Cyril was already moving to open a drawer with some very unorganized silverware clattering around in it, and he pulled out a very long spoon that looked like it belonged in some old china cabinet rather than a dirty drawer. He stepped up to the pot, then paused, glancing back at her at her last words, his eyes a little leery. "I... can do it," he finally said, as if choosing his words carefully, and he began to stir the pot of pasta, his back to her as he moved the softening noodles around. It was eerie, almost, the way he stood in front of the stove. Not a single inch of him moved whatsoever, save for the arm that stirred the spoon, as if every movement of his body was calculated down to a science. That is, until he glanced back at her with an unreadable expression. "Go ahead and find some bowls, if you like. This cooks fast, I believe."