Before he arrived in this habble, Benedict would have laughed probably far too hard if someone had insinuated that he'd wind up most comfortable in a kitchen, puttering around, tending to simple tasks that needed doing and not out somewhere with his sword at his hip, stirring up trouble.

(Alright, the stirring up trouble part usually isn't his fault, but Gwen's, and as her elder cousin, it's his responsibility to clean up after her. That's not the point.)

He's been down on the Surface for six, maybe seven months, and he's settled almost disturbingly comfortably into the quiet pace of life here, where there are no Guards and no Etherealists, no vatteries and not even a Temple. He's found ways to keep himself busy.

The sound of footsteps herald the arrival of his companion long before he speaks, so Benedict doesn't even turn away from what he's doing at the counter. "There's a little chicory root left," he replies, using his elbow to indicate the little clay pot that they've been storing it in. It doesn't make nearly as satisfying a cup of coffee as the beans that grew in the vatteries in Habble Landing did, but it's the next best thing, down here.