"You wish to attempt to bake this recipe?" Alfred arched an eyebrow as he peered over the slightly crumpled sheet Damian had handed him—Damian’s handwriting sharp and deliberate, like he’d been drafting a battle plan rather than jotting down instructions for pumpkin spice cookies. "Well, tis the season for such treats, I suppose."

His voice carried a note of wry indulgence as he perched a pair of spectacles on his nose and scanned the ingredients. "We’ll need to acquire the pumpk—"

Before the word had even left his mouth, Damian thunked two dented cans of pumpkin puree on the counter like he was laying down evidence in court.

"My word," Alfred muttered, lips twitching with reluctant amusement. "Always two steps ahead, are we? I would expect nothing less from one of Master Bruce’s wards." He shook his head lightly.

"Very well. Then, the rest." Alfred moved toward the cabinets with the weary but precise gait of a man who had weathered countless Wayne kitchen disasters. He began plucking down canisters and jars: flour that puffed a little cloud into the air, baking powder that rattled like dice, and a precariously stacked row of spices that nearly toppled when his sleeve brushed against them. "Damian, do be so kind as to fetch the milk from the icebox. And the butter, too, provided Master Drake hasn’t abandoned it on the table once again after breakfast."

Damian obeyed wordlessly, moving with the silent efficiency of someone retrieving weaponry rather than groceries, and soon thunked the requested items on the counter beside the eggs.

Alfred, meanwhile, plucked down the sugar jar with the long-suffering air of a tired grandfather. "I confess, I am rather surprised you’ve taken to cookies. You’ve always seemed a lad more inclined toward cakes—decadent things, grand things. You rarely condescend to a humble biscuit unless it’s the holidays."

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes distant for a moment as memories of each ward’s culinary quirks rose like ghosts in the kitchen. You had always gravitated toward candies and ice cream, Tim clung to his mug of cocoa and delicately assembled petit fours, Jason would inhale nearly anything but leaned toward the darker, richer flavours, and Dick—well, Dick had never met a cookie he couldn’t liberate from Alfred’s cooling racks. And Bruce, of course, cared for none of it… until cake appeared with his tea.

The thing is, Damian wasn't actually interested in the cookies. He was just trying to help you feel better. You were having a horrendous day, and you did not want to give him attention, so he decided that cookies would help you feel better.

Alfred glanced sidelong at Damian, who now stood at his elbow like a soldier awaiting orders. "Have your tastes changed, then?" he asked, one hand resting lightly on the recipe page. "I shall need to make note if they have—my culinary intelligence dossier must be kept accurate, after all." His tone was dry, but his eyes held the gleam of quiet fondness.