A Matter of Trust 2

The first thing he noticed was how dark it was in the apartment. The curtains were closed, and the living room light was dimmed. As his eyes quickly adjusted, he saw that the couch and coffee table had been pushed aside and his kitchen table was now the centrepiece of the living room, under the ceiling light. It was set, rather elegantly he noted, for one. A large white candle, in a glass flute, was lit and cast a warm glow.

The light in the kitchen was on, he noted, and his nose and ears were treated to appetizing smells and the smooth, relaxed trumpet stylings of Miles Davis's "Kind of Blue".

Steve Keller was still standing in the doorway, trying to sort all this out, when Mike Stone emerged from the kitchen. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a black bow tie and what looked like tuxedo pants. He snagged a black jacket from the back of the chair at the table and put it on quickly, snapping the French cuffs into place.

With a broad grin, he approached the bewildered young man at the door. "Ah, Mister Keller, right on time. May I take your coat?" He held out his hands.

Steve unwittingly took a step backwards, face blank, brow furrowed in confusion. After a split second of indecision, he shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over.

Mike placed the coat over one arm, then gestured toward the couch. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Please, take a seat and I will get you an aperitif – we are offering a California Reisling tonight. As a hearty Bordeaux will be served with dinner, a nice light white is the preferred starter, if that meets with your approval?"

"Uh…sure," Steve said slowly as he crossed to the couch and sat, still obviously confused.

Mike gestured at the coffee table. "While you're waiting, we have assembled some reading material – today's Herald, Chronicle and the New York Times. I will be right back with your wine." He turned smartly and disappeared into the kitchen, taking the coat with him.

Steve heard the fridge door open and a drink being poured. He hadn't moved a muscle when Mike reappeared, a glass of white wine on a small serving tray and,

carefully leaning forward, offered him the glass with a "Sir."

Steve accepted the drink with a nod, brow still furrowed. He watched as Mike returned to the kitchen. Slowly he leaned back against the couch, trying desperately to figure out what was going on. A small smile appeared on his lips; he had no idea what Mike's game was but for now he decided to play along.

Ten minutes later, Steve was almost finished his Reisling and was deep into the Times op-ed page when Mike reappeared. There was a discreet throat-clearing to get his attention, then "Excuse me, Mr. Keller. Your dinner is about to be served, if you're like to take a moment to freshen up?"

With a bemused smile, Steve handed over his wineglass and got to his feet. He retreated upstairs to the bathroom and Mike disappeared once more into the kitchen.

As Steve took his seat at the table, Mike approached, plate in hand. Before setting it down, he announced, "Tonight's repast consists of pot roast marinated in red wine, with accompanying roasted potatoes and carrots, asparagus in a peppercorn vinaigrette, a Waldorf side salad and fresh, warm sourdough bread." He indicated the salad and bread, already on the table, with his free hand.

Mike set the plate down with a bow and added, "Please enjoy your meal." He returned once more into the kitchen and emerged seconds later with an open bottle of wine. He formally presented the bottle. "A 1967 Pomerol Bordeaux – an excellent year. May I?" he asked, gesturing to the red wine glass on the table.

Steve nodded. "Please."

Mike picked up the glass and poured a small amount, then presented the glass for tasting. Still smiling slightly, Steve took the glass, twirled it, sniffed, then took a sip. After the appropriate hesitation, he nodded approvingly.

"Very good, sir," said Mike, pouring a full glass before retreating to the kitchen.

With a quiet chuckle, Steve put the glass down and picked up his knife and fork.

With no small amount of trepidation, he took a bite of the roast. His eyebrows shot up; it was delicious. He was wiping his mouth with his napkin when Mike appeared once more at his side.

"Sir, I have a request. It seems there is a great deal of food left over, and I was wondering if the maitre d', the sommelier and the chef could join you for dinner. They actually won't take up much room; only one chair, actually…" he said with a slight smile and a shrug, indicating another chair a few feet away.

Steve looked up, his face expressionless. He inhaled deeply, then said firmly, "No, I don't think so."

The response was obviously so unexpected that Mike's couldn't stop his crestfallen look, and he actually took a half-step back. "Ah, very well, sir -" he began quietly.

"What I mean is," Steve cut him off, "that chair is reserved for my partner." His face softened. "If you can find him, please let him know that I would be honoured to have him as my dinner companion."

Mike seemed to deflate, and a hand shot to his mouth as he struggled to regain his composure. He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Of course, sir. I will endeavour to find him." He turned quickly and strode back to the kitchen.

