Too Many Cooks
1.
"I meant flowers, Brian, or a nice plant!" Esther exclaims, exasperated, as she slices the mushrooms.
Her husband gestures toward the small black pot he grips firmly in one hand. "This is a nice plant."
"A lily," Esther continues, tossing the mushrooms into the large pot simmering on the stove, "or a fern. Not a cactus."
"It's a blooming cactus," Brian retorts calmly, examining the tiny, bright orange flowers amidst the razor-sharp spines. "Come now, love: does Sandra really strike you as the lily type?" he scoffs. "She'll love this," he pronounces confidently, and Esther just shakes her head.
"Since you ate the entire jar of olives," she says, "you can just get right back on your bike and go to the market and get some more. And don't even think about getting distracted and vanishing for three hours if you want to come with me to deliver this to Sandra!"
Meanwhile Jack is placing a glass of water on the end table beside Sandra's sofa, and she is eyeing it and muttering, "Don't suppose you'd get me something stronger?"
"Not on your life," he replies succinctly, straightening. "Go on and take one of the tablets now."
Jack watches Sandra swallow the pain medication as if she's a recalcitrant child, and then he actually pats her hand. "Are you sure you don't need anything else? A snack or some soup or –"
She waves him away with her free hand, but she's smiling. "Honestly, Jack, I'm fine. I'm just going to lie here and watch crap telly and sleep a little." She draws the light blanket that he has placed neatly at her feet up to her waist, as if in confirmation of the words. "Thanks for bringing me home."
"Any time," Jack says, heading reluctantly toward the door to give her some privacy. "And by 'any time' I mean never again. You're too young to be popping in and out of hospital."
"I'm not," she points out wryly.
"You bloody well are, and so am I."
At that precise instant, Gerry is himself in hospital – or at least at hospital. He stands just inside the room that is supposed to be Sandra's, staring at the very empty, very neatly made bed and schooling himself to think that the spike of panic that has his pulse thumping rapidly is completely bleedin' ridiculous. The tell-tale squeak of rubber-soled shoes has him spinning rapidly. "The woman who was in this room," he demands, "Sandra Pullman. Where is she?"
The young brunette blinks at him, doe-eyed. "Ah, well, she's not here, sir."
"I can see that, can't I? Where is she?"
"Home, I imagine. She was discharged about an hour ago."
Gerry mutters some sort of thank-you to the nurse and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks back at the pristine bed, thinking, Typical bloody Sandra. The stubborn, impossible woman would rather call a cab than request the smallest favour from a friend, even though Gerry had already volunteered. He automatically pulls his mobile from his pocket and dials the familiar number.
An equally familiar voice, but the wrong voice, answers. "You with Sandra, then?" Gerry asks, and then winces at how abrupt he sounds.
"For the moment. I've got her home and settled and was just dismissed."
Gerry frowns, unable to alter the direction of his thoughts. Had Jack just beaten him to the punch, or had Sandra actually rung up and asked him to pick her up? And in either case, why, when they both knew Gerry was planning to do it himself?
All right, Gerald, don't act like a complete idiot, for once. Sandra's home and she's fine. "Well then, no need for me to be hangin' around the hospital, is there?"
"Not unless you're on the pull with the nurses," Jack retorts cheerfully.
"Right, then. See you Monday, mate. Best to the gov."
Sandra could refuse his offer of a ride, Gerry thinks, pivoting and striding toward the exit, but there's one thing she wouldn't refuse. The thing he did best.
Food, of course.
2.
He'd taken his time gathering ingredients for the perfect meal: a gorgeous marbled pork tenderloin, the tenderest organic greens, ripe plums for the sauce – those had taken some searching, and as he bumps the driver's side door of the Stag closed with her hip, he allows himself a self-congratulatory smile – and beautiful golden potatoes, ideal for roasting. No wine tonight, but he'd snagged a bottle of sparkling grape juice and, for dessert, a small box of those handmade dark chocolates Sandra likes so much – worth their weight in gold, if the price is any indication.
After approximately three minutes of mature deliberation he'd decided to cart the whole kit and caboodle over to Sandra's flat and prepare the meal there. That Aga had the look of virgin territory if ever Gerry Standing had met an untouched kitchen appliance. The poor thing, he thinks now, chuckling to himself. Admittedly the circumstances aren't quite what he'd envisioned, but he is finally going to prepare a meal for Sandra Pullman.
