Columbo has time off for the first time in a long time, but is immediately put to the task when his wife suffers a fall. With the Mrs. out of commission, it's up to the Lieutenant to do the unimaginable: run his own household for the evening.

Mid 1970s.

"I'm not takin' em."

"Why not?"

"Because," Rose murmured, shifting uncomfortably. She stared down at the orange bottle, turning it about in her hand. "I've read about these things. You know what they do to people."

"Yeah. Make 'em loopy, stoned-"

"Hooked."

Abuzz with anxiety stood Columbo, hands wrung by their bedside; awash with pain laid his wife, propped up by pillows. The things to which she so derisively referred were the bottles of newly-prescribed pain medications that now decorated her nightstand. Thanks to a most spectacular tumble that morning, she'd rather seriously pulled a ligament, leaving herself on bed rest for the foreseeable few days.

"C'mon, a back sprain's nothin' to sneeze at, Rose," Columbo insisted, palms upturned. "Even Doc Kessler said you did a number on it. That guy doesn't exaggerate, I can tell."

"Aspirin and ice will suffice," she said, clearly irritated, suddenly sucking air through her teeth. Pain, of course, was simply weakness leaving the body.

"Well, it doesn't look to me like it's sufficing, if I'm bein' honest."

"Really, it's not as bad as all that. Don't make a fuss over me." She furrowed her brow, her pride more mangled than her back. "Oh, for Pete's sake. What an outstanding way to get hurt."

"I mean, you gotta admit, it was kinda…well, not funny, per se, y'see, how you, uh…" he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck as he recalled the rather comic element to her tumble.

Rose pouted at him ruefully; he faltered. Clearly, it was too soon for him to make such light of her flailing, her tumbling. Her abject misery. His gaze fell as he raised a hand in sheepish apology.

It was just his luck, really. After months of ruthless work, an unforgiving deluge of cases that required his utmost concentration, this particular weekend was his first fully off from work-prime time for the ever-enthralling task of finally clearing out the junk inhabiting their garage.

All was peachy keen until his dear wife suffered some sort of gravitational disagreement with their stepladder, nearly giving him a coronary seeing her hit the ground flat on her back. The rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins contrasted starkly with the rest of their day, spent bored and restless in the emergency waiting room, flipping anxiously through dogeared Johnson-era magazines. Naturally, they left hours later with the obvious diagnosis of a badly bruised and sprained back, and equally obvious prescriptions of ice, bedrest, and a few bottles of goofballs.

"I'm just more annoyed than anything," Rose said, her tone true to the assertion. "I had things to do today. Bathrooms need cleaning, Tony needs help with his homework. I was gonna vacuum, do laundry. You know what you're gonna do for dinner?"

"And they say I'm a worrier," he scoffed. "Listen, the doc said it'd only be a few days rest before you can get back to normal. You've got your sick days lined up, I'm on vacation. I'll take care of all that. Just relax."

"You sure?"

"Well," he said, arms crossed. "Not like you have much of a say in the matter."

"Like hell I don't," Rose grumbled, attempting to hoist herself up. In an instant, her face contorted into a grimace of intense pain. She flopped back down gracelessly, her husband shooting her a look of careworn exasperation.

"Basta, mia ragazza testarda," he muttered, boring holes into her wincing eyes. "Just try those pills. If ya hate 'em, I swear, I won't mention it again. I'll flush the lot of 'em down the toilet."

Rose paused. Much as she despised the notion of taking that dreaded opiate, barbiturate, whatever-ate cocktail, those throbbing aches and intense, blindsiding spasms were seriously getting to her. No matter how she positioned herself, all she felt was pain. Deep down, she knew that rest was of utmost importance to healing, and that no mere analgesic had thusfar provided any respite.

Her husband knit his brow, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "'Sides, you know I can't stand seein' you like this. You gonna be outta commission, you might as well not be miserable."

"...Va bene, cara mia," she replied dryly. "I'll take 'em this once and only this once. Here, give 'em." His brows rose in surprise. Normally tolerant of pain to a fault, Rose must have indeed been in a great deal of it to finally comply. He handed her the glass of water from her nightstand and dispensed one of each pill as directed, watching her to ensure ingestion.

"Oh, you know, Kessler said to eat with those. Whaddya feel like?"

"Well, I'm not very hungry, so…I dunno. I guess some crackers and cheese will do," Rose replied with a sigh after swallowing the dreaded pills. "But really, take your time. I'd be happier if you could do some cleaning first."

"Hey, you got it."

Cleaning, to Columbo, was a necessary evil, an unsavory aspect of everyday life that eluded him. Even outside of his preoccupation with his occupation, he was never a particularly tidy man; chaos simply followed in his wake organically. Minor spills, perpetual clutter, light patinas of grime-all considered natural consequences of life and use rather than messes to be tackled.

