"Fine," Miguel answered his friend from where he was sitting on the couch, watching.

"You don't like it." Disappointed, Tim turned to look at him.

"Yes, I do. It looks fine. Whatever you want."

With a dubious frown, O'Neill glanced from Ortiz to the statue and back again. "Well, where would you put it?"

"I told you. It's fine there."

Tim's frown only deepened. "You don't like the statue, is that it? Shall I put it in my room?"

"No, I like it. Honest. Put it where you like."

"What's wrong with it? You liked it when I bought it."

"There's nothing wrong with it," O'Neill's earnest questioning finally brought a smile to the Cuban's face. "Really, Tim, I like it fine there."

"You don't seem very enthusiastic," Tim noted, coming over to the couch to frown at him and tilt his head to one side. "Come to that, you haven't been very enthusiastic about anything since we moved in. What's wrong? You feel okay?"

"I feel fine," Miguel answered politely.

"You're being too co-operative," Tim was instantly suspicious.

"I'm only being amenable."

"Amenable? Why? Since when?" Baffled, Tim sank onto the couch beside him and gazed around the lounge. When he and Miguel had found out they were both being assigned to seaQuest permanently with a new captain, they had set out to find separate apartments in Hawaii. It hadn't taken them long to learn that there were problems with the idea for both of them. Tim's family background meant he could afford somewhere reasonable, but the places he wanted were all to big for him. Miguel on the other hand couldn't find anywhere he liked that he could afford. Commiserating over dinner at the U.E.O. Base where they were staying one night, Tim had suggested that they took an apartment together and had eventually managed to persuade Miguel that this was a good idea. They had shared quarters at the Academy for long enough to know they could cope with each others habits and although things would be different in an actual apartment, they would at least have separate bedrooms where they could go for privacy: or to sulk as O'Neill put it. They had finally moved in the day before, but now that the initial excitement was over Miguel didn't seem to be too happy about it.

"Oh, nothing."

"Look," Tim began impatiently. "Stop it. It's not like you to be like this and you're making me nervous. Don't you like the apartment?"

"Of course, I do."

"You don't like the decoration? We can change that."

"It's fine. If you like it."

"If I like it?" Totally confused now, Tim sat and stared at him, the light slowly starting to dawn. "Oh, now, I understand."

"Understand what?" Miguel asked warily, sneaking a wary glance at the comtech.

"You think you're only here on sufferance, because I feel sorry for you."

"No, I don't." With a scowl of embarrassment, Miguel looked down at the dark pink carpet. He loathed pink carpets.

"You don't have to stay," Tim retorted stiffly. "I mean, I thought you wanted to move in. Now it seems like you're only doing it because you have to."

"I didn't mean...." Miguel said lamely.

"Well, excuse me," Tim wasn't listening. "I'm sorry if it's not to your liking. I've done my best. If you consider this somewhere to stay and not a home, then I guess I'll stop bothering too!"

Ortiz looked up in surprise at O'Neill got up and stalked towards his bedroom. "Where are you going?"

"My room," Tim replied over his shoulder.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" Miguel scrambled after him. "Why should you leave?"

Tim frowned. "Why not?"

"Because this is yours." Miguel waved a hand around him.

"Ours," Tim corrected flatly.

"But you paid...."

"We paid. I thought we agreed? We'd take the lease and you'd pay me back when you're ready." O'Neill gave him a chilly look that hid a flicker of anxiety. "Mig, tell me you didn't move in because you had to? I thought you wanted to!"

"Of course I did!"

"Then what's the problem?" Tim wailed in exasperation. "It's not going to be a home if you don't help. You're not a guest!"

Miguel hesitated and shrugged helplessly. "It doesn't feel like home."

"It won't until you want it to be and make it that way," O'Neill pointed out. He shook his head and smiled faintly. "Sheesh, you've been like a cat in a new house and frightened to touch anything. What do I have to do? Put butter on your paws to make you stay and settle?"

