Home at Last

by fastpork, orphan_account

Summary:

A head of lettuce and two quarts of milk. A collection of various oneshot stories and vignettes of the lieutenant and his life beyond homicide. Nonlinear, takes place at various points in time.

Chapter 1: Home At Last

Notes:

Mid 1970s.

“For cryin’ out loud, it’s two o’clock, Anthony. You got school in the mornin’. Go to bed.” 

“Mo-om!”

"Now!" 

Loud, clear, unmistakably Queens. That was the missus. 

There Lieutenant Columbo stood on his front porch, fumbling with his keys. It was late, but nonetheless a pleasant night. Bright moon, mild weather, warm Santa Ana winds swaying the Los Angeles palms that lined the quiet side street. A cricket’s chirp, the not-so-distant roars of traffic. Punctuated by none other than some family bickering. 

His family bickering. 

Thinking about it, his unruly teen son took uncannily after his own adolescent nature--which was to say, becoming something of a wiseass. He would have to see to it that he was more firm with the boy, lest he grow up like himself--which also was to say, working long, thankless hours, wondering how he could have so much trouble entering his own home on such a pleasant night. 

Columbo lifted his key to the doorknob and stopped. He ought to be throwing himself over the threshold after a day like this. Leaving his work behind before re-entering his inner sanctum was seldom this much of a challenge for the lieutenant. Typically, that which most troubled him could be left on the welcome mat at will. After all, those of his ilk tended to be inured to the job’s travails. 

But tonight was different. 

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. It was quiet now. The warm glow of the living room lamp suddenly extinguished, letting the blue glare of the television stream through the front window drapery. He heard the faint sitcom laugh track which so often irked him. Probably another Maude rerun.  

Columbo put a hand to his forehead. Surely, the kids were asleep by now. Much as he wanted to engage with them, the last thing he wanted was to trouble them at such an hour on a school night. Thankfully, he had a late start tomorrow. Perhaps he could offer to take them to school.  

The key somehow finally found its way into the knob’s lock--rather, locks. The lieutenant kept his abode appropriately fortified, deadbolt and latches included. The heavy oak door squealed as it swung open; despite his wife’s protests, he’d purposefully refused to lubricate the hinges. He entered the house, placing the requested groceries down in their usual spot on the kitchen benchtop.

Indeed, there his wife laid, comfortably reclined on their floral-print sofa. Her full, zaftig curves were clad in a flamingo pink nightgown, her voluminous black hair adorned in equally pink curlers. A thick book laid open in her lap, neglected. A box of chocolates laid open on the adjacent coffee table, not. 

“Well, look who’s finally here,” Rose scoffed, eyes still glued to the television set. The ire in her voice hid the relief of finally seeing her husband come home. “You said you’d be home at, what, ten? Did you get heavy cream like I asked?” 

He tsked, putting a hand to his head again. Through his whirlwind of a day, he’d genuinely forgotten the one item his wife had emphasized. 

“Gee, you know, I completely forgot. Sorry about that.” 

“Frank,” she groaned. “You know, I ask you for one thing. Now I gotta go after dropping the kids tomorrow. Unless you wanna go, I mean my league team's got a meeting, but Tony’s got soccer, Lydia’s got clarinet...” She sighed exasperatedly, her thick, arched brows knitted in agitation. “Swear to God, you’d lose your freakin’ head if it wasn’t attached to you. And ash that damn cigar, will ya? God, you smell like a whorehouse.”

Silently obliging, the good lieutenant ashed his cheroot in the living room tray and stood near the sofa, staring vacantly at the TV. He could hear his wife nagging him still, though admittedly he’d tuned her out. Not that he made a habit of that, but it’d been a long day, and it was only then hitting him how utterly drained he felt. The world around him faded to static as his eyes unfocused, vision blurring. 

“...you can swing by the five and ten before work tomorrow? Frank?”

“Huh?” he said, the world around him rematerializing. “Sorry, I, uh…” 

“Heavy cream,” she repeated, concerned. “Before work tomorrow.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

Rose frowned. Usually, she struggled to get her garrulous mate to stop talking. The minutiae of the church bake sale suddenly seemed trifling as she studied her husband’s weary features. In fact, he’d hardly blinked since he walked in. The man could be as scatterbrained as he was brilliant, but tonight he seemed different. He was distractible, yes; exhausted, often. Completely absent, almost never. 

“I left you some dinner in the fridge,” she said with a grin. “Chicken cacciatore.” 

A pause. “Can’t wait,” he said with a wan smile.  

Well, then. She’d certainly expected more fanfare over what was one of his favorite dishes of hers. By far the lesser cook between the two of them, it was one of the few that Rose had any pride in serving. She adjusted her glasses and took a better look at him; indeed, the man seemed quite a bit worse for wear. Surpassing his usual baseline of dishevelment, his hair was thoroughly tousled, clothing rumpled, shirt partially untucked. He yawned.  

“Everything alright?” Rose asked, her tone softening. 

“Hm? Oh yeah, of course, yeah. Just tired, you know. Late. Long day,” he mumbled, still staring glassy-eyed at the television. Rose arose from the couch slowly and approached him from his side. She doffed her spectacles.     

“Honey,” she implored gently, leaning in close. He turned to face her and blinked in surprise, not having realized she’d gotten up. “Talk to me.” 

He met her stare. For all the breathtaking beauties who had turned his head on the job, nothing made his breath hitch quite like his wife’s eyes. She was quite short--somehow, even shorter than he. Deep brown eyes framed by long lashes, always beaming up at him. Big, warm, striking almond eyes. Eyes that always made him feel at ease. At home. 

“You’re still wearin’ your coat, you know,” Rose whispered, grasping his perpetually-wrinkled raincoat. “May I?” A silent nod as he relaxed his arms and acquiesced. 

“Ahh, you gotta let me get this thing dry cleaned,” she said maternally, dusting it off and draping it over the sofa. “There’s food stains on it. Gotta be careful with all that chili. Hey, lemme get your jacket, too.” She removed his suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack. Columbo exhaled. 

“Better?” she asked softly. Another, slower nod. Mindlessly, he placed his hands on her soft, rounded hips. Wordlessly, she loosened his tie. He drew her near. 

On any other night, standing so intimately for so long could have only resulted in the shedding of clothes. But neither made a further move in such a direction. Rose lightly tugged her husband’s tie and led him to the couch, both of them collapsing in front of the familiar, flickering glow of television. She rested her head on his chest and inhaled his comfortable, equally familiar scent of cigar smoke and aftershave. He found his eyes closing as he drank in hers--Aquanet and L'air du Temps. 

“Channel 9 still on?” he mumbled, absentmindedly stroking her upper arm. 

“No, they signed off. Channel 4’s got that late movie, though. Bette Davis,” Rose said, picking up the clicker and changing the channel.

They lay there together for a while in a tranquil, comfortable embrace, neither really paying attention to the television. At a certain point she gazed up warmly at him. His chest rose and fell slowly, breathing audible, countenance relaxed. Surely, he must have fallen asleep. She turned off the television. 

“Come, dear,” she whispered, shaking him gently. “Come to bed.” 

“...He was real young, Rose,” the lieutenant said sedately, eyes still closed. She looked at him thoughtfully. He stretched, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just brilliant. Was gonna make sergeant. Had a family. I can’t stop thinkin’ about him.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she breathed, her arms tightening around him.   

He said nothing. He, too, tightened his hold.

Chapter 2: Hotter Than July

Notes:

Pre-picnic from Any Old Port in the Storm.

“You look ridiculous in that! For the love of God…” 

“Come on,” he pleaded, cigar in mouth. He cracked a grin and raised his arms in the air defensively. “I bought this one in Acapulco, remember? Perfect for the beach. Oh, I been dyin’ to wear it. You even said you liked it!”

“You know I didn’t,” she glowered, packing their picnic cooler on the kitchen counter. Indeed, the offending pattern was something of an acquired taste. Loud, garish. Traffic cone orange. “It’s just…not your color. To say the least. Makes you look like the stuff they put on your nachos at the ballpark.” 

“You’re the one always tellin’ me to wear more color, but not this one, no, this one’s ridiculous,” the lieutenant quipped. “Now I'm cheese sauce. I’m no mind reader, Rose.” 

“You know you are,” she deadpanned. His deft perception never failed to spook her, even after years together. “Meanwhile, weather says it’s gonna be over 90 today and you wanted to go out in…what was that, again? Khakis?” 

“Well, it’s a, a dry heat, you know. And you wanna know what I look absolutely ridiculous in, these shorts you picked out for me,” Columbo said, gesturing to his exposed legs. “My legs look grafted on, they’re so white. I’ll be a laughing stock.” 

“Oh, come now. Yeah, your legs are pasty, no, no one cares. You look just fine,” his wife assured him. “Besides, you wanna be sensible in the heat. Tony, Lydia, come on, or we’re leavin’ without you!”

“So I only look ‘just fine’, eh?”

“Frank, please. Not now.” 

“You packed the sandwiches, right?” Columbo said, peeking inside the cooler. “Capicol’ this time?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed, their two children running in as she stuffed the remainder of their lunches into the cooler. “The Good Stuff, as you so put it. Lydia, bring your hat, angel. Tony, did you put sunscreen like I told you?” 

“Yeah, ma,” Tony griped, arms crossed in annoyance. He needed a dorky layer of sunscreen like he needed a hole in the head. Rose narrowed her eyes at him.

“I don’t think you put enough,” she said, squirting a dollop into her palm and rubbing his face. He grimaced. “You’re so pale, at the arcade all the time with those other boys. How you can spend hours playin’ Pong, I’ll never know. Y’know you wouldn't burn up so fast if you just got a little sun, maybe did a little sports, if you--” 

“Ma-aa!” he whined. “Come on!” 

“Hey, listen to your mother,” the lieutenant said sternly, collecting his various sundries. He placed a sharp pair of sunglasses atop his head. “Believe me, you’ll look stupider sunburnt than you will with a white nose.”

“He’s right, you know,” Rose chuckled, finishing the job on said white nose. “Pretty girls don’t like lobsters.” Tony rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dude with the pastiest legs in L.A. tellin’ me I’ll look fine slathered in all this. C’mon, Lyd, let’s wait in the car,” Tony groused, to his father’s shocked affront. Off the two went to wait in the back of their mother’s car. 

“D’ya hear the mouth on this kid? The way he gets smart with me these days?” Columbo felt his blood pressure rise. “Kid dun’t even talk to me anymore. My God, it seems like just yesterday he was toddlin’ round the house in my coat, beggin’ to go to work with his daddy and now…now I could just take that tongue of his and--” 

“It’s just a phase,” she cut in. Her husband very seldom lost his cool, but something about their son’s budding attitude towards him in particular rubbed him quite the wrong way. Guns in his face he at least knew how to handle. A mouthy, cagey son, not so much. “Look, he’s twelve, it’s not a fun age to be. He’ll grow out of it. Be patient. Don’t take it so personally.”

“Yeah? And if he doesn’t?”  

“Then we’ll handle it. Y'know, he’s just like you when you were younger. Too brash and too bright for his own good. You had that same smart aleck streak before you joined the force. Hell, it’s still there. Who do you think he got it from?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, putting a fist to his forehead. He took a deep drag of his cigar. “You know, that kid’s gonna be behind a wheel soon? Then we’ll all be sorry.”

“Like you weren’t a nightmare your first time behind a wheel,” she cracked, chuckling to herself at memories of gripping her seat in terror when he’d first gotten his own car--the Peugeot. Driving was more trouble than it was worth back home in New York. Needless to say, the learning curve was steeper than anticipated. Had he not been on the force, his license would have certainly been revoked by now. 

“Oh no, I, I was different, Rose, c’mon. I was used to whippin’ that squad car around, and these French cars, I mean, they just handle differently. You can’t compare us like that. He’s just a kid.” She looked at him soberly.  

“Not for long. Enjoy it while it lasts.” He looked back at her and sighed in resignation.

“I know. I know. You’re right.” 

“I know it’s frustrating,” she said as she made her way to the front door, her arms full of various beach day etceteras. “But let’s just all try to have a nice time today. You got the keys?” 

“Ohh, I dunno,” he said, craning his neck as he admired her from the kitchen. He propped his elbow against the doorway and leaned his face against his hand. Rose’s new yellow cotton sundress clung to her voluptuous figure as she walked, swaying gently in a manner most intriguing. He would have to take prime mental note of this fascinating phenomenon. 

“Ah, think you mighta left ’em on that table.” 

“Ugh, my hands are full. Can you grab ‘em?” she asked, nodding her head towards the foyer table in front of her.  

“Well first off, young lady, I think you oughta let me help you with all that stuff.” He gestured in amusement at his wife’s obvious armful. 

“I’m quite alright,” she insisted, promptly dropping a thermos. She winced sheepishly. 

“Why, of course, as we can all see,” he said with a smirk, ambling over to the most stubborn woman he’d ever known. He picked up the thermos and she motioned at him to return it to some place in her armful. 

“You’re unbelievable. Wouldja let me help you for once? Tell ya what, how ‘bout I hang onto this,” he said, tucking the thermos under his arm. “Aaand this, and this, and that one, too.” He plucked several more precarious items from her grasp, eliciting defensive yelps with each one.  

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying it all myself!” 

“Pickin' me up clear off the ground is what you’re perfectly capable of, no argument there, sweetheart. Look, I’d just as soon not have to lug that thing around myself,” he said, gesturing towards the hefty cooler still in her grasp. “I just don’t think we wanna spend our afternoon playin’ fifty-two sandwich pickup.”

She pouted and turned on her heel to face the door in silence. Grabbing the keys, he snuck up behind her and gave the crook of her neck a long, gentle kiss. 

“You play dirty, Lieutenant,” she muttered, shivering from the scratchy sensation of his stubble against her smooth, olive skin. Admittedly, she never minded such underhanded tactics.   

“Whaddya mean?” he purred, grinning innocently. He planted a few more for good measure. “I’m acting perfectly within my jurisdiction here.”  

“You think you can distract me. The kids are in the car, this place is an hour away, we wanted to get there before…” She trailed off and cleared her throat, averting her gaze as his free hand slipped around her waist. “And we’ve got things to carry, you know. Many…important things.” 

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Columbo retorted, affecting some sort of vaguely theatrical diction. Rose couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I make you watch one Masterpiece Theatre…” she said, shaking her head as he opened the door for her. His eyes followed her to the car, once again laid helplessly upon those intriguing hips swaying in that yellow dress.

Chapter 3: Rose Darling

Summary:

We rewind the clock and find out how the lieutenant found his one and only.

Notes:

Set circa 1960. Rose is mid/late 20s, Columbo nearing 30.

“I heard Gonzalez is finally gettin’ married. Yeah. I know.”

“My condolences!”

“Get outta town.” 

“Don’t tell me, tell him!” 

A motley crew of Detective Columbo’s twelfth precinct squadmates nattered away next to him, as they were wont to do. He stared out the diner window in his typical manner of diverted attention, cheek in his hand, chili bowl empty. The summer evening sunlight filtered prettily through the window pane, casting a glare on his face. Today, he was the top bun of the idiot sandwich, the bunch shoved into their usual post-shift corner booth. It wasn’t exactly the Algonquin Round Table, but it was theirs. And that suited him just fine. 

“I went to high school with ‘er. Once you get that broad started on som’n…hoo-wee. Talk about a life sentence, eh? The ol’ ball ‘n’ chain!” one of them--Paulie--roared, elbowing Columbo in the side. “Hey, lighten up, Detective.”

“And then there was one,” another, Manny, piped up. “You’re the last bachelor among us, Columbo. I know you like the ladies. You can’t hide from ‘em foreva’.”
 
“Oh, I just don't know, fellas," he said with one of his self-effacing handwaves. "I’m practically married to this damn job. I don't have time for the homestead, what with this city’s love affair with homicide. I can barely sleep as it is.” 

“I thought that, too,” John, his sergeant, piped up. “‘Til one day I realized corpses can't keep you warm at night. Even if you want ‘em to. If you don’t do somethin’ one’a these days, you're gonna wake up old an’ gray like me, Columbo. You gonna be like old man Cheong feedin' pigeons alone in Battery Park? Talkin’ to ‘em?”

“Well, someone’s gotta do it,” Columbo said, chuckling to himself. 

“Speakin’a dames, ain’t that one’a Vito's girls ova there, what’s ‘er name? Rita?” Paulie said in a hushed tone, nodding towards the booth several tables away. 

“No, you dip. Rita’s her sister. That one’s Ruth.”

Columbo turned to look, immediately zeroing in on the woman in question. His eyes widened. 

“Rose,” he said. 

There sat a woman of heavily tanned complexion poring over several sprawled textbooks, furiously taking notes. Tight black curls tied back in a messy ponytail fell forward, framing her heart-shaped face. Her coke-bottle glasses somewhat obscured her features, but there was no question about it. This was indeed Rose Palermo, daughter of local Sicilian deli owner Vito. Columbo and his brothers had worked at Palermo’s in their aimless Kerouacian post-high school blur of travels, odd jobs, military service, and sporadic classes. Really, joining the force had been his single longest commitment since compulsory education. And it was the only one that had felt at all “right”.
 
“Well, I'll be!” Paulie laughed. “Lil’ Rosie, all grown up. And she ain’t even half bad. There’s a bona fide eye-talian goddess for ya, Detective!” He slapped Columbo’s back, prompting hyena-like laughter from the table. 

“Boy inn’t she,” he said reflexively, too transfixed to care about his colleague’s moronic quip. "Wouldja just look at ‘er? I haven’t seen her since she was just an awkward little thing in high school."

Puerile “ooh”s rippled from the men at the table. Truth be told, something about Rose had caught his eye even then, but there was no room in either of their lives at the time for such an arrangement. He was young, she was too young. Besides, what would she have possibly seen in him?   

“Have we got the hots for the lil’ Miss?” Manny asked, prompting another handwave and shushing from the detective. “Wait ‘til Vito hears about this. Hey, hey, lookie here, she’s gettin’ up. You betta’ go say som’n.”  

Rose had indeed risen from her table, wallet in hand at the register. The day had been blistering, so she'd opted for a white, sleeveless button-up with high-waisted maroon shorts and sensible white flats. Particularly short, her petite stature accentuated her plump, buxom figure.

Columbo couldn’t tear his eyes away from her as thoughts began to race through his mind. He wondered where she was off to. What she was studying. If she’d go for someone like him. Whether her eyes were still the same bottomless brown. 

"Boy, she'd fill out a sweater, huh?" A low whistle. 

"Damn right--the whole thing, by the looks of it!" Raucous hoots and hollers. Columbo snapped out of his reverie and frowned.

"’Least she fills out them shorts, too, ‘nawm sayin’? God damn. She ever needs a seat on the E, I got a big ugly mug for ‘er right here." Deafening laughter, attracting attention from the adjacent table.

"Do you mind?" Columbo snapped, with an indignance that surprised even himself. He normally had no such axe to grind during his colleagues’ regular cat-calls, crass as he found them. But to so brazenly objectify this lady felt particularly unconscionable. The gang quieted, acting in mock offense.

“Gee, sorry, boss.” 

“Hate to talk about your mistress that way.” Snickers.

“Wh-tchh!” More laughter.

