You Can't Make an Omelet...

Bill Weasley was not a heavy sleeper by nature. When he was a boy, his mother used to call him her "little alarm clock," because he'd be up with the sun every morning. On the other hand, he wasn't a light sleeper, either, though he was edging deeper into that territory now that he was working so closely with the Order of the Phoenix. No, Bill Weasley was just a sleeper, period. He went to bed, closed his eyes, then woke up eight hours later feeling refreshed and ready for the day.

But if there was one thing that could wake any man from even the deepest sleep, it was the smell of breakfast being cooked by someone else. It was the kind of stimulus that would stir just about anybody from their bed, but to a bachelor it was even more appetizing. Bill was by no means a bad cook -- when Molly had despaired of ever having any daughters, she'd taken her eldest son under her wing and taught him everything she knew about kitchen witchery -- but there was nothing like waking up to the smell of bacon frying and the sound of eggs sizzling in the pan. There was something about it that made a body think of home.

Such was the case this morning, as Bill floated back to awareness to the smell of buttered toast; his mouth was watering before he even opened his eyes. Rolling onto his back, he blearily opened one eye and focused on the back of the young woman standing in his kitchen, wearing one of his favorite flannel shirts and cursing at the stovetop. At least, he thought she was cursing; over a year of dating Fleur and he'd still only picked up enough French to know that merde was not something to be said in polite company, like around Fleur's mother. But he was pretty sure that last comment meant something like "Burn in Hell, you illegitimate son!" which didn't sound promising.

"Morning," he yawned, rubbing his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head. "Problems?"

Fleur whipped her head around to glare at him, vivid blue eyes blatantly furious, though the anger was thankfully not directed at him. "Breetish eggs are ze scum of ze Devil!" she snapped. "They do not understand 'ow to cook properly!"

Bill raised himself up on his elbows, craning his head slightly as if to see around her to the pan on the stove. "I think something's on fire," he observed, watching several plumes of acrid smoke rise up from the skillet. Fleur spun around again and resumed her French swearing as she hurriedly moved the pan away from the burner, puffing out the flames between curses. "Need some help?"

"I am perfectly all right alone, merci," Fleur said haughtily. He watched her scrape the charred remains of what appeared to be eggs into his trash bin before muttering a spell over the dirty pan, scrubbing it clean instantly. Setting it back on the burner, she added a fresh pat of butter and reached out to the side for new eggs. He'd had a full dozen last night; it looked like he was down to half that number now.

"You know, I'm not a bad cook-"

"I said NON!"

Bill chuckled and let the matter drop. Stretching, he sat up in bed, eyes wandering over his flat as they did every morning. It was just a small, one-room affair, dominated by his bed in one corner and the kitchen in the other, with a little sitting area consisting of comfortable, care-worn furniture handed down to him by his mother, who refused to let him spend money on a new couch when they had, "Uncle Bilius' perfectly wonderful sofa, Bill, just wasting away in the attic. And Great-Aunt Eloise's little dining room set! Oh, and you must take your Grandfather Weasley's armchair, dear, before your father makes good on his promise to bring it down and put it in the living room. A wonderful man, your grandfather, but really, Bill, there's just no room!"

Fleur had been a bit surprised the first time she ever saw his flat. Bill suspected she'd always thought one-room apartments were an urban myth. Her own flat was a dreamy, sun-drenched place with cream walls and silver accents which somehow managed to evoke a palace atmosphere despite being just four floors up from the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. They spent most nights there for sheer expediency: it was closer to Gringotts and therefore easier for them both to get to work. True they could have apparated, but they both liked the time in one another's company; not to mention Fleur liked to preen for passersby. It was in a Veela's nature to be vain, and Fleur was less conceited than most, but Bill harbored the suspicion that if she ever had call to conjure a Patronus, it would be a peacock.

Another reason they spent so much time at her flat was Fleur's need for enclosure. For whatever reason she got nervous sleeping without a door firmly locked between her and the rest of the world. Bill wondered if this had something to do with growing up with servants, or if it was something deeper; a latent need for privacy buried deep inside the head of a young woman who'd led a very public life. It was impossible not to lead a public life when you had the blood of a Veela in your veins; it naturally made you the center of attention everywhere you went.

Bill suspected the need for doors came from some inborn desire for control; she might act like a queen with the world groveling at her feet, but Fleur's life had been dictated by her beauty. She was expected to act a certain way because she looked a certain way. Being able to lock the bedroom door was her way of shutting out the world and living life on her terms. She didn't even have a mirror in her room; in her powder room, yes. In her bathroom, certainly. But not in her bedroom.

At his flat, however, she had no such luxury -- anyone could come through the front door and see her. Bill had assured her time and again that he always locked the front door and no one was getting in without permission, but she still slept fitfully at best; and she always -- always -- insisted she sleep facing the wall with him at her back. It was a comfort to her, having his warmth between her and the empty room, and Bill was more than happy to give her what he could.

Another flurry of irate French curse words roused him from his thoughts and he looked in Fleur's direction in time to see her fling the entire frying pan into the garbage. "Zat is it!" she shrieked. Spinning around, she crossed her arms angrily and glared at him, as if it were somehow his fault she couldn’t fry eggs. "I will try no more!"

