Title: Tandem
Author: Paula Wilshe and Hutchrules3
Type: Slash
Summary: Starsky and Hutch spend Christmas taking care of Hutch's parents' home. While there they deal with Hutch's difficult relationship with his parents, both of their fears about Hutch's recent tangle with the plague and the new dimension that seems to be developing in their relationship.
Notes: This originally appeared in the Venice Place Press zine, Venice Place Chronicles, Volume I, which was published in October 2001.
Format: Story
Series: Tandem
Categories: Hutch Angst, Starsky Angst, Hutch H/C, Starsky H/C, Christmas, Zine Story
Episode Related: The Plague
Rating: R
Size: 368K
Date Added: 2002-11-18

Tandem
by Paula Wilshe and Hutchrules3

"Come on, Starsk, it'll be fun, you'll see," cajoled Ken Hutchinson as he slid the car down the Santa Monica ramp onto the Pacific Coast Highway. The early morning weekend traffic was light, and he merged the LTD easily into the flow of traffic. "What an incredible morning," he enthused. "Look at the sky, look at the ocean, look at...."

"Look at your partner asleep," David Starsky grumbled, trying to rearrange his body against the uncomfortably lumpy door. "Why d'we have to do this so early?" he asked, for the fifth time. "The seagulls aren't even up yet." He closed his eyes against the blinding sunlight that was peeking over the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Hutch smiled indulgently, and eased the car into the middle lane. "Take a nap, then," he urged, "We won't be there for a little bit. I'll wake you up."

Starsky nestled his head into the window without a reply, yawning, and rubbing his eyes as he settled in for the duration.

Only two weeks out of the hospital, after having survived a bout with a septicemic plague, Hutch felt as if he had been reborn. No, that wasn't quite right, he thought, Re-invented. During the days of his nearly fatal illness, and the ongoing recuperation period, he had come to the realization that "sometime" was a word borne out of laziness and procrastination.

As he lay near death, all the things he had hoped to do "sometime" became cloying, heartbreaking tragedies in his mind. All the things he would never experience, the things he would never see, were ultimately more painful because he simply had not taken the time during his life to stop and do them when he was able.

Hutch was determined that, despite life's uncertainties, he would never fall into that trap again. He would never stop appreciating and embracing each moment, each separate joy, each experience that might never have been. And reveling in the company of the person with whom he was closest, he was going to drag his best friend right along on the adventure, even if it killed the dark-haired detective, which, this morning, seemed a distinct possibility.

Hutch glanced over at him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. An early morning horseback ride was not something that had ever been on Starsky's "things to do" list, as was evidenced by the man's pained expression when Hutch had proposed the idea the evening before.

"Hutch, do you have any idea how dangerous horses are?" Starsky had asked him. "We could be killed!"

Hutch found this amusing, given their profession, and he tried to assure Starsky that a gallop down the beach was certainly much safer than any of the cases they had covered that day alone. "Besides," he said, taking a bite of pizza, "I know how to ride. I practically grew up on horseback."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "Are you makin' that up?" he asked.

Hutch swallowed his pizza. "No, I'm not," he said calmly. "I was leading junior hunter rider three years running in the county." His eyes looked dreamy for a moment. "I miss that," he said, "I miss it so much, and I haven't...." He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had plenty of opportunities, there are enough ranches around here, but I just never got around to...." He grinned at Starsky. "Until now. Now I'm going to do it, and I'm taking you with me."

"What? I don't think so, Blondie," Starsky retorted. "You go ahead, and call me when you get back. I'll pick up lunch."

After a half hour of playful arguing, Starsky relented and agreed to go. Of course, there had never actually been a doubt that he would join Hutch on the adventure—these days he found it difficult to refuse his partner anything—but the banter was part of the dance, and came as second nature to them both.

Although Starsky did not share Hutch's penchant for relentless activity, the days spent watching his partner fade in the hospital had changed him immeasurably as well. Rather than stir within him the need to do all the things he had missed so far in his life, however, the lesson Starsky had taken away was to never take anything or anyone, particularly his best friend, for granted.

Watching his partner grow more ill, and being unable to reach him, touch him, comfort him, had broken Starsky's heart. He'd recover from this too, he knew, just as Hutch looked more physically robust with every passing day. But he also knew that there was a scar from the remnants of pain and near-loss, and a lingering sadness inside him, and he wondered if this would ever be healed.

"Starsk?" Hutch shook his shoulder gently. "Starsk, we're here. Come on."

Starsky opened one eye. "You go ahead," he murmured, "I'll catch up."

"No way, Charlie," Hutch grinned. "Come on."

"We're really gonna do this, huh?" Starsky said, stretching and sitting up straight. He ran a hand through his dark curls. "Okay, let's get it over with."

As the two walked toward the barn, Hutch took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, God, that's wonderful," he said. "There's nothing like the smell of early morning horse."

Starsky wrinkled his nose. "You know, I think I'm allergic to hay," he mused, "Maybe I should wait in the car."

"Y'are not," Hutch said, clapping him on the back. "I'm the one with the allergies. But hay isn't one of them."

"Just my luck," grumbled his partner.

The ranch hand, who had taken their telephone reservation the night before, greeted them at the gate. "Morning, gentlemen," he said. "I didn't get the horses ready yet, thought you might want to do that yourselves. What sort of ride are you lookin' for, here?"

"D'you have anything that's so gentle it doesn't move?" asked Starsky hopefully.

"Well, the fence," he said, grinning, "but it's not real comfortable. English or Western?"

Hutch pointed at Starsky. "Western for him," he said, "and English for me. It's been a while for me, though, is it okay if we ride in the ring first before we take them out?"

"Absolutely," the ranch hand said, opening the gate and allowing them entrance. "That way you get to know the horse a little bit, and he gets to know you." He led them through the barn, where rows of horses munched contentedly on their breakfast hay. Stopping in front of one stall, he pointed to Hutch. "I think you'll like this guy," he said, pointing to a tall, black horse. "He's a beaut, not a mean bone in his body, but he can move if you want him to."

Hutch gently stroked the horse's velvety muzzle. "Hey...." he crooned. "Can I go in?"

At the ranchman's nod, Hutch slid back the bolt on the stall door and stepped inside. He began petting the horse, and continued to talk to it softly. "What's his name?" he asked.

"His registered name is Schuyler's Midnight Something or other, too fancy for us, we just call him Sky." the man grinned. "Do you want to tack him up yourself?" He turned to Starsky. "You can help him, and I'll get your horse ready, all right?"

"You want me to go in there?" Starsky gulped. "Uh...."

"C'mon, Starsk," Hutch urged. "You can help me brush him. He won't hurt you, I promise."

"Okay...." Starsky muttered, unconvinced.

A short time later, they led Sky out to the ring, and Hutch checked the saddle's girth for tightness, then swung up easily. He pushed his right leg forward, and tugged on the stirrup leather from his perch.

"What are you doing?" Starsky asked him nervously. "Be careful."

Hutch grinned down at him. "I'm just making the stirrups longer," he said. "These're set for someone with shorter legs than mine."

"Oh, okay," Starsky stroked the horse's muzzle as Hutch began to fix the other one.

Hutch put both feet in the stirrups and pressed his heels down. He rose slightly in the saddle, and stayed that way for a moment, gripping tightly with his knees. "Perfect," he pronounced, sitting back down. He gathered the reins, holding them in both hands, and sat up straighter. "Here I go," he announced with a grin, as he urged the horse out into the ring.

Hutch walked the horse around the ring several times to warm up, and as he passed Starsky at the gate on the third go around, he urged the black horse into a trot, amazed at how natural it felt as he began to post. He knew without checking that he was on the correct diagonal, not surprising really, even after so many years. Bringing the horse back to a walk, he glanced over at his partner, who was watching, awestruck, from the gate.

"Watch this," he said, and nudged the horse into an easy canter.