Columbo would’ve countered in some way had he not been so focused on the more important matter at hand: the beautiful creature stuffing books into her leather attaché bag. Those that did not fit, she carried. She stood and took one final sip of her milkshake, leaving it empty before turning to leave. Columbo found his legs itching to rise and follow her. He sat up from his slouched position conspicuously.  

“Uh, guys, I’m gonna, um, I’ve got some dry cleanin’--” 

“If you love ‘er so much why dontcha’ marry ‘er?”

“Heheh, that was a good one.” 

“C’mon, guys. Hey, go get ‘er, boss.”
 
“Yeah, yeah. Buncha’ goons,” Columbo growled, sliding out of the sticky vinyl booth and lurching towards the door. 

“Good luck!” 

“See ya tomorrow!” 

“You owe me thirty-six cents!” 

The diner door jingled behind him as he stumbled outside, frantically searching for her. There she was, almost down the block already. The sun had begun to set, bathing the city in hues of orange and lavender. The day’s heat had broken somewhat, though the baked concrete still radiated intense warmth. Up Lafayette Street he dashed, maintaining tunnel vision on his target through throngs of people. Not before long, she was within earshot.

“‘Scuse me, miss? Excuse me!” 

Rose stopped, turning toward the source of the sound. A man was calling, looking directly at her. Somewhat disheveled, he was slouched, perspiring, and in the process of doffing his gray linen suit jacket. Instinctively, she clutched her books to her chest and froze.

“Me?”

“Yes, you, miss,” he panted, clearly out of breath.  

“Can I help you?” she asked uncomfortably.  

“Listen,” he said, regaining his composure. He raked a hand through his short hair and rolled up his shirt sleeves, attempting to straighten his posture. “I was just in that diner back there, and pardon me, but I…I couldn't help but notice you.”

“Well, thank you. Good day, sir,” Rose said curtly. She turned on her heel and kept walking. Columbo paused, then broke into a trot after her. 

"You don’t remember me?” he called out. Rose stopped again and faced him, quirking a brow. 

“Should I?” 

“I went to P.S. 21. My brothers and I worked in your father’s shop years back. Name’s Columbo, that ring a bell?" He noticed her exhale, recognition dawning on her face as her manner relaxed somewhat. 

“Ahh, you’re one of those Columbo boys,” she said, actually studying his features. Now she placed him. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember you. You guys were real pains in the ass.”

“Guilty as charged. You got us pegged.”

“You’re…Fredo? No, that was the older one, sorry. Uh…Francesco, yeah?”  

Columbo felt his ears burn. He highly disliked hearing his forename truncated, let alone the whole damn thing. Something about it simply never failed to embarrass him. 

“That’s right. But, uh, just Columbo. Please,” he said stiffly, looking at the sidewalk.

“...Columbo. So then you're the one who became a cop, right? How's that treatin’ you?" She was talking, at least. 

“Ah, same ol’. People are always killin’ each other. Provides job security. And uh, you, you’re studyin’ still?" A pause. 

"Well, a woman doesn’t get far in the field with just a bachelor’s, so I’m finishing my master’s. Library science." A master’s. He’d barely gotten out of high school alive. 

"Gee, that's quite a feat." He stole a glance at the textbooks in her arms. “...Index Systems Design, huh? FORTRAN…some kinda computer stuff, innit? Crazy stuff. Man, this sorta thing just sends me into a tailspin. I dunno how you do it. Cars I can do, but those things…” 

"Right. So, who put you up to this? My mother, wasn’t it?”

Columbo blinked. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“That woman’ll do anything.”

“Sorry, do what now?” he pressed, bewildered.

“Of course she’d put a guy like you up to askin’ out a girl like me. God forbid I be a spinster, she’s gotta pair me off like I’m livestock on the ark. I cannot believe her. Y’know, if it meant finally marryin’ me to a nice local boy, I think she’d kill a man.” 

“If she did, I hope you’d let me know. I am in homicide these days, after all,” he said, tongue firmly in cheek. Now it was Rose’s turn to blink in surprise. 

“Homicide, huh? Whaddya gonna do, read me my rights?” she said dryly. Columbo grinned.

“No, you’re not a suspect. Well. To my knowledge, at least.”

“Then what could you possibly want from me?” she asked, studying her shoes. Columbo studied her. 

“Well, as I said, you really struck me somethin’ fierce back there. And all those books you’re readin’...well, that’s really what got my attention. You up at NYU?”

“What's it to ya?” she asked sharply. Ouch. He lowered his voice. 

“Listen, you don't gotta tell me anything you don't want to. I’m real sorry to bother you here. The truth is…I just wanted to know if you were available to have dinner or somethin’ sometime.” Rose’s eyes widened, staring at him in shock. 

“Uh…no. Sorry. Bye, now,” she said suddenly, turning and walking away once again--this time faster. 

What just happened? Where had he gone wrong? He’d put deodorant on this morning, hadn’t he? Either way, if he didn’t do something now he would likely never see her again, she’d make sure of that.

“A-Ahh, just drinks then!” he called out, hurrying after her. 

“I can’t!” Damn it, she was really getting away. 

“C’mon, uh…doughnuts!" he said in desperation, without thinking. Who doesn't like doughnuts? Rose stopped in her tracks. “You like doughnuts, right? There’s a place nearby, they got--”

“What is that, some kinda joke?” she exclaimed, interrupting him again as he caught up to her. 

He stopped in stunned silence. Their eyes met, busy pedestrians brushing past them on the sidewalk without care. And then he knew. 

Through those thick glasses of hers, they were, in fact, still brown. Big pools of deep brown, now beginning to scatter light as tears gathered in them. Those eyes and those tears told him everything. He felt his heart racing, both from the mild exertion and from meeting eyes with this poor woman who was now ready to cry on his account. He put a thoughtful hand to his chin, elbow propped by his other hand. 

“Listen to me, Miss Palermo,” he muttered firmly, leaning in with gravity. She froze, his eyes boring holes into hers. “You’ve got nothing to be insecure about. And I can tell you are, I mean no offense, it’s written all over you. I can tell your self-esteem is nonexistent, you couldn’t even wrap your mind around someone wanting to compliment you, let alone ask you out. But you’ve got no reason to feel like that. Not your looks, not your mind, nothing.” Columbo paused, awaiting another caustic interjection. He received only silence and tears, and so he continued.  

“What I’m saying here is that you're an absolutely lovely woman. Really, I mean that.” Rose stood like a deer in headlights, shocked senseless by being spoken to in such a way by someone whom she’d only known in passing. 

“You really believe that, don't you,” she said gingerly, casting her gaze downward before meeting his again. “You’re serious.” 

“I’m dead serious. If you’re as sharp as you seem--and judging by those books, you are--you should know that by now. Whatever anyone tells you that makes you feel that way, your friends, your family, even yourself for that matter, you can throw it right out the window. Why else would I run after you?”

“Oh, I dunno,” she grumbled, trying and failing to hide a sniffle. “If my experience is anything to go by, it’s because you wanted to sling some remark at me about my appearance. Coin flip on lecherous or plain mean.”  

“No,” he said, more strongly than he’d intended. “Never. I’m not like that. It’s because you’re just…just irresistible is what you are. If nobody else is gonna tell you that, I will."

She swallowed, feeling herself break out in a sweat. This man whom she’d only remembered vaguely as a wisecracking clown, late to any and all engagements, was now staring directly into her soul, having just delivered a slam-dunk read on her psyche. And for some reason, he seemed utterly relentless in convincing her to give him a chance.

Well, she could do worse. 

“Fine. Doughnuts,” she said with a shuddery sigh, blinking back more tears. “Ten minutes. And you pay.”

“You drive a hard bargain, miss,” he said in relief, trying and failing to restrain his massive smile. One point for Columbo. “My dime. Ten minutes. Not a second more.” 

---

“I could never make sense of those truth tables on paper, not ‘til I started actually programming,” Rose said. “It was all too abstract. But once you think of the zeroes and ones as truths and falsities, ons and offs, everything falls into place. Nothin’ like an if-then statement to tie it all together, yeah?”

He nodded along blithely, reveling in every word while understanding none. Three hours had flown by since they’d gotten their doughnuts, having long since finished them. They loitered atop an apartment stoop on a quiet street, soaking in the late July moonlight. Rose had sat at arm’s length from him at first, but slowly moved closer throughout the evening and was now almost right next to him. 

Another point for Columbo.
 
“I’m gonna be honest with ya, this stuff well and truly confounds me. But it’s really somethin’. I mean I am really blown away.”

“Takes a lot to wrap your head around, but it really all boils down to logic. Anyone can do it. Believe me, compared to the folks at the university, I’m practically a layman.”

“A layman?” he said, mildly taken aback. He put his hand in the air. “The way you were goin’ on about it, you coulda fooled me. Though maybe that’s not sayin’ much. You’re one smart cookie, Miss Palermo.”

Rose bristled at the remark but felt her irritation quell, as she found herself beginning to warm to this strange man despite her initial reticence. That penetrating scrutiny of his had completely stopped her in her tracks, enough so that she had relented and allowed him to take her out. 

Ten minutes. She’d given him just ten minutes for his elevator pitch. But cleverly and completely, he sidestepped it by asking only about her. With genuine enthusiasm he engaged her, showing keen interest even in that which he didn’t understand. He was caring, quick-witted, intoxicatingly endearing. By the time Rose sought answers from him, those ten minutes had long slipped away. Thus, ten minutes had become twenty, which became sixty, and so on. And the time limit lost its relevance.

Columbo was not, in fact, the slovenly lout she’d first assumed he was. On the contrary, the detective was genial, sensitive, astute. Startlingly astute. He’d deceived her with his dishevelment, disarmed her with his demeanor. More than disarmed, she feared--there had sparked between them a crackling chemistry the likes of which she’d never felt before. 

“Well, some smart cookies of the world would buck such a title,” she said. “But just this once, I’ll make an exception. And please…call me Rose.” 

He smiled, his face now just inches away from hers. Oh, dear. She felt her heart leap into her throat. Truth be told, she was starting to feel butterflies when he smiled that smile at her. 

“Rose,” he said softly, savoring her name on his tongue. “D’ya mind if I tell you something?” She gulped, feeling her face get hot. Something in the air had shifted. Suddenly, she was short of breath.  

“What’s that?” 

“You know, ever since I worked at that deli, I thought you were just swell.”

“Really?” That came as a surprise to her. It didn’t seem like he'd paid her any mind--she was only in high school at the time, after all. But the more she got to know this man, the more she felt like perhaps he could hide just about any feeling he wanted. 

“Oh yeah, I could always tell you were somethin’ special. I was always wonderin’ what you were up to. So I see you now and…I mean, you gotta understand.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Let’s just say I woulda been an idiot to not go after you. I had to, I hadda see whether I was right about you. And I am. Other women--I been with em, they’re great, just never what I was lookin’ for. But you…” he said, trailing off. He put a hand to his head. “I need someone special. And you are truly something special.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. She was going to say more, but no words came out.   

“There are just some things, though, that I gotta sort out.”

“Sort out?”

“Oh, I always gotta make sure no stone goes unturned. It’s just a…compulsion of mine, you could say,” he said with a smirk. 

“A-and that entails?” Rose croaked, feeling her face blushing furiously now. She’d never so much as kissed a man before. She’d watched the movies, of course, but they were obviously just that. How was it all supposed to go? Was this really it? Was there a sprinkle in her teeth? 

“Well,” he said, drawing the word out. “I hate to be so forward, but you did insist on a ten-minute doughnut. Did you not?”

“I did.”

“Which begs the question of whether you’re still achin’ to get rid of me. Which you definitely were before, yes? I mean, you looked totally repulsed.”

“Correct.” 

“And not only is ten minutes history now, you’ve actually moved, oh…I dunno, three whole feet towards me here. Practically brushin’ up against me now.”

“R-right.”
 
“So I’m left wonderin’, in all my fondness for you, whether there’s any for me. Now, I can understand if the answer is no,” he said, gesticulating accordingly. Like hell it would be; he knew he’d gotten her hook, line, and sinker. “But judging by how rosy your cheeks have gotten, I think I can make an inference.” 

Feeling once again entirely too well-read by this man, her mouth opened to respond, but closed when she realized she had nothing to say. His eyes creased in amusement. That is, until Rose acquiesced to her desire and gave him a most succinct answer: she leaned in and tenderly kissed him on the cheek. His eyes widened; it was his turn to blush. 

“That answer your question, Detective?” she whispered. A bashful grin spread across his face. He’d certainly expected a yes, but not such an amorous affirmative. 

“Boy, sure does,” he said, their faces practically touching. “You mind if I--” 

Rose leaned in, kissing him mid-sentence. Chaste, slow pecks at first, and then more deeply. Less chaste. On autopilot, he kissed her back so ardently he could feel his ears ring. Their arms wrapped around the other, hands running through hair for what felt like hours but was only minutes. 

Rose parted first, breath ragged and head pounding as she leaned back against the steps.

“So that’s what it’s like.”

“That’s what it’s like?” he asked, incredulous. “You mean to tell me you never kissed someone before?”

“That's right.”

“I never woulda guessed.” 

“I've gone with boys, but…I just never felt the need. To do, uh. That." 

"But me?"

“I don’t know what came over me. It was like I couldn’t help myself."

“That’s the urge beautiful women like yourself tend to have around me, yes.” 

“Oh, shut up!” she said, giving him a playful shove. He laughed and put his arm around her. With any other man, Rose would’ve taken umbrage with such a gesture. But Columbo, as it became abundantly clear to her, was no normal man. Around him, she felt more relaxed. More at ease. More spontaneous. So spontaneous, in fact, that she felt like extending their date.   
 
“How ‘bout we catch a late movie,” Rose said. “They’re playin’ that Jerry Lewis flick at the multiplex nearby.” 

Columbo looked at her, eyebrows raised. She’d thrown him yet another curveball. The same cold, introverted woman who tried to run from him earlier that evening was now asking him to a movie. He did have work tomorrow, but surely he could sleep when dead. A movie night with the girl of his dreams was calling his name. 

“Oh, I’d love to, sure,” he replied eagerly, about to get up until he realized he couldn’t quite. It had been a while since he’d had such a passionate encounter and he preferred not to give the audience two shows for the price of one. “Uh, just gimme a sec here.”

"What’s the matter?” she asked, studying him for a bit. He draped his suit jacket over his groin. “...Ah.” 

“Yeah. Uh…listen, you don’t mind if I walk you home after, do ya? I’m sure I don’t live too far, and I just wanna make sure you’re safe, you know, police escort for the lovely lady so late at night and, uh…” he trailed off, a blissful twinkle in his eye. 

It had finally quieted downstairs. He got up and hung his jacket over his shoulder, extending a hand out to her. She took it with a smile and hoisted herself up.

“What’s that?” 

“The truth is, I just want more time before I gotta say goodnight to you. So how ‘bout it?” 

“I’d like that, Columbo.” 

“Please. Call me Frank.”

Chapter 4: California Dreaming

Summary:

The food starts comin' and it don't stop comin' and it don't stop comin' and it don't stop comin'

Notes:

Early 1970s. Fluff.

“My God, does that smell divine.” 

“All yours, Lieutenant.” 

There Columbo sat at the counter of Barney’s, his dive of choice. The massive, steaming bowl of chili sitting in front of him seemed particularly appetizing tonight, simply begging to be eaten. Juicy chunks of ground beef swam in thick, brick red broth, its spicy aroma tantalizing. Four different types of beans, melted cheese, even creamy slices of avocado sitting atop. It seemed almost--no, was indeed--too nice a chili for Barney’s, but no matter. He crushed a packet of saltines into his dinner anxiously. 

“Hold up, there’s more where that came from!” Bert said, setting a succulent hamburger with fries down in front of him. Columbo furrowed his brow.

“Bertie, I didn’t order a burger. You sure this is for me?” 

“On the house. After all, you’re one of our best customers.” 

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you, thank you very much,” he said delightedly, his hands together in excitement. “Now, the question is, where do I start?” 

“Maybe here,” Bert said, also setting down a comically large slice of chocolate layer cake.

“Wha…” Columbo trailed off, jaw slack in shock. “This too? C’mon, Bert…” 

“Ah, we gotta get rid of it after tonight anyway, Lieutenant. It’s about to go stale. Why not?” 

“I just didn’t know I was that good a customer,” he said with a grin, eagerly munching on a french fry from his burger plate. A low rumbling sounded in the distance. “Whassat?” 

“Must be one of them earthquakes,” replied Bert, wiping the counter casually.

“Oh. Yeah, of course. Must be,” the lieutenant replied equally casually, dipping another fry in his chili. None of the other patrons nor staff seemed to mind, either. The rumbling increased, condiments on the countertop beginning to topple. Plates began to crash. But he was so hungry he continued regardless, raising the picturesque burger to his mouth to take a bite. 

He cracked open a single bleary eye, staring not at a hamburger but at popcorn--that is, the stippled finish on his living room ceiling. No such luck with free, delicious Barney’s tonight. Regaining his bearings, he immediately found that the source of the earthquake wasn't the San Andreas fault, it was his own. He hadn’t eaten in over a day, rendering his stomach clamorous enough to rouse him. 

It was coming back to him, now. Called to a fresh crime scene at two o’clock the previous morning, he'd spent his whole Saturday working on almost no sleep. He’d pushed through, of course, on caffeine, adrenaline, and sheer will. 

Then he crossed the threshold into his house, where he'd allowed the exhaustion to seep in. Rose hadn't yet finished dinner when he’d arrived at around six in the evening; in an effort to kill some time, he’d plopped himself down on the sofa to watch TV with the kids. And it was no sooner than when he’d merely rested his head against the back cushion that he was dead to the world.

Six in the evening. How long ago was that? It was light out when it was lights-out; now it was well into the night. He eyed the wall clock. Nearly one in the morning now, the house still and dark save for the kitchen. He sat up a bit and spied his wife puttering about inside.

Speaking of which, he realized then that she’d done some thorough adjusting for him at some point in the evening. He was now supine, for one, rather than seated. There were extra pillows propped under his head--the good ones, not the lumpy throw pillows. He’d fallen asleep fully clothed but awoke in his underclothes, draped in a thick blanket. Somehow, she’d managed all that without disturbing him. No wonder he’d slept so well.

He laid back, ready to once again slip into sweet slumber until rudely reminded of just one thing--those sharp, aching hunger pangs. Cursing silently, he arose and shuffled into the kitchen.

“Up already?” Rose asked in surprise. He mm’d, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t tell me they want you in again. Tell ‘em to send the other guy, for Pete’s sake. Doesn’t he do anything? I don’t want you drivin' in this condition, let alone goin’ after people.” Columbo yawned, waving a hand.

“No, I don't gotta go in tomorrow. Let's hope, at least. This new one's an easy nut to crack, anyway," he muttered, scratching his head. “Clear motive, enough holes in the execution. Sweats buckets when I look at ‘er too long. I just need the clincher, somethin’ real uhh…somethin’...”

“Compelling.”

“Compelling, yes, thank you.” He swayed slightly in fatigue and braced himself against the wall. “Besides, I think I’ve slept almost long enough.”

“Not even close, by the looks of it,” she said concernedly, attempting to usher him out. He resisted. 

“Okay, okay, that may be, but what I do need right now is food. Really, I mean my own stomach actually woke me up.” He made his way to the bar top and climbed onto a stool.    

“Didn’t you have breakfast?” 

