driftfleet | Red Fish Pond

[hi there. some guy in a dark coat and a full face of skull makeup walks into the kitchen. Zhas is just a visitor, technically--but his history on this ship has him ghosting around like he owns the place anyway.

so, opening cabinets, taking pans down, knocking an open shelve closed with a casual kick of his boot. hasn't even glanced over at Dean yet. how's noise treating you with that hangover, buddy?]

[ Dean's life is one giant hangover right now, it's cool bro. Really. He takes no offense.

But man, he is kind of baffled by the skull makeup. It's suddenly infinitely more intriguing than the shit food he has in front of him (though it's just an excuse not to eat it) and while he wants to ask about it, he's not even entirely sure what he'd say. But it's also the first time he's seen the guy around and that should be more pertinent, right?

Gaze narrowed a bit because his brain would like to evacuate itself from his skull, he finally lifts his chin with interest- ] Haven't seen you on here before.

[thankfully, the noise isn't intentional or anything. it dies down once he's got all the tools he needs. grumbling something short in agreement, he starts picking dry ingredients off the shelves.

not looking for them--he knows exactly where everything is kept. Sye kept the kitchen in surprisingly good shape while he was gone.

...after a moment, he decides he should probably at least try some words. so in a gravelly monotone, he adds:] Been away.

[ Dean's fine with just watching, all squinty eyed and discontent, before it suddenly occurs to him that this guy looks like he's cooking. Which is kind of fascinating in its own right because he's fairly sure the crap here? Isn't worth wasting any kind of effort on.

But okay, he can deal with monosyllabic responses. Considering words aren't his strong suit either. ]

Staying on the ship?

[that gets a more definite nod in response.]

With Coil.

[he cuts right to it, because he figures that's where this stranger's questions would lead eventually, 'what ties the weird skull-faced guy to this ship?' heat's on now--and since it seems pretty civil in here, he shrugs off his heavy coat, crosses the room, drags one of the chairs out until it's practically against the wall, and drapes his coat over the back.

he finally looks at Dean then, but he seems to pay more attention to what's on his plate. pointing, vaguely, at the sad contents...]

Lunch...?

[ He gets it; he does. Considering how he hijacked both Cas himself and his room before he had even been transferred to this here ship, he has no right to question why somebody else might do the same. It's their business, and certainly none of his.

Doesn't stop him from quietly watching as the guy makes himself comfortable, pulling out a chair and seemingly settling in.

Which is why he's almost surprised when his own sad plate is pointed out. He arches an eyebrow for a moment and glances down at his plate before finishing the rest of that sentence-- ]

Sucks.

[ Not to mention: ] Still wanna know why it magically reappears.

Mm.

[this is a very high level of participation for him. he even makes a flat noise that sounds almost kind of like it could be a laugh.]

Probably awful. Don't think about it.

[and since he thinks it wouldn't be opposed, he leans forward to pick the whole plate up off the table. this is not your problem anymore.]

Better cooked anyway.

[speaking of that, there he goes back towards the stove...]

[ What, you don't have an answer for that either? Pity. Except it's totally something Dean thinks way more about than he should and--

You are taking his plate.

That's kind of weird.

Dean arches an eyebrow with absolutely no complaint, mostly just bemused that his plate was just stolen by someone he hardly knows. He's not even entirely sure what to make of that gesture, which is why it takes him by far longer than it should to think of at least some response, so taken back he is. ]

It is?

[ There, there you go. That's all he can think of to say - for a man who reeks of booze, it's not that surprising to think that cooking isn't at the top of his long list of priorities. ]

[and he gets another affirming grunt in return. there is some method behind what he's doing here, what with his understanding of his place in the universe having been so recently upturned--but the bulk of it is that his only two social skills are "mother hen" and "get into a fistfight".

the plate gets put aside, likely to be forgotten. Zhas gets new stuff from the machine anyway, which gets dropped into the pan along with something out of a can and a hefty dose of cooking oil.

eventually, he'll go again:] So which one are you.

[ It's just... no one ever mother hens Dean. No one. Not even his most favorite person on the universe - no, Cas is by far more regularly brutal to him, in a way that's absolutely necessary. And while they're gentle with each other from time to time... mother henning is just not something Dean earns from anyone.

It's strange.

But he's left watching curiously - the man can grill but cooking? Not one of his many skills. He can introduce himself though, he's capable of that. ] The new one. Dean.

[he goes about his business like there's nothing odd about it at all. he's used to making portions for more than himself, anyway--it'd be a shame to waste ingredients.

not that they're exactly in expert hands. he's got a smoker's sense of taste, and his only other critics have been someone who's used to travel rations and a boy with no tongue. he can cook, but only in the technical sense of the word.

vaguely, he makes the sign for "brother" as he recalls what Coil had told him about the new crew.]

You have a brother.