After a confused moment, Miguel smiled shyly. "Have I been that bad?"

"Bad? Hah! Would you like s shelf here? Yes, Tim. How about putting the couch over here? Anything you say, Tim. Would you like to jump off this balcony, Miguel? Sure, how fast would you like me to fall?" O'Neill mocked, watching his friend in concern. After a surprised second, Miguel started a giggle that turned into a gale of laughter.

"I have been that bad, haven't I?" he admitted ruefully when he could finally speak.

"Worse," Tim said solemnly. "Look, the way I see it, our rooms are ours. Private territory. We can decorate how we like and do what we like. Door shut and you knock to come in. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Ortiz said firmly.

"Okay. Anywhere else we share. We discuss what to do."

"Argue?" Miguel said with a hint of a grin.

"Only when you're wrong," Tim replied loftily.

"All right."

"You're being agreeable again," Tim said sharply. "At least make some suggestions about what you want."

"Okay," Miguel looked around him slowly and focused on the carpet again,. Tim gazed down at it too, sharing his silent disgust.

"The carpet?" he said finally.

"It's horrible," Ortiz told him.

"It is kind of like walking on candyfloss," Tim agreed.

"We want something brighter," Miguel suggested slowly. "Something colourful. Something patterned."

"We'll talk about it," Tim said hastily. He knew what Miguel's taste in colour and pattern was like. If he wasn't careful they would end up with something that looked like a kaleidoscope all over the floor.

"Okay," Miguel said cheerfully.

"Miguel," Tim reproached. "It's your home too. What else do you want to do? I'd like to put some of your pictures up."

"My pictures?" Miguel stared at him in shock.

"Yeah. You did that gorgeous painting of the Orcas. And there's the Humpback one you gave me. They'll look really good in

here."

"In here?" Ortiz stared around the lounge in dismay. "Where everyone can see them?"

"Yeah. That's the general idea," Tim said brightly. "You're good, Mig. You should admit that. Can I?"

"I guess," Miguel said warily.

"Great. We can put one up by the kitchen."

"Speaking of the kitchen," Miguel murmured. Well, Tim was right. He should make the effort to feel at home and settle in and he knew only one way to do that.

"What?" Tim's eyes turned wary, which baffled Miguel. He had noticed that for all his homemaking efforts, the comtech had left the kitchen strictly to Miguel.

"Well, if it's going to be a home, then we have to cook our first meal."

"Cook?" Tim gave him a dismayed look.

"Sure. To make something yours, you have to be comfortable with it."

"And you don't feel comfortable?"

"Exactly like a cat," Miguel grinned ruefully. "It's too tidy. And what better way to make a mess than to cook dinner?"

"Oh. I thought we could order out again. Maybe we could leave a few cartons around?"

"As I recall, you're tidiness personified. You'd pick them all up," Miguel noted drily and grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the kitchen.

"Uh, why don't you do this?" Tim suggested. "I'll finish putting stuff away and go out for groceries."

"It can wait," Miguel told him. "Besides, I got groceries, remember?"

"Oh," Tim braked at the kitchen door, refusing to be pulled further and yanking out of Ortiz' grip. "There must be something you've forgotten."

"Call it a house warming."

"We could have a party if you like?"

"Oh, come on!" Exasperated, Miguel seized his shirt and tugged. O'Neill grabbed both edges of the doorway and balked.

"No, no, no! Don't put me in the oven! I'll be good! I promise!"

"What?!" Miguel let go in confusion.

"You know, Hansel and Gretal?"

"Who?"

"Hansel and Gretal? Their folks had to leave them in the woods and they found the Gingerbread House, only there was a witch who wanted to put them in the oven to cook..." Tim paused at Miguel's bewildered expression. "It's an old European fairy story. Didn't your folks ever tell you it?"

"No. I got old Cuban fairy stories," Miguel replied. "And do I look like a witch? Be careful how you answer that, O'Neill."