“There were no eggs in the fridge, remember?”

“Oh, right, sorry about that. I meant to boil some for you yesterday.” 

“I was so busy, I had no time to eat anyhow. I was gonna pick somethin’ up after, but I was so beat I just wanted to come home. Then I meant to eat with you guys, but dinner wasn’t ready, so I sat down with the kids. They were watchin’ that space show, what’s it called.”

“Star Trek?” Rose said, filling up a glass of water for him.

“That’s the one. And then…then, uh,” he said with a yawn. “Gee, I don’t even remember. How come you didn’t wake me for dinner?”  

“Hm? Oh, I couldn’t have if I tried,” Rose said with a sympathetic chuckle, setting the glass down in front of him. Parched, he sipped it eagerly. “You didn't bat an eye when I took your day clothes to wash, you were out cold. Hell, I took your pulse too, just to make sure you didn’t up and die on me. Besides, you looked too peaceful to wake. Cherubic.” She gently patted his amply-stubbled cheek. He smiled. 

“Well, whaddya got for this starvin’ angel?”

“We’ve got some leftover ziti with chicken parm from tonight.”

“Ooh. And?”

“...And…I got some smoked mozzarell’ and cold cuts from DiSanti’s,” she said, taking various foods out of the fridge for him. “You want?” 

“Oh yeah, all sounds very good. And?” 

“And what?” she said, shrugging. He pouted and traced circles on the counter with his index finger.

“Don’t we have any sweet in this house?” he asked, reminiscing fondly upon the rich chocolate layer cake from his dream. “Cookies…ice cream…maybe a chocolate layer cake…” She smirked.

“Well, not quite. But you’re in luck, I did pick up some tiramisu from that new bakery on Ventura. I guess that counts. Real good stuff, you know.” 

“Now you’re talkin’,” he said, nodding in anticipation. Rose gave him a look.

“Well, with all that, I’m cuttin’ up a salad for you. And you better finish it or else no dessert, capisce?”

“Ohh yes, ma’am, capisce. Loud n’ clear.” he replied, chin propped up in his hands.

“You just gotta get more fresh veg in,” she said attentively. “You need the fiber, you need the vitamins, yadda yadda. Y’know ya gotta eat more variety, more greens, and that means more than just askin’ for beans in the chili. Whaddya want, scurvy?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, voice low. He closed his eyes.  

“You can’t be eatin’ that stuff every day, either. I know it’s good, it’s convenient, but it’s gonna kill you one’a these days. And I can’t afford this house on just my salary, even if I cashed out on that life insurance, what, the way real estate in this city is goin’. So eat ya vegetables. I shouldn't have to tell you this. The hell am I, ya motha’?” 

She put her hand on her hip and turned to face him. His eyes were still closed, face in hands, grin ear-to-ear. After years of marriage, she found herself still at the mercy of that grin. Reflexively, she grinned in return. 

“Are you even listenin’ to me?” 

“I love you.”

“...Yeah, yeah,” she said, stirring the ziti before popping it in the toaster oven. She tousled his hair and pecked his forehead. “Love you too.”

Chapter 5: Don’t Lose That Number

Summary:

Newly settled in LA, a younger lieutenant and his wife deal with growing pains.

Notes:

Mid 1960s.

“C’mon hon’, we’re gonna be late,” Columbo called towards the stairs, waiting for his wife to finish primping. He checked his watch and peered at the hallway mirror, running a comb through his slicked hair one last time. It had taken him just over half an hour to polish up; she’d taken the afternoon. Why women always insisted on taking so long to preen, he could never figure. But that wasn’t much like Rose--come to think of it, his wife seldom took this much time to get ready. He began to wonder what exactly was keeping her.  

“I’m comin’!” Rose hollered back. She appeared at the top of the staircase as if on cue. “Ya like? I hadda pick up a few extra shifts down at the library to afford it. Now, I know what you’re thinkin’, it’s not normally my thing, but I figure, y’know, step outta my comfort zone a little.” 

Columbo glanced up to see his wife descending the stairs dressed to the nines, donned in a most striking single-shouldered gown. So that’s what took her so long. She’d mentioned the team at the university needing a bit of overtime this past month, but he hadn’t expected a flashy red dress out of it. She sauntered up to him and adjusted his black bowtie. 

“You’re, you’re missin’ a whole arm there. I hope they gave you a discount,” he chuckled, gesturing towards her bare shoulder.

“So you don’t like it?” she asked coyly. 

“No, no, just the opposite,” he said, hand in the air. Truthfully, he found something about her new look breathtaking, almost overwhelmingly so. She was no stranger to the world of cosmetics, but not even on their wedding day had she dolled up so. He was simply not used to seeing such a thoroughly gilded Rose. “I, I do like it. Very much, in fact. I just, ah…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look quite like this before. What, we move here and you turn into a movie star on me?”

“You gush,” Rose replied dryly, basking in his awe as she brushed past him to retrieve her purse. She adjusted his sateen lapel--really, her brother’s. George had agreed to watch the kids and lend her husband his tux in return for use of Rose’s car; his, incidentally, needed fixing. “Say, you don’t look so bad yourself. This tux looks about better on you than it does on George.”

“Now who’s gushing?” he said, eyebrow quirked. Rose grinned. 

It was their very first policeman’s ball since moving to Los Angeles, and her husband’s first ever as a newly-promoted lieutenant. Rose was, of course, a bookish woman of typically modest dress. But she could clean up rather nicely, and thus she had no intention of embarrassing him that evening. If he needed arm candy to help impress his new cohort, then arm candy she’d be. 

And arm candy she was, indeed. Her glasses were stowed in her bag, visual acuity taking a back seat to allurement for the night. She’d even shelled out for a hair and makeup appointment, and it showed--eyes heavily lined, lips claret, tight, dark curls tamed and swept into a fashionable, voluminous updo. New perfume. Vibrant, blood orange fabric hugging her full figure, popping against her tanned skin and finishing in an effortless drape over a single shoulder. She’d even broken out her accursed high heels for the occasion, for once taller than he. 

“You know, now I can’t even put you in that jalopy without feelin’ bad,” he said, casting his gaze downwards and wrapping the gown’s matching red shawl around her shoulders. He opened the door for her, locking it behind him and running through his mental checklist--kids at George’s place, stove off, all doors and windows locked. “It’s like stickin’ a Michaelangelo in a McDonald’s. Just ain’t right.” 

“Oh, so I deserve this thing every other night of the week,” she said with a snicker, making her way to said thing. It was just her luck that George had asked to borrow her car. Columbo scampered ahead of her and opened the passenger door. 

“Ladies first.” 

“My, my, chivalry? You know, you mustn’t go to such lengths for little old me,” Rose said in an affected manner, clearly savoring her coquettish act. Her husband’s expressions of love were more in the camp of subtle, attentive gestures than grand, romantic overtures. But despite his lack of refinement, he was no stranger to proper gallantry from time to time, and there was always something about his brand of it that tickled her. 

“Nonsense, I won’t hear of it,” he said, carefully shutting the door and looping around to his side. “I lucked into gettin’ myself a beauty queen for the evening, I gotta treat ‘er right.” 

“Wise move, Lieutenant.”  

---

The night was calm, air California balmy. The pathetic Peugeot pulled up to the portico of the venue, sputtering to a stop. Columbo exited and opened the door for his wife, leaving the keys inside for the young valet approaching with his ticket. 

“Do you think that guy and his wife will be there, what's his name? O’Reilly?” Rose asked, holding onto her husband's hand and carefully stepping out of the vehicle. Of course, unkempt cobblestone pavement on the night she chose to wear heels. Just her luck.  

“O'Ryan? Yeah, probably. Why?” he answered, closing the door for her.

“Remember when we ran into them at the mall? I don’t think I’ve met a bigger pair of dimwits in my life,” she grumbled, taking his arm in hers as they entered the vestibule. 

“Well, you know, there is your cousin Martha and her husband.” 

“Don’t get me started.”  

“I mean, listen, this isn’t exactly gonna be a forum for high brow discussion tonight. Hell, when some’a those guys and their wives get a few drinks in ‘em I can just about feel my IQ plummeting. So bear with me,” he said, turning to look at her. “Gee, wait’ll the boys see who I’m walkin’ in with.” 

“Oh, stop.” Rose felt a grin spreading despite herself. 

“Ah, Lieutenant. Glad you made it.” 

Columbo instantly recognized the authoritative enunciation coming from the coat check. A tall, well-dressed gentleman of stately countenance joined the two, eyeing Rose as he shook Columbo's hand. 

“Good evenin’, Commander.”

“Good eve to you, as well. And just who is this angel on your arm tonight?”

“That would be my lovely wife, Rose. Rose, Commander Porter, one of my superiors.” 

“Hello there, how d’ya do?” she said, extending her gloved hand for a shake rather than offering it demurely. With raised brows, he shook it firmly. 

“So this is the famous wife, eh? That’s a lovely accent and might I add a fine handshake you’ve got there.” She nodded in thanks. “I’ve got to say, your husband here is one of our top men, truly exceptional. Really, I can’t understate it. And he's always talking about you, so I can only imagine you are equally so. You work on the archivals team at the UCLA library, I hear?” 

“You got it.”

“You know, ma’am, that line of work fascinates me,” he said, walking back towards the coat check. She followed. “The preservation, taxonomy of culturally significant media. Truly a noble thing.”  

“If only they paid me like it!” she quipped, the two laughing as they launched into conversation. Columbo stood for a moment, then hurried behind them at a brisk clip.

---

Lieutenant Columbo was not a jealous man. At least, so he thought.

And Rose Columbo was not a kittenish woman. At least...so he thought.

He stared at his reflection, washing his hands in the venue’s ridiculously opulent men’s room. Cocktails, dinner, and dessert had come and gone, but the party showed no sign of stopping. Rose, normally so reserved, had chatted to quite a few attendees. Most emphatically and notably amongst them was his own commander, who had spent much of the evening animatedly discussing with her all manners of things--most of which of rapturous interest to them and only them. Despite their attempts to include him, Columbo sat rather idly nearby, for once feeling more like part of the décor than an active conversational participant. 

He frowned. Shutting the tap, he flicked his hands and retrieved a paper towel. Thinking about it, it hadn’t really bothered him that much, had it? Surely he wasn’t as insecure as all that. Rose had plenty of male friends, male colleagues. He never once felt threatened by any of them. She never once gave him reason. Thus, he’d at first discounted the pit that had begun to form in his stomach. 

Then, more and more, the dance floor had begun to populate. Rose was quite a little dancer in her own right, starkly contrasted with his own two left feet. Normally something of a klutz, on the dance floor her fluidity alone often left him spellbound. 

Tonight had been no exception.

Despite his typical reluctance towards public displays of rhythm at any given event, he always humored those lively arm tugs. And despite her generally fastidious and critical nature, Rose was a fun and patient dance partner, taking the lead, never so much as scolding him for stumbling or treading upon her toes--which, admittedly, he often did. Still, invariably, he found dancing with her a blast. 

Tonight had been no exception. 

Then there was, of course, Commander Porter, who had in no uncertain terms asked to cut in. And, wanting to be a gentleman of decorum (as well as one employed), Columbo obliged. By God’s infinitely yielding grace, Porter, too, was a seasoned dancer, and the way he and Rose moved together was objectively remarkable. 

To the onlookers, of course. To the lieutenant, it only clarified that the evening’s stomach trouble was not indigestion from stuffing hors d'oeuvres into his mouth. It was the dancing. The incessant schmoozing. The blatant monopoly on her attention. The hand on her arm, however brief. That damned glint in his eyes. Columbo raked a hand through his hair, breaking into a cold sweat. 

Tonight had been an exception. 

Increasingly, he felt the need for some fresh air--preferably on the rocks.

---

The venue’s courtyard garden was well-manicured and, to Columbo’s relief, sported a halfway-hidden bench. He’d fetched his trusty overcoat from the coat check and made himself fairly comfortable, whiskey in one hand and cigar in the other. He loosened his bowtie. 

Alone, he heard the music and merriment of the party, faint and in competition with chirping crickets. He felt his gut now roiling in sheer…something. It began to dawn on him that this was perhaps even more than mere jealousy or discontent.  

“There you are, all stowed away by yourself! I’ve been lookin’ all over for you, what’re ya doin’ all the way out here?” 

“Hm?” Columbo glanced behind him, startled to suddenly hear Rose. The turbulence in his gut abated somewhat upon hearing her voice. “Oh, I was just gettin’ a bit warm in there. Needed some air.” Her brow furrowed.

“You think some of that deductive skill hasn’t rubbed off on me? Lemme tell you, I may not have your gift, Frank, but it doesn't take a genius to tell somethin’s really buggin’ you,” she said, crossing her arms as she took a seat next to him. She wrinkled her nose; her husband’s typical bouquet of tobacco and aftershave had been joined by a healthy splash of high-proof liquor. “You smell like a poker night, for God’s sake. How many of those have ya had?” She nodded towards his nearly-empty scotch glass. He pouted and stared into it.

"Oh, I dunno. A couple." She gave him a knowing look. Judging by his flushed expression and loosened bearing, it was not only more than a couple, she’d have to drive them home tonight. He closed his eyes and leaned back. "Maybe five. Who’s keepin’ score?" 

Five was indeed a rare number for Columbo. A man who usually only imbibed for pleasure and not sorrow-drowning, he had very little tolerance for the stuff. He was loath to admit it, but even Rose could drink him under the table. 

The issue laid not with the feeling. He was even largely the same person inebriated as he was sober, though less filtered and perhaps more easily amused. It was the dullness, the slowing of the mind and blunting of the senses, that made drinking feel foolish. Drinking had never solved anything his acumen couldn’t. 

But tonight, his stomach had tied itself into increasingly agonizing knots, the reasons for which were finally becoming clear to him. For once, he felt out of his depth, powerless, in an odd dilemma which he felt no amount of his needling analysis nor subterfuge could overcome. For once, he ached for that dullness. And so beckoned the bottle. 

“That much? What’s wrong?” Rose prodded, working to keep her demeanor calm. He was beginning to worry her. 

“Ah, don’t worry about it, it’s nothin’,” Columbo mumbled, raising his hand languidly. A pregnant pause. “Well, fine. If you insist.”

“Go on,” she said, placing a hand on his knee.  

“Listen, Rose, I, uh…boy,” he uttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Opening up about such matters was never his strong suit. “I ain’t neva’ felt scared of losin’ you. I mean, not ‘cause nobody would want ya, but I always felt secure. With Porter over there, you guys were talkin’ and talkin’. And after a few chats, a few drinks, a dance…he was lookin’ at ya. I mean really lookin’ at ya. And if anyone knows that look, it’s me.” Rose shook her head.

“You’re kidding,” she said with a dry laugh. “I didn’t think you were that type. He looked at me? Talked to me, danced with me? What, I need notarized approval for that?” 

“Yeah, I…I know it sounds stupid. Believe me,” he said, choosing his words with effort. “But when I say lookin’, I mean…look, I, I know men. Sometimes they look at women in a real…unsavory way. And you know that’s not me, Rosie, the jealous type, but I just…for the first time tonight I really felt, uh…I felt…” He trailed off into silence, grasping for more words.

“You felt..?” she murmured, leaning in close and looking him in the eye. He faltered, his gaze reflexively flicking downward. Moonlit, her face was especially radiant--in his state, almost intimidating to behold.

“I mean, just look at you. Believe me, you’re stunning every night, but tonight you’re somethin’ else entirely,” he said quietly. “And tonight you’re practically the life a’ the party. Since when’re you the life a’ the party, I usually gotta drag you around just to say hello to people.” 

“Since some people here seem interested in actual conversation,” she said, sighing. “That’s rare for me, y’know. And for your information, I can tell who just wants me to bend over and pick up a dime. I’m not that dense.”

“I know. It’s not about that.”

“So what gives, then? Is it Porter? We talked, so what? That man can have any woman he wants.” Columbo jabbed his index finger in the air.

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, any stick-thin, bleach-blonde eighteen-year-old in Beverly Hills with a derrière you could bounce a quarter off of. Does that sound like me?” 

“No. Well,” he said, tucking his chin and putting a hand on his cheek. “Maybe the derrière part.” She snorted. 

“Anyway,” he continued. “Point is, a lotta times, to a lotta guys, none’a that matters. That, you oughta know by now. Girls like that are just candy to a guy like him. Women like you are more filling, like, uh, like lasagna or somethin’. Like, uh…uh…”

“We graspin’ for a bookend to this drunken metaphor?” she said wryly. He gave her a thin smile. 

“You know what I'm sayin'.” 

She nodded, fixing her gaze on nothing in particular and ruminating on his words. Perhaps the commander had indeed paid her an abundance of attention tonight. It was not out of the realm of possibility that she had let herself get carried away by the exhilarating current of such novel attention. But that this rush had blinded her to more potentially ulterior motives, she doubted. 

“Even if he does find me interesting in the way a man finds a woman interesting,” she said, looking upwards. “I’m tellin’ you, he’s harmless. The man spent half an hour askin’ me about how to best index a case file archive.” 

“Of course he did,” he replied, sitting up straight. “You’re an educated lady, you always got educated stuff to say. Just usually these guys are too dumb to know what the hell you’re on about. But Porter’s not, and God, the man was--is smitten with ya. I can just about smell it on ‘im." 

“Tell ya what I can smell on you,” she deadpanned. He gave a small laugh, then a big hiccup.  

"Well, I’m done anyways, no more of this stuff for me. Here, take,” he said, offering her his empty glass. She took it, shaking her head. 

“Smitten. Come, now.” 

“Hey. 'Least the man’s got excellent taste,” Columbo replied, taking a long drag of his cigar. 

“No, really! You can’t be serious. I’ll concede that maybe he was a bit involved, I guess, but there’s really no way he actually wants me. Now you're just bein’ paranoid.” 

“Paranoid? A bit involved? You gonna argue with me of all people about this?” he asked, thumbing his chest, brows raised. Most of those close to him, including Rose, deferred to him on such matters of character judgement, as his was second to none. To question that judgement when the verdict was so obvious only vexed him. Rose scoffed.

“I just think you’re wrong about him.”

“Wrong about him? I can read the guy like a book."

"Yeah? Go ‘head, then," she said. He gave her a look.

"Fine. He’s tall, blonde. Attractive, smart, talented, all in the usual way, nothin’ peculiar. Rich, widely respected. Knows what he wants, has the means and drive to get it.” He sighed. “Did I say tall? Most importantly, a bachelor? A bachelor who not only has eyes for my wife, he was clearly gunnin’ for her right under my nose. And what the hell am I supposed to do about it, the man could fire me on the spot. I mean, that is a really nervy thing to do.”

“Oh, he was not gunnin’ for me!” she cried, now incredulous.

“Chrissakes. You know, you’re really somethin’?” he groused, an exasperated hand atop his head. His dear wife was not uncommonly naïve in matters interpersonal, but this was too much to bear. Without realizing, his guts began to spill. “Sometimes you see stuff I could never dream of seein’ and sometimes I gotta scream it out for ya from the rooftops. Don’t you understand? A guy like that goin’ after a girl like you…d’ya have any idea how scary that is for a guy like me?” 

“...A guy like you?” she exclaimed. He winced; she lowered her voice. “A guy like you. What’s wrong with a guy like you? You think I woulda’ married you if I didn’t want a guy like you?” 