Fortunately for the good lieutenant, his wife was his complement in her neatnik tendencies and her competence in such matters. Rose had, earlier in the day, prior to her decision to make contact with concrete from a height, gathered all the requisite cleaning implements in one convenient caddy. This eliminated one intimidating step from the daunting prospect of cleaning, making his job ever so slightly easier.

So perhaps it wasn't so unbearable to load the washing machine and fold a load of clothing in the basement before venturing upstairs to clean the bathrooms. Scrubbing both of them clean to his wife's fastidious standards was no small feat, but rather straightforward and not as tasking as he'd feared. Less unsavory than he'd thought, surely.

Unfortunately for this rather good lieutenant, his luck was only finite on this particular day. Vacuuming, a chore he usually minded less than the others, made itself a standout candidate when he began to smell something burning. Irritated, he engaged in a ten minute wrestling match with the dastardly machine only to find his own keys were the culprit, adding another lovely layer of annoyance-for which he was to blame.

It was then time to check on the laundry, arguably one of the easiest chores in the average household. And it should have been just so. Granted, the machine was very new-Columbo recalled vaguely that his wife had gone and purchased it only weeks ago. And he had merely guessed which and how much detergent the load needed instead of verifying, and it did turn out to be completely and cataclysmically wrong, and he did return to find mountains of suds actively overflowing onto the basement floor…

Laundry. Arguably one of the easiest chores in the average household.

A string of expletives left his mouth as he scrambled to shut the water-where was that valve again?-and triage the situation. It wasn't as bad as all that, nothing a simple mopping into the sump pump couldn't fix, but it was yet another chore. A chore amongst chores. And he was beginning to remember exactly how much he loathed them.

Even after all was said and done, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where to return those cleaning supplies. The closet where he could've sworn they went had been thoroughly reorganized, housing completely different miscellanea. He stared at the contents in disbelief, those mean little bottles of Dawn that didn't belong there staring right back at him.

Frankly, it seemed as though he was having a hard time figuring out where to put much of anything, as though everything in his house had been subtly re-arranged solely for the purpose of disorienting him. It was proving almost more of a pain to find a home for the Windex than it was to use it in the first place.

Dutifully working on her homework at the kitchen bar, his young daughter Lydia eyed her father's disoriented ransacking from across the house. She called him and nodded her head towards one of the lower cabinets near her.

"Mom puts that stuff under the sink, now," she said as he made his way over. "The hall closet just has soap, detergent, that sorta thing."

"Yeah, I was wonderin' about that. Thanks, kiddo," he said, stashing the supplies. He began ransacking the fridge.

"Yeah. Uh…is Mom doing okay?" she asked hesitantly, eyeing her father. Placing a block of cheddar on the bar top, he gave her a small, weary smile.

"Oh, your mom's a tough one. She'll be fine, we just gotta let 'er rest. I'm gettin' her a snack now, you want anything?"

"No, thanks, I'm waiting for dinner." She paused, watching him aimlessly peruse the cupboards. "Looking for the Ritz?"

"Am I. Coulda sworn it was here."

"It was there. But now it's in the first door to the left of the fridge," she said with a small laugh. Her father put his hand in the air in gratitude as he made his way over. "Speaking of dinner...you are making dinner tonight, right?"

He exhaled. "Seems like it, huh."

"Yes!" Lydia's face lit up and she pumped a fist. He couldn't help but smile in return. He may not have gotten to spend nearly as much time with his children as did his wife, but one thing was for certain-they always preferred his cooking.

"Listen, how 'bout this. Tonight, I'll make you guys anything you want, you name it. I'm home for once, it's just you guys and me. In the meantime, why don'tcha go play with your brother?"

"Ah, there he is. My husband, home from the war at last. It's been eons," Rose lilted. Columbo quirked a brow as he closed the door behind him.

"Boy, thy drugs are quick."

"You were paying attention last night." Rose beamed. Despite his dubious levels of consciousness during their late viewing of Masterpiece Theater, he had indeed managed to absorb a thing or two.

"I toldja I was, didn't I?

"You did. I just didn't believe you."

"Gimme a little credit here. Pain gone yet?" he asked, setting the small plate down on her nightstand. He gently brushed a few black, messy coils of hair out of her face, observing her enervated disposition.

"Gone?" she said, drawing out the word. She looked past him, staring out the window. "You kiddin'? No wonder those 'Nam vets are hopped up on these. Hell, you could sit on me right now and I wouldn't care."

"...Well, I-"

"Go on. Try," she chirped, slapping a hand against her thigh.

"...Think I'll…take a raincheck on that offer, hon," he said amusedly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But hey, that's good, innit? For you, I mean, for the pain. The vets are another story. You can finally get some rest."

"I guess," she said quietly.

"There we go. Uh, here, I know you're not hungry, but have a couple a'these. You still gotta eat." He handed her the plate, taking a careful seat perpendicular to her on the edge of the bed. She picked up a cracker and bit into it.

"Oh, now you've really outdone yourself," she said, nodding her head. "Cheddar on Ritz. Thank you, Ms. Child." He grinned and ran a hand along his jaw.

