2019-07-27 - Croque Madame

This is an unusual enough occurrence to have drawn Alexander out of his snarly grumpy harassment of the nurses. He's limped his way around his hotel room, looking for his belongings and retrieving a wallet. His hair is somewhat combed, but still wild, and he has too much scruff to look civilized, but hey, he's sitting up alertly in his bed, now, and idly doing a crossword puzzle while he watches the room door, something between curiosity and suspicion on his face. And maybe a little wistful self-mockery at the first two - it's not like the random kid is actually going to show up with a homemade sandwich or anything. He has the phone on the tray anyway, and he glances at it a couple of times.

Other than the machines, the room is silent, the curtains drawn so there's only the artificial light. There are bruises on his arms, and his leg is rather thoroughly rapped up under the blankets, but other than that, he seems like - well, a middle-aged man in the hospital who clearly doesn't want to be there and is bored enough to respond to a bizarre offer.

There is absolutely no chance Corey is about to walk in with a tupperware box containing a pretty darned good croque madame. No chance at all, until he does. Alexander gets a few seconds of notice as a male voice asks one of the nurses, "Hey, is that 389?" And then he's entering, a bright smile dimming ever-so slightly as his eyes settle on the patient and take in his rather battered appearance. "Hey. Alexander Clayton?"

Alexander straightens up when someone comes in, studying the young man with the tupperware with his head tilted to one side, like a curious dog. His dark eyes stare with a frankness that slips past the border into outright rudeness. "Corey Jones?" A glance out the door to make sure that the nurses seem to be noticing him, then back to Corey. "Are you a real person? Come in." He gestures at the seat near the bed. "Did you actually make a sandwich?"

"Yeah, as far as I know. Pretty sure my sister would've told me if I weren't real," Corey replies, offering the tupperware container over, and flopping down onto the seat near Alexander's bed. "Hope you like it. How'd you end up in here, anyway?"

"Not necessarily. It's sometimes more pleasant to believe in something not-real," Alexander says, quietly. He puts the crossword aside, and takes the offered container, giving it a confused look. "I did not expect someone to show up with a sandwich." He puts it aside for a moment, so he can reach for a wallet on the tray that has definitely had better weeks. He draws out two twenties, which are edged on one side with a dark stain, and offers them to Corey. To answer the question he nods at his leg. "Got a little cut up, Mr. Jones. It's nothing serious." A long pause as he reaches for the tupperware and pops it open to see what's inside. "Do you do this often?"

Taking the bills, Corey stuffs them into his jeans pocket, offering a slightly relieved smile. "Thanks. And yeah, probably more than I should. Or at least, more than is safe. But! I've met some cool people, and usually been paid, so it all works out." He has the enviable confidence of youth. Nothing bad has happened yet, after all!

Alexander looks down into the tupperware, his eyebrows going up, slightly. "Why is the egg on top?" He doesn't wait for the answer before picking it up and taking a very small bite out of the edge. He chews, swallows, nods. "This is good." Then his eyes flick up to Corey, again. "If you know that is dangerous, why do you do it? You could get mugged."

"Because if I lived life being worried about being mugged, I'd never leave the house," Corey replies easily, almost flippantly. "The egg is on top because that's how you make a croque madame. I never asked the guy who taught me how to make one; I guess ask the French if it's important to know," he adds, slouching comfortably in his chair, arms folding over his chest. "So how'd you get cut up? Delivering food to people in the wrong places?"

"That doesn't seem to follow," Alexander says, a bit sternly. "There are levels of risk that are worth taking, and ones which are not." His lips thin, looking displeased that there's not a better answer on 'why is the egg on top'. That doesn't stop him from taking another bite, and another. After that first, tentative tasting, he doesn't stop until half the sandwich is done. Then he reaches for his napkin, and wipes his mouth, before turning his attention back to Corey. "I was trying to stop someone from dying. It was a stupid risk to take. I don't recommend it."