“Look, when you run that mouth a’ yours the way you do, guys like him stop in their tracks. Look at me. I did, now I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. But when…when…” He wavered, his addled mind betraying him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Swallowing, he could’ve sworn he tasted bile. 

“When it’s someone like him, I mean…I’ll be honest with you. It scares the livin’ hell outta me, Rose, it does. I got tremendously lucky findin’ someone like you. It was a fluke that I even managed to get your attention in the first place. Hell, I almost didn’t. So when I see you havin' the time of your life with someone like him, I just don’t know what to do but wonder what you’re doin’ with me. Me, what am I, y'know? You…you obviously deserve better,” he said, looking away. “You do. One’a these days I’m scared to death you're gonna finally wake up and realize it.” 

Rose’s mouth fell open in shock, her head swimming. Not once in her memory had he even hinted at any of this to her. He'd scarcely acted any less than a paragon of confidence.

Silence fell over them. Columbo heaved a sigh. Unmoored amidst his breathless, well-oiled monologue, it began to dawn on him exactly what he'd let slip. 

“That’s what’s been eating at you?” she said sotto voce, breaking the lull. She gazed up at him warmly. “You’re afraid I’m gonna up and leave you because you think I’m too good for you?” 

“Well, now,” he grumbled. “I, I mean, no need to get a big head about it.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, leaving behind a smudge of her lip color. His fingers rose automatically and brushed against it. 

“Frank, no matter what, I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “I’m almost insulted that you’d so much as insinuate it at this point, because I thought I made it perfectly clear. You are more than good enough.”

“C’mon, you don’t gotta gimme all the boilerplate. Of course you say that now--” 

“Are you kidding me?” she insisted. “Listen to me, if I was the kind of girl who cared about power, or stature, or money, do you think I would've married you? Let me tell you something, swear on my grandfather’s grave. Commander Porter, in all of his tall, rich, suave studliness, could get down on one knee right now, jetset me off to Paris, hand me everything I ever wanted on a silver platter. Buy me a mansion in the Hills, brand new Mercedes. He could offer me a life I could only dream of and I still wouldn’t give him a second look. Understand?” He met her gaze shyly, some of the glassiness in his eyes clearing. 

“You mean that?”

“Well. Maybe if he threw in fixin’ the upstairs faucet like a certain someone has been promising…” she trailed off, twirling a stray ringlet that had escaped her updo. He grinned. “You may be cockeyed, middle class on a good day, weird enough to go on exhibit at the MoMA--"

"Hey, you betta’ be buildin’ up to somethin’ good." 

"But," she said, running her hand through his hair and cupping his cheek. "You happen to be the loveliest, most special man I’ve ever met. And I've met a lot of 'em. I could sit here for hours regaling you with everything I love about you. You’re one of a kind. Really, I’m surprised that brain of yours hasn’t figured it out yet. See, if I’m so wonderful, don’t I deserve the most wonderful man? How can I deserve better than the best?” 

He looked downwards bashfully and shook his head a bit. Surely she was kidding herself.

“I mean it. Just about anyone can chase my tail when I look like this. Nobody else saw that gawky, aloof girl with the huge glasses, wanted her like you did, made her feel wanted like you did. Like you still do. Just for that, I…I wouldn’t trade you for anyone in the world. And don't you ever forget it.” 

As those words ran through his head, one of his deepest fears at last felt somewhat allayed. He tried and failed to contain his smile as he embraced her tightly. A great weight had been lifted off his shoulders--and stomach. He slung his arm around her, taking another puff of his cigar. 

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he breathed contentedly. “Boy. Much better, actually.”

“Good.”

“Thank you.” 

They sat for a while in quiet contentment, enjoying the night and each other. The noise from the hall began to wane, prompting them to head back inside and say their farewells to the attendees--the commander included. 

“Good seeing you, Columbo,” Porter said, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know you could dance like that. Truly a sight to behold. And Mrs. Columbo, such a pleasure getting to speak with you this evening. Certainly, an evening full of sights to behold.”

“Oh no, sir, the pleasure was ours,” Columbo replied, suppressing his grimace with a polite smile. 

“Certainly. Thank you, Commander,” Rose chimed in. “Hope to see you again soon.” At this, the commander dug into his shirt pocket and offered her a business card. 

“Here’s my card, if you don’t mind. Should something happen, say you can’t get in touch with your husband, you just let me know and we’ll make whatever you need a top priority.”

“That’s very gracious of you. Thanks again,” she said, nodding politely. They said their goodnights and parted ways, heading outside to wait for their car.

“Flip that card over,” Columbo muttered. 

“What?”

“You heard me. Just flip it over.” 

She flipped the card over and stared at it, feeling the sear of her husband’s glare. As usual, he’d been dead right all along. The commander had indeed scrawled what appeared to be his personal digits on the back of the card. Aghast, she quickly stuffed it into her handbag. 

“Alright. Come on, get it over with,” Rose said quietly.

“Hm? Oh, I wasn't gonna say nothin’.” 

“Yeah, right. No gloating, no ‘I told you so’?” 

“Oh no, no,” Columbo said with a smug grin, waving his hand. “I don’t like to rub it in, you know. I mean with how right I am all the time, I imagine it would get pretty tiresome.” 

“Spare me,” she said, rolling her eyes. Seeing their unmistakable vehicle pulling up, she opened her bag and put on her glasses. “We’ll discuss this later. The guy’s here with our car.” 

“Already? Boy, these guys are quick. Hey, you’re drivin’, right? Where’re my keys?” he said, patting his pockets. Rose jingled them; he gave her a look. 

“Right here!” she chirped.

"What’re you, a Venetian pickpocket?" 

“I nabbed ‘em when we were on that bench. Here y’go, sir,” she said, handing the valet a tip and settling into the driver’s seat. Columbo settled into the passenger seat just as the car stalled. 

“Still wanna turn down that brand new Mercedes?” he asked. After several attempts, Rose managed to wrangle the capricious ignition to life once again. 

“Damn right.” 

Chapter 6: Ticket To Ride

Summary:

Columbo braves an unthinkable monstrosity…at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk.

Notes:

Mid 1970s.

“Dad, look, The Giant Dipper! Can we go on it, pleeeease?” 

“Go on what, sweetheart?”  

Lydia’s black pigtails bounced as she tugged on her dad’s brown polo sleeve, pointing up at the massive structure towering before them. A weekend family excursion up to San Francisco necessitated a stop at none other than the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. For the lieutenant, all had been fun and games until he stopped and beheld the formidable wooden structure at which his daughter gestured eagerly, deafened by the screams of the riders flying by at highway speeds. He took one glimpse and looked down, his vertigo rearing its head. 

“Uh, you w--you wanna go on that big ol’ thing?” he stammered, forcing a chuckle. "Are you even tall enough to ride?" 

Lydia tilted her head, noticing the color beginning to drain from her father’s face.  

“I'm almost five feet tall, it’s…are you okay, Dad?” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Probably all that cotton candy I ate. Hey, uh…looks like fun, kiddo. Tell ya what, Tony, why don't you take your sister?” Tony gave his father a knowing smirk. Like he was about to so easily let his father out of this.  

“Please, Dad, I can’t be seen on that. The Giant Dipper’s for little kids. It doesn't even go upside down.” Columbo felt his stomach turn.

“They...make ‘em go upside down now?” he said, trying to sound normal. He blinked and rubbed the back of his head nervously. “Don't people fall outta those things?” 

“They strap you in real tight. They got, like, big loops now, sometimes you even get stuck upside down if there’s not enough juice. And some of ‘em, they even twist you around like a corkscrew.” 

“Wicked!” Lydia exclaimed, her little fists balled up. Her father perspired, looking on at her in a mix of awe and fear. Thankfully, he spied Rose approaching with their soft-serve ice cream orders. Perhaps his daughter would forget the whole idea.

“Hey, guys!” Rose chirped, doling out small cups of the frozen treat. She led her family to an open bench nearby. “They ran outta coconut, so I got you orange cream,” she said to her husband, who somehow wasn’t too nauseous to dig into his favorite treat. Then she turned to Lydia. “What's wicked, sweetie?” 

Damn it.

“Tony was talking about this roller coaster that goes upside down and twists you around like a corkscrew!” 

“The new one at Knott’s? Well, y’know, those things can really make you sick. Your cousin Joey went on it and couldn't walk straight for half an hour. Gotta be careful.” Columbo stopped and put down his spoon; his daughter once again did not fail to notice.

“Hey, Mom, will you go on the Giant Dipper with me? Tony doesn’t want to and, um…Dad doesn’t look so good.” 

“Sure,” she said with a smile, eyeing her husband. “Your father’s not the best with this sort of thing. He’s got a...shall we say, sensitive tummy.” 

“Hey, hey, now wait just a minute,” he said, trying to quash his queasiness. A new resolve washed over him. Even if that monstrosity ended up making him hurl, he suddenly and for some reason felt indignant--perhaps for his daughter’s sake. Quality time with her was hard enough to come by as it was in his line of work, was he going to let her remember him as too delicate, too soft-bellied to accompany her on a mere child's ride? Fat chance. Besides, what was the worst that could happen?

"Yes?" 

“I never said I wouldn’t take her.” 

“Oh, get real, Frank,” Rose snickered, their son joining in. “You couldn’t stomach a seesaw to save your life, let alone a ride like that. You look like you're about to lose your lunch just lookin’ at that thing!”

“Well, I’ll have you know I will be goin’ on that ride, and I’ll be just fine, thank you very much. This one dun’t even go upside down. Besides, I'll have my little girl with me.” He pulled Lydia close to him and she beamed, the two armed with the exact same luminant grin. Rose shook her head.

“Well...your funeral,” she replied amusedly, crossing her arms. 

“Cool! Let’s hurry and get a spot in line!” Lydia said, grabbing her father's hand. 

“Now? But we just ate, you sure--oh, boy.” He stumbled forward as she yanked him towards the growing line.

---

“No, no, let’s get this straight. My bet was no to vomiting, no to fainting, yes to me havin’ to drive back to the hotel,” Rose said, ticking the items off on her fingers.

She and Tony remained seated on the bench, waiting for the other two to come off the ride. She peered at him from over the rim of her sunglasses. 

“You said no to fainting, but yes to vomiting and no to me havin’ to drive back. You also put fifty cents on him sayin' ‘Gee, I don’t feel so good’ afterwards, but you get that money if and only if he says that verbatim. Anything else and it’s mine. What, do I have to write this down?”

“I got it, Ma, I got it. You sure you don’t wanna up the ante?” 

“Up the ante,” she grumbled. “Oh, we're bettin’ on your father here, for Pete's sake. You're my son, I shouldn't even be encouraging this.”

“But you are.” Tony replied, stone faced. She made a face and lightly swatted his arm.

---

“All aboard the Giant Dipper!” the crackly intercom sounded. The riders quickly clambered out of the carts, squealing and laughing, having seemingly had a blast. Amongst the fresh throngs of excited riders rushing towards the roller coaster train, there stood Columbo, frozen. 

“Dad?” Lydia asked, tapping him on the back. “It’s our turn.” 

“I’m goin’, I'm goin',” he said stiffly, hesitantly entering the car with his daughter. She brought down the lap bar and locked it into place. He tensed.

“See, Dad?” she said, tugging on it. “It’s reeeeally tight. We’re not gonna fall out, okay?”

“Right. Of course,” he replied with a nod, giving the bar a cursory jiggle himself. It did seem sturdy, at least. The intercom hissed alive with another announcement.

“Ensure that all loose articles are secured and keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times!” 

“Hands and feet inside?” Columbo said, trying to make his nervous laughter seem not so nervous. “What, do people lose limbs on this thing?” 

“No, Dad, they're just covering their asses. It’s fine!” Lydia giggled as she placed her thick glasses in her pocket.

“Right, of course,” he said, running his hand down his face. “Wait a sec, covering their asses. Where'd you learn that?”

“Sorry. I...I heard you say it,” she said hesitantly. He paused, then grinned and patted her on the back. 

“Just don't let your mother hear.” 

Before long, with another announcement and a steam whistle, off the train lurched, veering into a dark tunnel. And up the giant hill it climbed. 

Don’t look down. 

Steeling himself, his eyes remained open, fixed on the lap bar until the train crested the top of the hill. But just one glimpse of the vast, open expanse at such a height, and they instantly squeezed shut. 

Change of plans. Don’t look anywhere. 

The train plunged. Whoops and hollers from its riders, as well as intense grimacing from one in particular. The sudden low g-force nearly launched his ice cream up then and there, but he held fast. His viscera tumbled like balls in a bingo cage as the car whirled about, up and down hills, banking abruptly. He held onto the bar with white-knuckled force, praying to any and every canonized saint. Cracking open an eyelid, he peeped his daughter next to him. She, conversely, was screaming and laughing maniacally, arms straight up, enthralled with every second. 

He shut his eye again. Most certainly, she was made of stronger stuff than he. 

The ride leveled out, those horrid twists and turns finally at an end. Mercifully, the ride seemed to be over as quickly as it began. Columbo pried his eyes wide open and took a deep breath, what seemed like the first one since their train launched. They hadn’t pulled into the station five seconds when Lydia piped up. 

“Oh, Dad, can we go again? Please?” 

“Huh?” he croaked, snapping out of his thousand-yard stare as his organs finally stopped spinning, settling back to their rightful places. “A-again? Uhh…lemme, um. Laybe mater.” 

“What?”

“Maybe later," he mumbled. "I said maybe later. I said that.” 

Thankfully, his body seemed to reorient as he stepped onto solid ground and began walking. Though sore and a bit jelly-legged, it seemed as though the brunt of it was over. He was not nearly as worse for wear as he'd predicted, let alone doomed to the fate of his gyroscopically-challenged nephew. His stomach was no longer threatening to expel its contents; his dizziness abated somewhat as he walked. Perhaps those rides weren’t as intolerable as they looked, after all. His daughter skipped next to him, absolutely radiating happiness. It was worth at least that.

And there sat his wife and son on the bench just across from the exit, waving. 

“Over here! How was th…oh my God,” Rose said, rising as they drew near. She put a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. The children joined in, decidedly less subtle in their cackling.  

“Wha?” Columbo said, turning around. 

“No, you, your...your hair,” she stammered, attempting to smooth it with her hand to no avail. It was well beyond his usual poofy frizz; the high winds had blasted it straight up and out. “You look like you stuck a fork in an outlet.” He smiled sheepishly. 

“It totally ruled, Mom!” Lydia cried. “And Dad was so cool about it. He didn’t scream once, he's such trooper.” 

“Oh, he’s nothing if not,” Rose said with a wry grin, turning to her husband. “How’d it go, everything okay? ” 

“Well, not bad as I thought at least," he said, feeling well enough to take out a new cigar. Already knowing her husband had no flame, Rose took a matchbox out of her purse and lit it for him. "Thank you. Uh, it was tall. It was very fast. I think my colon got rearranged. But to be honest with ya, I didn't see much, really, I shut my eyes for most of it. That mighta’ helped.” 

“Really, I thought you’d be worse off. My God, the way you were swoonin' at that thing.”

“Ah, most of that was me gettin’ ahead a’ myself, you know how I am. I’m not so bad now. Actually,” he said, stopping. He winced and rubbed the back of his shoulder. “Actually...geez, my back dun’t feel too good. Either that ride's gettin’ old, or I am. You didn't happen to bring some aspirin?”

“Think you’re in luck, hon’,” she said, fishing in her bag. Tony cursed silently as fifty cents narrowly escaped his grasp, his mother sneaking him a devious wink. Columbo noticed, of course, but chose not to inquire. A question for when his back wasn't killing him.

“Y’know, I gotta say, I’m impressed,” Rose said, handing him an aspirin. The aching had begun to wax, so he swallowed it dry. “You're handling this awfully well. Come to think of it, you haven't gone on a carnival ride like that since you went on the Coney Island ferris wheel for me on that date. Aw, you were shakin'. ‘Memba that?”

“Yes, dear, and you'll also recall that we got stuck on it. At the very top, I might add, for over half an hour.” She chuckled and put an arm around the small of his back as they resumed their promenade. 

“Say,” she said, looking to round off her parlay. “Shall I drive us back to the hotel?”

“Yeah? You don’t mind?” Columbo asked.  

“Figure I give you a break, after goin’ on that thing.”  

“Well, I’m not too beat up, but, uh...I’m not gonna say no. I’ll take you up on that.” Rose stuck her hand out behind her husband’s back and felt loose change from her disgruntled son hit her palm. 

Chapter 7: Brownie Logic

Chapter by fastpork

Summary:

Columbo undertakes a high-stakes case against an unusual adversary--his very own wife.

Notes:

Early 1970s.

“What's up?”

“They’re for the bake sale.” Rose replied pointedly, focus undiverted from her sink full of dishes.

Two big, shining brown eyes peeked curiously from behind the kitchen doorway, shrouded in a cloud of smoke. The owner of those eyes pressed his palms together and ambled slowly into the kitchen. It was beginning to look as though procuring tonight's bounty was going to be a challenge for the good lieutenant.

His wife, for an Italian woman especially, never quite hit her stride on the stove. Her seasonings were dissonant, her chicken dry, her pasta limp. She cooked only in a purely utilitarian bid to keep the stomachs closest to her full.

Yet her handle on baking was strong, surprisingly so. Her flavors were balanced and sophisticated, her cakes moist, her pies flaky. Such a stark dichotomy fascinated him on a continual basis; one who bakes well naturally ought to cook well. But perhaps the strictly chemical, scientific instructions of a cake recipe suited her academic nature better than the relative spontaneity and guesswork involved in cooking. After all, guesswork was his wheelhouse, and science hers.

At any rate, her homemade brownies, the intoxicating scent of which had pervaded the entire house, were to die for.

And tonight, on this blessed summer's eve, they simply had to be his.

“Church picnic’s tomorrow already? Time flies, huh?” he said, crowning his statement with an innocent whistle. His wife tutted.

“Give it up, I know why you’re skulkin’ around in here. Don’t even think about it,” she warned. He looked at her, head tilted blithely.

“Think about what?”

“Please. Don't gimme that," she said, her clear amusement not betraying her firm intentions. "I know you. Once you get ahold of those brownies, you inhale half the tray before I can blink. And then Mrs. Battaglio--remember Easter?--she gives us the stink eye 'cause I'm only bringin' in like, five of them.”

He caved; a big, guilty smile graced his face. The mere mention of Signora Battaglio always did him in. Though she stood at not a hair over five feet tall, their purse-lipped, pearl-clutching, old-world Italian church fundraising director was never short on her signature, omnipresent disapproval--palpable, and of which Columbo had been the subject. Upon hearing that Rose’s paltry picnic offering was his doing…well, he'd gotten kinder treatments from serial killers in his custody.

“Okay, look. I am not proud of that," he said, failing to suppress his mirth. "I went a little crazy that time. I apologized and promised I wouldn't eat that much again, didn't I?” Smirking, Rose narrowed her eyes at her sugar-starved partner.

“Well, I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "But you just cannot be trusted. I can put a couple aside for you tomorrow. For after the picnic."

"Day old, bunch 'a kids sneezed on ‘em?"

"Can always make you another batch."

"Oh, I don’t wanna make you do all that work. And it would take so long."

