thing, now that he was back to his original context?
Yeah, fuck that. If there really was such a convention, then it was a stupid one, and Pat was going to henceforth ignore it in exactly the same way he’d been ignoring it up to now. Problem solved.
“I saved you,” Andersen said at last, slowly but firmly, like Pat was an idiot child who had to be reminded of the basic rules of the universe. To wit: Gravity exists. Time purports to flow in a linear fashion, but it’s only trying to fool us. I saved you.
Wow, condescension, too? Nice. What a hoagie thing to do. Yeah, a hoagie thing — the term ‘superhero’ certainly did not apply. There was nothing either super or heroic about dragging someone who was doing perfectly fine off the roof of a building, parting them heedlessly from their cherished possessions.
“Thanks a bunch,” Pat snapped, glaring. “I guess I should be happy you didn’t leave any of my arms or legs behind, too. Great job, dude, gold star for you.”
Sarcasm at least appeared to be a familiar concept to Andersen, who now frowned darkly at Pat. “Usually, people show some gratitude.”
“Then I guess usually people know better than to carry anything important when getting saved by you!”
Silence fell. Andersen was still not pyrokinetic, although he was certainly practicing his ‘trying to incinerate you with the intensity of my stare’ a lot. Whatever. Pat had grown up with three older sisters; Andersen would have to do a lot better than this to daunt him. Maybe if he actually did turn pyrokinetic… though really, portable fire extinguishers came in conveniently small sizes these days.
Still, the dude was so clearly utterly clueless about how to proceed that Pat might have taken pity on him, had the offense been a lesser one. Depriving Pat of BadMadRad’s limited edition album through sub-standard rescuing, though? There could be no mercy.
After several beats of mute staring, Andersen blinked and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I… apologize.”
Pat’s carefully built and fanned indignation crumbled immediately, collapsing in on itself like a house of cards.
The West Sister Dating Rules were clear on the matter of apologies. On the evolutionary scale of dating, a guy who apologized solely for the sake of ending the argument and getting back into your good graces was on the level of primeval slime — especially if he was clearly doing so merely because he was hoping for sex. The proper response was to unveil the offender’s deceit by demanding he explain what exactly he was apologizing for, and then scorn him when he betrayed his ignorance.
Luckily for Andersen, Pat was way easier than that. He couldn’t help but find it super cool that a hot dude was saying sorry to him even though he didn’t have a clue what he was apologizing for, just so he’d get to have sex with Pat. That was a pretty neat compliment, right?
“Yeah, whatever,” he said accordingly, mollified. “Shit happens, I guess.”
For the first time, Pat consciously registered that Andersen — Nicholas, rather; it seemed weird to think of him by his last name when Pat hoped to sleep with him in the near future — was wearing jeans and a faded blue Ghost Matter shirt. The one before had been faded gray… which meant that, implausibly, he must own more than one.
“Dude.” Pat stepped closer, jerking his chin at the offending logo. “You listen to Ghost Matter?” Maybe Nicholas didn’t even know what those intertwined letters meant, and just liked the comfy shirt. Maybe his personal shopper secretly hated him, and was exacting revenge by supplying him with merchandise of the worst bands she could find. (Pat would be seriously impressed with the hypothetical personal shopper, if so. Most people underestimated the viciously subtle kinds of vengeance.)
“Yes,” Nicholas said quickly, seizing on the new subject with every sign of relief. “They’re my favorite band.”
For a moment, Pat was
Yeah, fuck that. If there really was such a convention, then it was a stupid one, and Pat was going to henceforth ignore it in exactly the same way he’d been ignoring it up to now. Problem solved.
“I saved you,” Andersen said at last, slowly but firmly, like Pat was an idiot child who had to be reminded of the basic rules of the universe. To wit: Gravity exists. Time purports to flow in a linear fashion, but it’s only trying to fool us. I saved you.
Wow, condescension, too? Nice. What a hoagie thing to do. Yeah, a hoagie thing — the term ‘superhero’ certainly did not apply. There was nothing either super or heroic about dragging someone who was doing perfectly fine off the roof of a building, parting them heedlessly from their cherished possessions.
“Thanks a bunch,” Pat snapped, glaring. “I guess I should be happy you didn’t leave any of my arms or legs behind, too. Great job, dude, gold star for you.”
Sarcasm at least appeared to be a familiar concept to Andersen, who now frowned darkly at Pat. “Usually, people show some gratitude.”
“Then I guess usually people know better than to carry anything important when getting saved by you!”
Silence fell. Andersen was still not pyrokinetic, although he was certainly practicing his ‘trying to incinerate you with the intensity of my stare’ a lot. Whatever. Pat had grown up with three older sisters; Andersen would have to do a lot better than this to daunt him. Maybe if he actually did turn pyrokinetic… though really, portable fire extinguishers came in conveniently small sizes these days.
Still, the dude was so clearly utterly clueless about how to proceed that Pat might have taken pity on him, had the offense been a lesser one. Depriving Pat of BadMadRad’s limited edition album through sub-standard rescuing, though? There could be no mercy.
After several beats of mute staring, Andersen blinked and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I… apologize.”
Pat’s carefully built and fanned indignation crumbled immediately, collapsing in on itself like a house of cards.
The West Sister Dating Rules were clear on the matter of apologies. On the evolutionary scale of dating, a guy who apologized solely for the sake of ending the argument and getting back into your good graces was on the level of primeval slime — especially if he was clearly doing so merely because he was hoping for sex. The proper response was to unveil the offender’s deceit by demanding he explain what exactly he was apologizing for, and then scorn him when he betrayed his ignorance.
Luckily for Andersen, Pat was way easier than that. He couldn’t help but find it super cool that a hot dude was saying sorry to him even though he didn’t have a clue what he was apologizing for, just so he’d get to have sex with Pat. That was a pretty neat compliment, right?
“Yeah, whatever,” he said accordingly, mollified. “Shit happens, I guess.”
For the first time, Pat consciously registered that Andersen — Nicholas, rather; it seemed weird to think of him by his last name when Pat hoped to sleep with him in the near future — was wearing jeans and a faded blue Ghost Matter shirt. The one before had been faded gray… which meant that, implausibly, he must own more than one.
“Dude.” Pat stepped closer, jerking his chin at the offending logo. “You listen to Ghost Matter?” Maybe Nicholas didn’t even know what those intertwined letters meant, and just liked the comfy shirt. Maybe his personal shopper secretly hated him, and was exacting revenge by supplying him with merchandise of the worst bands she could find. (Pat would be seriously impressed with the hypothetical personal shopper, if so. Most people underestimated the viciously subtle kinds of vengeance.)
“Yes,” Nicholas said quickly, seizing on the new subject with every sign of relief. “They’re my favorite band.”
For a moment, Pat was
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