Dinner with Cheesy Lines (Mike)

Stefan Spencer was an interesting man to have as a friend. He added a certain joie de vivre to Mike's adult life that probably would not have been there otherwise and the two enjoyed each other's company. Sure, Mike thought that Stefan maybe drank a little much, but that was his business and it didn't interfere with the man's job or family. Stefan was a cheerful drunk, and Mike could certainly relate to needing to blow off steam once in awhile. His only regret was how much his friend seemed to forget while in his cups. Good times were meant to become good memories, in Mike's opinion, and some of the past between them could not be shared so much as related after the fact.

The Stewarts were out with friends, and Mike had known of their plans a few days ahead of time, so he'd invited Stefan over for dinner.

When he opened the door, his face was amused as the younger man gave him what Mike called the 'oogle of greeting', and he shook his head at the terrible line. "Ay, dios, Stefan. I should make you sit out on my step and think up a better way to say hello." Then he broke into a grin and stepped back, beckoning him in. "Come, come."

In the kitchen, fixings for tacos were sitting out, waiting for their turns in Mike's fry pan. As a nod to both their health, instead of beef carne asada there was lean chicken in the same seasonings and not as many jalapenos in the pepper mix as there once had been. A small crockpot held steaming red-brown Spanish rice, and a dish of refried beans was in the oven. Mike didn't smash his pintos as much as the recipe for the beans called for, he liked the variation in texture.

"I hope we're not starting off with that," he said, nodding with a smile at the scotch. "But I won't mind a belt or two after dinner. Have to be mindful of the kids, you know. But I have some iced tea in the fridge. You wanna eat sooner or later?"

Taking out the pitcher of iced tea, Mike poured himself a glass and held it up, asking a question with his eyes.

"If you made me sit out here that long, you'd miss out on an evening with my charming personality. Not to mention my stunning good looks."

Fostering kids for 20 years had given Mike a finer had with sarcasm than he normally would have. With a single raised eyebrow, he said dryly, "Can't have that."

But he clapped the man on the shoulder as he entered and led the way back to the kitchen. "Tacos," he said, in answer to the question. "Batista style."

Which meant closer to authentic, save the chicken. Most Mexican taco stands didn't bother with lettuce or tomato; cheese wasn't a necessity either. But chunks of meat and peppers in corn tortillas his sister sent from a family who still made them authentic were what Mike had grown up with and served. In deference to Stefan's love of spicy food he had a jar of hot salsa out as well.

"Why not?" Mike chuckled. "If you were watching a pair of sixteen year olds you'd understand. Gotta stay on my toes."

Grinning when Stefan gave his preference, he turned on the burner under the pan to heat. "Sure, you can set the table. You know where it all is. Candles though..." He laughed a little. "We'll have to settle for the overhead light. My kids are coming home tonight, you know."

Flipping open a cabinet with one hand, he took out a short glass and stuck it under the fridge's automatic ice dispenser. Handing it over, he said, "So how's work? Any hot news I should know about?"

Swirling a bit of vegetable oil in his nonstick pan, he slid the chicken in. Mike cooked under medium heat. It would take longer, but he'd read about how nonstick cookware wasn't meant for anything higher. The chicken turned out either way, and they weren't in any rush.

Another aspect of being friends with Stefan was a lack of serious conversation, meaning anything that could be answered with some sort of pick up line was. And as Mike had learned over the years, there weren't too many questions that could not be answered that way. For the most part he didn't mind. But sometimes if he really wanted to know how his friend was doing he had to dig a little and be ready to put up with a lot of dodging, which was as big a tell as answers were.

"How it going with them, by the way?"

"Well, I think. Naomi's got her eye on me, but I think she had it rough a few times so I don't blame her. Orion's good at keeping her on an even keel. I like them. They're quite the pair." Mike used a wooden spatula to stir the chicken, and stepped away from the stove for a moment to take the tortillas out of the fridge. As Stef set the table, Mike dug out a tupperware for the chicken. Leftovers could just be covered up after they were done that way, and when Mike make taco fixings he always made extra.

Laughing, he shook his head again. "No, not me, loco. You. Life. Your job. Pilot Ridge. How can I be friends with a journalist and not know the latest gossip?"

"You wouldn't last five minutes as one of mine," Mike said with a smile, though he was serious. "I don't allow any drinking."

He stirred the chicken with his spatula, turning the cubes to brown evenly. They'd been tossed with some crushed garlic, a little salt and pepper, a slice or two of jalapeno, and a bit of lime juice to marinate.

"Yes. That thing you do that keeps you in scotch money." Mike looked a little mock-pained that Stef didn't have any news for him. "I buy the paper for more than the talk column, you know."

Letting the chicken fry, he pulled a pot holder out of a drawer and took the beans out of the oven and slid them onto the trivet on the table. "So who've you seen? Anyone I know? One of my old students came back this year. As a trainer." The side of Mike's mouth quirked. "I was a little surprised."