"Yeah, well, I do my best. I cleaned those bathrooms, too, y'know. Vacuumed downstairs, laundry's in the dryer."

"I'm impressed."

"Well, hold your applause 'til after dinner. Which I'm about to go start."

"And Dog?"

"He's fed, I told Tony to take him out, and I think Lyd's still doin' her homework. So y'see, the kids are busy, the dog's alright, the house is clean. I'm here. You just worry about gettin' better." Rose slumped her shoulders.

"Thank you. Easier said than done."

"I know, but I told you I got everything taken care of, and that includes you. Just relax."

"If you say so." Thanks to her medication and her husband's projected confidence, Rose found her worries evaporating and her eyes closing. She yawned, sinking back into the pillows. "Y'know, screw drugs, screw psychotherapy, just get someone to look you in the eye and say that. 'Everything's taken care of'. Miracle cure."

He smiled, picking up one of the pill bottles on the nightstand and scanning it in curiosity.

"Told ya these wouldn't be so bad."

"Bad? Who said anything about bad? They're too damn good," she said with a tut. She furrowed her brow. "I think I needa lie down."

"Sweetheart, you are lyin' down."

"Oh. Well, that's convenient. You know," she started with a little laugh, eyes still closed. "You were right."

"I like the sound of that. 'Bout what?"

"Tryna reach the top shelf like that, I was askin' for it. It was kinda funny, you know, the way my ass hit the ground, I, I-" Her demure giggles bubbled forth into full-blown laughter upon reliving her fall, borderline wheezing. "Almost killed myself, not five feet up! That's-you just try to-th-they oughta put me on TV!"

"Ohh, Carol Burnett's got nothin' on you, baby," he chuckled, infected by her hearty, drug-induced laughter, now free of both pain and shame. The mirth subsided and they exhaled; he placed his hand atop hers. To his surprise, they were freezing.

"You're warm," Rose said in mild surprise.

"That's 'cause I needa defrost you over here. Jesus, shoulda said somethin'," he said, carefully tucking her in and dimming the bedside lamp.

"It's only five," she said.

"It was five an hour ago," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Semantics. Time is trivial. Night is young."

"This comin' from the woman with her eyes closed."

A spell of silence befell the room before Rose spoke again.

"I'm still cold," she mumbled, cracking open a single eyelid.

"How, you're under four layers of blankets, it's...oh." He looked at her. She grinned slightly.

"Just for a couple minutes," she goaded, limply patting the space next to her. "I don't even remember the last time you held me."

Columbo averted his gaze. A very tempting offer, indeed. He'd spent more time sleeping in his office and car than in their bed the past few months, he'd been so gripped by his work. And as he well knew, once he put his arms around her he'd be loath to part.

"Look, normally I'd be way ahead'a you, but I really gotta get to it. The kids are down there."

"The kids'll be fine for just a bit."

"Well, I just don't wanna get in with ya and drop off for the night or anything, 'cause you know me. Come on, you understand." She nodded slowly.

"Oh, I understand. I understand…that you intend to leave your poor, frozen, crippled wife all alone," she said, affecting a wounded tone. "'Specially lately, I've barely gotten to see your face. How do I even know you still love me?" He chuckled, staring at the floor.

"C'mon. Don't do that."

"Just as well, I suppose. If I were you, I'd ignore me, too. Leave me to die. All alone. In the dark. Alone."

"You play dirty, you know."

"All's fair."

Columbo sighed in resignation. All was not fair, if he had anything to say about it. The siren song of a neglected, bedridden, adorable wife held a compunctive power far too formidable for the resistance of a mere mortal man.

Thus, into bed he climbed. Snuggling next to her as she hummed contentedly, he was careful not to disturb her position, wrapping an arm around her midsection.

Lying there with his head on her chest, hearing naught but clock ticks and slow breaths, he realized that perhaps his wife was right, after all. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed such quiet, intimate peace, as moments alone with her had been so hard to come by as of late. Their bed, which he'd so sorely missed, was so very comfortable after all, and his wife, even more sorely missed, so soothing to hold.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the sensation of tension leaving his body. She'd always had an odd sort of tranquilizing effect on him-simply cradling her warm, soft body against his and inhaling her scent were enough to intoxicate, numbing his mind to all matters troubling. There was no other earthly combination quite like it.

And, as he'd predicted, so soporific was this position that despite his best efforts, he soon found himself opening his eyes groggily, the walls no longer streaked with golden sunlight. A disoriented glance at his alarm clock confirmed his suspicions: he'd let what he thought was five minutes but really nearly an hour slip by to dreamy bliss.

Columbo carefully extricated himself from his wife's embrace and peered down at her, admiring her familiar, dimly-lit form as it rose and fell. Hearing a sudden susurrus of children outside the door, he climbed out of bed and opened the door to a strangely empty hallway, closing it behind him silently. The voices moved downstairs.

He followed.

Unfortunately.

