"Yeah." He drinks entirely too much coffee--he glances over at Armand, giving the other a tired but genuine smile, quick and thin.
"We can split this, too, did you--I didn't know you could cook." There's a coffee pot on the small little shelf, but Alan's pouring it from a light blue, homey looking thermos.
"Cream? Sugar? I don't--I'm not really that good of a host, I'm sorry."
"I've joined the dinner shift." If he takes a job, he's going to do it. That includes focusing on cooking until it meets his standards. When you have twenty-four hours a day, a... focused person can fit a lot in.
He shakes his head. He's not Louis, to go so far as to eat human food. "No, it's for you. I don't eat food." He tilts his head with a brief smile. "I believe that can be true of writers." And Alan doesn't have his advantages.
"Just black." He refrains from a joke about adding blood.
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"We can split this, too, did you--I didn't know you could cook." There's a coffee pot on the small little shelf, but Alan's pouring it from a light blue, homey looking thermos.
"Cream? Sugar? I don't--I'm not really that good of a host, I'm sorry."
no subject
He shakes his head. He's not Louis, to go so far as to eat human food. "No, it's for you. I don't eat food." He tilts his head with a brief smile. "I believe that can be true of writers." And Alan doesn't have his advantages.
"Just black." He refrains from a joke about adding blood.