Roswell has never been a very talented cook. He’s fine at it. He’s kept himself alive this long, at the very least. But in the short week or so he’s been at Grace Lutheran it’s become clear that that’s where a body is needed, so that’s where Roswell’s been. The nice thing about everything being boxed and canned is that nobody has particularly high expectations, at least.

This guy certainly won’t, if his last few days out in the world resembled Roswell’s whatsoever. Still, he picks out one of the better canned dinners they have left in their pantry – SpaghettiOs with hot dog bits. This is what counts as luxury these days.

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It takes a few minutes to heat the meal up on the stovetop, and Roswell is quiet for most of the time. He’s always been a quiet person, and zombie apocalypse living suits him just fine. Now everyone else is quiet too. The church’s fence is far enough away from the building that quiet conversation is no problem, but small talk was never his forte even before the world ended and every topic became loaded. He puts the food in a bowl, and the bowl on a plate, and then he portions out four saltines. After a moment’s thought adds two more, before turning to take the plate to where Emmett is waiting at the breakfast bar.

“Enjoy this. It might be the last bowl of SpaghettiOs you ever eat,” he remarks as he sets the plate down in front of Emmett. He seems to regret it immediately, but just shakes his head at himself instead of trying to course correct whatsoever.

For a moment, Emmett looks as though he's inwardly debating whether or not he deserves to eat one of the last bowls of SpaghettiOs on earth, but—not wanting to appear rude—takes it anyway. "Thanks. Appreciate it," he says, terse but with genuine gratitude for the gesture. Recently arrived, he looks as though he hasn't slept in days. There is blood spatter on the pockets of his chore coat.

Despite the fact that he does not want to talk at all, Emmett is not without small town manners, and begrudgingly attempts to initiate some small talk himself.

"You from around here?" Emmett asks. It seems to him like an anodyne enough question.

“I grew up in Marshall, but—“ He manages to cut himself off before he says he was in the park when the outbreak happened, or that he hasn’t been back to his family home since. It’s at the tip of his tongue, the front of his mind, but he wants to at least try to maintain a sense of normalcy in this conversation.

Leaning his elbows against the counter, he laughs at himself. “I don’t know why I said it like that. I’ve never really left.”

Emmett gives him a nod of approval—oh good, a fellow local, he thinks, as he exhales a little—and tries to think of something relatively normal to say in return. Nothing is normal, though, and the last thing he feels like doing is admitting as much to a complete stranger.

"Also from here. I, uh, left for college, but I came right back. Whole family's—" He grimaces despite himself. "—was here and all. You know how it is."

“Yeah,” Roswell says, fidgeting with a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like chickens. “I’ve got my younger siblings scattered all over the place, though. Dallas, Milwaukee, Raleigh…” One of them has to be okay, he thinks but doesn’t say. Then he clears his throat.

“You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

"Nah, I'm miraculously unscathed," Emmett replies, in a mocking tone that suggests he's none too pleased about it. At this point, it still feels to him like divine punishment of some kind—to be left behind while better and more capable people were now rotting in a hole.

He pushes this thought away with a shrug and a renewal of his purposely inscrutable expression. "Guess the universe still has some use for me. You need help with anything?"

He doesn’t press him on it. Roswell also hadn’t been sick or injured when he’d showed up last week, and nobody had pressed him on it either. It’s already occurred to him that this might not be a good general policy, but he doesn’t want to think about what would happen if this guy had secretly been bitten anyway.

“What, right now?” he asks, glancing around the kitchen. There are dishes that need to be done, and he’d been considering taking a more thorough inventory of the food they have left to ration it, but it all seems non-urgent. “I think you can take a beat.”

Emmett looks disappointed despite himself but says nothing; he wants to keep busy so that he's not left alone with his thoughts for too long, but that's far too personal to mention to a guy who he's only just met, so he reluctantly lets it drop.

"All right, suit yourself. But if you need a dish washer later, give me a holler. Thanks for the SpaghettiOs. I'll be sure to appreciate 'em while I still can." Emmett gives Roswell a grateful nod.

Roswell has been here six days and he hypocritically has not taken a beat for himself for this exact reason, and he does notice this in Emmett. Hypocritically, he can’t help but feel like he should discourage other people from coping in this way, but he does get it.

“If the dishes got done while I wasn’t looking, I wouldn’t complain,” he eventually acquiesces as he stands up from the counter to return to the kitchen.

Emmett manages the tiniest hint of a smile. "Well, who knows? Maybe this place has some of those dish fairies I keep hearing about." he says, none too subtle.

“Who knows,” Roswell echoes before leaving him to his meal.