Some way, somehow, utter chaos had descended upon his living room in the short time in which he'd left his two darling children to themselves. Aghast, he stopped mid-staircase, surveying the damage.

Dog, put in Tony's charge earlier, had unceremoniously tracked heaps of mud where he so desired after having been taken out. Mud on the carpet, mud on the couch, mud on the table.

Lamp not on the table.

His eyes, widening, darted to the wooden floor below, finding said lamp in pieces. Both children froze in place and stared at their father, remaining deathly silent. For the briefest of moments, a most intrusive thought flashed in his mind, almost wishing someone had been busy getting murdered that day so that he'd perhaps be called in with an excuse to not deal with this mess. His crime scenes were at least not his responsibility to clean.

The kids will be fine, she said.

Columbo ran his hands through his wild hair and took a deep breath. He cautiously made his way to the broken lamp where his children stood, taking care to not step in any shards of glass.

Standing next to them both startled him slightly as he found the two had literally grown in his absence. Lydia was already nearly his height, and Tony was beginning to truly tower over him, easily a head taller than he.

"May I ask how this lamp became dust in the hour I took my eyes off this living room?" he asked gruffly, trying to keep his voice low.

"It was her fault!" Tony blurted, pointing to Lydia.

"Was not! Not my fault you throw like a girl!"

"Shhh, hey!" Columbo whispered harshly, arms outstretched. "Keep it down, here. I don't care whose fault it is. Just tell me what happened."

"Tony let Dog in the mud."

"Lydia broke the lamp."

"Is that true?" her father asked her.

"Well…Tony threw the ball at me, and, and I tried to catch it, but it's Tony and he can't throw worth a damn, so I tripped, and I…I knocked the lamp over. I'm really sorry," Lydia rambled in a panic. Her big, misty eyes remained glued to the floor.

"See? Told you she did it. And she cursed."

"She happens to be your younger sister," Columbo said to his son pointedly. "You set the example. You oughta know better."

"Why's it always my fault?" Tony exclaimed.

"Would'ja keep your voice down?" Columbo muttered. "Please. Horsin' around in the house like that, what're you, outta your mind? Chrissake, Tony, you're nearly old enough to drive. Why the hell wouldn't you just go outside?"

"...'Cause it was muddy," Tony said, now his turn to stare at the ground as his mistake dawned on him. His father put a hand to his forehead and looked at him in exasperation, close to laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Right! Right. Of course. Not too muddy to take Dog into the yard and let him make a big mess, but too muddy to play catch, of all things, despite havin' a perfectly paved driveway. Wonderful. Just wonderful." A tense silence hung for a long moment before he continued.

"It's not so much that I'm angry, you know. Disappointment is what it is. You try to expect better from your own kids. Every day and every night I go out there and I deal with some of the most dangerous people in this city-no, sorry, in the country. And both'a you…the one night I actually get to be in my own house, boy here I am like a real schmuck, lookin' forward to finally spendin' a night with my beloved children, who I never get to see, and you guys immediately gotta turn the house into Bedlam. And for what? I gotta say, that's what really gets me down."

"I'm sorry," Lydia repeated quietly. Her brother sheepishly echoed her sentiment as they crumbled under their father's scathing words, shocked and unaccustomed to such thorough upbraiding from the "good cop" of their parental unit.

"Well," Columbo replied with a sigh, the stress in his voice easing as he realized his message had sufficiently sunk in. "Not as sorry as you two're gonna be when your mom sees this thing in pieces. She was real fond of it, you know. It was some sorta antique from an estate sale. Tell ya the truth, me, I could take it or leave it. I think we can do better, anyway."

"I'll clean it up," Lydia volunteered quickly, starting towards the kitchen. Her father held out a hand.

"No, no, I don't want you touchin' all this broken glass," he said. "New lamp's comin' outta both your allowances, though. You and your brother clean the dog and start takin' care of all that mud. I'll handle this for now."

"How…are we gonna clean it?" Lydia asked. He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and looked down thoughtfully.

"Good question. I guess I'll go see what we have for dirt stains besides regular ol' soap. Gee, y'know, it's really me your mom's gonna kill if she finds out. I was the one who begged her not to put plastic on the furniture."

"We were gonna have plastic on our couch like Grandma's?" Lydia said, appalled. "I hate her couch, I'm always peeling myself off. I'd rather sit on the floor."

"Hey, you and me both. What's the point of keepin' it clean if you never actually sit on it, never enjoy it? It's like you don't even own the thing," Columbo replied, his righteous indignation flaring at the mere mention of this benign topic.

"Uh, why don't we ask Mom?" Tony said, interrupting this meeting of the minds. Columbo gave him a look.

"You wanna disturb your injured mother while she's resting?" Tony looked down and shook his head. "I thought so. We don't wanna add anything to her plate, just…just get Dog cleaned up and we'll figure somethin' out."

With effort, Tony hoisted up the floppy basset hound, its fat little paws shod in mud, and made his way toward the bathroom-to which his father quickly objected.