Bill laughed, evoking a furious little grunt from the young woman fuming near his stove. "What are you trying to do?" he asked good-naturedly, throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed, tucking his long ginger hair behind his ears as he crossed the floor between them.

Fleur bit her lip, looking suddenly self-conscious as he came to a stop beside her. "Make you breakfast," she mumbled, looking up at him through her lashes.

Bill smiled and kissed her forehead. "Why?"

Fleur sighed and leaned into him as he wrapped an arm around her waist. "Je t'aime," she murmured with a faint shrug.

Bill rested his cheek atop her head. "I love you, too," he murmured. "But you don't have to cook for me to prove it, Fleur. If anything, it should be the other way around. Accio wand." His wand zoomed across the room from the bedside table and he caught it nimbly out of the air. "Wingardium leviosa." The frying pan levitated out of the trash and into the sink. "I should be the one cooking for you. I actually like cooking."

"'Oo sez I do not?" Fleur sniffed, tossing her hair petulantly.

"Fleur, I've never seen you prepare anything more extensive than fruit and cream."

"Zat is not true!"

"Okay, okay. You win."

"Merci."

"Bread and butter, too."

"Bill!"

He laughed, turning her in his arms so she was leaning against the counter and he could hem her in with his arms. "Fleur, it's not some kind of badge of dishonor. It's just what it is. What were you trying to make?"

She sighed, giving up, and looked into his eyes. "An omelet."

"Just an omelet?"

He knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say as her eyes flashed with fresh anger. "Jus' an omelet, monsieur?" she demanded, incensed. Gesturing furiously towards the table, where several plates were keeping warm under the familiar red nimbus of a Calorian charm. "Toast! Bacon! Tea!"

"Okay, okay," Bill soothed, taking her hands between his and squeezing gently. "I should have phrased that better. What I meant was you weren't trying to make too many things at once, were you?"

Fleur looked slightly mollified. "Non, jus' ze omelet."

"What was the problem?"

"It would not do ze… ze…" She tugged her hands from his grasp and made vague flipping motions. "Ze flipping zing! Always it wuz breaking!"

"Ah, I see. Well, that happens sometimes. There are mornings where you just can't get the eggs to cooperate. Here." He took down a fresh pan from a hook above the stove and set it on the front burner. "Now, this is what you do…"

Standing behind her, he guided her hands through the usual steps of scrambling the eggs and pouring them into the pan; adding some mushrooms, cheese and spinach; prodding the edges of the sizzling eggs with the spatula, turning it at just the right moment…

"Zere!" Fleur barked angrily as the egg split down the middle. "Do you see? Always! Breetish eggs! Pah!" She made as if to grab the pan and fling it away to take its brother's place in the trash.

Bill laughed and stilled her hands. "No, no, no, Fleur. My trash bin is having the best breakfast of its life at this point. When you just can't get it right, all you do is this." He took the spatula from her hands and dug at the eggs in the pan, cutting them up and mixing them messily with the melted cheese, wilted spinach and sauteéd mushrooms.

"You just make scrambled eggs," he explained, nuzzling her ear as he pressed up along her back. "It all goes down the same way anyway. Here." He lifted the pan away from the heat, careful not to burn her as he pulled away, and neatly divided the colorful eggs onto two plates she'd had waiting nearby. Just for kicks, he topped each dish with a little sprig of parsley, poking at some of the mushrooms on Fleur's plate with the spatula until they formed a smiley face floating in a sea of yellow with a fluffy sprig of parsley for hair. "Voila," he said, presenting the dish to her with a flourish. "Might have been rubbish as an omelet, but it turned into pretty decent scrambled eggs. Don't you think?"

Fleur took the dish from him, poking at the parsley with a delicate white finger. He saw her smile affectionately at the smiley face before looking up to fix that smile on him. "Oui," she agreed softly.

Bill smiled, reaching out to ruffle her sleek hair in the way he knew drove her crazy but also made her feel loved. "You think this is good, just wait till I ply you with my quiche. It'll make your knees weak."

She laughed, catching his hand out of the air and lifting up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "You already make my knees weak, mon amour," she cooed near his ear, snuggling up against his chest, holding her eggs out to the side. "You are parfait."

"Nobody's perfect, Fleur," Bill argued quietly as she tucked her face into his throat. "Eggs, people; they all make mistakes. One day you'll understand that."

"Oui, I know," she murmured. "I know, mon Bill. Zat is why I love you. Becuz you know it, too."

The moment had gone from playful to serious in the span of a heartbeat, but Bill wasn't in a hurry to change it back. Fleur was breathing quietly beside him, unmoving except for the occasional brush of her lashes against his throat.

The epiphany didn't hit him like a lightning bolt, or even like a sudden stiff breeze. It just appeared, and that was that. "You're always beautiful, Fleur," he murmured against her forehead. "You know that, right?"

She sighed. "Bill…," she protested softly.

