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They woke with a start, a trail of drool cold across their cheek, aching limbs tangled in warm sheets, one side of their face buried in a pillow that smelled like weed, booze-sweat, and the vulnerable warmth of sleep. They sat up carefully, the hazy weight of a sizable hangover thumping at the back of their skull, the pain dulled by a strong and seductive smell wafting in from the hall.
“Bacon,” they mumbled, stomach lurching indecisively between ravenous hunger and greasy nausea, and they grimaced at the stale taste of their mouth. “Ugh.”
They kicked the sheets down to the base of the bed and swung their feet over, taking a minute to collect themselves before committing to verticality. Dirty clothes lay in piles all over the floor, empty beer cans clustered around an overful trashcan. The closet door was ajar, and they recognized the dim shine of mason jars. Oh, yeah. Sharky’s entrepreneurial endeavor. Their gut roiled. Best not to think about that right now.
A bottle of cheap red wine, with about half a cup left in it, stood on the sidetable, next to a ceramic ashtray, the pinched and blackened backs of a few roaches studding the detritus. Safe on the other side of the bed, a large green bong freckled with produce stickers perched on top. The name ‘Jolly Green Giant’ popped into their head, and they grinned. The corner of a magazine that definitely wasn’t a National Geographic stuck out from beneath the bed, and they respectfully nudged it back into hiding with their foot.
What time was it? They looked to the windows, trying to gauge the glow behind the considerately drawn curtains, but decided it was a question to be answered later, once their brain was a little more functional. And their gut had settled on ‘starving’ so may as well tackle the standing issue now.
They hauled themselves up, grunting at a sharp pain in their leg and noting the bandage on their thigh with surprise. What—?
The memory of the attack on the prison hit them—wave after wave of Angels howling and tearing at the gates with their bare hands, teams of Peggies with automatic weapons mounting the walls, running the perimeter to keep them from getting in, adrenalized and fighting beyond exhaustion, breathing so hard that by the end each gasp tasted like blood. Going outside the walls to mop up and catching a knife from a Peggie that wasn’t as dead as he looked.
They picked at the dressing, mouth twisted. Lucky Tracey had convinced them to try out the riot gear padding, but still, this wasn’t going to heal quickly. So fucking stupid to let their guard down.
Aimless humming came from down the hall, derailing their train of self-deprecating thought. It quickly turned to song, and they grinned ruefully. He was absolutely murdering Sister Sledge.
They limped out of the bedroom towards the music and the smell of bacon, bare feet scuffing on the stained purplish-gray carpet. They could hear hushed brassy notes beneath Sharky’s cracked efforts, and were touched at the thought that the man who did nothing by half-measures would attempt to keep the music down while they rested. More touching on a primal level was the hiss and spit of frying food, and their stomach let out an appreciative growl.
“Can I say ‘good morning’ or has the ship sailed on that one?” they asked, coming into the open area and leaning against the wall. Between the pounding in their head and the complaining of their injured leg, they needed a minute.
Sharky flinched, turning from the stove with a sheepish grin, the spoon in his hand dripping batter over the crowded range. They saw fried eggs, thick strips of bacon, the pale and peppered shreds of hashbrowns cooking. “Shit, Dep—did I wake ya? I was tryin’ to be quiet, but it’s hard when I’m cookin’.”
“No, you’re good—I love this song,” they nodded to the scuffed old boombox he’d propped up over the dishwasher. “And, uh, I think the smell of this feast you’re working on would bring the dead to life. Holy shit, Shark, I don’t think I could eat even a fifth of that.”
He snorted, turning back to the food and reaching over to the boombox, twisting the dial until the kitchen was full of the rich synth and cheerful percussion of a different era. “Uh, you say that now, but trust me—it’ll go down easy. Patented Boshaw hangover cure. Trick is to induce a food coma, then nap for like four hours and when you wake up you’re good as new.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but what’s wrong with tacos and coffee?” They pushed off the wall and headed for the counter, bracing themselves with their forearms and shifting the weight off their wounded leg. “And how the hell are you so upbeat? I don’t remember everything, but I distinctly recall you wasting a six-pack and…did we do shots?”
