Mike cleared his throat again, angry with himself for such a ridiculously excessive reaction to the dropped book. The light-hearted atmosphere he had striven so valiantly to establish had vanished in that split second, and he wondered how long it would take them to get it back, if at all.
Behind him, he could hear Steve chuckle gently and the grip on his neck lessened and disappeared as the comforting hand was removed. He took a deep breath and stared down at the book, trying to focus on the words on the page. He reached into his shirt pocket and took his reading glasses out, slipping them on as he tilted the cookbook up slightly, resting the top against the tin of anchovies so it was at a better angle. The brace was making it hard for him to lean forward.
"So, ah, the main course… ah, we're gonna put them on the table, right?" he asked, having trouble getting his concentration back.
"Yeah," Steve said softly, and Mike felt the younger man's hand lightly on his back and a couple of gentle, encouraging pats.
"Okay, ah, the beef…"
"Got it here," Steve said. "Next." His tone was light and playful, and Mike smiled briefly, appreciating the effort.
"Ah, bacon…olive oil…wine…onions…flour…mushrooms…" As Mike read out the ingredients, Steve transferred what was needed to the table, his frown continuing to deepen. Mike's voice lost its tension as he proceeded and by the time he finished, they were almost back to the playful mood they had managed to capture before.
Mike turned away from the counter, closing the cookbook so the recipe wasn't visible. "So, you have any idea what we're cooking?"
With faux irritation, Steve stared at the various items on the table. "I'm beginning to form an hypothesis…"
"Yeah, right," Mike snorted, then squatted carefully beside the open duffel bag. He reached in and started to withdraw a frying pan.
"Here, let me get that," Steve said, limping closer to the bag and bending down. "You've got too much cooking to do to go on the DL before we even get started."
With a grateful nod, Mike pulled himself up with the aid of the table, and waited patiently while Steve unpacked two large frying pans and a heavy pot with a lid. He stared at the last item with a furrowed brow. "What the hell is this? Is this cast iron? It looks ancient. Did your ancestors bring it over from the 'old country'?"
Mike snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's called a Dutch oven, smart ass, and, no, my wife bought it just after we were married."
"So it is an antique?" Steve glanced up at Mike, trying to suppress his smirk. He laughed out loud when the older man reached out and cuffed him on the back of the head. The good mood was coming back.
"All right, so, the first thing we have to do," Mike said seriously, turning back to the counter, "is simmer the bacon lardons for ten minutes in 4 cups of water."
He stared at Steve, whose blank expression was punctuated by the occasional blink. The older man waited, equally expressionless. Finally Steve shook his head once very slowly, closed his eyes briefly and asked, "What?"
Mike laughed evilly and pointed toward the bacon on the table. "Do you have a cutting board?"
"Ah, yeah, over there," Steve pointed towards the far side of the counter.
"Good. Put it on the counter and get the sharpest knife you have. Then take the bacon and I'll show you what to do."
Doing what he was told, Mike instructed the younger man on how to produce lardons from the thick cut bacon. He had already filled a large saucepan with four cups of water and, when Steve had finished, put the lardons in and turned on the heat. "They have to simmer for ten minutes. Now we have other stuff to get ready."
Steve, who had put on an apron before he began to cut the bacon, was leaning against the counter, contemplating this aspect of his partner he had never seen before. Mike glanced up and caught the contemplative look. "What?"
With a sudden broad smile, the younger man shook his head quickly and pushed away from the counter. "Ah, nothing, nothing. So, what's next, Julia?"
Mike gave him a hard stare before turning slowly back to the cookbook and flipping it open again. "Put the Dutch oven on the stove and turn the burner on," he instructed as he picked up the stewing beef and took it out of the package. He opened an upper cupboard and took out a dinner plate, then grabbed the roll of paper towels and ripped off a couple of sheets.
As Steve watched, his partner, with an ease and familiarity that was downright impressive, laid the beef on the plate and patted the excess moisture from it then set it aside. "Don't just stand there," Mike said without looking, "clean off the cutting board and the knife and slice up the onions and carrots. Chop chop."
"Yes, sir," Steve chuckled then set about his task, moving his centre of operations to the table after the requested cleaning. Mike was doing something at the counter with the dried herbs and what looked like a ball of string. They worked in silence for the next several minutes; Steve continued to dart surreptitious glances in his partner's direction, trying to gauge his mood. He knew Mike was still rattled by his reaction to the dropped book, and he also knew that at some point in the day, they would need to begin to talk.
As they worked, Mike did an exceptional job of keeping the recipe a secret, always aware of Steve's location and using his body to shield the view, or closing the book at the appropriate moment. It became an escalating cat and mouse game that they both began to enjoy.
For Steve, the diversion offered him another benefit. He hoped that the more time he spent with Mike in quiet companionship, the more those nightmarish visions of his partner's lifeless body lying on the dirt road would start to fade. It seemed lately that every time he closed his eyes, that was the image he saw.
