, hon.” He reassures you, but you watch as the cogs in his head crank out a different thought and he shifts gears. “Hey, do that thing you did last time.”
“What thing did I do last time?” You ask, letting genuine bemusement filter into your voice.
“When y’ran your fingers through my hair.” He informs you quite unceremoniously, eyes focusing on a distant corner of the room as he awaits for you to begin your devoted attentions.
Your hands remain at your sides as you look pointedly down at him, a disbelieving smile beginning to split your face. “Um, I don’t think I’ve done that before.”
“Yeah?” He slants a sly look back at you. “Musta been a dream I had then.”
You can’t help but laugh again at his brashness which only seems to grow, encouraged by your giggles. “You could just ask if you want it so bad.”
“What’s the fun in that?” He turns back to the yonder blue. “‘S more fun if you can just read my mind.”
“Uh-huh.” You reply dubiously, but you’re not one to turn down the opportunity to feel him up, even if it is just hair for now.
It’s one thing when he’s the one who’s instigating the touch, but when you’re the one to hurdle over the boundary, even at his own invitation, it’s a tad more daunting. You raise a slow hand to the crown of his head, running careful fingers through his bangs from the root to tip. His hair is surprisingly tangle-free and silky enough—he makes a gusty noise of satisfaction at this, which inspires a thrill of pride up your spine.
You feel brave enough to let your other hand join in, doing your best to have them run in tandem through his hair, surely, carefully working your way through the strands. When his eyes begin to slowly shut again, half-lidded with a lazy contentedness, there’s an odd, buoyant delight that rockets through you.
It inspires you to a moment of bravery, so you decide to propose your question as you run your fingertips past the slope of his forehead, fixing an errant lock of hair.
“So what are you thinking about, Gardner?”
“Thinkin’ ‘bout how nice your fingers feel.” Guy responds; you have to bite down a laugh at the simplicity of the answer.
“Uh-huh.” You hum, skimming the pad of your thumb up his temple as you continue your attentions.
“Thinkin’ ‘bout how you should do this more often.” He adds on, letting that wily cant bleed into his voice.
“You mean, let you take advantage of me during monitor duty?” You ask, as though you are not willingly letting him take advantage of you.
“You think this is takin’ advantage?” He returns cockily, as though he’s been able to telegraph your very thoughts—you have to wet your lips as you search for a rapidfire enough response.
“What else would you call it?” You aim back his way, hoping this will buy you enough time to heave a subtle enough breath and calm your heart. You hope your fingers don’t tremble as you card them through his hair.
“Call it a mutually beneficial exchange.” Guy explains, exhausting his quota of fancy vocabulary for the week, though you can’t help but arch a brow at this turn of phrase.
“Oh, really? What am I getting out of it?” You ask, affording yourself opportunity to pause for his rebuttal.
“Get the best looking GL as your arm candy.” He retorts, crossing his arms over his chest as if to dare you to argue otherwise—not that you will, but you can’t help but stoop low for the occasion.
“Oh, you’re my arm candy?” You ask, trying not to shift your legs and thus his head at the concept that Guy is so freely offering himself up in this capacity to you.
“I could be your trophy boyfriend if you want.” His eyebrows wiggle at the prospect, making it clear that he’s happy to fulfill all the responsibilities that come with such a title.
“Wouldn’t that require a commitment?” You ask sarcastically.
“This is prime real estate up here, honey.” Guy counters, gesturing to the mane that you’ve taken care to reassume your attentive duties to. “You think I ask just anyone to scratch my head?”
“Yes,” you laugh—he appears unimpressed that you would possess such a low opinion of him.
“Shows what you know.” He curls his lip at you in a mocking sneer. “You n’ me are exclusive as you can get.”
“I’m flattered.” you say in a monotone as you let your hands migrate to the back of his scalp, continuing to drag your fingers through. When he leans into your hand, you have to hazard a deep breath to reground yourself in the moment.
“You should be.” He responds coarsely, and makes a low, easing groan as your hand drifts to the base of his head. “Yeah, right there—at the back.”
Another thought occurs to you, returning a telltale smirk to your face. “So—you dream about me running my hands through your hair?”
“What’s it to you?” Guy asks as if you’re not the one fulfilling said dreams, letting his eyes drift shut once more.
“Well, what else am I doing in your dreams?” You ask, veiling it in what you hope is an affectedly casual note. But your worst fears are realized as he draws still, shoulders drawing taut and devoid of cycled breath as the question settles between the two of you. The only noise sparing you from the unmerciful crucifixion of marked silence the whir of the monitor that has gone pointedly ignored this entire time.
Those eyes slide open again, sharp, searching—keen upon an answer you’ve yet to provide.
“Why do you wanna know?” His voice is low, shrewd, blatantly interrogative.
“Well,” You venture, disbelieving of the words as you speak them aloud, as though someone else is puppeteering the answer from your lips, “Maybe I should see if I can help you out with it.”
He looks back up at you woodenly as though GuyGardner.exe has begun to shut down, yet to resuscitate itself. Around the fourth painful moment of nothing, you begin to quietly panic, tacking on a quick, “You know, after our shift’s over.”
You’re barely cognizant that he’s moved until you register the missing weight on your lap, the lack of his presence below you. And then he’s in front of you, his arms going to grasp the top of your chair, caging you in. The only thing that you can see is the slope of those coiled arms on either side of you, the eager smile that indicates that either this is a dream come true for him, or he doesn’t intend on waking up anytime soon.
“Why wait ‘til then, baby?” He asks raggedly, as though he can barely restrain the urge to eat you whole. “Looks like we got a few hours left—”—his hands flex, and you feel yourself pulled across the linoleum in your chair with ease, the air stolen from you with the gesture—“—Why don’t we get a head start?”
His eyes, which were so content before, are almost wild, half-starved as they search your face, looking for any indication of retreat or hesitation on your end. For what seems to be in as many times as you can remember, you swallow, trying to remember how to string words into comprehensible sentences.
“Okay,” you challenge him, possessed by a bravery that you hope will carry you to the finish line, “Show me what you got.”
In response, that ravenous smile grows wider still as he pulls you close in your vehicle of choice, towards the promised land.