"—I'll take the number five, with a medium sprite." Beverly orders with a smile, shocking the waiter his very core. People in and out of Jerry's have never been this kind while ordering—where did the small, brunet boy come from?

Definitely not New Jersey.

After the waiter is gone, Beverly folds both hands before him, his fingers interlaced, and pale. Red tries his best not to look Beverly in the eye—knowing it'll almost force him into initiating conversation.

But of course, Beverly does it for him. "I think that I should get a job."

"Oh, yeah?" Red raises an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

"Well—now that I'm staying with you, it's only reasonable that I pull my own weight."

Beverly stills at Red muttering beneath his breath. You barely weigh anything. "I'm being serious. I'd feel horrible, if you were the only one working night and day—especially with the what you do."

Red doesn't speak, only looking to Beverly for more reasoning and squeamish mannerisms. "And I was thinking of more of a vehicle kind of position . . ."

Red's eyes widen, when he realizes what Beverly is asking of him. "No, no way. You're not even a mechanic—you're twenty fucking years old. You can do anything—"

"But I wanna work with you . . . And maybe, this'll help us build a connection. You know; as roommates and all." Red groans aloud, running a hand through his wild curls. He should've seen such a thing coming. How had he not seen this coming?

"Look, the answer is no. Ed runs a program for ex-cons. You're not an ex-con. And I'm not talking to Jerry about this, and neither are you. You don't belong there."