( that sarcastic babe immediately awakens something, deeply buried but never forgotten. belligerently flirting with his fellow jocks is a delightful ritual he has sorely missed since he got fognapped. like who is he going to play flirt with here, huh??? David? be serious. Meg is a jock but she's also a girl. wouldn't be the same. )
You got a deal, baby. And I'll even be a fucking gentleman about it when you're crying like a girl.
wow, and that's how you know a guy was raised right I'll see you with the staypufts
[ It is, of course, weeks (or something like weeks or months or centuries) before they chance upon anything that fits the bill. When they do, it's hardly namebrand. It's a dollar store brand, dull blue label, with a little counter grime stuck to the bag from the counter Quentin yanked it from. But the mallows inside are clean and white, maybe the slightest bit tacky. ]
They don't look radioactive. Or...not more than I remember. [ He squishes one experimentally before wiggling it onto a bark-stripped tree branch and passing Steve the goods. ] I'll eat the first one. I'd hate for you to get hurt.
( of course, life in the realm goes as life in the realm does. he sort of forgets about the marshmallow date until all of a sudden Quentin shows up with a bag of pasty white powdery pillows of childhood joy. Steve is practically Quentin's antithesis as far as downtime goes, he just loves to close his eyes and hopefully go to a hazy nothing and snooze away the horrors. still, if he was half dozing, he bolts awake like a dog that heard the treat drawer open when Quentin shows up with marshmallows.
it's very chivalrous to be the first to die from potentially poisoned off brand marshmallows. Quentin is being very cute about it, really, but Steve is unfortunately not listening. he takes the one right out of Quentin's hand and puts it in his mouth immediately. he makes a sound that a stale marshmallow really doesn't deserve, but holy shit he can't remember the last time he tasted something that wasn't absolute dogshit. ) Oh, ( Steve says, mouth full, realizing he's stepped all over Quentin's attempts to be playfully chivalrous. ) That didn't happen.
(it's very this energy. ignore him sucking the powdery starchy stuff off his fingers too. ty 🙏 )
[ His jaw drops in exaggerated dismay, but he's fully earnest about scrunching the plastic bag shut and holding it arm's length away from Steve. ] Whoa! Okay, fuckin--compromising the bet? Come on, man!
[ He shakes his head, eyes wide. He gestures toward the trees with his chin (and snakes his own stale puff out to push into his mouth). ] Go get a stick. Find your perfect stick, time's ticking.
( what was the bet again? Steve's mind isn't what one could call a steel trap these days. thankfully, Quentin fills in the blanks, or enough of them for Steve to get by. cook a marshmallow without charbroiling it. aka baby shit that you learn at boy scouts. Steve can't quite recollect what he gets for properly roasting a marshmallow, but it doesn't actually matter because the more important part is he will get to eat one after he proves his point. )
It's not about the stick. It's about the finesse. ( they're still talking about marshmallows. not beef wellington. just for the record. because the tone Steve used does make it kind of unclear, as if this is a grandiose culinary quest they are embarking on. )
Get a stick, ( Steve scoffs, because what is he. a dog? and then he goes to find a stick, but it's because he chose to, OK??? he heads for the nearest tree and stands around with his hands on his hips, inspecting the forest cover for one to jump out at him. in the meantime, ) Where'd you even find them? ( should he be worried about what he just wolfed down? not that it'll stop him from eating another, honestly, he's just curious. )
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You got a deal, baby. And I'll even be a fucking gentleman about it when you're crying like a girl.
no subject
[ It is, of course, weeks (or something like weeks or months or centuries) before they chance upon anything that fits the bill. When they do, it's hardly namebrand. It's a dollar store brand, dull blue label, with a little counter grime stuck to the bag from the counter Quentin yanked it from. But the mallows inside are clean and white, maybe the slightest bit tacky. ]
They don't look radioactive. Or...not more than I remember. [ He squishes one experimentally before wiggling it onto a bark-stripped tree branch and passing Steve the goods. ] I'll eat the first one. I'd hate for you to get hurt.
no subject
it's very chivalrous to be the first to die from potentially poisoned off brand marshmallows. Quentin is being very cute about it, really, but Steve is unfortunately not listening. he takes the one right out of Quentin's hand and puts it in his mouth immediately. he makes a sound that a stale marshmallow really doesn't deserve, but holy shit he can't remember the last time he tasted something that wasn't absolute dogshit. ) Oh, ( Steve says, mouth full, realizing he's stepped all over Quentin's attempts to be playfully chivalrous. ) That didn't happen.
( it's very this energy. ignore him sucking the powdery starchy stuff off his fingers too. ty 🙏 )
no subject
[ He shakes his head, eyes wide. He gestures toward the trees with his chin (and snakes his own stale puff out to push into his mouth). ] Go get a stick. Find your perfect stick, time's ticking.
no subject
It's not about the stick. It's about the finesse. ( they're still talking about marshmallows. not beef wellington. just for the record. because the tone Steve used does make it kind of unclear, as if this is a grandiose culinary quest they are embarking on. )
Get a stick, ( Steve scoffs, because what is he. a dog? and then he goes to find a stick, but it's because he chose to, OK??? he heads for the nearest tree and stands around with his hands on his hips, inspecting the forest cover for one to jump out at him. in the meantime, ) Where'd you even find them? ( should he be worried about what he just wolfed down? not that it'll stop him from eating another, honestly, he's just curious. )