The student makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Like I said, it's all turned out fine so far. Most people are inherantly not -bad-, and everyone's happier when there is food," is Corey's personal mantra, his gaze drifting down to Alexander's wrapped-up leg then back to the man's face. "Did you succeed?"

Alexander arches an eyebrow. "And what evidence do you use to draw that conclusion, Mister Jones?" He reaches out for a folded newspaper, turns it so that the headline about the murders is face up, gives it a significant sort of nod. He looks down at the sandwich. "Although I don't disagree about the food." He takes a few more bites - he eats mechanically rather than with a visible sort of gusto. When he takes another break, he looks down. "Not entirely. Two people died. Two survived. Fifty percent isn't a passing grade."

"The fact that I'm alive and unharmed after delivering like a dozen meals," Corey replies amiably. "Pretty sure the two people you saved would disagree, Mister Clayton," he then adds, then gestures towards the headline on the newspaper. "Some dude or chick who hasn't been fed properly, obviously." Clearly, he's in no mood to engage with the more serious tone of Alexander's words.

"You must be a joy in your statistics classes," Alexander responds, a bit sourly. Then frowns. "Do you even take statistics, as a culinary student?" He finishes off the sandwich in a few bites, wipes his mouth again, then neatly reseals the tupperware container. There's a flash of humor, nonetheless, as he offers the container back to Corey. "So. Food. Seems to be a passion of yours. Your tool to save the world? Or at least a few hungry stomachs?"

A shake of the head is Corey's answer to the question about statistics, his expression showing some relief at that fact. Clearly he's not one for math, beyond the basics. "Honestly? It's the only thing I've ever really been passionate about," he admits with a rueful little grin, taking the tupperware box and letting it rest on his leg. "I mean, I'm great at starting stuff. Terrible at being interested in it three weeks later, you get me?"

"There's nothing wrong with having a passion," Alexander says, quietly. He reaches up and scratches at his stubble, face wrinkling in irritation at the itchiness of the new growth. "Or changing your mind." He refocuses on the younger man, staring at him with lizard-like concentration. "You asked about work. I don't know anyone hiring cooks. But if you want to do this," he nods to the tupperware, "you should see if the Bayside will let you put up flyers. The people who live there will appreciate the indulgence, and are less likely to roll you for drug money. Don't take any jobs that take you to Elm Street, or the trailer park."

"Hmmmn." Corey digs out his phone, tapping into it, presumably making a note of that advice. "Try Bayside, avoid Elm and the trailer park. Got it." He nods, tucking the device away. "So, what is it you do, Mister Clayton? Other than save lives and eat sandwiches, I mean."

"I do a few different things," Alexander says, slowly. Like he's trying to decide whether to answer that question or not. "Find people. Look into things. Teach a couple of community classes. I get by." The slow hint of a smile. "The saving lives and eating sandwiches are more of occasional things." A pause. "You said you had a sister."

"Yeah, twin sister," Corey affirms, his expression a blend of fond and exasperated as he refers to Sparrow. "She tends to prefer eating to cooking, thankfully. I don't have to fight for kitchen time." Sitting forwards slightly, he asks, "Like a PI or something?" Looking into things and finding people, at least, fit that bill. "That's super cool."

"Something like a PI, yes." Alexander just sort of stares at him for a moment, then his smile appears again, a touch wider this time. "Is it? Cool? I don't think I've ever been cool." He considers the other bits of information. "And she's also a student, and you share housing here in Gray Harbor?" A glance to confirm the information. "Are you from here? Or from outside? You stand out."

"Well I've said it, and that makes it true. You're super cool," Corey asserts with a lazy grin. "Mm? Oh yeah, I've lived around Gray Harbour most of my life. Apart from a year out in Canada, which was epic, but here is home." He nods to the assumptions about his sister and their living status. "Do I? Awesome!"

