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When Tom shuffled to open the door, draped in a blanket like a cape and wishing that he could breathe out of both nostrils, he was not expecting Maverick to be standing on the other side holding a Crockpot with a plastic bag hanging off his arm.
“Mav?”
“You look like shit.”
“Is that a Crockpot?”
“Yes, and it’s a bit heavy, so can I come in?”
Tom stepped aside, shifting his blanket so that Maverick wouldn’t accidentally slip on it, and Maverick stepped through the doorway. “What are you doing here with a Crockpot?”
“You called out sick, so I made you some soup.”
“In a Crockpot.”
“Actually, on the stove, but this made it a lot easier to carry.”
“Crockpot.”
Maverick smirked, but his eyebrows were quirked with worry. “You seem very hung up on the Crockpot. If nothing else that tells me you’re pretty out of it.”
“I’m fine. Cold or flu or something. I’m just surprised. You don’t seem like a guy who cooks, never mind a guy who owns a Crockpot.”
“Growing up it was learn to cook or starve. And the Crockpot I inherited from Goose and Carole.” The smirk turned into a soft smile, the memory seemingly a happy one even if tinged with grief. “They got more than one as a wedding present, so they gave me the extra. It’s actually pretty handy if you have a place to stash it.”
Tom blinked slowly and then finally closed the door. Rubbing his hands across his face he murmured to himself, “I don’t think I’m awake enough for whatever this is.”
From the kitchen he could hear Maverick rummaging around the cabinets before the clink of dishes told him he’d located whatever he’d been trying to find. A bowl probably if the pot did contain soup.
“Get your ass over here, Ice. This stuff is best when hot. Veg and protein to feed the body, steam to open the lungs.”
“Is it possible I am hallucinating?”
“I’m flattered that you hallucinating me acting as your housewife is a viable option. For now, come over here and get some food into you. You look pale and shaky, so I bet you haven’t been eating while you’ve been sick.”
Tom conceded to himself that he hadn’t been taking the best care, but there weren’t a lot of things you wanted to do when you were sick, and standing in front of a hot stove for a couple hours making soup wasn’t on that list. He’d been planning on begging Slider to grab him some take-away from a local deli if this went on much longer, or some cans of Campbells if nothing else.
Maverick had set a place at the bar, a tall glass of water next to a bowl of steaming hot soup with a spoon and napkin to the side. Though Tom couldn’t smell very well, what he did get was warm and aromatic.
Sliding onto the bar stool he tried to sniff at the bowl subtly, though with how swollen his sinuses were, that was a lost cause as the inhale just made the air whistle into his nose. Blushing, he picked up the spoon and stirred the soup. “What is it?”
“Chicken noodle, with a little ginger. That shit is supposed to be great when you're sick." He looked around the kitchen before asking, "Have you got any Tupperware?”
“Yeah, cabinet to your right.” Tom stopped messing with the soup and had a bite. “This is actually good.”
Maverick let out a breathy laugh while he ladled the soup out of the Crockpot and into the Tupperware he’d found. “Ye of little faith.”
Though he could have sworn he wasn’t hungry, that one spoon seemed to have opened up his appetite. “You’re not exactly the picture of a functional adult, Mav. But I’ll admit I was wrong about this. I can’t taste much but what I can is really good.” He looked up and caught that the back of Maverick’s neck was flushed with what he assumed was embarrassment at the praise. “Thank you.”
“No problem. And what would people say if I let my wingman get taken out by a cold?”
“I wasn’t going to be taken out by a cold. And what about you? Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?”
“Nah, it was part of the deal with the devil, no illness shall ever befall me.” Maverick threw a grin over his shoulder as he put the container of soup into the fridge, along with what looked like a plastic bag of noodles. “Plus, unless you’re planning on Frenching me, I think your germs are pretty safely contained for now.” This time it was Tom’s turn to blush, sick-addled mind turning over the idea of kissing Maverick silly against the fridge.
Rather than risk saying anything that would ruin their friendship, Tom turned back to shoveling soup into his mouth. Though another time Tom is sure Maverick would have kept on, here he turned to the sink to wash out the Crockpot’s inner container, carefully rinsing and drying it with a dish cloth. Once done, he set it on the counter top and glanced around the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do while I’m here? Want me to run out for some meds?”
“No, this is more than enough. I’ve got some stuff I’ve been taking for the worst of it. Should be fine in another day, and back to work.”
Maverick stood with his hands on his hips, and, if Tom were to put a name to it, he seemed reluctant to leave. But he shook off whatever awkwardness was holding him here, grabbed his Crockpot and gestured towards the front door. “Let me get out of your hair now that I’ve made sure you aren’t going to starve to death.”
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Tom wanted to snatch the words back; they were too honest.
Maverick smiled again, seemingly pleased to be asked to stay, but he shook his head. “No, I know that you’re probably going to crash again now that you’re fed, and you don’t need me keeping you up.” He tipped his head to the fridge. “Got several more servings of soup in there, noodles are on the side. If you leave them in the soup, they just suck up all the broth, which is fine if you like it, but generally not my choice.”
Tom nodded and looked down at the near empty bowl in front of him. He couldn’t recall the last time someone made him soup from scratch. And never had someone bothered to deliver it to him when he was sick. He beat down the sudden urge to cry. One of the worst parts of being sick, at least in his experience, was that it let down emotional walls you didn’t know were up in the first place.
“I really do mean it, Pete. Thank you for this. It means a lot.”
Maverick smiled that soft smile, the one tinged with sadness, though Tom wondered why Maverick would be sad at this. "It’s really no problem. I was happy I could help.”
Tom made to shuffle off the stool to see Maverick to the door, but shifting his grip on the Crockpot, Maverick waved him off. “I’ll see myself out. You finish that bowl and the water and get some rest. I’ll see you Monday.”
Tom settled back into the seat. “See you Monday.”
He listened as Maverick walked out of the kitchen, opening and closing the front door with a jiggle to the handle to check if it’d locked.
Later, curled up on the couch under his blanket, some soap opera on the television for background noise, he realized Maverick couldn’t have ridden his bike with the soup. Which meant he’d carried it all the way over from his own accommodations on base. He really had gone out of his way for him. Though he couldn’t think of how now, he swore to himself that once he was capable of staying awake for more than twenty minutes at a time, he’d come up with a way to pay Maverick back for his kindness. It was that and the warm taste of ginger from the soup that filled his mind as he fell asleep.