Work Text:
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
Irritated by the interruption of your peaceful daydream, you glance up.
"Can I help you?" You ask, straightening up behind the service desk. The man that so rudely yanked you from your thoughts is standing closer than the usual customers you serve at the Mystery Shack. Leaning back in an attempt to put some distance between you two, you arch a brow expectantly.
"The name's Guy. Guy Turner." He smirks and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "But you can call me tonight."
Oh, how wonderful.
Plastering a polite smile on your face, you purposely make your voice softer, more placating.
"Welcome to the Mystery Shack, Guy. If you'd care to take the tour, my colleague will back shortly. Otherwise, feel free to take a look around the gift shop."
Guy's smirk falls a little around the edges, but he swiftly recovers.
"What if I asked for a private tour? With you?"
You barely refrain from rolling your eyes.
"I'd politely decline."
Guy laughs obnoxiously loudly and flicks his sandy blonde hair from his face.
"C'mon baby! Let's have some fun! You are way too hot to be working in this piece of shit." He scoffs, eyes following you as you step out from around your desk.
"I happen to enjoy working here, actually, so if you don't mind I'll-"
You're cut off mid sentence when Guy slings an arm around your shoulders and grips tightly.
"Don't make me ask you again, babe."
His voice sharpens and he drops a hand to grope at your backside.
"Get the fuck off me, you creep!" You yelp, startled. You try to pull away, but he's a good foot taller than you and his grip is like steel.
"Learn to take a fuckin' compliment, bitch!"
Click.
"I suggest you put the lady down and leave. Immediately." A deep, mellow voice rings out, low but crystal clear.
Guy tenses, but slowly, slowly lets his hold on you go slack. You stagger back a few paces, allowing you to identify your rescuer.
Slightly dazed, you stare up into the steely gaze of Stanford Pines.
"L-Listen man, we-we were just foolin' around! No harm done, right?!" Guy looks to you, eyes wide and breathing shallow. "Right?!"
Before you have the chance to answer, though, Stanford's voice cracks through the tense air like a shot from a rifle.
"OUT! NOW!"
Guy leaps a foot in the air and bolts from the Shack like a hare.
"Whatever! You're not my type anyway, bitch!"
There's a few beats of silence, in which you lean against the desk to catch your breath and you feel Ford's hand come to rest on your shoulder. Your jump a little, on edge, and look up.
"Are you alright?" Ford asks, his voice gone soft. You give him a watery smile and nod.
"A gun, Stanford, really?" You croak, inclining your head toward the device in the older man's hand.
"Hm? Oh! No, it's not a gun." He chuckles and lowers it down to show you. "It's a stapler, I modified it a bit is all. Stanley told me I couldn't bring guns into the house anymore." Ford gives you a sheepish smile and deposits the stapler on the desk.
Relieved laughter leaves you and your wrap your arms around Ford's trim waist.
"Thank you...." You murmur into the warm softness of his sweater.
Ford's body goes rigid in surprise, just for a few seconds as though he expected a completely different reaction to his heroics. The charged silence makes you take a step back, suddenly embarrassed by your blatant display of affection. You clear your throat.
"S-Sorry.... I just-"
"It's perfectly fine." Ford interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck with a lopsided smile. "That boy was an idiot, by the way. If you're not his type then he's clearly visually impaired."
You feel your cheeks heating up, turning a pleased pink; likely matching the dashing shade of crimson that has started to creep to across Ford's cheeks.
You're cut short by your boss' bolshy re entry to the Shack.
"I don't hear money being exchanged in here, missy!" He calls out in his gruff voice, crossing the floor and disappearing through the door marked 'Staff Only!'.
You huff, the atmosphere splintered by the interruption and you turn your attention back to Ford.
He's backed up a few steps, nervously avoiding your gaze.
"Sorry," he grumbles. " You should get on with whatever you were doing before I interrupted."
His abrupt awkwardness is adorable and before your brain can fully compute your intended actions, you close the distance between the two of you.
You rock up onto your toes and press a firm but gentle kiss to the corner of Ford's mouth.
"Thank you, Stanford." You murmur into the space between you, a genuine smile crossing your face.
If it's possible, Ford turns even redder, a fantastic hue of vermillion tinting the tips of his ears.
"I- uh, I'm I-...." He stammers as you look up at him, amused.
"Ihavetogo!" He blurts out, voice an octave higher than normal. With that, Ford bolts for the front door of the Shack as though his heels are on fire, leaving you alone once again.
Well. That's a turn up for the books, you suppose.