The touch at his elbow and small “thank you” made Luke train his eyes on the back of the empty cabinet. After getting in a pissing match with her about selling the farm, the least he could do was make her dinner. “Give me an hour,” was all he said before she went up the stairs.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was exactly that kind of shit – the looks, the touches, the talking without using words – that made people talk. It made the old woman who used to cut his hair ask about his wife, when it had just been Charlie flipping through a magazine in the waiting room, insistent that she had “other errands to run in town too.” It made his brother paranoid and self-deprecating when he was too drunk. It made the buddies from his unit say “sure, whatever” when he explained that it was his sister-in-law who sent him pictures and letters from home.

Sometimes he thought that with all the talk, they just should’ve done it. They should’ve fucked it out against the side of the barn, after any of their numerous fights, laughs, lingering looks, or frustrations. Other times, he saw how Charlie looked at Sam like he was responsible for the sun rising and setting each day, and Luke knew that they would never. Could never. Even if they were simultaneously stupid enough to be that degree of selfish, they couldn’t. It would ruin their dynamic, their friendship, their relationships with Sam. Everything.

And now when Luke looked at Charlie, his entire chest fucking hurt. Her effort to be normal was not strong enough to overcome her grief. At least, not to him. He let his gaze linger on the family photos on the fridge before taking a deep breath and shifting his brain into a different mental gear. [i]Dinner.[/i]

The cellar yielded promising results in the form of a small canning “apocalypse” shelf (as Sam had called it) and a chest freezer.  Underneath a disconcerting amount of frozen casseroles that Luke knew were, in fact, funeral dinners, was a package of chicken thighs without too much freezer burn. He defrosted them in a microwave, browned them in a cast iron, and sauteed a hearty onion and few sad carrots from the crisper drawer in the chicken fat. While the chicken cooled, he smoked a cigarette outside and tossed Jake a ratty tennis ball. His little cooking task had distracted him from the fact that Sam was gone for thirty minutes. Well, he figured, it was better than nothing.

When Charlie came downstairs, she found him digging around in the back of the fridge for chicken bouillon, but as how everything goes with Luke, one project became three others. While he’d gotten rid of everything expired, reorganized the shelves by putting most perishable in the front and least perishable in the back, and tossed everything that he recognized from his last visit over Christmas, eight months ago – dinner was only halfway cooked. This was the part where he usually would’ve joked about how she trusted him, didn’t she – that she had four fewer weird fridge mustards than she did an hour ago. He would ask her for baking powder and make fun of her when she gave him baking soda.

Instead, Luke leaned against the counter and cleared his throat, fiddling with the lid of the chicken bouillon. “Another hour. I promise.” He was normally much better about it, but being exhausted made Luke’s “idiot brother” traits come out. The lack of focus, the temper, the tangents, the general affinity for being up to no good. Despite his obvious fatigue and exhaustion, he did offer her the smallest of grins. “It’ll be worth it.”

He got out a stockpot and made a roux with some flour, milk and chicken fat. He added the shredded chicken, carrots, and onion back. Water. Bouillon. High heat. Stir. Frequently. “Chicken and biscuits,” he finally told her. The Army had taught Luke that he really enjoyed cooking. And goddamn if he wasn’t thrilled to eat something besides a MRE. Once everything reduced to a stew, he made a loose biscuit mix (which was thankfully barebones because Charlie’s baking supplies were horribly lackluster), he dropped them on top of the stew and put the lid on.

At Jake’s whining insistence, Luke threw him another tennis ball off the back porch.

He couldn’t avoid the elephant in the room any longer.

“You can’t live like this, Charlie. [i]We[/i] can’t. We have to paint the walls, put things in storage, burn that fucking chair. Sell his fishing rods in the basement.” Luke itched for a cigarette, but he tried not to do it directly in front of her face. “He didn’t even like fucking fishing!” he yelled, throwing his hands up. “Change your bedroom. Raise baby chickens. Find a new normal.”

Luke’s eyes begged, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Charlie to change, or if he was trying to convince himself.