Hutch was unprepared for the feelings that swept through him with an intensity as strong as the wind that rushed by him. He felt free and unencumbered, in tune with the lithe swiftness of the animal he rode, and peace and serenity began to flood his very being. Why had he waited so long to do this, he wondered.

The horse needed no urging to maintain the steady gait, and Hutch sat the canter easily, barely moving with the fluid smoothness of the motion. He pulled the horse back to a walk at the upper end of the ring, and walked slowly back down to his partner.

"Hutch, that was...that was...." Words failed Starsky as he tried to put voice to his feelings. "You never told me you could do that," he said. "I used to ride once in a while, you said," he mimicked, recalling conversations past. "But that was...that was...."

Hutch laughed happily. "Okay," he acquiesced. "I used to ride a lot. But boy," he wistfully patted the black horse's neck, "I had no idea I missed it so much."

"Well, you were...you look...." Starsky shook his head. "Y'oughta do it once in a while."

The ranch hand approached, leading a large red chestnut horse, big boned, big footed, white blazed, and sleepy eyed. "You can take that one over a jump if you want to," he said to Hutch, indicating an oxer that was set up in the middle of the ring.

Hutch nodded and took up a trot, circling the front of the jump. As he came around toward the others, he picked up a canter on the turn, then approached the fence straight on. Rising slightly in the saddle, and pushing his hands up the horse's neck, he felt all his weight push down in his heels and his calves. He leaned forward, as the horse cleared the jump, neatly tucking its front feet, and landing smoothly on the other side.

"Wow!" Starsky yelled enthusiastically. "That's terrific, Blintz! Ya do that better than you play the guitar!"

Hutch patted the horse again, talking to it all the while, as he wended his way back over to the gate. "Thanks," he said, smiling. "Your turn," he continued as he indicated the large red horse nudging Starsky's neck and sniffing the dark curls.

"Hey," Starsky hunched his shoulders, "That tickles." He patted the horse on the face and looked at the ranch hand. "This guy's real gentle, right?" he asked.

"Absolutely. If you wanna walk he'll walk, if you wanna stand, he'll stand. He's not too much interested in going any faster than that. Maybe a bit of a jog once in a while, if he's feelin' real energetic." He began to tighten the cinch on the Western saddle.

Starsky continued to pat the horse. "Sounds about my speed," he agreed. "What's this one's name?"

"Aw, he's got a fancy name too, he's part Quarter Horse and part Belgian draft...but since he's so red and soft and squishy, we just call him ‘the Tomato.'"

Starsky's hand froze on the white stripe adorning the horse's face. "You're kidding, right?" he asked.

"No," the ranch hand replied, puzzled. "Why?"

Hutch was unable to control himself, and burst into peals of laughter that eventually left him weak and teary eyed, and leaning all the way forward, his head resting on Sky's neck. "That's what I...." he started, and broke off as he was overcome with laughter once more.

Starsky gave him a dark stare. "That's what he calls my car," he said. "It's red, with a white stripe, kinda like this," he indicated the horse's blaze.

The ranch hand grinned. ""Prob'ly means this horse is your destiny then," he said. "You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Starsky said. "Last time I was on a horse I was eight, when my dad took me to the barn where they kept the police horses." Lithe and conditioned, he swung into the saddle easily, despite his fear, and he held on tightly, his lips paling a bit when he looked down.

"Y'all right, Starss?" asked Hutch.

"Awful high," Starsky replied, "long way down, awful high."

"Just hold the horn there," Hutch said pointing to the front of the saddle. "You won't fall. Grip with your knees, and try to push your heels down in the stirrups. That'll hold you in place, and give you some balance besides."

Starsky glanced over at the front of Hutch's saddle. "How come you don't have one o'these?" he asked, indicating the saddle horn on the front of his own saddle.

"Different kind of saddle," Hutch explained. "Yours is Western, like...oh, you know, a cowboy thing. Mine's English. I can ride Western, but this is how I grew up, so I'm more used to this kind. I just figured you'd like a little more to hang on to."

"You figured right," Starsky said, though clenched teeth. "Are we done now?"

"Not a chance," Hutch grinned. "Come in here and ride with me."

"Uh...." Starsky gulped as the ranch hand opened the gate and led the Tomato inside the ring. He hung onto the horn for dear life.

"You guys be okay?" the man said, shutting the gate. "I'm gonna go work on stalls, 'less you need me here?"

"No, we're fine," Hutch said.

"Okay then," he grinned at them. "Technically you've got an hour, but nobody else is scheduled this morning, so you can have all the time you want. The ring here and," he indicated a gate at the far end, "there's a path down to the beach, over that bluff. You can ride all the way down to where the houses start if you want, horses are used to it, and they won't give you any trouble. Holler if you need anything."

"Uh..." Starsky raised one finger. "You gotta seatbelt for this thing?"

~*~*~*~

"Uuunnnhhhh...." Starsky groaned, leaning against the frame of the door.

"Hang on, I'm coming, I'm coming," Hutch said, pulling their jackets from the back seat of the car. "Just stay there."

"Got no choice," Starsky moaned, "I can't move...."

With a chuckle Hutch moved to his side, and took his arm. "Come on, Roy, let's get you inside." He unlocked the door with one hand, and pushed Starsky through ahead of him.

"I think I'm paralyzed," Starsky said, through gritted teeth. "Oh my God."

Hutch lowered him gingerly onto a chair. "Just sit here," he soothed, "You'll feel better after a shower and some aspirin."

"I'd have to get better to die," Starsky glowered. "How come you're not feeln' like this?"

Hutch shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno," he said. "I used to ride an awful lot, maybe some of the muscles just stay stretched. I'll go turn on the shower for you." Hutch disappeared into the bathroom, leaving his partner alone to contemplate his misery.

Starsky flexed one leg and winced. How could a two-hour ride on a furry animal with the personality of a teddy bear result in such unrelenting agony? Although he would certainly not admit as much to his partner, at least unless he was under considerable duress to do so, Starsky felt that he and the Tomato had bonded in some inexplicable way. The horse's gentle personality had touched him, and by the last jog they'd made up the beach, he had realized that riding was something he could possibly enjoy from time to time.

He was sure that a lot of this unexpected pleasure was a direct result of having spent an enjoyable and close morning with his partner, away from the sterile walls of the hospital, and the unrelenting tensions of their job. Seeing the glow of health radiating from Hutch's eyes, exacerbated by his utter joy at riding after such a long time, well, it did something to a guy, Starsky thought, made him thankful for all he had, and gave him a feeling of peace somehow.

The fact that his own horse was so gentle and willing had allayed his fears somewhat, at the end there, he had actually jogged without holding on to the saddle, a feat of which he was rather proud.

"Here you go," Hutch offered, holding out a glass of water and two aspirin. "Take these, and the shower's already running for you. You'll perk up. Come on." He put the empty glass on the table, and pulled on Starsky's arm to help him stand. "Thought I'd make lunch," he said, as he steered Starsky toward the bathroom door. "Maybe go walk on the beach after that?"

"You gotta be kidding," Starsky said, but a sharp look at his partner told him that Hutch was anything but. "Hey," he said, softly. "You can't do everything all at once, Hutch, you're gonna wear yourself out. Remember, Judith said you gotta take it easy for a while."

"I don't think taking a walk on the beach is going to wear me out, Starsk," Hutch replied dryly. "Or am I wearing you out, is that it?"

"Well, yeah," Starsky grinned, "but that's not the point." He looked at Hutch seriously. "You need to take care of yourself, Blintz, ‘cause I can't go through all that life and death stuff again this soon."

Hutch leaned against the doorway. "Okay," he said. "Point well taken, you're right. I... I guess I forget that the whole thing's been as tough on you as it has on me," he said. "I don't mean to be...."

"You're not," Starsky interrupted. "But we've got plenty of time. You don't have to do everything you wanna do all in one day."

"I know you're right," Hutch acquiesced. "It's just that...."

