The glove compartment reveals only that the car is a rental which, supposedly, makes sense. They’ll have to ditch it sometime soon, as his rules for vehicles are the same as the ones for abodes (don’t stay in one place for too long; never unpack; wipe everything down before you leave). He listens to the boy’s demands in silence, memorizes them, if only to keep him quiet when they arrive at the IHOP; in truth, he doubts Mayes will try calling for help, in light of his earlier reaction to his (former) roommate’s true identity - but even then, better to be safe than sorry, he supposes. Always better.
Matter of fact, right about now, it all sounds delicious, and he contemplates ordering two of everything (mashed potatoes with gravy, though; he’s not a madman); but then, cannot help the alarmed, wide-eyed gaze he shoots the boy’s way at his latter words. Fuck that. That has to be bullshit, right? Every junk food restaurant chain in the US has fucking drive-throughs. Surely, Mayes is trying to fuck with him (for a moment, he considers shoving another morphine pill down the boy’s throat, just so he passes out for a bit; though he’s no doctor, isn’t sure how much is already in his system and how much more he can take; and thus, reluctantly gives the idea up).
It becomes clearer, however, when the IHOP comes into view, the nearer they draw to it, that the boy isn’t lying. There appears to be no drive-through; just a parking lot, mostly empty at this time of night.
He does his absolute best to smother a sigh in the deep of his throat. Leaving Mayes alone in the Honda is out of question; the boy has a history of grand theft auto and the Mercenary is far from trusting him to stick around just on the off chance he might agree to wipe him off the face of the earth like he has himself. He considers turning the car around and opting for a McDonald’s instead - but knows instantly he will never hear the en of it even if he shoves ten more pills down the boy’s throat.
Reluctantly, he takes the exit that would lead them to the restaurant’s parking lot.
“You’re gonna be joinin’.”
Even how itchy his skin's beginning to feel can't do anything to dash the grin on his face, tongue swiping over his lips and stomach giving a faintly painful rumble. Food is always on the mind, but after several work hours without only to come home and get in a scuffle that had lead to blood loss and being... willfully (? ) abducted he was starving. Morphine may kill some people's appetites, but not his: he's out of his seat when the car's come to a stop but isn't quite in park, rolling and then pushing up the sleeves of the hoodie lent to him in eager preparation to eat. It's in preparation of eating as he heads the charge, hands stuffed in pockets and hood pulled up. He's already got a story in mind if anyone mumbles or stares, lying taken better in stride than blatantly ignoring or avoiding what is otherwise shoved blatantly in other people's faces.
" I'll get us a table, " he calls back, offering up some reassurance that he doubts a man of the redhead's ( presumed ) nature and profession will ever accept — just another superfluous detail, and there's no harm in saying or not saying anything as he approaches the diner chain and welcomes himself into two sets of glass - paned doors before being greeted by a waiter rather than a hostess; they must not work hours as late as these, when there's very few people to seat and serve. " Sit wherever in that section there, brother. I'll be with you in just a moment, get you a menu and everything. " Jude receives half of a questioning look before the guy visibly shakes his head, probably deciding to leave his appearance be. Good, story time averted; he moves to the area suggested, slipping into a booth where he can sit with his back to the wall and see right out the window, waiting to be joined by the big fucker treating him to his pity feast.
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