latino_menace | OOM: Sands for dinner (not literally)

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OOM: Sands for dinner (not literally)

Ramon opens the door from the bar. The first thing Sands will probably notice is the warmth, because they're in Portugal at a hot time. It's late afternoon though so it's not stifling, and the living room beyond the door is large and airy, with french windows that open up onto a garden. Beyond that, beach and sea - the smell of the ocean is pretty strong, even here.

'I hope you don't mind crap for dinner Sands, because neither of us can cook. Unless you can?'

So not above making him do it now he's here. Although given that he and Random are practically carrying him after the drugs he took, there's a chance the man might not be able to hit his mouth with a fork anyway. And he knows he's not feeding him, that's for damn sure.

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"Part of it is probably a bit of shock."

He hopes.

Glances at Ramon for confirmation.

"Or something quite strong."

“Strong,” Sands repeats. He nods, and then shakes his head violently, glass wobbling.

“’Course I’ve had it before. Wasn’t much fun then either,” a grin, more alert than the last. “Though the circum… stances were quite different then.”

Whatever lucidity he just held is lost again with a burst of quiet laughter.

He raises his eyebrows interestedly. 'Oh? C'mon spill.'

And then Random gets a beseeching look. 'Is there alcohol? I think I need it.'

"No there is not going to be any spilling."

Though Random does go for the alcohol.

"Ramon, can you go make some soup? There's chicken noodle in the pantry. He needs to drink the water and level out from whatever the hell it is."

“My eyes,” he explains, eyeing Ramon. “When they.”

The glass is raised cautiously to his lips, clasped tightly in both hands and still shaking a little.

Ramon blinks at Random.

'Make...soup?' He frowns, first at one man, then the other. 'Is it in a tin or do you expect me to make it from scratch?'

Because...what?

Sands is stared at. He's making no sense but perhaps that's understandable.

Random, who has heard a little more of the story, gestures at the kitchen.

"No. Take the tin of chicke noodle soup out of the pantry, and follow the directions on the can. Please. If you have any questions, I'll come in."

Instructions, he can follow. So he nods and gets up, giving Random a quick kiss before disappearing into the kitchen. Because frankly, Sands is freaking him out.

Sands pushes himself up into sitting position again, rubbing his eyes, and watches Ramon go with an expression of mild amazement.

“Never taking drugs again…,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. However, this is nearly a full and coherent sentence; progress!

"Smart man."

Random reaches in his pocket for cigarettes, then thinks the better of it. He doesn't want Sands nor the sofa on fire, particularly.

"Do your eyes hurt? Might be light sensitive. Tell me if you want me to pull the blinds down."

Ramon sticks his head out of the kitchen.

'Where's the can opener Random?'

He glances over at Sands and rolls his eyes. 'You'll live. Stop moaning.'

“Not… hurt. Just,” he pulls a face, waving a hand vaguely, and then raises his voice so it carries through into the kitchen. “Would be easier to ‘splain if Ramon hadn’t drugged me to the gills.”

"Don't forget to blink?" Random offers helpfully.

"As for taking pills from Ramon, what did you expect?"

Sands snorts with laughter at that.

“Didn’t ‘sactly have much choice in the matter, did I?”

"No, not precisely."

He shrugs.

"Six of one, half dozen of the other. It was worth it and now you're sobering up. Drink your water, and the soup'll be done soon."

'Won't be done if I can't find the fucking can opener,' comes the grumble from the kitchen, amid the sounds of much searching through drawers. He raises his voices and yells out,

'Where the fuck is it Random?'

Sands rolls his eyes, but drinks the water anyhow.

“Way to go, sweetcheeks,” he sniggers.

"Under the coffee pot, babe."

Random leans back in his chair.

"Second drawer down."

Sands continues to snigger, though it’s beginning to sound less stoned and more genuinely amused. The glass, now empty, is spun idly in his hands.

“This is surreal,” he says cheerfully.

"Seeing?"

He snorts.

"Or domesticity? Get used to both of them."

“Both,” Sands replies seriously.

“Plus the fact that th’guy I blindly pulled a gun on few weeks ago is now making me soup.”

"Not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

Random glances over his shoulder at the kitchen.

"Don't get me wrong though. I'm surprised too. Last time he tried to make soup there was shouting a lot earlier than this. Burned a hole straight through my pot."

“Guess they don’t teach cooking at drug lord school.”

Smirking, he glances across at the kitchen too, just because he can.

"Didn't think drug lords had a school."

Beat.

"Ramon! Do drug lords have a school?"

Ramon emerges at that point, carrying two bowls of the damn soup. One is thrust unceremoniously at Sands, the other placed in front of Random.

'I don't remember shouting that time. And no. Smartass.'

Quite the opposite of shouting really. But he lets it go and unwraps a candy bar instead, slumping into an armchair casually.

'Sandss, if it tastes bad, tough. And it seems they don't teach manners in spy school either.'

Though considering his own manners right now, he's not really one to talk.

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