"I know," Starsky broke in, gently. "I get it. Let me get cleaned up, I'll make lunch, and you'll take a nap. Then we'll go down to the beach. All right?"

"You win," Hutch smiled. "Hurry up in there," he pointed to the bathroom. "I'm hungry, and I," he sniffed at his shirt, "I smell like a horse. I need a shower too."

"You got it," Starsky grinned, closing the door.

Hutch paused for a moment outside the bathroom door, brow furrowing sharply. "Starsky?"

"Mm?"

"Did you say...nap?"

Starsky opened the door a crack and peered around it, smiling benevolently at his partner. "Who, me?" he asked innocently.

~*~*~*~

"Yes, I rode a horse, and stop laughing," Starsky was saying defensively, as Hutch emerged, freshly showered, some time later. Starsky was draped across the couch, the telephone receiver cradled between his ear and his shoulder.

"I have to put up with this from Blondie, but not from you...oh yeah?" He laughed good-naturedly, then dropped his voice, although he did not realize that Hutch was in the room. "Yeah...yeah...no, honest, Kimmy, he's good, he's fine, he's...here," he said, glancing up to see his partner at the foot of the couch. "And he's clean, too," Starsky added with a guilty grin, "for which I am grateful...yes...uh huh...I will...." He struggled to sit up. "I'm gonna give you Hutch," he said, "'cause I'm hungry...okay...okay...here you go...." Starsky held the telephone out to Hutch. "It's your sister," he said, pushing himself to stand. "She's as bad as you are," and he limped away toward the kitchen.

Hutch took the phone and sat down, not realizing until he did so, how tired he really was. "Hey," he said into the receiver, "Are you done harassing my partner yet?"

"I am," replied his sister, with a familiar, melodic laugh. "Now it's your turn. How on earth did you get him to go riding with you?" she asked.

"It wasn't easy," Hutch grinned. "So what's up? Checking on me again?"

"Well...sort of," Kimberly Hutchinson-Kelly hesitated. "Um, how are you?"

"I'm great," her brother replied. He glanced toward the kitchen. "Well, as great as someone can be who's going to be forced to eat toxic waste for lunch," he added, as Starsky pulled a frying pan from the cabinet. "What's up?" He asked again. "Everything okay with Mom and Dad? I..." he hesitated. "I haven't heard from them."

Kim's reply was nervous, breathy. "Well, you know how it is," she said, "two weeks before Christmas, and they're getting ready for their trip...they've been busy, and...." She took a deep breath. "No," she said, "that's ridiculous. Why am I making excuses for them?"

"Honey, it's okay," her brother soothed. "I know the score." His voice took on a slightly bitter tone. "Their only son almost died, but it was his own fault. If he hadn't been...if he'd...."

"Mom sends her love," Kim said quietly. "She wanted to call, but...."

"I know," Hutch sighed. "So what's up?"

Kim took a deep breath. "Michael has a chance to go to Hawaii," she said. "For three weeks."

"Fantastic," Hutch said, "Can you go along?"

"Well, yes...." she said hesitantly. "But the thing is...."

"You want me to watch the kids?" Hutch squeaked nervously. "Kimmy, I don't know if that's such a good idea...I mean, Jeremy's easy, he's no trouble, he and Starsk like to play the same things, but the baby...."

"No," Kim interrupted, "we'd take the kids, that's not it."

"Well what, then," Hutch looked over at Starsky, making a gesture of relief.

"We're supposed to be staying at Mom and Dad's while they're away," she said, "through New Year's, and, you know, watch the horses, and...the house...."

"Can't you find someone else to stay there?" Hutch asked. "You shouldn't pass up an opportunity like this."

"Come on, Kenny, who am I going to get to stay there for three weeks, and over Christmas, too?" She sighed. "I guess it just wasn't meant to be."

Hutch glanced over at Starsky, who was bent over the kitchen table, cutting up something unidentifiable. He snapped his fingers to get Starsky's attention, but Starsky did not respond, continuing his food preparation as if he were performing delicate surgery requiring intense concentration. Hutch sighed. "It was a mistake ever introducing you two," he said. "What did Starsky say?"

Kim's words tumbled out in a rush. "Well, only that you guys had a lot of vacation time coming, and...he's... you know...he misses snow at Christmas...."

"When?" Hutch asked her.

"Well...Michael's leaving tomorrow, and we...we'd leave in three days," she said. "Mom and Dad leave in two."

"Kim...." Hutch sighed. "Three days, that's not...."

"I know, I know," she said, "but think how nice it would be. The house is great, the lake, you guys could go ice skating, there're the horses...it might be a nice chance for you...get out of L.A., enjoy the holidays...no Mom and Dad here...you'd have a chance to relax and get your strength back...."

Hutch rubbed his forehead tiredly, and looked at Starsky again. This time Starsky looked over at him with a grin. "It's all been pretty much decided, hasn't it?" he asked his sister, although his eyes were fixed piercingly on his partner.

"It'd be good for you, Hutch," Starsky said quietly, from across the room. "You've been through hell." He paused for a moment, shrugging his shoulders. "We've both been through hell."

Hutch nodded. "Okay," he sighed into the phone. "Okay." Christmas in Minnesota, he thought, haven't spent Christmas in Minnesota since.... "We've got to clear it with our captain, but as long as he says okay...call you back with the flight information?" he asked.

"Thank you," Kim said quietly. "I love you."

"I know," Hutch said gently. "I love you too." He shook his head. "You owe me," he said. "You owe me big."

Starsky had moved next to him, and handed him a tall glass of juice. He pulled the receiver from his partner's loose grip. "See that, Kimmy," he said, "I told you he was just a big mushball." He looked down at Hutch. "Drink that," he said. "Hey," he said into the telephone. "You got snow yet?" he asked hopefully.

~*~*~*~

Hutch raised himself from Starsky's couch, peering blearily at the dim room. "Starsky," he said, his voice heavy with sleep. "What the hell are you doing? It's..." he squinted at his watch. "It's four a.m." A huge yawn took control of his body.

Starsky tossed a heavy flight bag next to the door. "Time to get up, Blintz," he said cheerfully. "Flight leaves in four hours." He wiggled an eyebrow at his partner. "I'll be home for Christmas...." he sang, in his very best Bing Crosby.

"Four hours, are you nuts?" Hutch blinked sleepily. "We're twenty minutes from the airport. Go back to sleep." He flopped back onto the couch, and pulled the blanket up over his face.

"No can do, Hutch," Starsky said, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Please have snow-w-w...and mistletoe...," he sang. He pulled the blanket down to Hutch's chest, and held out a steaming mug of coffee. "Come on, drink this, it'll wake you up."

Hutch's eyes remained closed. "I don't wanna wake up," he said. "It's the middle of the night." He cracked one eye open. "You're out of your mind, you know that?" He hitched himself up slowly, and accepted the proffered coffee.

"Frequently," Starsky agreed amiably. "That's why you love me, I'm zany and whimsical." He picked up his own coffee from the table and took a long pull.

Hutch nodded, but said nothing, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor.

"Do we need to stop at your place on the way?" Starsky asked.

Hutch indicated his bags with a tilt of his head. "No," he said. "I've got everything."

"Which one has my presents in it?" Starsky asked him curiously. "Because prob'ly you should use that one as a carry on, I mean, what if the airline loses your bags or something?"

Hutch laughed, in spite of himself. "Just a big kid, aren't you?" he asked affectionately.

Starsky sat down next to him. "As often as possible," he agreed. He tousled Hutch's already frazzled hair. "You sure you're okay with this?"

"With what? Being railroaded?" Hutch shrugged his shoulders. "Sure...." He looked at his partner. "As if I had a choice."

Starsky grinned back at him. "Love your sister, Hutch, I always have." He paused thoughtfully. "The thing is...after all this...it's like...we're doing something nice for her, but we're doing something nice for us too. We need to get away for awhile...do something different. Maybe we'll get snowed in." He looked at Hutch seriously. "You need this."

