[ No jobs tomorrow. No responsibilities, no quests, no assholes to beat up or folk to save. Len didn't realize how much he needed the breathing room until he had it, too swamped by the desire to pick up other people's pieces for them to notice he was dropping fragments of himself along the way. Put out the word with his little "family" that he was taking at least twenty-four hours of R&R, and got some snide but appreciated comment back from Raúl about how he looked like he needed it.
The bags under his eyes are starting to show and so he plans for a night in, an event to which Rico Dredd invites himself and Len doesn't have it in him to argue about it. He half-expects things to get as rowdy as they usually do, too, but the only ambient sounds over the Sinatra playing softly on the radio come from the suite's kitchenette, where Rico is busying himself with...something.
From his leggy sprawl on the sofa Len lolls his head to one side, watching the man's back as the soft clatter of dishes, the muted thuds on the cutting board, and the sizzling of something that smells fucking incredible drag his attention from the book he's only partly reading. Rico looks good like that, all domestic, a towel thrown over one shoulder while he works. Concentrating on something that isn't tearing somebody open or building a bomb from scratch.
He looks good like that too, mind, but the novelty here is what makes it interesting. ]
[In Rico’s opinion, cooking isn't all that different from making explosives when you really get down to it. You need to mix up exact quantities of just the right ingredients, follow a specific order of operations, add a little heat... and if you do it right, somebody eats it.
Mm. No. That joke is definitely staying in the mental workshop for a while longer.
It's a more relaxed atmosphere in the room tonight. Len's been looking particularly ragged around his edges for... a variety of reasons. For one thing, he hasn't seemed to notice that his curls are looking increasingly more on the 'bedraggled' side than what you could call 'naturally-tousled' by the day. And with the more obvious addition of the dark circles, it's no surprise that Len decides he's taking a day off. So yeah, Rico elbows his way into Len's plans with one of his own in mind.
If he happens to look particularly domesticated standing around in his boxers, it’s far from his mind. He barely registers Len's question, he’s so intensely focused on dicing the absolute shit out of some potatoes he'd gotten from Westside - and a smattering of some other not-too-irradiated produce, as thanks for helping out with repelling some Fiends with a friendly shotgun while he happened to be there. Truth be told he'd spent more caps by using the ammo he did than he would have if he'd bought it all straight, but you just can't put a price on goodwill. That's how he got a lead on getting the (pretty fucking expensive) half-used, secret string of dried chiles laying out on the counter, after all. Efficiently eviscerated, then hand-ground into a blood-red, wet paste.
Kind of like what happens when we work together, Rico thinks. Heh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile as he looks down at the counter.
...Wasn't Len saying something? Right.]
You'll see. [To cover up his lapse in attention, he tosses the potato he's holding lightly in his hand before catching it.] You're gonna love it. It's to die for, and well... technically, somebody already has.
[He pauses.]
I'm not cooking people, just to be clear. The farmboys over at Westside handed me an extra bag of potatoes for using some of my new fletchette rounds on very short notice. They work great, by the way.
[Chit-chatting about how the day went. It's kind of nice?]
[ It is nice, a sensation Len is still getting accustomed to on the rare occasion it raises its head. He's never been a remotely domestic person in spite of enjoy a number of domestic things, but he likes the smell of home-cooking and it's oddly charming to see Rico wandering around a hot stove shirtless. Might as well start the internal timer now to see how long it takes before some hot oil spatters on his chest.
Len lowers the book in his hand to his stomach, turning his head to get a proper glance at him. A little sweaty but clearly competent with a knife in his hand, even when he's not outright cutting somebody open. He's infuriatingly good-looking, even like this. Especially like this. Len's gaze tracks down the line of his neck where it meets his shoulder, over a bicep tightening and releasing as he moves, sliding askance to his collarbone. A good sign, perhaps, that his libido is returning home from the war after the last few days of being too exhausted to even consider sex. ]
I'm lookin' forward to it.
[ It's sincere, anyway. There's a familiar peppery scent he can't quite put his finger on, but he'll cotton to it soon enough. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, still achy and tired in spite of the sleep he got last night. Can't possibly be helped any by the latent radiation sickness after some recent exposure, and he knows if he stretches himself beyond capacity again Arcade is going to put him under house arrest, and nobody wants to see where that ends up. ]
Hey. [ His voice cracks, scratchy, and he says again: ] Hey. I'm gonna make a drink, you want anything?
