[ Ian’s reply is framed as a joke but there’s something about it that would make a guy think he means it, or at least some of it. Depending on his lifestyle, that could mean judging himself all the time or just half of the time — which is, in all honesty, a thoroughly understandable emotion and fairly universal.
Albeit a little foreign to Mace, who is pretty much Popeye’s most famous saying in human form: I yam what I yam. Not self-assurance so much as utter self-acceptance, blunt and practical like the rest of him. It’s the same practicality that’s guided his every thought process and decision this entire time, rooted in the ancient, esoteric philosophy of never passing a buck.
Trapped in a murder cabin as the only one with any combat experience? Do the job you were trained for.
Somebody can’t walk from point A to B? You pick ‘em up and bodily take them to point B.
Your murder cabin partner is paralyzed and has to answer the call of nature? Can’t let him break his non-bedwetting streak, so the next logical conclusion rhymes with shedman.
Paralytic wears off? Wait for him to do his business, but keep an eye on him when possible, just in case — which means that Mace ends up frowning a little when Ian approaches the bed, immediately noting the small, fresh blooms of blood on his bandage. But a few finger-wiggles later, and the glasses are back in Ian’s hands, in time for his super-powered magic trick that Mace doesn’t think he’s ever gonna stop being fascinated by.
What ends up throwing him, though, is the accompanying story that’s more fascinating than the process itself, even with the way tequila materializes as something whirling and granular rather than a rapid flush of liquid. It’s an unexpected offer of information that distracts him from watching the blue glow this time, eyes flickering up to Ian’s face instead.
… Huh. So that’s the unfortunate-brand tequila story. Montezuma. Mace mouths it silently as he takes the proffered glass and raises it to his lips with the ghost of a grin. ]
At ten bucks a liter, can’t say as I blame you. That’s fuckin’ cheap. Throw in a handsome good time —
[ Mace pauses, arching both eyebrows as he tips half of the first shot down his throat, feeling the pleasant burn as it goes down. ] Or at least, I’m assuming he was a good time. Hopefully you weren’t having any highbrow debates in bed, Party Animal.
[ Look at that, a new nickname, given freely and with no small amount of hidden amusement in his eyes as he does so. Because Ian’s definitely not the guy Mace would’ve pegged for as a party-harder, even in college. More of the stoner sort. ]
no subject
Albeit a little foreign to Mace, who is pretty much Popeye’s most famous saying in human form: I yam what I yam. Not self-assurance so much as utter self-acceptance, blunt and practical like the rest of him. It’s the same practicality that’s guided his every thought process and decision this entire time, rooted in the ancient, esoteric philosophy of never passing a buck.
Trapped in a murder cabin as the only one with any combat experience? Do the job you were trained for.
Somebody can’t walk from point A to B? You pick ‘em up and bodily take them to point B.
Your murder cabin partner is paralyzed and has to answer the call of nature? Can’t let him break his non-bedwetting streak, so the next logical conclusion rhymes with shedman.
Paralytic wears off? Wait for him to do his business, but keep an eye on him when possible, just in case — which means that Mace ends up frowning a little when Ian approaches the bed, immediately noting the small, fresh blooms of blood on his bandage. But a few finger-wiggles later, and the glasses are back in Ian’s hands, in time for his super-powered magic trick that Mace doesn’t think he’s ever gonna stop being fascinated by.
What ends up throwing him, though, is the accompanying story that’s more fascinating than the process itself, even with the way tequila materializes as something whirling and granular rather than a rapid flush of liquid. It’s an unexpected offer of information that distracts him from watching the blue glow this time, eyes flickering up to Ian’s face instead.
… Huh. So that’s the unfortunate-brand tequila story. Montezuma. Mace mouths it silently as he takes the proffered glass and raises it to his lips with the ghost of a grin. ]
At ten bucks a liter, can’t say as I blame you. That’s fuckin’ cheap. Throw in a handsome good time —
[ Mace pauses, arching both eyebrows as he tips half of the first shot down his throat, feeling the pleasant burn as it goes down. ] Or at least, I’m assuming he was a good time. Hopefully you weren’t having any highbrow debates in bed, Party Animal.
[ Look at that, a new nickname, given freely and with no small amount of hidden amusement in his eyes as he does so. Because Ian’s definitely not the guy Mace would’ve pegged for as a party-harder, even in college. More of the stoner sort. ]