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The truck careens around the corner to the bar at a speed and loping angle that lets you know exactly who it is. Though your eyes are closed, and you're relying on the structural integrity of the brownstone wall to support your body weight, you know exactly who's turned the curb and makes protracted arrival at your convenience.
If only it weren't so difficult to open your eyes, letting the cool breeze of the nighttime ghost over your exposed skin. When you arrived a few hours earlier, it inspired a shiver to crawl up your skin. But now it's a heady balm, something refreshing that helps to chase away the heat that seems to stave off of you in gusts.
You open your eyes just in time to see the truck come to a standstill before you in the curb at a location that is most certainly not sanctioned for parking. You can't help but admire your savior of the hour that is already rounding the length of the truck bed to you.
"Though I toldja to stay inside 'til I got here," Guy grouses, but there's no real bite to his voice as he nears you. It's all that you can do to feebly hold out your drunken arms, letting a silly little smile spread over your face as he ticks out a large arm in your direction.
"Guy," you sing out to him, in a manner that informs him just exactly how tipsy you are—that is, if the fact that you're still leaning on the wall and not making any move to cross the distance to him hasn't already informed him. Even in your drunken state, you can see the affectionate smile that chases away the habitual frown on his face as he hefts you into an embrace.
"I missed you," you happily declare as you find yourself crushed against the firm plane of his chest. You look up at him with a toothy grin as he begins to carefully guide you across the cracked pavement towards the Hanson that awaits you both. He sends a glare to some passerby that are ogling the vaudeville before them, an instinctual snarl on his face.
But it fades the second he glances back down to you, tightening his grip round your shoulders as he helps you cross the miracle mile to the car.
"Yeah?" Guy asks, and there's a slant of that teasing note to his voice, "Missed me enough to get fucked up too?"
His free arm reaches out to crook open the door rather inelegantly, the warmth of the car washing over you—you sigh gustily at the wave that coalesces over you, chasing away the chill.
"Let's getcha in," He informs you, and you give him what might qualify as a bleary nod. The grace he manages is all reserved for the way he eases you to the seat, takes care to slide his hand down to the small of your back, props a palm that scrapes under your thigh.
The back of his palms grace down your arms, your stomach as he takes care to buckle you into the seat that you relax into. You're wracked by the inability to do anything other than stare up at him, bathed in the overhead streetlight that seems to frame him with what one might classify as angelic glow.
"You're real handsome, Guy, you know that?" You assert, and you only stutter on two of the syllables, so you consider this a rousing success. His eyes move back up to you as he inherits that roguish smile that you're so fond of seeing.
"Yeah? Ain't I always?" He asks gruffly, though the smile helps to remove the edge in his delivery—you giggle as the seatbelt clicks into the jamb.
"Yeah, but especially right now." You continue. "Taking me home and everything."
You give him what you hope is your most sympathetic look, and he chuckles, already knowing where you're going with this as you say in your most piteous voice, "And taking us to go get fast food?"
"Oh yeah?" He hucks one of those arms around you so that you're caged in. All you can see in the darkness and the shadows is the broad-shouldered silhouette of your man, feel the press of him against you, breathe in the scent of his cologne. "And who's payin'?"
"You are, because you love me," You offer him, wide-eyed and innocent as you can make yourself in your drunkenness. You assume that you look similar to one of the marrtyred saints in medieval art, if the way that you can feel the ghost of his scoff brush over your mouth is an indicator.
"Oh yeah? You sure about that?" He jokes, and you feel his mouth press a kiss to your jaw, rough, needy—you huff a breath into the touch as he presses another to the line of your jaw. In the haze of alcohol, everything is heightened, everything is electric, everything is more—you struggle to find the words for reply.
"Why else—would you pick me up?" You say, and your smile is evident in your voice and on your face as he pulls away, to give you a slow, lingering stare. That crooked grin is making manifest on his face again as he watches you, that degree of fondness returning once more.
"Guess you got a point there," He returns, and then claims your mouth in a brief kiss that you're all-too-happy to give him. "Let's get this show on the road, then."
With the way that Guy drives, it's a quick journey to the nearest fast food stop, and you squint as you take a gander at the illuminated menu in the drive-thru. Guy's hand that isn't on the steering wheel, which has found permanent resting spot on the junction of your thigh, squeezes you to get your attention.
"Whatcha want?" He asks of your request—you take a long while to make your decision, something that your man waits patiently for, basked in the fluorescent lights.
"A shake. And fries." You whisper to him, as though there might be interlopers in the hedged bushes that might be listening in. His thumb is stroking up and down the length of your skin, a comforting rhythm that helps keep you grounded in the moment.
"Got it." He tells you, and it's a few minutes later that you find yourself the lucky recipient of a bag of hot, greasy food that radiates incandescent heat into your legs; in your other arm you clutch to the vanilla shake that is your salve in these troubled times.
You can't help but resist a satisfied smile and angle a sidelong glance at Guy as he transports the two of you home. You look at that strong jaw, the thick column of his neck, the scowl of concentration as he fords through the night to ensure you both reach safe harbors.
You find, fueled by alcohol, you can't resist playing around. You tilt the open mouth of the bag his direction and watch him spare a momentary look down to you, down to the bag, before taking appraisal back to the neverending road stretching out before you.
"Feed me?" You request of your knight in shining armor. He chuffs a laugh through his teeth, his hand growing more proprietorial in grip over your leg—you press the ample flesh into his grasp and he makes a growl that sends a shudder of heat to all the right places.
"Gotta drive too, don’t I?" He asks you coarsely.
"I mean in bed. When we get back." You inform him. He makes another laugh as he provides a more endured glance your way, taking survey of the steep angle you've tilted the passenger seat back to, the limp way you hold your food, the happily inebriated demeanor to your face.
"Second your ass hits the mattress," Guy aims your way, "You’re knockin' out."
"No I’m not." you protest as you take a sip of the shake. "Swear."
"Sure. We’ll see." He sends back your way. But as the truck crosses under the streetlamp, you only see the smile that he aims your way, the emotion that he'll never take care to articulate save in the most vulnerable of moments. "Gimme some'a that shake, will ya?"
"Sure," You hold it out to him so he can palm it in that wide hand. "Mind if I, uh, close my eyes for a little bit until we get back?"
He makes that knowing laugh. "Sure. Just rest up 'til we get there and I'll carry you in."
You make a weak noise of triumph as you feel your eyes already begin to instinctually droop. "You're the best, Guy."
"Ain't I?" He returns back. "Get some sleep, hon. We'll be back real soon."
You don't resist, bathed in the heat and comfort of your man's company, as you nestle back in the proverbial carriage carrying you home.