Jake & Jean-Paul, Wednesday Evening

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Jake smells something cooking and goes to investigate.


Jean-Paul was in the process of attempting a stir fry that involved broccoli, carrots, and a few other random vegetables he'd picked up at the supermarket earlier. The flight there had been easy enough - theoretically. But his body had protested when he wanted to make the trip back immediately, so he'd settled for sitting in a cafe for a half hour, then flying back. He only had two bags of vegetables and fruits, after all. That wasn't too horribly heavy.

He wasn't using the kitchenette in his suite because, frankly, if he ruined it... he didn't want the stench of burnt soy sauce to linger as a constant reminder. And also, if he spent any more time in his suite, he was going to go completely stir crazy. Yes, he'd gotten burned and yes, they still hurt. But he was bored of the Food Network and the Discovery Channel. Thus, cooking.

Humming tunelessly to himself, he reached for the spatula and actually did some stirring - it was entirely possible he was stirring too much, but after the incident with the stroganoff that Catseye had wound up fixing, he felt his paranoia justified.

Well, the scent of soy sauce certainly wasn't burned. And nothing called Jake faster than a well-cooked meal, no matter who was doing the cooking. His nose picked up the scent from around the hallway, and his feet just led him to the familiar path, out of habit. He was in the kitchen before he could help himself, "What's for dinn--" out of his mouth before he recognized the familiar backside.

The phrase died on his lips before it was complete, and for a moment, he toyed with the idea of dashing from the room before the other turned around. Indecision would be his downfall, though.

Turning slowly, Jean-Paul had half managed to convince himself that his immediate identification of that voice was, in fact, wrong. Only then he finished turning, eyebrows raised, and he found that he'd actually been quite correct. Merde, he thought, already knowing this was going to be awkward but refusing to run from it - he had food to consider, after all. And he was hungry.

"Pardon?" He asked, expression shifting so only one brow remained raised.

Shit, shit, shit, ran through Jacob's mind, with a number of other more colorful phrases. Then, despite the situation, his mouth twitched at the expression on Jean-Paul's face. For all of his own control of his body, that one eyebrow thing was something Jake could never master.

"What's...for...dinner?" he slowly repeated, letting the words drag to give himself time to think. For all that the extra moments helped. "Uh, hi," he finally got out.

"I am having stir fry," Jean-Paul replied, gesturing with the spatula to the pan where his vegetables were still frying. "I do not know what you are having."

"Well, you'll eat well then," Jake replied with just a moment's pause. Leaving would be just a bit too awkward at the moment. Not even mentioning the fact that, well, despite awkward memories, the company might not be bad. To look at, at least. "Me...? Maybe a peanut butter sandwich. Unless there's leftovers around," he said, moving to the refrigerator. He pulled open the door, thankful for the distraction looking inside gave.

Jean-Paul's nose wrinkled a bit, since even when he'd been buying only pre-packaged sandwiches and things, he'd never resorted to peanut butter. It wasn't his place to think about that, though, and so he turned to stir his vegetables again. Nothing burnt - yet. "Why did you return?" He asked, not looking at the younger man.

Jake stiffened at the question, but tried to hide it by bending over and peering into the fridge. He pulled out a container, eyeing it suspiciously. He peeled back the lid, and quickly wrinkled his nose, closing it and tossing it on the counter. "Peanut butter it is," he said, closing the door and heading to the cabinets instead.

He busied himself for a bit with extracting the jars and loaves and hunting down a plate and knife. Then, finally, he shrugged. "I was tired of Europe. Besides, Spring is the best time to be in New York," he said, before starting to make the sandwich.

Jean-Paul preferred the autumn, but he supposed that was neither here nor there. "You simply... grew tired of Europe?" The scepticism was there, obvious in his tone even though he didn't turn to look at Jake again.

