bandaids don't fix everything

Murphy was one of the few people in this world he had considered and still considered his irrevocable equal. He never looked down on him or talked down to him. He couldn't lose his friend, and if the worst happened and he did he become a zombie he couldn't just let him stay like that.

Murphy's gaze drags sideways to the body a few yards off, the wrongness of the angle of its neck, the stillness that isn't sleep, and his whole body goes tight, a full-body flinch he can't stop before it's already happened. That's not a stranger's corpse. That's every possible future where the infection wins and Murphy stops being Murphy. That's his brother's face he's not looking at, except he is, always, whether his eyes are open or shut. He wrenches his eyes back to Tucker. He swallows hard. Signs come out smaller than he means them, shakier. Thank you. Same here. It's all he can manage with the thoughts raging behind his eyes.

Then Tucker calls him Trap Master and something in Murphy's chest just breaks open. He tips his head back against Tucker's shoulder, looking up at him sideways, the best angle he can manage folded up in Tucker's lap like this, and his eyes are wet but his mouth is curved, crooked and unwilling. Shut up, he signs playfully and chuckles. His fingers, still fisted in Tucker's shirt, uncurl by degrees, smoothing flat instead over the plane of his chest, feeling the steady thud underneath. Proof, simple and stupid and necessary, that Tucker's heart is doing exactly what a heart is supposed to do. Murphy presses his palm there a beat longer than he needs to. He tilts his chin up and finds the line of Tucker's jaw with his mouth, a quick clumsy press of lips to stubble. His nose stays tucked against Tucker's throat after, breathing him in. His free hand traces slow absent lines along Tucker's forearm where it's banded around him, no words in the movement, just contact, just here, here, here.

"Cheap's about right." He says it plainly, there's no fight left in his voice, no performance either, just a tired kind of evenness that matches the dull half lidded look Giovanni's been wearing the whole time. Rae's stopped being surprised by what people want from him a long while back. Somewhere between the second month and the first funeral he stopped keeping count of, probably. He turns the brooch over once between his fingers, watching the small tarnished glint of it catch what little light bleeds through the lights above, like he's weighing a thought instead of an object. "Doesn't matter anyway. I've got no use for it. Never did." Rae gives a small shrug, more felt in the shift of his shoulders than actually seen, easy and loose the way a man shrugs when the weight he's carrying is bigger than whatever's in his hand. "You want it. Take it. You bothered searching for it, here it is."

and jeremy supposes he needed it to, which was why he was here.

jeremy took a seat in one of the booths, and heard the other man across from him speak. he snorted and shook his head. "most people find this place great." jeremy says, deciding not to mention that he disagreed with those people. maybe it's because his job is to see the death and consequences that can happen, but like he said. sometimes people needed illusions. "most people are also idiots though, i suppose."

He watched Jeremy's face while he said it, catching the flicker of something unspoken there, the kind of look a man got when he'd seen too much and was trying very hard not to let it show. Raejun knew that look well. "You've got that face on," he said, quieter now, almost teasing. "The one that says you're doing math on how many of these people actually know what's still out there past the door. How many of 'em have seen it up close. How many are gonna walk out of here tonight and get a real bad reminder." He let that sit for a second, watching it land. "Some of 'em know. They know exactly what's waiting. That's kind of the point."

Animals. Zombies. Raiders. None of it made a difference to him, all of them made the same noise when an arrow lodged itself deep in the skull. The way the arrow sliced the air, the way the bowstring had that perfect thwack.

The difference this time was that Murphy was being threatened and that- well that was something with a very distinct answer. Death. Or second death perhaps. He wondered what parts of the brain needed destroyed to actually kill the zombie but an arrow clean through seemed to do the job. He did question why insects hadn't taken care of them by now though.

When Tucker finally eased back, Murphy's eyes went straight to his mouth out of habit, then flicked up to his eyes, his processor was still catching up, filtering static and adrenaline into something like language, so he watched the hands instead, clumsy, blunt, an attempt at a sentence, save you. Murphy felt his throat go tight and stupid and he had to look away for a second, down at his own boots, just to get a hold of himself. "I had it..." Murphy said, too fast, too high, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His voice cracked right through the lie. He knew Tucker probably heard it as Murphy hunched his shoulders like he'd been caught at something. He felt his lips pull at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. "Thank you. For saving my ass." His gaze dropped to the thing on the ground, the shape of what used to be a person, now just meat and rot and a single arrow punched through the skull. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, lip curling, nose wrinkling at a smell he couldn't fully explain even to himself, something under the decay that just felt wrong, felt like being watched by something that should've stopped seeing a long time ago. He shuddered and stepped back half a pace, like proximity might be catching.

