She doesn't look all that much like she wants to agree, but she also seems to realise that he has the ability to steer her straight back into bed if he wanted to. He's not above using that to his advantage, so he keeps smiling even if she doesn't return it, leading her to the cafeteria.
"It'll take that and a small bribe," he jokes, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. "A hundred dollars in small bills, unmarked and left near reception." A hundred dollars isn't all that much money these days, he knows. Same as how a cup of coffee is suddenly practically worth its weight in gold, apparently. He's still getting used to the inflation, still having to refrain from shouting objection whenever the girl at the coffee shop he likes hands him his bill.
The cafeteria is relatively quiet once they arrive, just a few visitors picking listlessly at terrible hospital food. Eating it nearly always makes him think of Igor, of having some indistinguishable mush slopped onto his plate in the mess tent. He avoids it wherever possible, but he's not about to leave her on her own, either.
It's a fifty-fifty toss up whether she's better off with the low blood sugar or risking the questionable chicken and rice on offer. "This way to your table, madame," he says as they enter, cocking his arm as though he's holding a napkin and gesturing the way to a table with the other. "May I suggest the bouillabaisse? Perhaps a glass of Dom Pérignon?" He slicks on an over the top French accent as he guides her to a seat.
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"It'll take that and a small bribe," he jokes, pushing his hands into his coat pockets. "A hundred dollars in small bills, unmarked and left near reception." A hundred dollars isn't all that much money these days, he knows. Same as how a cup of coffee is suddenly practically worth its weight in gold, apparently. He's still getting used to the inflation, still having to refrain from shouting objection whenever the girl at the coffee shop he likes hands him his bill.
The cafeteria is relatively quiet once they arrive, just a few visitors picking listlessly at terrible hospital food. Eating it nearly always makes him think of Igor, of having some indistinguishable mush slopped onto his plate in the mess tent. He avoids it wherever possible, but he's not about to leave her on her own, either.
It's a fifty-fifty toss up whether she's better off with the low blood sugar or risking the questionable chicken and rice on offer. "This way to your table, madame," he says as they enter, cocking his arm as though he's holding a napkin and gesturing the way to a table with the other. "May I suggest the bouillabaisse? Perhaps a glass of Dom Pérignon?" He slicks on an over the top French accent as he guides her to a seat.