“Can I ask ya something?”
Dell’s hand moves up to fidget with the collar of Spy’s argyle blazer—suddenly his heart jumps to his throat, following the motion, and doesn’t go back down after a good few seconds of blinking, so Spy tentatively hums: “Yes, Dell?”
And then his eyes shift and his hand moves to sit on Spy’s shoulder instead. “Are you physically incapable of feeling overdressed?”
Spy doesn’t want to know why he has to calm himself for a little bit to squeeze out: “I have not seen a pair of slacks since I landed in this city that weren’t pulled directly from my suitcase. Perhaps the rest of you are classless, fashionably-bankrupt orangutans.”
“Aw. Look, this is a nice shirt, right?” Dell steps back (oh thank god) to do a few swivels and show off a salmon button-up that’s a little too small, considering how the fabric between the buttons is stretching almost enough to reveal a little skin.
There are slightly more pressing matters. “The fact that you squeezed into anything other than a pair of overalls this morning doesn’t change the fact that you’re wearing cargo shorts and…” His nose wrinkles, only a little voluntarily. “Boat shoes.”
Dell looks at him for a few seconds, then scoffs, obviously exaggerating a little for comedic effect, crossing his arms. “Well I never!”
“You obviously have, considering your current fashion statement.”
Dell’s expression shifts to confusion for a moment, then he says: “That is a blatant misinterpretation of a relatively common turn of phrase.”
“According to you.” Deep breath in, out. “If you theoretically wanted to improve the abysmal status of your wardrobe, I could take you shopping.” He thinks better of it and tacks on an “If you so desired,” even though it’s a tad redundant
“You,” he levels an accusing finger at Spy, “would make fun of everything I wanted to buy.”
“And, Dell, that’s precisely why I’ll pick everything out for you. And I’ll put it on my bill. You only need to sit back and try on whatever I throw at you. You know I have a moderately proficient eye.”
Dell’s about to say something, but he falters, and then he fidgets with the top button of his shirt and thinks for a while.
“As hesitant as I am to allow you to curate any portion of my wardrobe,” he eventually says—“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Internally, the celebration might involve backflips and cartwheels and a looming sense of existential dread—externally Spy allows himself to smile, just enough to make his pleasure clear, and he holds out his hand. “Tomorrow, laborer?”
Dell shakes on it. “It’s a date.”
Horrible choice of words.