You study the shirt, take it solemnly, then drape it over Bel's head like a tent. Then you turn away, exaggeratedly dismissing him from your attention, and pick out a shirt in red and a shirt in grey. After that a pair of black pants, and some thin slip-on shoes that don't make you feel as if you're wading through marshmallows. "Done," you tell him, deigning to acknowledge his presence once more. "Let's get to the food."
You study the shirt, take it solemnly, then drape it over Bel's head like a tent. Then you turn away, exaggeratedly dismissing him from your attention, and pick out a shirt in red and a shirt in grey. After that a pair of black pants, and some thin slip-on shoes that don't make you feel as if you're wading through marshmallows. "Done," you tell him, deigning to acknowledge his presence once more. "Let's get to the food."
You toss the t-shirts in the cart because why the hell not, and then head over to the grocery area. "Okay, so, the cooler's about yea big. Perishables have to fit in that area and leave room for ice. We won't be all that far from civilization, so I'm thinking three or four days' worth of food." You have some dry goods and freeze-dried meals stashed in the truck, but you doubt he'll be very interested in fried rice or pasta alfredo. ((wtf i typed this yesterday afternoon and somehow did not actually hit 'post reply' though i could've sworn i did wtffffff i'm so sorry))
You stare at the aisles and aisles of food options blankly. Every last little thing down to the peanut butter has fifteen different varieties. This is... too much. Fucking omnivores. Fucking Americans. You go to the nearest plastic-wrapped loaf of bread, pick it up, and look at the triangle diagram on the back back. Americans tell you what to eat on the back of the bread, though according to the bread, it's mostly bread, which you always found to be ever so slightly suspect. But, right, you can do this. You go up and down the aisles picking out the first example that comes to hand of every food pictured in the diagram and putting it in Bel's cart. (a lot of bread's phased out the food pyramid diagram by now but not all of them) (yes erskin has placed three loaves of bread in the cart and exactly 1 potato. he's a great hunter.)
"What," you say, and somewhat later, "What?" and then, starting to laugh, "These are your favorites, Erskin? One potato?"
You may have missed some important grocery store nuance. You check the back of the bread. "Yes," you say firmly. "One potato."
"What... are you looking at...?" You look over his shoulder. "Are you trying to replicate the food pyramid?" Helplessly cracking up, you hug him just because what the fuck, that is so cute.
"It's a proportional diagram for human food," you correct fondly. "If you were going to spend like more than half your time human, it'd be a good idea to eat roughly those proportions of those types of food. Which, you know, a ham and swiss sandwich with lettuce and tomato, glass of orange juice, you're pretty much covered. Do you want to do the human thing this trip? Because I can work with what you've got here."
"No, I don't, I was just trying to help," you say, defensive. "Keep or get whatever's enough for a few sandwiches a day, that's all I'd like."
"I think we misunderstood each other and got tangled up. I was offering to pack your favorite foods if there's anything you've been craving. I mean, that offer's still open. But yeah, I'll get sandwich fixings too." You shrug and take over the task, putting back the things that are difficult to cook at a campfire or don't go with the other stuff, and picking up a buddy for that potato and some tinfoil to bake them in. You also toss in a couple steaks and a package of bratwurst. "I wish they had lamb sausage. We always have lamb sausage at our family cookouts, it's so good, but I guess it's just a Greek thing."
"I love lamb," you say sadly. "But it's just absolutely no good to go after livestock. You can move on the next day but any anyone else left in the region gets a dozen bullet holes. My family— my estate— would buy some, sometimes. For holidays. It was excellent." You contemplate the sausages. "Have you ever hunted boar?" you ask. "Come to Germany, sometime. It's splendid. Nearly as dangerous as bears. The sport of kings. Or maybe that's unicorns. Don't hunt unicorns."
"I've heard the wild pigs in Texas are serious business too, I'd love to take a shot at those. I think 'the sport of kings' is horse racing, proverbially." You pick out a half dozen eggs and a package of bacon. "Are unicorns real?"
"Mmm, here and there. They're sort of, what would you call it, er, a... a metaphor? But they do have three feet of horn and will stick you with it. There's a few left in eastern Europe, and they remember when there used to be lions about. They'll go after you, it's terrifying. The only one left in Britain's just a fucking embarrassment, he says he used to mix it up with dragons all the time only oh look, how convenient, there aren't any around, please braid his hair and tell him he's pretty." You grin. "You should hear him go off about kids these days, though. The big sparkly bastard knows an awful lot about internet pornography for being so, you know, disapproving. I think he's got a laptop in a cave somewhere, gets his maidens to buy him subscriptions. To the sites and all."
He's got you laughing so hard you can hardly push the cart to the checkout. You're wiping tears as you get out your credit card, and making yourself stop giggling so you can add a 20-pound bag of ice is somehow inherently funny, so you kind of lose it again afterwards. The middle-aged clerk chuckles as she bags up your groceries. "You boys sound like you're having a great weekend already. Going camping?" "You bet. Devil's Lake. Do you know if the canoe rental's still open this late in the season?" "No idea! I'm not a fishin' fan, I'm a fishin' widow," she laughs. "If you're ditching your girlfriends, boys, bit of advice, bring 'em flowers afterwards." "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." You grab the bags and hurry out. As you're getting the ice out of the outdoor freezer, you say, "Bleh, I never know what to say to that kind of thing. It's always middle-aged ladies. 'Hi, total stranger, let me inquire heteronormatively into your love-life and give you outdated relationship advice!' So awkward."
"I don't understand why it's always flowers, anyway," you say. You bat your eyes up at Bel earnestly. "Hallo, darling, in restitution for whatever boorish nincompoopery I was just up to, I brought you some plants you can't eat. Do you feel like copulating now?"
You swoon theatrically into his arms. "Pollinate me!" The bag of ice overbalances you and you end up on your ass on the sidewalk.
"And this is why we need sex education in schools," you sigh. "You call that pollinating? Do I look pollinated to you? Shit, this is really cold," you add, and get up, in a hurry to dump it in the cooler before it melts.
"I'm not a scientist," you remind him. "How should I know how plants have their fun?" You wait until he's busy with the ice and then sneak a cold, wet hand up the back of his shirt.
