Steve was standing over the Hibatchi, a makeshift tent of heavy aluminum foil serving as a cover. He had prepared the fish as instructed on the handwritten recipe sheet, and now he was waiting patiently for it to grill on the second side. He had been in the backyard for over ten minutes now; it was necessary for him to watch the fish but it was also providing an opportunity for his partner to have some time alone to pull himself together.
He knew that Mike, like he himself, was having a hard time coming to grips with what they had gone through in Kentucky; the accidental dropping of the book had confirmed it for the younger man. But it also highlighted a fact that he was so very reluctant to accept: that he didn't think he was capable of helping the older man over this particular mountain.
He was also unable to reconcile a simple truth about himself. As he had stood with Sheriff Noble and Sergeant Pearson staring at the decimated Galaxie, he couldn't believe the only projectile that had found its mark had been the slug that had torn through his partner's shoulder. By rights, they all should have died. It had been unimaginable luck, and no small amount of skill he acknowledged modestly, to maneuver the car past the pick-ups and down the road without any further human damage.
But he had been occupied with the task of getting them out of there; Mike, who had already been shot, was lying helplessly atop Rutter, instinctively protecting the felon, anxiously anticipating the next bullet… the one that would kill him.
Steve glanced at the closed kitchen back door. No wonder Mike didn't want to see the Galaxie, he thought. He himself had only a vague recollection of the large slugs tearing up the interior of the sedan; Mike, he knew, would have heard every single bullet hit its target, be it the sharp ping of metal or the muffled thud of upholstery. He would have heard every one of those forty-seven shots, including the one that had passed through his own body.
Shaking himself from his reverie, Steve looked at his watch. "Geez," he gasped as he used the tongs to remove the aluminum cover and bent closer to the tuna. Using the tongs once again to press against the scaly skin, he nodded with a pleased, closed-mouth smile and picked up the plate lying on the small table nearby. He exchanged the tongs for a chef's turner and slid the cooked fish onto the plate.
"Grilled to perfection," he announced with a flourish as he pulled open the door and reentered the kitchen, limping to the counter. He brandished the plate as a grinning Mike looked up from the stove, still presiding over the Dutch oven.
"Excellent. Step one done." He put down the large slotted spoon he was using and put the lid on the large pot. "This is ready for the oven. I can't lift it, sorry." He opened the oven door and stepped aside.
"No problem." Steve crossed to the stove and, using an oven mitt on the hot handle, picked up the Dutch oven and carefully placed it on the bottom rack. As he backed away, Mike shut the oven door.
"Okay, that's going to take about three and a half hours, so we have some time." He glanced at the plate of grilled tuna. "Why don't you start on the vinaigrette – it'll take you awhile to mince the garlic and the parsley. I'll show you how to do it."
"What, you don't think I know how to mince garlic?" Steve reached into a drawer and pulled out a garlic press.
"That's a press. It needs to be minced."
"There's a difference?"
"If Julia Child says to mince garlic, we mince garlic. Clean the knife and the cutting board you used before and I'll show you."
As Steve set about his task, Mike sat at the table and closed his eyes, resting his left hand on top of his right shoulder. The younger man glanced over. "You okay?"
Inhaling deeply as he opened his eyes, Mike nodded. "Yeah. Just a little sore. It still hurts like hell."
"I bet it does. Look, why don't you just sit there for a bit; I can figure this out."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," Steve said softly and watched as Mike closed his eyes again. He opened an upper cupboard and took out a beaten up old cookbook. Laying it on the counter, he opened the back cover and looked for the index, quickly finding what he was searching for, and flipped to the required page. Alternately glancing at the book and the cutting board, he began to very slowly mince the garlic.
Finally finding a rhythm, he settled into the task, shooting another glance towards his still silent partner. He hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath. "So, ah, I'm, ah, I'm sorry about dropping the book earlier. I should have been more careful."
Mike's eyes had opened and he studied the younger man in silence for several seconds. "You don't have to apologize for that; it was an accident, right?"
Steve nodded, staring at the cutting board and continuing to slice the garlic. "Of course, but… well, Mike, why didn't you want to see the Galaxie?" His eyes remained down; but, there, he had put all his cards on the table. He could feel Mike's eyes boring into the side of his head. He waited, concentrating on the task before him.
Mike's heart had begun to pound and he stared in an uncomfortable silence at his young friend's profile. His chest began to heave and his left hand drifted slowly down from his right shoulder to rest in his lap. "Because I didn't need to see it. Because I know we all should have died in that car… Because I've never been up against that kind of firepower before and I never want to be again."
Steve had stopped moving and was staring straight ahead. When Mike finished talking, he closed his eyes and nodded slowly.
"Steve," came the heartbreakingly soft voice from across the room. The younger man looked up and met the soft and troubled blue eyes. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."
His heart skipping a beat, not expecting what he had just heard, Steve's brow furrowed sharply. "Do what?" he breathed quietly.
Mike looked down, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "My job."