"You need this," Hutch returned, "you want to get snowed in because I've been dragging you all over Southern California the past couple of weeks and you're tired."

"I'm sure that's part of it," Starsky agreed affably. "But you're a fairly complex person, Detective Hutchinson."

"Who, me?" Hutch asked, taking another gulp of coffee.

"Who else am I talkin' to?" Starsky smiled. "You need this. You need to think about what you've been through, what you're going through now...you need to slow it down. Everything's okay now, it's just that, in your heart, you don't believe it."

"And getting me up at four a.m. is slowing it down?"

"You can sleep on the plane," Starsky assured him. He got up, took hold of Hutch's arm, and pulled him upright. "Come on. This'll be good. I promise."

~*~*~*~

"Hutch," Starsky whispered urgently. "Wake up."

"Hunh?" Hutch opened his eyes sleepily. "Whassit?" he asked, disoriented.

"Switch places with me."

"What?"

"Switch places with me."

"I thought you wanted the window," Hutch said, beginning to regain consciousness.

"Yeah, but...."

"But what?"

Starsky leaned in and hissed into his ear. "That kid across the aisle from you's been coughing since we flew over Denver." He tugged at Hutch's arm. "I mean it, switch places with me."

Hutch looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "Have you lost your mind?" he asked incredulously. "Maybe the kid has allergies, and besides, Judith said...."

"So humor me," Starsky growled. "Don't wanna take any chances, I just got you back. Come on," he insisted.

Hutch threw up his hands. "Okay, okay, okay...."After a difficult maneuver in the cramped airline cabin, Hutch settled into Starsky's seat and leaned his head against the window. He closed his eyes. "Satisfied? Can I go back to sleep now?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," Starsky patted his arm. "Warm enough?"

"Starsky...." Hutch murmured. "Stop. Take a break."

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, okay," he said.

"Hey?"

"What?"

Hutch patted him on the knee. "Thanks," he said, ready to doze.

~*~*~*~

"Uncle Hutch! Uncle Hutch!" A blue-jeaned, green-jacketed blur came flying through the air, and Hutch dropped his flight bag just in time to catch the tornado in his arms.

The force of the leap knocked him backwards into Starsky, and the two of them just barely maintained a semblance of balance. Further complicating matters, the whirling dervish reached out his own arms to include Starsky in his hug, thus binding the three of them together in a stranglehold, with Hutch sandwiched in the middle.

"Starsky!" the tiny voice cried joyfully.

"Ngrhm..." came Hutch's strangled voice, as he was unable to breathe well through the clinch.

Starsky reached around his partner and grabbed the boy by the waist, effectively loosening the child's grip on Hutch. "Jeremy," he said, "Hi there!"

Jeremy buried his head in Starsky's neck, then reached out a pudgy four year old arm to drag his Uncle Hutch into the hug again, but at least this time Hutch's airway seemed safe, thanks to Starsky's quick tactical maneuver.

"Hey, buddy," Hutch murmured into Jeremy's hair. "How's my guy?"

"Your guy's good," whispered the boy.

"How about your sister," came a teasing voice. "Don't I get a hug too?"

Starsky, pressed tightly against Jeremy and Hutch, said, "I don't think we can fit one more in here," and he winked at her over the child's shoulder. "I'm sorry, miss, you'll have to take a number."

"Hug Starsky for a minute, partner," Hutch instructed his nephew, "So I can say hi to your mom."

A quick transfer settled the child onto Starsky's hip, as Hutch opened his arms to his sister. He grinned at her, before pulling her into a hug.

Kimberly Hutchinson-Kelly was as tiny as her brother was tall. Taking her coloring from her mother's Irish ancestors, her hair was a dark chestnut, highlighted with flecks of red, and reached halfway down her back in a long braid. Her eyes were the essence of blue, darker than her brother's, but held the same enveloping warmth that was characteristic of them both.

"Aw, K.J., you look so good," Kim sighed, pulling him close and holding him tightly. She pushed him back to arm's length, took another appraising moment, and hugged him back again. "I'm so glad you're better," she whispered, her voice catching slightly. "I was so scared...and you wouldn't let me come out and help...."

Starsky leaned over and ran a hand down the back of her head. "We couldn't be sure it was safe," he said quietly, "that the antibodies would work, and you've got the babies...."

Hutch released her from the hug, but kept a strong arm around her shoulders. "Starsky's right," he said, "and besides, he took really good care of me when I came home." He smiled reassuringly, and glanced over at his partner gratefully. "Honest he did."

Jeremy leaned over from Starsky's arms to pat his uncle on the cheek. "Uncle Hutch, Mommy said you were sick, your very bad cold is okay now?"

"He is absolutely okay," Starsky answered, bouncing the boy a little on his arm. "I fed him vitamins and pizza, and burritos on the really bad days." He touched foreheads with the child. "You know what time it is, partner?"

"Frisking time?" asked the child, his body wiggling with a smile.

"You got it," Starsky said, setting the boy down in front of him. He made a big show of patting down the child's arms and chest, till he reached Jeremy's jacket pocket. He looked at Hutch with a grin, as Hutch observed the familiar, if peculiar, ritual of greeting.

"What do you think, Starsk?" Hutch asked him, trying to keep his face serious. "Do I need to call for back up?"

"I think he's carrying, Hutch, I'm sure of it." Starsky said, seriously, continuing to pat Jeremy's jacket. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed, reaching into the child's pocket. "Jackpot!" He pulled out three wrapped bars, and started to slip them into his own coat.

"No, no," Jeremy protested with a giggle. "You can't have ‘em all." He plucked the candy from Starsky's hand and held them out. He selected one and offered it to his uncle. "This one's for you, Uncle Hutch," he said solemnly. "'Cause it's granola." He handed a Hershey bar to Starsky, and kept an identical one for himself. "An' these," he said to the dark-haired man, "are for you ‘n me, partner."

"Deal," Starsky agreed. "Let's dig in, I'm starving,'" he said, ripping the paper off his bar and taking a bite. "There a coke machine around here anyplace?"

Hutch held up the granola bar. "Thanks, Jeremy," he said. "This looks great."

"Mom said you'd like it ‘cause it's got miserables in it," he said.

"It's got what?"

Kim burst out laughing. "Minerals, Jeremy, and vitamins."

Starsky snorted and nearly inhaled his chocolate bar. "I think you were right the first time, Jeremy," he said, laughing. "I love this boy," he said to Hutch. He took the boy by the hand. "Come on, kid, let's find the soda."

Kim watched them for a moment, taking in the interaction, then turned to her brother.

"Do you know how lucky we are?" she asked.

"Lucky?" Hutch asked. "Are you kidding? In about fifteen minutes they'll be pinging off the walls from all that sugar."

"Oh, I know," Kim agreed. "But imagine what it would be like if our kids didn't get along. Come on," she said, pulling his arm. "Let's go home, dinner's waiting."

~*~*~*~

Several hours later, Hutch sat in a comfortable chair by the fireplace, five month old Kate asleep on his shoulder. He leaned his cheek against her downy hair for a moment, inhaling slowly, taking in the incomparably heady scent of freshly washed baby. He kissed her head lightly, and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Suddenly Starsky appeared at his side, setting down a cup of coffee on the table next to him.

"Here you go," he said easily. "Drink this or you'll fall asleep drivin' us back to your parents' house."

Hutch smiled up his thanks. "Can you believe how much she's grown in two months?" he asked.

Starsky reached down to stroke the baby's cheek. "No, I can't," he agreed. "What a beautiful girl she's going to be. Like her mom." He smiled and sat down on the couch next to Hutch's chair.

"I thought about her a lot, you know, the baby, when I...you know...." said Hutch. "Like, Jeremy would remember me, probably, but Kate...."

"I know," Starsky said, leaning back against the couch. "I thought about that too." He looked around at the warm and comfortable room, sighing contentedly. "I love it here," he said, "You know? It's so different from...."