"No. But you like gingerbread."

"Oh, get in there!" Slipping past his friend, Ortiz gave him a hard push from behind and propelled the comtech into the kitchen. "Sheesh, anyone would think you've never been in a kitchen before."

"I didn't say that," Tim mumbled uncomfortably. Ortiz snorted and headed for the refrigerator to take out what he needed while O'Neill perched at the kitchen counter.

"Here, separate these," Handing two eggs to the comtech, Miguel turned back to find the mixing bowls. He had been gathering stuff in preparation for when he got his own apartment for what seemed like forever. He turned to back to O'Neill to find that his friend had very carefully separated the eggs: by putting them one at each end of the counter. "What have you done?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Separated them like you asked," Tim answered innocently but with a faint frown. "But I don't see why. What good does it do? They're not likely to breed or anything."

Miguel gaped at him for a second, not sure whether Tim was being serious or not. Not, he decided. Tim was a very long way from being stupid. "Very funny," he said sarcastically, shoving a cup and saucer towards him. "Now, do it properly."

Tim simply looked at the cup for a long moment, then gave Miguel a helpless look. "How?" he asked plaintively.

"What?"

"I can't cook!" Tim wailed in embarrassment. "I can barely manage to fry an egg!"

"You're kidding! Everyone can cook! Can't they?" A tiny tinge of uncertainty crept into Miguel's voice.

"No," Tim admitted, then rushed on as Ortiz looked at him in disbelief. "Don't look at me like that! It's not my fault! I never had to! No-one ever taught me!"

"You must be able to cook something!"

"I told you, I can fry an egg."

"And?"

"Boil it."

"And?"

"Make toast."

"And?"

"Cereal."

"That's not cooking! What else?"

"Waffles and soup," Tim said hastily, knowing only too well that Miguel's impatient tone meant trouble.

"You can make soup? Well, that's cooking."

"Not if you only open a tin," Tim muttered.

"I see," Miguel said darkly. "You'd have starved if I hadn't moved in, wouldn't you? Ulterior motive, huh?"

"I didn't know you could cook! It never occurred to me I'd have to!"

"So what were you planning on doing? Living on fresh air? Though considering how skinny you are, it wouldn't surprise me if you did!"

"I'd have eaten out a lot," Tim mumbled. "And I'm not skinny. I'm svelte."

"Hah! Well, you needn't think I'm doing all the cooking. Rules are rules. We share everything."

"Including food poisoning?"

"You'll learn. Or else," Miguel said darkly, turning to take down the huge recipe book Mama Ortiz had given him as soon as she found out he was flat hunting. Mama Ortiz had taught all three of her offspring to cook well enough to survive and Miguel had taken to her lessons with enthusiasm.

"What's that?" Tim asked curiously.

"A recipe book."

"Oh, how do we cook it? Boil it? Wouldn't it be a bit tough? Maybe we should uh tenderise it first?"

"I'll tenderise you in a second, O'Neill! Now, you're being deliberately obtuse," Miguel retorted with a warning growl. "How much do you know?"

"On what subject?" O'Neill said brightly.

"Tim..." Ortiz said threateningly. "There's still the oven."

"But you promised!"

"O'Neill!"

Suitably chastened by Ortiz' scream, Tim subsided. "Nothing. I practically need a recipe for making ice."

"Not even cookies? Every kid makes cookies."

"We had a butler," Tim said sadly.

The wistful note in his friend's voice made Miguel look at him closely. He had known Tim half his life but it had never occurred to him that his friend might have missed out on the childhood stuff he had taken for granted. When Miguel was doing things like baking cookies, Tim had been on his best behaviour as an Ambassador's son. Ambassador's sons didn't get to do things like learn to cook for themselves. And by the time he moved to California he had been past the stage of doing 'girls stuff' anyway. "You want to make some?" Miguel said without thinking.

"Make cookies?" Tim gave him an astonished look.