Catching his breath, Steve put the knife down and turned slowly at the counter. "What are you talking about?" he asked softly.
Clearing his throat, briefly meeting the green eyes then looking down, Mike said wistfully, "Steve, I think it might be time for me to take that captaincy they keep offering me."
The uneasy silence lengthened. "Why?"
Mike swallowed heavily and tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling and inhaling loudly. "Because I don't know if I can go back out on the streets again, that's why." His left hand found its way to his right shoulder once more.
Waiting a few seconds, trying to get his sudden surge of anger under control, Steve tried not to snap. "How do you know?"
Hearing the pique in the younger man's voice, Mike met his eyes. "I don't," he admitted, "but I'm not about to put other lives at risk trying to find out." Before he could be interrupted, he continued quickly, "Look, Steve, I'm the oldest cop still on the streets. It's about time I traded in my gumshoes for a desk, don't you think?"
"No, I don't think… and to be perfectly honest, I don't think you're thinking right now either." The blue eyes flashed rage but he plowed on, undaunted. "Mike, what we went through is still very fresh, you know that… and you and I, well, we have different issues, obviously. But, my god, Mike, never for one second have I ever thought you and I were through on the streets… or through as partners."
He watched as the piercing blue eyes softened, staring at him as if begging for a lifeline. His heart broke at the naked entreaty on the older man's expressive face.
"I don't want it to be…" Mike closed his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I just don't know…"
With a short, sharp laugh, Steve smiled warmly, pushing himself away from the counter and taking a step towards the table. Mike's eyes snapped open and glared at him in confusion and alarm. "Michael, nobody knows," the younger man said warmly, shaking his head gently, "but we have time on our hands, you and I." He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms, in a valiant and successful attempt to look relaxed and in control. He gestured towards Mike injured shoulder with his chin. "How long are you going to be in that brace?"
As if caught out, Mike dropped his left hand and shifted slightly on the chair. "At least a month, maybe six weeks. Why?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure they're not going to let you on the streets until you're completely healed, right?"
Mike nodded reluctantly, realizing where this was going. "Right…"
Steve's warm smile got a little bigger. "So, I'm thinking, we obviously both have some, ah… issues with what we've just been through," he paused and took a deep breath, the smile wavering, "so what say you and I take the time off we have coming and, I don't know… deal with these things the best we can…" He paused again, his green eyes full of love, hope and encouragement.
"Because," he continued lightly, as he turned back to the cutting board and picked up the knife, "I am not retiring, and there's no way in hell I'm breaking in a new partner, so it's you and me, Michael, and don't you forget that, all right?" He started back to work on the garlic, his eyes bright and his smile lingering. He could feel his partner's eyes on him for several long seconds, then heard a light and gentle snort. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mike get slowly to his feet and cross towards him.
His eyes back on the garlic and the cutting board, Steve felt Mike's hand on his shoulder then grip the back of his neck.
His strong fingers relaying everything he suddenly couldn't put into words, Mike stood silently beside the younger man for several long seconds. Then he removed his hand, cleared his throat, and looked at the unused ingredients still sitting on the counter. "I, ah, well, I better get started on the dessert, don't you think?"
Trying to swallow a grin, Steve nodded, still hard at work on the garlic, giving it a bit more attention that it actually deserved. He nodded genially. "Yeah, ah, that sounds like a plan to me."
As Mike moved to the other end of the counter, Steve glanced at him, biting his lip. He inhaled theatrically. "Wow, that's beginning to smell really great. You're still not going to tell me what it is? I still have to guess?"
His mind elsewhere, Mike turned back, slightly confused. "What?.. Oh, ah, no, I'm not going to tell you," he chuckled. "How are you supposed to keep those detective instincts sharp if I'm gonna give you the answer?"
"You never stop teaching, do you?" Steve asked with a laugh, adding quickly, "And you don't have to answer that, it's rhetorical."
Mike's chuckle turned into a laugh and he stared at his young partner with so much gratitude that Steve looked quickly back at the cutting board. He pointed towards the chopped garlic with the knife. "So, what do you think? Does it pass muster?"
Blinking quickly, his eyes travelling slowly from Steve's face to the cutting board, he grinned. "I couldn't've done it better myself. Bravo – or, ah, the French equivalent, whatever that is," he chuckled again, shrugging as best he could with the restricting brace.
"I don't think the French have a word for bravo, so… maybe magnifique?"
Mike's head went back slightly. "So, what? You think you did a magnificent job here?"
Looking at his partner with a wary cocked head, Steve offered tentatively, "So, you're saying I didn't do a magnificent job?"
"Magnificent is a little, oh, I don't know… grandiose, don't you think? I mean, after all, it is just minced garlic…"
Feigning hurt and bitter disappointment, Steve stared at the cutting board. He was having trouble not grinning, overwhelming relieved that the old Mike was, temporarily at least, making a comeback. They were a long way from coming out of this long dark tunnel, but he was beginning to see a dim light at the far end.