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You knew it from the second the doors to the bar swung open with a loud crack to the wall, it was going to be one of those nights. Because, really, whoever demands such an audience simply by walking into a room certainly has no shame in speaking whatever mess comes across their mind. And speak it they do. Bless your heart though, you're an optimist. Your mama had told you time and time again, "if you think the worst, then the worst will happen." And so you pay the patron no mind, hardly getting a glimpse of the overly boisterous man looking for a drink, the score of the game flashing on the flatscreen and hopefully nothing else. You shook it off. Mind instantly at ease at the sight of the bartender just a few feet in front of you.
All you wanted was to be near him.
Ever since you walked into the Duck Tape, clutching the hastily written Help Wanted sign in your hands, you'd had it bad. Real, real bad. It wasn't enough that he was generous was it? That even from the beginning he paid you way more than you deemed necessary. You tried to negotiate. Tried to tell him it was way too much but he hadn't backed down and still didn't even after bringing it up for the twentieth time.
Or that he was thoughtful? You never, ever failed to notice how he hung on to every word you spoke to him. Like he actually cared about the fact that your favorite artist released a new album just yesterday after, "Three whole years, Clyde! Three!" or that you finally nailed that recipe you've been trying to perfect and, "You have to come over and try it. Or I'll bring it here! As much as I love our fries, I think we could both use a little variety." Or how you found the best smelling perfume you have ever smelled or anything in between that. And honestly, with the way he looks at you? There is no way he doesn't care.
Or that he was witty? Clyde's quiet, sure, and you tried not to listen in too much on his conversations with the regular patrons he'd come to enjoy, but his dry sense of humor makes you smile so much your cheeks hurt at the end of the say. He could read his electricity bill to you and you'd listen to every single syllable. There was that too. That deep, deep voice. The second you heard him speak you were done. Done for. Absolutely a goner. Because after you thanked him for the position the words, "It's alright, honey" stuck with you like a fly in molasses.
And he had it bad for you too. In every single way and maybe even more than that. Which is hard to believe. But your eyes. So fucking honest and full of something soft he doesn't see you give to many people. Not that you're cold. It's quite the opposite. You fit into the ebb and flow of the Duck Tape from the start like you'd been there for years and made everyone feel at home. He couldn't be more glad he decided to bring you on his team that day. He knew he could use the extra help around the bar, with it being as busy as it was. He's a damn hard worker and everyone from here to there knows it, but he doesn't see why he can't ease the load it bit. If not just to be able to breathe easier. So the second he saw you in the sweet sun of a West Virginia summer, looking like a damn angel with those bright eyes of yours there was no way he would say no. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his rib cage anytime you looked at him. Anytime you look at him now.
All Clyde wanted was to be near you.
But fate is tricky and as fate would have it, he was your boss at the end of the day. Even though the word doesn't seem right on your tongue or his. Best friend seems closer to how you'd describe each other if asked. But, letting your boss know all the ways in which you want to love him isn't exactly standard policy. And that train of thought is only soured further by the scratching of a barstool against the wood flooring, pulling you from your thoughts about Clyde and the extremely stubborn stain that didn't want to budge under the rage you're cleaning a table with.
"Hi there. What'll it be?"
That voice...you wish he'd just talk all the time...
"I was going to say a Guinness, but I wouldn't want to put too much stress on the hyperdrive there."
You didn't even have to look over to know where there was.
"I can handle that just fine, don't worry. One Guinness on the way."
You commend him for his patience. There's very few things you hate more in the world than people thinking Clyde needs to be rescued and condescended and people who speak to him like he's a damn puppet on a string. That's always put you in a tough place. Always because the first time some jackass decided he just couldn't not say some choice words about Clyde's hand and you started to step forward to give said jackass some choice words right back, it was a gentle hand around your wrist that pulled you back into him and that voice saying, "Ain't worth it, darlin'. Trust me." And that was that. You respected Clyde enough to understand that he didn't need saving. Especially not from you. Although with the look you gave him after he said that, you hope you said with your eyes, "Okay I trust you on that. But just know if I ever need to beat someone's ass let me be the first to hear about it." By the dimples that appeared and the nudge of his elbow to your shoulder you know he heard you.
So, you worked as you usually did. Tried, at least. But as men who need constant validation are wont to do, he kept running his damn mouth. And it was starting to piss you off
"Gosh, it's like you're a Star Wars character or somethin'. What's his name again?"
"Does it come with a thingy to charge your phone?"
"Can you flip people off with it? Bet that'd get the message across!"
Your eyes roll so far back in your head, you're surprised you hadn't seen your skull. It's definitely not the worse you've heard, but it still makes your skin hot to the touch. Five minutes pass of both Clyde listening to the man's nonsense and you both making eye contact with each other. You trying to convey how good it'd feel to slap the man across the face and him conveying to you to behave.
"How 'bout sex? Does that ever freak the chick out? Bet some girls are into that weird shit, though, huh? I wouldn't worry too much."
You've almost wiped a hole straight through the table with how hard you're scrubbing and you think it's best you leave the premises before you do or say something you would regret later. So you head back towards the kitchen, hoping the solace of the deep fryers will let you calm down a bit but before you can successfully make your escape, a definitely less gentle, and definitely more sweaty hand grabs your wrist and stops you. "What the h-"
"What about you, baby?" God, you swore you could smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room and now having him an inch away from your cheek is enough to make you more than a bit uncomfortable with his proximity.