A minute later, minus the suitcoat and tie, sleeves rolled up, with a full plate, cutlery and placemat in hand, Mike returned to the table. Putting everything down, he moved the chair over then made a second kitchen trip, returning with a wine glass and napkin. "This looks good," he said with a smile as he sat.

Steve had continued to eat, and now he slowly looked up, chuckling and shaking his head. He still had no idea what Mike had in mind with all this, but he was going to take his time finding out – this was too much fun.

Mike rearranged everything front of him and poured himself a glass of wine before tucking into the roast. "Umm-umm, if I do say so myself, this is pretty good," he said after the first bite. "So, how was your day?" he asked with pointed nonchalance.

Steve gave him a sideways look, still suspicious. "Didn't do too much, just caught up on some paperwork." He went on to explain that there were no new cases, it was very quiet and everyone was using the time to get files and reports up to date. "I did get a chance to talk to Roy and Bill, though."

They continued to eat, not making eye contact. "Oh," said Mike, "how're they doing?"

"Fine."

"That's good. What did Bill have to say?" Mike asked with feigned indifference.

Steve looked directly at him. "You can relax," he said. "He told me pretty well the same thing you did, about what happened."

"Good," said Mike, continuing to look at his plate.

Steve stared at his partner for a few seconds before continuing. "He did tell me one thing you didn't." He saw the hesitation as Mike reached for his wine glass.

"Oh, what was that?" he asked before taking a sip.

Steve took a deep breath and continued to study his friend's face as Mike deliberately concentrated on the contents of his plate. "He told me how terrified he was to see you lying on the floor, the butcher knife in your stomach up to the hilt. How he tried to stop the bleeding with a towel. How much blood there was and how they were trying to keep you from going into shock … how helpless he felt."

Mike's hands were shaking slightly but he continued to stare at the table, eating slowly.

"He was thinking about me, he said, how he wished I was there if you died…but also how glad he was that I wasn't, that I didn't have to go through what he was…" Steve's voice trailed off. He lowered his eyes and the silence lengthened. Neither of them was moving.

Into the stillness, Steve whispered, "I'm kind of glad I wasn't there…"

Mike nodded slowly. "Me too."

Eventually, Steve looked up, a wry, knowing smile touching his lips. "You sonofabitch," he said quietly. Never was an expletive uttered with as much affection. Mike looked up quickly, startled.

"That's what all this is about, isn't it? My favourite music, wine, food," Steve said, gesturing around the room. "You knew I'd talk to Bill today, didn't you?"

Mike had begun to smile a little. He shrugged. "Does a bear sh- ?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Steve cut him off with a small laugh. He shook his head ruefully. "You did all this just to prove to me that you know me better than I know myself, am I right?"

Mike shrugged again. "Maybe not better… But well enough to know that you have to learn to trust me about some things. I know how much you worry about the people you care for – almost as much as I do," he said with a chuckle, "but you have to realize that sometimes those people want to spare you from things that you have no control over."

Steve laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I don't know anyone who goes as far to prove a point as you do."

Mike grinned. "Part proving a point, part apology," he said, then gestured at the table. "You have to admit, dinner is a lot better than an 'I-told-you-so'," he added with a laugh.

As they stared at each, Steve saw for the first time the dark circles under Mike's eyes, and realized the physical toll the day must have taken. The older man had been his usual energetic self, and it had been easy to forget he was still recovering from a potentially life-threatening injury.

"Look, we can talk more about this later. I think you've done enough for the day."

"But there's still dessert…" Mike began to protest.

Steve held up a hand. "Don't tell me, apple pie with vanilla ice cream?"

"What else?"

"We can have it tomorrow, or even later tonight. But right now I think you need to go lie down." The latter was said in all seriousness; Steve meant business.

"What about the dishes –?"

Steve cocked his head. "Ah, I think I hear the busboy arriving," he said quickly, continuing the game Mike had begun with his arrival home that evening. "He'll take care of that, and I know the dishwasher is coming a little later."

Mike looked at his young partner with affection. He nodded slowly. "I am a little tired. Are you sure…?" He gestured at the table.

"Yes. Get upstairs. I'll be up in awhile; I'm gonna give the busboy a hand."

"Okay." Mike couldn't suppress a small wince as he got up; it was the first one Steve had noticed. As Steve started to gather the dishes, he kept an eye on Mike as the older man made his way slowly up the stairs.