“Fuck yeah, we did,” he nodded. “Finished off the last of my vodka, dude. And I’m down to half my emergency weed stash, so like…keep your eye out when we get back out there. Also tacos are for dinner or 2am munchies only, you goddamn heathen. It’s breakfast time. You’re getting breakfast.”
He shot a smug grin over his shoulder. “And I’m a party pro, chica. Trick is to taper and avoid crashing. Plus, I already had like, three cups of coffee, so I’m fuckin’ amped.”
“There’s coffee?” They spotted the squat off-white coffeemaker on the counter. The pot was empty, but he nodded to it.
“It’s all set up—go ahead and press the button. I got like a million things goin’ here. Clean cups in the cabinet, but I’m not—I’m not gonna judge if you just wanna drink from the pot.”
They leaned over, pushing the start button and shivering at the sound of the water heating to a boil. The new angle revealed a giant plate of waffles, wafflemaker closed up on another with streams of excess batter running down its sides and puddling on the countertop. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?” He tracked their gaze and shrugged. “Just from a mix, but trust me—it’s good.”
“Fuck, Shark,” they settled back, a surge of guilt and affection running through them. “You didn’t have to do this. It’s way too much. Can I help at least?”
“Hell no—you’re my guest, dude. Park your ass in a chair. Uh, where do you stand on bacon? Chewy versus crispy.”
“Crispy if you can, but anything is good,” they inhaled gratefully, easing themselves into one of the wooden chairs grouped around the table further into the living area. “God. I’m gonna start telling you how amazing and important you are to me every day starting today. You are the best.”
He made a flustered, strangled sound, and shook his head, clearing his throat. “Dude, stop. ‘Cause I’m gonna have to drop everything and come hug you, and these fuckin’ hashbrowns are gonna be uneven and gross. Or you’re gonna get me cryin’, and that’s just unsanitary. How’s the leg?”
“Stupid. Fine. Hurts when I move it, but it’s just kind of…an ache right now.” They unwrapped the elastic tape a little so they could look under. “No strikethrough, at least. Tracey’s field-stitching is holding.”
“Cool, cool. So badass that you got stabbed, man—I mean, that you lived.”
They snorted. “Yeah, super badass that I’m gonna be practically useless for a couple weeks.”
“Hey.” Something hit the back of their head and they flinched, pulling a few shreds of half-cooked potatoes from their hair. They shifted in their chair to see Sharky glaring at them pointedly, a spatula leveled in their direction. “Don’t do that. Long as you’re still breathin’ we got a chance. We’ll just…do a lot of fishin’ or something. Rezizi needs to eat, yo. And you won’t be doing anybody any favors goin’ out early and fuckin’ your leg up worse, so don’t even fucking think about it.”
They sat back in their chair with a begrudging grunt. Just because he was right didn’t mean they had to like it. He turned back to the food, head cocked like he expected them to interrupt with denial.
“Listen, not—not that I don’t love that you asked to come here and unwind, because…I always have a great time hanging out with you and mi casa is su casa and everything,” he said after a minute. “But if you think I’m like, too dumb to heckle you about healin’ up—”
“Sharky, no, I didn’t—” they threw the scraps of potato back at him to get him to face them, but they fell short, so they addressed his back, the tense hunch of his shoulders . “I don’t think you’re dumb. And I wouldn’t use you like that. I just…couldn’t stay at the prison, you know? Place makes me anxious. Feels like a trap. Faith keeps hittin’ ‘em and… I couldn’t stand the thought of just…waiting and dreading while others fought.”
He grunted, nodding slightly. “I get that. I get it, man.”
Neither of them spoke for a while, the sounds of disco blending comfortably with the bubbling percolation from the coffeemaker and the hiss and thin pop of hot grease from the stove. Hangovers normally made them pretty sensitive to sound, but there was something about the air, or the dim yellowed lighting on all the wood surfaces that made everything feel comfortable, and the dull throbbing behind their eyes stayed manageable. Sharky started humming again, and they closed their eyes, leaning back in their chair and trying to imagine the world wasn’t falling apart outside this kitchen, that this was just a normal Saturday morning after a night of partying, and after they finished eating they could hit the couch, turn on the TV and smoke a bowl while watching whatever cartoon reruns or shitty action movies they could find on cable.
