While Louis would never call himself a cook - no no, nothing nearly so professional, he is a dabbler, an apprentice at best - he has, and he must admit with some small measure of pride, mastered the art of the hearty stew. It has taken him years to perfect it, but perfect it he has, and he smiles to himself as he finishes off his latest masterpiece with a pinch of salt and a little sprig of basil. A dash of green makes everything look tastier, surely, and all right, so his stews do err on the side of a suspicious sort of murky brown, but only because they are packed full to bursting with healthy beef and earthy mushrooms.

In short, his stews are the best thing after a long night of heavy necking and bloodloss.

Louis plates his dish in one of Jason’s more ornate bowls and is just about to reach into a drawer to retrieve a spoon when he’s hit with a sobering realization: eating with silverware could very well prove fatal to someone of Grady’s nature. Louis stands stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, perplexed, and thinks back to all the times he’s ever seen Grady eat.

Chopsticks, of course.

When Louis steals back into Grady’s bedroom, Grady is still as dead asleep and tangled in the blankets as he left him, though he’s rolled over to engulf one of the pillows between his tattooed arms. His hair is soft in slumber, dried from his bath and hanging about his forehead and cheeks in a feather-light cascade. It’s rare for one to see Grady without pomade, and so Louis cannot resist sitting on the side of the bed, leaning over, and running his free hand through his hair, slicking it back with his own fingers.

This affords him a grumble, thick with sleep, but Grady doesn’t make any other sign of life.

“Grady, I am afraid I must insist that you awaken,” Louis murmurs. Grady’s bangs flop right back into his face and so Louis continues his ministrations; it’s an easy excuse for touching and also a means to an end. “We, ah, perhaps overdid it this evening. I need you to eat the entire contents of this bowl, and then you may rest.”

One of Grady’s eyes crack open and it focuses on Louis, though upon closer observation, it seems to be looking right through him. “No,” Grady croaks. He doesn’t budge an inch. “‘M not hungry. Tired.”

Louis shakes his head and tuts, then wraps his arm around Grady’s back and hauls him, sleep-limber, sagging, and grumpily protesting, up into a sitting position. “You can sleep again in just a little while, I promise. Here, ah…”

The chopsticks are an awkward fit in Louis’ hand. He’s seen Grady use them, seen how expertly he picks out chunks of food and deposits them into his mouth. Surely it isn’t too difficult?

If he could still sweat, Louis is certain he’d be sweating at this moment as he glances between the chopsticks, the bowl, and Grady, whose chin is already dipping to his chest.

“Open your mouth, Grady,” Louis orders with forced self-assurance. He holds the chopsticks in his fingers, pinches their tips together, and that looks right, that feels right, and so he confidently dives into the bowl, grabs up a piece of beef, and--

--drops it right back in, splattering the thick broth in droplets all over Grady’s comforter.

Fortunately for Louis’ health and wellbeing, Grady doesn’t notice the disaster; his eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply again, tumbling right back into sleep. Louis gives his shoulder a light shake.

What next? He can’t very well just tip the contents of the bowl into Grady’s mouth, but clearly Louis’ mastery of chopsticks nowhere near rivals his mastery of cooking stews. With a noise of frustration, he takes one of the chopsticks and crudely stabs it through a mushroom, spearing it on the end. A lightbulb goes off in his head and he keeps stabbing, adding a different hunk of beef, a chopped carrot, a second mushroom, a second carrot--

Victorious, Louis presents the improvised kebab to Grady’s closed lips. “Here you are, Grady. The sooner you finish this, the sooner I will let you return to sleep.”

Louis has him halfway through the kebab before Grady makes a disgruntled noise, suddenly more awake than before - certainly revived by the stew, Louis thinks - and his gaze darts down, fixating on the chopstick as if in accusation.

“What the hell,” Grady says, though Louis can detect no real heat in his voice. “What’re you-- for the love of-- give me those, Callaghan. You’re a damn disgrace.”

With the task of feeding taken out of Louis’ hands, Grady scarfs down the stew and drops the bowl, chopsticks and all, onto the side table. Louis stays sitting, staring expectantly, and his face falls when Grady slides beneath the covers and tugs them up over his head.

The ensuing silence feels positively suffocating. It simply must be broken.

“Ah, well. I do hope you are feeling better. I apologize for taking so much blood…” Louis tugs at the neck of his turtleneck and licks his lips in remembrance. “It is very late. I suppose I will be going now, ah. Good night, Mr. Sinclair.

Grady makes a noise, muffled by the blankets, and reaches out to pat the newly-available space next to him. He even relinquishes the stolen pillow. “...That was good. Thanks. Stay if you want.”

The praise, of course, goes right to Louis’ head, and after retrieving a book from Grady’s shelf - not the Bible, he reads other things too - he shimmies into the bed, dipping the mattress beneath his weight. Grady squirms around, making as if to get comfortable, and ends up pressed in a line along Louis’ side before he settles down. He’s sure Grady hopes he’ll think it’s an accident, so he cracks open Robert Frost’s Mountain Interval and busies himself with reading.

Still, Louis can’t help the smile that graces his lips, and he sighs contentedly when Grady’s heartbeat slows back into sleep.