Rocky Road. Phish Food. Chunky Monkey. Cake Batter (huh?). Chubby Hubby (oh, wait, no, maybe not). Cookie Dough (better). And that was apart from all the different vanilla combinations.

Damn it, why were there so many different flavours to choose from? And some of them he'd never heard of. What the hell was Turtle Soup when it was at home? It sounded like a main course, not dessert.

Still, he was on a mission, and he wasn't going to shirk it.

She'd asked for ice-cream. Laying in bed, her arm resting on a pillow as comfortably as she could get it, and the one thing she really wanted was ice-cream. And had he asked what flavour? No. Did she tell him anyway? No. Was he going to call her up and inquire? No and most definitely not.

He was supposed to know.

He'd been in her freezer before, pushing aside the ancient packs of TV dinners she'd bought when they were on special offer, intending them to last her at least a month before she had to go shopping again, and more or less forgetting them the moment she closed the door. They were probably wildly out of date by now. But the point was, he'd poked around in there before, seeing what she liked, yet right now he couldn't even remember the make, let alone the flavour.

It was her fault really, he considered. Pushing him to one side when Vickers fired. He should have been the one with the bullet hole, not her. Although, if he thought about it, the gun was aimed right at his heart, so maybe he could let that one slide for now. Do it for her another day.

Still, the doctors at the hospital had only let her leave on the understanding that someone would be with her for twenty-four hours, just in case of complications. He'd already broken that rule (something he did with rules all too often) but it was only because she'd insisted.

"Ice-cream," she'd said. "A full pint."

"Are you intending to eat it all yourself?" he joked.

"Yes." Then she'd grinned. "I might let you have a spoonful or two. Just for being a ministering angel."

"I'd look good in wings."

"Maybe a little too close to getting them today," she pointed out.

The mouth of the gun had looked awfully big. "Ah, yes. And I can't play the harp to save my life."

"Lucky I was around then, wasn't it?"

"Very."

He was going to make it up to her, he'd already promised himself. And although romping around the bedroom was out – at least for a week or two – there were other ways to a woman's heart.

Only now he was staring at nearly twenty different varieties, and it was giving him a headache.

"For your lady?" the boy behind the counter of the convenience store asked, his eyes going the whole nine yards towards suggestiveness, most of which had nothing to do with actually eating the stuff.

"Mmn."

"I'd stick with Mud Pie. Chocolate, always a winner." He looked barely old enough to shave, let alone know anything about women and their foibles, but he grinned as he went to serve an elderly man with two packets of cigarettes and a small bottle of Scotch.

Still, maybe the boy was right. Chocolate was normally a safe choice. Only she wasn't safe. Thank heavens. She had bite, and maybe he should go the more risqué route.

Or perhaps not. Too many calories, maybe? Perhaps play sensitive and go for Fro-Yo?

He shuddered. No. She'd probably ask him if he thought she was fat, and he wasn't sure he could put up with a bullet wound of his own right now. Besides, with her laid up there was nobody to look after him.

The old man at the counter had been joined by an equally aged woman, her back bent and her face lined, who appeared to be berating him for buying the cigarettes, but didn't make him put them back. Instead she laid down a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, the crunchy kind.

It looked like they were going to have a great supper, he thought, eyeing them surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. Then he had to smile as the couple walked out of the store together, him carrying the bag in one mottled hand like the gentleman he was, the other entangled with hers.

True love. Or maybe it was just because the old guy's eyesight wasn't as good as it used to be and his wife didn't want him to get run over.

No. As he watched out of the window, the old man put up their umbrella against the driving rain, and cuddled her against his side. She reached up with thin lips and kissed his cheek, and the look in her eyes told him he'd been right first time. It was true love, kept alive and warm for half a century.

They disappeared into the gloom, heads hunched down against the weather, and he turned back to freezer cabinet.

Maybe they'd started courting over ice-cream, he pondered. A first date, a dance, and a shared sundae afterwards. Not that there'd have been this many flavours to choose from, probably just basic vanilla with chocolate or strawberry sauce. Whatever it had been, it worked. And when they argued, as they did at least once a week, they'd both go out to the corner store, walking in silence, where he'd buy whisky and cigarettes, and she purchased bread and peanut butter, and by the time they pocketed their change they'd forgotten their differences and strolled home through wind, sun or snow, hand in hand.

He reached for a tub of Cherry Garcia, feeling the chill from the cabinet insinuate itself up his sleeve, ice crystals caressing his skin, and his mind skittered back to his own woman, lying in her bed (if he was allowed to call her 'his' without fear of pain or retribution), the throbbing from the bullet wound dulled by medication into background noise. And he knew exactly what to do.

As he paid, he couldn't help but smile. There might just be enough room in the freezer if he threw out all the decrepit dinners, trying hard not to look at the use by dates on them. Honestly, didn't she know anything about food? At least he did. So out they'd go into the trash, and be replaced by a dozen tubs of ice-cream, every flavour they had. And if none of them were her favourite, then he'd find another store, then another, until he'd got the right one.

And they'd sit and talk, not about anything in particular, and certainly not about gun battles or would-be murderers, just chewing the fat as they slurped the ice-cream, maybe talking about love, or peanut butter, or maybe not. And perhaps, as she started to doze with just the faintest of snores whistling past her lips, he'd find that he'd peeled another layer from the onion, exposing just a little more of what made her tick.

Yeah, that was right. One layer at a time. With the help of ice-cream. That was the way to get to her, to his Nikki.

Jameson Rook grinned, and trudged through the rain back towards her apartment.

A.N. This was in response to a challenge among the DFTs (you know who you are) to write something about ice cream, but so far this is the only entry! So as author I'm taking the executive decision and posting it here, and when more are written they will be added to the Ice Cream Sundays. (And yes, I did mean to spell it like that!) Jane