Sure thing, sweetheart. [Rico's low rasp of a voice sounds pleased. The stove radiates heat just this side of uncomfortable, a small pot bubbling away with the lid closed, and he puts down the knife to check on the spitting skillet. He doesn't usually make a habit of cooking in his underwear, even if he's not particularly fazed by errant sparks for obvious reasons.] Give me a - fuck, ugh. Yeah, just uh, mix me up a cocktail or whatever. Surprise me.
[He scowls and rubs the sting from a tiny spit of oil that's landed alarmingly close to his nipple with the corner of his towel. Glances sidelong at Len to see if he'd caught that, hoping he's too busy staring at something else instead. Like his book. Or more hopefully, glued to Rico's ass. Come on, it's right there.
No such luck. Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
While Len might venture off to fulfill that particular mission, Rico barely notices when one song quavers to a close and another fades in.
...and when I looked, the moon had turned to gold...
He scrapes the potatoes straight into the skillet, adding a fresh sound to the existing sizzle of nightstalker tail. The rattle sliced off, pinkish meat stripped clean of scales and searing nicely in tender chunks. Expensive and relatively rare to find on offer anywhere, on account of absolutely no sane person wanting to venture into a nightstalker den on purpose. Nobody except for Rico, that is. Culinary novelty’s in short supply around an irradiated desert, and rangy Freeside rat meat wasn't going to cut it for a special occasion to these standards. Good thing all he actually had to do was talk to Red Lucy and kill it himself. Crazy girl.
Time for the crowning touch. The second the sauce hits the pan, Rico's eyes water. Gives it a good stir, then slams a lid on it. That'll be a few minutes. No better way to deliver the coup de grâce to a bout of radiation sickness than putting this into your system and sweating the rest out.]
[ Len glances briefly over at Rico at the swear, but his attention is pulled back to his liquor cabinet before he can witness any evidence of cooking-inflicted burns. Sweetheart comes without strings, this time. Normally there's a sarcastic edge to it, taunting or mocking, teasing him for his softness. Times like these, Len doesn't know whether to take it at face value.
He probably should. He knows Rico Dredd well enough at this point to be able to tell when he's angling for something, and while there's probably an ulterior motivation threaded in there somewhere, the gesture feels genuine enough. Almost like they're actually dating.
At present he isn't of the constitution to be able to withstand tequila, so Len opts for an older bottle of gin that he's held onto - both because of its immense age, and because the vaguely chilling taste of it, in moderation, helps to soothe a queasy stomach. Having been told not to self-medicate his way out of this particular mess, Len is at least doing his best to adhere to professional advice from the only doctor in a fifty mile radius who gives him a dressing-down every time he asks for a bandage.
He tops the gin off with a little splash of some prickly pear juice, tart and sweet. Meandering back to the kitchenette with two glasses in hand, Len blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he sidles up to Rico and presses a tumbler into his waiting palm. That familiar peppery smell is stronger now, like some long-lost scent from his childhood, and he frowns a little as he attempts to identify it in earnest. A bright-red paste smears across the bottom of a nearby bowl and Len indelicately dips his pinky into it, sniffing lightly before touching it to his tongue.
Recognition hits him like a deathclaw in a full sprint. His eyes widen, looking from Rico to his finger to the pot on the stove. Len forgets himself just long enough to ask, incredulous: ]
[Len sidles over with two glasses in hand, obviously curious even as he's purportedly bringing tonight's chef a decent drink. Rico watches him from the corner of his eye, and it takes a mighty effort to suppress his enormously smug attitude lest he ruin the surprise. Guess he finally gets a clue and figures it out, even if he needs to stick his finger right into the mystery in question to do it. Rico savors the moment, taking a long second to bask in the blatant surprise as he slugs back part of his drink and sets it down. Not bad, but Len's incredulous, wide-eyed outburst is a meal that could satisfy him enough on its own.]
Huh? [Rico scratches his ear with his pinky.] I don’t speak Mexican, buddy. You know this.