Hutch nodded. Kim's taste in furnishing and decoration were merely an extension of her own personality. The room was colorful, inviting, and cozy. There was no pretense here. Although the furnishings and artwork were clearly of high quality, they had not been chosen for that reason. Kim had selected each piece carefully, for durability, and comfort, and warmth, and had done it so well that she could feel equally confident entertaining her husband's legal colleagues one day, and building pillow forts with Jeremy the next. It was as if the house adapted to its inhabitants and guests, and tonight it was particularly apparent to Hutch that it had been furnished with love.

"You're right," Hutch said softly to his partner. "I feel the same way. My house—my parents' house... it's like a museum. Always has been."

Jeremy came into the room, wearing blue flannel cowboy pajamas, and carrying a worn teddy bear. Wordlessly he climbed into Starsky's lap and leaned his head back. Starsky put an arm around him, and kissed the tangled curls. "You about ready for bed, kiddo?" he asked.

"Mm hm."

"Where's your mom?" Hutch asked him.

"On the phone with my daddy," Jeremy said. "He's in Wowwee, you know."

"Wowwee?" Hutch furrowed his brow. "Oh, Hawaii."

"That's what I said," Jeremy told him. "An' we're goin' there tomorrow, you know." He yawned widely. "On a airplane."

"I know, buddy, that's terrific," Hutch said, smiling.

"You're gonna feed my pony, right, at Grandpa Hutchinson's?"

"Absolutely," Hutch assured him. "And Starsky's gonna help me clean the stalls."

Starsky narrowed his eyebrows. "I don't remember agreeing to that," he countered.

Jeremy squeezed Starsky's arm. "It's not hard," he said, "'n you can use my wheelbarrow if you want."

"Okay," Starsky said with an exaggerated sigh. "For you I'll do it." He looked over at his partner. "Hutch, why don't you put Jeremy to bed for Kimmy. I'll take the baby."

"You sure?" Hutch asked, remembering the last time Starsky had held the infant.

At Kate's christening two months before, in a moment of spontaneous joy over his new almost niece, Starsky had swooped the baby up, held her over his face, and said, "Kiss me, Kate," and just as he had lowered her to plant a peck on her cheek, the baby had spit up most of the contents of the bottle that her Uncle Hutch had just fed her, leaving everyone but Starsky in near hysterics.

Starsky's face reddened. "Yes, I'm sure," he said. "V'you got a towel, though?"

"Just don't turn her upside down and you won't need one," Hutch assured him. "Besides, she's sound asleep."

Jeremy hopped off Starsky's lap, and Hutch transferred the sleeping infant to his partner's arms. "There you go," he said, patting Starsky's shoulder. He picked up the coffee cup and took a sip. "I'll be back soon," he promised, and picked up his sleepy nephew, heading for the stairs.

Starsky leaned his head back against the couch, enjoying the baby's warmth against his shoulder. What a long day it had been, he thought, shouldn't have gotten up so early. Of course, it had been a long month as well, he thought, and he laid his cheek against the baby and closed his eyes.

"Do you want me to take her?" Kim asked softly, appearing beside him.

"Hm? No, no, she's fine," Starsky said, opening his eyes with a yawn. He caressed the back of the baby's head, reluctant to relinquish the tiny child. "Sit," he said, patting the couch with his free hand. "Dinner was great," he added. "Thank you. You cook better than your brother."

Kim sat on the opposite end of the couch, tucking her legs up under her. "That was the least I could do. I can't thank you guys enough for all this," she said. "You have no idea...."

"He needs it," Starsky said simply. "He's been to hell and back, and he needs time to regroup." He yawned again. "I think we both do. Besides, he's wearing me out, dragging me all over Southern California."

"Is he okay?" she asked him. "I mean...really okay?"

"I think he is," Starsky assured her. "It's just...what happened was so damned terrifying...for both of us, you know? One minute he was fine, the next minute he was just so, so sick. It seemed like three years till we found Callendar...." He shuddered at the memory. "And I couldn't even...be with him, you know? Couldn't hold his hand, couldn't...couldn't touch him...." He swallowed with difficulty, around the lump in his throat.

She leaned forward and squeezed his arm. "It was horrible for you, sweetie, I know," she said. "I could tell from your voice when you called, even though you tried so hard to...."

Starsky looked at her seriously. "Can I ask you something?" he said abruptly. "I mean, really, honestly?"

"Of course you can," she said, meeting his gaze. "You always can. You know that."

"Why didn't your parents come out?"

She shook her head bitterly. "Because my father...my father...it's all for principle, it's all about respecting him, and his life, and his wishes...and K.J. defied him, and...." She pulled the end of her braid over her shoulder and began twisting it around her fingers. "Like, if he'd been in a car accident or something, I swear to you Dad would've been there in a minute...pissing off the nurses," she said, with a wry smile. "But because K.J.'s being so sick was a direct result of his job...the job that he took when he defied Dad's decrees...." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's ridiculous, and I told him so, but I'm just a girl in his eyes, and nothing I say matters, as long as I keep up appearances, have lots of babies, and meet Mom for lunch at the Country Club when I'm supposed to. Isn't that ridiculous?"

Starsky blinked a few times, his heart breaking for his partner. "But...he almost died...." he said in a near whisper. "How could they not...be so incredibly proud of him, of what he does, what he accomplishes?" He reached up to swipe at his eyes. "I just don't get that," he repeated, "How can they not be proud...and awed...by his goodness, his determination...." Starsky shook his head.

Kim moved down to sit next to him. She pulled his head down on her shoulder for a moment, then kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I don't know," she said, near tears. "But I do know..." she looked at him piercingly, "that you and I love him, and we're proud enough of him for everybody."

Starsky nodded through watery eyes. "I just don't know it that's always enough."

"I know," she said, softly, laying her head on his shoulder. "I know."

~*~*~*~

"Okay," said Hutch, setting down a glass firmly. "I've read a story, I got you a drink, you peed, right?"

"Yup," Jeremy nodded.

"We always have to remind Starsk about that too, before he goes to bed," Hutch said, grinning, and Jeremy melted into the mattress as his small body was consumed with giggles.

"You're joking, right, Uncle Hutch?" the child asked.

"Who, me?" he asked innocently. His eyes twinkled merrily in anticipation of their next visit with Jeremy. Smart as a whip, that kid, he'd remember to ask Starsky for sure. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Okay, what else do we need to do here? I'm out of practice." He pulled the covers up around Jeremy and stroked his forehead lightly.

"Kiss goodnight," Jeremy reminded him.

Hutch leaned over and scooped the child up into his arms. "I can do better than that," he said, "kiss and a hug."

Jeremy hugged him tightly. "I don't want you to go," he said, with a curl and a quiver of his lower lip, "Can't you stay here?"

"Aw, Jeremy," Hutch said. "I wish we could, but we have to go to Grandpa's and take care of the horses and your pony. Besides," he said, laying the child back down, "you're leaving tomorrow to go see your daddy."

Jeremy thought for a moment. "I really want to see my daddy," he said slowly, "but I want to be with you and my Starsky too."

"I know you do, sweetheart," Hutch smiled, "but Santa Claus will be looking for you in Hawaii this year, so you have to go. I don't want you to miss any presents. Oh, and hey," he continued, "When you wake up in the morning, you can open your presents from Starsky and me, okay? We gave them to your mom."

"Presents?" the child asked hopefully.

"Of course presents," Hutch assured him. "It's Christmas time, isn't it?"

Jeremy yawned and nodded. "But I will miss you."

"I will miss you too," Hutch answered. "I always do. So does Starsky. Do you know what?"

"What?"

"Your mom and I were talking the other day, and we were thinking maybe...like, the next business trip your daddy has to take? That your mom could go with him, and you and Kate could come and stay with me."

"And Starsky?" asked Jeremy, rubbing his eyes.

