Author's note:The plot bunny for this snippet had been nibbling at my ankles for some time, and I decided I had to get it down for Crystal Rose of Pollux's birthday - because birthday presents are always a good incentive to do your best! - and I posted it on my LiveJournal first as a gift... And then this evening I heard about Richard Dawson's passing.

So I dedicate this little snippet both to Rose of Pollux (her friendship stories are a big part of what drew me in to HH fiction, because they're as fun as they are heartfelt), and to Mr Richard Dawson, who was and remains unforgettable for many reasons, one of them being Corporal Peter Newkirk. May he rest in peace, and may he raise hell in heaven (all in good fun, of course) with the boys who got there before him.

Disclaimer: I regret to say nothing in this is mine. Except for the idea that got it in gear.

Merlu Pané et Pommes de Terre Frites

"Et voilà."

Louis LeBeau, former Corporal of the Free French Air Force and newly-reinstated Parisian (to his endless joy and relief), put the steaming plate in front of his friend, and took a step back, crossing his arms. There was an edge of anticipation in his slight smile.

Peter Newkirk – former Corporal of the Royal Air Force and currently enjoying his very first visit to the French capital as a tourist – eyed the contents with a critical eye, and looked back up at the cook.

"Voilà what?"

"Well, what do you think?"

Newkirk savoured the aroma with his eyes closed, perfectly aware that the longer he waited, the longer he would leave LeBeau to stew. But that was half the fun.

The potato chips were a healthy golden colour, the edges a little brown, and from the thin wisp of smoke they were just hot enough for him to exercise caution and wait a little before eating them. They shared the plate with a long breaded piece of hake, roasted breadcrumbs appearing almost red and contrasting nicely with the shades of golden brown of the potatoes and the white of the plate.

Newkirk opened his eyes and cocked an eyebrow.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"I gave up trying to know what you think a long time ago, Newkirk. I just want your opinion."

It looked, smelled and probably tasted delicious. But teasing LeBeau about cuisine had been a daily pastime for more than five years, and a fun one at that. No point in stopping now, just because the war was over.

Newkirk leaned back in his chair and looked his friend in the eye with a smirk. LeBeau's voice had been calm, his tone even, and nothing in his posture indicated anything other than mild expectation and possibly the barest hint of apprehension. But he knew his little Frenchman well, and had no trouble at all spotting the spark in the dark eyes that meant someone's patience was gradually but decidedly wearing thin.

Time for a little push, then.

"Why?"

Oh, he was definitely getting there. The eyebrows knotted slightly, the shoulders tensed, the deliberate patient look was fading into an annoyed glare …

Can't believe how much I've missed that.

"'Why', he asks. Because I've cooked it, you idiot, and I know it's good, but I don't know if you'll like it. You English are so particular about your food …"

"Excuse me, we are? That's all the French can think about, day and night, they're so bloody picky about it! And you take the biscuit!" This was an old chestnut, as familiar as a well-worn, comfy pair of slippers, and Newkirk slipped into the routine with ease, annoyance and glee competing for first place. Going back home to find Mavis alive and well but most of the neighbourhood in ruins, not to mention starting his life from scratch after a five years hiatus – and getting used to his strange absolute freedom … Everything had taken some time to adapt.

It was good to know that he could still not-fight (they had never really fought, except on a few, thankfully rare, very serious occasions) with LeBeau.

And if he read him right – and he usually did – behind the blazing eyes and the fierce scowl, LeBeau was just as glad as he was.

Not that he would show it, though.

"At least a poêlée de cèpes à la Bordelaise is civilised. We don't put bits of shepherd in our pies!"

"See, that's your problem, right here – you always get 'fancy' and 'civilised' mixed up. Any shepherd's pie is more civilised than your p—po—your ruddy unpronounceable food!"

"It's not more unpronounceable than a ploughman's is for a Frenchman! Oh, et puis ça suffit, Newkirk – will you just –" LeBeau abruptly stopped, and continued in a much more conversational tone, "… taste it?"