"No no, not perfect." He took the plate from her hand and put it on the counter before gripping her arms and looking into her eyes. "Beautiful and perfect aren't the same things at all. It's just I was thinking the only person who doesn't put a mirror in their bedroom when they've got mirrors all over the house is a person who doesn't want to look at themselves in the morning, when their hair's a mess and their eyes are blurry and they have pillow creases on their cheek. Maybe the kind of person who's been told how beautiful they are their entire life and can't stand to see themselves anything but perfect. The kind of person who wants to lock the door to keep everyone else away until she can comb her hair and brush her teeth and go through all the daily rituals that prove she's human. Is that it, Fleur? Is that why you're always so nervous here? You're scared somone's going to figure out even you have morning breath?"

Fleur pulled away, eyes flashing between angry and confused. "Non, I do n-!"

"Fleur, you're beautiful."

Tears sprang into her eyes. "s'il vous plait," she whispered hoarsely, trying to pull away again. "Mon Bill, s'il vous plait…"

"No. You're beautiful." He gripped her hands firmly so she couldn't get away. "Why is that hard for you to hear? You've been hearing it your whole life -- why don't you want to hear it now?"

"Becuz it is you saying it!" she cried, and now the tears were running down her cheeks. It tore at Bill's heart, but there was no turning back now. "Mon Dieu, it is as you say! Everyday, since I was a petite fille, I 'ave been hearing it! Fleur, you are zo beautiful. Fleur, you are zo parfait. Fleur, you are truly ze fleur de la cour; ze flower of ze court. Always!"

Her eyes lit up, and suddenly she moved towards him, crowding up against his chest. "But you," she said excitedly. "Mon amour, you do not say it as zey do. You laugh at my jokes becuz you zink zey are funny, not becuz you feel you must. You do not cower when I am t'rowing a tantrum; oui, I know zat I do. I am not stupide, oui?" Half with a sigh, half a moan, she pressed up against him, burying her face in his shoulder.

"You do not expect me to be always ze flower of ze court," she murmured. "But I am zo, zo scared zat one day you will."

Bill sighed and wrapped his arms around her. "Is that why you don't mind when I watch you sleep?"

"Oui." Sniffle.

"Is it that you think I don't think you're beautiful?"

"Non." Sniffle. Shrug.

"You are beautiful, Fleur. I'm not going to lie and say you aren't. All those other people might not have been saying it for the right reasons, but they weren't lying. You are beautiful. However sick you are of hearing it, you'd better get used to it; because here's the thing."

He tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes again; crystal blue eyes now red-rimmed by tears. "You're beautiful all the time. When you wake up in the morning and your hair looks like a haystack. When you come in from the rain and you look like a sopping wet Maltese. When you've been crying because you think someone could be silly enough to not love you, just because you have to put your trousers on one leg at a time like everybody else." Smiling, he brushed his fingers over her cheek. "When you're eighty-five and I'm in my nineties, you'll still be the most beautiful woman in the world to me. All right? Nothing is ever going to change that. And anyone who tries to say otherwise will have some words with the hard edge of my fist. Okay? You're not perfect, but then neither am I, so I imagine we'll get by." He gave her a winning smile, hoping she'd smile back.

He wasn’t disappointed. A tremulous smile touched her lips. "You zink we will still be togezzer, when we are older?"

"Why not? Life doesn't end at thirty, contrary to popular belief."

She giggled and sniffled, rubbing her eyes in very undignified fashion. "You are awfully vehement zat I am not parfait," she teased, poking him in the stomach.

"Well, you're not. But that's okay, I'll keep you."

Fleur laughed, and this time the poke turned into a gentle punch. "Jus' what is zo bad about me, monsieur?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Did I say anything was bad?" Bill asked, affecting innocence.

"Bill!"

"Okay, okay!" He laughed, shrinking away before she could hit him more. "You can't cook for one."

"OOH!"

"But you're getting better!" he added quickly, hiding behind his hands and trying not to grin at the look of affronted horror on her face.

"I am FRENCH," she said firmly. "We are born knowing 'ow to cook!"

"Are you? Well, that's a trick. You'll have to show me how it's done."

"OOH!" This time the interjection was exclamated by a stamp of her foot. "I will show you!" Grabbing her plate of cooling eggs, she stomped over to the table where the other food was waiting and plunked down into a chair. "Terminarum," she said, waving her hand over the Calorian shield. It melted away, leaving its contents to steam.

"Sit," she ordered him, and Bill obeyed, sitting in the seat across from her with his own eggs. Fleur dished some bacon onto his plate, along with two slices of buttered toast. "Jam?" she asked, offering him the jar.

"No thank you."

She nodded curtly and set the jar down before carefully arranging the food on her own plate while Bill poured the tea. "Bon appetit," she said, raising her teacup to him before taking a sip.

Bill returned the gesture. "Likewise." He looked down at the food on his plate. The toast was visibly blackened around the edges and the bacon had been cooked to the point where it resembled boiled leather.

"Well?" Fleur asked. "What do you 'ave to say now? 'Ow does ze food meet your expectations, monsieur?"

Bill looked up. Taking a piece of bacon, he brought it up and snapped a piece off between his teeth, munching thoughtfully for a second. After swallowing, he took a sip of tea, then gave her a brilliant smile.

"Perfect."

THE END