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xp_logsQuentin and Sam go clothes shopping and talk about boys. (This scene does not pass the Bechdel Test.)
In deference to the sheer panic emanating off Sam at the mere suggestion they completely redo his wardrobe (because those ratty flannels simply had to go), Quentin skipped over his preferred department stores and boutiques and instead settled on the Uniqlo on 5th. It wasn't ideal, but the clothing was decent for its price, and no one would be embarrassed to be seen in public with Sam anymore. For better or worse, he'd look like every other 20-something in Manhattan.
"Let's start with tops," Quentin instructed as he marched into the store with Sam hot on his heels. He abruptly stopped, stepping aside so Sam would avoid colliding with him. "Unless you prefer bottoms."
Sam tried to stay close to Quentin as they walked through the store. Everything in here was way too nice for a Walmart rack.
At Quentin’s words Sam ground to a halt and blinked rapidly, choosing not to read into the rather obvious subtext. “Tops’re fine.”
"Suit yourself." The store was an obsessive-compulsive's dream, with everything laid out sensibly and by color. "I'm partial to pink, obviously," Quentin mused, testing the softness of a cashmere sweater between his fingers, "But they've got the whole fucking rainbow."
“Yeah….” Sam said, awkwardly. “I can see that. Uh I tend to go for darker colors, easier to keep lookin’ clean for longer…. But if I’m gonna get a color it’ll usually be yellow or blue….. I’m pretty easy.”
"I can appreciate a whole wardrobe of black, white, and gray," Quentin said, taking a black sweater from the rack and handing it to Sam to try on. "If you're going to pick a palette for your whole wardrobe then you better commit to it. But I like color, it's expressive."
Sam shrugged. "Yeah well... back home coal got on everythin', don't have that problem here. I ain't afraid of color, just not used to bein' able to keep it lookin' nice."
"Do I need to add laundry lessons to your job training material?" Another pair of sweaters, one blue and one yellow, unhooked themselves from the display rack and landed in Sam's arms. "The yellow one is wool, that's ideally handwashed. Same with cashmere. The blue one is a blend, it can go in the machine. Cold, gentle. Fitting room's over there, by the way."
“I know how to do laundry,” Sam said indignantly. “I been doin’ my own laundry since I was eight! Workin’ in a coal mine and on a farm just destroys all your clothes.”
Sam took the sweaters over to the changing room and tried his best not to look at the price tags. He’d never had clothes this nice before. They felt…. Strange in his hands.
"I'm sure you looked great in laborer chic," Quentin responded from outside the changing room, his attention briefly turning to his phone as he rapidly fired off a text to Inez. "Though come to think of it, maybe the black-and-white wardrobe would appeal more to Barton, since he can't see color for shit. Not that he sees you with clothes on much, anyway."
Sam squeaked and nearly dropped what he was holding. “Quentin!”
His blush was spreading all the way down his chest as he tried to glare at Quentin through the changing room door. “He sees me with clothes on plenty, thank you.”
The psychic just grinned and laughed. "Then you're doing it wrong." Maybe it was childish taunting, but in dark days, one must take pleasure wherever they can find it, and breaking a prude was always a fun time. "Come on out, let me see how it looks."
Sam came out in the yellow sweater and did a rather unenthusiastic little spin. This sort of thing had been much cuter when he’d picked up a few extra shifts to buy Joelle that Easter dress she really wanted.
“I ain’t just trying to sleep with ‘im.” Sam said. “God knows that’s the easy part. I actually like him.”
"Yeah, he really gets under your skin that way, doesn't he? Like an infection," Quentin posed, not unkindly, but with a sort of resignation, like he'd come to the same conclusion himself but as opposed to Sam, wasn't elated by it. So as usual, he ignored Feelings and turned back to more mundane matters, like clothing. "I like it, yellow's a good color for you. Nice fit, too."
Sam raised an eyebrow as he went back into the fitting room to try on the other tops Quentin had picked out. “I know that tone well enough- you got a boy on your mind?”
"Sam, I always have boys on my mind." As if to emphasize the point, he leered at an oblivious passing customer, then shrugged. "No, I'm just saying, Barton . . . Clint has a heart so big that I'd worry it's actually cardiomegaly. So, you know, just be aware of that."
“Mhmmm.” Sam said. “Pot meet kettle but you know that you get to feel things? And act on those feelin’s?”
This is a pretty good fantasy. Quentin shook his head to exorcise not only Gabriel's words themselves but also the memory of nearly sacrificing those words for someone else's sake. "I don't do feelings," he lied. "I gave those up when I became a telepath. Makes it much easier to go about my day without my heart getting in my big mutant brain's way."
Sam furrowed his brow, walking out in the blue sweater this time. "Uh... no offense. But that's.... kinda fucked up maybe you should go get your feelins back from the pawn shop or wherever it is you put 'em."
"Hey! I'm the boss." Quentin leaned in, close enough that their noses nearly touched, and pressed a pointer finger against Sam's chest. But he smiled. "If you're going to read me like that, do it in private. You make me look bad, it reflects on the whole damn agency. Capice? I like this one, too. Very soft."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "All due respect, sir but I won't say nothin' if you don't give me reason to. I wasn't sayin' it to undermine you but because that sounds genuinely miserable."
Quentin stepped back, eyes locked on Sam and still smiling a painful smile. This is a pretty good fantasy. "Better than the alternative," he said softly. "Come on, let's find you some goddamn pants."