"Sure," Hutch assured him. "He can stay over too, okay? We'll have a great time, we can go to the beach, and maybe the zoo, how about that?" Hutch realized that he was trying to placate himself with plans and promises as much as he was the child. He hated seeing his niece and nephew so infrequently, because of the constraints of time and distance, and they were growing up so fast. So damned fast. And he'd almost....no, he thought, don't think about that now.

"Uncle Hutch?" asked Jeremy, effectively bringing him out of his momentary reverie.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course you can, honey, you can tell me anything, always." Hutch smiled down at him.

"Promise you won't tell?"

"Cross my heart," he declared solemnly.

"I don't..." the child's voice faltered, "I don't think Grandpa likes Starsky. He said...I mean...." Even at four years old, Jeremy knew enough to realize that the words he had overheard from his grandfather would hurt his beloved uncle, something Jeremy would never purposely do.

Hutch pressed his lips together, and blinked slowly, in an attempt to swallow the anger he felt billowing up from inside. His father had no right, none at all to—"Jeremy," he said softly. "Do you like Starsky?"

"I love him," Jeremy replied. "I love him so much."

"Well, so do I," Hutch said, with a smile. "Not everybody likes everybody in the world. Is there anybody you don't like?"

"Well...." Jeremy mused. "I don't like Mrs. Graver at nursery school. She yells all the time and she has a moustache."

"But I'll bet her family and her friends think she's just fine," said Hutch gently. "Everybody likes different things, for different reasons, and even if we don't agree with them, that's just the way it is. I think as long as we like Starsky, and we show him that when we're together, it doesn't matter so much who else does or doesn't. You know?"

"That's what I thought," Jeremy said, turning over, matter resolved. "Starsky plays with me, ‘n I love him." He turned back to Hutch, "and I love you too," he offered, holding out his arms for another hug. Jeremy snuggled under the covers. "Night, Uncle Hutch," he murmured, and was asleep before Hutch turned out the light.

Hutch collapsed wearily in the chair next to the fireplace. "Your kid wears me out," he sighed, glancing at Kim, then closing his eyes. "He's so goddamned smart." The fire in the fireplace warmed him, and he stretched out his legs, and yawned.

"Takes after his mom," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Do you want more coffee," she offered, "or will it keep you awake?"

"Nothing could keep me awake," Hutch retorted. He pointed at his partner. "This guy got me up at four this morning. But no, thanks, I'm coffeed out."

"Hey," Starsky said defensively. "You slept on the plane. What're you complainin' about?"

"Except when you were waking me up," Hutch opened his eyes wearily. "Hutch, we have to change seats, Hutch, I have to go to the bathroom, get up, Hutch, grab the stewardess and ask her for another Coke." He winked at his sister. "Prob'ly worse than traveling with Jeremy," he said, and closed his eyes again. "You guys keep talking," he said, waving a hand in their direction as another yawn overtook him. "I'm just gonna close my eyes for a minute."

Kim giggled, and Starsky snorted, and the two resumed their tete-atete about Jeremy's proclivities in art at nursery school, and the latest cases the two detectives had been working on.

Hutch only half listened, his mind was still whirling over his conversation with his nephew. How dare his father, he thought angrily, how dare he poison that little mind with pomposity and bigotry and hatred. The kid was only four years old, for Christ's sake.

He recalled bitterly his last conversation with his father, two months before, at Kate's christening. He and Starsky had been thrilled to attend, they'd had to trade with other officers to get the weekend off, and had worked eleven days in a row before they left, but it had been worth it.

Hutch was Jeremy's godfather, and he was utterly delighted when Kim called, late one night, to ask how he would feel about her asking Starsky to stand up for Kate. Starsky, of course, had been thrilled, euphoric, ecstatic...and had told everyone in the squad room about it, as well as most of the suspects they had arrested over the next three days.

The christening had been held at Hutchinson Manor, as Starsky had renamed the property wryly, and the guest list had included friends, family members, and "all the right people" from his parents' social circle. Fed up with the inane conversation, he and Starsky had taken the kids into the library, where he worked quietly on a puzzle with his nephew, while Starsky offered copious verbal jigsaw method advice, as he rocked the colicky, overtired baby to sleep. It was one of those cozy, companionable times that were the very essence of their friendship, and after having listened to the Country Clubbers discuss the merits of Astroturf grades on the golf course, Hutch was relishing this quiet time with Starsky and the children.

Starsky had leaned over his shoulder at one point, pointing down at the corner of the puzzle they were working on, and Hutch had looked up briefly to see his father standing in the doorway. When Hutch looked up again, his father was gone. Later, of course, his father caught him in the kitchen, looking him up and down in disapproval.

"Kenneth, your tie is undone."

Hutch looked down at his dreaded necktie, askew across his chest. "It was choking me," he said calmly. "So I undid it. I was playing with Jeremy."

"So I noticed," his father said, clenching and unclenching a fist at his side. "Kenneth...."

Hutch reached for a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. He took a sip, even though he was not thirsty, but anxious to escape his father's disdainful stare. "Yes, Dad?" he responded, clipped.

"Just how...close...are you and your...partner?"

Hutch had not been expecting this, and his mouth suddenly went dry. Glad for the glass of water, he drained the cup, and set it down on the sideboard. "Starsky, you mean?" he asked, consciously keeping his voice level and soft.

"Yes. Just what is your...relationship with that...with him?" his father's voice trailed off.

Hutch drew himself up to his full height, standing stiffly as if there were a board pressing into his back. "He's my best friend, and my partner, why?"

"You must be aware of the way it looks," his father said, "the impression that you're...."

"That we're what? More than friends?" Hutch narrowed his eyes and felt his cheeks flush. "We are more than friends, Dad, although not in the way you're implying. We're family. He's Kate's godfather, it's official now." Hutch felt a triumphant smile tug at his lip, but he pushed it back.

"Kenneth, some of my most important clients are in the next room, and I won't have you jeopardize my reputation by bringing home a...a...."

Hutch's mother sailed into the room, looking from one to the other, obviously aware of what was being discussed. "Darling," she said to her son, "please try to listen to your father. It's not that we don't like your friend, whenever you've brought him home he's seemed like a nice boy...but he's...he's not...he isn't like us," she finished, not knowing how else to say it. "And you're...."

"I'm what?"

"So wrapped up in him, that I'm sure you've lost all perspective."

"I've---" Hutch shook his head angrily. "How dare you?" he asked his father.

"Kenneth, I am sure he is very good at the sort of work you do...on the streets, dealing with the lesser elements...but please, try to respect my feelings in this matter. He doesn't fit in here, particularly when it seems as if the two of you are...."

Hutch licked his lips, which were suddenly dry again. He blinked slowly, the conversation incomprehensible to him. "If you spoil this day for Kim and Michael," he said quietly, "you will have to answer to me." He turned and strode from the room.

"Kenneth, come back here," he heard his father say. "Don't you dare walk out on me."

Hutch was aware that he was being followed, and he slowed his pace as he walked into the living room, where knots of people talked and laughed, and sipped champagne. Kim sat on a chair in the corner, engaged in a lively conversation with his partner, whose back was to him as he approached.

Hutch sauntered up behind him, and in plain view of his parents, wrapped an arm around Starsky from behind, pulling him back against his own chest. Starsky didn't resist, he glanced up at Hutch. "Uh oh, what's that for?"

"It's...nothing," Hutch said. "Just...nothing."

Starsky nodded. "Trouble in Paradise?" he asked, quietly, understanding.

Hutch blinked quickly, and nodded. He let his arm drop from around Starsky, who immediately moved to his side and put an arm around his shoulders, giving a little squeeze to his arm before releasing him. "'S okay, Hutch," he said. "Let it go."

"I am," Hutch nodded again. "I'm...it's okay, just...."

"K.J.," interjected Kim. "Let it go. It's okay."

