Mike glanced at his notes on the yellow pad as he took the platter of steaks out of the fridge and set it on the counter. The platter was heavy; Mike moved slowly and carefully, trying not to put any more strain on his already aching collarbone. The results of their amateur taste test were clear and unanimous – the Caudills had beaten the Rutters handily. He didn't quite know what he should do with this information; he knew he would write Sheriff Noble with the 'results', an excuse to once again thank the man for everything he and the good people of Kentucky had done for him and Steve.

"Oh, goody, you're gonna start dinner," his chuckling partner sighed as he entered the kitchen. His limp had become a little more pronounced the more alcohol he had consumed, the older man had noticed, and he was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was still recovering. "I think I'll get the salad out, don't you think? We can try to start getting something more than just cheese and crackers into these fools … I mean, our colleagues," he giggled. "Some of them are beginning to get a little… you know… soused."

"Really? They are?" Mike asked dryly, eyeing his partner up and down, who looked back at him blankly, deaf to the sarcasm. "The bowls are in the cupboard up here," he continued, glancing briefly above his head, "and you know where the forks are. I made a vinaigrette; it's in the fridge door."

Steve stared at him blankly, as if this new information was slowly sinking into his consciousness. As Mike waited and watched, the younger man blinked slowly a couple of times then nodded. "Got it," he said forcefully and reached for the cupboard door. Mike ducked quickly before he got clobbered, gasping as the sudden movement jarred his shoulder.

"Oooo, sorry about that," Steve said slowly, "I'll, ah, I'll get the salad out first… let you, ah, let you take those outside…" He glanced at the steaks before taking a step back from the counter, looking suitably chastened.

With a snort of indeterminate lineage, Mike picked up the platter with both hands and crossed to the door. As he disappeared outside, he shot his pleasantly oblivious partner an exasperated glare. Carefully setting the platter down on the picnic table and lifting the lid on the glowing coals of the bar-b-que, he smiled and chuckled to himself. For a split second he regretted backing out of the evening's chief activity; a night of blissful alcohol-induced senselessness could be just what he needed.

But he had opted to be the responsible adult tonight and, if he was completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have it any other way. The role of father and caregiver had always come easily to him, even though he was the younger brother in his family, and it was one he'd always relished.

Using the long tongs, he picked the foil-wrapped baked potatoes out of the coals and placed them into a large bowl that had been sitting on the picnic table. The steaks were big enough that only four could be grilled at a time and he carefully placed them on the grate.

He had just stood back to admire his handiwork when the back door opened and Olsen came out to join him. The captain looked back over his shoulder with a low chuckle. "It's getting a little loud in there; I hope you have broad-minded neighbors."

Mike snorted. "Hey, they owe me one – or several. I don't know how many times over the years I've turned a blind eye, or deaf ear, to the parties going on around here. I haven't had a get together like this since Helen passed."

"Yeah, I kinda figured it would've been at least that long," Olsen nodded as he stepped up onto the picnic table bench and sat on the top. "Feels good to be back here again."

"Yeah, it does," Mike agreed. He stepped away from the grill and sat beside his old friend. "Thanks for coming tonight, Rudy. I, ah, I heard what you did for Steve… I'm glad you were there for him. It, ah, it seems I was commandeering all of Lenny's time and energy, so I'm glad Steve had you. I know he had just as many problems as I did… probably more…"

"Well, I'm just glad I could be there for him. I'll admit, Mike, I was a bit apprehensive when Lenny asked me to stay with him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a psychiatrist, what if I said the wrong thing? But, you know, once I started talking to him, and him to me, it just all kinda made sense."

Mike was nodding along as Olsen spoke. "Yeah, that's pretty well what Lenny and I did too. Just talk. It's amazing once you give voice to something, actually hear the words coming out of your mouth that you never thought you could ever say… things you thought you could never put into words in the first place… you finally get some kind of perspective…" He paused. "I don't know if I've worked my way through it all yet but, you know, it's gotten a lot easier to start to put it behind me… and it gets just a little bit easier every day."

For the first time, he turned and looked at his boss. "I know I'm lucky though. I survived… and I still have Steve."

Olsen smiled warmly and nodded, remembering the horrific sight of the torn up Galaxie, still in awe that they had gotten out alive.

Mike slid off the table and stepped to the grill, skillfully turning the steaks. "Could you do me a favor and bring out the plates? I forgot 'em," Mike called over his shoulder.

"Oh, of course," Olsen said, getting off the table and disappearing into the kitchen. The door had barely closed behind him when it opened again and Pierce walked out onto the patio, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

"Umm-umnh," he moaned, sniffing the air, "that smells terrific, Mike. Hey, thanks again for inviting me along tonight; I appreciate it."