In deference to the sheer panic emanating off Sam at the mere suggestion they completely redo his wardrobe (because those ratty flannels simply had to go), Quentin skipped over his preferred department stores and boutiques and instead settled on the Uniqlo on 5th. It wasn't ideal, but the clothing was decent for its price, and no one would be embarrassed to be seen in public with Sam anymore. For better or worse, he'd look like every other 20-something in Manhattan.
"Let's start with tops," Quentin instructed as he marched into the store with Sam hot on his heels. He abruptly stopped, stepping aside so Sam would avoid colliding with him. "Unless you prefer bottoms."
Sam tried to stay close to Quentin as they walked through the store. Everything in here was way too nice for a Walmart rack.
At Quentin’s words Sam ground to a halt and blinked rapidly, choosing not to read into the rather obvious subtext. “Tops’re fine.”
"Suit yourself." The store was an obsessive-compulsive's dream, with everything laid out sensibly and by color. "I'm partial to pink, obviously," Quentin mused, testing the softness of a cashmere sweater between his fingers, "But they've got the whole fucking rainbow."
“Yeah….” Sam said, awkwardly. “I can see that. Uh I tend to go for darker colors, easier to keep lookin’ clean for longer…. But if I’m gonna get a color it’ll usually be yellow or blue….. I’m pretty easy.”
"I can appreciate a whole wardrobe of black, white, and gray," Quentin said, taking a black sweater from the rack and handing it to Sam to try on. "If you're going to pick a palette for your whole wardrobe then you better commit to it. But I like color, it's expressive."
Sam shrugged. "Yeah well... back home coal got on everythin', don't have that problem here. I ain't afraid of color, just not used to bein' able to keep it lookin' nice."
"Do I need to add laundry lessons to your job training material?" Another pair of sweaters, one blue and one yellow, unhooked themselves from the display rack and landed in Sam's arms. "The yellow one is wool, that's ideally handwashed. Same with cashmere. The blue one is a blend, it can go in the machine. Cold, gentle. Fitting room's over there, by the way."
“I know how to do laundry,” Sam said indignantly. “I been doin’ my own laundry since I was eight! Workin’ in a coal mine and on a farm just destroys all your clothes.”
Sam took the sweaters over to the changing room and tried his best not to look at the price tags. He’d never had clothes this nice before. They felt…. Strange in his hands.
"I'm sure you looked great in laborer chic," Quentin responded from outside the changing room, his attention briefly turning to his phone as he rapidly fired off a text to Inez. "Though come to think of it, maybe the black-and-white wardrobe would appeal more to Barton, since he can't see color for shit. Not that he sees you with clothes on much, anyway."
Sam squeaked and nearly dropped what he was holding. “Quentin!”
His blush was spreading all the way down his chest as he tried to glare at Quentin through the changing room door. “He sees me with clothes on plenty, thank you.”
The psychic just grinned and laughed. "Then you're doing it wrong." Maybe it was childish taunting, but in dark days, one must take pleasure wherever they can find it, and breaking a prude was always a fun time. "Come on out, let me see how it looks."
Sam came out in the yellow sweater and did a rather unenthusiastic little spin. This sort of thing had been much cuter when he’d picked up a few extra shifts to buy Joelle that Easter dress she really wanted.
“I ain’t just trying to sleep with ‘im.” Sam said. “God knows that’s the easy part. I actually like him.”
"Yeah, he really gets under your skin that way, doesn't he? Like an infection," Quentin posed, not unkindly, but with a sort of resignation, like he'd come to the same conclusion himself but as opposed to Sam, wasn't elated by it. So as usual, he ignored Feelings and turned back to more mundane matters, like clothing. "I like it, yellow's a good color for you. Nice fit, too."
Sam raised an eyebrow as he went back into the fitting room to try on the other tops Quentin had picked out. “I know that tone well enough- you got a boy on your mind?”
"Sam, I always have boys on my mind." As if to emphasize the point, he leered at an oblivious passing customer, then shrugged. "No, I'm just saying, Barton . . . Clint has a heart so big that I'd worry it's actually cardiomegaly. So, you know, just be aware of that."
“Mhmmm.” Sam said. “Pot meet kettle but you know that you get to feel things? And act on those feelin’s?”
This is a pretty good fantasy. Quentin shook his head to exorcise not only Gabriel's words themselves but also the memory of nearly sacrificing those words for someone else's sake. "I don't do feelings," he lied. "I gave those up when I became a telepath. Makes it much easier to go about my day without my heart getting in my big mutant brain's way."
Sam furrowed his brow, walking out in the blue sweater this time. "Uh... no offense. But that's.... kinda fucked up maybe you should go get your feelins back from the pawn shop or wherever it is you put 'em."
"Hey! I'm the boss." Quentin leaned in, close enough that their noses nearly touched, and pressed a pointer finger against Sam's chest. But he smiled. "If you're going to read me like that, do it in private. You make me look bad, it reflects on the whole damn agency. Capice? I like this one, too. Very soft."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "All due respect, sir but I won't say nothin' if you don't give me reason to. I wasn't sayin' it to undermine you but because that sounds genuinely miserable."
Quentin stepped back, eyes locked on Sam and still smiling a painful smile. This is a pretty good fantasy. "Better than the alternative," he said softly. "Come on, let's find you some goddamn pants."
