The korkro roots are topped with green shoots when he stuffs them into a pot next to a chunk of eiroch. Drack glowers at them, and then covers everything with broth.
His ru'shan is still at the Nexus. It's a thought that keeps him up at night more than nerve damage ever could, and he is tired.
And Kesh is so small, he thinks to himself before he remembers that she is grown with hundreds of years of experience. The thought does not comfort him as much as it should. Blood is far too easy to lose, like hearts and livers and hands. Whenever his omni-tool rings with a message from her a shot of adrenaline tears through him, through muscles and woven steel that pinches like barbed wire curling around his spine. It is one of the few times he checks the damn thing.
He is too old for this, he thinks whenever he does.
He piles a few more ingredients into the pot and sets the roast in the oven. It will take eleven hours to cook, if only because someone will inevitably open it to grab a bite. He can already see the heat rushing away in an updraft of impatience.
He smiles a little bit as he thinks of it.
On the ship called the Tempest, without a rifle in his hands, Nakmor Drack is The Cook. If anyone has a problem with the menu, their survival instincts prevent them from complaining. A wide array of dishes greet each crew member who opens the fridge in the galley kitchen. And Drack finds that there is a certain level of satisfaction in watching their eyes widen whenever they take a bite of something new; a certain amount of pride at their thwarted preconceptions.
He's very good at his job.
Aside from being the cook, Drack is also Badass Ship Grandpa, according to Pellesaria B'Sayle, and Doing Far Too Much For His Condition according to the lovely Doctor Lexi T'Perro. Their pilot is afraid of him, a secret he hides not well at all, skirting around at the edges of the dinner hour and sneaking bits of leftover meals from the fridge with long trembling fingers. Several extra helpings are left on small plates for him, each one easy to snatch away in the dark of midnight.
And in the early hours of the morning, when sleep still threatens the edges of Drack's eyes and the pain clings at its most portent, a small human figure weaves around him like a klixen while he finishes making breakfast. Sara drinks strong black tea with too much sugar, her eyes full of mirth, and laughs out words like oh won't you dear and please Very Handsome Sir while he waves her away with a massive hand that holds no ire.
"I don't bake, kid," he rumbles with a gravelly voice, flipping a pile of eggs now that the roast is in the oven. "I cook."
Sara presses her hands together. "Come on, Drack. Cinnamon rolls are the best kind of cooking."
"No," he says with a glance at her. "They're the squishy kind."
Pausing at the counter next to him to pour more tea, she stops flitting and absently lifts a hand to push her hair behind her shoulders. "Is there really a squishy kind of cooking?" she asks, watching the tea slip out of the pot.
He snorts and thrusts his crest toward her, eyes narrowed and very close to hers. "Yeah," he rumbles. "It's called baking."
Sara starts in surprise, pulling back with a delighted laugh, and he smirks at her. She turns away to grab a cup of coffee for him.
A strong breakfast is fed to everyone: eggs and leafy damn vegetables.
And, every once in a while, squishy little cinnamon rolls.