12 / funny business
It's startling when they return to the cabin for the night, all their spiles stopped with cold, and she begins folding up one of his couch blankets.
"What're you doing?"
"There's a bunk bed upstairs. I'm guessing for a reason."
He has to check himself before responding with any of the first thoughts that come to him.
"Why now?" is the one he chooses to voice. He's been suffering through couch-sleeping for weeks to impress her, or at least make her feel comfortable snug-bugging in an actual bed without his nearness giving her tension headaches.
"It's creepy up there," she says nonchalantly. "I think there's a ghost or something."
"Shouldn't that be the least of your concerns? Considering your past and all..."
"Don't give me any grief, ok? I just want to be a normal girl who can still get spooked."
"Yeah? Things going bump in the night up there?"
"There's no windows, it's all dark. Anyway, it's freezing down here."
"Bonnie Bennett," he says, milking her name in a way he knows will grate on her nerves. "Are you concerned about me freezing to death?"
"No. I'm not worried about you."
"Pretty sus," he tsks.
"Picking up on new slang, are we?"
He sets his eyes on hers and says, "Thank you," a little too earnestly for his own taste. She may think he's up to something if he sounds like he genuinely means anything kind.
"Seriously. It's the dark. And I feel weird about being all alone, after..."
She doesn't finish her sentence. He doesn't want her to. The clinch of guilt comes in on cue like the stomachache he can expect after eating an entire Taco Bell party pack, as he has occasionally felt compelled to do since his epic return to the modern world.
His stomach growls.
"I'm hungry."
"We can eat dinner before we negotiate bunks."
"Oh, not necessary. You can top me."
"Don't make me change my mind."
"Will you turn this cabin around?"
She sighs and drops the blanket on the couch, heading for the kitchen. He chuckles out the positively giddy feeling bubbling up in his chest. He loves annoying the shit out of her. Should he stop that? And more importantly...does this mean she wants to fuck him?
Pots bang around in the kitchen, a cabinet slams, he winces at the sound of a soup can being violently punctured.
Oh, she definitely wants to fuck someone. If it isn't him, it will be soon. They're secluded, it's just the two of them, and they're both reasonably attractive adults. Inevitably at some point one thing will lead to another. This isn't 1994. He's willing to bet the wildly inflated price of a bag of pork rinds these days that he'll be porking her rind if she doesn't find some other way to get stress out of her system. Or kill him.
Whichever comes first, he wants to be ready. After his stint alone in 1994, he has the orgasmic threshold of a naked mole rat. Masturbation lost its charm after about a year. Surely blind horniness had some effect on his behavior towards the end there.
Focus. He isn't sure how he'll manage to build stamina if he's meant to share a bunk bed with her. Any rocking remotely hinting at his jacking off on the bottom bunk is sure to get him banished back to the couch, if not out of doors completely.
Focus. How can he orchestrate things in his favor?
Take her out, put on the ritz, seduce her...
He's certain he has lost considerable game with the acquisition of empathy. His only game now is like...Sorry. Or Hungry Hungry Hippos. Not appealing.
"Are you ok?"
He snaps out of it. Was he making a weird face? She's watching him from the kitchen with her arms crossed and a wooden spoon sticking out of one hand like she's going to spank him if he dares make one mistake. Maybe he should test that.
"Just thinking about what movie to watch while we eat," he says.
She's still skeptical, but she disappears to stir whatever she's cooking up in there.
They eat Chef Boyardee ravioli (his purchase) and watch The Matrix and he is careful not to let the night's achievement go to his head, make him say something worse than usual or sit any closer to her than he has been. Personal space is key with her, he is learning. It's getting him a bunk. And when he follows her up the ladder to the loft, trying not to zone out on her ass just up ahead, he makes no crude jokes and acts like he's tired, and snuggles into the surprising warmth of the bottom bunk only to arrive at a conclusion that surprises him.
This comfort is too superior to the couch life to risk jeopardizing it with any funny business.
"It's so warm up here," he sighs and nuzzles dreamily into his pillow.
She ignores him and settles in above him, her shifting weight causing minimal screw-squeaking and frame-wobbling. With the lights out, it's easier to shed his sense of humor and leave it in heap like his jeans on the floor, for which she had no comment.
This cannot be taken away from him. As far as he's concerned, whether or not she wants to fuck is none of his business until she makes it his business. She's letting him closer to her, it's a big step, and he should leave well enough alone.
He won't push it.
Even if he really wants to push it.