Starsky grinned up at him, eyes twinkling with affection. "Besides," he said. "Your sister likes me, that's all I care about."

Kim jumped up from the chair and threw her arms around both men. "Sure do like you," she said. "Love both of you. Now come on, guys, make this look good, they're watching!"

Hutch leaned in close to her, and whispered in her ear. "You are the best, Kimmy, you know that?"

She squeezed him tightly. "Of course I am, I had you for a big brother."

"Hutch? Hutch? Hutch? Blondie?!"

Hutch started awake, opening his eyes into the face of his partner, who loomed over him, hand shaking his shoulder gently. "Huh? What?"

Starsky chuckled over his shoulder at Kim. "He wakes up good, doesn't he? You should see him on a stakeout, it's a real treat." He leaned down closer, and gentled his voice. "Hutch, it's after nine, I think we should get going."

"Going," Hutch repeated, uncomprehendingly.

"To the manor," Starsky said. "Kimmy's got an early flight, she still has to finish packing. He patted Hutch's arm. "And I think you've had enough excitement for the day," he added. "Time for bed, little boy."

"Yeah, okay, I'm coming," Hutch said, struggling to wake up and sit up at the same time. "What time is it?" he asked.

"After nine," Starsky repeated. "Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Hutch clawed his way out of the chair, which suddenly seemed to have taken possession of his body. "I hate this chair, Kim," he said, blushing, as he almost landed face first on the rug. "I've always hated this chair, I've just never told you," he added, blushing.

Kim held a bag out to Starsky, as Hutch shrugged into his jacket. "Here's the leftovers from tonight's dinner," she said, "You might as well take them. Oh, and wait a minute...." she waved a finger in the air and disappeared into the dining room for a moment.

She returned, holding out an envelope to Hutch. "Here is the film you promised you'd get developed for me, okay? Jeremy's nursery school Christmas play," she said with a grimace at Starsky, "and I finished out the roll tonight, but they probably won't come out."

Hutch pocketed the film carefully. "Yeah, sure, no problem," he said quickly.

Goodbyes were said quickly and lovingly. The leaving was always hard, for all of them. Hutch ventured upstairs, ostensibly to use the bathroom, but honestly so he could take a last look at his sleeping niece and nephew.

He leaned down and kissed Jeremy softly, then in the baby's room, placed the palm of his hand lightly on the back of her head as she lay sleeping. She stirred, but did not awaken, and he hated that it might be months before he saw her again.

As they walked outside in the frigid December evening, Starsky pushed his partner good-naturedly toward the passenger's seat of Kim's car. "I'll drive, Blintz," he offered. "I know the way."

"Okay," Hutch agreed, slamming the door. "Boy, turn that heat up, it's freezing in here."

The short drive was made in silence, and all too soon the Hutchinson homestead came into view. Nice enough house, Starsky thought, as they ventured up the long driveway, but cold, just really cold, and not from the temperature. The house was impeccably clean and well cared for, nothing out of place, but lacked the lived in and cozy feeling of even Hutch's small apartment back in Los Angeles. But that's the way they like it, Starsky thought, don't touch, don't feel, just...don't.

Both men were too exhausted to engage in meaningful conversation. Starsky carried the bags into the house, dropping them in the kitchen, and then joined Hutch in the barn, as Hutch gave the horses their evening grain and hay. "Tomorrow I'll teach you how to do this," he assured Starsky.

"Oh, good," Starsky grinned, "I was so afraid you'd forget."

Back in the house, Hutch passed his parents' bedroom without so much as a glance, although Starsky was aware of the slight jaw tightening that took place as he strode down the hallway. Starsky automatically turned into the guest room he had occupied on previous visits, dumping his bags on the floor and throwing himself on the bed. He yawned widely. "Boy this feels good," he murmured, "I'm exhausted."

Hutch grinned at him, and walked into his own room, his old room, the room in which he had grown up. It wasn't his room anymore, of course, there were no reminiscent traces of the lonely little boy, or the shy teenager who had lived a lifetime inside these walls.

He sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. It wasn't so much that he expected his parents would have kept the room intact, it was more the...the way they'd done it. Clean. Precise. A surgical excision. The day that Hutch announced he was leaving grad school to join the Los Angeles Police Department was the day he was cut free from the family. It was hard not to be bitter sometimes, and he was, although it was something with which he struggled continuously.

He shook off the memories like cobwebs in an attic, rose from the bed and ventured down the hall to his partner's room. "Starsk, d'you need...." He stopped short in the doorway. His partner, fully clothed, bags still where they'd dropped, was sound asleep, sprawled across the double bed with reckless abandon. His breathing was quiet and deep and peaceful, and a mass of curly hair had tumbled across his forehead, making him look like a child who had taken a sudden nap in the middle of rigorous play.

Hutch shook his head, grinning affectionately at the dark-haired man. "Oh, Starsk," he whispered, "you're too much." He yanked off his partner's boots and, not wishing to wake him by pulling down the covers, looked in the closet for something to cover him with. He reached up for a familiar object, and brought down the comforter that had adorned his grandparents' bed during his growing up years. Holding it close to his face, he inhaled slowly, even now the faint traces of his grandmother's ivory soap and his grandfather's after shave were still there, as if they had become part of the fabric. He inhaled again, feeling more at home than he had since he had arrived.

Hutch shook out the quilt, and draped it gently over his partner, making sure he was warm and well covered. "Sleep tight," he said softly, as he turned out the light and closed the door.

~*~*~*~

"Sleigh bells ring... are you listenin'? In the lane...snow is glistenin'...."

Starsky sat up in bed. "Hutch, what the hell are you doing?"

Hutch appeared in the doorway, grinning. "Who me?" he asked innocently. "A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight...."

"Hutch!" Starsky rubbed his eyes. "Can't a guy sleep around here?" He sat up. "You don't sing Christmas songs, what's wrong?" He gave Hutch a suspicious glare.

"Starsk, it's ten o'clock," Hutch pointed out. "You've been asleep for twelve hours. I've been to town and back already."

Starsky sat up slowly, feet dangling over the edge of the bed. "Why'd you go to town," he asked, yawning again. "We outta milk or something?"

"Nope," Hutch answered, folding his grandmother's quilt and placing it reverently at the foot of the bed. "Needed to pick up a couple of things for today."

"Like what?" Starsky asked suspiciously, standing up and stretching. "What's today?"

"Got a surprise for you," Hutch said, his eyes twinkling merrily. "We're going ice skating!"

"Ice skating!"

"Yup," Hutch said, throwing himself across the foot of the bed. "Ice skating. I checked the pond behind the barn, and it's frozen solid."

Starsky nodded slowly. "Well, Hutch," he said, smugly, that's a real nice idea, you know, but I don't have ice skates."

"You do now," Hutch told him. "Why do you think I went to town?"

"You're kidding, right?" Starsky asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Would I kid about something like that?"

"Hopefully."

"Sorry, bud, but I made breakfast, maybe that'll get you in the mood. Oh, and I went to the bakery too, there's some cinnamon buns down there."

Incredulous, Starsky sank back down on the side of the bed. "I've never gone ice skating in my life," he pointed out. "What if I break something?"

"You won't break anything," Hutch cajoled. "I promise. Besides, what do you mean you've never been ice skating? You grew up in New York. What about Rockefeller Center and all that?"

"Hutch, I lived in Brooklyn," Starsky said darkly. "Woulda been an awful long walk." He shook his head, nearly resigned to the possibly fatal, and almost certainly embarrassing day that lay ahead. A ray of hope passed across his countenance. "Did you say cinnamon buns?" he asked.

~*~*~*~

"That's it, that's it, that's it...." Hutch encouraged, as he skated backwards, pulling his partner along with him. Starsky had a death grip on his arms, and wasn't so much skating, as he was allowing himself to be slid along the slick ice.

"Don't let go...." he murmured shakily. "I'm... don't let go...."

"I've got you," Hutch assured him. "I won't let go. You're doing great."