"Don't be such a baby. Besides, I already baked 'em long before you got home. They're all cooled and packed away, so it’d be a lot of trouble to get 'em out now. Just wait ‘til tomorrow.”

Columbo put a hand to his cheek. To lie to his face like that, in the thick of such blatant and tauntingly chocolatey aroma? Utterly sickening.

Besides, there was simply no way she’d had time to bake them much earlier; she’d been at work most of the day, then dropped the kids off at their uncle’s house. The way he figured, he arrived home about an hour after she did. Thus, judging by the intensity of the mesmerizing scent that hit him as he walked through the front door, those brownies were certainly still hot, as hot as that day had been--a scorcher even for the early Los Angeles summer.

Such a sweltering day and backbreaking caseload made getting his hands on those brownies ever the more imperative. Lieutenant Columbo was not about to let such a day end treatless. Part of him wanted, for once, to cut to the chase: call her out immediately, grill her mercilessly, anything to exact his pound of flesh. Or chocolate, as it were.

But, as always, the part of him that savored a good game more than even his just desserts simply had to have its way.

It was time to shift gears. Columbo sauntered around the kitchen again, hands clasped behind his back.

“Fine, alright,” he said. He made his way over to the sink where his wife stood, her tanned, olive skin and black, frizzy hair bathed in the warm light of a single incandescent bulb. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter next to her, admiring her profile.

“I understand,” he insisted, voice lower. Still occupied, she glanced at him.

"Uh-huh. Glad to hear it."

Columbo took a long, thoughtful drag of his cigar as the two stood together in a comfortable silence, punctuated by low crackles of Miles Davis on the transistor radio and the chorus of crickets.

Wait…crickets? Columbo's eyes darted to the windows, all of which were wide open. Interesting. He picked up a clean towel and wordlessly began to help his wife dry the dishes.

“Sure was hot today, wunn’t it? They said it hit ninety-five, and with the humidity? Lord have mercy."

“You can say that again," Rose affirmed, wiping her brow with her bare arm at the very reminder of the heat, tight coils of dark hair sticking to her reddened face. "Hell, I was sweatin' in the shower."

"You wanna talk sweat, I soaked clean through my shirt. Again," he muttered. She snickered.

"And you put it straight in the laundry, right? Don't try to pull that 'it's still good' crap."

"Oh, soon as I walked in," he said, gesturing to his torso, damp with sweat and clad in naught but an undershirt. "Believe me, that one was done for."

"'Atta boy."

"D'ja turn on the A/C? Why'd we pay so much for it if we're not gonna use it?"

"Well, I didn't want to just yet. That thing is such an energy suck. You know our bill goes up by over 30% when it's on?”

“Mm, I hear ya. So you just got the door and windows open in here. You get a nice cross breeze goin'?"

"You know it."

Columbo noted well that despite this purported effort, the kitchen was still noticeably hotter than the rest of the house, most certainly from recent use of their oven.

"And, uh, what time were you gonna close ‘em?” he asked. Rose paused and glanced at him again.

“Oh…I dunno. Around now, after I finish the dishes.” He nodded as she spoke, his face contorted in thought. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it's still very warm in here. Much warmer than the living room, I'd say by…oh, I dunno, ten degrees or so. I just can’t put my finger on why that is, what with all the fresh air that’s been circulating around here. And surely, the smell of freshly-baked brownies should've dissipated by now.”

“Maybe,” she said, handing him another wet plate to dry. “But scents are stronger in the heat, you know. It could just be lingering.”

“Of course. You're right, I shoulda thought of that myself. It's just that it's such a strong scent for such an old tray of brownies.” A devilish grin grew on his face despite himself. He was deriving a special sort of satisfaction from seeing she of all people squirm under his magnifying glass. “In fact, it still smells as though they were just baked. Maybe even cooled right on that windowsill, maybe within the last half hour. Maybe right before I got home from work.”

“Well, I…” Rose started. Indeed, her husband had a gift for reading both a literal and figurative room, but how could he possibly have figured that? Ridiculous. More ridiculous was that he was dead right. “I did make them with raspberry preserves. And I added real vanilla bean this time around instead of just extract, and a bit of espresso powder. Those things smell very strongly. So I’m sure they gave off a headier and longer-lasting aroma."

“That would make perfect sense. Except for that it doesn’t really explain the open windows, you see," he said, lowering his voice and tucking his chin, leaning in very close to her. Her large, dark eyes danced, refusing to meet his. "I just can’t figure out why it's still so hot in here even though you’ve had this breeze goin' for so long. And that really bothers me, honey, you know how I am. I mean, really, I'm gonna be thinkin' about it. It all bothers me very, very much.”

“...I have no idea what you're on about,” she said, shutting the tap. She bit her lip and stared at the wall, tapping her fingernails idly against the sink. Now she was in hot water, and she knew it. He moved behind her.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to wait for…oh, I dunno, a coroner’s report? What've they got for dessert, a baker's report?"

“A cornetto’s report?” Rose said dryly, without missing a beat. He snorted.

“Hey, that’s pretty good. I like that.”

“Mhm. And why do we need one?” she said, turning around to face him.

“To determine the exact time of baking, of course. Because I know for a fact that there's no way you could’ve already packed them up, let alone cut 'em. There’s no way they’ve cooled enough yet. So they’ve got to be warm, and fresh, and beggin' me to eat 'em somewhere in here. It would be remiss, even criminal, not to. Surely, you understand."

"No," she deadpanned. He sighed.

"Kindly, ma’am, if you could just cooperate in this investigation…I think we can all get through this very swiftly and without incident.” Rose simpered.

“I don't negotiate with terrorists. This whole line of questioning is in bad faith and I won't be answering anything further without my lawyer.” She dried her hands and flung the towel over her shoulder. He took a step closer, intensifying their saucy little staredown.

"And just who would that be?"

"Why, Mrs. Battaglio, if she's got anything to say about the integrity of her bake sale."

Columbo narrowed his eyes at her. A fair invocation, but he was getting warmer--even she couldn’t stop him now.

"You know, this whole thing has done nothing but tempt me. 'Cause it really does smell heavenly in here. Tellin’ me you added raspberries, I mean, you know how much I love raspberries. Who doesn’t?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you see, we got this guy down at the station, Harris, he eats 'em straight out the container by the handful, just like that. He dunn’t care ‘bout the seeds in his teeth, the mess, nothin’. It’s really somethin’. Isn't that somethin’?"

“Hmm,” Rose breathed suddenly, snaking her arms around his neck. His eyes widened in surprise as his wife pressed her body against his, his hands finding their way to her waist by sheer rote. “I’ll tell you what’s something.”

He grinned. "What's that?"

“I can’t believe you’re standing here lookin’ like this with nobody kissin’ the life outta you. That’s the real crime, here.”

"Well, if we're talkin' ‘bout--ooh."

She remedied this supposed problem appropriately, promptly and assertively laying her lips upon his. Scraping her nails gently along the nape of his neck, she felt him shiver beneath her touch. This was a woman closely acquainted with the element of surprise; shock at such sudden and intense pleasure had wrung his mind clean, his train of thought derailed into blankness by his wife's insistent and passionate abandon. Such was the nature of battle against one so dangerous. He did have an important question for her mere seconds ago, didn’t he? It seemed to have vaporized in this bizarrely sudden undertow of heat.

In fact, for a few moments her amorous assault had actually worked, for each time he grasped for his next thought, his wife tauntingly tugged it away, just out of his reach. Certainly if it was more important than this, he would’ve remembered it. But amid the throes of another, deeper kiss, he detected the slightest trace of chocolate. There it was.

His objective.

His brownies.

His victory.

Short of breath, Columbo gently separated from her, maintaining only a few inches of distance.

“Something wrong?” Rose whispered.

“You know, hon’, I hate to interrupt such a lovely…interruption. But I'm still bothered by one little thing. Uh…"

"Yeah?" she said, continuing her barrage with a hand through his hair and another down his back. She ran more soft kisses down his neck onto his shoulder with all the tactical coordination of one fresh from the tutelage of Sun Tzu. He hesitated, doing his best to ignore the thousands of nerve endings on his body belting praises.

"I just, uh…Jesus, would’ja relax?" he said with a laugh.

“No,” she said impishly.

"I-I'm just sayin’, I hope those brownies…were completely cool before you put ‘em away. Wherever it was that you put 'em away. In one of these cabinets, maybe. One of those cabinets we paid three hundred dollars to refinish last month."

Rose stopped and looked up at him, his hands now gripping her arms. He gazed straight into her eyes, locked onto their every move, and continued. 

"You know how condensation works and all. How well moisture mixes with wood. But I'm sure you considered that.”

Her gaze, having thus far remained surreptitious, finally betrayed her, unconsciously flicking over to the cabinet on her right for the briefest second. She indeed had not stopped to think about any potential condensation.

But it was too late, and it no longer mattered. Columbo clapped his hands together and beelined in that direction, grin triumphant, index finger stuck in the air. Rose pounded a fist on the countertop, teeth grit, further confirming his hunch.

Columbo searched fervently, finding in one of the cabinets a sizable tray of brownies atop a trivet, still indeed very warm. Chuckling sinisterly, he rubbed his hands together as Rose put her head in hers.

“Well, well, well, what have we here,” he growled, placing the tray on the counter. He retrieved a knife and sliced a row with gusto, breaking the shiny crust and revealing a bed of gooey, fudgy cake. "Oh, I can't believe you thought you could hide this from me. Though I do really gotta hand it to you, that offensive of yours almost worked. I mean, you really had me goin’. We should do that again sometime."

Rose pouted, no longer in such a mood. “Those are ill-gotten gains, you know.”

"Mmm," he mm'd, mouth stuffed to capacity with goodness, teeth blackened with chocolate. "Dun' matta'."

“You oughta lose your badge,” she whined. “Procuring evidence like that, obtaining a confession under duress. Neither of which admissible in court!"

“And yet, still perfectly admissible right in here,” he said, patting his contented stomach. Unable to hide the exasperated smile on her lips, Rose shook her head. Already nearly done with his first square, Columbo nodded his.

She was right, those bits of espresso and vanilla bean really elevated the flavor profile. And the sweet, yet tart bits of raspberry were marvelous; dare he say they were…perfect. Well worth the trouble. Truly a wonder to him how she could pull those off and manage to burn eggs. Though from her, there was no shortage of wonders.

"Well, y'know what, fine. If you're gonna seize and consume my contraband, Lieutenant, then I’m gonna have to ask for a verdict.”

“Well, ma’am,” he started, putting a finger up until he finished swallowing. “I'm not really in the habit of eating evidence. Usually, it isn't this tasty. But believe me, this was well worth my while. You know, you happen to be my favorite repeat offender.”

Rose rolled her eyes.

"You're lucky you’re mine, too."

Chapter 8: Dirty Work

Summary:

Columbo has time off for the first time in a long time, but is immediately put to the task when his wife suffers a fall. With the Mrs. out of commission, it’s up to the Lieutenant to do the unimaginable: run his own household for the evening.

Notes:

Mid 1970s.

“I'm not takin’ em.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Rose murmured, shifting uncomfortably. She stared down at the orange bottle, turning it about in her hand. “I’ve read about these things. You know what they do to people.”

“Yeah. Make ‘em loopy, stoned--”

“Hooked.”

Abuzz with anxiety stood Columbo, hands wrung by their bedside; awash with pain laid his wife, propped up by pillows. The things to which she so derisively referred were the bottles of newly-prescribed pain medications that now decorated her nightstand. Thanks to a most spectacular tumble that morning, she’d rather seriously pulled a ligament, leaving herself on bed rest for the foreseeable few days.

“C’mon, a back sprain's nothin’ to sneeze at, Rose,” Columbo insisted, palms upturned. “Even Doc Kessler said you did a number on it. That guy doesn't exaggerate, I can tell.”

“Aspirin and ice will suffice,” she said, clearly irritated, suddenly sucking air through her teeth. Pain, of course, was simply weakness leaving the body.

“Well, it doesn't look to me like it's sufficing, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Really, it’s not as bad as all that. Don't make a fuss over me." She furrowed her brow, her pride more mangled than her back. "Oh, for Pete's sake. What an outstanding way to get hurt.”

“I mean, you gotta admit, it was kinda…well, not funny, per se, y'see, how you, uh…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck as he recalled the rather comic element to her tumble.

Rose pouted at him ruefully; he faltered. Clearly, it was too soon for him to make such light of her flailing, her tumbling. Her abject misery. His gaze fell as he raised a hand in sheepish apology.

It was just his luck, really. After months of ruthless work, an unforgiving deluge of cases that required his utmost concentration, this particular weekend was his first fully off from work--prime time for the ever-enthralling task of finally clearing out the junk inhabiting their garage.

All was peachy keen until his dear wife suffered some sort of gravitational disagreement with their stepladder, nearly giving him a coronary seeing her hit the ground flat on her back. The rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins contrasted starkly with the rest of their day, spent bored and restless in the emergency waiting room, flipping anxiously through dogeared Johnson-era magazines. Naturally, they left hours later with the obvious diagnosis of a badly bruised and sprained back, and equally obvious prescriptions of ice, bedrest, and a few bottles of goofballs.

“I'm just more annoyed than anything,” Rose said, her tone true to the assertion. “I had things to do today. Bathrooms need cleaning, Tony needs help with his homework. I was gonna vacuum, do laundry. You know what you’re gonna do for dinner?”

“And they say I’m a worrier,” he scoffed. “Listen, the doc said it’d only be a few days rest before you can get back to normal. You’ve got your sick days lined up, I’m on vacation. I'll take care of all that. Just relax.”

“You sure?”

“Well," he said, arms crossed. "Not like you have much of a say in the matter.”

“Like hell I don’t,” Rose grumbled, attempting to hoist herself up. In an instant, her face contorted into a grimace of intense pain. She flopped back down gracelessly, her husband shooting her a look of careworn exasperation.

“Basta, mia ragazza testarda,” he muttered, boring holes into her wincing eyes. “Just try those pills. If ya hate ‘em, I swear, I won’t mention it again. I’ll flush the lot of ‘em down the toilet.”

Rose paused. Much as she despised the notion of taking that dreaded opiate, barbiturate, whatever-ate cocktail, those throbbing aches and intense, blindsiding spasms were seriously getting to her. No matter how she positioned herself, all she felt was pain. Deep down, she knew that rest was of utmost importance to healing, and that no mere analgesic had thusfar provided any respite.

Her husband knit his brow, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “'Sides, you know I can’t stand seein’ you like this. You gonna be outta commission, you might as well not be miserable.”

“...Va bene, cara mia,” she replied dryly. “I'll take 'em this once and only this once. Here, give 'em.” His brows rose in surprise. Normally tolerant of pain to a fault, Rose must have indeed been in a great deal of it to finally comply. He handed her the glass of water from her nightstand and dispensed one of each pill as directed, watching her to ensure ingestion.

“Oh, you know, Kessler said to eat with those. Whaddya feel like?”

“Well, I'm not very hungry, so…I dunno. I guess some crackers and cheese will do,” Rose replied with a sigh after swallowing the dreaded pills. “But really, take your time. I’d be happier if you could do some cleaning first.”

“Hey, you got it.”

---

Cleaning, to Columbo, was a necessary evil, an unsavory aspect of everyday life that eluded him. Even outside of his preoccupation with his occupation, he was never a particularly tidy man; chaos simply followed in his wake organically. Minor spills, perpetual clutter, light patinas of grime--all considered natural consequences of life and use rather than messes to be tackled.

Fortunately for the good lieutenant, his wife was his complement in her neatnik tendencies and her competence in such matters. Rose had, earlier in the day, prior to her decision to make contact with concrete from a height, gathered all the requisite cleaning implements in one convenient caddy. This eliminated one intimidating step from the daunting prospect of cleaning, making his job ever so slightly easier.

So perhaps it wasn’t so unbearable to load the washing machine and fold a load of clothing in the basement before venturing upstairs to clean the bathrooms. Scrubbing both of them clean to his wife's fastidious standards was no small feat, but rather straightforward and not as taxing as he’d feared. Less unsavory than he’d thought, surely.

Unfortunately for this rather good lieutenant, his luck was only finite on this particular day. Vacuuming, a chore he usually minded less than the others, made itself a standout candidate when he began to smell something burning. Irritated, he engaged in a ten minute wrestling match with the dastardly machine only to find his own keys were the culprit, adding another lovely layer of annoyance--for which he was to blame.

It was then time to check on the laundry, arguably one of the easiest chores in the average household. And it should have been just so. Granted, the machine was very new--Columbo recalled vaguely that his wife had gone and purchased it only weeks ago. And he had merely guessed which and how much detergent the load needed instead of verifying, and it did turn out to be completely and cataclysmically wrong, and he did return to find mountains of suds actively overflowing onto the basement floor…

Laundry. Arguably one of the easiest chores in the average household.

A string of expletives left his mouth as he scrambled to shut the water--where was that valve again?--and triage the situation. It wasn’t as bad as all that, nothing a simple mopping into the sump pump couldn’t fix, but it was yet another chore. A chore amongst chores. And he was beginning to remember exactly how much he loathed them.

Even after all was said and done, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out where to return those cleaning supplies. The closet where he could’ve sworn they went had been thoroughly reorganized, housing completely different miscellanea. He stared at the contents in disbelief, those mean little bottles of Dawn that didn’t belong there staring right back at him.

Frankly, it seemed as though he was having a hard time figuring out where to put much of anything, as though everything in his house had been subtly re-arranged solely for the purpose of disorienting him. It was proving almost more of a pain to find a home for the Windex than it was to use it in the first place.

Dutifully working on her homework at the kitchen bar, his young daughter Lydia eyed her father’s disoriented ransacking from across the house. She called him and nodded her head towards one of the lower cabinets near her.

“Mom puts that stuff under the sink, now,” she said as he made his way over. “The hall closet just has soap, detergent, that sorta thing.”

“Yeah, I was wonderin’ about that. Thanks, kiddo,” he said, stashing the supplies. He turned his ransacking to the fridge.

“Yeah. Uh…is Mom doing okay?” she asked hesitantly, eyeing her father. Placing a block of cheddar on the bar top, he gave her a small, weary smile.

“Oh, your mom’s a tough one. She’ll be fine, we just gotta let 'er rest. I’m gettin’ her a snack now, you want anything?”

“No, thanks, I'm waiting for dinner.” She paused, watching him aimlessly peruse the cupboards. "Looking for the Ritz?"

“Am I. Coulda sworn it was here."

"It was there. But now it’s in the first door to the left of the fridge," she said with a small laugh. Her father put his hand in the air in gratitude as he made his way over. “Speaking of dinner...you are making dinner tonight, right?”

He exhaled. “Seems like it, huh.”

“Yes!” Lydia's face lit up and she pumped a fist. He couldn't help but smile in return. He may not have gotten to spend nearly as much time with his children as did his wife, but one thing was for certain--they always preferred his cooking.

“Listen, how ‘bout this. Tonight, I'll make you guys anything you want, you name it. I'm home for once, it’s just you guys and me. In the meantime, why don’tcha go play with your brother?”

---

“Ah, there he is. My husband, home from the war at last. It’s been eons,” Rose lilted. Columbo quirked a brow as he closed the door behind him.

“Boy, thy drugs are quick."

"You were paying attention last night." Rose beamed. Despite his dubious levels of consciousness during their late viewing of Masterpiece Theater, he had indeed managed to absorb a thing or two.