"Yeah. Where did you think they come from?"

"Packets at the mall."

Miguel gaped for a second, then laughed. "You have a lot to learn, amigo," he chuckled. "I'll show you how to make cookies later."

"Chocolate chip?" Tim suggested.

"Naturally. But first I want to make a cake and get dinner started. You can help."

"I'm more likely to hinder than help," Tim muttered, then blinked as Ortiz put a mixing bowl down in front of him.

"No, Timothy, you will help," he told him sternly as he pulled open the cutlery drawer. "First, the basics. This is a mixing bowl. This is a spoon, this is a whisk and this is the rolling pin I will hit you with if you don't co-operate." Tim's mouth rounded in a silent oh. "Tell me, do you even know how to turn the oven on?" Miguel went on blandly. "Or do I have to teach you that as well?"

* * *

Closing the oven door on the cake mixture, Miguel turned back to the counter which O'Neill was obediently wiping down for him. Tim had proved willing to learn, especially when he found out Miguel always brought twice as many cherries as necessary so he could nibble while he mixed. Miguel had half expected to end up annoyed, instead Tim had made him laugh at every turn. The comtech seemed to be enjoying himself for all his initial protests.

"Mig?" Tim asked as he thoughtfully nibbled on a last cherry.

"Mmmh?" Ortiz was rummaging in the cupboard in search of the ingredients for the main course.

"Why don't the cherries sink to the bottom of the cake when you cook them?"

"Because I tie them to the oven shelf with cotton."

"Oh," Tim said absently. "Why doesn't the cotton burn?"

"Because you coat it in lemon juice first."

"Oh," Tim said again.

"Of course. If you prepare it right, you can use the string as candles and simply ice round it to make a birthday cake," Miguel went on blithely. "Saves buying candles."

"Oh," Tim repeated, but this time there was a doubtful note to it. "Will you do that for mine?"

"If you like." This time the silence was definitely doubtful. After a second, Miguel lifted his head and gave him an incredulous look. "You didn't believe that, did you?"

"Of course not. We don't have any lemons."

Miguel gurgled in disbelief then noted Tim's ingenuous expression and laughed. "You almost had me fooled that time," he chuckled.

"But I do get a cake?"

"Sure," Miguel surrendered to Tim's hopeful expression with a grin. "A big one. With icing and candles and the lot. I promise."

"Good. I'll hold you to it. Fancy a coffee?"

"Why not?. Go ahead, make the coffee if you think you can manage it without a recipe."

"Coffee I can manage. It comes in packets," Tim said brightly. "It's these recipe things I can't figure. They have a language of their own." He stabbed a finger at the recipe book Miguel had been using. "What's a tsp?"

"A teaspoon."

"So what do you use if you don't drink tea?"

"A coffee spoon," Miguel said blandly, handing him the coffee for the percolator while he opened the dry spaghetti packet he had brought. He made a mental note to get a sphaghetti jar. If he knew anything about his pasta freak friend, Tim would adore learning to cook pasta for himself. It would come in useful when it came to buying him his next birthday present. He could get him a pasta maker; assuming Tim didn't decide it was some kind of mangle.

"And what about this half a cup? How big a cup?"

"A standard one."

"And what size is standard? That's like saying half a piece of string!" Tim protested. "And you didn't follow the recipe anyway! You threw handfuls of stuff in there!"

Miguel chuckled. "Don't worry about it, Tim."

"I still want to know about the cherries."

"Oh, well, I cook it upside down."

"Why doesn't it fall out of the tin?"

"Because it's an upside down cake."

Tim puzzled over that one. "You didn't put any pineapple in it. Even I know upside down cake has pineapple in it!"

"This is the Cuban Surprise version. And the surprise is..." Miguel waited patiently for a beat.

"No pineapple. So why don't the cherries fall up?"

"Gravity," Ortiz replied succinctly. "Nothing falls up."