# # # # #

An hour later, the dirty dishes stacked by the sink, the table and chairs now back in the kitchen and the living room restored, Steve made his way upstairs. He had been impressed by the amount of work that had gone into making the evening so special; and he was a little worried that Mike had overdone it.

He stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. Mike was lying flat on his back, still fully dressed, spread-eagled diagonally across the bed. Before Steve could move, he heard a cartoonish groan and he chuckled. Crossing to the doorway, he poked his head in the room. "Are you okay?"

Without moving, his voice laced with exhaustion, partly real, partly for affect, Mike answered, "This is as far as I got."

"I see that."

Ever so slowly, Mike began to sit up. "I'll get into bed –"

"Don't move," Steve ordered as he came into the room. Mike dropped back onto the bed. "Are you comfortable?"

"Uhm, oddly enough…yeah, I am…"

"Well then, why don't you just go to sleep right there?"

"In my clothes?"

Steve chuckled as he slipped Mike's shoes off, then knelt on the bed beside him to undo his belt and slide it out from under him. "Why not? I'm sure you've done it once or twice before, right?"

"Not for a long time…."

"Well, return to your youth," Steve answered with a grin as he slid off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned immediately with the bag of medical supplies and knelt once more on the bed. "I have to change the bandage again."

Mike reached for the buttons on his shirt but Steve beat him to it. "Just lie there, I'll do it." He did have to change the bandage, but he was also worried that all the physical activity Mike had done during day may have put a strain on the sutures, and possibly ruptured one.

"Deal," agreed Mike, dropping his arms to the bed again.

As Steve undid the shirt, he asked, "So, how did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Today. Everything."

His eyes still closed, Mike grinned. "Friends in odd places. Well, a friend. One of my old buddies drives a cab. I called him first thing this morning and rented his services for a couple of hours. He drove me to my place, then a grocery store, a butcher, a liquor store…you know, the usual. He even carried the bags for me."

By now Steve had Mike's shirt open and eased the bandage off. He was relieved to see that everything looked fine. When he got the new gauze with the antibiotic ready, he picked up Mike's left hand and placed it on his stomach to hold the gauze in place again while he cut the tape.

"The rest I did myself," Mike sounded pleased with himself, even through a yawn. "It's amazing what you can learn from cookbooks." He sounded surprised. "Do you know I've never cooked asparagus before?"

"Well, it turned out perfectly," Steve agreed as he did Mike's shirt up and repacked the plastic bag. "I'll be right back." He slid off the bed and disappeared once more into the bathroom, coming back with a glass of water and a pill. "You have to take your antibiotic."

He put the glass on the nightstand and helped Mike into a half-sitting position, then handed him the glass. Pill down, Mike laid back down and closed his eyes. Steve grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed, lifted Mike's head and slid it under.

As Steve began to get off the bed once again, Mike took his arm. He opened his eyes, raised his head slightly and stared at his young partner, his expression serious. Steve waited, frowning. Finally Mike asked, "Are we good?"

Steve stared at him for several seconds, then smiled warmly and nodded. "Yeah, we're good." He paused. "But only if you promise me you won't leave the house tomorrow," he admonished with a wagging finger.

"Why would I?" Mike said with smile, releasing Steve's arm. "We have all those wonderful leftovers downstairs."

Steve chuckled. "Yes, we do. And I'll do you one better – for the next month or so, I promise to park the car so your door is on the downhill side."

Mike laughed and then moaned. "Oh, don't make me laugh…I'm too tired and it hurts," he complained with a chuckle, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. "I never realized cooking could be so exhausting."

"That's 'cause you don't do it often enough. But I appreciate what you did, I really do. Oh," he cocked his head, "I think I hear the dishwasher arriving. I better get down there." He reached out and laid a hand on Mike's forehead. Mike closed his eyes. "You sure you're okay here?"

There was no response; Mike was already asleep. Steve let his hand linger.

He hadn't told Mike everything that Bill had told him. He hadn't said that when they lifted Mike to put him on the stretcher, the pain was so intense that he had cried out. 'He cried out for you,' Bill had told him, 'he was in such agony…and it was you he wanted with him…'

Steve eased himself off the bed, crossed to the linen closet in the hallway and returned with a blanket. Gently, trying his best not to disturb the sleeping man, he laid the blanket over his friend. He stood there for a moment, then leaned down and lightly kissed Mike's forehead.

He walked to the door, turning back briefly as he turned the light off. He closed the door quietly and headed down the stairs. He put the needle back on the Miles Davis album and turned the volume down a bit, then went into the kitchen and started to run the water to do the dishes.

HeHeHe