"That's not how truth works, Mister Jones," Alexander responds, but there's a bit of humor to it now. "But. Thank you. I think." He nods to the tupperware. "I can't do that. So I suppose, if you can do something a 'super cool' person cannot, it makes you...triple cool? I'm not certain of the scale or categories here. And you've lived in Gray Harbor your whole life, but still wander off to meet with strangers? I don't know whether to be impressed by the courage or exasperated by the foolishness."

"Almost certainly the latter," Corey replies, his grin broadening. "And yeah, I guess I'm triple cool," he accepts without any kind of false modesty over this made-up category of coolness. "Eh, don't worry; if I end up in the newspaper as a murder victim, you can always say you told me so."

All traces of good humor fall away from Alexander's face, leaving it blank and expressionless. Tonelessly, he says, "I'd rather not see that happen, Mister Jones." He takes a deep breath, looks away, rubbing at his forehead. "But it's not my problem what you do. Just try not to die, please. There's too much of that, lately."

Expression sobering in turn, Corey nods slowly. "I'll do my best," he assures quietly. "To be honest, I probably won't have time once classes start. Gotta put in a /lot/ of time if you want to be the best. Plus whatever job I end up working," he adds, helpfully.

"Good." The faint hint of humor returns, and Alexander glances back at Corey. "Don't join any cults. It really cuts into your study time, and something tells me you don't need the distraction." A pause. "I might call you again, if I may? I might want to invite friends to dinner. But I don't cook. Your food is better than take out. But I live on Elm, so, caveat emptor."

"No cults? Aw, but I was looking forwards to chanting naked under the midnight skies," the proto-chef complains, though it's a joke. "Is that a test? You want to hire me again, but you live in the no-fly zone? Huh." He studies Alexander at length, finally deciding, "I might make an exception."

"It's actually not that great. A bit nippy." This is said perfectly deadpan, although there's a lurking amusement in Alexander's eyes. "And it's up to you. I wouldn't blame you if you declined it. There are decent people on Elm, and in the park, but in general--" he shrugs. "You grew up here. You know what the neighborhood is like. Why were you in Canada?" he asks, apparently at random.

"I'll risk it," Corey decides with a nod, then grins as Canada is mentioned. "Learning how to live off the land. My dad has friends who have a communal farm up there. Real basic stuff. Growing their own food, raising animals for produce, it was an amazing experience," he explains openly.

Alexander's eyebrows go up. "That sounds interesting. I'm not much of an outdoorsperson, myself. But it sounds like it excites you." He picks a bit nervously at the threads of his blanket, eyes straying towards the door, then back to Corey. "Is that what you want to do with your degree? The, uh, what is it called? Farm-to-table? That thing? Have the farm, serve meals from it?"

"That's the plan, yeah. Though it might change; there's a lot of stuff on the syllabus I haven't tried before," Corey affirms with a nod. "Even if I don't end up going with that idea, just learning about the whole cycle of where food comes from was super cool.2"

"Food generally comes from a paper bag. For me." Alexander's voice has a bit of dry self-mockery about it. "But it's good. To have something like that. Whatever you end up doing with it." He clears his throat. "This has been surprisingly enjoyable, Mister Jones. But I believe that the nurse is about to come by and harass me once again. If I pass this one, I believe they'll let me out of this hellhole." It's not a hellhole. "It was nice to meet you."

Pushing himself up from his chair, Corey sticks out his hand towards Alexander, presumably for some kind of polite shaking goodbye sort of thing. "Sure thing. Hit me up if you need food for impressing friends with," he agrees, his smile returning. "Good luck passing your next harassment, and with that leg. And you know, all that stuff."

Alexander stares at the hand. His own hands don't even twitch upwards like he's THINKING about shaking it. "Try not to die, Mister Jones." Despite the complete rudeness of ignoring the friendly gesture, his voice is warm, even friendly, as he raises his eyes back to the other man's face. "And good luck not starving, and with your classes."