"For cryin' out loud, it's two o'clock, Anthony. You got school in the mornin'. Go to bed."

"Mo-om!"

"Now!"

Loud, clear, unmistakably Queens. That was the missus.

There Lieutenant Columbo stood on his front porch, fumbling with his keys. It was late, but nonetheless a pleasant night. Bright moon, mild weather, warm Santa Ana winds swaying the Los Angeles palms that lined the quiet side street. A cricket's chirp, the not-so-distant roars of traffic. Punctuated by none other than some family bickering.

His family bickering.

Thinking about it, his unruly teen son took uncannily after his own adolescent nature-which was to say, becoming something of a wiseass. He would have to see to it that he was more firm with the boy, lest he grow up like himself-which also was to say, working long, thankless hours, wondering how he could have so much trouble entering his own home on such a pleasant night.

Columbo lifted his key to the doorknob and stopped. He ought to be throwing himself over the threshold after a day like this. Leaving his work behind before re-entering his inner sanctum was seldom this much of a challenge for the lieutenant. Typically, that which most troubled him could be left on the welcome mat at will. After all, those of his ilk tended to be inured to the job's travails.

But tonight was different. Tonight was one of the hard nights.

He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. It was quiet now. The warm glow of the living room lamp suddenly extinguished, letting the blue glare of the television stream through the front window drapery. He heard the faint sitcom laugh track which so often irked him. Probably another Maude rerun.

Columbo put a hand to his forehead. Surely, the kids were asleep by now. Much as he wanted to engage with them, the last thing he wanted was to trouble them at such an hour on a school night. Thankfully, he had a late start tomorrow. Perhaps he could offer to take them to school.

The key somehow finally found its way into the knob's lock-rather, locks. The lieutenant kept his abode appropriately fortified, deadbolt and latches included. The heavy oak door squealed as it swung open; despite his wife's protests, he'd purposefully refused to lubricate the hinges. He entered the house, placing the requested groceries down in their usual spot on the kitchen benchtop.

Indeed, there his wife laid, comfortably reclined on their floral-print sofa. Her full, zaftig curves were clad in a flamingo pink nightgown, her voluminous black hair adorned in equally pink curlers. A thick book lay open in her lap, neglected. An opened box of chocolates lay open on the adjacent coffee table, not.

"Well, look who's finally here," Rose scoffed, eyes still glued to the television set. The ire in her voice hid the relief of finally seeing her husband come home. "You said you'd be home at, what, ten? Did you get heavy cream like I asked?"

He tsked, putting a hand to his head again. Through his whirlwind of a day, he'd genuinely forgotten the one item his wife had emphasized.

"God, you know, I completely forgot. Sorry about that."

"Frank," she groaned. "You know, I ask you for one thing. Now I gotta go after dropping the kids tomorrow. Unless you wanna go, I mean my league team's got a meeting, but Tony's got soccer, Lydia's got clarinet..." She sighed exasperatedly, her thick, arched brows knitted in agitation. "Swear to God, you'd lose your freakin' head if it wasn't attached to you. And ash that damn cigar, will ya? God, you smell like a whorehouse."

Silently obliging, the good lieutenant ashed his cheroot in the living room tray and stood near the sofa, staring vacantly at the TV. He could hear his wife nagging him still, though admittedly he'd tuned her out. Not that he made a habit of that, but it'd been a long day, and it was only then hitting him how utterly drained he felt. The world around him faded to static as his eyes unfocused, vision blurring.

"...you can swing by the five and ten before work tomorrow? Frank?"

"Huh?" he said, the world around him rematerializing. "Sorry, I, uh…"

"Heavy cream," she repeated, concerned. "Before work tomorrow."

"Oh. Yeah."

Rose frowned. Usually, she struggled to get her garrulous mate to stop talking. The minutiae of the church bake sale suddenly seemed trifling as she studied her husband's weary features. In fact, he'd hardly blinked since he walked in. The man could be as scatterbrained as he was brilliant, but tonight he seemed different. He was distractible, yes; exhausted, often. Completely absent, almost never.

"I left you some dinner in the fridge," she said with a grin. "Chicken cacciatore."

A pause. "Can't wait," he said with a wan smile.

Well, then. She'd certainly expected more fanfare over what was one of his favorite dishes of hers. By far the lesser cook between the two of them, it was one of the few that Rose had any pride in serving. She adjusted her glasses and took a better look at him; indeed, the man seemed quite a bit worse for wear. Surpassing his usual baseline of dishevelment, his hair was thoroughly tousled, clothing rumpled, shirt partially untucked. He yawned.

"Everything alright?" Rose asked, her tone softening.

"Hm? Oh yeah, of course, yeah. Just tired, you know. Late. Long day," he mumbled, still staring glassy-eyed at the television. Rose arose from the couch slowly and approached him from his side. She doffed her spectacles.

"Frank," she implored gently, leaning in close. He turned to face her and blinked in surprise, not having realized she'd gotten up. "Talk to me."

He met her stare. For all the breathtaking beauties who had turned his head on the job, nothing made his breath hitch quite like his wife's eyes. She was quite short-somehow, even shorter than he. Deep brown eyes framed by long lashes, always beaming up at him. Big, warm, striking almond eyes. Eyes that always made him feel at ease. At home.

"You're still wearin' your coat, you know," Rose whispered, grasping his perpetually-wrinkled raincoat. "May I?" A silent nod as he relaxed his arms and acquiesced.

"Ahh, you gotta let me get this thing dry cleaned," she said maternally, dusting it off and draping it over the sofa. "There's food stains on it. Gotta be careful with all that chili. Hey, lemme get your jacket, too." She removed his suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack. Columbo exhaled.

"Better?" she asked softly. Another, slower nod. Mindlessly, he placed his hands on her soft, rounded hips. Wordlessly, she loosened his tie. He drew her near.

On any other night, standing so intimately for so long could have only resulted in the shedding of clothes. But neither made a further move in such a direction. Rose lightly tugged her husband's tie and led him to the couch, both of them collapsing in front of the familiar, flickering glow of television. She rested her head on his chest and inhaled his comfortable, familiar scent of cigar smoke and aftershave. He found his eyes closing as he drank in hers-Aquanet and L'air du Temps.

"Channel 9 still on?" he mumbled, absentmindedly stroking her upper arm.

"No, they signed off. Channel 4's got that late movie, though. Bette Davis," Rose said, picking up the clicker and changing the channel.

They lay there together for a while in a tranquil, comfortable embrace, neither really paying attention to the television. At a certain point she gazed up warmly at him. His chest rose and fell slowly, breathing audible, countenance relaxed. Surely, he must have fallen asleep. She turned off the television.

"Come, dear," she whispered, shaking him gently. "Come to bed."

"...He was real young, Rose," the lieutenant said sedately, eyes still closed. She looked at him thoughtfully. He stretched, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just brilliant. Was gonna make sergeant. Had a family. Can't stop thinkin' about him."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she breathed, her arms tightening around him.

He said nothing. He, too, tightened his hold.