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I'm not--hey, watch it!

[Firo releases the door and tries to grab Hank to keep him from toppling over. The floor is clean, thank you, but he'd rather Hank not lose teeth on it.

Unable to gauge his own force, if Firo's arm and shoulder do manage to catch Hank full on, it might feel more like a tackle than a rescue.

But, hey, if by chance any of their exposed skin meets, Hank might find that any lingering aches and pains suddenly feel a lot better.]

[Firo’s arm and shoulder do manage to catch Hank full on, and it does feel like a tackle.

In fact, Hank reflects, from the floor, it was almost exactly like that. He wonders if he’s going to start feeling that later; for now it feels like he’s stuck in the middle of a cotton ball, like everything should be muffled and slow, except it’s not. It’s weird, and would be hard to explain if he cared about explaining it, or about paying much attention to anything at all.]

If you wanna keep it for yourself that much, normally I’d just let you have it. Today I think you’re going to have to fight me.

[He sounds more tired than anything else, and he is tired, just lays there taking deep breaths - again, just because he can - and looking up at the ceiling a second before levering himself up onto one elbow.]

[Ideally, they both would've stayed upright, but before Firo knows it, they're both sprawled out on the ground. Firo's lucky enough to have Hank to break his fall, partially.

He rolls off of Hank and scrabbles to his hands and knees, wobbling slightly from the disorientation of falling.]

I didn't--I thought you were gonna fall. Are you all right?

[He didn't even feel him, but this floor isn't forgiving--he wouldn't be surprised if Hank is actually hurt.]

No, but knocking me on my ass isn't gonna change that.

[Hank frowns at him.]

You thought I was gonna fall so you tackled me? Are you seein shit too?

[It's fair that Hank has questions, given that Firo did sort of attack him out of nowhere. He winces.]

I meant to catch you. Here.

[He pushes himself upright and extends his hand towards Hank.]

What do you mean you're seeing stuff?

[Should he really be letting an hallucinating man into his room..?]

What? Not now.

[He grabs the guy's hand. He frowns at the grip.]

Weren't you? Or did I just get real lucky?

[He tries pulling himself up and his hand just slides out of the guy's grip, and he falls on his ass.

Okay. O k a y. He tries again, on his own this time and just about manages it, grimacing faintly and setting his arm against his stomach.]

Think you promised me somethin to drink, or did I hallucinate that too?

[Firo steps away to give Hank some space when he attempts to get up on his own.]

Oh, so you meant before.

[Now that he has his own curiosity/concern sated, he'll let the matter go. No need for him to confirm or deny if he experienced the same thing, unless Hank is really curious.]

It's coming right up, don't worry. Shut the door, will you?

[Now that Hank is up, Firo'll leave him to it while he fetches the container and two glasses--this time being very careful not to drop them. There's really nowhere to sit, so he perches himself on the wooden chest with the container on the ground.]

Did you want it all at once, or do you just wanna start with a glass?

[The deal did not include a free container to carry the stuff away in, so choose wisely.]

[Hank looks down at his hands. His empty hands. Then he rubs his fingers slowly over his eyes, straightening up and trying to stay steady.]

Musta dropped it. Fuck it, gimme a glass.

[Hank reaches out, moving slowly and looking uncomfortable, feeling heavy and exhausted and nauseous and dizzy. Go on, hand it to him, see if he can hold onto it better than he held onto Firo’s hand a second ago.]

[Firo nods and fills them up each a glass. He hates the almost exaggerated slowness with which he's moving; if he doesn't want to break something or let it slip out of his grasp, he has to gradually tighten and test his grip at each step of the way.

He holds out the glass to Hank:]

Don't drop it.

You think you're done with this sickness thing? I haven't heard you coughing up a lung yet.

I don't know, I feel like shit. But that could be anything.

[He takes the glass and it's only thinking about Firo's unnecessary warning that makes him watch the thing in his hand long enough to realize it's slipping out of it. He tries to tighten his grip, then hurriedly flattens his other hand and puts it, palm up, under the bottom of the glass to save it.

He frowns at the glass. He frowns at Firo. What the fuck? his face says, and he speaks slowly, clearly wondering more about what's in front of him.]

But I can breathe, that's something. You didn't sound too pretty yourself, you know.

[Firo's own hand jerks forward a fraction of an inch when he sees the glass slipping, though he manages to cut of his reaction once Hank has it under his control.

But clearly Hank's noticing something's up, as they lock eyes. Firo's fresh out of answers.]

