You consider this for a moment. “You suuure, Dave?” and then you laugh. “Fine, since you really want to.”
And then you slide over, giving him access to the stove. But you do want to stay and make sure he doesn’t burn anything (or himself).
It’s a full on showdown up in here, you versus the stove. You sort of just stand there for a second before going for the on switch of the thing—oh, wait, you should probably get a pot first, you know, so you can put the soup in it. You take out a larger one that can mostly likely hold the contents of both of the cans on soup and set it on top of the stove. Your fingers drum lightly against your outer thigh.
Holy shit, you are going to mess this up.
You clear your throat casually, and ask without thinking what is probably the dumbest question ever: “Do I add water?”
A sneeze comes before you manage you respond with a sniffly, “Food.”
You look at him pointedly, because really, you don’t want him cooking. He’s more likely to hurt himself anyway, and you don’t want that to happen. So, instead, you’ll just have to cook. With all those blankets over you, though, you’re not sure if you’ll be able to do it effectively.
After setting a pot on the stove, you take out two cans of Campbell’s noodle soup. Better than nothing, you guess. Dave must be hungry too, anyway!
The timer on the microwave ticks down. “What if you infect it or something,” you can’t help but protest—you’re not sure if that’s possible but there’s even a chance he might then you don’t want to make the situation worse. (What if he sneezes all over the stove?) Besides, with his cocoon of blankets it hardly looks like John can even move that well.
"I can handle a couple cans of soup, honestly," you finally say just as the microwave timer beeps that it’s done.
“Uh, sure, that’s fine,” you respond loudly. “You can use that, right?”
You’re pretty sure you can’t burn down a house by boiling water. Right? Ah, well. You also wonder if Dave’s hungry or something, because the both of you haven’t eaten in a while, and well, what harm would a little midnight snack do?
Yeah, why not.
With a soft grunt, you hold the blankets around you as you stand up and make way to the kitchen, tapping Dave’s shoulder helpfully as he’s meddling around with the hot chocolate stuff.
"Whoa, wait, why aren’t you sitting down?" Your query comes out as more of statement or a complaint than a question—you offer John an appraising glance while you wait for the mug to fill up with water, distracted by pondering how long you need to stick the mugful of water in the microwave for it to be hot enough.
You end up placing the mug in the microwave carefully, punching in thirty-five seconds, and then turning around so that you can lean against the counter, noticing how the blankets trail on the ground below John in puddles of fabric. “What are you getting?”
“All right. Thanks, Mom,” you add, a grin spreading on your face. It’s nice to see Dave caring for you, but it’s just as strange as it is touching! It’d always been Dad doing that kind of stuff anyway. “Don’t hurt yourself, dude.”
Being called Mom coupled with the sight of that grin causes you to realize just how you probably sound; you stand up quickly, throwing a, “Yeah, whatever,” over your shoulder as you go. The small kitchen area has just enough room to maneuver around and you open up the proper cabinet, noting the box of hot chocolate mix towards the back. You examine its contents and are relieved to find out that great, you won’t have to use the stove after all. At least, not yet. (He might want soup later, after all.)
"We’ve got one packet left," you inform John with a slightly raised voice, moving on to another cabinet, perusing it with your eyes, and pulling out a light blue mug.
The answer dawns on you after a moment of contemplating, and you suggest having some tomato soup. Of course, you’re worried that Dave might, well, burn down the kitchen, and that might be kind of bad!
“You sure you wanna cook, though?” you look at him skeptically, a little reluctant to let him touch the stove. “I mean, unless you’re using the microwave to make the soup and all, which I guess would be a bit safer.”
"C’mon, Egbert, have a little faith in me," you say, even as you wonder yourself. The microwave would be safer, but everything (including soup) always tastes better on the stove, right? You’ll figure something out if you have to. But you’ll think about that in a minute—"Look, how about I just see if we’ve got any hot chocolate first."