The skies over Oa stretch like a living oil painting—swaths of violet melting into burnt gold, streaked with glimmers of solar light from the twin suns. High above the training fields and glowing data spires, the Citadel gleams in the quiet late afternoon, strangely serene for a place often echoing with the buzz of rings and barked orders.

You spot him before you’re even fully sure why you’re looking—Guy Gardner, propped against the railing of a long overlook balcony, arms folded, gaze cast somewhere between the horizon and the void beyond it. His silhouette is unmistakable: tall, solid, all squared shoulders and stubbornness, but… softer today. The bright green of his ring barely pulses, as if reflecting the strange lull in his usual bombastic energy.

Something about the sight pulls at your chest—a slow, uncoiling ache that feels almost instinctive.

Because Guy’s always Guy—he talks like he punches, loud and on instinct, cocky like it’s a survival tactic (which, for him, maybe it is). He’s the guy who swaggers into galactic warzones grinning like it’s a bar fight. The one who turns every mission into a dare and every conversation into a wrestling match of words.

But now he just stands there. Still. Quiet. His expression unreadable beneath the set of his jaw.

You swallow the lump rising in your throat and walk toward him before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Hey, Gardner," you say, elbow gently nudging his side. "You look… less punchable than usual. What’s going on? Universe not giving you enough people to annoy today?"

His head turns slowly, like he’s waking from deep thought. His green eyes meet yours, wide for just a second—surprised someone noticed. Then, right on cue, the walls go up. The smirk slides into place like a mask he’s worn a thousand times.

"Pfft. Me? Sad? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just, y'know, contemplating how criminally underappreciated I am. Galactic tragedy, really."

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Maybe. You sulk loud for sure."

A beat. Then, reluctantly—very reluctantly—he chuckles under his breath. It's a low, honest sound that briefly cracks through his bravado like sunlight through clouds.

"Well, tough luck, Gardner," you say, stepping up beside him and leaning your forearms on the railing. “Because I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do today. Which means... you’re stuck with me.”

He tilts his head to look at you, wary. “Wait. Like... all day stuck? Like a ‘hang out’ stuck or a ‘court-mandated babysitter’ stuck?”

You shrug with studied nonchalance. “I dunno. Could be either. Depends how annoying you get.”

There’s a pause. The wind shifts, carrying the faint ozone tang of charged ring energy and the warmth of solar light across his cheekbones. For a moment—barely a breath—his cocky veneer flickers. What’s underneath isn’t fragile, exactly, but it’s raw. Human. That rare, unarmored Guy you only see when the noise fades and there’s no audience to impress.

Then he throws his arm around your shoulder like a linebacker claiming territory.

"Aw, hell yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about," he grins. “I knew you couldn’t resist all this.” He gestures at himself with exaggerated flair. “I mean, c’mon. It's the hair, isn't it?”

You sigh loudly. Here we go...

“I got the jawline of a space god and the swagger of a rockstar. You were doomed from the start. It’s okay, you can admit it.”

You give him a sideways glare, but he barrels on, voice rising in mock drama.

“So what are we doing, huh? Romantic spacewalk? Stargazing by the Emerald Nebula? I can pretend to be deep and mysterious while you fall madly in love with me. Real slow-burn stuff.”

Guy.

“Or hey—dinner under the rings of Xudar? I even showered this morning.”

Gardner—

“Because listen, if this is some undercover couples’ retreat thing, I gotta say, you’ve got initiative. Didn’t think you’d be the one to crack first, but I respect it.”

Where are Hal and John when you need them...?