"How did we get this job?" Roy Harper looked around the kitchen suspiciously.

"I volunteered us," Connor Hawke said calmly, studying an open cookbook that was roughly the size of a suitcase.

"Good move on that one." Roy poked curiously through the pile of ingredients on the counter. "I hope you know what you're doing. I can make chili and I can barbeque. No flame, no blame, that's what I say."

"It shouldn't be difficult to follow a recipe." Connor pushed the book away and joined Roy at the pile of flour, sugar, eggs and chocolate chips.

"Y'know," Roy said, not particularly paying attention to what Connor said, "when I was like, thirteen or fourteen, Dinah used to make these great cookies with oatmeal and chocolate-covered raisins. We should make those."

"Do you have a recipe?"

"Nah, but I think I remember how to make them."

"Maybe we should call her."

"It'll be fine," Roy insisted.

"They--aren't really Christmasy," Connor offered in one last, doomed protest.

"Dude. *You* aren't Christmasy." Roy paused. "Though I 'preciate you doing Christmas stuff for Lian."

"It's my pleasure," Connor replied, flushing faintly.

"So we can make my cookies?"

"Recipe?"

"Who needs a recipe?"

Author's Note: Connor Hawke spent his formative years living among monks in an ashram. He practices Buddhism.