Mike had caught him staring a few times but declined to comment; the older man was doing the same thing, and he knew they were both taking solace in the gesture. Just to be in the same space, breathing the same air, without the pressure of having to talk about anything more pressing than the meal they were preparing was the healing balm they both needed at the moment.
"There, done," Steve announced triumphantly as he put the knife down and stood. "Carrots and onions chopped. What's next, boss?"
Mike glanced over from his position beside the stove. "Okay, good. So, I am going to take over making the main course, and you are going to create the salad." He flipped to the back of the cookbook and picked up a folded piece of paper from inside the back cover. He unfolded it and handed it over.
"What is this?" the younger man said with sarcastic incredulity. "A recipe? You mean I don't have to do it using my intuition and the power of positive thinking?"
"Har-dee-har-har," came the dry response. "Don't get cocky. This is a tricky one. Ever heard of Salade Nicoise?" Mike asked, pronouncing it perfectly.
Eyebrows raised, Steve looked up from his perusal of the paper in his hand to Mike's wide questioning eyes. "Oh, I had one of those once, at a fancy restaurant in Berkeley with a girlfriend who had a rich daddy. I loved it." He held up the paper. "That's what this is?"
Mike nodded with a smile.
Steve looked back down at the paper. "Cool."
"Well, I don't know if it's cool, but you better get started. You still got that Hibatchi out back?" On Steve's nod, he continued, "Well, get it fired up. You have to grill the tuna. And that's just the start."
With a stunned but very pleased grin, the younger man looked back up, and Mike was gratified to see the delight in the now animated green eyes. "Yes, sir." Reaching out to slap his partner's arm, Steve grabbed the cane and crossed to the backdoor, exiting out onto the patio.
Mike watched him go, his smile disappearing. He leaned against the counter, his gaze unfocusing as his left hand drifted up to rest against the brace over the still healing incision above his fractured collarbone. Try as he might, he was having no luck getting the sounds and images out of his mind.
The loud bang of the dropped book had shaken him more than he cared to admit. And not for the first time he began to doubt his ability to put this all behind him, or at least into some kind of perspective, and be able to go on with his life and his job.
For him, the horrors of Kentucky were all audial. The deafening cacophony of rifle bullets tearing apart the Galaxie was only one part of the nightmare he kept reliving; the other was the long distance horror of those two shots, while he lay helpless and grief-stricken, paralyzed with the knowledge that his partner and best friend was dead. The light had gone out of his own life at that moment, and even though Steve wasn't killed, and was indeed with him at this very moment, the flame hadn't been rekindled; he wasn't sure if it ever would be again.
In the past few hours, the realization that maybe now was the time to finally accept that captaincy they had been dangling in front of him for so many years was beginning to coalesce in his mind. He swallowed heavily, blinked quickly several times, and turned back to the counter. He didn't want Steve catching him lost in thought; this was something he had to work out on his own. The younger man had enough on his own plate without Mike adding more at this point.
Several minutes later, Steve limped back into the kitchen. "The coals are heating," he announced as he crossed to the counter and put the recipe down. He had read through it thoroughly while waiting for the coals to catch, and was a little daunted at the amount of work to be done, but felt he was up to the challenge.
As he began to pull the necessary ingredients to one end of the counter, he glanced up at Mike, who had finished searing the beef in the Dutch oven and was now sautéing the carrots and onions. Catching himself from doing a double take, Steve knew that something had transpired while he had been in the backyard; Mike's mood had definitely sobered. He glanced around the room; nothing was amiss.
Smiling wistfully to himself, Steve turned his attention back to the recipe and sighed quietly. He knew his partner was dealing with his own demons; he had hoped the older man would be able to keep them at bay until a more propitious moment.
An uneasy silence filled the room as they both went about their respective tasks. Mike could feel Steve stealing glances at him, and he knew his own mood had changed, and not for the better, in the few minutes the younger man had spent getting the Hibatchi fired up in the backyard. He mentally kicked himself for ruining the happy and relaxed mood they had managed to attain.
He stopped stirring the bacon into the pot and turned to face the other man. "Steve, I'm, ah, I'm sorry –"
"So, where did Jeannie get the idea to give you a Julia Child cookbook?" Steve interrupted him, glancing over quickly with a broad grin. "I mean, you know, I thought she might start you out with something like 'Barbequing in California' or something like that?"
Mike had frozen, his brows knit in confusion. When he realized what his partner was doing, he relaxed and an appreciative smile began to slowly build. "Oh, ah," he cleared his throat, "I don't know, I guess she thought I would need a challenge to keep me interested… I really have no idea…" He turned back to the stove and started to stir the pot again. He glanced sideways at his grinning partner, and his eyes brightened suddenly.
There was still a long and rocky road ahead, he knew, but at least he was going to have his best friend by his side as he walked it.