[ Hook, line, sinker. Damian plays nonchalance while looking back up at the interested, wayward child, all stoicism and seriousness - a mask so like Bruce's they're nearly indistinguishable aside from the obvious physical differences. Damian had grown into his father's jawline and eye color but his mother's everything else.

Dick may be surprised to find he's not the only one who'd been reluctant to bring up personal cultural customs, likes, and dislikes in his time. But Damian knows their importance, even if Alfred and Bruce both are -- were, he corrects, with a pang -- often too busy to take the initiative. Usually it has been up to the first son to inquire with his siblings about what they needed. ]

He has a recipe. However-- [ Solemn as can be. ] --he's English, and therefore his sense of taste is highly compromised. He could use a taste-tester.

[ He sighs, almost inaudibly. ]

Unfortunately, the only one ideally qualified for the job is, he tells me, currently roosting in the chandeliers. It looks like the task may fall to me.

[ And then the mask breaks, exposing his villainy for what it really is. A slow, thin-lipped, evil smile breaking across his face as his eyes narrow in clear, devilish challenge. ]

Not that I'm complaining. Why, I could probably eat the entire thing.

[ A threat, loud and clear. Damian can, and will, polish off an entire pudding out of sheer spite. ]