A cutlass points at his nose. A tiny sampling spoon valiantly nudges it aside. He’d use the whisk, but, well, occupied.

“I beg your pardon,” and if she tries to cut him off, well! His trusty spoon isn’t going anywhere. “But could you please refrain from deposing me for a few minutes? I haven’t finished yet, and you haven’t eaten, and it’s no good making big decisions when you’re hungry.” He tilts his head, peeking past the cutlass at her shoes, and runs complicated division sums involving tidiness and decorum. 

He decides [i]not[/i] to ask her to clean the countertops while she’s at it.

“Besides, I’m afraid you have it backwards.” He hasn't stopped stirring through the whole rebuttal. “It was my idea to come along with the Princess. Maybe Vasilia was thinking of it beforehand, but I was the one to bring it up.” As to letting her down? They’d both done a little of that already. Wouldn’t like to do it again, that’s for certain, but they survived it, together. He’d like to think they could do it again, Rift or no Rift.