Crêpes Suzette

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noun, plural: A dessert of crêpes flamed in a sweet orange-and-lemon flavoured liqueur sauce.

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"So, what was wrong with this one?"

"Oh, y'know," Enrique said airily, propping his feet on the table, "Things, she was so, you know..."

Oliver didn't know, so he carried on cooking, politely waiting for further elucidation. His friend just sighed, the hand that had been gesticulating dropping onto one knee.

"She was perfect on paper! Just - ah, who cares." He paused to sniff at the air appreciatively. "You're a good friend, Oli."

"Of course I am," the aforementioned agreed, not taking his eyes off the pan, "Otherwise I would not make you crêpes when you stampede into my house in the early hours." Enrique gawked for a moment, but then caught the hint of a smile and settled back in his chair. He wouldn't have said he'd stampeded, really, more like - inveigled his way past security, the maid and the dogs. Then maybe stampeded a fraction.

"So what was her name, again," the other inquired, setting down a fresh, orangey-scented plate of crêpes before him and turning to hang up the apron.

"Maurffsa," Enrique told him indistinctly, through a mouthful of the dessert, "Nn! These're hot. Ow."

"So would you be, if you'd just been sitting on the stove."

The Italian pulled a face.

"Very funny. They're good, though. What was I saying?"

"You were telling me her name," Oliver reminded him, glancing at the carriage clock; two forty-four am. He shivered a little.

"Oh." Enrique inhaled another mouthful of crêpes and sauce before continuing. "Maria, that was it. As in, Maria, Maria, I've just met a girl named Maria. She didn't think that was funny."

Oliver drummed his fingers on the tabletop absentmindedly, then laced them together so they would stop doing that. The kitchen floor was freezing under his bare feet, even with the benefits of central heating.

"So she - broke up with you," he prompted. His friend nodded furiously.

"Mmm! Si. For no reason at all. What can she have been thinking?"

Oliver smiled and shook his head, glancing at the table to conceal most of his amusement.

"I have no idea."

"I know, right? So I asked her to take me back, and she said no!" The last of the crêpes vanished. Enrique sat back and mopped leftover sauce from the plate with one finger, sucking at it idly. "...She must be troubled, the poor girl. Anyway, I was so shaken up about it that I couldn't even sleep, so I just..." He stopped for more sauce, mid-sentence.

"Got on a plane?" Oliver offered. He nodded again.

"Mmhmm. Of course! I knew my best friend would help me out of this!" He gave a blinding smile, dimples and all.

"Enri. I just made you crêpes," Oliver pointed out, wearily amused. Enrique regarded him with a look of great astonishment as he sat shivering in his fleur-de-lys blue silk pajamas, feet curled up off the floor.

"You got out of bed and made me dessert! After two in the morning, even," he clarified after checking his watch, "Amazing! I feel so much better now." He finished the last bit of orange sauce, and sighed happily. "And you're a better cook than my cook. Y'know, you'd make a great wife. Is there any more of this?"

Oliver stared at him for the briefest of moments. Then picked up the plate and headed back towards the stove, content that Enrique had no idea what he'd just said.

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...Because Dixon makes us want to write these two, precious.

Two fics in one day? feather-duster must be ill, or something. Wtf.

Aren't they cute? Eee...Oli should invest in some warmer PJs.

Mmm, strange French pancakes...

Review and I love you, also you get free crêpes.