"I toldja I was, didn't I?

"You did. I just didn't believe you."

"Gimme a little credit here. Pain gone yet?” he asked, setting the small plate down on her nightstand. He gently brushed a few black, messy coils of hair out of her face, observing her enervated disposition.

“Gone?” she said, drawing out the word. She looked past him, staring out the window. “You kiddin'? No wonder those ‘Nam vets are hopped up on these. Hell, you could sit on me right now and I wouldn’t care.”

“...Well, I--”

“Go on. Try,” she chirped, slapping a hand against her thigh.

“...Think I'll…take a raincheck on that offer, hon," he said amusedly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But hey, that's good, innit? For you, I mean, for the pain. The vets are another story. You can finally get some rest."

"I guess," she said quietly.

"There we go. Uh, here, I know you're not hungry, but have a couple a’these. You still gotta eat.” He handed her the plate, taking a careful seat perpendicular to her on the edge of the bed. She picked up a cracker and bit into it.

“Oh, now you’ve really outdone yourself,” she said, nodding her head. “Cheddar on Ritz. Thank you, Ms. Child.” He grinned and ran a hand along his jaw.

“Yeah, well, I do my best. I cleaned those bathrooms, too, y’know. Vacuumed downstairs, laundry's in the dryer.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Well, hold your applause ‘til after dinner. Which I’m about to go start.”

“And Dog?”

“He’s fed, I told Tony to take him out, and I think Lyd’s still doin’ her homework. So y'see, the kids are busy, the dog's alright, the house is clean. I’m here. You just worry about gettin’ better." Rose slumped her shoulders.

“Thank you. Easier said than done.”

“I know, but I told you I got everything taken care of, and that includes you. Just relax.”

“If you say so.” Thanks to her medication and her husband’s projected confidence, Rose found her worries evaporating and her eyes closing. She yawned, sinking back into the pillows. “Y’know, screw drugs, screw psychotherapy, just get someone to look you in the eye and say that. ‘Everything's taken care of’. Miracle cure.”

He smiled, picking up one of the pill bottles on the nightstand and scanning it in curiosity.

“Told ya these wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Bad? Who said anything about bad? They’re too damn good,” she said with a tut. She furrowed her brow. “I think I needa lie down.”

“Sweetheart, you are lyin’ down.”

"Oh. Well, that's convenient. You know,” she started with a little laugh, eyes still closed. “You were right."

"I like the sound of that. 'Bout what?"

"Tryna reach the top shelf like that, I was askin’ for it. It was kinda funny, you know, the way my ass hit the ground, I, I--" Her demure giggles bubbled forth into full-blown laughter upon reliving her fall, borderline wheezing. “Almost killed myself, not five feet up! That’s--you just try to--th-they oughta put me on TV!”

“Ohh, Carol Burnett’s got nothin’ on you, baby,” he chuckled, infected by her hearty, drug-induced laughter, now free of both pain and shame. The mirth subsided and they exhaled; he placed his hand atop hers. To his surprise, they were freezing.

“You’re warm,” Rose said in mild surprise.

“That's ‘cause I needa defrost you over here. Jesus, shoulda said somethin',” he said, carefully tucking her in and dimming the bedside lamp.

“It’s only five,” she said.

“It was five an hour ago,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Semantics. Time is trivial. Night is young.”

“This comin’ from the woman with her eyes closed.”

A spell of silence befell the room before Rose spoke again.

“I’m still cold,” she mumbled, cracking open a single eyelid.

“How, you're under four layers of blankets, it’s...oh.” He looked at her. She grinned slightly.

“Just for a couple minutes,” she goaded, limply patting the space next to her. "I don't even remember the last time you held me."

Columbo averted his gaze. A very tempting offer, indeed. He’d spent more time sleeping in his office and car than in their bed the past few months, he’d been so gripped by his work. And as he well knew, once he put his arms around her he’d be loath to part.

“Look, normally I'd be way ahead'a you, but I really gotta get to it. The kids are down there.”

“The kids’ll be fine for just a bit.”

“Well, I just don’t wanna get in with ya and drop off for the night or anything, ‘cause you know me. Come on, you understand.” She nodded slowly.

"Oh, I understand. I understand…that you intend to leave your poor, frozen, crippled wife all alone," she said, affecting a wounded tone. “'Specially lately, I’ve barely gotten to see your face. How do I even know you still love me?” He chuckled, staring at the floor.

"C'mon. Don't do that."

"Just as well, I suppose. If I were you, I’d ignore me, too. Leave me to die. All alone. In the dark. Alone."

"You play dirty, you know."

"All's fair."

Columbo sighed in resignation. All was not fair, if he had anything to say about it. The siren song of a neglected, bedridden, adorable wife held a compunctive power far too formidable for the resistance of a mere mortal man.

Thus, into bed he climbed. Snuggling next to her as she hummed contentedly, he was careful not to disturb her position, wrapping an arm around her midsection.

Lying there with his head on her chest, hearing naught but clock ticks and slow breaths, he realized that perhaps his wife was right, after all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed such quiet, intimate peace, as moments alone with her had been so hard to come by as of late. Their bed, which he’d so sorely missed, was so very comfortable after all, and his wife, even more sorely missed, so soothing to hold.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the sensation of tension leaving his body. She’d always had an odd sort of tranquilizing effect on him--simply cradling her warm, soft body against his and inhaling her scent were enough to intoxicate, numbing his mind to all matters troubling. There was no other earthly combination quite like it.

And, as he’d predicted, so soporific was this position that despite his best efforts, he soon found himself opening his eyes groggily, the walls no longer streaked with golden sunlight. A disoriented glance at his alarm clock confirmed his suspicions: he'd let what he thought was five minutes but really nearly an hour slip by to dreamy bliss.

Columbo carefully extricated himself from his wife’s embrace and peered down at her, admiring her familiar, dimly-lit form as it rose and fell. Hearing a sudden susurrus of children outside the door, he climbed out of bed and opened the door to a strangely empty hallway, closing it behind him silently. The voices moved downstairs.

He followed.

Unfortunately.

Some way, somehow, utter chaos had descended upon his living room in the short time in which he’d left his two darling children to themselves. Aghast, he stopped mid-staircase, surveying the damage.

Dog, put in Tony’s charge earlier, had unceremoniously tracked heaps of mud where he so desired after having been taken out. Mud on the carpet, mud on the couch, mud on the table.

Lamp not on the table.

His eyes, widening, darted to the wooden floor below, finding said lamp in pieces. Both children froze in place and stared at their father, remaining deathly silent. For the briefest of moments, a most intrusive thought flashed in his mind, almost wishing someone had been busy getting murdered that day so that he'd perhaps be called in with an excuse to not deal with this mess. His crime scenes were at least not his responsibility to clean.

The kids will be fine, she said.

Columbo ran his hands through his wild hair and took a deep breath. He cautiously made his way to the broken lamp where his children stood, taking care to not step in any shards of glass.

Standing next to them both startled him slightly as he found the two had literally grown in his absence. Lydia was already nearly his height, and Tony was beginning to truly tower over him, easily a head taller than he.

“May I ask how this lamp became dust in the hour I took my eyes off this living room?” he asked gruffly, trying to keep his voice low.

“It was her fault!” Tony blurted, pointing to Lydia.

“Was not! Not my fault you throw like a girl!”

“Shhh, hey!” Columbo whispered harshly, arms outstretched. “Keep it down, here. I don’t care whose fault it is. Just tell me what happened.”

“Tony let Dog in the mud.”

“Lydia broke the lamp.”

“Is that true?” her father asked her.

“Well…Tony threw the ball at me, and, and I tried to catch it, but it's Tony and he can't throw worth a damn, so I tripped, and I…I knocked the lamp over. I’m really sorry,” Lydia rambled in a panic. Her big, misty eyes remained glued to the floor.

“See? Told you she did it. And she cursed.”

“She happens to be your younger sister,” Columbo said to his son pointedly. “You set the example. You oughta know better."

"Why's it always my fault?" Tony exclaimed.

"Would’ja keep your voice down?” Columbo muttered. “Please. Horsin’ around in the house like that, what're you, outta your mind? Chrissake, Tony, you’re nearly old enough to drive. Why the hell wouldn’t you just go outside?”

“...'Cause it was muddy,” Tony said, now his turn to stare at the ground as his mistake dawned on him. His father put a hand to his forehead and looked at him in exasperation, close to laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“Right! Right. Of course. Not too muddy to take Dog into the yard and let him make a big mess, but too muddy to play catch, of all things, despite havin’ a perfectly paved driveway. Wonderful. Just wonderful.” A tense silence hung for a long moment before he continued.

“It’s not so much that I’m angry, you know. Disappointment is what it is. You try to expect better from your own kids. Every day and every night I go out there and I deal with some of the most dangerous people in this city--no, sorry, in the country. And both’a you…the one night I actually get to be in my own house, boy here I am like a real schmuck, lookin’ forward to finally spendin’ a night with my beloved children, who I never get to see, and you guys immediately gotta turn the house into Bedlam. And for what? I gotta say, that’s what really gets me down.”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia repeated quietly. Her brother sheepishly echoed her sentiment as they crumbled under their father’s scathing words, shocked and unaccustomed to such thorough upbraiding from the “good cop” of their parental unit.

“Well,” Columbo replied with a sigh, the stress in his voice easing as he realized his message had sufficiently sunk in. “Not as sorry as you two’re gonna be when your mom sees this thing in pieces. She was real fond of it, you know. It was some sorta antique from an estate sale. Tell ya the truth, me, I could take it or leave it. I think we can do better, anyway.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Lydia volunteered quickly, starting towards the kitchen. Her father held out a hand.

“No, no, I don’t want you touchin' all this broken glass,” he said. “New lamp’s comin’ outta both your allowances, though. You and your brother clean the dog and start takin' care of all that mud. I’ll handle this for now.”

“How…are we gonna clean it?” Lydia asked. He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and looked down thoughtfully.

“Good question. I guess I’ll go see what we have for dirt stains besides regular ol’ soap. Gee, y’know, it’s really me your mom’s gonna kill if she finds out. I was the one who begged her not to put plastic on the furniture.”

“We were gonna have plastic on our couch like Grandma’s?” Lydia said, appalled. “I hate her couch, I’m always peeling myself off. I’d rather sit on the floor.”

“Hey, you and me both. What’s the point of keepin’ it clean if you never actually sit on it, never enjoy it? It’s like you don’t even own the thing,” Columbo replied, his righteous indignation flaring at the mere mention of this benign topic.

“Uh, why don’t we ask Mom?” Tony said, interrupting this meeting of the minds. Columbo gave him a look.

“You wanna disturb your injured mother while she’s resting?” Tony looked down and shook his head. “I thought so. We don’t wanna add anything to her plate, just…just get Dog cleaned up and we'll figure somethin' out."

With effort, Tony hoisted up the floppy basset hound, its fat little paws shod in mud, and made his way toward the bathroom--to which his father quickly objected.

"Oh no, you don't! I just scrubbed that thing spotless. Out ya go. You're usin' the garden hose."

---

Long past scheduled, now with a clean Dog and a clean(er) living room, it was finally time to start dinner. Columbo had already entertained the notion of making this dinner preparation a teaching moment, but after his children’s blatant demonstration of irresponsibility, they'd left him with no choice.

"So," he began, idly drumming his fingers on the kitchen benchtop. "You kids decide what you wanna eat? I stand by what I said, we'll have anything you want."

“...Really? Even though the twerp broke the lamp?” Tony asked.

“Shut up!" Lydia sniped. "It's ‘cause of you I spent the last half hour scrubbing Lestoil into the couch cushions!”

"At least I didn't break Mom's favorite l--"

“Hey, hey. You two want a decent meal, don’tcha? ‘Cause we still got some of your Aunt Rita’s soup in the freezer, and I can just as soon heat that up.” The two young Columbos launched into a chorus of negatives, fearful of their aunt’s horrid porridge. Somehow, their mother was not the worst cook in the family. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Just settle down, quit arguing with each other for a second. Tell me what you want.”

"Um…can you make your carbonara, please? It's been so long," Lydia said with a small smile, her brother for once in agreement with her. Columbo returned his daughter's grin with one of slightly different intent.

"Then carbonara we shall have. But I won't be makin' it," he said, dropping two well-worn aprons on the counter in front of his children. Noting and enjoying their shocked expressions, he continued, taking out all the necessary ingredients. "It's about time you kids learned your way around one’a those things, anyway. A kitchen, that is. You see, everyone should know how to make themselves at least one decent meal. Because if you can make one, you can make a ton. And if you remember just one thing from your old man, let it be the key to a real carbonara.”

“What’s that?” asked Lydia.

“Never put cream.”

"Yeah? Then why's it creamy?"

"Put on the apron and find out.”

---

“Do you always use bacon for carbonara?” Tony asked, cautiously chopping the smoked, thickly-cut meat. His father stood behind him with his arms crossed, keeping an eagle eye on his son’s knifework.

"Well, bacon works fine in a pinch. Pancetta, even betta’. But what you really want is guanciale."

"Guanch--what was it?" Lydia asked, cracking an egg into a metal mixing bowl.

“Guanciale,” her father replied.

“Guanciale,” she repeated.

“That’s right.”

"What’s that?"

"What, you dunno? Uh, cut smaller, son. You want an even dice so they all cook at the same time. Guanciale is pig cheek. You know, guancia, cheek," he replied, hand waving toward his face. His two children traded somewhat repulsed expressions. "C’mon, it's good stuff. Don't you listen to your mother when she orders from Vincenzo? Though really, I dunno how much good it'd do you. Hell, I can hardly understand him sometimes."

"That greasy butcher dude? I dunno. I never bothered," said Lydia. Tony slid the chopped bacon into the hot cast iron pan, his father taking the heavy pan and expertly stirring its contents.

"Ten years in L.A., not a lick of English, that guy. I don't even know how he managed that. You’d think he'd at least pick somethin’ up at this point, by sheer accident at least. I figure he musta’ gone outta his way."

“What’s so important about listening to him, then?” Tony asked.

"Well…nothin’ wrong with learnin’ about your roots. And meat. Both good to know. I once arrested this guy who owned a meat packing plant, one of the biggest in the city, I mean every cut you could--"

"Ow," Tony yelped suddenly, recoiling. "The hell was that!"

"Hot oil, it bubbles up and pops. Just be careful, keep your distance, turn down the heat if you have to. Here, run it under some cool water," his father advised, checking his son's arm. He turned to his daughter. "How we doin'?"

"I've got my eggs and cheese here," Lydia said, fishing an errant piece of shell out of the bowl with a spoon. "But is this enough to make it creamy?"

"No. Well, kinda. But there is a secret," Columbo said, scooping boiling pasta water out of the pot with a mug. "Liquid gold, this stuff. It's got enough starch and moisture to bring everything together. You'll see."

"Pasta water, huh? Wouldn't have guessed," his son said, interest piqued.

"That's the trick. Along with not scrambling the eggs when you pour ‘em into the pasta. Gotta wait ‘til things cool.”

“For some reason, I always thought it was more complicated than just water and eggs,” Lydia replied in marvel.

“It’s really all very simple, cookin’ in general,” Columbo said. “‘Specially Italian food, the simpler, the better. There’s real beauty in simplicity, y’know? I mean, for this dish, you can add whatever you want. Spinach, garlic, whatever. But for the love of God, if someone tries to tell you to add cream, you give ‘em what for. Because I would be a bad father and a worse Italian if I let you loose into this world without knowing a real carbonara."

---

What was once disaster became dinner, which had gone much more smoothly than just about anything else that day. Columbo’s progeny took to the kitchen far more naturally than their mother, and for that alone he was thankful. Of course, she was the far more efficient cleaner--their post-prandial trip back to the kitchen led them to a massive pile of dishes.

"See, that was fun, wasn't it? Didn't we have fun?" Columbo asked, putting his hands on his children’s shoulders.

"Yeah," Lydia said, smiling fondly. "Can we do it again sometime?"

"Sweetheart, we can cook any time you want. It's the mess your mom cares about."

"Well, Mom usually has us help take care of--" Lydia started, earning herself a hard nudge from her brother. His father gave him a look.

"Don't you worry about that," he said. “Turns out our chefs weren't the only staff to no-show tonight. So you kids get to play dishwasher, too.” He began clearing the dish rack, opening a nearby cabinet.

"Um, Mom doesn't put those bowls there anymore," Lydia said. “She puts them in the cabinet above the stove.”

"Does she, now? Inn’t that fantastic," he muttered. He shook his head.

---

“Now what?” Tony asked, wringing his apron dry from a particularly intense shift. His father sat on the living room armchair, half-studying the day’s paper, too vain and lazy to fetch his reading glasses.

"Good question,” he replied, looking up at them while putting down his paper. “We are gonna have some good, clean, family fun time."

Tony and Lydia stared at him in silence. Columbo stared back.

"Family…fun time? Ugh," Tony groaned, his expression contorting into the embarrassed disgust that at some point graces the face of most every teenager. “Can't we just watch TV?”

"TV. What’s with that, you kids, always in a rush for the TV. When I was a kid I was lucky to get my hands on your uncle Sal’s old crystal radio. Look, I found all these games here when I was in the basement, just sittin’, collecting dust. How come we never play ‘em?" Columbo rooted through the stack of gaming paraphernalia on the table next to him.

The classics included a deck of cards, as well as the gilded likes of Monopoly, Scrabble, and Twister. At the bottom laid more ersatz games, some of which hadn’t even been opened. There was a horrid-looking one called “Hey Pa! There's a Goat on the Roof”. And something in there called "Quack Attack".

“Please don’t make us play Quack Attack,” Lydia murmured to herself, staring at the wall. “Please. Not again.”

"Ooh, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we put on a little music,” Columbo announced with a clap of his hands, making his way over to the living room stereo system. “Whaddya kids like to listen to, huh? You like Sinatra? How ‘bout Johnny Mathis?"

"Mathis?" Tony said, crumpling onto the sofa. He rolled his eyes. "What year is it? You want us to get up and do the Twist?"

"...Well, alright then. Somethin' more current,'' Columbo mumbled, thumbing through his wife’s tastefully-curated, meticulously-sorted vinyl collection. "Zappa? That might be fun. Or, uh. Maybe not, ‘cause I can never follow what he's playin'. He does one thing and then goes to another and then another. Your mom says the guy's a genius, I admit I don't really hear it. Zeppelin...think me and your mom saw 'em when we took your cousins?"

"Yeah, at The Forum a few years ago. I begged you guys to take me," Tony said.

"You were, what, 12? A show like that, no, you were too young. But man can they scream, those guys. My ears were ringin' for days. Maybe I shouldn'ta started at 'Z'. Let’s try ‘P’...what's this one, son?"

"Dark Side Of The Moon? For Monopoly?" Tony spluttered. "Little on the nose, don’t you think?"

"What? I dunno," Columbo said, shrugging. "I just thought the album cover looked kinda neat. See, it's got a rainbow, and--hey, hey, listen, why don't you come over here then, Mr. Disc Jockey, sir, and pick somethin' out instead of sittin’ there laughin' at your old man."

---

It was eventually decided that the more palatable musical stylings of the likes of ABBA and Donna Summer--at a reasonably quiet volume, of course--would score the Columbos’ night of family fun.

