Eyes narrowing slightly, Blake considers the grammatical implications, all at once wanting to point out that a bathroom cowboy and the Bathroom Cowboy clearly leave two distinctly different impressions. Maybe, like the Oxford comma, it's worth the semantical debate for clarity's sake, but something about trying to argue the point feels a little too close to Blakesplaining for his liking. And really, does it matter? If this particular (read: possibly pedantic) gas station attendant wants to claim a particular (read: specific) bathroom cowboy, who is he to argue?
He sets his cup on the counter to struggle into the Cackles bar, somewhat horrified to find it's covered in white chocolate and stuffed with raisins instead of peanuts. Gross. He should have read the label.
"Kill for those abs, though," he grumbles, leaning back again to look at the candy selection. Are they all going to be like this? Probably, he decides resolutely.
"All yours if you want it," Blake notes, placing the candy on the counter still mostly nestled in its wrapper. Even in the Horizon he's not interested in wasting food, which probably makes him look stupid, uncertain of his surroundings, or both (plus more). Not hard to guess which as he scoops his coffee back up and greedily takes a blessed sip. He might stick around long enough to top off, assuming that doesn't cost extra. His desperation for caffeine definitely outstrips the bounds of his imagination, getting an instant pass in nearly any situation.
(And that's when he puts a finger on the taste, transported back for an instant to his rambling insanity in the pit. The lanky kid with the wild hair, the inexplicable coffee pot, Blake almost forced to pummel him—)
The shadow of guilt creeps in and Blake stares down into his cup, now urged towards waiting for the pleasantries to pass and he can make his retreat; the last thing he wants is to upset anyone after what they'd all been through (and right behind that is a desire to never talk about the pit ever again).
"I should—" He tips his head at the door and the rain outside hammers all the harder. "Thanks for—" His cup's raised like a wave goodbye.
no subject
He sets his cup on the counter to struggle into the Cackles bar, somewhat horrified to find it's covered in white chocolate and stuffed with raisins instead of peanuts. Gross. He should have read the label.
"Kill for those abs, though," he grumbles, leaning back again to look at the candy selection. Are they all going to be like this? Probably, he decides resolutely.
"All yours if you want it," Blake notes, placing the candy on the counter still mostly nestled in its wrapper. Even in the Horizon he's not interested in wasting food, which probably makes him look stupid, uncertain of his surroundings, or both (plus more). Not hard to guess which as he scoops his coffee back up and greedily takes a blessed sip. He might stick around long enough to top off, assuming that doesn't cost extra. His desperation for caffeine definitely outstrips the bounds of his imagination, getting an instant pass in nearly any situation.
(And that's when he puts a finger on the taste, transported back for an instant to his rambling insanity in the pit. The lanky kid with the wild hair, the inexplicable coffee pot, Blake almost forced to pummel him—)
The shadow of guilt creeps in and Blake stares down into his cup, now urged towards waiting for the pleasantries to pass and he can make his retreat; the last thing he wants is to upset anyone after what they'd all been through (and right behind that is a desire to never talk about the pit ever again).
"I should—" He tips his head at the door and the rain outside hammers all the harder. "Thanks for—" His cup's raised like a wave goodbye.