“That might take an act of God.” Apollo was still torn between laughter and anger. “What happened?”
“I didn’t want all the fresh food you bought rotting—that was always happening to us growing up. My mom would buy stuff then get too busy with work for the week, and then next thing you know a hundred bucks of groceries was going in the trash. So I thought we’d follow your plan. Get the week’s cooking done.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” Dylan scrubbed at his hair which was held back with a red bandanna. “But damn. I’m not sure how you do it. We—”
“We? The girls were helping?”
“Swear to God, if you lecture me over that.” Dylan waved a potholder in Apollo’s face. “I thought them helping would be a good thing. Teach them some math and stuff.”
“Not lecturing.” Apollo couldn’t resist laughing any longer. “Just thinking that you’re a brave guy. I usually rely on my mom—or you, last week—to keep them occupied. No way could I do the big batch cooking and watch them, and I’ve been cooking since I was kid.”
“I can cook. Some.” Dylan glared at the stove.
Apollo went to the fridge, got two bottles of beer out. “Here. Stop looking like you’re going to eat the potholder.”
“Sorry. I’m just so mad at myself.” Dylan took one of the beers. “I wanted this great surprise for you. And now there’s been a lot of changes to your menu, and you’re going to be pissed.”
“I’ll live.” Apollo was surprised to realize that he really wasn’t upset. His mother would have ordered pizza and salad for the girls and called it good. Even Neal would have frozen what could be frozen to try to salvage things, but wouldn’t have attempted the big cooking day. Dylan had tried, and that made Apollo’s chest all warm. He glanced at that week’s menu sheet in his binder. Dylan’s loopy, friendly handwriting had replaced a few entries.
“Beef stew night got replaced with fish tacos?”
“Yeah. Those I know how to cook, promise. The stew meat kind of turned into flambé.”
“And what is B-F-D?”
“Thought you’d like that, King of Acronyms.” Dylan seemed to be recovering much of his composure, giving Apollo a wink. “Breakfast for dinner. I’m awesome at that. The girls were in favor. So I’ll cook those two nights to replace the food that got ruined.”
“You don’t have to that.” Apollo ran a sponge under the hot water and started cleaning off the range. “I’m not some... I don’t know...taskmaster. I’m not opposed to us ordering out or something.”
“Ha.” Dylan snorted. “Lieutenant, you are all about the taskmastery. In fact, I’m sure you put the fear of God in your subordinates before you came home. That’s why you’re not pissed at me—you already bit off your quota of heads.”
Apollo laughed as he worked on the sticky mess on the range. Dylan already knew him too well. “You’re not wrong. I was in a mood, having my day off interrupted.”
“See. I knew it.” Dylan took a swig of his beer and started clearing dishes off the island.
“The admiral I work under has our whole group double—and triple-checking things. Busywork.”
“You really miss being out on missions, don’t you?”
“Eh. I try not to think about it,” Apollo admitted, which was something of a lie—he did think about it, more than he should. There was nothing like the rush of being out in the field. And seeing that young LT today... Yeah, he’d had a moment of hankering to be back out there, leading the men, and not being the one delivering a lecture. “After Neal died, taking this lateral move seemed like the only logical choice. Admiral Carson wanted me for this role for quite a while, and I’m lucky to have it. I’m home more, which is what the girls need.”
“It’s okay to be lucky and complain about it too. Trust me. We all have crazy bosses. And it’s okay to miss fieldwork too—Dustin always said you were the best operator he knew out there.”
“I don’t need permission to feel.” Apollo scrubbed the counter next to the stove with far more force than necessary.
“All I’m saying is you don’t have to be so damn stoic all the time.” Dylan didn’t seem to care about Apollo’s bark. It was a weird thing to find attractive, but Apollo kind of dug how Dylan never backed down from a point, infuriating as it could be.
“There’s no point in standing around wringing my hands over a lousy day.” Apollo bent to put a casserole dish in the dishwasher. Ow. Fuck. He’d forgotten about his back. “Mother—heck.”
“What?” Dylan was instantly beside him. “Did you get hurt today?”
“No. It’s nothing. Just my back.” Apollo put another dish next to the casserole for good measure, forcing himself not to grimace.
“That’s not nothing.” Dylan plucked the next dish from Apollo. “You aggravated your old injury, didn’t you?”
“How’d you know about my injury?”
“Duh. Dustin. He...mentioned it on the phone. I even sent you a silly card in the hospital, remember?”
“Yeah. And your mom sent one too.” Apollo had a feeling Dylan had pumped his brother for the information years ago when the incident happened, but he wasn’t going to embarrass Dylan by reminding him of that old crush. Now that he mentioned it, though, he did remember the funny get well card. He’d been showered with cards and flowers in the hospital, something that had made him deeply uncomfortable at the time. All he’d done was take a nasty fall on a mission. Wasn’t even like he’d taken a bullet or a lost a leg. Everyone had made a big fuss over a stupid misstep.
“That’s how you met Neal, right?” Dylan finished lining the dishes up in the dishwasher. Apollo liked how Dylan never danced around the Neal subject, just brought him up in conversation like it was a normal thing, not the hushed tones that others used.
“Yeah. He was the physical therapist assigned to me.”
“Cute.” Dylan smiled indulgently at him as he ran hot water for the dishes that wouldn’t fit in the washer. “Let me guess, he was won over by your docile acceptance of the need for rehab?”
Apollo laughed so hard it made his back ache more. Dylan had his number, that was for sure. “I was a total pain in the ass. And I hit on him shamelessly. Took me forever to wear him down.”
“You loved the challenge.” Dylan handed him a sheet pan to dry. “Bet him being impervious to you was a turn-on.”
“Guilty.” Revisiting these early memories was like eating a hot fudge sundae—sweet and comforting, warming his insides even as it made him shiver. “Man, he made me work. Weeks of flirting. Then he transferred me to another therapist. Bastard. I was pissed. But then he called.”