Twister got the children’s bodies moving, though it concluded with their father proudly sporting the family’s second pulled muscle of the day. Monopoly got their minds moving, which ended in the typical commotion of sore egos and bank theft. Poker revealed to Columbo that his son had his mother’s skill in bluffing, which was to say absolutely none, and that his daughter had every bit of his, which was to say in amounts potentially lethal.

The dreaded Quack Attack, much to Lydia’s relief, remained coated in its layer of dust.

After sufficient amounts of good, clean, family fun, the children’s father finally acquiesced and allowed them to switch on the idiot box. They came to rest in a rather cozy arrangement--Columbo on the couch, newspaper open, feet propped atop the ottoman and covered by Dog, whose form seemed almost liquid. An ice pack laid in his left lap, still bruised from Twister. Fast asleep, his daughter's head laid in his right, her freshly-washed hair wrapped in a towel. Really, he wasn't far behind her; he must've reread that paragraph about Ron Cey half a dozen times now.

Tony laid on the smaller loveseat reading his math book, illuminated by the one tabletop lamp still intact. He sat up.

“Uh, Dad?" he said, startling his father awake. "It's almost midnight and I have some homework I wanted to figure out, so I'm gonna go do that.”

"Hm? Oh, wow," he said, yawning and glancing at the wall clock. "Twelve already. On a Saturday, too. And you wanna sit around doin’ homework? You really are your mother’s boy.”

“Yeah. So I hear,” he said tersely.

"Well, it’s just that when I was your age, I'd be on my way out the house with your uncles around this time. We had that whole group, with some of the kids from the neighborhood. Where were we goin', what were we doin’, for how long. Lord knows. We sure as hell didn’t. Y’know, nobody really cared back then, they didn't have any of this ‘do you know where your kids are’ stuff. It just wasn't a matter of public concern. It’s better that you're not like that these days, believe me. We’d be worried sick. ‘Specially your mother."

"Right. Well, Mom was actually supposed to help me with it, that’s why I'm trying to do it now. I have a quiz on Monday.”

“This is family time, son, your times tables can wait, can’t they?”

“Dad, I’m a sophomore.”

“So you’re doin’ what, algebra? I might be able to help you with that. Show me whatcha got.”

“You know how to find the derivative of a tangent line?” he snapped. “Because Mom gave me this formula, but I don't remember what she did with it. And the teacher wasn't that clear, and I don’t get the book.”

Columbo stared at his son and blinked.

“What?”

“They moved me up to calculus last month. They said I was ready for it. Apparently.”

“...I didn’t know that,” he said quietly, hand to his stubbled chin. Admittedly a bit crestfallen, he wondered why he hadn’t been informed of such an occasion. "That's really somethin’, Tony."

"I guess Mom's been waiting for me to actually, like, start doing any good in that class before telling you," Tony said, as if reading his father’s mind. Columbo was about to reply, but his son’s face looked as though he had more to say. And so he remained silent.

Indeed, Tony glanced down before continuing hesitantly. "You've also just been…busy with work lately. Like…really busy."

Not a novel refrain in the Columbo household. Since before puberty, Tony harbored a raw, molten resentment against his father for his erratic schedule and frequent absences. With age and wisdom that lava came to cool, solidifying into numb, detached, jaded jags of obsidian. From a rational standpoint, the boy grasped perfectly well the sheer reputation and responsibility his father wielded, that he was not choosing to abandon him, or his mother, or his sister time and again, merely fulfilling his duty as a servant of public good. Thus, he held no conscious ill will toward him.

But that realization did very little to smooth those jags.

Columbo’s eyes flicked downwards, his blood running cold. The stakes of his work were so high, so engrossing, all-encompassing, and his concentration so singular, that at times the rest of his life, no matter how important, seemed to simply dissolve away for months at a time. And this time, he hadn't even realized it.

It was a uniquely relentless barrage, case after high-profile case--an overlapping, unyielding onslaught, leaving him with little sleep, let alone downtime. Between investigations, complications, orchestrations, and confrontations, he’d barely had enough time to hear himself think, let alone fulfill his duties as family patriarch.

It was only as of late that he’d hit a lucky streak, having made key breakthroughs which allowed him to shut each case in a satisfying successive tandem and at last breathe a sigh of relief. Given a strongly-recommended (really, mandatory) vacation by the department, he was for once relieved to take it.

It was no wonder, then, that his own home, once a refuge of warmth, had begun to feel rather insidiously like a strange, cold place, where he felt all too acutely his own lack of presence. At work, though circumstances always changed, variables remained static. Someone was always murdered. Motives were always eminently human and, to his trained eye, at times comically easy to deduce. And as it was almost always a murderer’s first rodeo, evidence was equally as often clumsily left for him to discover; if not, his adversary inevitably fell into one of his many well-placed traps.

The lieutenant found this blend of routine and challenge nourishing, in a way. Truly, life around corpses was rather easy. Corpses never grew, nor changed, nor resented you for accidentally missing their little league game that one time. Corpses never gave you looks of thinly-veiled heartache.

Corpses were safe. Corpses were predictable.

Life at home was transient. 

Columbo tented his hands.

"Well, yes, you're right, Anthony," he said, voice softer. "I’ve been very occupied at work and I haven't really been home enough. And I’m very sorry about that."

"Yeah, I mean, I know. It’s whatever." Tony said, crossing his arms and stifling the prickling sensation he for some reason now felt in the backs of his eyes. "I’m not a little kid. I get that it’s, like, your job. It’s not like you have a flashy office with a law degree on your wall but you’re really sitting around on your own dick trading soybean futures like Uncle George. You do something important.”

“I…you know what soybean futures are?”

“Uh. Kind of. Either way.”

“You flatter me, son. But don’t let George hear ya. And definitely don’t let your mother hear ya.”

“I’m serious. He doesn’t even do anything. You do, at least,” Tony insisted. “You can't get called to a crime scene and be, like, no thanks, I don't wanna."

"I could."

"Well yeah, but do that a couple times and suddenly Mom’s paying the mortgage all by herself." Columbo’s eyes glinted with pride.

"Calculus may elude you now, son, but you’re pretty quick to the ways of the world. I was always like that, too, y’know.”

Tony glanced at him. The traits he shared with his father were seldom compared by others in lights not neutral or negative: dark, untamed hair, an appetite for sweets, an eccentric nature, a distinct lack of organization. Such a distinctly positive comparison felt surprisingly welcome.

“...For real?”

“Yes, for real. Your mother, y’know, she was always great at school, I was always better at people. But you have a very mature view of things for your age, Tony, really. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, this is probably the longest conversation you and I have had in quite a while, innit?"

Tony paused and looked at his father. "Seems like it."

"I guess nobody gave me the memo about homicide season. But really, son, just because it’s my job doesn’t mean it’s an excuse." Columbo patted the empty spot next to him on the sofa, putting down the newspaper. Tony slowly arose and took the seat.

"Y’see my job is important to me, to put it lightly."

"I know," Tony replied quietly. Another oft-uttered refrain.

"No more important than you guys. I mean it. I just…it’s very busy, very easy to let it consume me. That’s just the way I am. I dunno why. I wish I did, really. At least then I could control it somehow. But I can’t, once my focus is set on something, I just can’t. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can’t stop until I’ve pondered every possibility, fully examined something from every angle, solved the problem to my satisfaction. You ever get that way?"

Tony stared at him. His father had never spoken to him about himself so candidly, so sincerely before.

"Yeah. Yeah, sometimes."

"I had a feeling. I can just kinda tell, y’know. Your grandfather, my father--too bad you didn’t really get a chance to know him--but he was kind of like that, too."

"He was?"

"Hell, worse than me. But I want you to know that I love you guys. And really, I’m gonna start doin’ my best to remind you of it going forward. I’m not perfect, I can’t always be here, the nature of my job is…well, you know.”

“I know.”

“You know. But I don’t ever want to let you forget it again. Alright?”

"Well. Thanks,” Tony said quietly, squeezing his eyes shut. His father patted him on the back, hanging his arm around his shoulder.

Tony suddenly felt some sloughing of stone inside of him.

"And good on ya, son, for gettin’ into that class. I’m proud of you. Me, you know, I never did any of that stuff in high school, never really applied myself. Never had the time. I was never that great with numbers, anyhow. ‘Specially when I had to start puttin' a lil’ elbow grease into understandin’ the material, that's when I really tuned out. You know your mother does all that stuff for the house? Every time I try to balance my own checkbook, she embarrasses me."

“You never had the time cause you had to work to support the family or cause you were out causing trouble with that group of yours?"

"Well," Columbo said, a fond, nostalgic smile spreading on his face. "Lil’ column A, lil’ column B. No, really, you stick with that stuff, Tony. You're real bright, it’ll open doors for you."

"Uh, well,” Tony started, swallowing. “The thing is, I, uh. I kinda wanna…quit that math class." He leaned back with a wince, fearing the worst.

Columbo looked him dead in the eye, taking a drag of his cigar.

"And why is that?" he asked calmly. Tony blinked.

"Aren't you mad?"

He exhaled. "No, son, I'm not mad,” he said, grasping more firmly his son’s shoulder. “It’s normal, y’see, to feel stressed out and unsure when the going gets tough.”

“Dad, the year started three weeks ago and I’m already behind. I’m never gonna catch up at this rate.”

“But that's just my point. That’s what speaks to your character, son, what you choose to do when you're at that fork. Like it or not, a lot of who you are in life is the decisions you make. Don’t shoot yourself down immediately, you’re never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. Try it first, really make an honest go of it, and then if you’re strugglin’, really needa drop it, well, then, at least you tried. A little perseverance can go a long way. Take it from me."

Tony paused for a while, ingesting his father’s words. He cast a thoughtful gaze downward.

"I guess you have a point.”

Columbo was pleasantly surprised that his son--who'd spent much of his double digit ages theretofore dismissing nearly everything that’d come out of his father’s mouth--was even listening to him, let alone conceding to his wisdom.

"But is it really that important?” Tony continued. “I mean, come on, it's just calculus. I was doing fine without it. When am I gonna use it in my life, anyhow?"

"Oh, lotsa places if you get the type of job that requires it. And you really might, what with your noodle. All kids your age say that about all kindsa subjects, but it’s good for that head’a yours," he said, tousling his son's hair. "Teaches you a new way of thinking, new way of solvin’ problems, which you’ve always gotta do, or else you’ll stop growin’. And that’s just about the worst thing that can happen to you, is you stop growin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you always gotta challenge yourself, do things you think you can’t do. Explore new avenues. That’s really the only way to find out what you can do. Even if you don’t gotta stand there deriving whatchamacallits every day for a living, your brain will thank you for the exercise. Your mom can vouch for that, I’m sure.”

“Mm. Mom does have a mind like a card catalog.”

“Yeah, well, mine’s kinda like that too, just half the cards got dumped on the ground and mixed up. Hell, I wish I’d taken those classes. Calculus. Who knows where I'd be."

"It’s never too late," Tony said. Columbo raised his eyebrows. A shining opportunity to parent had presented itself.

"Me? Oh, no, I could never. New tricks to an old dog, no. It couldn't be done."

"Sure it could,” Tony said, retrieving his math book from the couch. “I mean, you may be a cop, but you’re not dumb, Dad. Definitely not too dumb for calculus." Columbo snorted.

"Well, thanks, son, that’s real high praise for a dumb ol’ geezer like me. C’mon. Let’s learn how to derive your whatchamacallits."

Chapter 9: Turn That Heartbeat Over Again

Chapter by fastpork

Summary:

Columbo allows some life-changing words to leave his mouth for the very first time.

Notes:

September 1960.

“No, come on, I can hit it!” 

“You’re zero for two, sweetheart. D’ya want a bear or not?” 

“...Maybe.” 

“Then gimme the dart.” 

The sky had just begun to tinge with pink at the Coney Island boardwalk when the young woman in the green gingham summer dress rolled her eyes and handed her insistent date her last dart. 

It was unsurprising that she’d been unable to pop the balloon; it was absurdly small and underinflated to discourage victory. But he turned the dart over in his hand a couple of times, carefully leveled with the balloon on the wall, and in one smooth motion nailed it. A belt of “winner!” from the attendant and some scattered applause from a few surrounding beachgoers attracted interested eyes, most notably his lovely lady’s. 

“A very fortunate throw, Detective,” said Rose.  

“Oh, yes, miss. Very fortunate indeed,” Columbo replied with a sly smile. Fortune favored him no more than it did any other man. He’d simply spent entirely too many of his teenage years loitering in basement dives. But she didn’t have to know that yet. 

“Well, then. Darts too, huh?” 

“Guess we got a lot to learn about each other,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back effortlessly against the wall of the midway booth. Rose felt her cheeks grow hot. 

It was an easy thing to forget. The two of them had only been dating a couple of months, but they’d already spent a maddening amount of time together. Their intense magnetism left them practically inseparable, running up each other's phone bills, leaving their respective friends complaining as they spent every waking moment away from home and work with the other. They were doing as fresh lovers did, reveling in their blissful honeymoon phase, still in the habit of putting aside all avocational pursuits in favor of staring blithely into the other’s bottomless eyes. 

Yet new dimensions of the other were still in great supply. For example, it was only last week that the detective took his shy, bookish girlfriend out dancing--they weren’t clubbers, but a new spot had opened up nearby; naturally, they were curious--and discovered that this ostensibly shy and bookish woman, who’d theretofore spoken nothing to him of the art of dance, had hips that shook and swayed in ways that dizzied him, like gossamer in a storm. And it was only just now that the lady was discovering that this man’s exceptionally sharp eye in golf and cue sports extended to darts as well. As she marveled at the intense furrowing of his sweat-beaded brow, his loosened collar, the tensing of his forearms, and the sea breeze fluttering the loose, rolled-up sleeves of his post-shift attire…Rose supposed he hadn’t looked half bad doing it, either. 

The beauty of discovery.

“Rose,” Columbo said, snapping her out of her little reverie just as she was getting to the good part. He gestured toward the stuffed toys within the booth. “I believe you are entitled to one furry little fella of your choosing.”

“Aren’t I,” she replied, tilting her head down and eyeing her partner above her glasses. A knowing smile spread across his face. 

“Hey, how ‘bout this one right here?” he said. Rose looked up at one of the massive bears hanging from the awning, big and orange and flamboyant. 

“My God, they’d charge him to ride the Q,” she said, gaping at its sheer size--nearly her height. “No, no. I wanted that one.” 

Columbo’s gaze followed her extended index finger to view the bear in question. Obscured by shadows, it appeared to be one of the smaller bears in the back of the stall. 

“You sure you don’t want one of the big ones? Guy said you could have your pick of the stock.” 

“That one looks softest. And he’s got a nice green ribbon around his neck.” 

Columbo pressed his lips together and squinted his eyes, leaning forward, trying to see half of what she saw in that bear, and then waved his hand in defeat. 

“Hey, you want that little ol' thing, he’s yours. ‘Scuse me, sir. Yeah, the lady’ll have that one. Thank you.”  

“Uh…you sure you want this one, miss?” said the attendant, bringing the bear to the young couple. “It’s a lil dusty. One of his eyes is fallin’ off. I don't even remember when I set him out. Prob’ly back in May.” 

“Oh,” Rose murmured, examining it as Columbo looked on. “No, I don’t mind, I’ll take him. Thank you.” 

“Suit yourself,” the attendant replied with a slight shrug. 

And so she did, the two continuing their evening excursion ambling down the boardwalk. The stars, few as they were in the New York heavens above, began to twinkle in the dusty red September sky. Gulls cried out as they circled the area, anxious to snipe the confections of unsuspecting patrons. The ocean crashed to shore, its tides growing more ferocious than the lax, kindly lappings of the afternoon. The daytime throngs of families and children had begun to thin, their bathing suits dry and their final summer hurrahs winding down, giving way to the somewhat rowdier crowd just getting their night started.

“You really wanted that thing, huh?” Columbo asked, nodding his head toward the bear in question. 

“I was right about his fur. It’s so plush, see? Feel it.”

“I believe ya.” She insisted. Columbo ruffled the bear’s fur and nodded as Rose continued. 

“He’s adorable. The big ones, they weren’t as cute--that’s what I look for with these things, y'know, cute. He’s the perfect size, too. I just thought he was the best option. Don’t you?”

“Guess he ain’t too shabby, all things considered. You gonna name him?” 

“I was thinking…Signor Bottone.”

“...Mr. Button?”

“I was gonna go with Bottoni, but. The doctors don't think they can save it. You know.” 

“I know,” he said with a chuckle, glancing at the bear's right button eye, hanging for dear life on a single thread. It'd surely be lost before they reached home. 

He gestured toward the unlit cigarette he’d put in his mouth. “Hey, uh, you happen to have--”

“A light? Here,” Rose said, digging a butane lighter out of her small purse. They stopped walking, Rose flicking her Zippo under the end of Columbo’s cigarette, her other hand cupping the flame gently so that it wouldn’t extinguish in the strong breeze. His surprised gaze met hers, the reflections of the dancing flame glowing in her wide eyes, rendering them like honey. His heart skipped a beat.  

“Thank you,” he murmured. They continued walking. “Since when do you carry a light? I thought you didn’t smoke.” 

“I don’t,” she said, adjusting one of her white hoop earrings. “But you do.”

Columbo shook his head, trying and failing to restrain his embarrassingly wide grin. He turned to look at her. 

“You know somethin’?”

“Try me.”

“You got real pretty eyes,” he said as though he were remarking on the weather. Rose smirked.

“You told me that while we were gettin’ zeppoles not twenty minutes ago.” 
 
“Well, I’m tellin’ you again.” 

“Tell me a hundred times more.”

“Don’t tempt me, missy,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette as they exchanged narrowed glances. “I think we’ve about walked all there is to walk around here. Was there anything else you wanted to do?”     

“Oh, I’ve been dyin’ to go on the Wonder Wheel,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the behemoth. Columbo eyed the massive structure, his throat desiccating at the mere thought of occupying that son-of-a-gun. 

Of all the new and exciting things for Rose to learn about him this early in the game, not ideally amongst them were his phobias. That bastard contraption was the perfect storm of heights and unstable motion--which was to say nothing about the performance anxiety involved in trying to remain calm in spite of those things. Which in itself made the notion all the more nerve-racking.

The only rational choice was to decline. Combining his fears, in public, in front of her, was a recipe for certain disaster. Every fiber of his being cried out in protest. He’d have to concoct an excuse, tell her to go on without him. He'd simply have to say no, and that was that. Surely she’d understand. 

“Whatever Rosie wants, Rosie gets,” he heard leaving his mouth, discreetly dabbing sweat from the back of his neck with his shirt collar. 

So much for that.

The line wasn’t very long. Actually, it was rather short. Columbo supposed that wasn’t the worst thing. The sooner it was over with, the less time he’d have to stew in his own anxiety over this horrific prospect.   

“Moving or stationary?” asked the ride operator. “I can getcha into a moving one now, stationary you’ll have to wait.” 
 
Before the detective could ask for elaboration, his partner answered brightly and the two were promptly ushered into a carriage that swung back and forth. Rose bounced into the small metal pod, filled with verve, whilst Columbo slunk inside, filled with a most incommensurate dread. He gasped as the car swung to and fro, rocking them gently. Rose whirled around from the caged window and they locked eyes; she gave him a sweet, excited smile. He returned it to the best of his ability, but the second she diverted her attention it immediately fell from his face. The wheel lurched into motion, the car’s swinging arc intensifying. He grimaced. 

