You are Derick Strider, twenty two years old, and you have been finding yourself wondering on the occasion if you're trying to shoulder more responsibility than you're capable of handling on your own. The thought is surprisingly more common now than it was when you were sixteen and started taking care of this kid.

Dave always seemed to have a little trouble grasping certain concepts. Either that, or he just had some special quirks about him that made him ultimately blatantly refuse to process and function in the way someone would expect a child to. It's curious if that was the way he'd learned from you, or if he'd taught himself that. You don't know if you want to try and figure it out. You're no child psychologist.

He is exhibiting one of those quirky behaviours right now. Instead of asking for dinner, he usually promptly drops whatever it is he's doing, and deposits himself in a kitchen chair, and stares off into space until a plate of something is placed before him. … That's possibly something he learned. Being a young ' father, ' you'd had the misfortune of egging that sort of thing on when he was younger, and it seems to be buried into his subconscious now that if he sat at the table long enough, he'd be fed.

But at the tender age of nineteen, dealing with a three year old was a pain in the ass. It was just easier to plop him at the table, put down a sandwich, and leave him to his own devices because you had shit to get done if you wanted to keep a roof over your heads. Having used that as a solution later on into Dave's life must be where you'd gone wrong, though, because that three year old is now seven, and he's still sitting there at the table right now, fiddling with his awesome shades, and looking extremely bored at the wait. You suppose that means you're not getting any sleep right now.

" Whatcha want, Little Man? " Your inquiry goes unanswered as you drag yourself into the kitchen. Mild agitation, but you keep it down. " Hey. Dave. What do you want? " You reach up to nudge up your own sunglasses, and offer him an expectant look in time to see a half - shrug in response. Great. The last time the kid let you pick what to make him, he had a sulky pouty fit about how he wasn't in the mood for that, and no matter how unironic or uncool you told him he looked, he wouldn't budge from that little tizzy.

" Fine. You're eating whatever I'm in the mood to make, and you're gonna like it. Don't complain to me, I asked. " You turn around before he has any time to throw you that kicked puppy look that he'd gotten down so well, because you're not in the mood for this shit, and dig into the cupboards for something to make, whilst skillfully dodging a katana that slips from the top shelf. Ramen … ramen, a lot of that. It's cheap, it's good, and it's Japanese.

Dave doesn't eat ramen very much, though. So that's out. A quick skim through the rest of the contents hails a box of macaroni and cheese. Good enough. Easy, and usually Dave would eat that. You plunk the box down, close the cupboard, and dig a pot out of the dishwasher rack. Thankfully, it looks like the Little Man ran them earlier like you told him to, so that saves some time.

You fill up the pot and drop it carelessly on the leftmost burner, flicking the heat up on high, then turn to rest your back on the counter and wait for the water to boil. Dave is staring you down, now, and you feel inclined to return the gesture. As per the norm, you win, and he glances away, bottom lip out in a pout. That sometimes makes you want to relent and look away first. Sometimes. You never do, though. You're the man of the house and you'll show it even in stupid displays.

Four minutes of silence passes with simple occasional glances before the water starts to boil over the pot and remind you why you're standing in the kitchen again. You grab the box and fumble to get it open — who the Hell knew that Kraft refused to be cooked? — and in the end, you stoop down to pick up the fallen blade, and use that to cut the damn box open. Not the most handy solution, but it would do. The sword finds its place on the counter, and you dig out the cheese packet, tossing it aside for now, then dump the noodles into the pot. … … And apparently the box top.

You stare in slight horror as the cardboard is covered by ( equally cardboard tasting ) noodles, and frothing, boiling water. Shit, shit, shit. You grab a fork with haste from the drawer nearby, and dig through the noodles with the prongs, bringing the now - soggy box top up and pluck it out — which you regret, because goddamnit, that is hot — and toss it onto the counter, promptly wiping your fingers off against your hip.

Dave giggles behind you. Brat. You shoot him a look that shuts him up but gets yet another pout, then turn back to the dastardly pasta. A worthy opponent has showed its face. You grab the salt shaker, and tap the bottom with your ring finger. … … Oops, okay, that was too much salt. Hopefully that would, er … rinse out when you strained them. … Yeah.

— — —

Dave surveys the meal placed before him almost hesitantly. A pause as he spears a few noodles, and pops them in his mouth. You can tell instantly at the face he makes that … well, the salt didn't wash out like you'd hoped. Oops.

" … Sorry Little Man, I'm tired. " You sink into a chair next to him, and pull your hat off to rub a gloved hand through your hair exhaustedly. Suddenly the fork is thrust into your face, and you hesitate. You're hungry, sure, but are you THAT hungry? … … You're not that much of a douche. You sigh, and lean forward to take the bite. What doesn't kill you, right?

… …

Okay, what was that little shit's face about? It wasn't that bad. Actually, it was prettyokay all considered. You offer him a deadpan ( this is different from your poker face, and Dave knows the difference ), and grab the fork from him, spearing a noodle, and held it up to him. " Come on. Eat up. "

" … Nuh uh. " He shakes his head stubbornly, and stares up at you. You simply push the fork at him again. He makes a noise of protest and turns his head away. " No. "

An exhausted sigh. This kid. Where the Hell did he even get the attitude? You drop the fork on the plate, and lean your cheek tiredly against your palm. " Fine. Don't eat it. I'm not making anything else. I'm too tired. " You close your eyes, and tell yourself it's only for a moment. Just a moment …

The child watches on as you begin to nod off right there in your seat, then looks down to the plate. He picks up the fork, giving the captive pasta an almost apathetic stare. " Ew. " Despite his protest, he finally pops it in his mouth.

— — —

You wake up what you estimate to be about two hours later in the dark. Your sunglasses are laying folded neatly on the table, and there's a blanket around your shoulders. You have a kink in your back from being slouched over the table, and dried drool at the corner of your mouth and you can feel it on your arm. Gross.

Rubbing your eyes, you glance around the kitchen. The first thing you notice is Dave's chair is pushed up behind yours. So that's how he got the blanket on you. Then you notice the pot isn't on the stove anymore, and that there's water reflecting the light from the setting sun on the counter top. Which meant Dave tried to do the dishes.

… Then you notice the note at your elbow on the table. The fact he scribbled out the heart makes you laugh. It's okay, Little Man. Hearts are cool.