Busy making sure the four steaks were grilling evenly, Mike glanced over his shoulder. "You've very welcome, Marty. It's the least we could do to, you know, thank you guys, especially you and Rudy making the trip out to Kentucky and all that. We appreciated it, we really did. Besides, we knew we couldn't drink all that stuff they sent us home with by ourselves," he finished with a laugh.

Pierce hefted his glass. "Well, Bill was certainly right about this bourbon – best stuff I've ever had, that's for sure."

Olsen joined them, placing the stack of dinner plates on the picnic table. "Well, I'd say we were leaving the young people back in there to go at it, but Norm and Dan aren't too much younger than you, Marty. Must be a sergeant-lieutenant thing. What do you think, Mike?"

"I'm not going there," their host laughed. "Here, pass me a plate. These babies are ready." Olsen picked up a plate and held it for Mike to spear a steak and drop it onto. "Marty, don't just stand there, use those tongs to put a baked potato on each plate, and then you two deliver them. These're for Bill, Lee, Norm and Dan; Steve'll eat with us on the second shift."

"Yes, sir," Olsen said with a grin and a chuckle, as his plates were filled and he turned towards the kitchen.

"There's sour cream in the fridge, bowls of butter, bacon bits, shredded cheddar and chives on the kitchen table, as well as knives, forks and napkins. Tell them to help themselves… Oh, and tell Steve to be patient, his steak is going on the grill right now."

Olsen disappeared through the kitchen door, Pierce on his heels. With a happy smile, Mike turned back to the grill and carefully laid out the remaining four steaks.

# # # # #

The booming laughter, punctuated by confusing and irritatingly high-pitched giggles, coming from the living room was making conversation in the kitchen impossible, so Mike, Olsen and Pierce made their way back out to the patio. While Mike was sticking with club soda and lemon, the other two were nursing small glasses of bourbon. The percolator was plugged in and ready to go, but by this stage of the evening, the pickled five in the living room were beyond salvation.

With a chuckle, Mike plopped his plate on the picnic table and took a seat, the others following suit. "At least we can hear ourselves think out here."

They resumed their meal. "Wow, these steaks are great. Thanks again, Mike, really. I don't do much cooking anymore, well, you know, since the divorce, so getting a home-cooked meal once in awhile is a real treat. My hat's off to you, Mike, you really know how to put a meal together. That salad was phenomenal."

The older lieutenant smiled self-consciously. "Well, Jeannie's been trying to get me to cook more than just tuna casseroles and grilled cheese sandwiches, and I'm finding out that I really like it… the cooking part that is."

"Speaking of Jeannie," Olsen piped up, "she should be coming home on break shortly, right?"

Mike nodded, swallowing. "Next week."

"Did you, ah, did you tell her about…?" He let the rest of the question hang, gesturing towards Mike's right shoulder with his knife.

Shaking his head, Mike cut another piece of steak. "Not yet. I talked to her while we were still in Kentucky, as you know, and a couple of times since we've been back, but I haven't had the nerve."

"You're not going to be able to –"

"I know, I know," Mike cut his boss off, "I don't know if I want to tell her the truth, you know, so… Anyway, Steve and I have been giving it some thought. It's tough coming up with something that would explain both my broken collarbone and his limp… We sort of came up with a car accident…" He shrugged as best he could with a perplexed smirk.

Olsen looked down at his plate. "Why don't you tell her the truth, Mike? She's not a kid anymore, she can understand what you and Steve went through and why you didn't want to tell her over the phone. Hell, she worries about you anyway, don't make it any worse for her by not telling her when something happens to you, or Steve. That's not being fair to her, and it'll only make her worry more. Believe me, I know."

Mike had studied his old friend as he talked, and he nodded solemnly. "You're right, Rudy. Hell, she'd see through us anyway… well, me for sure." He paused. "You know, maybe explaining it all to her, well, maybe it'll help Steve and me deal with the whole thing even more. Bottling it all up doesn't seem to work, that's for sure," he sighed as he put another piece of steak in his mouth.

Pierce had sat back and watched as his colleagues talked. He picked up his bourbon glass and took a sip then put it back on the table with a heavy thud. "You know, I've been giving what happened back there in Kentucky a lot of thought over the past couple of weeks since we've been back. And you and Steve, you did everything right, Mike… everything."

He put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "Do either of you play chess?"

Olsen shook his head but Mike nodded. Pierce looked at him. "Then you've heard the term 'dead draw'?"

Mike froze then began to nod slowly, a very slight smile playing over his lips. Olsen looked from Pierce to Mike and back again, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What's this 'dead draw' all about?"

Pierce's eyes slid from Mike's to Olsen's. "It means neither player has a realistic chance of winning… That's what happened in Kentucky, I believe. Neither side won."