"Food's better than a soup kitchen," Eduardo says, as if that explains it, even though he doesn't quite think that's doing the place justice. They may have gotten used to far nicer locations, but considering where they are, the Winchester really is nice. The people can cook, anyway, one thing Tabula Rasa has going in his favor, even if it still baffles Eduardo slightly that so many of them could be willing to do so on a regular basis, without any sort of compensation. Even in having a tendency to expect too much of people, it seems strange to him. That said, unsettling though the lack of economy is, that much isn't something to complain about, either. At least they don't all have to do their own cooking. That would probably be far more disastrous for a lot of people.

He returns Mark's smile before he can so much as realize what he's doing, instinct taking over once again as they walk inside, Eduardo peering around for an empty table. There remains a part of him that wants desperately to turn back time and go back to how things were, before Facebook, before Sean, before the investment that led to signing the papers that essentially wrote him out of the company. They'll never be able to, he knows it through logic and the fact that his own lingering resentment won't let him believe otherwise, but he still finds himself thinking it. It would stop him from feeling guilty, from hating himself in moments like these, when he is, however briefly and ill-advisedly, beyond grateful for Mark's presence. He has his best friend back, he thinks, and then he remembers that they aren't best friends anymore, a cycle that he can't seem to snap himself out of. It's the sort of thing that only time is likely to take care of, and the prospect of all that time is more daunting than Mark's presence in itself.

"Alright, drinks," he says, turning slightly sideways as they walk, to face Mark better. "What do you want, just a beer or something stronger?"