[Kind of cute that he startled him enough to break out the Spanish, though. Take your pleasures where you can. He reaches out and cracks the lid on the skillet, sending out a fresh waft of heat that would definitely make Len’s eyes briefly sting from where he’s standing. Purely for show, judging by the half-smug, plenty-pleased look on his face as he inspects the results.]
Yeah. [he says, airily. ] I think it's done soon. Anyway, is that some kind of..... question, perhaps?
[ Mexican, good god. Len doesn't even bother to roll his eyes over that one; it's not worth it to argue any difference, and besides, it isn't as though he could say the language is what it once was, anyway. Dialects have evolved, just like the rest of them. Rico tips the lid up and roiling steam billows out, pricking wetly at his eyes, and the sense memory attached to the smell and the burn is vivid, bright. ]
Yeah, it's a question.
[ He doesn't wait to translate, because it doesn't really matter. Rico looks mighty pleased with himself for having done something borderline altruistic, content with Len's recognition and clearly looking for brownie points. He lets the dish cook. He doesn't let Rico get away without answering a different question. ]
Oh, this thing? The stars aligned. [Rico lies. He approached the borderline-impossible idea like a man on a mission - with disproportionate intensity, underhanded methods, and an unshakable belief in his success. That, and a lot of caps. He does feel significantly, unfortunately lighter.] The boys at Westside tipped me off about a trader with some rare chiles that swapped hands all the way up from Baja, if you can believe it. Turns out she already had a buyer, but I just did the ol' -
[He leans an elbow against the counter, the lid dangling carelessly from his hand. Two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, a jaw cut with the rakish shadow of stubble and a hint of danger, and in a voice just as hot and smoky as the scent in the air;]
- c’mon, beautiful. It came all this way. I'm really gonna have to go without a taste of this hot stuff?
[A smile cracks against the straight face as his eyes glitter. Laughing, he bends down to grab a mismatched, motley set of chipped plates and bowls. It was a hilariously bad line, but it didn’t need to be good.]
Can you believe it? The men must be ugly in Junktown, because it worked. Haha. Easier than stomping on a mantis.
[ Yeah, it's admittedly very difficult not to take in the eyeful of muscle that Rico conveys in his casual, easy, deliberate posing. Len has never made any particular secret about how attractive he finds this man - Rico knows it, too, unfortunately - but it's especially apparent when he stretches like this, evoking the crowded market and the approach he took to convince some trader into giving him what he wanted. Len isn't a fool; he's done the same, albeit with less bulk at his disposal.
But he also sees the act for what it is: an oddly kind gesture and a meaningful gift that Rico is dancing around to save face. He did this specifically to appease Len, and Len would begrudgingly admit that it's working. Nostalgia is a hard button to find in this world, but Rico is pressing it. ]
That is...so cute.
[ Len muses, a wry smile winnowing onto his face as he closes the distance between them. A couple of fingers worm into the ties of the apron, an old fire stoked to greater warmth as Len considers Rico's face in the close proximity for a long moment. Then he very abruptly smacks Rico's ass. ]
[Cute? What's so cute about- oh, never mind. His train of thought is immediately shunted towards a different track when Len moves closer in that all-too-deliberate way of his, his pulse eagerly spiking when his fingers brush against his waist. It's a strangely comfortable, quiet moment as Len just stands there close, doing nothing but look at him, and Rico basks in his attention like a gecko in the warm sun. He's also blatantly calculating exactly where on this kitchenette's counters he might be able to hoist the other man onto, hosting an entire internal debate on whether the food could stand to wait while they find another way to work off his radiation sickness and whether it'd be worth it. The answer, obviously, is fucking yes.
That is, until an entire-handed slap against his right asscheek drags a startled laugh out of him, one of the more undignified ones that sounds more like a backfiring engine being dragged over rocks than anything. Message received, loud and clear: Get your ass going.]
I thought you were supposed to kiss the cook, not smack his ass. [Far too amused despite himself as he disentangles from him - ] Just for that, you're getting the ugly plate tonight.
[He spins the plate in question on a finger, lets it leap in the air before catching it easily. Because of course he does.]
Go sit down. Your waiter will be with you shortly.
[ As wildly satisfying as it is to see this man still, to see that familiar hunger flaring hotly in his eyes, Len doesn't want to test his own stamina until he's eaten, and that might be the most responsible sentiment he's entertained in the last five years of his life. It comes as a reassurance to know his own internal stores have yet to dim completely, but the siren call of a good meal on an empty stomach is too great a pull. ]
I'll kiss him later.
