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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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.

Random takes a spoonful of soup, then grins a thank you at Ramon.

"I don't remember much about that time, really."

He rolls his eyes.

"But there you go. This is good, Ramon."

'Cans are easy enough.'

He winces as soon as he says it. Because damn, now he hasn't got an excuse not to be able to do it in future.

Sands is mostly more interested in the soup than the conversation- it’s been quite some time since he had a proper meal- but still finds the time between mouthfuls to raise an eyebrow at Ramon.

“Corrupt spy, r’mber?"

Stabbing the schooling system inna back one insult at a time!

'Oh well, that's OK then.'

Ramon sounds mildly amused at that, but just picks up some pizza, then puts it down again.

'I need a drink. Anyone else?'

There is, of course, always tequila on hand.

His face lights up.

“Any tequila?”

...because scary drug-alcohol reactions happen to other people, as far as Sands is concerned.

'Of course.'

It wouldn't occur to Ramon not to mix them, quite frankly. Tequila is fetched and three large measures poured. He studiously doesn't look at Random as he does it, because there's bound to be a disapproving look there.

Sands takes up his glass and stares thoughtfully down into it.

“Never thought I’d see tequila again,” he says at length, with a short laugh.

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