I guess it got all of us, more or less. [He forces out something like a laugh, something like a snort.] Now it looks like we're gonna have to recover from our recovery.

[This clumsiness is probably just from laying around too much, right? It'll wear off.]

[Hank barks a laugh, and legitimately waits a second bracing himself against a cough that actually doesn't come tearing into his throat. He takes a deep, slow breath in celebration.]

You got that right.

[Hank settles down on the floor, leaning back against the foot of the bed.]

If you're gonna drink with me, we should toast. What to, do you think? Killing as many of these great new memories as soon as possible?

[Firo grins.]

Yeah, I'll drink to that. Fuck this.

[And he takes a gulp. The stuff may not taste the best--pretty sweet, a little sour--but it definitely has a kick to it.]

Urgh. [He makes a disgusted noise the instant he tastes it. A couple seconds later his own gulp of it starts settling into his empty stomach and his expression twitches, tightens, and he leans over on one arm, taking heavy breaths through his nose with discomfort thick in his voice.] You weren't kidding when you said this was, uh, a real first try for you, huh.

[Firo sighs. Believe him, he's not a fan of this taste either.]

Knock it off, I was working with what I had.

[He's about to retaliate with a quip about how Hank only needs this stuff to knock him out for a while, so who cares how it tastes?

Instead, he finds himself watching that rather unpromising expression warily. Could this guy still be under the weather?]

...Are you gonna be sick? If you are, do it outside.

[He waits for a couple breaths, trying to figure out the answer to that question, and then tilts his head toward the doorway, still grimacing.]

I'll sit next to the door, open it up and lean over in the hall if I gotta puke. That way anyone who wants to come in and see you's really gotta want it. How's that sound?

It's just gonna be straight uh, whatever this stuff is if I do, anyway. So, easy to clean up.

[Firo ignores Hank's proposal, shaking his head in disbelief when Hank implies that he hasn't consumed anything else recently.]

You didn't eat anything? How hammered are you trying to get?

[From what he's seen of Hank, Firo assumes he's an accomplished drunk, one who knows very well that having something in his stomach is pretty necessary to keep you from getting too far gone.

That is, assuming you don't want to be far gone.]

Didn't do it on purpose.

[He sighs, swallows, then leans back a little as the nausea starts to ease off. Not much, but a little. Enough that he thinks he can keep going, if he can convince Firo to let him; he'll just have to take it slow.]

Look, if it gets too bad I'll just leave, come back with a bottle, and go on my merry way. Okay? No stains on your perfect floor, I got you. Those are your limits.

[Firo's not sure why he doesn't immediately agree that this guy should fuck right off with his wine. He tells himself because to do so would be to concede that he cares about his perfect floor too much, and he doesn't want to give any (nicely swept, spotless) ground.

Besides, he can be condescending it he argues:]

Why don't you just eat something now?

Alright!

[Hank throws his hands up in frustration. Something clinks when he does it and he remembers the glass he'd been holding - but it's okay. He was sitting, it didn't turn over, it's fine. He hadn't felt it fall out of his grip at all and makes a face at it, half-embarrassed and half-annoyed. He points a finger at Firo.]

Alright. And then you won't have a reason to bitch at me, okay?

[He shoves himself to his feet, closing his eyes with a hand on the bed for a second while his body gets used to being up. Then, with raised eyebrows and another second of pointing at Firo's face, he's gone.

Don't get used to it. In about half an hour he's back, opening Firo's door without invitation or any ceremony at all and shaking a woven bag in Firo's general direction.]

This kitchen. Is bullshit.

[He leans against the doorway, ducking his head and swallowing hard. After he's wrangled how much his body hates him right now back under control his expression goes back to normal and he takes a slow, careful breath, shaking the bag again. White powder shakes out of it, joining the rest dusted over Hank's hand and arm.]

What the fuck is this? If it was fucking heroin I'd know what to do with it. Shit.

[He catches the bag just before it falls, tightening the string holding it closed and double knotting the damn thing, then shoving his hand through the loop so it's hanging off his wrist. Fucking there.]

Look, if I just...

[He shoves the heel of a hand against the side of his head, grimacing, still leaning against the doorway. He hates saying this. But between his head and his stomach he couldn't concentrate for shit, and bending over long enough to look for a bottle to come back with was not an idea his body liked, like, not even a little bit, and after this week - and the last one and, hell, this entire month - he needs something.]

If you just help me look for a bottle I'll owe you another favor, okay, and then I'll stay out of your hair for as long as you want. Just... fuck...

