It had taken him a few seconds of silence to consider whether he ought to try and revive his flimsy attempt at conversation, and by then he'd suspected it would feel too forced. So he waited out the quiet, watching Hudson work. Was it a good sign or a bad one that Hudson wasn't making more conversation himself while he was cooking? Maybe he was just focused; this certainly looked difficult to Don Juan, who had never attempted cooking in his life. Or maybe he, like Don Juan, was muddling through his thoughts and trying to think of what to say.

The food being set out was a relief, because it gave him something to do with his hands rather than leave them in his pockets or cross them over his chest. He picked up his plate and fork and started towards the dining room table, but stopped when Hudson asked if he was alright. It was an obvious question, but not one he was ready to answer. He looked at Hudson half a second and tried to say Yeah, of course and sound like he meant it, but there had already been too much of a delay to pass it as authentic, hadn't there been?

Looking caught, Don Juan stabbed his fork into the eggs and shoved a bite into his mouth to buy himself even that much more time. Then immediately had to do the least graceful thing imaginable: open his mouth and drop them back on his plate, exhaling hard.

"Nyeh," he said, tongue hanging out. He felt ridiculous, and offered a sheepish and entirely needless explanation: "... 's hot."

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