Alec won't forget, of course, but for now he just nods and sets his knee to the ground for stability, reaches to begin working. He sets up the belt first with the kind of smooth thoughtlessness that speaks to experience more than training, a sling at wrist and elbow and around the back of Lark's neck to take the weight off his shoulder. Then he turns his attention to aligning the bones again, and tightening the sling.
"Then," he says as he works, "We get you back to the door. Walk if we have to, ride double if you can. I come back for the other bike, get them both stashed."
No other alternative, really. There's no way to get both bikes in one trip.
"We can ride." Lark is determined to at least try. "Saving my bike for me means I'm at least cooking dessert."
He wouldn't mind doing dinner, earlier joke aside. Alec, it turns out, is not the only one who still keeps score between them after all, and all of this plus Alec taking the kitchen feels too lopsided.
So he asks another one of those questions that's solely about Alec's tastes. "What are you in the mood for?"
Alec doesn't really coddle - so Lark says he's going to ride and the X5 nods, double checks his handiwork. Satisfied, he sits back on his heels again and checks around them one more time with the kind of habitual idleness that marks it as just that.
"Please," he says dismissively, beginning to ease back from professional soldier to someone the Barge overall would find more familiar. "I'm not asking for another one until next December, and I'm invested in this one now. Trust me: you'll be sorry you let me near the kitchen."
No one will die from eating Alec's cooking, but no one really asks him to try it twice. He's already eyeing the two bikes before deciding Lark's Ninja will do better for double. "Give me your keys. I'm in the mood to get moving."
Alec wheels the bike to a solid patch of ground before getting g them both settled. He decides immediately he doesn't like this as well as when Lark has two functional arms but keeps it to himself for now.
He goes only fast enough back the way they came to keep them upright; while he knows Lark could hold on at higher speeds, he isn't interested in complicating matters by unexpectedly fishtailing and throwing them both.
"Little donkeys, huh? Might be a hard sell for ingredients, but alright. You're the one who fell off a cliff."
"Is that what that means? I've been speaking Spanish half my life and I didn't know that," Lark chuckles. He doesn't sound like he's in pain, but after a long turn he rests his head against Alec's back to steady himself, gather himself.
This is how Alec realizes that yes, he may be alone on the Barge, possibly in any world he could go to after it, but with Lark sometimes he feels that a little less. Lycanthrope and transgenic are two entirely different worlds but sometimes they overlap; sometimes a feral creature in a man's skin has the same mentality as a soldier, silently swallowing back pain, healing in plain sight.
Which is all to say that Alec doesn't call him on the pressure he feels between his shoulderblades and doesn't dislodge him. In fact he focuses on keeping them moving, lets it seem to distract him until the incongruous door and stairs in the middle of the landscape shows itself ahead.
Then and only then: "If I swing by the infirmary after I get my bike and tell them I need something stronger than aspirin for this," he says, holding up his bloodied hand; it aches from the throttle and the brake and the vibrations, but he, too, sounds normal. "Will you take it off me?" Or should he not bother?
He licks his lips uncertainly, but he reaches a decision fast. "If you stay around after I do."
Lark hasn't taken anything at all for pain since he quit drinking. He doesn't like who he is when he's too relaxed, when there are too many chemicals in his system, and most wolves become lethal when they take anything.
But the pain is just as likely to make him wild, and at least if the pain killers do affect him badly, Alec will be there. He does trust Alec with that.
He can't see Lark's expression behind him, of course, but he can hear his voice when he answers. Alec isn't sure what he was expecting as an answer but it wasn't exactly that.
Still, he'd already been intending to hang around after everything gets sorted. It's easy to nod.
"Then go ahead. I'll get the bikes sorted, grab a shower, stop by the infirmary, and then I'll be up." Give them both time to sort themselves out, but not enough time for anything to happen unless the Admiral intervenes.
It takes some doing to make a quick batch of brownies with just one arm, and not his dominant arm either. But Lark manages. They're just out of the oven and cooling by the time Alec will get there.
Lark is...struggling not to show any pain. It's actually easier to hide it when Alec is there: Alec acts as a focal point, a specific face to keep this weakness hidden from.
Alec would understand if he knew; he's accustomed, even, to filling that specific role, or at least he once was. A barrier for weakness going both ways.