[He grimaces, wrapping an arm around his middle. This is maybe not his finest moment. That's okay. He's had a lot of not-his-finest moments. You don't really need dignity, once you get down to it.]

[Firo's surprised that Hank doesn't argue, but once he sees that the glass is unharmed, he figures he'll just shrug and let him go.

...Or not. In Hank's absence, Firo finishes his own drink and is leaning on the windowsill looking out when Hank makes his dramatic return.

Firo whirls around, his hand going to his weapon. In his line of work, Firo has to be prepared for whoever comes beating down his door, whether that be the cops with cuffs or a rival with a tommy gun.

He is not prepared for an old man and a bag of provisions.

Once his brain processes that this isn't a threat so much as just plain weird, he's still essentially stunned into silence as Hank rants. And while Hank does that, Firo gets a good look at him, sees a cop and a slob but... also someone who's clearly having issues in Firo's orbit, and for some reason, that means that this is now partially Firo's problem. He did tell him to go eat something, after all.

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. His tone is still a step away from gentle, but it's not harsh. If anything, he probably sounds like a kid halfheartedly grumbling about doing a homework assignment.]

...You're an adult, but you don't know how to cook? Come on.

[He'll have to sweep up whatever spilled later. For now, he waves Hank to follow as he tries to brush past through the doorway. If Hank does, Firo'll head them back to the kitchen.]

[Hank frowns at him. Then he frowns at the bag of whatever around his wrist, like that's got an answer for him.

But whatever's in that bag is bullshit. It doesn't even have food for anybody, let alone answers. Hank follows.]

What, you think if you watch me fuck up it'll go any better?

[He leans against a table, frowning at the cord around his wrist. He's kind of having trouble getting his fingers under it to pull it off, but it's not on there that tight. He'll get it.]

Even if I did get something started I'd probably fall over into the pan. While it was cooking, because hell, why would anything actually go well? But if that's what you want here, whatever, it's not like it'd make this week worse.

Fuck it, let's go.

[He makes it over to the stove, looking over it.]

Wood burning, right? Is there any...

[He crouches to make sure there's fuel and, yep, there it is. Look at that, one thing going right. It's on standing back up that things go wrong a little. Can you start a fire when your vision's kind of too dark and sparkly to see what your hands are doing? Sure. Maybe. Can you do it when you might be actively falling over? Debatable.]

Fucking... matches, right? Wherever they are they're probably stupid, old fashioned bullshit...

[Hank seems intent on trying something, much to Firo's surprise. So once they get to the kitchen, he leans back on a table and watches to see how far Hank will get.]

You think watching some geezer screw around would be fun for me? I don't get my kicks that way.

[And he doesn't get them from watching a guy tip over, either, so when it appears that Hank's going to have issues getting the matches, Firo strides over to grab his shoulder and steady him.]

I figured I could show you a thing or two.

[He releases Hank and moves to dig around the kitchen for some ingredients he can work with, straightening up the things that Hank may have left knocked over or askew as he does so. He finds the flour and grabs some of the remaining yeast that he'd stowed away from his moonshine ventures. This is a start.]

While you're looking for matches, grab some tomatoes if you see any. Or anything that looks close enough. Oh, and yell if you're gonna faint, okay? Should you be drinking at all if you're this unsteady?

[Hank’s expression pulls a little tighter when Firo keeps him upright, half a grimace with hints of shame in it, but the gesture keeps him from falling into the stove so he just raises his eyebrows at the orders and makes his way toward the pantry.]

Well, I wasn’t knocking down your door cause that’s just how much I loved the taste.

[Okay, here’s the pantry. He doesn’t really want to repeat the whole kind of fainting thing from a second ago and he’d maybe feel less shitty sitting down anyway so he just plops on the floor and starts sorting through whatever’s in there.]

So, what’s this thing or two you think you’re going to show me? Is cooking shit from scratch how people got their kicks back in the nineteen thirties?

[Firo's shooting for a pizza--or the Temple equivalent--if they can get it. But he's not confident that they'll find all the ingredients, so he ignores Hank's question about what it is they're making, instead busying himself inspecting some jars that seem to hold spices.]

It's what people do if they wanna eat. Do you guys not do that in the future anymore?

[He knows full well that most men in his time subsist on restaurant and street fare or whatever their wife/mother/sister/closest female relative is making. He just feels compelled to try to get in another dig, to slip into that almost comfortable pattern.

It's hard to be too nice.]

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if he'd lock his door so hank couldn't get back in i can edit

/locks and barricades the door

anything to keep a hank out

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