It occurred to Newkirk that LeBeau had told the truth: he actually wanted his opinion, and where the Englishman had assumed was pride in his work (with a little bit of gloating for good measure) there was also an underlying tension.

In all the years they'd known each other, Louis LeBeau had always tenaciously refused to cook an English meal. And now there he was, after everything, standing behind the plate of fish and chips with a look on his face that was annoyance, challenge and anticipation all in one.

Ah, well. Can't be that bad …

It was every bit as good as it looked and smelled. The bit of fish melted in his mouth, and the chips had a flavour that managed to be both rich and subtle. It tasted like nothing Newkirk had ever had in a pub – he had no idea fish and chips could taste like that.

There was the rub, however – it didn't really taste like fish and chips. Fish and chips in a pub tasted good not because of the oil, salt and vinegar, but because of the smell of cigarettes, the smile of the pretty blonde thing behind the bar and the sounds of your mates telling outrageous stories and laughing themselves silly. What LeBeau had cooked did taste good – incredible, even – but fish and chips wasn't supposed to be incredible. It was supposed to be fun, messy, simple; something you shared with friends.

All these thoughts collided in Newkirk's mind, and he looked up at LeBeau, who was watching him like a hawk, his arms still crossed over his white apron. And smiled.

"Louis, that's ruddy amazing."

LeBeau narrowed his eyes for half a second as though in suspicion, then gave a funny lopsided grin – the dimple on the right side of his mouth appeared and stayed – and drew up a chair in front of him.

"Good. Because I'm not making that again."

"Why did you make it, then?" Newkirk asked, taking another bite of fish. LeBeau had disappeared into the kitchen; he reappeared with his own plate, which he set opposite Newkirk's, and gave a slight shrug.

"Just an experiment. I wanted to see if I could make a fish and chips an Englishman –" he said the word with mock distaste, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him "– would like. Bon appétit."

"Thanks. You too."

"And stop taking my chips. You've got your own, they're just as good."

This got a smirk from Newkirk. "LeBeau, there's a universal truth I think you need to learn, especially if you want to get along with Brits and Americans somewhere that's not surrounded by guards and barbed wire."

LeBeau eyed him warily, probably fully aware he was walking right into it but curious enough to humour him.

"… What is it?"

Newkirk grinned his favourite wicked grin, the one he was perfectly aware said 'I'm laying down four kings and I know you've only got three tens at the best.'

"Chips always taste better when they come from someone else's plate."

LeBeau met his eyes with a defiant smile of his own, said "Ah ouais?" and took three chips from Newkirk's plate.

They spent their lunch stealing each other's chips and catching up on each other's lives, as well as trading news from Carter, Kinch and Hogan; and as he sat there, in LeBeau's small but warm and bright living room, Newkirk came to his second realisation of the day.

Maybe this fish and chips was vastly different from what he was used to; maybe he wasn't washing it down with a pint of ale; maybe he wasn't having it with a bunch of mates while waiting for his turn at the darts … But maybe it didn't matter that much.

He was sharing a good meal with one of his best friends, and as they laughed and talked and bantered, it felt like the other three were not so far away.

Fancy or not, this was what fish and chips was about.

THE END

Merlu is French for the European hake, and is generally the 'fish' part of the fish and chips – although it can also be cod or haddock. Pommes de terre frites (potatoes [pommes de terre] that are fried [frites]) are usually just called frites (pronounced 'freet') unless you're in a restaurant, and a fancy one at that.

A poêlée means (often) vegetables cooked in a frying pan (une poêle); cèpes are ceps, a type of mushroom that has to be one of the most delicious ever; à la Bordelaise means Bordeaux style, which here doesn't mean with a Bordelaise sauce but simply fried with parsley, garlic, breadcrumbs and some shallot. But just parsley and garlic is perfectly fine.

Ça suffit: 'That's enough'. The rest is just trimmings, to emphasise the point. Languages are very much not an exact science.

The first and last time I had fish and chips was fifteen years ago, and it remains a fond memory that I would not mind repeating at all. Especially in good company - physically present or not.