"Can I even cook breakfast," Jim repeats, scoffing genially. "You just wait, Bones. You just freaking wait."

He finds the bathroom, then trots downstairs. He has a decent eye for basic food. Nothing fancy. Being asked to make a mirepoix or a veloute'd have him about as confused as he gets, but if he can find eggs and bread, he can do fried eggs and toast.

Probably.

There are various frozen meals in the big freezer, but he finds ingredients instead and then finds a pan on the fifth try. He heads back up the stairs slower, with a tray bearing coffee, two plates of eggs, toast, butter, and what looks like some kind of jam. Jelly? Jam? He's never been entirely sure of the difference.

"Here you go, sir," he says cheerfully.