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“I’m just special,” Eddie brags in response. Bruce aims his frosting bag at his nose. “And don’t you dare, Bruce!”
“These cupcakes aren’t going to frost themselves, Master Bruce,” Alfred deadpans. A veritable army of expertly-iced orange treats stretch about a foot and a half deep across the counter.
“Brucie’s jealous,” Edward preens. He flourishes his own piping bag. “You’d think he never had to make a perfect frosting swirl before.”
“And I suppose you attended all of the elite pâtisserie schools in France?”
“Who, me? No. I’d make all the professors hopelessly jealous. I’m just a natural- especially when it comes to pumpkin-flavored anything.”
Bruce has to concede to this.
“You can put the little pearls on,” Edward offers, possibly by way of mollification. He reaches over to grab the small container. “Just place them carefully around the icing peaks, like this.”
Bruce takes the container, opens it, and shakes a few tiny black orbs into his hand. He attempts to place them like this.
“No, no, no! Those two are touching!”
Edward yanks back the container, a comic look of dismay on his face, and Bruce isn’t entirely sure if he’s faking or not.
The offending cupcake is ruthlessly unwrapped and dispatched. Edward licks traces of orange from his lips, makes a thoughtful sort of noise, and grabs Bruce’s hand. “Your fingers are too big for this kind of thing, aren’t they.”
“I bet it tasted fine,” Bruce defends himself. “Misplaced pearls or not.”
“Oh, it was delicious. But it’s the aesthetic of the thing! Really, imagine allowing an imperfect cupcake out of the Wayne kitchen! You’d be completely ruined within the day. You’re welcome.”
This time, Bruce does squirt frosting on his nose.