As it stands he shows up freshly showered and in clean clothes, his hand neatly wrapped in gauze and a small bottle of pills in his pocket. He could've gotten more but the request at all, after his behavior recovering from the incident with Bull, was suspicious enough on its own. So he slips in the door and offers them without comment, already smirking as he ibhakes the chocolate scented air as if nothing at all had happened.
Lark takes them, and his mouth is dry so he palms two pills and goes to get a glass of water. On the way he glides a hand over Alec's back, a silent but very fervent bit of gratitude and invitation to stay.
"Is it working?" He throws a smile over his shoulder. If not for how pale he is, it would be hard to guess at the way the pain in his shoulder has radiated all the way up his neck and into a truly spectacular headache.
He metabolizes things very, very quickly though; it's what allows him to eat an entire person and not look or feel as if he's had anything but a decadent lunch. Two minutes and change after he swallows the pills he feels them begin to work.
Alec does, too; Lark will find the medication is adjusted to that, still relatively mild, but longer lasting for transgenic treatment. He makes a point of investigating the brownies both for their sake and to watch Lark down the pills and water from the corner of his eye.
He barely needs the invitation: he's already shucking his jacket off, leaving it draped over a chair where he can still get to it easily if he needs to, and pushing the sleeves of his fitted sweater up his arms a bit. All the same he's calmer now, more focused, feeling more himself; he reads the touch loud and clear, and lets it answer something that sits unacknowledged, dead silent and faint, in the center of his chest.
"Absolutely. I have a confession, though," he admits a moment later, scooping a corner out of the brownie pan with his finger and popping it into his mouth. "I have no idea how to make burritos." Apparently he's still planning on making good on both of their threats and promises.
"Don't worry. I grew up in Los Angeles, you can't walk out the door without finding a good burrito. Come here; I'll walk you through it." Lark would have to take off the sling in order to wrap the ingredients, so it's better that Alec is intent on cooking.
"The best tortillas are handmade. But," he doesn't have those. He has refrigerated flour discs for them instead, and he sets them on the counter. "I can't taste the difference anymore anyway. Okay, we need...rice, beans, and the steak there. How are you with cooking rice? And hot sauce."
The thing is, Alec could figure it out if he had to, probably; he could break down the ingredients anyway, and make a guess at it. He knows to heat everything past 165 to kill bacteria, and he knows to eat it while it's hot. Other than that?
He watches what Lark is pulling out, listens, because if his weak point is context his strong point is learning curve, is never needing told something academic twice. He scoops the steak out and shakes his head with a small, crooked smirk.
"I guess super weapons weren't earmarked for kitchen duty. They had other ideas for their expensive R&D."
"I'm not complaining. A kitchen boy wouldn't have had nearly as much fun on that cliff." Lark finds a small pot for the rice, a pan to cook the steak, and a butter knife. It's all he has to cut anything with besides his teeth and the act of putting food in his mouth then giving it to someone else is not okay. Even with someone he likes.
"Ideally the meat is in bite size pieces. The rice I like to season with..." he rummages and finds a few sandwich baggies of spices "borrowed" from the kitchen.
"You have a strange idea of fun," Alec says, in the kind of musing tone that means his own idea of fun isn't necessarily different, but together they are definitely not the norm.
He reaches to take the baggies once they're produced, sniffing at them. His nose isn't as sharp as Lark's, he knows, but it's plenty sensitive. The rest he watches from the middle of the movement.
"I'll shred it once it's cooked," he offers, and moves to take over the meat. That, he can do. "If you can't taste the difference anymore, why bother with seasoning?"
"Well, I can't tell the difference between fresh butter versus two month old margarine in a tortilla. And if I have to eat someone's belt to make it easier to hide their body, I'm lucky that I don't care how it tastes. Everything is just...dulled for me. But spices are like a punch in the mouth." At least those are: a few different kinds of pepper, some strong herbs.
"I can still taste sweets all right, though." It's a confession only because he had never eaten sweets at home, or here for that matter, until Alec and his Twinkies and Skittles and chocolates. If anything, sugar has a stronger impression because of how muted everything else is. His theory is that it's because lycanthropes don't really run into sugar much when they're hunting; it's only recently that it's been put into everything.