"Oh no, you don't! I just scrubbed that thing spotless. Out ya go. You're usin' the garden hose."

Long past scheduled, now with a clean Dog and a clean(er) living room, it was finally time to start dinner. Columbo had already entertained the notion of making this dinner preparation a teaching moment, but after his children's blatant demonstration of irresponsibility, they'd left him with no choice.

"So," he began, idly drumming his fingers on the kitchen benchtop. "You kids decide what you wanna eat? I stand by what I said, we'll have anything you want."

"...Really? Even though the twerp broke the lamp?" Tony asked.

"Shut up!" Lydia sniped. "It's 'cause of you I spent the last half hour scrubbing Lestoil into the couch cushions!"

"At least I didn't break Mom's favorite l-"

"Hey, hey. You two want a decent meal, don'tcha? 'Cause we still got some of your Aunt Rita's soup in the freezer, and I can just as soon heat that up." The two young Columbos launched into a chorus of negatives, fearful of their aunt's horrid porridge. Somehow, their mother was not the worst cook in the family. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Just settle down, quit arguing with each other for a second. Tell me what you want."

"Um…can you make your carbonara, please? It's been so long," Lydia said with a small smile, her brother for once in agreement with her. Columbo returned his daughter's grin with one of slightly different intent.

"Then carbonara we shall have. But I won't be makin' it," he said, dropping two well-worn aprons on the counter in front of his children. Noting and enjoying their shocked expressions, he continued, taking out all the necessary ingredients. "It's about time you kids learned your way around one'a those things, anyway. A kitchen, that is. You see, everyone should know how to make themselves at least one decent meal. Because if you can make one, you can make a ton. And if you remember just one thing from your old man, let it be the key to a real carbonara."

"What's that?" asked Lydia.

"Never put cream."

"Yeah? Then why's it creamy?"

"Put on the apron and find out."

"Do you always use bacon for carbonara?" Tony asked, cautiously chopping the smoked, thickly-cut meat. His father stood behind him with his arms crossed, keeping an eagle eye on his son's knifework.

"Well, bacon works fine in a pinch. Pancetta, even betta'. But what you really want is guanciale."

"Guanch-what was it?" Lydia asked, cracking an egg into a metal mixing bowl.

"Guanciale," her father replied.

"Guanciale," she repeated.

"That's right."

"What's that?"

"What, you dunno? Uh, cut smaller, son. You want an even dice so they all cook at the same time. Guanciale is pig cheek. You know, guancia, cheek," he replied, hand waving toward his face. His two children traded somewhat repulsed expressions. "C'mon, it's good stuff. Don't you listen to your mother when she orders from Vincenzo? Though really, I dunno how much good it'd do you. Hell, I can hardly understand him sometimes."

"That greasy butcher dude? I dunno. I never bothered," said Lydia. Tony slid the chopped bacon into the hot cast iron pan, his father taking the heavy pan and expertly stirring its contents.

"Ten years in L.A., not a lick of English, that guy. I don't even know how he managed that. You'd think he'd at least pick somethin' up at this point, by sheer accident at least. I figure he musta' gone outta his way."

"What's so important about listening to him, then?" Tony asked.

"Well…nothin' wrong with learnin' about your roots. And meat. Both good to know. I once arrested this guy who owned a meat packing plant, one of the biggest in the city, I mean every cut you could-"

"Ow," Tony yelped suddenly, recoiling. "The hell was that!"

"Hot oil, it bubbles up and pops. Just be careful, keep your distance, turn down the heat if you have to. Here, run it under some cool water," his father advised, checking his son's arm. He turned to his daughter. "How we doin'?"

"I've got my eggs and cheese here," Lydia said, fishing an errant piece of shell out of the bowl with a spoon. "But is this enough to make it creamy?"

"No. Well, kinda. But there is a secret," Columbo said, scooping boiling pasta water out of the pot with a mug. "Liquid gold, this stuff. It's got enough starch and moisture to bring everything together. You'll see."

"Pasta water, huh? Wouldn't have guessed," his son said, interest piqued.

"That's the trick. Along with not scrambling the eggs when you pour 'em into the pasta. Gotta wait 'til things cool."

"For some reason, I always thought it was more complicated than just water and eggs," Lydia replied in marvel.

"It's really all very simple, cookin' in general," Columbo said. "'Specially Italian food, the simpler, the better. There's real beauty in simplicity, y'know? I mean, for this dish, you can add whatever you want. Spinach, garlic, whatever. But for the love of God, if someone tries to tell you to add cream, you give 'em what for. Because I would be a bad father and a worse Italian if I let you loose into this world without knowing a real carbonara."

What was once disaster became dinner, which had gone much more smoothly than just about anything else that day. Columbo's progeny took to the kitchen far more naturally than their mother, and for that alone he was thankful. Of course, she was the far more efficient cleaner-their post-prandial trip back to the kitchen led them to a massive pile of dishes.

"See, that was fun, wasn't it? Didn't we have fun?" Columbo asked, putting his hands on his children's shoulders.

