"Maybe what I'm excited about is running up my blood alcohol content," she snarks back, only half her usual energy in it. Kinda is already craving another drink, hasn't had any since last night. "Ugh, fine, I'll swing by the damn board tomorrow. Assuming I can even get off the fucking couch. My eyes don't look fucked, do they?"
Concussion check. She got a lot of knocks to the head, will definitely be feeling it, but she might just have dodged an actual concussion. This time.
"Fucked in a head injury way, no. Fucked in a pending shiner way, definitely the one on the left," North remarks after giving her face a check. "Lemme make a cold compress."
He grabs a clean rag, turning on the sink water to dampen it. "Also, I'm not so straight-edge that I don't already know from experience that drinking isn't that interesting. Especially not the way you do it."
"Coulda fooled me. Fuckin' square." That's dumb, she knows it's dumb even as she says it, it's not like they haven't drank plenty together many times over the years, even if he never has gone a hard as she did even before this... problem, that she knows damn well she has now. Isn't eager to fix it, that's all. "It's sure more interesting than not drinking. That's all that fuckin' matters."
She turns her head so he can use the compress, once it's ready. Will take it from him soon enough, mind you, but the reflex is still, despite everything, to let him help.
"Maybe," she retorts, like a twelve-year old, then snorts and plays into it by sticking her tongue out at him immaturely too. "If twelve-year-olds said fuck." Beat. "Okay so yeah."
Yeah she was a twelve-year-old who said fuck. Of course she was.
She sticks her tongue out even more aggressively, never one to be one-upped, even if it makes her wince thanks to her aching jaw. Worth it.
"Soup does sound pretty good," she concedes, groaning faintly as she pushes herself up from leaning against the counter. "Still fuckin' weird seeing you cook shit."
Actual food. Not just heating up MREs and cans of crap.
Waving her along, North heads for the kitchen. "I like cooking well enough. It's relaxing, y'know? Clears my head. And then afterward, I get to eat! It's cleaning that's a bitch."
She keeps the compress against her face with her good arms as she goes, snorting quietly. "Well, we can agree on the fuckin' cleaning part being a bitch."
Can't relate to the rest, but if he's enjoying himself and they're getting decent food out of it, it's not like she's complaining. May as well enjoy it while she can.
"It's just a beef broth and some random veggies," North says with a shrug. "I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but I think Mom made a soup sorta like this sometimes. Smells good, anyway."
He fixes South a bowl first, then himself. His description of his dish was pretty accurate--- beef stock, plus onions, carrots, and celery that seem to have been sauteed first, chopped up potatoes, garlic, beans, tomatoes, corn, green beans, and mushrooms. He clearly has a vague idea of what he's doing, at least. There even appears to be some herb bits floating around in there. His vegetable cutting is rough, and there's definitely way more bits of thyme and rosemary stem than one might like, but it seems like a downright okay soup.
"Приятного аппетита," he remarks--- an old colony phrase. His actual Russian-speaking abilities are somewhat limited. "Lemme know what you think."
Never really gets less odd, thinking about home. Always been less likely to bring it up than he is, but has no real reason to stop him, either. One of them should probably be keeping the memory alive, right? Even if she doesn't know how to feel about the place, the past, sometimes.
He might not be making it onto Galactic Masterchef, but he's clearly figuring shit out, and it's not like it's not— nice, seeing him in this more normal light. (He's better suited for this than her. He's probably always been better suited for this, for life after the military, than her. Anyone could've told you that.)
"S'good," she says, muffled around a mouthful, because she's never had manners and she's sure not starting now. Elbows on the table and everything, one still holding the compress to her face and the other the spoon. "Could not fuckin' tell you if it's anything like whatever you're thinking of from Mom but I never remember that shit the same anyway, so. Whatever. It's good. Downright fuckin' edible."
"Downright fuckin' edible," North echoes in agreement. "I can live with that. I'm gonna be real with you, South, I'm just glad to have real vegetables to eat. Every time I ate an MRE, a part of my soul died."
"God, right? The shit on the ship was, like, fine, or whatever," stuff that was technically actual food but had been preserved to hell and back to get it safe for long-term storage in space travel, always at least a little bland, "but ugh. Last couple years. I never wanna see another MRE again in my life."