The grocery store looked like every apocalypse movie Jun had ever seen, minus the creative touches Hollywood liked to throw in. It sat four blocks from the mall, close to where most of the scavengers worked; he and Rae had walked over quietly. He had needed something to do, honestly. Anything was better than sitting around thinking about everything that had gone wrong with the world, or that had been going wrong for months now.

The plan was quick and easy. They would take what was left and head back before anyone had reason to worry. He kept Rae where he could see him while he worked down the aisle, checking each corner before he committed to it. Old habits from training, but they were good ones.

Most of the shelves had already been stripped. What remained came down to a few boxes of crackers, one of them opened, and some chips that had gone stale in the bag. It wasn't much, but it might get them through to morning, maybe, if they decided to stay out. Which he wouldn't recommend.

They ended up in the bakery section, where he stopped in front of the croissants. They sat there golden and flaky, as if nothing had happened to the world outside. He frowned, picked one up, gave it a sniff. Fresh. That couldn't be right. These things had a shelf life measured in days, not months. He cracked open one of his water bottles, rinsed his fingers, then tore off an edge. A buttery flake stuck to his palm.

He tried a piece, grimaced, and spat it into his hand. "Yeah, that's... that's not good." He set the rest back down the way he'd found it, which was a strange courtesy to pay a dead grocery store, but it felt wrong to just drop it. No point finishing it, either, or handing it to Rae. One of them getting sick was bad enough. He was willing to bet that his constitution was stronger.

He trails a few steps behind Jun, close enough to still be "where Jun said," loose enough to feel like he's choosing it. When Jun spits out the croissant, Rae's head snaps up and a laugh cracks out of him before he can stop it, sharp, surprised, entirely too loud for a dead grocery store. "Jun-ah." He presses a hand over his own mouth like that'll undo the noise, shoulders still shaking, eyes bright with it. "What were you thinking." He drops his voice, drifting a step closer to get a better look at the abandoned pastry like it might explain itself. "It's been sitting there… for quite some time, maybe. Nothing stays fresh that long unless it's lying to you. You saw it, you smelled it, and you just believed it?" He shakes his head slowly, biting back another laugh. "For a soldier you have terrible instincts around baked goods. I'm never letting you pick the snacks again."

He drifts toward the water aisle after that, quieter, dragging a finger along the plastic wrap of a case of bottles like he's checking it's real, checking the world is still made of things that make sense. "How long do you think this is even good for," he says, half to himself, tapping the packaging which crinkles under his fingers. "Water doesn't expire, not really, it's just the plastic that gets weird after a while." He crouches, reads a label anyway, because apparently it has become a habit now. It's the word coffee that actually pulls him over, quick, like a dog hearing its leash.

"I haven't seen someone so— uh, yeah since my brother was a toddler and he cried when a mascot got too close during a parade." He failed to name the other's expression since he meant no harm. He thought the reaction was cute. "Not enough, but don't worry. I'm not losing my head just yet." Someday, he might, but for now he was just enjoying the atmosphere.

"You seem like you could use more," he suggested, nodding to the beer in his hand. "Want me to grab you another?"

"Okay, see, that's a completely reasonable response. That's a toddler with good instincts. I might've done the same." He shook his head, easier now. "Might still, given tonight's evidence." His eyes drifted over the other guy for a second, searching, though he'd never have admitted that's what he was doing, for anything off. Glassy eyes, a stumble, the too-careful way people talked when trying to seem more sober than they were. He found none of it. Just that same loose, easy energy, less like a few drinks in and more like a permanent setting. Mickey nodded slowly. "No, yeah, you're good. You seem sober." He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over his face with a momentary deadpan. "Annoyingly sober, actually, considering you're the one who just watched a grown man have an existential crisis over a robot possum and thought it was comedy gold."