Okay. If his eyes remained strategically glued to the floor, to one single point, it wasn’t so bad. If he could just angle his head in the right ways, avert his gaze from the dizzying heights surrounding him on all sides, expend all of his mental and physical efforts on ignoring everything and playing it cool, he could maybe get through this without significant incident. He’d keep his dinner and look normal enough doing it that Rose wouldn’t see him as a blubbering freak after this--a little weird maybe, a little sweaty definitely, but nothing more. In any event, she'd forget it before long. People usually did these days.  

“God, you can really see everything from up here. The ocean, the skyline. All the people lookin’ like bugs,” Rose said, looking directly at the ground as their car rose higher and higher. “Look!” 

“Oh, yeah, just beautiful, innit?” he murmured, his vision purposely and completely unfocused, fingers death gripping the metal seat beneath him. The swinging alone was enough to render him immobile; the view in addition would end him. He’d seen both the Atlantic and the distant outline of Midtown Manhattan too many times to count, anyway. “Uh, say, hon’…about how long did you say this ride would be?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes…gotcha,” Columbo muttered, pressing his lips together and nodding gravely. Ten minutes of penance for his sins. The detective was not a believer in karmic retribution, but he had no other explanation for his plight. It was only sensible that he was doing time for stealing Tommy McPhearson's peanut butter sandwich in the seventh grade. 

But if he just kept taking it easy, breathing, using his mental energy to ground himself, perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Purgatory wasn’t hell. This could be done.

As they approached the wheel’s apogee, by a most auspicious divine measure, the structure suddenly and loudly ground to a halt, prompting cries of shock and fear from its passengers. 

Except for one. The carriage housing the detective and his lady, now completely free to move on its axis, swung back and forth wildly as they lay pinned to opposite sides by the inertia, shocked speechless. All of Columbo’s conscious willpower and careful coping vanished in an instant, pure panic silently but surely overwhelming his faculties. He felt his heart racing, his airways constricting, the entire world bearing down on his skin. 

His lungs, with a strained, shuddery gasp, at least forced him to inhale; his brain, overloaded with electrical impulses, at least kept one thing in mind: the woman sitting across from him could not, under any circumstance, realize that he was more than merely unnerved--he was afraid. 

The cries of shock from the wheel’s occupants morphed into shouts and chattering of confusion, each little pod trying to piece together what happened on their own. 

“Oh, this is ridiculous, I gotta--we paid for this, for cryin’ out loud…hey…hey! What’s goin’ on down there!” Rose shouted at the nearest carriage behind them. The leader of a loud group of teen boys answered back.

“They’re fixin’ it, lady, says the engine’s busted or somethin’. They got a hand crank to get everyone down. Won’t take longer than twenny minutes.” 

“Twenty, huh! Thanks,” she called back. She turned to Columbo, his arms tightly crossed.

“They said--”

“I heard ‘em,” he muttered back, more curtly than he’d intended.

“...Okay,” she replied, somewhat taken aback by his sudden shift in attitude. She shifted over to his side of the car and passed on the information to the next car’s occupants, who also happened to be wondering about the condition of the ride. She did this, of course, by means of yelling right next to his ear. 

“Hey, you know, maybe this isn’t so bad. Judgin’ by this view, we're gettin’ our money’s worth after all, huh?” she said, turning back to Columbo. He sighed quietly and nodded, fire in his head and ice in his veins. “I mean, would you look at it!”

“Oh, yes,” he grumbled, rather tired of being told to look at it. 

“You can even see Jersey from here!”

“Absolutely, dear.” 

“That’s Sandy Hook, I think…yeah, there’s the lighthouse blinking. You know, I haven’t been there since I was a kid, my parents used to take us all the time. That was our beach of choice back in the day. It’s real quiet. Nothin’ like it.”

“I’m sure.” 

“Oh, of all the places to stop! Right at the top. What luck.” 

“I concur,” Columbo muttered, teeth firmly grit, trying not to let the contents of his stomach defy gravity. He would be annoyed, but he simply lacked the energy. Despite the cool night air, he felt sweat begin to pour from every stressed pore, soaking his white shirt to near-translucence. He limply unbuttoned his collar in an attempt at equilibrium. 

Columbo found it was always best to simply keep his mouth shut when his body betrayed him like this. Not only did speaking make him more nauseous, it required brainpower he could not spare. And he always made mincemeat out of his words, stuttering, stammering, botching. The fewer syllables that left his mouth, the better.

But if he stayed clammed up, Rose would surely sense something was wrong; surely she’d already started to. She’d started giving him odd glances. That was it, then, wasn’t it? He was at a total loss, and there was nothing he could do about it. This is how it would end.

“Kinda…romantic, isn't it?” she said, turning to face him. For once unable to return her amorous advances, his gaze remained glued to the steel floor of the carriage. He muttered a “yeah”, was too steeped in anxiety to remember whether he’d responded, and muttered another one for good measure. A strong gust of wind pitched the gondola again, eliciting a yelp from Rose and the choking back of a dry heave from the queasy detective.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbled. 

“Oh, it's nothin’ to worry about, this wheel’s very safe, you know. Hundred percent galvanized steel beams with riveted gussets,” she rattled off. “They take the cars off every winter, you know, just so they can maintain ‘em. Clean safety record, runnin' forty years now, no incident. They’re just gettin’ us down with the hand crank. It won’t be long.”

“Y-you’re tellin’ me these come off?” Columbo asked, his voice cracking.

“Nothing's ever happened.”

“First time for everything.” 

“You have a better chance of this thing gettin’ struck by lightning!” 

“Wouldn't that be just my luck!” 

“Well!” Rose said, taken aback. They'd hardly so much as disagreed, let alone bickered. “I, for one, trust modern engineering and the test of time. You only fear what you don't know. And what’s the point of livin’ in constant fear?” 

“…Yeah,” he rasped, feeling his skin crawl. He had no energy to engage in a losing battle. She was right, of course, though virtually nothing in his body agreed. “Yes. I know. Yes.” 

The carriage had calmed now, swinging only slightly in the late summer evening wind. Rose sat next to Columbo and laid her head on his shoulder, settling close to him. Despite his desire for space, he weakly laid his head upon hers. The less she moved, the less the carriage moved, the less he moved. And the less he moved, the better he felt. 

Rose sighed. It amazed her how quickly she’d come to find solace in the intimacy of this position over the past couple of months. Nothing soothed her like feeling this man’s breathing, his heartbeat, his warmth. But now his breathing was labored and erratic, his pulse thunderous and rapid, his warmth not his typical, gentle hearth but an oppressive, sweaty, nervous heat, all while he trembled like a leaf on a night of sixty-five degrees.

She gently lifted her head to face him. 

“Frank,” she murmured, wiping his sweat from her forehead. 

“Wha?”

“You are shaking,” she said matter-of-factly. 

Oh, God. 

“No I’m not,” he whispered, barely audible thanks to the lump in his throat. 

“What do you mean ‘no I’m not’, yes you are, it’s…is everything all right?”

Oh, God.

“Fine. Just cold.”

“You’re sweatin’ like crazy.”

“Just hot. Please. I'm fine,” he strained, his features twisting into a look of nauseated torture. A look of concern grew on Rose’s. 

“Are you positive? You don’t get cold eas--”

A strong gust blew again and the carriage swung, violently this time, sending both of them lurching forward. Rose braced herself against the wall as she watched Columbo slide to the floor, very clearly and very nearly fainting. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted while crumpled on the floor of the carriage, waving a hand dismissively, gasping for breath as the noose around his neck grew tighter. That was that, then. Any chance he’d had of convincing her that he wasn't a monumental child had flown clear out the window. She must have been thoroughly and indisputably perturbed at his behavior now; clearly she was being merciful, merely pretending nothing was wrong to spare him a shred of dignity with which to perish in this wretched, metal coffin, dangling precariously above the entirety of New York City, garishly painted like some sort of children’s toy as if to taunt him one last time before he met his inevitable demise. 

It was final. The only person who had ever connected with him on such a deep level was going to slip out of his grasp as quickly as she came. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it but hyperventilate. 

Rose, finally realizing exactly how much difficulty her partner was having, shifted from mildly hurt to concerned. His behavior had been odd, but now it seemed like he was having some sort of medical issue. Swiftly, she crouched down in front of him and took his hands in hers with a tight grip. Though she was not entirely sure she was correct in her assumption nor idea of treatment, she realized she now had little other choice.

“Hey. Look at me.” 

His eyes, squeezed shut for dear life partly in an attempt to will his vision into agreeing with his hearing, and partly out of shame, cracked open to oblige her. What on Earth was she doing? 

“Look into my eyes. I want you to breathe.”

“...What?” 

“In,” she commanded as she watched his chest rise shakily. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her speak so assertively before, let alone to him. “Out,” she said again, watching his chest fall. "Just like that. That’s all you have to do, that’s it. Nothing else matters. In…and out. I’m here. You're here. Everything is okay. You're safe. Just breathe. In…no, that's out…in…there we go…and, wait for it. Out…perfect. You’re doing great. Just look at me. Right into my eyes.”

Looking into those safe, familiar eyes, feeling that safe, familiar grip on his hands, Columbo felt his fearsome surroundings somewhat fade, his panic pushed to the side by a scalding sensation in his chest. What patience; what competence! Whether she’d done so out of kindness or pity, this, he realized, was not a miraculous, foolproof cure for his crippling anxiety nor motion sickness. 

It was love. The restrained, guarded admiration that’d been slowly budding for her over the summer was now rapidly blooming into a deep and real love.

Frank Columbo’s boyhood anxiety attacks had only ever garnered ire or jeers from those around him. His little episodes knew no bounds of time nor place--in the seats of nauseating car rides, in the water as it climbed up to his chest at the YMCA pool, that one time in the elevator of the Empire State Building, and then again on its observation deck where those Swedish tourists had caught him and snapped a photo, laughing all the while. 

Always the butt of jokes, the target of complaints. It was pathetic, really. If he were so smart, why couldn’t he figure out how not to get so scared, so sick, so anxious of a little motion, a little height, a little water, a little anything? Nobody had ever thought to try talking him down in good faith, or firmly grounding him, or guiding him to do something so simple as breathe. He had just sort of endured them by himself, learned to cope, learned to hide. Learned to avoid. 

But Rose hadn’t avoided what he believed to be one of his ugliest, most primal facets--she’d looked it straight in the eye and hadn’t said a single mean word, hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even rolled her eyes. She’d just tried to help. 

It was in that instant she’d won his heart, whether she wanted it or not. 

“Nice and slow…exhale…much better,” she drew out maternally, flashing him a comforting smile. It had actually begun to work somewhat, too--his breathing had slowed, his heart was no longer racing; the crushing torrents of deathly panic and nausea had shrunk from a roar to a manageable hum. She gently cupped his cheek, the threatening bile in his throat calming and giving way to mere digestive discontent.

“Thank you,” he uttered. 

“Don’t worry,” she assured. “I’m right here.” 

Columbo opened his mouth and replied. It was barely audible, barely enunciated, but eminently distinct, tumbling and mumbling out of him before he’d even realized the impulse his brain had sent. 

"I love you.” 

“Now br…I beg your pardon?” 

“Um…” he muttered, blood rushing to his cheeks. What the hell had he done that for? “Sorry. Forget I said anything.” 

She only stared at him. He glanced down. His breath began to quicken again.

“I-I-I just mean that, uh, don’t--don’t think ya hafta, you know, uh…say…uh…”

Silence.

“I mean, if you’re not comfortable, you don’t owe me nothin’. Just came out is all.”  

Silence again. Columbo looked up. Rose was still staring at him, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted in astonishment.

“Please, for the love’a God, Rose,” he wailed, his voice tense and uncharacteristically frantic. “You’re killin’ me with that look! Wouldja just say somethin’? Just say somethin’, anything. Please.” 

“Sorry, I'm sorry! I’m just shocked! I…guess that explains why you’re up here, doesn’t it?” 

“...Huh?”

“Well, clearly you’re havin’ the worst time I’ve seen just about anybody have. And yet you’re sittin’ here, havin’ a heart attack, just ‘cause I thought it’d be fun and you didn’t wanna say no to me.” 

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, gaze cast to the side. He took a deep breath. "I just didn't wantcha to find out that I'm, uh…a baby about this kinda thing, to put it nice."

“You have a fear of heights. You are not a baby.” 

“That is up for debate.”

“It is not. You know, George is deathly afraid of plane rides.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Well, I had a good time on the planes we took to Fresno last summer to visit relatives. At any rate, that’s when I found out about George the hard way. Same thing happened to him.” 

“Huh,” Columbo croaked, genuinely curious. He’d have to talk to him about that later. “How ‘bout that. I couldn’t imagine bein’ on a plane. Guess that explains how well you took care of that.” 

“You don’t actually feel all that much once you’re cruisin’. But let’s just say I’m used to bein’ next to the guy holdin’ onto the airsick bag for the duration of the trip. Lots of people get anxious, Frank. It’s not always rational. It happens.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he replied with a sigh, not quite agreeing that ‘lots of people’ ought to include him, but again limited in his dissent by his lack of energy. A spell of silence befell them.

“You didn’t just say what you said ‘cause you haven’t got enough blood in your brain, right?” Rose asked. Columbo’s brow furrowed incredulously, almost offended at the implication. 

“No,” he said firmly. “No, I mean that. I-I just…I dunno. Never felt like that before. It was the only thing that came to mind. What you did was very kind of you. Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” she said with a small smile, handing him the soft teddy bear he’d won her earlier, which he accepted graciously. He sat still on the floor, immobilized clumsily like a sweating sack of potatoes, his hot cheek welded against the cool, painted metal of the carriage interior, breathing heavily, calmer now but still trying to keep his nausea and panic at bay. 

At least now he had a view he could enjoy. 

“I meant what I said, Rose,” he muttered, admiring her form, focusing on counting the pleats and folds in her dress as she sat by him. “Despite how I look right now, I’m a big boy. If you're not feelin' it then you're not feelin' it, so please don’t say nothin’ just for my sake--” 

“I know,” she said with a small smile. He nodded, and they continued to sit in silence, her hand still tightly gripping his. 

In that moment, the ferris wheel jerked forward again. Columbo groaned; she gripped both his hands, tighter now. They remained on the floor. It wasn’t as bad down there.  

“I’m supposed to feel like I’m dyin’?” he asked suddenly. 

“Par for the course. The brain thinks it is dying,” she replied. “Or about to die, I think. I learned about it in undergrad. It sends inflated danger signals, fight or flight, that kinda thing. Why?”  

“Fight or flight, eh? Funny, that’s how other people usually react to me. They either ignore me, which is not very nice but fine with me, or they make a big deal out of it, which is a total disaster. And it’s usually the second one.”

“I can ignore it if ever you need. I don’t want to embarrass.”

“Oh, no, no. It’s the first time in my life anyone ever even tried to help me. You did good.” 

She smiled. “Glad to hear it.” 

At long last, their pod neared the ground and it was their turn to deboard. The attendant gave them an odd glance as they rose from the floor, but he’d seen crazier. Rose caught Columbo quickly gesturing the sign of the cross. 

“Well, looky here, altar boy. When was the last time you went to church?” 

“I got very close to God, Rose,” he muttered, one hand on his chest and the other gesturing upwards. With his feet on solid ground again, he felt his body begin its return to normalcy. “I was writin’ my will up there.” 

She laughed. “Don’t you wanna sit?” 

“Believe it or not, walkin’ is about the only thing keepin’ those zeppoles in my stomach.” 

The two finished their boardwalk excursion and decided it was time to walk back to the train station for the ride home. Growing peckish as his nausea dissipated, Columbo proposed stopping at a convenience store for a quick snack. The ride home, after all, was more than an hour long. 

Despite his body’s steady return to normal, he still felt a crackling anxiety in his hindbrain. Rose had explicitly not returned his fateful words. And though she was firmly attached to his arm as they walked…perhaps he had indeed scared her away. Perhaps she'd only realize it within a matter of time. Perhaps she already had. 

The two wandered through the cramped aisles of the corner store, the scents of stale coffee and newsprint flooding their senses. They returned to the front counter with a ripe bounty of peanuts and cigarettes for the gentleman and M&Ms and Coke for the lady, plus an evening edition of the New York Times to share on the ride home. 
 
On their walk to the train station, the detective pulled out his new pack of smokes and shook the carton to coax out a single one. Rose looked up at him with those eyes of hers and stuck out her hand. He stared at her. 

“I thought you didn't smoke,” he said. 

“I don’t. But you do.” 

He chuckled. With her lighter, he lit her cigarette first, then brought the end of his near. They walked silently next to the other, together billowing one giant cloud of smoke. 

They rode the train in silence. It was nearly midnight; most occupants were nodding off. The detective and his companion picked the newspaper sections they wanted. As he perused his, she peeped at him out of the corner of her eye, observing her partner. Stubble shadowed his face, his gaze weary yet focused as he scanned the current events; his hair, its styling cream long worn away, was dark and tousled, damp locks curled about his forehead. 

Sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head a bit and met her stare. She popped an M&M into her mouth. He smiled gently in return, his eyes crinkling as smoke billowed from his nostrils.   

“I love you, too,” she said quickly, a goofy, bashful smile lighting up her features after uttering the words into existence as though she’d just said something verboten. Columbo’s eyes widened, blinking once. He removed his cigarette and placed his hand to his forehead. The small grin on his face ballooned into a guttural laugh of relief and disbelief. Though they were in a public space--and really, he was quite shy about this sort of thing in public spaces--nobody was really looking. His heart was burning. She was very close to him now. Close enough that he could kiss her. He probably ought to kiss her. 

Suddenly, he was kissing her. 

“You scared the livin’ daylights outta me, you know that?” he whispered into her lips.

"So did you."

They shared a quiet laugh. 

“I love you,” she reiterated, speaking it more confidently into existence. His smile widened, setting his features aglow. Once again, their lips met.

“Come on, do ya really?” he murmured. “You’re not pullin’ my leg?” 

“Oh, please,” she said, staring out the window at the glittering lights of the city passing them by. “I have for a while now.” 

“How long’s a while?”

“Well...you took me out one night about a month ago. We went to Sardi’s after that play I wanted to see. We looked at the menu, and we laughed at those prices. I mean three dollars for a martini, ridiculous. And you said, to hell with it, to live in New York and not eat what your heart desires, it’s a crime. You asked me what I really wanted--”

“Dim sum,” he said. How could he forget?  

“Dim sum. And you said you knew the greatest joint on Mulberry, so you took me there at, goodness, around the same time it is now, eleven or so…and you bought me anything I asked for. I’ve never had shu mai like that in my life.” 

“Man after your own heart, eh?” he said with a giddy little chuckle. 

“Just ‘cause he knows the way in’s through my stomach.” 

“I can't believe it. Boy, who'da thought I’d have Mr. Fung to thank.” 

“If you'd like, we can thank him tomorrow,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I could really go for that shu mai. I’ll be out of class by noon. If you’re willing to actually take your lunch break for once…” 

Columbo put his arm around her. 

“Whatever Rosie wants, Rosie gets.” 

Notes:

thanks @forflotsam for the story idea!