"It's not home anymore," Jake said without looking up. He finished making the sandwich, put the ingredients away, then walked the long way around Jean-Paul to put the knife in the sink. "And there's only so much time you can spend playing the tourist." He slid onto a stool, picked up a sandwich, then finally let his eyes sneak up for a quick glance at the man.

Then, not quite knowing why he let the words leave his lips, he slipped in a, "Though skiing the Alps was long overdue," before turning his eyes and his attention back to the sandwich.

Skiing.

In the Alps.

Jean-Paul wasn't going to touch that with a three-metre stick. "Tourist was all you played?"

Jake didn't say anything for a moment, though he conveniently covered it with chewing his sandwich. Leaving the plate a moment, he stood, looking through the cupboards for a glass. A quick trip through the refrigerator found the milk, which he smelled to test before pouring himself a glass.

Completely ignoring the comment, he shifted the conversation. "You're looking...well..." Jake finished the sentence, eyes landing on the burns on Jean-Paul's arm.

"Crispy?" Jean-Paul supplied, not bothering to look at the burns on his arm. "Well-done? Fried? Baked? Broiled?" Brow arching again, he finally cast a glance toward Jake. "I could continue, if you are still unable to find the words."

"Your words, not mine," Jake said, looking up at the same moment, and on catching his glance, offering a weak smile. "Bet the other guy looks a lot worse than that," he finally added, just assuming the burns were related to some work or the other.

"Thought about you when I was in France. The Parisian accent just sounds...wrong now."

There were so many places a comment like that could go. Many of them that Jean-Paul would not allow. He shrugged, looking back toward his vegetables as he said, "Oui, well. They are French. They cannot help it."

Jake looked back at the sandwich--halfway eaten it looked even more sad a meal. "No, I guess they can't." He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, a faint ringing echoing the room. "Aren't those vegetables done yet? Or are you waiting for me to leave to sit down?" he asked, after another moment's thought.

"Neither," Jean-Paul said, frowning at Jake for a moment. "I am making sure they are finished." Which was mostly the truth. Shaking his head, he pulled the pan off of the stove and dumped the vegetables onto the plate he had ready there. "I do not believe you, that you were only playing tourist in Europe." He paused, picked up a piece of broccoli, ate it, and then continued, "In case you wondered."

"I have pictures?" Jake said, popping the last of his sandwich into his mouth. "Eh, I didn't really expect you would. It was fun to play the part, though. And quietly mock the people who think they're 'seeing the world' because they know how to use their twelve-point-two megapixel cameras."

"Mm..." The noise was noncommittal at best, but Jean-Paul moved to sit across from Jake anyway. Pressing the question of why the younger man had returned would likely only serve to alienate him - of course, then the question of why that possibility bothered him arose. He supposed it didn't - at least not as much as it probably should have. "Of all the places you could have gone when Europe grew boring for you, you come here?"

"I was homesick," Jake said. And while the tone was completely flippant, the astute listener might pick up a small grain of truth in the statement. "Besides. I had to pay my post office box bill before the end of the month, or they'd have thrown away all the credit card offers I've received in the last nine months."

Picking up a fork, Jean-Paul ate a few bites of stir fry before saying, "I am sure this would have been a tragedy for you." It was a cycle - Jean-Paul could feel it attempting to start again, somewhere in his bones. But this was something he didn't want to repeat. The banter, whether hiding kernels of truth or not, was something that needed to end. Perhaps it needed to end because of the truths it hid.

Shaking his head, he put the fork on the edge of the mostly-full plate of stir fry and then pushed it across the counter toward Jake. "Enjoy," he said, standing and heading for the door.

Jake looked up, surprise momentarily crossing his face, then he looked back down at his empty plate. He quickly drained the last of the milk, then stood, not to stop the other man, but to take his dishes to the sink. Washing them, instead of leaving them for someone else, suddenly seemed the right thing to do, and wash them he did, taking his time. By the time they were spotless, it finally seemed safe to leave.