He presses the buzzer and waits, whistling jauntily to himself. He barely has time to register that the footsteps coming toward the door are far too heavy to belong to Sandra before the chain is drawn back and he finds himself face to face with Brian.
"Looks like we had the same idea," the former D.I. greets him cheerfully around the apple slice he's munching. "We've beat you to it, though." And then, shouting over his shoulder, "It's Gerry, Sandra. He's brought –"
"The shopping," Gerry grumbles through gritted teeth, stepping around Brian and plodding toward the kitchen.
Esther is creating a small mound of cheese cubes to accompany the remaining apple slices. "Hello, Gerry," she says neutrally, glancing up from her tasks. "I brought a big pot of spaghetti Bolognese that Sandra can just head up later. She didn't mention you were coming by."
"She didn't know." Gerry unceremoniously shoves both full carrier bags into the refrigerator, and suddenly his father's voice fills his head. We can't all be 'andsome, son, but we can all be polite. "That smells delicious, Esther. Maybe we should trade recipes," he says more graciously.
She smiles. Gerry knows perfectly well how firm Esther can be, but at the moment her eyes are soft. "Very fresh garlic," she emphasizes, "and the right kind of olives. That's the secret."
Sandra is sitting at the end of the sofa, her feet drawn up on the wide cushion and a deep purple throw tossed haphazardly across her lap. "First Rain Man, now Moe," she greets him sharply. "Where's Larry?"
"You'd know better than I would." She sounded grumpy, caustic even, but the ghost of a smile flits across Sandra's lips, and Gerry would swear she's struggling not to look pleased. He settles himself at the opposite end of the sofa. "I brought something to make for your tea, but Esther's got that sorted."
Sandra gestures toward the end table. "Brian brought me a cactus," she says, and now she is certainly pleased. "Maybe I'll manage to keep it alive – for a few months, anyway. Pretty, isn't it?"
Gerry can't help but grin. Brian, the anorak, has his odd moments of penetrating insight. "Suits you to a tee," Gerry pronounces, looking at the bright blooms and sharp armour the little plant wears simultaneously.
"Should I be offended?" she returns as Brian brings her the plate of fruit and cheese, having eaten only about one third of its contents himself. Over her husband's shoulder, Esther peeps in from the kitchen.
"Brian, come and put the kettle on."
"Why can't Gerry do it while I talk to Sandra?" Brian protests, but the look he receives from his wife has him back on his feet in a trice.
"Tryin' to give us a bit of quiet," Gerry murmurs with a smirk, causing Sandra to wince. He'd told himself he wasn't going to bring it up, but – "Why'd you ring Jack to pick you up? You knew I was coming for you."
She shrugs and glances away. "I hate hospitals, especially when I'm in 'em. The doctor released me early, and Jack lives closer."
"By five minutes," Gerry points out, even as he tells himself to drop it.
"Five minutes is five minutes." She is looking down at her fingers, though, toying with the fringe on the blanket.
He covers her busy fingers with his. "Sandra –"
He's interrupted by the door buzzer. "What is this place, Clapham bleedin' Junction?"
Jack has brought Sandra her favourite curry from her favourite take-away, along with a bottle of scotch from his private collection. "For when you're better," he specifies. "Off the tablets."
In five minutes more they're all gathered in the living room, snacking and drinking tea, and Sandra looks so pleased and appreciative that Gerry feels like the immature tosser she's always accusing him of being. Because, no matter how assiduously he tries to convince himself he isn't, he's simmering in his very own personal frothing broth of jealousy, directed at Brian and even Esther and especially Jack. Jack, whom Sandra called the one time she'd admit to needing something. Jack, who no doubt cared very much for Sandra, but who could never see her the way Gerry did, or love her the way Gerry did. Shouldn't that give Gerry some sort of precedence, even if he hasn't known Sandra for more than half her life?
Perhaps, Gerald, another voice, this one snide, cuts in, if he knew you loved her.
If she knew.
He looks over at the object of his affections, who is currently gobbling up morsels of cheddar and listening to Brian natter about cactus care. Her face is pale, her eyes so shadowed by fatigue that they look as if they're bruised, her body tucked into one of those dark velour track suits that should make her look at home on a council estate. Gerry wonders how the hell he worked shoulder to shoulder with her for so long without realizing how incredibly beautiful she was. Never, except with his daughters, has Gerry had such a strong desire to take care of someone he loves. Never has he met anyone less in need of his tender ministrations. Come to that, never has he met a woman less interested in being loved by him.