He licks his lips, keenly aware of the raw meat in a sudden, heightened way that he normally has well under control. Which is the thing he'd suspected would happen with a sip of alcohol or a couple of pain relievers which are, thankfully, working just fine. It just means he has to watch his thoughts more closely.
"Well, then you've got the important parts covered," he replies, incredibly sincerely. It's not as though he got a chance to eat a lot of sweets or junk food either back home, but he's making up for lost time now - and honestly thankful for his metabolism, with all the extra empty calories. But he does genuinely love his vices now.
And he sees that abbreviated motion, though he doesn't look up from what he's doing with the spices, with the meat and the pan. Just notes it, and wonders if he'll ask later how much of Lark's condition that he stay was for security and how much was comfort; he doesn't mind either way, is not afraid of Lark. Not physically.
"Find yourself needing to eat a lot of belts, do you?"
"A few," Lark says, with no shame whatsoever. "The last one back home worked in trafficking. Human trafficking, mostly. Which isn't why I killed him, but that detail gets me some traction in most circles when they find out I don't just chase tennis balls. How do you like your meat?"
"I hope you didn't get too much indigestion," Alec replies casually, because he can't be bothered to feel bad about anyone that would deal in human trafficking either - and also because he isn't particularly bothered by this tendency in Lark. There is, even, a part of him that can respect the neat efficiency of it.
The question, though, gets a pause for consideration.
"Okay, to be perfectly honest, I'm aware that there are differences, I just don't know what they are. Cooked is about as far as I get. Medium-rare is the answer on the persona list."
"Well rare is the most tender, it has the most juice to it. For obvious reasons, I like it best. Medium rare follows up on that; good job, persona list. Medium is a little pink in the very center. It's tougher. Well done is like gnawing on a piece of leather." Yeah, he is definitely fixating on the meat in a decidedly wolfish way, and he realizes it, so he gets a ginger ale for himself and offers one to Alec.
Alec takes it, raising an eyebrow at the descriptions.
Sometimes, he thinks people really just complicate life for themselves for the hell of it.
"We're going to go with whatever happens this time. I'm honestly not sure I care," he offers back, frowning down at his efforts with the steak and the pan. "It's sticking."
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"Set it." He says, knowing what that says about his abilities. "Then what?"
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"Then," he says as he works, "We get you back to the door. Walk if we have to, ride double if you can. I come back for the other bike, get them both stashed."
No other alternative, really. There's no way to get both bikes in one trip.
"Then I guess I'm cooking dinner."
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He wouldn't mind doing dinner, earlier joke aside. Alec, it turns out, is not the only one who still keeps score between them after all, and all of this plus Alec taking the kitchen feels too lopsided.
So he asks another one of those questions that's solely about Alec's tastes. "What are you in the mood for?"
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"Please," he says dismissively, beginning to ease back from professional soldier to someone the Barge overall would find more familiar. "I'm not asking for another one until next December, and I'm invested in this one now. Trust me: you'll be sorry you let me near the kitchen."
No one will die from eating Alec's cooking, but no one really asks him to try it twice. He's already eyeing the two bikes before deciding Lark's Ninja will do better for double. "Give me your keys. I'm in the mood to get moving."
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"Burritos," he murmurs as they get settled on the Ninja. He could almost be manning a phone sex line the way he says it. "Steak burritos tonight."
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He goes only fast enough back the way they came to keep them upright; while he knows Lark could hold on at higher speeds, he isn't interested in complicating matters by unexpectedly fishtailing and throwing them both.
"Little donkeys, huh? Might be a hard sell for ingredients, but alright. You're the one who fell off a cliff."
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Which is all to say that Alec doesn't call him on the pressure he feels between his shoulderblades and doesn't dislodge him. In fact he focuses on keeping them moving, lets it seem to distract him until the incongruous door and stairs in the middle of the landscape shows itself ahead.
Then and only then: "If I swing by the infirmary after I get my bike and tell them I need something stronger than aspirin for this," he says, holding up his bloodied hand; it aches from the throttle and the brake and the vibrations, but he, too, sounds normal. "Will you take it off me?" Or should he not bother?
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Lark hasn't taken anything at all for pain since he quit drinking. He doesn't like who he is when he's too relaxed, when there are too many chemicals in his system, and most wolves become lethal when they take anything.
But the pain is just as likely to make him wild, and at least if the pain killers do affect him badly, Alec will be there. He does trust Alec with that.