"Hey, ease up." Clyde says. Although it's been established his voice is akin to a lullaby, hearing it darken so suddenly makes you nervous.
"Ah, c'mon now. I've caught the way you two been eyein' each other. Damn, somethin' outta be sorted out! This little lady over here's been undressin' you with her eyes all night You notice it, man?" You hate this. You HATE this. You hate this jackass. You hate this!!! You hope he gets that by how hard you tug your wrist away, but that only makes him draw you closer to him.
"You're tellin' me you ain't done it at least once, little lady? Not even a teensy bit curious to know how that cold steel would feel tracing aaalll the way down your pretty thig-"
Yeah, there was no way on God's Green Earth that you were letting him finish that sentence. Without a second thought, you wound back the arm that wasn't currently in a sweaty vice grip and landed it righ in the center of his nose. Not enough to break, you weren't heartless, but certainly enough to bleed. And certainly enough to hurt. Enough for him to get pissed and dump his unnecessarily large beer all over your chest.
"You broke my nose, you stupid bitc-" and for the second time in the night, his sentence was cut off. Instead of your doing, it was Clyde's. Who at this point looked like he was ready to break something else of his. Maybe a few something else's. All you heard was that dark voice again grumble a quick, "Out." as you were trying to steady your breathing and clean yourself up as best you could with the paper napkins sitting on the bar.
Stupid. Dumb. Stupid! Stupid men! No, Clyde's not stupid. He's the best. Okay, then. Stupid MAN. Couldn't shut up? Really?? Just had to say something?! What is it about him?? Just leave him alone? GOD. How were his hands so sweaty? If I could go back in time once, JUST ONCE I would've done it! I SHOULD'VE broken his damn nose! What a baby. A stupid, STUP-
Your glad your train of thought was broken off.
"You okay?"
No, you most certainly weren't.
"I should be asking you that. Gosh, what a miserable fucking prick."
"Watch the language." An inside joke Add that to the list of things you loved about him.
"Fuck, my shirt too! Do we have the ability to ban him? From here, possibly for forever?"
"I'm the boss. I can do whatever I want, honey."
Was that supposed to do something to you?...Because it really did something to you.
You huff at that. "Yeah, you'd be right about that." You tell him quietly as he leads you into his office with a hand on your back.
"I ain't about to have you work the rest of the night in that. That's gotta be uncomfortable. Just use this, keeps spares in here just in case of accidents." Soft flannel finds its way into your hands. As frazzled as your mind was, you thank whatever heavenly power above there may be that your mind didn't let you bring the material up to your nose and breathe him in.
"Thanks, Clyde. I'll be out in a second." As much as you loved the idea of walking around wearing Clyde's shirt, the context of the situation really put a damper on things. Still smelling sour like the beer that you can still feel on your skin and reeling back from the adrenaline of punching some stranger in the face would do that. Or so you thought.
Because he's sitting on the couch in his office waiting for you, ever the gentleman, wanting to double check if you were okay. And your heart would burst at that sweetness, really because Clyde is so sweet, but the look he gives you when you come from out the bathroom was hardly that. It's like a switch flipped. That's really the only way you can describe it. Because Clyde has never been anything but the kindest, most gentle man. But now? He looks hungry. You don't want to believe that. Well...you do, but you don't. You shouldn't and you can't. And you've known him long enough where teasing words between the two of you aren't unusual in the slightest you decide to go down that route.
"What," you laugh on an exhale. "Is this doing something for you? You like seeing me in your clothes?" He does his own exhale at your words. And he just hangs his head down, just the slightest. If you knew him at all, you'd say he's in disbelief.
"Honestly? Yeah."
Huh...
"Really? Why do you like it?"
Jesus, he could write a book about it. "It makes you look like you're mine."
Oh. Oh. "You...you want me? You want me like that?"
This has to be a damn dream, he's thinking. He can't be this lucky with you standing there, twisting your hands together like you don't know how much he wants you. Needs you. He can't do anything but nod. He closes his eyes and whimpers, like he's in a bit of pain.
"I want you in every damn way possible."
And well, who are you to keep him from getting exactly what he wants? You're on him in a second flat. Planting your thighs just outside of his, enough to let you get close. Real close. where you can finally see just how many different colors are in his eyes and count how many freckles are on that beautiful face of his. And close enough to close the gap that seemed much too far and feel just how soft his lips are on yours. It's fucking magic. You're a skeptic at best, but there is not a soul on Earth that could tell you that kissing him, breathing him right in and feeling his tongue on yours wan't something out of this world. But you know Clyde. And you know you have to let him know you want this more than you can say. So as much as it pains you, and him apparently with the way his arms wrap tighter around your waist, you let your forehead rest against his.
"I just need you to know you make me feel like the most special girl in the world."
"You are."
"And the prettiest."
"You are."
"...And the sexiest."
"Oh, baby, you are." He earned a kiss on the cheek for that, if not just to hide how bad you're blushing for a minute.
"I wish we got here under a little less frustrating circumstances but I can't find it in myself to complain. You're sure you're all good, Clyde?"
"More than good. Better than good. Christ, is there a word for better than the best? 'Cause I think you just may be it."
And at that, you both smile, laugh, and close the gap again.