Couldn't she just sodding humour him?
"I'll shove off," Jack says after about half an hour. "Will we see you Monday?"
"Obviously," Sandra replies calmly. "D'you think I'm going to stay here and watch Loose Women and Top Gear repeats, or what?"
"Pity East Enders is on in the evening," Jack teases.
"Corrie," Brian puts in, grinning ghoulishly.
"I'll unpack the shopping so you know precisely what's rotting in your fridge, and I'll be on me way too." While the others are putting on their coats, Gerry accordingly busies himself in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of their collective departure. He realizes Sandra is hovering in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb with her arms folded, a good thirty seconds before she speaks, but he continues putting away the fruit and veg.
"I don't think I've ever had this much food in my flat at one time." She places her mug in the sink and stands studying the top of Gerry's balding head as he kneels on the tile floor. "It was nice of you to go to so much trouble. You could take those things with you, as I doubt I'm going to be making –"
"Roasted pork tenderloin with plum sauce," he supplies, and looks up to catch the pained, wistful expression on her face.
"That sounds great."
"It is," he assures none too gently, getting to his feet and closing the refrigerator door with an emphatic rattle. "Maybe another time."
She hasn't moved, so he can't just walk out of the kitchen. "Do you need something?" he prods.
Startled, she stands up very straight. "Of course not," she says instantly, and he mentally echoes, Of course not. "But –" She bites her lip on an uncharacteristic note of indecision, seeking his eyes. "If you don't have plans, you could stay and help me eat some of this food – and I still haven't watched The Philadelphia Story since you three gave it to me last year."
He wants to grab her in his arms and hug her until she can't breathe, but that would be very uncool. He raises an eyebrow instead. "Yeah?"
Sandra smiles slightly. "Yeah."
They watch the film first, and as Hepburn and Grant and Stewart cavort on screen in glorious black and white, Sandra abruptly unfolds her blanket, turns to recline against Gerry's chest, and spreads the blanket over both of them. At a loss, Gerry chuckles.
"What?" she asks, since there's a lull in the onscreen antics.
"If all our suspects were as impossible to understand as you are, UCOS would never solve a case."
She tilts her head back to look at him. "Stick to your villains, Gerry," she advises with a grin. "You don't need to understand me."
He runs his hands down her arms, unspeakably grateful to have her here and warm and conscious, and tosses a few words of gratitude up toward that God he might have to start believing in if things keep going his way. "Why didn't you want me to pick you up today?"
Oh, yeah, way to go, you moron. Ruin the best moment you've been given all day.
She stiffens. "What, you jealous of Jack now?"
"You know what? Yeah." His fingers close firmly around her shoulders to prevent her from sitting up. "I know you don't need me for anything, Sandra, and I know it's not Thursday, but –"
She is still, not actively trying to pull away, but rigid as he finally lets himself hold her the way he's wanted to since yesterday, folding his arms across her body and crushing her to him with surprising strength.
"If you'd been really hurt," he babbles rather incoherently. "If something happened to you – Sandra, I –"
She manages to put enough distance between them to turn and meet his eyes, and she looks so solemn that it freezes the words on his tongue.
"I'm fine." Her tone is unexpectedly gentle. "You know how hard my head is, Gerald." Her expression transforms into something wicked and she actually winks. "Almost as hard as my heart."
"Bitch," he laughs despite himself, admiringly, and she asks, "Pasta or curry?"
He wonders if they'll ever spend a normal evening together, watching telly and deciding what to have for tea, when she isn't wrecked and grieving or infuriated or concussed. Probably not, but he'll take what he can get.
"Let me just see if I've got this, yeah?" Gerry runs his fingers through Sandra's hair, massaging her scalp but avoiding the sore spots, as he considers. "You didn't want me comin' round, but seein' as I'm here, you don't want me to leave."
He feels rather than hears her chuckle. "Something like that," she confirms.
"The old Standing charm," he exults gleefully. "It's worked all me life."
"That's not charm, you tosser," she retorts. "It's erosion."
"Potato, po-tah-to," he responds airily. "Am I or am I not sittin' here with a gorgeous, brilliant blonde who also happens to be significantly younger than I am?"
"Who also outranks you significantly."
"Yeah, like I was sayin': result."
She laughs helplessly, and Gerry silently vows never to be jealous of Jack again.
A/N: Thanks for hanging in there, dear readers. I love to hear what you think.