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Still, he'd already been intending to hang around after everything gets sorted. It's easy to nod.
"Then go ahead. I'll get the bikes sorted, grab a shower, stop by the infirmary, and then I'll be up." Give them both time to sort themselves out, but not enough time for anything to happen unless the Admiral intervenes.
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Lark is...struggling not to show any pain. It's actually easier to hide it when Alec is there: Alec acts as a focal point, a specific face to keep this weakness hidden from.
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As it stands he shows up freshly showered and in clean clothes, his hand neatly wrapped in gauze and a small bottle of pills in his pocket. He could've gotten more but the request at all, after his behavior recovering from the incident with Bull, was suspicious enough on its own. So he slips in the door and offers them without comment, already smirking as he ibhakes the chocolate scented air as if nothing at all had happened.
"Someone's trying to suck up," he teases.
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"Is it working?" He throws a smile over his shoulder. If not for how pale he is, it would be hard to guess at the way the pain in his shoulder has radiated all the way up his neck and into a truly spectacular headache.
He metabolizes things very, very quickly though; it's what allows him to eat an entire person and not look or feel as if he's had anything but a decadent lunch. Two minutes and change after he swallows the pills he feels them begin to work.
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He barely needs the invitation: he's already shucking his jacket off, leaving it draped over a chair where he can still get to it easily if he needs to, and pushing the sleeves of his fitted sweater up his arms a bit. All the same he's calmer now, more focused, feeling more himself; he reads the touch loud and clear, and lets it answer something that sits unacknowledged, dead silent and faint, in the center of his chest.
"Absolutely. I have a confession, though," he admits a moment later, scooping a corner out of the brownie pan with his finger and popping it into his mouth. "I have no idea how to make burritos." Apparently he's still planning on making good on both of their threats and promises.
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"The best tortillas are handmade. But," he doesn't have those. He has refrigerated flour discs for them instead, and he sets them on the counter. "I can't taste the difference anymore anyway. Okay, we need...rice, beans, and the steak there. How are you with cooking rice? And hot sauce."
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He watches what Lark is pulling out, listens, because if his weak point is context his strong point is learning curve, is never needing told something academic twice. He scoops the steak out and shakes his head with a small, crooked smirk.
"I guess super weapons weren't earmarked for kitchen duty. They had other ideas for their expensive R&D."
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"Ideally the meat is in bite size pieces. The rice I like to season with..." he rummages and finds a few sandwich baggies of spices "borrowed" from the kitchen.
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He reaches to take the baggies once they're produced, sniffing at them. His nose isn't as sharp as Lark's, he knows, but it's plenty sensitive. The rest he watches from the middle of the movement.
"I'll shred it once it's cooked," he offers, and moves to take over the meat. That, he can do. "If you can't taste the difference anymore, why bother with seasoning?"
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"I can still taste sweets all right, though." It's a confession only because he had never eaten sweets at home, or here for that matter, until Alec and his Twinkies and Skittles and chocolates. If anything, sugar has a stronger impression because of how muted everything else is. His theory is that it's because lycanthropes don't really run into sugar much when they're hunting; it's only recently that it's been put into everything.
He licks his lips, keenly aware of the raw meat in a sudden, heightened way that he normally has well under control. Which is the thing he'd suspected would happen with a sip of alcohol or a couple of pain relievers which are, thankfully, working just fine. It just means he has to watch his thoughts more closely.
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And he sees that abbreviated motion, though he doesn't look up from what he's doing with the spices, with the meat and the pan. Just notes it, and wonders if he'll ask later how much of Lark's condition that he stay was for security and how much was comfort; he doesn't mind either way, is not afraid of Lark. Not physically.
"Find yourself needing to eat a lot of belts, do you?"
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The question, though, gets a pause for consideration.
"Okay, to be perfectly honest, I'm aware that there are differences, I just don't know what they are. Cooked is about as far as I get. Medium-rare is the answer on the persona list."
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Sometimes, he thinks people really just complicate life for themselves for the hell of it.
"We're going to go with whatever happens this time. I'm honestly not sure I care," he offers back, frowning down at his efforts with the steak and the pan. "It's sticking."
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It shouldn't stick, and he pushes and scrapes with a spoon to try to get the meat sizzling rather than burning.
"Maybe it needs butter."
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