Stan smiled a little at that. Did it show? It probably showed. He was always such a shitty liar. But it kinda sucked to leave everything up to Peter, too.
"It works, you know."
Twisting his arm, that is. People did it all the time, and he always eventually did what they wanted him to. It was nice that Peter had never done that to him, actually. He felt an odd rush of something at the realization. Gratitude, maybe? Friendly affection? He liked Peter. Peter didn't want to break everything and everyone around him the way most people seemed to.
But he was still in over his head when it came to picking pockets. Stanley stretched his legs out and glanced up, skyward, admiring the warm sunlight again. They had caffeine and nicotine and warm, glorious sunlight. A bed would be great, but even if they didn't get that, it wouldn't be a bad trip. Or maybe he just didn't mind because even before getting science-magic zapped into crazyland he'd spent plenty of nights sleeping on floors and pool decks and the swings in people's backyards. And Peter didn't seem too high maintenance either. They'd be fine.
He was about to ask about that when the poster in the window directly across from them caught his attention. $2, 500 prize? That would be useful. And for an open mic night? Shit. They really had crash landed in some alternate reality where everyone had cash to throw around, hadn't they?
no subject
"It works, you know."
Twisting his arm, that is. People did it all the time, and he always eventually did what they wanted him to. It was nice that Peter had never done that to him, actually. He felt an odd rush of something at the realization. Gratitude, maybe? Friendly affection? He liked Peter. Peter didn't want to break everything and everyone around him the way most people seemed to.
But he was still in over his head when it came to picking pockets. Stanley stretched his legs out and glanced up, skyward, admiring the warm sunlight again. They had caffeine and nicotine and warm, glorious sunlight. A bed would be great, but even if they didn't get that, it wouldn't be a bad trip. Or maybe he just didn't mind because even before getting science-magic zapped into crazyland he'd spent plenty of nights sleeping on floors and pool decks and the swings in people's backyards. And Peter didn't seem too high maintenance either. They'd be fine.
He was about to ask about that when the poster in the window directly across from them caught his attention. $2, 500 prize? That would be useful. And for an open mic night? Shit. They really had crash landed in some alternate reality where everyone had cash to throw around, hadn't they?
"Maybe there's something else."