[ Len smirks lazily, pulling away and sidling over to the only dining table in the room. It's half-cluttered with dismantled firearms, one of his modified scopes broken down for cleaning before he abandoned it to sleep off some of this sickness. Projects he'll complete when he has the motivation to do anything other than sprawl around on two-hundred year old furniture.
He still watches Rico work from this post, eyes lidded, quietly warmed by the gesture. Contemplating whether he might pass out if they try to get into anything really physical later. ]
Is the cook gonna share his recipe if I like his meal?
[Between Len's impressive collection of guns and Rico's habit of detail stripping his already-immaculate weapons when he's relentlessly bored, any reasonably flat surface in here has a half-decent chance of being crowded with parts. Rico throws on an actual shirt - a rarity enough, apparently wanting to be presentable for dinner - and comes to the table with loaded plates in hand, cradling full bowls too. He sets it all down with a thunk, and slides that long-awaited food in front of Len.]
Sure. I'll teach you if we ever get the time. After everything's over, and we put a fork in it.
[If. They never seem to have too much of it in the looming shadow of Caesar's Legion. True to his word, he did give Len the ugly plate. But it's loaded with a thick stew of nightstalker and potato chunks, simmered and slathered in red-hot arbol chile sauce with a side of cornmeal flatbread, so all can probably be forgiven.]
Nightstalker tail, potatoes, and some other stuff that traveled maybe a couple hundred miles, [he explains as he pokes a disobedient potato back into aesthetic place with a fork.] Plus a little magic from yours truly. And this...?
[A half-shrug as he gestures at the bowls. He doesn't seem to have as much to say about the soup. It's a lot more humble compared to the other dish. Beans, dried cactus fruit, wild onion, hominy, a splash of tequila. Half-opaque in a yellowish broth, little lumps poking out from the surface.] It's just an old recipe. But I think you'll like it.
[It's just a scattering of whatever’s on hand. Dried ingredients that are lightweight to pack and carry, with things you could harvest from the desert as you traveled, if you got lucky. Simple enough to toss into a single pot and cook in a campfire at the end of the day, and then dole out. He hasn't shared this particular meal with others in a long time, so in a voice slightly rougher than usual;]
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kiss kiss
The bags under his eyes are starting to show and so he plans for a night in, an event to which Rico Dredd invites himself and Len doesn't have it in him to argue about it. He half-expects things to get as rowdy as they usually do, too, but the only ambient sounds over the Sinatra playing softly on the radio come from the suite's kitchenette, where Rico is busying himself with...something.
From his leggy sprawl on the sofa Len lolls his head to one side, watching the man's back as the soft clatter of dishes, the muted thuds on the cutting board, and the sizzling of something that smells fucking incredible drag his attention from the book he's only partly reading. Rico looks good like that, all domestic, a towel thrown over one shoulder while he works. Concentrating on something that isn't tearing somebody open or building a bomb from scratch.
He looks good like that too, mind, but the novelty here is what makes it interesting. ]
Whatcha makin'?
no subject
Mm. No. That joke is definitely staying in the mental workshop for a while longer.
It's a more relaxed atmosphere in the room tonight. Len's been looking particularly ragged around his edges for... a variety of reasons. For one thing, he hasn't seemed to notice that his curls are looking increasingly more on the 'bedraggled' side than what you could call 'naturally-tousled' by the day. And with the more obvious addition of the dark circles, it's no surprise that Len decides he's taking a day off. So yeah, Rico elbows his way into Len's plans with one of his own in mind.
If he happens to look particularly domesticated standing around in his boxers, it’s far from his mind. He barely registers Len's question, he’s so intensely focused on dicing the absolute shit out of some potatoes he'd gotten from Westside - and a smattering of some other not-too-irradiated produce, as thanks for helping out with repelling some Fiends with a friendly shotgun while he happened to be there. Truth be told he'd spent more caps by using the ammo he did than he would have if he'd bought it all straight, but you just can't put a price on goodwill. That's how he got a lead on getting the (pretty fucking expensive) half-used, secret string of dried chiles laying out on the counter, after all. Efficiently eviscerated, then hand-ground into a blood-red, wet paste.