[ Considering the crap Dean is used to foraging for, considering food is a luxury where he comes from, he's used to eating some sorry shit. That doesn't mean he wants to eat the weird protein gunk they have here, especially when he doesn't know where the hell it comes from... and yet making it some manner of tolerable might be convincing.

But okay- hey, we have lesson time going on here. He's quietly intrigued by the signing, tracking the guy's hands for a moment, figuring the only important word out of the few here is brother and going with that. ]

Yeah. Sam. [ and it's a testament to his growth that he can manage this without clamming up immediately. ] Been here longer than I have.

[he'd like to ask more, but there's food to be moved around in the pan, and people aren't always as happy about the notion of family as he is. so he simply nods again and says nothing, cooking in skull-facey silence for a while.]

[ If Dean were better at this, he would say something about he and Sam being a complicated thing, just like universes are complicated and so are brothers. But instead he just sort of hunkers back and doesn’t say anything at all, just watching the guy cook. Because it’s easier that way and because sharing information is just something that comes even harder than it used to (and considering he sucked at it before the apocalypse….) ]

[he's done too much talking over the last few days anyway. after a week of relative silence on the Marsiva, on the heels of a briefly-reestablished lifetime of people assuming he's mute or something... his throat is killing him, and his quiet insecurities are probably soon to follow.

eventually, a plate gets put in front of Dean. it's essentially a protein stir-fry, supplemented by what might be some kind of root vegetable, a cheap rice-adjacent grain, and probably way more salt than is strictly necessary.

he's got a big bowl of the stuff himself, which he is already two scoops into because he eats like he doubts he'll get the chance to ever eat another meal again.]

Drink water. [he commands, helpfully, mouth full of food. after a swallow--] And take a shower.

[ Dean isn't quite sure what to make of the food that's plopped in front of him. Not in a bad way, simply in a - does this really exist? kind of way. He's not entirely inept when it comes to cooking (he used to be a mean grill master), no, but he simply doesn't think of doing it much anymore. Food was something that went to everyone else first, and now-- Now he's not entirely sure what to make of it.

Still, he dives in for a couple of seconds, at least until the commentary arrives and he glances back up, his stare lingering while he mulls over a reply. ]

No hair of the dog?

[what, like, eye of newt? toe of frog? his eyes narrow and his gaze diverts as he tries to decide whether or not he has any idea what Dean is referring to.

...and he doesn't. versed as he is in old-timey turn of phrase, he doesn't get out that often. ends up shaking his head.]

S'that mean.

[said with the same gravelly monotone as everything, of course.]

[ Oh. Well, shit. Dean figured he was somehow going to get away with that one, his own bitter tinge of humor now meaning by far less when it's not even understood. Like telling a joke only to have someone not understand the punch line.

He's not even entirely sure he should explain it, something he portrays by plowing through a few more bites before he finally returns to attention again.

Okay, okay-- ]

Drinking to cure a hangover.

[ Although, he isn't going to outright admit that it wasn't completely sarcasm. Sort of. ] Works better than an advil.

Oh.

[dense as he is, the awkward pause is not lost on him. he knows plenty about hangovers. he doesn't know much about normal turn-of-phrase, doesn't know if it's weird that he didn't get that one. that's the insecurity, right on cue--his own otherness reminds him that he's a guy wearing a skull on his face and not someone who should be having normal conversations with normal people.

still, he gives a sharp little nod of understanding, shovels another bite into his face. maybe it's foolish optimism, but he keeps going.]

Think you'd just pickle yourself.

[he smirks, which is kind of a scary look under the painted-on teeth.]

Besides, won't help the smell any.

[ He's not clueless to it. He's not. That he's talking to a guy that looks like a Voodoo practitioner. But he's been yelled at enough times now about giving people a chance that he's attempting to not say a word. That's not to say that he isn't being internally judgemental, but hey- he's trying to behave in a way that won't make Cas punch him when he wakes up.

Priorities.

... and who's saying he hasn't pickled himself already, scary smirk or not.

But yeah, okay- he smells like ass. He gets it. He would like to point out here that everyone smelled like ass back home, which means that everyone stopped smelling it eventually, but that would require he up the conversational ante. Which isn't going to happen. At least not yet. ]

Could be worse.

[ at least he hasn't rolled in dirt and dead Croat's, that's a plus right?! ]

Not on this ship.

[he probably breaks some unspoken rule of conversation to reach forward and clap Dean on the shoulder. thankfully, that's also his cue to turn around and start leaving.

though he at least goes to make sure that the stove is off, first. a kitchen fire would be too stupid to let himself live through.]

[ There are just all sorts of surprises to be had in this conversation and Dean stills considerably at the clap to the shoulder. If only because most people don't get close enough to even consider touching him; he's by far more used to people giving him a wide berth. Putting him on a pedestal. And Dean let's it be just so he can be held at a distance.

But he'll allow it because the guy's on his way out, not commenting on it specifically. ]

I'll get on it.

Red Fish Pond

B

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