"Oh, then it must be good," Ganymede teases back with an impish little grin; he rarely ever wore shoes that required socks, unless they were boots for work, which he was still in now. He climbed in gamely--he hadn't taken off the bandage on his side, and after the exertions earlier he knew it wouldn't be healed over yet--but fluidly enough to fool most observers, and with every indication that although it hurt, he wasn't going to ease up in most anything he did.

"I only learned to cook relatively late, considering everyone else. My mother certainly didn't teach me--it was unlikely she knew how herself, being the Queen. And at the time I truly didn't think I needed to learn how from the kitchens," he murmured, once the car had rumbled to life. "I'm decent at a great many dishes, and better than average on a few others, but...southern cuisine has always baffled me. It did even when I first had it." Which had been long, long ago and far, far away indeed; the swampy inlets of the Carolina coast held several close memories for him.

He sighed gently, looking out the window at the twinkling lights that filtered through the night: he loved seeing cities at night, when everything that man had built gave way to the dark, and mortals hurried inside and shut themselves in where it was safe. He and Raylan, on the other hand...safety was often bypassed, either by their own decision or someone else's. It was a very large part of why he could be so circumspect on the prospect of his lover facing harm.

"It's been a long time since I've done this, you know."