"Yeah," Lydia said, smiling fondly. "Can we do it again sometime?"

"Sweetheart, we can cook any time you want. It's the mess your mom cares about."

"Well, Mom usually has us help take care of-" Lydia started, earning herself a hard nudge from her brother. His father gave him a look.

"Don't you worry about that," he said. "Turns out our chefs weren't the only staff to no-show tonight. So you kids get to play dishwasher, too." He began clearing the dish rack, opening a nearby cabinet.

"Um, Mom doesn't put those bowls there anymore," Lydia said. "She puts them in the cabinet above the stove."

"Does she, now? Inn't that fantastic," he muttered. He shook his head.

"Now what?" Tony asked, wringing his apron dry from a particularly intense shift. His father sat on the living room armchair, half-studying the day's paper, too vain and lazy to fetch his reading glasses.

"Good question," he replied, looking up at them while putting down his paper. "We are gonna have some good, clean, family fun time."

Tony and Lydia stared at him in silence. Columbo stared back.

"Family…fun time? Ugh," Tony groaned, his expression contorting into the embarrassed disgust that at some point graces the face of most every teenager. "Can't we just watch TV?"

"TV. What's with that, you kids, always in a rush for the TV. When I was a kid I was lucky to get my hands on your uncle Sal's old crystal radio. Look, I found all these games here when I was in the basement, just sittin', collecting dust. How come we never play 'em?" Columbo rooted through the stack of gaming paraphernalia on the table next to him.

The classics included a deck of cards, as well as the gilded likes of Monopoly, Scrabble, and Twister. At the bottom laid more ersatz games, some of which hadn't even been opened. There was a horrid-looking one called "Hey Pa! There's a Goat on the Roof". And something in there called "Quack Attack".

"Please don't make us play Quack Attack," Lydia murmured to herself, staring at the wall. "Please. Not again."

"Ooh, I've got an idea. Why don't we put on a little music," Columbo announced with a clap of his hands, making his way over to the living room stereo system. "Whaddya kids like to listen to, huh? You like Sinatra? How 'bout Johnny Mathis?"

"Mathis?" Tony said, crumpling onto the sofa. He rolled his eyes. "What year is it? You want us to get up and do the Twist?"

"...Well, alright then. Somethin' more current,'' Columbo mumbled, thumbing through his wife's tastefully-curated, meticulously-sorted vinyl collection. "Zappa? That might be fun. Or, uh. Maybe not, 'cause I can never follow what he's playin'. He does one thing and then goes to another and then another. Your mom says the guy's a genius, I admit I don't really hear it. Zeppelin...think me and your mom saw 'em when we took your cousins?"

"Yeah, at The Forum a few years ago. I begged you guys to take me," Tony said.

"You were, what, 12? A show like that, no, you were too young. But man can they scream, those guys. My ears were ringin' for days. Maybe I shouldn'ta started at 'Z'. Let's try 'P'...what's this one, son?"

"Dark Side Of The Moon? For Monopoly?" Tony spluttered. "Little on the nose, don't you think?"

"What? I dunno," Columbo said, shrugging. "I just thought the album cover looked kinda neat. See, it's got a rainbow, and-hey, hey, listen, why don't you come over here then, Mr. Disc Jockey, sir, and pick somethin' out instead of sittin' there laughin' at your old man."

It was eventually decided that the more palatable musical stylings of the likes of ABBA and Donna Summer-at a reasonably quiet volume, of course-would score the Columbos' night of family fun.

Twister got the children's bodies moving, though it concluded with their father proudly sporting the family's second pulled muscle of the day. Monopoly got their minds moving, which ended in the typical commotion of sore egos and bank theft. Poker revealed to Columbo that his son had his mother's skill in bluffing, which was to say absolutely none, and that his daughter had every bit of his, which was to say in amounts potentially lethal.

The dreaded Quack Attack, much to Lydia's relief, remained coated in its layer of dust.

After sufficient amounts of good, clean, family fun, the children's father finally acquiesced and allowed them to switch on the idiot box. They came to rest in a rather cozy arrangement-Columbo on the couch, newspaper open, feet propped atop the ottoman and covered by Dog, whose form seemed almost liquid. An ice pack laid in his left lap, still bruised from Twister. Fast asleep, his daughter's head laid in his right, her freshly-washed hair wrapped in a towel. Really, he wasn't far behind her; he must've reread that paragraph about Ron Cey half a dozen times now.

Tony laid on the smaller loveseat reading his math book, illuminated by the one tabletop lamp still intact. He sat up.

"Uh, Dad?" he said, startling his father awake. "It's almost midnight and I have some homework I wanted to figure out, so I'm gonna go do that."

"Hm? Oh, wow," he said, yawning and glancing at the wall clock. "Twelve already. On a Saturday, too. And you wanna sit around doin' homework? You really are your mother's boy."

"Yeah. So I hear," he said tersely.