but   kodi   also   knows   that   look   on   someone's   face.   he's   seen   it   enough   times   before:   the   look   of   a   silent   fight   against   enemies   you   can't   touch.   not   because   they   were   never   real   in   the   first   place,   but   because   time   and   memory   are   both   cruel   things.   one   latches   onto   your   brain   to   fuel   your   anger,   sorrow,   or   regret,   while   the   other   reminds   you   time   and   time   again   of   what   you   didn't   do—or   couldn't   do.   he   doesn't   have   it   in   his   heart   to   push   him.   all   he   can   do   is   sigh,   accept   the   bullshit   excuse   he's   given,   and   take   it   as   the   truth.        "       don't   do   it   again   in   the   future.   let   someone   know.   at   least   let   me   know   so   i   know   how   to   cover   your   ass,       “        he   says,   his   voice   still   gruff   even   though   he   tries   to   be   sincere.   he   then   takes   another   cart   of   supplies   and   follows   him   inside.   he   scoffs   at   his   last   remark,   though.        ”       fuck   you.   i   only   care   because   this   was   supposed   to   be   our   haul,       "        he   says.   now   it's   his   turn   to   talk   bullshit   and   lie.

Then he bends down, slow, joints stiff like he's aged ten years in the last five minutes, and picks it up. Turns it over and over in his hands, label, seam, label, seam, like there's something written on the metal he's trying to make out in bad light. "You don't mean that," he says finally, so quiet it's almost lost. "The 'fuck you.' The haul thing." He forces a chuckle. "That's bull and you know it." He straightens up. Finally makes himself look at Kodi's face instead of the tin, and there's nothing left of the easy, playful deflection from a minute ago, just something licked raw and trying real hard not to show it. "So don't do that. Don't stand there acting like this is about the haul and covering my ass on some supply run. I know what you're doing. I know why you're doing it, and I…" His hands tighten around the tin until his scarred knuckles go pale. "I don't need you looking at me like that. Like you're waiting for me to fall apart right here in the middle of the goddamn stockroom. I'm not gonna. I'm fine." It's a lie. It comes out cracked right down the middle, and he doesn't even try to sell it, just stands there holding the tin like it's the only solid thing left in his hands, daring Kodi to call it what it is.

toma watched the other man's body language as he spoke. he wanted to know if it ever looked like the guy was uncomfortable or bored with the conversation so he could steer it away. when he first got here, he was fluent in english due to his profession but there were still things that were difficult to grasp. slang and sarcasm being two things especially. so he took on body language and tried to use that to help gauge what the vibe of the other person's words were, or if they were uncomfortable with the topic.

when the other admitted to not knowing anything about it, he chuckles. "it's kind of a useless profession now," he admits with a shrug. "basically i was in a boy band that specialized in pop and pop-adjacent music." toma explained after a moment of thinking how to word it. he took a few bites of his own food when he heard the other man's words, and he nodded his head. "it was... a lot. i went through a period of depression i think." toma admits. "i'm in a apocalypse in a foreign country, still trying to learn some of the customs, and i don't even know if the other members of my group are alive or not." toma says as he leans back with a shrug.

"but," he began, "being able to provide and cook for people? it feels nice. like i'm not as useless, you know?" toma says with a smile. "i've never held a gun, so i don't think i would be a good hunter or scavenger. so something like cooking? definitely more up my speed." toma says with a nod.

"For what it's worth," Mickey continues, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "you don't gotta hold a gun to pull your weight here. Feeding people, keeping the inventory straight, that's not some fallback job, man, that's the actual job. Half this place would fall apart in a week without someone doing exactly what you're doing." He gestures vaguely with his fork toward Toma's plate, thinking silently on how fast the collapse of their micro-society would come. "And for the record, I'd take a guy who can make a decent meal out of canned beans and mystery meat over another trigger-happy scavenger any day of the week. Skills is skills dude." He knocks his knuckles once against the table, but he doesn't stand up yet, like the conversation's yanked something loose in him he wasn't planning on saying out loud. Human connection was a strange thing, especially in these times.

It was with interest that Alistair saw the younger man parade around like he owned the place, watching him deal with the wound on his arm like he had done that countless of times before. The doctor in him wanted to assist. To stop him from doing whatever he was doing, to check the wound, to see if any muscles or nerves have been damaged. To even offer to stich it in a way that would leave no scars - because he was just that good when it came to opening people up and closing them again without even leaving a mark to remember what transpired. Instead, his arms folded over his chest. His eyebrows arched upward momentarily as he kept studying the mechanical way the younger man moved and patched himself up. Rudimentary. Pathetic. Basic care. No cleaning up, no checking if there was anything within the bruise. Just wipe the blood, cover the wound, bandage it and move on. Not to mention how easily it was for someone to just waltz inside the infirmary like they owned the place. Like a self-service station. Where were the nurses? Where were the other doctors? Maybe they were all too busy not doing their job to even care.