But the only thing playing in this part of the county was that awful recording of Burke, and just the thought of seeing him sitting there, eyes fogged, face blank with Bliss while Faith whispered his lines in his ear, made them want to find a well-stocked bunker and hide until the world was quiet.
A sharp click from behind them shattered their thoughts, and they sat up and looked around as Sharky came over with two large plates absolutely heaped with food.
“Oh my God,” they said as he set one down in front of them. Entirely half the plate was taken up by a steep mound of golden hashbrowns, crowned with two fried eggs freckled with pepper. He’d broken a waffle in half and stacked the pieces to fit on the plate, and laid three giant slices of bacon on top of it all. They started to protest, but an eager rumble from their gut silenced them.
Sharky grinned proudly, setting his plate carefully at the spot across from them and darting back to the kitchen, rummaging around in the drawers before coming back with knives and forks in his fist, cradling bottles of syrup, ketchup, and sriracha against his chest. “Okay, okay—I’m not gonna tell you how to live your life, Dep, but you are definitely gonna want hot sauce on the eggs. Should really have a few actual tomatoes too, for like, the acid, y’know? But they’re out of season and what with the Peggies and all, I wouldn’t trust ‘em anyhow.”
“Shark, this looks amazing,” they said, taking the utensils he offered them and staring down numbly. “I had no idea you cooked.”
He shrugged, cheeks reddening, drenching his hashbrowns in sriracha and squeezing syrup in a practiced drizzle over the bacon and waffles. “Just breakfast. Worked at Aubrey’s for a bit a few years back, and I dunno, it’s just real satisfying to me. Plus I like to uh, make sure my overnight guests feel appreciated.”
“Well fuck, I’m honored.” They inhaled the fragrant steam rising up from their plate and grabbed the ketchup, shaking it and squeezing out a few blats around the eggs.
“Oh shit, I forgot—” He went to the counter and stretched over, grabbing the coffeepot and setting it down in front of them, then fished around in his pocket and pulled out an orange dram vial, rattling the pills inside pointedly. “Doc Lindsay said you need these twice a day. Morning and night, with food. Uh, technically you have seventeen minutes before it’s late, so…here.”
“Thanks.” They popped the cap and took a pill, washing it down with a gulp of hot black coffee. Probably not a lot of antibiotics left in Hope County, but it was hard to feel guilty when the threat of an infected wound was so pressing.
The coffee was hotter than they were comfortable with, but the slight scalding of their throat made them bizarrely hungrier, and they tucked in with relish. It’d been a while since they’d had anything that wasn’t prepper fare or cooked over a campfire without real seasoning, and they could have wept at the notes of garlic, onion, and chili in the hash. The eggs were cooked through, but that was how they liked them, and the delicate crispness of the outer edges was wonderful, pepper highlighting the whites perfectly.
“Dude, this is the best breakfast I’ve ever had,” they mumbled through a full mouth, and he practically preened.
“Real glad you like it, Dep,” he said, almost shyly, and something about his tone made them stop shoveling food into their mouth. He was still blushing.
They swallowed, searching the patchwork memories from the night before. “Did we…Uh. I remember watching something with Jason Statham. Right? But um, I’m kind of blanking on anything after that. And these aren’t my boxers I’m wearing. So…did we fuck?”
His eyebrows flew up and he shook his head vehemently. “Hell no, dude. You were beyond wasted. No. No, I—I mean, you did go for a kiss, though. But other than that, absolutely nothing happened. And you’re in my stuff ‘cause you were like, deadset on taking a shower after the movie? But you just turned the bathroom sink on and just started like, splashing yourself.”
“Oh.” They looked down at their plate, thinking, then groaned. “God, that’s so embarrassing. I get…weird when I’m cross-faded. Sorry. And sorry about the whole kissing thing. I know you’re—”
“Uh, I actually—I don’t mind,” he blurted, beetred and studiously avoiding their gaze when they looked up in surprise. “Just uh…try it sober next time. Maybe. If you want. No uh, no pressure.”
They grinned, deciding to be nice and let him recover without watching, turning their attention back to their plate. “Okay, I will.”
A soft, pleased intake of breath, but he didn’t say anything. They kept eating, but put their free hand on the table, palm up and extended in silent invitation. He took it in seconds, fingers warm and calloused and lacing eagerly in theirs, and they sat and ate together without needing to say anything else.