She's not really that fussy but damn, she'd like her food to at least taste decent. All of this is a real upgrade.
"I'll help uh—" vague spinning hand gesture as she chews and finds words, "finish patching up the shit around the planting area later this week, I guess. Speaking of fuckin' vegetables."
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"Maybe what I'm excited about is running up my blood alcohol content," she snarks back, only half her usual energy in it. Kinda is already craving another drink, hasn't had any since last night. "Ugh, fine, I'll swing by the damn board tomorrow. Assuming I can even get off the fucking couch. My eyes don't look fucked, do they?"
Concussion check. She got a lot of knocks to the head, will definitely be feeling it, but she might just have dodged an actual concussion. This time.
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He grabs a clean rag, turning on the sink water to dampen it. "Also, I'm not so straight-edge that I don't already know from experience that drinking isn't that interesting. Especially not the way you do it."
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"Coulda fooled me. Fuckin' square." That's dumb, she knows it's dumb even as she says it, it's not like they haven't drank plenty together many times over the years, even if he never has gone a hard as she did even before this... problem, that she knows damn well she has now. Isn't eager to fix it, that's all. "It's sure more interesting than not drinking. That's all that fuckin' matters."
She turns her head so he can use the compress, once it's ready. Will take it from him soon enough, mind you, but the reflex is still, despite everything, to let him help.
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Add another twenty to that, actually.
"Maybe," she retorts, like a twelve-year old, then snorts and plays into it by sticking her tongue out at him immaturely too. "If twelve-year-olds said fuck." Beat. "Okay so yeah."
Yeah she was a twelve-year-old who said fuck. Of course she was.
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She sticks her tongue out even more aggressively, never one to be one-upped, even if it makes her wince thanks to her aching jaw. Worth it.
"Soup does sound pretty good," she concedes, groaning faintly as she pushes herself up from leaning against the counter. "Still fuckin' weird seeing you cook shit."
Actual food. Not just heating up MREs and cans of crap.
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She keeps the compress against her face with her good arms as she goes, snorting quietly. "Well, we can agree on the fuckin' cleaning part being a bitch."
Can't relate to the rest, but if he's enjoying himself and they're getting decent food out of it, it's not like she's complaining. May as well enjoy it while she can.
"What's the soup anyway?"
no subject
He fixes South a bowl first, then himself. His description of his dish was pretty accurate--- beef stock, plus onions, carrots, and celery that seem to have been sauteed first, chopped up potatoes, garlic, beans, tomatoes, corn, green beans, and mushrooms. He clearly has a vague idea of what he's doing, at least. There even appears to be some herb bits floating around in there. His vegetable cutting is rough, and there's definitely way more bits of thyme and rosemary stem than one might like, but it seems like a downright okay soup.
"Приятного аппетита," he remarks--- an old colony phrase. His actual Russian-speaking abilities are somewhat limited. "Lemme know what you think."
no subject
Never really gets less odd, thinking about home. Always been less likely to bring it up than he is, but has no real reason to stop him, either. One of them should probably be keeping the memory alive, right? Even if she doesn't know how to feel about the place, the past, sometimes.
He might not be making it onto Galactic Masterchef, but he's clearly figuring shit out, and it's not like it's not— nice, seeing him in this more normal light. (He's better suited for this than her. He's probably always been better suited for this, for life after the military, than her. Anyone could've told you that.)
"S'good," she says, muffled around a mouthful, because she's never had manners and she's sure not starting now. Elbows on the table and everything, one still holding the compress to her face and the other the spoon. "Could not fuckin' tell you if it's anything like whatever you're thinking of from Mom but I never remember that shit the same anyway, so. Whatever. It's good. Downright fuckin' edible."
Pretty high praise off her, really.
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"God, right? The shit on the ship was, like, fine, or whatever," stuff that was technically actual food but had been preserved to hell and back to get it safe for long-term storage in space travel, always at least a little bland, "but ugh. Last couple years. I never wanna see another MRE again in my life."
She's not really that fussy but damn, she'd like her food to at least taste decent. All of this is a real upgrade.
"I'll help uh—" vague spinning hand gesture as she chews and finds words, "finish patching up the shit around the planting area later this week, I guess. Speaking of fuckin' vegetables."