Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater

"Damnit!" Soul shouted. He was looking through books of recipes to make, remedies to cook for a person with a cold. Only problem was, he was the worst cook. Maka usually did the cooking and he usually washed the dishes after. Washing dishes he was good at. But now she had a cold and he'd demanded she stay in bed and so he was up a few blackened, scorched dishes to wash, he was down a spoon he'd broken trying to stir something when it broke in the solidified brick of un-edible grey stuff. He was about to give up and heat up some canned soup when flashes of her in her black apron cooking every meal for him crossed his mind. He looked down at the apron he'd donned in her stead, dirty and not looking quite right on him and decided to give it another try. The skull buttons holding the straps in place could use a polish, they'd gotten a bit of ash on them, tarnishing their white gleam but the black apron was hiding most stains. He flipped through the cook book for the sick that he'd picked up before he went grocery shopping. 20 easy recipes to cook away the cold. The first four he'd tried hadn't been as easy as the book had promised. He hoped the next one would be. He managed to mess up more of the kitchen and go through three more recipes before he'd finally managed to get one right. He tried a tiny sip of the intricate soup and sighed in pleasure. Finally, something edible he grinned, his fanged teeth shining as he nodded in pride. He carried it carefully to Maka's room and put the steaming bowl beside her bed with a spoon beside it. When he went to wake her she bolted upright, knocking the contents of the hot soup all over Soul.

"Oh my gosh!" She coughed. "I'm so sorry!" She hurried to say as he let out a soft cry in pain at the steaming soup that was burning him.

"It's fine." He squeaked. "I'll make more." He tried desperately to make his voice sound normal but it was still the pained squeak. At least he was already a mess, the soup would just have to be washed off later with the soot and ash and weird grey stuff that he suspected might have been cement the cookbook had led him to create.

"I can make something." Maka offered before coughing softly again.

"I got it." He said before picking up the bowl and spoon and returning to the chaotic mess that he'd left the kitchen in. It smelled of smoke and there were a few ruined meals in the trash along with a broken spoon, a melted fork, and the bowl the solidified grey stuff was in. He looked at the sink, piled high with bowls and plates, spoons and forks, and he looked at the cook book. The lying evil book seemed to mock him from where it lay open to the last page of instruction for the soup he'd just perfected. Lastly, his eyes fell on the apron. He hung his head, white hair flopping into his face. He'd better get started on the soup if he wanted to get the laundry done and the dishes all washed. He sighed as he returned to slaving away in the kitchen, a newfound respect for Maka and a determination to never let her get sick again.