what the fuck is fajita friday? right now it's looking like a good way to turn mara's kitchen into a declared disaster zone, and she feels like he's served them the nuclear fallout. ❝ i will fuck you up, i swear to god, ❞ she warns, not looking up from her phone (but she means it! swear to god!). she's tapping her way to doordash, then decides to throw him a bone in the form of another forkful of fajita — she stares at him and chews dutifully, letting her nose wrinkle, her mouth contort as she wrestles with the texture of chicken that danny's inexplicably both over- and under-cooked. ❝ like, what did you do to them? ❞ she pants once she's managed to swallow. it's possible she's overreacting, but she doesn't think so. ❝ culinarily speaking, it doesn't make any sense — i need you to get a pen and a piece of paper, and i need you to write down everything you used and every step you followed exactly. we have to make sure this never happens again. ❞