Tim sighed and surrendered, deciding this was one of those cookery mysteries he had not yet been initiated into. He turned half his attention to making the coffee. "Now, what are you doing? What's that?" he asked, eyeing the dried pasta on the counter.

"Pasta," Miguel replied, waiting for the reaction. He got one, but not the one he expected.

"That's not pasta. Pasta comes hot on a plate. With sauces."

"And how do you think it gets like that?!" Miguel exclaimed. "You think it grows on trees?"

"Doesn't it?"

"I swear I'm going to kill you in a minute, O'Neill," Miguel exploded in exasperation and grabbed the mixing bowl. "Here! Maybe this will shut you up."

"What's that for? Do I have to do all the washing up?"

"No, you lick it out first. Cook's assistant's privilege." Taking a spoon, Miguel dipped into the remaining mixture and offered it to his friend.

"Is it safe like that?" Tim asked warily.

"Yes. Open up and taste. You'll like it."

Tim eyed him warily, but responded to Miguel's expression by scrunching his eyes shut and opening his mouth obediently. Miguel shook his head and shoved the spoon in. After a second Tim's hazel eyes opened wide in delighted surprise. "Wow! That's terrific!"

"I can see you had a deprived childhood." Miguel chuckled in pleasure as Tim grabbed the bowl and settled onto the nearest kitchen stool to scrape it clean. "Don't think you get to lick the bowl every time. We share from now on, remember?"

"Maybe," Tim said with a wicked little grin. "It's like custard powder! It tastes better before it's cooked," he went on happily.

"What?" It was Miguel's turn to look startled. His mother had always made custard from scratch and taught him to do the same.

"Custard powder before you turn it into custard," Tim explained. "You know, with the milk and sugar before you put the hot milk in....You don't know that one?"

"No," Miguel admitted slowly, suspecting that he might have missed out on something since his mother had been a traditional cook who believed in making everything herself. Convenience foods were a rare visitor to the Ortiz house.

"We've got to have custard powder. You'll like it," Tim said firmly, licking his spoon clean. "Now, what do we do with the pasta? Grill it or fry it?"

* * *

"Well?" Miguel gazed across the table at his friend. O'Neill had spent the last fifteen minutes eating in silent delight, devouring the spaghetti ravenously.

"It's good," Tim answered as enthusiastically as he could manage through a mouthful of cake. "Are you going to cook these regularly?"

"You'd get bored with them," Miguel grinned, flattered.

"With this? Never! Can I have another slice?"

"Are you going to do the washing up?"

"Yeah," Tim nodded and eyed the remaining cake hopefully. "Help yourself." Miguel shoved the plate across to him with a chuckle. "Bribery does wonders, you know." he added.

"Oh, I don't know about going that far," Tim said warily. "You weren't planning on making me cook all the time, were you? We'd starve. And you're so good at this." The comtech gave him a faintly anxious look and Miguel laughed.

"Don't worry. I'll teach you," he assured him. "We'll get you a simple cookery book and you can follow that. We'll go shopping and get you some groceries to start with."

"Pasta," Tim decided firmly. "I want to start with pasta."

"I thought you might," Miguel said amusement, knowing he had made the right choice for a first meal. He had learned that the quickest way to win Tim's devoted attention was to engage his enthusiasm. "Lasagna?"

"Yeah," Tim nodded eagerly and eyed the cake. "And you'll teach me how to make the cherries stay put?"

"Ah no, that's a traditional Ortiz secret."

"Oh?" Tim gave him a wide eyed look.

Miguel grinned wickedly. He had a feeling he had Tim half convinced cooking was some form of magic. "Oh, yeah, it's a levitation spell that you have to put on them. You have to be up to cordon bleu standard to learn it."

"Oh," Tim said again doubtfully and slid a sly look at Miguel that told his friend he didn't really believe a word of it. "I guess I'll have to stick to the cotton then. Now, when do I learn to make the cookies like you promised?"

* * *