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Then that's lucky for me, because I happen to be a rotten little sugar fiend as well.

[They clamber to their feet and beseech the closet - judging by the thud and the muffled Bad Word, they might have run into it in the dark) - for a light, emerging with a charmingly old-timey candlestick that's delightfully in keeping with Wonderland's aesthetic. Pre-lit, too, which is actually kind of a bummer; now Chara doesn't have an excuse to play with matches.]

That's better. Shall we skulk about in the dead of night like the vile creatures we are?

[Well, if they weren't wide awake before, they certainly are now. All very thief-in-the-night with their candlesticks and sneaking about. No real point in it, since they're perfectly allowed, but it's the principle of the thing, right?]

We shall pillage and plunder the kitchen cupboards with fists of iron!

Ssssh!

[They press a finger to their lips as they creep to the door, though it does very little good. Like all kids who are sneaking around during a sleepover, they're giggling the whole time. Very stealthy.]

Mustn't be caught out after curfew! None shall know of our dark machinations until our cunning web of snacking has already been woven around them!

[They could get stuck in detention if they -

Frisk is abruptly very glad they didn't think to make that joke aloud, and bite down on their tongue as they clap a hand over their mouth. It probably looks like they're muffling a giggle. That's for the best.]

Shall you lead the way, Admiral Butt?

[Admiral Butt! Who can resist a callback? A nod at an inside joke that isn't plucked from a script, that doesn't have the sound of a shattering SOUL as its rimshot.

Chara laughs. Of course they do. Frisk's laughing too, right?]

I am the one with the candle, am I not? We wouldn't get far if I was bringing up the rear.

[Out into the hall they creep! It feels far more rebellious an act than it really is; there isn't actually such thing as bedtime or curfew for either of them, and there's no reason they wouldn't be allowed in a public space like the hallways or the kitchen. But tiptoeing out in pyjamas, bare feet padding against the carpet, lends an air of mischief to the whole affair that they're happy to seize onto.]

It's silly, you know, but for a very long time, I wondered how they got the spiral filling into the Ho-Hos.

How do they get the spiral filling into the Ho-Hos?

[Maybe they'd figure it out, if they inspected their sets of memories for long enough. Drag it out from whatever fractalled, interlocking recollections the pair of them share. But they'd rather hear Chara say it.

It's an innocent question as they embark on a not-so-innocent escapade that is, in the context of everything they've seen and done - entirely innocent, really, from a certain perspective. From the perspective of killers.]

They very carefully control the temperature so that the cake has a single big, spiral-shaped bubble in it, of course. Then they just inject the frosting in there after it's cooled.

[It's a blatantly false answer, not the real reason at all. They just want to say something ridiculous to see how Frisk responds to it.]

[Frisk knows that, even if they could see Chara's face, they would be wearing the same kind of grin they usually wear, the kind that is genuinely unreadable most times. They screw up their expression in thought, regarding the back of Chara's head dubiously before finally answering in turn, very seriously:]

I don't think that's true.

[Aw, caught red-handed. Maybe they should have claimed they used peer pressure to make the cakes form with spirals in them. Much more believable, right?]

You're right, it's patently false. Actually, they're just swiss rolls. You bake a very thin cake, spread it all over with filling, then roll it up.

[That sounds more plausible, Frisk decides after a moment's contemplation. Clearly these sorts of things must be carefully rationalized, and are a vital use of everyone's time.]

That sounds kind of fun to make sometime.

[This means they should totally try to make Ho-Hos very late at night. y/y?????]

[ABSOLUTELY Y]

Why settle for "sometime?" Seize your dreams, Frisk. There's a kitchen, there are willing hands, and there is plenty of time until anyone reasonable is going to be awake.

[WELP]

One of these days one of us is going to have to develop some impulse control, [says Frisk, very seriously, with as much of a straight face as they can bring to bear.

Of course, it's flagrantly obvious that today will not be that day. Why should it be?]

Don't look at me. I eat houseplants.

[Is that too dark of a joke to be making right now? What a shame they don't make old-timey charming candlesticks for senses of humour.

The stairs creak as they tiptoe down them, in the way old houses always do. It feels incredibly loud amid the night gloom and hushed voices, and they feel the inexplicable impulse to freeze in place, like something's gonna get them. Like they're scared of the dark or something? Pfft.]

I eat houseplants, and I hurl condiments at windows.