"Vodka," he added, like it explained everything, like it was a sound medical procedure rather than something he'd improvised standing over a sink with a bottle he had no real claim to. He shrugged, the motion pulling faintly at the makeshift bandage, and didn't bother hiding the wince that followed this time either. "Found some, poured it right in, didn't overthink it past that point. If it doesn't kill the infection it'll kill me, either way I win." He glanced down at his own handiwork: gauze wound crooked, tape crumpling at the edges, already starting to peel where he'd moved his arm too much in the last five minutes alone. Then he looked back up at the other with a grin as he set the joint down on the counter. "So. You reckon you can do better than that?" He held his arm out between them, palm up, an offering dressed up as a challenge. "Again... 'm not really one to go bothering people 'round here anyway." Murphy added, as if doing a favor rather than asking for one. Which was, of course, exactly backwards, and he knew it, and he had no intention of admitting that the doctor's little speech had actually wormed its way past the indifference he was trying to perform so well.

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a laugh and only half-winning at the return comment. If he was being honest, the man looked like he'd be the one doing the dragging. "Trop grand pour ça, celui-là," he muttered, something about the man being too big to be dragged anywhere by anyone, more to himself than to the Scot, his own accent loosening around the edges like it did when he wasn't trying too hard to be understood. "That fits a few people in MC." He mulled the description over anyway, running through faces, little chap could've been half the guys in here, honestly, a handful of them fit that description, none distinct enough to land on a single name. He let it go. Didn't matter who'd dragged him in, only that this one was here now, arms crossed, eyebrows judging him from a very superior height, like he'd already written the whole verdict before either of them said a word.

Jun moved out of Horse's way and gave her space as they moved inside, keeping back so as not to stress her out. It was easier for him to move out of her way than try to have her go around him. Besides, he still didn't know how she'd take him. Maybe she would think he was some kind of threat, or worse, she could smell death on him. That might freak her out even more. There had been blood on his hands only moments ago.

When he was handed something to drink, he smiled gratefully before he cracked it open, taking several large gulps. "Mmm, yeah. That's good. Most of what's left out there is booze, or something past its sell-by date."

He started back toward where Rae led him, eyes staying on Horse. She really was beautiful. Strong. Even though her coat was dirty and her hair was tangled and matted in some spots, it didn't take away from her appearance. The way she held herself, like she could put up with just about anything. Jun wanted to admire that. If he could only be half as tough.

"I don't think anyone likes being out here after dark. Even guys trained for night ops. There's something—I don't know. Eerie about it? I used to love staying up late. I thought I'd adjust, but I never got used to it. Feels like there are more of them out there when it's dark. That they're smarter, or better at hiding somehow. Or is that just me?" Maybe he was being paranoid.

"I don't know…" Rae muttered, clearly caught off guard, so much that it caused him to clear his throat softly and dismiss it as dust. He lifted his gaze to Jun and felt something twist behind his ribs, ugly and unfamiliar. He'd been so sure of things, once. Knew exactly who he was, what he could survive, what he'd never let himself feel again. Now he just felt like a stranger wearing his own face. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh cracked out of him, short, surprised, gone almost as fast as it came. The image of Horse pacing some claustrophobic stall, sulking, human-eyed and put-upon. Cabin fever. Ridiculous. Except it wasn't. Not really.

The laugh curdled in his throat the second he actually thought about it, really thought about it, and something hot and shameful crawled up the back of his neck. He shouldn't laugh at her like that. Shouldn't reduce her down to something simple just because it was easier than admitting she felt things too. Fear. Boredom. Grief, maybe, in whatever language a horse grieved in. They weren't so different, the two of them. Both just trying to survive something too big to understand. "Sorry, I just—" Rae exhaled, dragging a hand back through his hair, thinking he should cut it again. "I'm not sure what I'd do. Out there. It's strange." He swallowed. "I used to like being alone. Actually liked it. And now I've got…" he gestured vaguely, at the restaurant, at Jun, at all of it, "people who actually care whether I come back. And that's…" The word caught. Softened. "That's nice." He glanced up, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth, unpracticed and a little embarrassed by its own existence. He didn't say things like that. Didn't hand pieces of himself to people, not even the small ones. It felt reckless. Foolhardy. Like leaving a door unlocked on purpose. But it also felt good. Terrifyingly, stupidly good.

