His Hart's Command (Nothing Special 6)

God: Grow up.

He found the perfect ‘make me’ tantrum gif and hit send. He lived for the day God sent him back an angry emoji, a gif of a man with his head exploding, anything. He wouldn’t stop until he did.

God: I’ll make Free work from sun up to sun down tomorrow. He’ll be too tired to do anything but sleep all weekend. Then after your balls fall off from non-use I wanna see what fuckn gif you use for that.

Hart was feeling the effects of his shot. He laughed loudly. He’d expected God to say something along those lines. He slid down farther and put one hand behind his head while he quickly searched for another perfect image.

God: Headquarters will be your first date? I thought we said ordering in at your place and maybe a DVD???

Hart: Right. But I figured I’d invite him back here after we finish the tour for food and a movie.

God: Ugh. Stick with the damn plan.

Hart groaned, “Dumb ass.”

Hart: That WAS the plan, bighead. Take him someplace I’m comfortable with so I don’t say something ridiculous…then eat.

God: Fine then. Go to bed.

Hart: I’m not tired.

God: Well I am. Leave me the fuck alone now.

Hart: I love you too.

Hart reached up and turned the lamp off. The news played in the background on his wall-mounted television and he vaguely paid attention as the weatherman discussed a drop in temperature coming next week. His phone vibrated again.

God: Diner at six.

Hart: I’ll be there. Isn’t breakfast on you this time?

God: Yep.

He sent God the most nauseatingly sweet goodnight gif of a puppy curling up into a ball with his tiny brother pup and settling into a furry mound for sleep. He laughed when the message was marked as read, but God didn’t respond.

Free

Free closed the blinds in his trailer and made sure he turned off his electric kettle. He never liked the smell of burnt tea when he returned home. The small, mobile trailer was a tight fit for him and all his equipment, but it belonged to him and he could move at the drop of a dime if he needed. With his laptop bag strapped across his back, he locked up his belongings and jogged down the couple of steps to his scooter. Tech and Steele usually rode together, only offering Free a ride if the weather was bad. Otherwise, he liked to take his bike.

He was feeling excited about today. He’d made it clear to Hart last night that he hoped to see him at work. He wondered if he should venture up to the third floor for lunch and happen by his office, or would Hart come down and make one of his regular visits to “check in”? They had a strategy meeting at nine that would probably last most of the day, but there were always breaks. He parked his scooter in the usual spot, a broad grin quickly spreading when he saw Hart’s bike already in his designated space. He had a mind to go inside the building and head straight for the elevators to take him to SWAT Command, but he refrained and went in the direction he was supposed to.

Instead of succumbing to his wants, he teased himself. Hart could pop in at any time throughout the day, and he knew the anticipation was going to drive him wild. Hart would be wearing his office uniform today. He’d have on his midnight-blue APD SWAT T-shirt, the one that stretched impossibly tight across his chest. Those navy cargo pants with the black Beretta strapped to his upper thigh never failed to make his mouth water. Then he’d finish off the impressive look by clipping his gleaming gold SWAT Captain’s badge on the side of his hip.

Free swallowed at the pulsing in his groin. He took a deep breath and exhaled. This is going to be delightful. He wanted to press his bulge down, but he didn’t. He went to the second-floor cafeteria and tried to concentrate on his responsibilities for the morning’s conference. He grabbed a cart and began surveying the selections. As he gathered pastries and coffee, he brainstormed on how he could break the touch barrier with Hart…soon. Nothing major. Just to see if there was a spark, a connection—more than in just his eyes.

He mindlessly performed his task, placing an assortment of Danishes and muffins on the cart, then piling a mountain of Irish coffee creamers in a bowl for Day, and moving on to the fruit. He couldn’t erase the sappy grin off his face. Hart was in the building. He believed the term for how he felt was giddy.

If only his father could see him now—preparing a conference room like a secretary—he’d probably have a Fred Sanford heart attack. The total shock and awe of what his brilliant son had reduced himself to would stop his ticker on the spot. His dad always thought he should’ve been doing more with his talents. Like making astronomical amounts of money by doing cybercrimes for mob families and keeping them in a lavish lifestyle.