There are a lot of good things about being here. K is rattled by the bad in ways he wasn't in Los Angeles, but he never forgets that there is good, too. He never lets himself in the quiet moments when the bad threatens to overwhelm him.
He stretches his fingers under Jesus's, shifts them so they lace together loosely, and rubs his thumb over Jesus's knuckle.
"Yes," he agrees; it would be harder without Jesus, too. "I'm sorry we both have to be here. I'm grateful it was at the same time."
"It's better than being dead." He does, at least, still believe this. He doesn't know if he counts as alive, he doesn't know what death even means here, but that's something to puzzle out later. Somehow.
"-Oh. Bread. I think you'd be good at it. You need some patience to make good bread. I learned how to do it in the Hilltop; I can't wait to try making rolls with the flour available here."
K is curious about the bread but he's not more worried about it than he is addressing the things that still haunt Jesus. He watches a moment longer, then smiles.
"I'd love to learn." He always loves to learn, and he likes learning about food best just now. "Why patience?"
"You don't want to overwork it. And you have to wait a lot--wait for it to rise. You have to wait for it to be ready." Like many things, for Jesus it's fun because it requires patience and a sort of cooperation.
"You've probably never had fresh bread, have you?"
"The dough has to rise; it's what makes the bread fluffy." He wishes they had the ingredients now so he could show him. "But you can overwork the dough by punching it down and kneading it too much. I'll show you sometime."
He nods at the carrots. "Can you slice those into pieces for me?"
K perks up noticeably at the mention of lemon - something he recognizes from experimenting in the kitchen with V.
"Yes," he says immediately, looking up from pressing his fingernail experimentally into the core of a slice of carrot. "I've heard they're sweet sometimes but the one V bought was sour. Do you know the difference?"
"Meyer lemons are sweeter. But I brought a regular one. It'll balance out how sweet carrots are when they cook." At least that's his hope. It's what Carol once said to him.
"Can you slice the lemon for me, too?"
Maybe, possibly, he just likes watching K with a knife.
"Meyer lemons," he echoes dutifully, memorizing the name so he'll recognize it in the future.
He pulls the lemon out of the bag, transfers it lightly from palm to palm to feel the weight of it and how it hits his skin; he runs his thumb along the rind, feeling how it's solid but still soft enough to give, how the friction leaves his skin smelling like the lemon just faintly.
Because yeah, he smells it too before he cuts into it like he had the potatoes.
"V has a juicer in here somewhere. We had to image search it to find out what it was for, but it was... Fun."
"I do," K agrees readily, although there's something particularly pleasing to finding out Jesus might think of it as good news. It makes him want to do more, even though he already did.
"I like it. Have you tried it on broccoli?" He clearly pronounces each syllable, the result of reading an unfamiliar word on a sign.
He digs around until he finds it, then gives K a teasing grin. "I didn't expect you two to have gadgets already. When did you pick up your broccoli and lemon skills?"
"They came with the kitchen," he protests with obviously false indignation given he's smiling.
"I saw a picture of the juicer. It had half a lemon in it, so that seemed pretty straightforward. I was boiling everything else and the broccoli came out pretty good so we just added the juice." K huffs a short, amused sound. "V got lemon juice everywhere."
He laughs. "I've heard of people wearing goggles to work with citrus. I'm probably no better. I haven't had a real lemon in years." And K, he knows, never had one at all before this.
"I can't get used to all this," he confesses quietly, and has said before, but it strikes him sometimes. "The kitchens are always full."
K is focusing on the carrots again, on slicing up the last few chunks, trying to picture protective eyewear for cutting fruit and how vigorously one would need to juice a lemon to need it.
Then he glances sidelong at Jesus, and back to what his hands are doing.
"What do you mean by getting used to it?" he asks. "Taking it for granted? Or not being surprised when they are? Or something else?"
"Yeah I keep feeling surprised by it all. And then I keep hoarding food..." He grimaces. "I want to remember how to just enjoy things, but at the same time, I don't want to settle in."
K has a complicated reaction to Jesus admitting he doesn't want to settle in - he gets it, he's seen it before, they've touched on it, but it's still a coping mechanism. It's lacking trust, which is intelligent in certain situations and problematic as a blanket statement.
He finishes cutting and sets the knife down, collecting the bright orange discs into a pile at one side of the board.
"Start with shifts, maybe," is his suggestion. "At certain times, or on certain days, or with certain people or doing certain things, tell yourself this is to enjoy. The rest of the time, follow your instincts."
"Everyone with a job does, to a point," K answers, moving to wash his hands. They're tinted a bright orange-yellow from the carrot that he investigates for a moment in front of the sink. "This time is for performing duties. This time is for pursuing personal matters. It's just shifting how you think about it."
K's eyes tick up from his hands and find Jesus's. "I don't mean that I think of this as a job. I'm enjoying this."
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There are a lot of good things about being here. K is rattled by the bad in ways he wasn't in Los Angeles, but he never forgets that there is good, too. He never lets himself in the quiet moments when the bad threatens to overwhelm him.
He stretches his fingers under Jesus's, shifts them so they lace together loosely, and rubs his thumb over Jesus's knuckle.
"Yes," he agrees; it would be harder without Jesus, too. "I'm sorry we both have to be here. I'm grateful it was at the same time."
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"-Oh. Bread. I think you'd be good at it. You need some patience to make good bread. I learned how to do it in the Hilltop; I can't wait to try making rolls with the flour available here."
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"I'd love to learn." He always loves to learn, and he likes learning about food best just now. "Why patience?"
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"You've probably never had fresh bread, have you?"
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"I know all of those words but not what you're talking about," he chuckles, amused. "Overwork? Rise?"
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He nods at the carrots. "Can you slice those into pieces for me?"
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"I didn't know we had to fight the bread to make it."
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"Yes," he says immediately, looking up from pressing his fingernail experimentally into the core of a slice of carrot. "I've heard they're sweet sometimes but the one V bought was sour. Do you know the difference?"
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"Can you slice the lemon for me, too?"
Maybe, possibly, he just likes watching K with a knife.
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He pulls the lemon out of the bag, transfers it lightly from palm to palm to feel the weight of it and how it hits his skin; he runs his thumb along the rind, feeling how it's solid but still soft enough to give, how the friction leaves his skin smelling like the lemon just faintly.
Because yeah, he smells it too before he cuts into it like he had the potatoes.
"V has a juicer in here somewhere. We had to image search it to find out what it was for, but it was... Fun."
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"I like it. Have you tried it on broccoli?" He clearly pronounces each syllable, the result of reading an unfamiliar word on a sign.
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"I saw a picture of the juicer. It had half a lemon in it, so that seemed pretty straightforward. I was boiling everything else and the broccoli came out pretty good so we just added the juice." K huffs a short, amused sound. "V got lemon juice everywhere."
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"I can't get used to all this," he confesses quietly, and has said before, but it strikes him sometimes. "The kitchens are always full."
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Then he glances sidelong at Jesus, and back to what his hands are doing.
"What do you mean by getting used to it?" he asks. "Taking it for granted? Or not being surprised when they are? Or something else?"
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He finishes cutting and sets the knife down, collecting the bright orange discs into a pile at one side of the board.
"Start with shifts, maybe," is his suggestion. "At certain times, or on certain days, or with certain people or doing certain things, tell yourself this is to enjoy. The rest of the time, follow your instincts."
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He looks at the meal he's making, breathes in the scent of chicken warming in the oven and the fresh crisp sweetness of the carrot K cut up.
"Is that how you've done it?"
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K's eyes tick up from his hands and find Jesus's. "I don't mean that I think of this as a job. I'm enjoying this."
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