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[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.]

Come on, you can't tell me they still had stoves like this even a hundred years ago.

[He digs halfheartedly through some stuff, finds a potato, and tosses it over. Who knows where it's going to land. Not on Firo, hopefully, but other than that Hank didn't really aim it anywhere.]

Wait, did they? Don't tell me you used to cook like this every day.

[Firo sees the flying potato at the last moment and nearly dives to catch it before it hits the ground. Not quite what he'd had in mind...]

Not everybody. People can get one that uses gas or electricity, these days. But once you get it started, it's really not that different from this.

[Speaking of which... he should probably focus on those matches to make sure they can actually get anything cooked. He reaches into the back of one of the drawers, potato still in his hand.]

...You know what a tomato is, right?

No one puts tomatoes in the pantry.

[As proof, Hank hefts a couple stalks of celery and hurls them out into the kitchen like badly balanced, wilting javelins. He may or may not actually know what a pantry is for. He has a sort of vague sense that it’s where rich people keep their bread, instead of just shoving it in a cabinet.]

What, you don’t think starting it’s enough of a pain in the ass? You cut wood for it every day too?

[Firo won't argue with Hank on pantry habits just now; he's forming an opinion that Hank probably isn't the kind of guy who's too much of a kitchen wizard.

He fishes the matches out of the back of the drawer--bingo. He makes a noncommittal grunt as he strikes one and tosses it in on the stove kindling.]

It is a pain, but it's what we've got to work with.

It's not gonna be quite right, but I can make something like pizza with all this. Have you had that before?

[It's still a bit of a niche food in his time, so who knows. Not that it would change his mind if Hank hadn't tried it.]

[Hank leans back against the doorway, tilting his head back, expression tight and uncomfortable. He can answer just fine, just give him a couple seconds to push past his body's bullshit.]

Nah, we don't have pizza in the future. Not after the uh, Great Pizza Incident of '22. I mighta forgotten how it goes, do they put this on it?

[The thing he was going to toss into the kitchen - weird, lumpy, mostly green, maybe or maybe not native to Earth - slips out of his hand early and just rolls slowly along the floor. Well. He could have sworn he was holding it tighter, but that's close enough to throwing it, right?

[Firo's washing his hands in preparation but turns sharply to Hank. The what--

Oh. He's being mocked.]

Come on. I figured I'd at least ask. I don't usually see that stuff outside of the neighborhood.

[You try to be sort of nice to people and this is what happens. Firo sighs as he flicks the water from his hands and turns to see what Hank is throwing around this time.]

Can you quit dropping shit on the floor? We can try putting that thing on it--just try it and see how it tastes first.

[In the meantime, Firo'll start mixing up the ingredients for the dough.]

Shit no, you try it first.

[He leans to the side to sort through some more stuff. From the pantry comes the noise of things being knocked over which, while unintentional, Hank doesn't really try to avoid. He's still looking for fruit, or vegetables, or some shit.]

So, what, did people just not eat pizza back then, except in Italian neighborhoods? Did anyone really just not even know what it was?

You're the one who put it there...

[So on the floor it stays for now. Firo's assembled the dough and is doing his best to knead it on the floured counter. It's a strange sensation--well, lack of--when he can't actually feel it, but he at least has the visual cues to go off of.]

It doesn't seem that common, from what I've seen. I'm guessing it's different where you're from? If there's something you wanna put on it, just say so.

Before you destroy whatever's left in that pantry.

['Whatever he wants to put in', apparently, includes raisins. A slow, clumsy rain of them, flying - or sometimes rolling - out from the pantry at different speeds, in wildly different heights and directions. Hank feels like shit, and just wants to watch the world burn. Or drink until he passes out. And the pizza guy here won't let him do the latter.]

Yeah, I mean, everyone knows pizza. Give it a hundred years - or, hell, fifty. Fastfood chains will be disrespecting the memory of your cultural dish left and right. What do you put on it? What did they even have in the early nineteen-hundreds? Cheese? Sawdust?

You'd better use all this stuff you're throwing around...

[He'd hate for anything to go to waste, but he'd also hate to clean up Hank's mess for him.]

Nah, sawdust is just for the kinda bars people like you go to. If you can find cheese here, that'd be great.

[After he says it, he wonders if the reference to a seedy joint that covers the floor in sawdust makes sense to someone from the future. Will they still do that?]

[Hank's mess is absolutely going to waste. Fuck these raisins.]

Are you just saying that because the kind of place with sawdust on the floor is the only place that'd serve the shit you got in your room? Come on. You underestimate my class.

Hey, there's probably some cheese over here, but it's too far away. You want some you're gonna have to come over and get it.

[And step over Hank sitting int he doorway to do it. Have you ever felt too shitty to move? Well, Hank does. Fuck the raisins and fuck you, too.]

[Hank's barb is fair enough, so Firo sighs to himself instead of acknowledging that.

He has the dough laid out for his weird not-quite pizza flatbread, so he frowns, (unsuccessfully) dusts off his floury hands, and joins Hank at the pantry when requested. Not without grumbling first.]

But you're right there. How far gone are you?

[Firo's wishing he'd brought the alcohol with them, for his own sanity.

Even more when he gets to the pantry and sees the barrier that is Hank. He glares instead of trying to step over him. ]

Hey, I was either gonna get laid out by hunger or moonshine. I kinda wanted to go for that last one, but...

[He raises his eyebrows with a tight, pointed smile and a wave of his arm at the kitchen. He does move a leg over a little bit, and that will have to be enough for Firo to step over him because all he moves after that is his foot, pointing it over at a spot a foot or so out of his reach.]

‘S over there. Don’t know what kind you want but it’s probably all weird alien shit here anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter.

Edited (why phone) 2018-09-26 16:29 (UTC)

[Firo reaches over to grab the least weird cheese-like thing he can find, grumbling half to himself:]

You're about to get yourself laid out by me...

[He talks louder and more conversationally once he straightens up with his prize.]

Anyway, there'll be time for that still, if you manage to find a bottle.

[As he returns to his dough, he watches Hank out of the corner of his eye. Will mentioning the bottle get him to stir?

In the meantime, Firo'll sprinkle the cheese on the dough and pop it in the oven. Here goes nothing. ]

[After a few seconds of silence from the pantry, Hank groans, rolling himself toward the nearest bottle, then rolling the bottle out into the kitchen. It's probably some kind of oil; looks like vegetable oil, anyway.]

Here, use the rest of this up so I can just take that one. God, did you do all this when you were sick too, or am I the only one who was too fuckin out of it to remember to come get fucking dinner at the right time?

[Does he sound peeved? He's peeved. He was supposed to be halfway to passing out by now.]

Edited (forgot a word) 2018-09-26 22:37 (UTC)

[Firo wrinkles his nose at the bottle; he doesn't like the thought of wasting that oil, but he picks it up nevertheless. He'll figure out something to do with it.

He shrugs at Hank's question.]

I wasn't thinking much about this kinda thing when it got that bad.

[He wonders if he shouldn't have admitted the weakness once it's out of his mouth, but given that everybody was sick it's not a secret.

For want of something to do, he picks up that weird vegetable (?) Hank had thrown over earlier and starts washing it off.]

So when was the last time you ate? Before the sickness got bad?

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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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