By: Caz
Rating: PG
Summary: Chapter two: Odd Eating Habits.
Notes: Is it normal that this fic (which is turning out so fluffy) was inspired by Swedish death metal? And... yeah, wow. People still have me on Author Alert from back in 2001… HI FRIENDS. The next chapter will get pretty slashy, methinks. Just for a heads-up for those of you who don't like their smoothies with citrus. Again, more format fixing… feh.
The Little Orient restaurant was comprised of two halves: an indoor buffet or a more private, outdoor bistro surrounded by a bamboo garden. It was of little difficulty to guess which option the two would select, due to the night's balmy perfection and the unique experience of Hal's proverbial, sensory bubble-bursting. They were seated at a table in the garden's most southeastern corner, giving them a great view of the courtyard's centerpiece: a bubbling fountain that consisted of six marble spheres, each meticulously carved and balanced for an effect that was uniquely Zen. The sound of the water was somehow louder than the chatter of the other guests around them.
"Wow," Hal said, gazing around them like he'd stepped into a foreign jungle. His eyes than tilted skyward, prowling the night in search of the stars that drifted between thin slices of cloud. "It's absolutely beautiful out here!"
At that moment, he'd completely forgotten the strange incident from a few minutes beforehand. He'd resigned himself to interrogate David about it as soon as the opportunity arose, but he found now that he didn't honestly care. It was far too nice of a night and he was in far too nice of a mood to allow it to be trivialized by something like an out-of-character action.
After they'd ordered, the waitress--and damn, what a waitress--returned with their soup and egg rolls. Hal realized that he hadn't ordered... hadn't even noticed that the opportunity had come and gone.
"Ehm... what am I getting?" he asked, confused.
"Don't worry," Dave said with a wink, "I just got what you always get. General Tso's with sticky rice and hot-and-sour soup, right?"
He nodded.
"I don't know about their drink menu... I couldn't pronounce anything on it, so I just got green tea and mineral water."
There was a split-second of bizarre silence before Hal erupted into laughter, eyes like little crescents behind the lenses of his glasses.
"'Green tea and mineral water'? You sound like a yuppie!"
The only reply that nugget of humor could glean from his companion was a dissatisfied grunt. Kids in SUVs, driving around with designer shades and paying for their three-dollar espresso with a twenty… people like that were the type that David found himself bothered by on a level that he couldn't explain. Perhaps it was because they had everything that he'd never had when he was young: financial support, free reign, exciting location… he honestly didn't know. Aside from all that "shadowy past" bullshit, they drive like retards, he thought. That settled the issue. Before he had time to think up a decent comeback to Hal's insult, their food had arrived.
The waitress set their tray down onto a nearby table, then loaded the courses individually to ensure that they wouldn't spill. The whole time, Hal was chatting her up like they were the best of friends, thanks to his newly-rediscovered social skills. Though that hadn't been the case when they'd first met, the scientist was actually quite the converser. In fact, Dave thought as he eyed them, she seemed rather charmed. Must be that whole kicked-puppy thing, he added silently. Finally, the waitress—he'd learned that she was Tomoyo Funibashi, age twenty-four, loved cats, and was saving up for a motorboat—wandered off to another table, giggling girlishly, and they set into their food like vultures into a fresh kill.
"This has to be the best soup I've ever had," Hal was saying, just the tips of his eyes visible above the bowl and large spoon. His table manners were rather peculiar: rather than leaving the bowl on the table whilst he ate and leaning over it, he lifted it to about shoulder-level and ate very neatly. It wasn't messy or improper by any means, just unusual. And when he'd finished enough of the soup, he simply tipped the bowl and sipped the rest without so much as a sound. Perhaps it came from years of eating over a keyboard… after all, spilling something like soup on one's expensive machinery wouldn't be good… but the quirk was left without discussion between the two of them; the food was far more important.
"Spicier than usual," the bespectacled man observed, bringing a thin sliver of the garnished chicken to his lips, twirling his chopsticks expertly. His companion, on the other hand, was having a bit of a more difficult time trying to master the Oriental eating utensils. He was finding that, rather than Hal's digits--which tapered elegantly and were made dexterous by years of typing--his fingers were just not nimble enough. He grumbled and simply speared a piece of the dark-orange chicken, then nibbled on it uncomfortably. A chuckle from across the table signaled that his odd posture had been discovered.
"Having trouble?"
He growled a bit in the back of his throat, then gave in and nodded.
