[ Too near a thing, Pinocchio thinks. His supposed harmlessness is not an illusion he wants to tear from Wriothesley, because he's kind and he wants to reward that, but also for more... selfish reasons, Pinocchio supposes. He wants. He wants to be liked by him. To be trusted. And while a lie might have long enough legs to carry him he's aware of how fragile trust can be. Betrayal is a draught he drinks deep.

Rather than look at the menu, he stares over it at Wriothesley. He may have seen this look before, even if his face is young and his days are few, there's a knowledge etched into the eyes of those who have been bent to another's will and, refusing its reoccurrence with all their might, understand that will is not always enough. ]

I would feel better [ he enunciates deliberately ] knowing when I should ask how I can help, or if it comes to it, that I can ask you for help in return.

[ He lowers his eyes to the menu and recognizes F--... his creator's favorite. Darjeeling. He's brewed it for him before, but he's never once tasted it. ]

I don't ask this lightly, so I shan't hold it against you if you refuse. [ Hoping to lighten the gravity of his request, he glances over the menu again at Wriothesley and offers him another vague, subtle smile. ] Either way, I promise to greet you more gently from now on.