Kind of like what happens when we work together, Rico thinks. Heh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile as he looks down at the counter.
...Wasn't Len saying something? Right.]
You'll see. [To cover up his lapse in attention, he tosses the potato he's holding lightly in his hand before catching it.] You're gonna love it. It's to die for, and well... technically, somebody already has.
[He pauses.]
I'm not cooking people, just to be clear. The farmboys over at Westside handed me an extra bag of potatoes for using some of my new fletchette rounds on very short notice. They work great, by the way.
[Chit-chatting about how the day went. It's kind of nice?]
no subject
Len lowers the book in his hand to his stomach, turning his head to get a proper glance at him. A little sweaty but clearly competent with a knife in his hand, even when he's not outright cutting somebody open. He's infuriatingly good-looking, even like this. Especially like this. Len's gaze tracks down the line of his neck where it meets his shoulder, over a bicep tightening and releasing as he moves, sliding askance to his collarbone. A good sign, perhaps, that his libido is returning home from the war after the last few days of being too exhausted to even consider sex. ]
I'm lookin' forward to it.
[ It's sincere, anyway. There's a familiar peppery scent he can't quite put his finger on, but he'll cotton to it soon enough. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, still achy and tired in spite of the sleep he got last night. Can't possibly be helped any by the latent radiation sickness after some recent exposure, and he knows if he stretches himself beyond capacity again Arcade is going to put him under house arrest, and nobody wants to see where that ends up. ]
Hey. [ His voice cracks, scratchy, and he says again: ] Hey. I'm gonna make a drink, you want anything?
no subject
[He scowls and rubs the sting from a tiny spit of oil that's landed alarmingly close to his nipple with the corner of his towel. Glances sidelong at Len to see if he'd caught that, hoping he's too busy staring at something else instead. Like his book. Or more hopefully, glued to Rico's ass. Come on, it's right there.
No such luck. Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
While Len might venture off to fulfill that particular mission, Rico barely notices when one song quavers to a close and another fades in.
He scrapes the potatoes straight into the skillet, adding a fresh sound to the existing sizzle of nightstalker tail. The rattle sliced off, pinkish meat stripped clean of scales and searing nicely in tender chunks. Expensive and relatively rare to find on offer anywhere, on account of absolutely no sane person wanting to venture into a nightstalker den on purpose. Nobody except for Rico, that is. Culinary novelty’s in short supply around an irradiated desert, and rangy Freeside rat meat wasn't going to cut it for a special occasion to these standards. Good thing all he actually had to do was talk to Red Lucy and kill it himself. Crazy girl.
Time for the crowning touch. The second the sauce hits the pan, Rico's eyes water. Gives it a good stir, then slams a lid on it. That'll be a few minutes. No better way to deliver the coup de grâce to a bout of radiation sickness than putting this into your system and sweating the rest out.]
no subject
He probably should. He knows Rico Dredd well enough at this point to be able to tell when he's angling for something, and while there's probably an ulterior motivation threaded in there somewhere, the gesture feels genuine enough. Almost like they're actually dating.
At present he isn't of the constitution to be able to withstand tequila, so Len opts for an older bottle of gin that he's held onto - both because of its immense age, and because the vaguely chilling taste of it, in moderation, helps to soothe a queasy stomach. Having been told not to self-medicate his way out of this particular mess, Len is at least doing his best to adhere to professional advice from the only doctor in a fifty mile radius who gives him a dressing-down every time he asks for a bandage.
He tops the gin off with a little splash of some prickly pear juice, tart and sweet. Meandering back to the kitchenette with two glasses in hand, Len blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he sidles up to Rico and presses a tumbler into his waiting palm. That familiar peppery smell is stronger now, like some long-lost scent from his childhood, and he frowns a little as he attempts to identify it in earnest. A bright-red paste smears across the bottom of a nearby bowl and Len indelicately dips his pinky into it, sniffing lightly before touching it to his tongue.
Recognition hits him like a deathclaw in a full sprint. His eyes widen, looking from Rico to his finger to the pot on the stove. Len forgets himself just long enough to ask, incredulous: ]
¿Qué es esto?
no subject
Huh? [Rico scratches his ear with his pinky.] I don’t speak Mexican, buddy. You know this.