"Well, it's just that when I was your age, I'd be on my way out the house with your uncles around this time. We had that whole group, with some of the kids from the neighborhood. Where were we goin', what were we doin', for how long. Lord knows. We sure as hell didn't. Y'know, nobody really cared back then, they didn't have any of this 'do you know where your kids are' stuff. It just wasn't a matter of public concern. It's better that you're not like that these days, believe me. We'd be worried sick. 'Specially your mother."

"Right. Well, Mom was actually supposed to help me with it, that's why I'm trying to do it now. I have a quiz on Monday."

"This is family time, son, your times tables can wait, can't they?"

"Dad, I'm a sophomore."

"So you're doin' what, algebra? I might be able to help you with that. Show me whatcha got."

"You know how to find the derivative of a tangent line?" he snapped. "Because Mom gave me this formula, but I don't remember what she did with it. And the teacher wasn't that clear, and I don't get the book."

Columbo stared at his son and blinked.

"What?"

"They moved me up to calculus last month. They said I was ready for it. Apparently."

"...I didn't know that," he said quietly, hand to his stubbled chin. Admittedly a bit crestfallen, he wondered why he hadn't been informed of such an occasion. "That's really somethin', Tony."

"I guess Mom's been waiting for me to actually, like, start doing any good in that class before telling you," Tony said, as if reading his father's mind. Columbo was about to reply, but his son's face looked as though he had more to say. And so he remained silent.

Indeed, Tony glanced down before continuing hesitantly. "You've also just been…busy with work lately. Like…really busy."

Not a novel refrain in the Columbo household. Since before puberty, Tony harbored a raw, molten resentment against his father for his erratic schedule and frequent absences. With age and wisdom that lava came to cool, solidifying into numb, detached, jaded jags of obsidian. From a rational standpoint, the boy grasped perfectly well the sheer reputation and responsibility his father wielded, that he was not choosing to abandon him, or his mother, or his sister time and again, merely fulfilling his duty as a servant of public good. Thus, he held no conscious ill will toward him.

But that realization did very little to smooth those jags.

Columbo's eyes flicked downwards, his blood running cold. The stakes of his work were so high, so engrossing, all-encompassing, and his concentration so singular, that at times the rest of his life, no matter how important, seemed to simply dissolve away for months at a time. And this time, he hadn't even realized it.

It was a uniquely relentless barrage, case after high-profile case-an overlapping, unyielding onslaught, leaving him with little sleep, let alone downtime. Between investigations, complications, orchestrations, and confrontations, he'd barely had enough time to hear himself think, let alone fulfill his duties as family patriarch.

It was only as of late that he'd hit a lucky streak, having made key breakthroughs which allowed him to shut each case in a satisfying successive tandem and at last breathe a sigh of relief. Given a strongly-recommended (really, mandatory) vacation by the department, he was for once relieved to take it.

It was no wonder, then, that his own home, once a refuge of warmth, had begun to feel rather insidiously like a strange, cold place, where he felt all too acutely his own lack of presence. At work, though circumstances always changed, variables remained static. Someone was always murdered. Motives were always eminently human and, to his trained eye, at times comically easy to deduce. And as it was almost always a murderer's first rodeo, evidence was equally as often clumsily left for him to discover; if not, his adversary inevitably fell into one of his many well-placed traps.

The lieutenant found this blend of routine and challenge nourishing, in a way. Truly, life around corpses was rather easy. Corpses never grew, nor changed, nor resented you for accidentally missing their little league game that one time. Corpses never gave you looks of thinly-veiled heartache.

Corpses were safe. Corpses were predictable.

Life at home was transient.

Columbo tented his hands.

"Well, yes, you're right, Anthony," he said, voice softer. "I've been very occupied at work and I haven't really been home enough. And I'm very sorry about that."

"Yeah, I mean, I know. It's whatever." Tony said, crossing his arms and stifling the prickling sensation he for some reason now felt in the backs of his eyes. "I'm not a little kid. I get that it's, like, your job. It's not like you have a flashy office with a law degree on your wall but you're really sitting around on your own dick trading soybean futures like Uncle George. You do something important."

"I…you know what soybean futures are?"

"Uh. Kind of. Either way."

"You flatter me, son. But don't let George hear ya. And definitely don't let your mother hear ya."

"I'm serious. He doesn't even do anything. You do, at least," Tony insisted. "You can't get called to a crime scene and be, like, no thanks, I don't wanna."

"I could."

"Well yeah, but do that a couple times and suddenly Mom's paying the mortgage all by herself." Columbo's eyes glinted with pride.

"Calculus may elude you now, son, but you're pretty quick to the ways of the world. I was always like that, too, y'know."

Tony glanced at him. The traits he shared with his father were seldom compared by others in lights not neutral or negative: dark, untamed hair, an appetite for sweets, an eccentric nature, a distinct lack of organization. Such a distinctly positive comparison felt surprisingly welcome.

"...For real?"

"Yes, for real. Your mother, y'know, she was always great at school, I was always better at people. But you have a very mature view of things for your age, Tony, really. I'm impressed."

