"You're terrible, you know that? How could you possibly mock an invalid like this." He sighs, gently and gingerly taking the bowl of soup. His wounded hand is still weak and shaky, but he balances most of the weight of the bowl with his good hand. Which leaves his wounded hand to try and feed himself, and the grip strength or flexibility in his fingers is less than great. He refuses to ask for help, however, after his failures with the fire he's being a little more stubborn. For as much as he likes being waited on hand and foot, he doesn't like the prospect of being fed like a child.

It's touch-and-go getting the spoon balanced just right, but he manages, for now. And honestly, despite his almost scolding humor, he was very grateful for the soup, and the company as well.

"You seem to be faring much better, at least compared to the night before. I'm glad to see you didn't end up running off into the forest after I left you to it." He blows on the hot broth before slurping up a spoonful. It's simple and strange, this canned soup, but it'll fill his belly and it's oddly comforting.