He turned back to Horse before the moment could get any heavier, busying his hands with her lead so he wouldn't have to look at what was probably written all over his face. She watched Jun with open curiosity, ears swiveling forward, tail swishing lazy arcs through the dust-thick air. No fear in her, not the way Rae half-expected. She snorted, low and wet, nostrils flaring as she searched the floor for anything resembling food, and Rae scolded her under his breath. As if to spite him, she craned her neck toward Jun and pulled her lips back in that horse-grin of hers, all yellowed teeth and total shamelessness, completely unbothered by whatever Jun carried with him. Blood, death, gunpowder, exhaustion. She just saw a person. Simple as that. "Guess she likes you," Rae muttered, steering her hindquarters away from the door with a firm hand as she made another half-hearted bid for freedom. "Or she's plotting an escape and you're just in the way."

He reached for the blanket next, shaking the dust from it before draping it over her back, smoothing it down along her flank with more tenderness than he probably let himself show most days. At Jun's comment about the booze and expired food, the smile came easier this time, wider, catching light in his tired eyes. "Beer and expired off-brand cereal isn't cutting it enough for you?" he said, huffing a real laugh, rough-edged, genuine, surprising even himself with how easily it came. God knew he'd grown sick to death of stovetop mac-and-cheese and the same three flavors of ramen.

Rae clipped the lead to the metal ring bolted into the wall, testing it with a tug before running his palm down Horse's neck, fingers catching in the matted, dirt-crusted tangles of her mane. Tomorrow. He'd deal with it tomorrow. He followed Jun toward the door, checking the door, the latch, the world outside through the grimy window before finally stepping out and pulling it shut behind them. The night air hit different than the restaurants warm animal-musk, colder, sharper, laced with something underneath that never quite washed out no matter how far they got from the source. Jun's question hung there in the dark between them, and Rae didn't answer right away. He didn't disagree, either. He couldn't. Jun had a point. "That's one way of putting it," he said finally, voice low, passing Jun a small flashlight, their fingers brushing for just a second in the exchange. He didn't think anyone ever really adjusted to it. Not fully. Maybe you just got better at pretending the fear was manageable, folded it up small enough to carry without it showing.

Everything was... new. Maybe not new in the grander scheme of things, but the circumstances were new. Little over six months ago, Alistair had a nice comfortable job at a hospital. Cutting people up for a living was thrilling! Who didn't want to be a surgeon and make the big bucks? But what was once an idyllic fairy tale quickly became a nightmare. Patients at the hospital that had been diagnosed with some rare form of virus began attacking people. The infection spread. A nightmare taken form and happening before everyone's eyes. No one knew who patient zero was. He definitely didn't. And after months on the run, living of whatever scraps he could find and keeping a low profile from those flesh eating abominations... someone found him and brought him to the Metrocenter. Survivors gathered there like moths to a flame. It's been what... one or two days since he had arrived? It was almost like watching the birth of a new civilization. No class disparities, no ego trips... almost like whatever happened six months ago pressed the damn reset button and tossed society into a binder.

He catches pieces of what the guy says, "strong stuff," "lock and key," enough to get the gist without the whole sentence, eyes flicking to his mouth, the accent making it hard. "Worried about junkies already?" He smiles ruefully, ignoring the sensation of blood seeping down his arm. "Smart." He crosses straight to the drawer, doesn't hesitate, pulls it open like he's done it fifty times. Because he has. Gauze, a pad, tape, he sets them on the counter one at a time, not asking where anything is because he already knows. He peels back the bloodied strip of shirt first, barely reacting to the pull of dried blood on skin, tosses the ruined scrap of fabric aside, then presses the fresh pad over the wound and starts winding gauze around his own arm, tight, practiced, one-handed with the other holding the end in place. Joint still parked between his lips the whole time, untouched. "Relax. Morphine makes me feel like shit." He glances up, finally looking the guy over, doesn't place him. New face.

