hippie_ninja | IC INBOX

Well if Drake wasn't curious about what Jesus ordered when it was first pointed out, he sure is at that expression. He takes his card back from the hostess and tucks it away, giving his friend a curious look.

"What's that face for?" It'll be a minute, but there's a bench off to the side where people stopping in for takeout can wait out of the way. Drake nudges Jesus in that direction with a grin. "I'm not even sure what you got."

"No one feeds me as well as you do," he says with a little smile. "But if you've never had burnt ends, you're going to have to try mine. It's beef, all the caramelized bits off the brisket."

So plenty of reason to be thankful.

"That's a huge compliment, you know. But now if anybody starts pulling ahead you've gotta tell me so I can keep my rank." Is he serious..? Yup. He looks really flattered, honestly. "I'd love to try it."

"And keep you bringing me out to these places? I can manage that," he grins.

When he gets his take away box the first thing he does is grab a plastic fork and offer the first bite to Drake.

"Well you always wanna go out, or I'd cook for you instead. That's usually where I wind up impressing people."

He pulls out all the stops, even back when he wasn't as good a cook. But that's something they can get into later if Jesus wants to hear about it -- right now he'll accept the bite because he's very curious. It does look burnt, which isn't super appetizing, but it smells fantastic anyway and Jesus' endorsement would go a long way even if Drake wasn't the 'try anything once' type.

"Okay, that's really good. It's not actually burnt, just very smoked?" The texture's a little different than he was expecting too but not in a bad way. Yeah, he likes that. "Better keep your box away from me," he jokes, reaching to open the door to head back to housing.

He grins and pointedly holds it away from Drake's reach.

"I didn't know cooking was an option," he admits. Every meal he's had for the past eight years has been stew. It doesn't really occur to him anymore that people know how to make anything more unique.

"I've definitely offered," Drake counters, though he doesn't sound put out about it at all. "I only knew the basics back home, but winding up in Hadriel where food was so hard to come by in the first place? Really had to get creative and up our game."

Granted, most of his time there he couldn't taste anything so it was even more difficult... but he managed. His grin softens at the memory of something before he looks back at Jesus.

"You ever try cooking for a date during your apocalypse? I remember the sense of triumph the night I managed to put together something that reminded him of Chinese takeout... in an alien warzone."

"I should explain what 'cooking' means where I'm from. We don't have seasonings, and we all eat stew because we all have to feed communities." It's nothing to complain about but here is Drake offering a real home cooked meal.

"How did you find seasonings in a war zone?"

"That makes sense for what you've described. Our situation was just... really fucking weird. The alien part was as much of an issue as the war part, cuz we were hiding out on all these inhospitable worlds because of the war and that meant our food came from the aliens. Who fed off emotion so they didn't really understand actual food."

Yes, he's aware this sounds completely insane. Try living it for years, it never got less crazy.

"Most of the time there was enough even if it was awful. But there were plenty of times that we were cut off from them entirely. And my situation was..." he trails off, not sure if he should talk about that, and winds up shrugging. "I know what it's like to be starving to death. And how overwhelming it is being here where there's so much again."

It's one of those things, those unasked for bits of comfort, to hear that. It's such an awful thing to have in common; he would never want someone to know what it feels like to starve. No one should know what it's like to wonder which of your neighbors starved to death in the night (and that's setting aside the fact that he was often the one who then had to put those neighbors down after they'd turned).

"It's a lot," he says, his voice a little thicker than he expected. He swallows. "I'm glad for it. But it's a lot sometimes."

"I did readjust. And we're never gonna take it for granted, which is a good thing. But there's still times where I'll, like, be excited to have something I haven't tasted in forever, and instead of just being nostalgic... first I'll remember why it's been so long."

He pauses, then seems to make a decision and swaps his box to the other hand and reaches to take Jesus' and give it a little squeeze.

"If that ever happens for you, just know I get it."

He looks at his takeout container (easier, just now, than to look at Drake but he makes himself do that, too). "It happens sometimes."

He threads his fingers with Drake's, and isn't sure he is allowed, but he needs it for these few seconds. "Do you ever have trouble sleeping here?"

Don't worry, Jesus. He's extremely cuddly, just doesn't usually initiate contact uninvited. Never anything intimate... but this felt alright, and when Jesus confirms it's welcome by holding on he might notice Drake's posture visibly relaxing.

"Yeah. That's not new for me but the reasons have changed a little." He doesn't want to get into that right out on the street, but they're nearly back to the sub housing. While he still can, Drake strokes his thumb over Jesus' knuckles affectionately. "You can tell me why, if you want. Let's just get inside."

"I wish I knew," he says as they step inside. He says it lightly; they don't have to go into it, especially when he has no insight into it. He only brought it up in the small hope that Drake did, and that Drake had overcome it. "I never had trouble sleeping before I came here. It's just louder here. Busier here. I'm still getting used to it."

"Falling asleep, you mean? Not staying asleep?" That, he does actually have advice about. His frustrating issue is the nightmares. And sometimes the loneliness. "Just the noise would be an easy fix, but if it's more like you can't wind down that's different."

"I can fall asleep. But I wake up four or five times a night. Sometimes I can figure out what woke me up." The traffic outside, the neighbors. "When I can't, though, I can't go back to sleep."

"...you're on high alert," Drake says, expression thoughtful as Jesus leads him to the right apartment. The down housing is just as shit as he remembers, unsurprisingly, but he's lived in worse before. "Do you feel tired even when you do make it through a night?"

"It's complicated. But I haven't felt like I've had a decent night's sleep in weeks. At least there's coffee everywhere, right?"

Except coffee doesn't really help, and he's pretty sure Drake knows that.

"Too bad being more alert doesn't make you any less tired," is his response, his wry tone immediately proving Jesus right. He was undercover vice and major crimes -- running on caffeine and adrenaline was a frequent and miserable occurrence.

He leads him inside, after he gives him a sympathetic grimace. "You have any tips?"

"Maybe. I've got more questions, starting with why you said it's complicated."

Inside, Drake sets his bag and takeout box on the table in the common area and tips his head towards where he knows the bathroom is -- all these apartments are the same. Shitty and the same.

"You mind if I get this off before we eat?" He gestures at the line on his throat, the paint now cracked besides where he picked at it earlier to make it obvious it was fake. "It's starting to itch a little."

"Yeah, go ahead. There's a clean rag in there." He's fastidious about things being clean, about having linens and towels as fresh as he can.

He'll take those few minutes Drake is cleaning up to think about his answer.

It doesn't take Drake very long to wash off the stripe of paint and make sure there are no black flecks left in the sink. He emerges from the bathroom with a freshly scrubbed neck and clean hands, coming up to where Jesus chose to sit.

He didn't explicitly ask why the other man wanted takeout instead of dine-in for a change but isn't reading into it. It's probably nothing more than that their conversation's been a little personal for native-occupied spaces. Not that he'd mind helping with quota like he'd offered, but... they're not done talking.

"This seat taken?"

"I guess I can make room for you," and yes okay maybe he is flirting a little. They aren't done talking, though.

Nothing wrong with flirting just for the sake of it, either. Drake grins and claims the seat, nodding towards their takeout boxes -- might as well eat while it's still hot.

"Where were we?" he asks as he opens his container, even though he knows exactly what the last question he asked was. He's just giving Jesus an out to either answer his last question or move on from it if it's not something he's ready to talk about.

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