[Kind of cute that he startled him enough to break out the Spanish, though. Take your pleasures where you can. He reaches out and cracks the lid on the skillet, sending out a fresh waft of heat that would definitely make Len’s eyes briefly sting from where he’s standing. Purely for show, judging by the half-smug, plenty-pleased look on his face as he inspects the results.]
Yeah. [he says, airily. ] I think it's done soon. Anyway, is that some kind of..... question, perhaps?
no subject
Yeah, it's a question.
[ He doesn't wait to translate, because it doesn't really matter. Rico looks mighty pleased with himself for having done something borderline altruistic, content with Len's recognition and clearly looking for brownie points. He lets the dish cook. He doesn't let Rico get away without answering a different question. ]
Where the hell did you find árbol chiles?
no subject
[He leans an elbow against the counter, the lid dangling carelessly from his hand. Two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle, a jaw cut with the rakish shadow of stubble and a hint of danger, and in a voice just as hot and smoky as the scent in the air;]
- c’mon, beautiful. It came all this way. I'm really gonna have to go without a taste of this hot stuff?
[A smile cracks against the straight face as his eyes glitter. Laughing, he bends down to grab a mismatched, motley set of chipped plates and bowls. It was a hilariously bad line, but it didn’t need to be good.]
Can you believe it? The men must be ugly in Junktown, because it worked. Haha. Easier than stomping on a mantis.
no subject
But he also sees the act for what it is: an oddly kind gesture and a meaningful gift that Rico is dancing around to save face. He did this specifically to appease Len, and Len would begrudgingly admit that it's working. Nostalgia is a hard button to find in this world, but Rico is pressing it. ]
That is...so cute.
[ Len muses, a wry smile winnowing onto his face as he closes the distance between them. A couple of fingers worm into the ties of the apron, an old fire stoked to greater warmth as Len considers Rico's face in the close proximity for a long moment. Then he very abruptly smacks Rico's ass. ]
Order up, chef.
no subject
That is, until an entire-handed slap against his right asscheek drags a startled laugh out of him, one of the more undignified ones that sounds more like a backfiring engine being dragged over rocks than anything. Message received, loud and clear: Get your ass going.]
I thought you were supposed to kiss the cook, not smack his ass. [Far too amused despite himself as he disentangles from him - ] Just for that, you're getting the ugly plate tonight.
[He spins the plate in question on a finger, lets it leap in the air before catching it easily. Because of course he does.]
Go sit down. Your waiter will be with you shortly.
no subject
I'll kiss him later.
[ Len smirks lazily, pulling away and sidling over to the only dining table in the room. It's half-cluttered with dismantled firearms, one of his modified scopes broken down for cleaning before he abandoned it to sleep off some of this sickness. Projects he'll complete when he has the motivation to do anything other than sprawl around on two-hundred year old furniture.
He still watches Rico work from this post, eyes lidded, quietly warmed by the gesture. Contemplating whether he might pass out if they try to get into anything really physical later. ]
Is the cook gonna share his recipe if I like his meal?
no subject
Sure. I'll teach you if we ever get the time. After everything's over, and we put a fork in it.
[If. They never seem to have too much of it in the looming shadow of Caesar's Legion. True to his word, he did give Len the ugly plate. But it's loaded with a thick stew of nightstalker and potato chunks, simmered and slathered in red-hot arbol chile sauce with a side of cornmeal flatbread, so all can probably be forgiven.]
Nightstalker tail, potatoes, and some other stuff that traveled maybe a couple hundred miles, [he explains as he pokes a disobedient potato back into aesthetic place with a fork.] Plus a little magic from yours truly. And this...?
[A half-shrug as he gestures at the bowls. He doesn't seem to have as much to say about the soup. It's a lot more humble compared to the other dish. Beans, dried cactus fruit, wild onion, hominy, a splash of tequila. Half-opaque in a yellowish broth, little lumps poking out from the surface.] It's just an old recipe. But I think you'll like it.
[It's just a scattering of whatever’s on hand. Dried ingredients that are lightweight to pack and carry, with things you could harvest from the desert as you traveled, if you got lucky. Simple enough to toss into a single pot and cook in a campfire at the end of the day, and then dole out. He hasn't shared this particular meal with others in a long time, so in a voice slightly rougher than usual;]
Enjoy.