Busan, now there was a city Jun was familiar with. A place he and a few of his friends would often go to escape the city life of Seoul. "Oh, Busan. Yeah, I know Busan," he said, smiling. "Beautiful place. The beaches. You ever go to Haeundae Beach? In the summer? I would go with my dad. It was always so hot. I'm not much of an ocean fan, but I like how peaceful it is there."

He wondered what it would be like to travel as Rae had. To explore, see all these places he'd heard about. The closest he'd gotten to any other countries was Japan for work-related training and once to Russia, where he nearly froze to death. Literally. It was cold, and his nose and cheeks got so wind-burned that he ended up getting sick and had to stay inside for days.

It wasn't what he wanted from life. Not now, at least. He had more important things to focus on. Like staying alive. Being happy.

He tried not to think about his own life back home. His parents and friends. He couldn't remember their faces, no matter how hard he tried. Every day that passed felt like he forgot another detail. Would it continue until he forgot he even had them? Was that how you got by here? If he forgot them, then he didn't have to worry.

His parents. His sister, whom he never got to spend enough time with. The other members of his unit. They could all be dead for all he knew. He couldn't find any information so far away. No news stations were still on the air. Some days he even was surprised they still had running water and power. It was almost insane to think about how quickly everything people had built could collapse.

"My family is in Seoul," he said. "I was here for training. Joint training with the Americans. Then everything went..." He gestured around, making it obvious. "Yeah."

A flash of something bright caught his eye, and he turned his head quickly toward it, ready for whatever came. Luckily, it wasn't an attack, just light reflecting off something shiny, perhaps glass or metal. "Wait, you named your horse...Horse?" He laughed. It wasn't mocking or even really that funny, but he thought it was clever. Simple. Maybe he just didn't have much of an imagination anymore.

"Have you travelled much?" It's not idle small talk. There's real want behind it, like some part of him has been starving for a window into a bigger world than the one he's stuck rebuilding a life in. He listens, and he actually listens, none of the half-present nodding he's gotten so used to giving people out here, real attention, eyes steady on Jun's face like he's trying to memorize the shape of a life he never got to live. When Jun mentions Seoul, something flickers behind his eyes, a memory surfacing uninvited: a trip he took once with a friend from his unit, cheap soju and loud laughter, a version of happiness he hasn't let himself think about in months. "I had family in Seoul. I visited when I could."

Then Jun says it. Training. Joint training with the Americans. And something lands hard and quiet in Raejun's chest, a small, ugly pang of sympathy he doesn't let anywhere near his face. Wrong place, wrong time, no fault of his own, and now stuck out here same as the rest of them, cut off from everyone he's ever known. What a shitty hand to be dealt. He doesn't say it out loud. He's learned by now that some things are better left sitting quiet between two people who already understand without needing the words. So he just gives a short nod, jaw tightening slightly, something passing between them that doesn't need translation.

He glances up at the sky, gauging the fading light, the way it's already starting to bruise toward evening, then back toward the mall, a quick habitual sweep of the shadows near the doors before he lets himself relax again. When Jun laughs about Horse's name, he shrugs, a little sheepish, a shy smile tugging at his mouth like he's embarrassed to have it pointed out. "I didn't think much about it at the time. I couldn't leave her there, and I needed to call her something, and 'Horse' just came out." At the suggestion, Hope, he looks over at the mare properly, considering it, eyes tracing her scarred flank, the steady way she holds herself even now, ears flicking toward him like she knows she's the topic. "Hope," he repeats slowly, testing the sound of it as he looks into her eyes. "...Might actually suit her." A quiet huff of amusement escapes him, "More than... Horse."

"If I could bring her I would," he says, jerking his chin toward the mall, already turning to lead Horse forward by her lead, boots crunching over broken pavement scattered with old debris. "But I keep her inside at night. Safer that way, for her, for us." He glances back once, just to be sure Jun's still with him, something almost companionable passing in the look, before stepping into the dim, hollow quiet of the restaurant, Horse's hooves echoing softly behind them both. Once inside, he veers off toward what used to be a drink cooler near the bar, its glass door long since shattered, and roots around inside until his hand closes around a can. He pulls it free and hands it to Jun. "Here. Not cold, obviously, but it's still Coke." Rae gives small shrug as he gets Horse situated in the cleared out dining area, the kind of gesture that comes from a man who's had to lower his expectations for comfort down to almost nothing. He glances back toward the doors they came through, toward the parking lot, then back to Jun. "We should get moving, though. I don't love being out here once the sun's down."