Andrew was cooking again. Jonathan grimaced at the smell of burnt food wafting through the lair. He turned to Warren who was sitting at a computer terminal.

"Why do you keep getting him to cook? It’s always inedible."

"Because I’m sick of take-out, that’s why."

Jonathan went back to his book. "I’m sick of burnt shit."

A few moments later, Andrew appeared in the doorway, a tray covered in a burnt mess held in his oven-mitt clad hands. Warren cringed at the thought of eating the stuff but it was worth every disgusting mouthful to see Andrew in those oven-mitts.