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So, the years have not helped Ace's baking ability. The girl responsible for sentient evil cookie dough has been all but banned from Annie Wells' kitchen, unless being watched like a hawk, and only when making something simple. Like a glass of water.

But then Ace saw a cooking show. And they made Christmas Pudding.

And it's set on fire.

There's no gainsaying Annie's ban, but there's no one to stop her from baking here in Milliways.

That's why there's a pyro in the kitchen, happily rifling through all of the bottles of alcohol she brought with her.

Fear, Milliways.

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Oh, bottles of alcohol? Bossuet is so there. He steps into the kitchen and then gives her an amiably inquiring look. "Mademoiselle has plans?"

"Mademoiselle has brilliant plans. Do y'think using both rum an' vodka would be overkill? I found two recipes, and one calls for vodka and the other for rum an' I can't decide."

Ace still hasn't gotten the message that innocent passers-by should not be involved in her anarchist-muppet-type plans.

"Rum," he says promptly. If she's the kind of girl who does things with hard liquor in cafés, which apparently she is. "I haven't learned to love vodka yet. But what's the recipe?"

"Christmas pudding. No one ever told me there was a Christmas dish you set on fire. Terrible tragedy, that."

Mostly it's due to a lot of people realizing Ace should not be allowed to set food on fire at the dinner table. Sadly, none of those people are here.

"English, isn't it?" They like their puddings over there on the other side of the Channel. "I still say rum. Or brandy." Tragically, Lesgle comes from so close to the right country and time to do justice to a Christmas pudding--and yet not quite.

"Ooooh." She digs through the bottles she collected and pulls out one filled with brandy.

She eyes it, then the size of the pan she pulled out, and shrugs.

And grabs the rum and vodka bottles as well. Why not all of the above? She's setting them on fire, after all, and more is always better.

"I suppose the flavor isn't so very important," he says, wincing a tiny bit at the new combination. "But that isn't all going to burn off..."

"... Flavor?" Ace asks, blinking at the now-empty bottles, and then at him. "Why would there be flavor?"

It's fuel, after all... right? Maybe she needs a better ignition source.

"That much alcohol isn't going to burn off quickly. Or do you mean to send your pudding off with a funeral pyre, uneaten?"

"I'm not the baker in the family, mate." Ace grins. "It's probably better to end it in fire. I'm better at that bit, anyway."

A battered bundle of raggedy feathers knocks a few of said bottles down off the shelves.

But Raven catches them before they hit the ground and burst open, so there's that, at least.

"You," Ace declares, "Are a hazard. D'y'want to set a cake on fire? It's traditional." This is, she knows, a silly question, but so far the responses to said question have oddly ranged from incredulous to horrified, so it's better to check.

Raven tilts his head, looking at Ace first out of one eye, then the other.

Then --

"It will be a large cake, yes?"

More fire = better.

Duh.

Ace points at the lopsided pudding she's managed to produce (mainly through sheer will to not make another sentient baked good), and shrugs.

"It can be a bigger plate."

Raven makes a face.

"That, I think, will not so much be necessary."

She makes a face right back at him, because the pudding isn't that ugly.

It is.

But at least it isn't trying to eat them.

"The important part is the fire, anyway. What d'y'think, rum or vodka?"

He gives this a great deal of thought.

As much as it deserves, anyway.

"Rum is mostly for having taste, so."

His vote is cast!

"... You want to taste the fire?" Ace asks, a bit incredulously. They're making dessert, not hot wings.

Raven fails to look shifty.

Really.

"No?"

"Dork." Ace, of course, knows better. She would never...

Well.

...

Just the once.

It had been a learning experience. Also, not tasty.

She grabs a bottle of rum and a bottle of vodka and empties both into the waiting pan to warm them up. She's not entirely clear on why the alcohol needs to be warm, just that both recipes told her to do so.

He tugs her hair.

Gently.

"It is not so inaccurate."

Still.

"We are for putting the cake in the puddle?"

"From what I've read, y'supposed t'light the alcohol on fire in the pan, and then ladle that over the puddin'." She pauses, and considers this. "Might work better just pourin' it over the puddin' directly, I don't think there's a long enough ladle."

"We could be for making one."

Or maybe Raven has one in his pocket.

Somewhere.

Just give him a minute.

Or three.

"... Do I want to know why you're carryin' around ladles?" Ace asks dubiously.

"They are sometimes for being useful for lava."

What?

"What, adobe isn't good enough anymore?" Ace does not want to know what he's doing with lava. Really. Probably having lavaball fights with Coyote.

"That is not so much for flowing from beneath the earth."

He is just saying.

(Though now that she mentions lava fights with Coyote . . . )

"No, but last I checked y'were a bird, not a mole."

Crawling, flowing, same thing.

He draws himself up in what might be a huff.

"I am, I think, not so limited as that, yes?"

How cruel, Ace!

Ace rolls her eyes at him and his huff, and pokes at the warming alcohol with a spoon.

"Y'can be anything y'set your mind to. Which is utter an' complete bollocks but Kitten's school will keep on sayin' it."

"Most things, perhaps."

He laughs.

"But some things are, I think, not so easily changed."

Sadly.

(Or not so sadly, as the case may be.)

"Yes, I know, you're a fixture an' a national treasure an' whatnot." Ace replies distractedly - the alcohol is steaming, so surely it's hot enough now?

She shrugs and rifles through her pockets for a lighter anyhow.

Raven snorts.

The alcohol obligingly lights itself.

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