[Frisk's mouth tightens a little in consternation, but they don't want to risk threatening this, this companionable cut and riposte and not talking about what they were and what they lost, so they let it just...be as it is. Imagine a slide trombone punctuating the ends of their words, a hefty, exaggerated sigh of Oh, Chara!

Cheerful, and harmless.]

You call that impulsive? I flirt with mold jello. And gems. And artificial computers.

[So, you know. So there!]

As opposed to natural computers?

[It's fine. Frisk overlooks their jokes about sleeping in soil, and they both keep looking away from the dark. Things stay light and funny.]

I flirted with Mettaton so hard, I made him write me a haiku.

[They declare it triumphantly as they push open the door to the kitchen, because, really, robot haikus are hard to top, and childish one-upping is kind of a fun game in and of itself.]

Really?

[Frisk sounds positively delighted about this as they reach over, flicking on the lights. Which...kind of negates the use of the candle, but there's attempting to make Ho-Hos and there's attempting to make Ho-Hos in near pitch darkness while aided only by candlelight, and Frisk doesn't think they're ready to make that commitment just yet.]

No wonder you two are friends.

Who said we were friends?

[Frisk did. Like, two seconds ago. Gosh, Chara, get with it.

They set the candle down on the counter and blow it out, its duty accomplished. They don't protest switching to Actual Proper Lightning, because they, too, wouldn't recommend baking in near-blindness, but they do squint and blink furiously as they try to adjust to the change in brightness.]

Did Mettaton tell you that, or are you just sort of deciding for yourself who does or doesn't like me?

You don't flirt with a robot and get him to compose a haiku for you and not end up as friends. You're just going to have to get used to it.

[They say this with a blunt, matter-of-fact airiness, like this is simply something people would know instinctively. Which they do. It's Official. So there.]

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't "ending up as friends" the complete and utter opposite of flirting's desired result?

[They start to dig around, gather all the supplies they know a cake will need. Flour, eggs, sugar, cocoa powder - because of course it's going to be a chocolate cake. It's a Ho-Ho. And, also, consider: chocolate cake is objectively the best kind.]

The friend zone is always my desired result.

[It's like making strange crepe-like blueberry pancakes, right? Absolutely. They've got no shame in this. Start looking around for oil, because they're pretty sure that's something that goes in cakes too. They get stuck debating what to use for actually baking the thing, and end up mantling the countertop with a selection of baking trays and cake tins in a disparity of shapes and sizes.

Everyone likes to have a choice!]

Is there a word for flirting, but you're trying to end up bitter enemies? I'll take dibs on that one, then, and you can have friend-flirting.

[They survey the truly impressive array of containers that Frisk has produced, hands on hips. They know, theoretically, that they want a thin cake, but... what kind of tin is best for that? Would a cookie sheet be too shallow?]

Which one of these are we going to use? How many cakes, exactly, do we intend to make tonight?

It's still called flirting. The intent is just all different, that's all, [they pronounce, airily. As if Frisk has any idea. They've always flirted with a very positive goal in mind!

They're not quite sure what to do about the baking tin problem, though, honestly. Frisk huffs thoughtfully, chewing on their lower lip.]

I wasn't sure which one would work for what we're trying to make. So I just thought...all of them?

Then there should be a different word for it. Like... flhurting.

[Their hand rests on their sleeve, about to roll it up and get ready to get messy, but they reconsider. Remember. Keep their sleeves down where they are.]

We may be flhurting with disaster, but we're going to need a loooootttt of flour. Let's see how many cakes we can crank out, then, shall we? Grab the biggest mixing bowl you've got.

[Frisk snorts with amused laughter. Flhurting. They fetch out the largest bowl they can at Chara's behest, sliding it across the countertop with the scrape of metal over tile. It's...it's big, as far as mixing bowls go. Big enough for them to be unable to wrap their arms completely around the circumference of it, even with the rim of it pressed to their chest.]

Big enough?

[Cripes! It's big enough that Chara could probably sit in it, if that were at all reasonable or sanitary to do. Chara nods their approval, then digs out a slightly smaller bowl and a carton of eggs.]

Go ahead and dump, oh... I don't know, a third of a sack of flour in there? Try not to get it everywhere.

[They say, in a tone of voice that's practically daring it to get everywhere. It won't be midnight baking if everything goes exactly right, will it?]

I'm going to crack maybe like a dozen or so eggs, get started on the wet ingredients.

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