"Well, for starters, you're holding them entirely wrong," he stared, confused, as Hal grabbed his hand and pried the chopsticks from his grip. He then flattened David's fingers, pointing to his thumb. "You don't balance them on your thumb. If you do that, you'll lose your handle on the bottom one." He then tentatively folded the hand he held between his and curled over the thick fingers, shaping them painstakingly and sliding one of the chopsticks into place.
"You have to lean it against the inside of your index finger and rest the end of it on top of your little finger. Like this." He gestured to the way the chopstick now rested. "And rather than grabbing the other one the way you were, just slightly alter your grip. About an inch above the bottom one, rest it against the inside of your index finger. Then let your index and middle fingers curl around the top so you can move it like a hinge," He slid the second chopstick into place, then moved them together and then apart with a tiny grin. "See?"
Dave blinked, and then moved the sticks back and forth on his own. While the grip felt awkward at first, a few minutes later he found that he was learning.
"How have you been alive this long and visited the places you have without ever learning how to use chopsticks?" Hal queried, finishing the last of the sticky rice.
"Chopsticks, spoon, fork… Most of the time, I just eat with my hands." Dave explained. "It's not like I ever have steak and potatoes, after all. I'm either at home and living on take-out or in the field, eating freeze-dried MREs."
"That's fine with finger-food," Hal interrupted, "But even you have to eat at nice places every once in a while, right?"
"Nope. All food is finger-food." He shrugged.
"Eww," Hal said distastefully, "that's disgusting."
Half an hour later, they stumbled through the apartment's door like a couple of drunks—though neither had actually imbibed. They were drunk on the night, and therefore not accountable for any of the bizarre actions that had taken place to and from the restaurant. For starters, they'd grossly overtipped the dear waitress: sixteen dollars for a thirty dollar meal? But the math seemed right to them. Then, on the way back, they'd decided to purchase some wine from a street vendor, though they were obviously too giddy to be improved by drinking of any sort. Dave felt as though he'd let his guard down and was acting entirely out of character… but in all honesty, he didn't mind that. He was having fun, even if it was of the "stupid college student" variety.
"That dinner was fantastic," Hal said as he sank onto the rarely-used sofa, returning to his old pastime of staring out at the city that had welcomed them with open arms that night. Now, the lights were dimmer; more of the bustling crowd had retired for the night and more still were on the way. And the moon loomed up above them all like some sort of benevolent shepherd, assuring that all of Manhattan's wandering lambs would make it safely home.
As opposed to the almost dismal feeling it had recalled from within him earlier, the view of the city now evoked a feeling of life. Of being. He felt now that he was a part of the whole, not fenced off from humanity by experiences that were out of his control.
"You sure are consistent," remarked a gravelly voice from behind him, followed by the pop of a cork. Hal grabbed the glass as it was offered, holding it with perfect balance and delicacy, pinky out. He sipped the pinkish-red liquid tentatively, trying to remember when exactly the last time he'd tasted it was… and he couldn't. The alcohol was light—a blush wine, perfect for after dinner. It was fruity, yet beneath it there was an underlying bitterness. But rather than ruining the taste, it simply added a rather crisp edge.
"Pretty good for nine bucks a bottle, eh?" his partner remarked, flopping down onto the couch with little to no regard for personal space. Then again, that's how David, as opposed to Snake, always was: sharing furniture and food weren't his strong points. Living a comfortless life of necessity could do that to a person.
"I wonder," Hal said in a soft voice, eyes traveling up the floors of a far-off skyscraper, "how many of those people out there are only alive today because of us."
The statement—or was it a question disguised as a statement?—came from nowhere. He'd simply thought aloud, but now that he thought about what he'd said, it was a rather heavy subject. Even during the early days of Philanthropy, they rarely discussed past events. And when they did, the questions weren't rhetorical and phased in Hal's offbeat, ideological perspective. The engineer himself had admitted that he was far too much of a humanitarian to ever give an accurate, unbiased view of anything they'd accomplished. Or failed to accomplish.
"Does it really matter? None of them know it, after all,"
"It was just a thought," he murmured, "I mean… looking back on these last few months… I'm glad we prevented that attack and all, but you can't help but feel a little hopeless. No matter how long we keep on fighting, there's always going to be some rogue government or crazy bastard out there that's got the money and technology to threaten us all over again. It's like… even when things are relatively calm, there's no peace. There's just anticipating the next threat and how to get rid of them. And with the Patriots looming over us like some kind of death sentence…"
"Hey, cut it out! You were all cheered up a few minutes ago, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah…" he offered a rather pathetic smile as expiation for his broach of the 'rules.' But despite his good spirits, he felt his train of thought wandering as he laid back against the arm of the couch.