"Thanks."

"Hey, this is probably the longest conversation you and I have had in quite a while, innit?"

Tony paused and looked at his father. "Seems like it."

"I guess nobody gave me the memo about homicide season. But really, son, just because it's my job doesn't mean it's an excuse." Columbo patted the empty spot next to him on the sofa, putting down the newspaper. Tony slowly arose and took the seat.

"Y'see my job is important to me, to put it lightly."

"I know," Tony replied quietly. Another oft-uttered refrain.

"No more important than you guys. I mean it. I just…it's very busy, very easy to let it consume me. That's just the way I am. I dunno why. I wish I did, really. At least then I could control it somehow. But I can't, once my focus is set on something, I just can't. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't stop until I've pondered every possibility, fully examined something from every angle, solved the problem to my satisfaction. You ever get that way?"

Tony stared at him. His father had never spoken to him about himself so candidly, so sincerely before.

"Yeah. Yeah, sometimes."

"I had a feeling. I can just kinda tell, y'know. Your grandfather, my father-too bad you didn't really get a chance to know him-but he was kind of like that, too."

"He was?"

"Hell, worse than me. But I want you to know that I love you guys. And really, I'm gonna start doin' my best to remind you of it going forward. I'm not perfect, I can't always be here, the nature of my job is…well, you know."

"I know."

"You know. But I don't ever want to let you forget it again. Alright?"

"Well. Thanks," Tony said quietly, squeezing his eyes shut. His father patted him on the back, hanging his arm around his shoulder.

Tony suddenly felt some sloughing of stone inside of him.

"And good on ya, son, for gettin' into that class. I'm proud of you. Me, you know, I never did any of that stuff in high school, never really applied myself. Never had the time. I was never that great with numbers, anyhow. 'Specially when I had to start puttin' a lil' elbow grease into understandin' the material, that's when I really tuned out. You know your mother does all that stuff for the house? Every time I try to balance my own checkbook, she embarrasses me."

"You never had the time cause you had to work to support the family or cause you were out causing trouble with that group of yours?"

"Well," Columbo said, a fond, nostalgic smile spreading on his face. "Lil' column A, lil' column B. No, really, you stick with that stuff, Tony. You're real bright, it'll open doors for you."

"Uh, well," Tony started, swallowing. "The thing is, I, uh. I kinda wanna…quit that math class." He leaned back with a wince, fearing the worst.

Columbo looked him dead in the eye, taking a drag of his cigar.

"And why is that?" he asked calmly. Tony blinked.

"Aren't you mad?"

He exhaled. "No, son, I'm not mad," he said, grasping more firmly his son's shoulder. "It's normal, y'see, to feel stressed out and unsure when the going gets tough."

"Dad, the year started three weeks ago and I'm already behind. I'm never gonna catch up at this rate."

"But that's just my point. That's what speaks to your character, son, what you choose to do when you're at that fork. Like it or not, a lot of who you are in life is the decisions you make. Don't shoot yourself down immediately, you're never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. Try it first, really make an honest go of it, and then if you're strugglin', really needa drop it, well, then, at least you tried. A little perseverance can go a long way. Take it from me."

Tony paused for a while, ingesting his father's words. He cast a thoughtful gaze downward.

"I guess you have a point."

Columbo was pleasantly surprised that his son-who'd spent much of his double digit ages theretofore dismissing nearly everything that'd come out of his father's mouth-was even listening to him, let alone conceding to his wisdom.

"But is it really that important?" Tony continued. "I mean, come on, it's just calculus. I was doing fine without it. When am I gonna use it in my life, anyhow?"

"Oh, lotsa places if you get the type of job that requires it. And you really might, what with your noodle. All kids your age say that about all kindsa subjects, but it's good for that head'a yours," he said, tousling his son's hair. "Teaches you a new way of thinking, new way of solvin' problems, which you've always gotta do, or else you'll stop growin'. And that's just about the worst thing that can happen to you, is you stop growin'."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you always gotta challenge yourself, do things you think you can't do. Explore new avenues. That's really the only way to find out what you can do. Even if you don't gotta stand there deriving whatchamacallits every day for a living, your brain will thank you for the exercise. Your mom can vouch for that, I'm sure."

"Mm. Mom does have a mind like a card catalog."

"Yeah, well, mine's kinda like that too, just half the cards got dumped on the ground and mixed up. Hell, I wish I'd taken those classes. Calculus. Who knows where I'd be."

"It's never too late," Tony said. Columbo raised his eyebrows. A shining opportunity to parent had presented itself.

"Me? Oh, no, I could never. New tricks to an old dog, no. It couldn't be done."

"Sure it could," Tony said, retrieving his math book from the couch. "I mean, you may be a cop, but you're not dumb, Dad. Definitely not too dumb for calculus." Columbo snorted.

"Well, thanks, son, that's real high praise for a dumb ol' geezer like me. C'mon. Let's learn how to derive your whatchamacallits."