Hutch tightened his grip on Starsky's elbows, and propelled them another few feet. "That's it...." he said again. "It would be better if you moved your feet a little."

"Huh uh," Starsky said with a slight shake of his head. "It's slippery."

Hutch laughed good-naturedly. "It's supposed to be slippery," he said, "it's ice."

The laugh startled Starsky and he wobbled slightly, but managed to retain his footing. "Don't do that," he warned. "You know I'm a...."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Hutch finished, "You're a virgin in these woods, I know. Starsk, you can't use that excuse every time you do something different. At least make up a new line." Hutch pulled one hand free from Starsky, pushing windblown blond bangs back from his forehead. "Come on," he replaced his hold on Starsky's elbow.

"Can't," Starsky replied, "Can't think when I'm tense."

Hutch dug his skate into the frozen surface of the pond, bringing them to a slow stop. "What is the worst that can happen here?" he asked seriously. "You'll fall?" He reached up and tugged on Starsky's jacket. "You've got so much padding on here you look like the Michelin Tire Man. You'd probably bounce anyhow."

Starsky pressed his lips together in annoyance. "Hey, Hutch, broken leg, broken arm, broken head, a guy can't be too careful. Let's go over to the side, now, huh?"

Hutch tightened his grip again. "No way. Not unless you get there yourself." He started moving again, pulling Starsky along with him.

Surprised to find himself moving once more, Starsky started slightly, and began to lose his balance. Clawing and grabbing at his partner, the two began a slow motion descent until they landed in a tangle of arms and legs on the ice.

Hutch, unable to retain his composure, lay his head back on the frozen pond, convulsed with laughter.

"I don't know what's so damn funny," Starsky glowered at him, trying to pull a leg free from underneath his partner. "I coulda been killed."

Hutch laughed harder, his breath coming in gasps. "Oh, Starsk, you're a piece of work," he wheezed. He sat up, and tried to pull his partner to a similar position, but Starsky's leg slipped out from under him and the two fell back to the ice once more.

Starsky rolled over on his side, propping his head on a hand, elbow resting on the ice. "Think I'll just stay here," he said. "Why don't you go get lunch?"

Hutch grinned and pulled on Starsky's arm, managing to get him into a sitting position, even though Starsky allowed his body to go limp and didn't help at all. "You can't stay here," Hutch informed him, continuing to tug. "It's freezing, you'll get sick, I'll have to spend all of this vacation waiting on you hand and—"

"All right, all right, all right," Starsky interrupted, waving his hands in acquiescence. "Quit bitching, and help me up. Geez!"

Satisfied, Hutch got to his feet easily, and managed to get his partner to a standing position as well. He pointed to the side of the pond. "We're going over there," he said, "Okay?"

Starsky nodded curtly. "Yeah," he said.

"You're gonna get cold if you sit still, though," Hutch cautioned, "So wrap up in my blanket and you can put yours on top of the log pile there."

"Yeah, yeah, fine, whatever, just get me over there."

Hutch grinned at the barely restrained panic in his partner's voice. "Come on," he soothed, and the two began a slow slide to the edge of the ice. "Honest, Starsk, you could do this if you tried."

"I believe you," Starsky said, as Hutch helped him off the ice. He shook out a blanket and arranged it on top of a tree stump. "Take your time," he said generously, "Go skate. I'll watch you and be proud like your mom used to."

Hutch's smile dimmed slightly. "Not my mom," he said, "but Kimmy...we used to skate together a lot. She's pretty good, she plays goalie, so we had a hockey net set up over there," he waved his hand toward one end of the pond, "and we used to shoot pucks every night before dinner."

"You sister plays goalie?" Starsky asked incredulously.

"Of course she does," Hutch said, as if it were a given of life. "Gotta have a goalie. I was a center. She was younger than me. She had no choice."

Starsky raised his eyebrows and nodded, seeing, in his mind's eye, the tall blond teenager streaking up the ice as he chased after a puck. Hutch hadn't mentioned hockey that much, but as Starsky thought about it, it made perfect sense. This was Minnesota, almost everyone learned the game when they were little, or so they always said on between-period interviews when the North Stars played Starsky's own New York Rangers. "Y'ever want to be a hockey player for real?" he asked.

"Nah," Hutch shook his head. "I wasn't that good, and besides," he grinned brilliantly at his partner, "I wanted to keep my teeth." He reached down and picked up a hockey stick he'd brought along. He reached in his pocket and dropped a puck on the ice. "Watch this," he said.

Hutch spun around and took off, his departure spraying up a mist of ice chips, most of which landed on his partner. He handled the puck up and down the pond, skating backward, forward, shooting the puck, then chasing after it.

Starsky watched him in amazement. It was kind of like the horse thing, he thought, who the hell knew Hutch could do that either? It was such a revelation to watch his long legged partner move with such grace, and even style. It wasn't that Hutch wasn't athletic or anything, because he was. It was more like, when he was in situations slightly out of his realm, this shy, clumsy farm boy occasionally took over his body—causing him to trip, and walk into glass doors. As far as Starsky knew, Hutch hadn't strapped on a pair of skates in years.

"Hey, Hutch," he called.

"Yeah," Hutch said, breathlessly, slowing down.

"When's the last time you skated?" he asked.

"Oh, hell, I don't know, it's been years," Hutch said. "Why?"

"Well, you're, you know...pretty good," Starsky said, smiling.

"Nah...."

"It's like the horse thing," Starsky said. "You should do this more often too."

"And where do you suggest that I do that at home?" Hutch said, leaning over, his breath coming in misty clouds. "In Venice? Canals don't ever freeze, Starsk."

"I don't know," Starsky said. "But I'm ready to try again." He got to his feet slowly, and inched his way to the edge of the pond. "Come get me," he said.

"Uh uh," Hutch teased, shaking his head. "You do it."

"Aw, Hutch...." Nevertheless, Starsky put one tentative skate, then the other, on the pond. Although he nearly lost his balance several times, by taking tiny steps he was able to get himself a few feet from the edge.

"Be better if you didn't try to walk," Hutch said gently. "Let yourself slide a little bit."

Starsky pressed his lips together, and inhaled sharply. The curly head went down in concentration, and he shakily pushed off with one foot, allowing himself to glide a few feet. Afraid to move anything but his eyes, he shifted them over to his partner, who had slid along next to him. "How's that?" he asked.

"Not bad at all," Hutch said. "Pretty good, in fact. Do it again, but with a little harder push this time. I'll catch you if you start to fall," he promised.

"Don't do me no favors, y'almost broke my neck the last time," Starsky muttered, although a quick grin belied the harshness of his words. Starsky concentrated hard and pushed off again. After a few minutes he was able to glide, albeit slowly, the length of the pond and back. He came to a stop in front of his partner. "Hey," he told Hutch. "I'm terrific."

Hutch snorted and tried not to smile. "Not bad," he said, "Not bad." He handed Starsky a hockey stick. "Come on," he said, "let's rag the puck a little."

To Starsky the stick handling was not all that difficult, and as he continued to skate, his form improved ever so slightly, bit by bit. Within an hour, they were skating side by side up and down the ice, passing the puck back and forth, and trading friendly insults with each slap of the stick.

Finally, tired and winded, they sat on tree stumps, wrapped up in the blankets they had brought, and shared coffee and sandwiches from the basket and thermos Hutch had packed.

Starsky swallowed the last of his sandwich. "What else ya got in there?" he asked, pulling the basket closer. "Aw, hey, Hutch, just fruit? Come on!"

Hutch took a bite of his own sandwich, and with one hand picked up a corner of the dishtowel that lay underneath the assortment of apples and bananas he had packed. Wordlessly he pulled out a bag of chocolate chip cookies and handed them to his partner, raising one eyebrow at Starsky's delighted expression.

"Terrific!" Starsky said, excitedly ripping open the bag. "You're a pal, Hutch." He pushed half a cookie in his mouth, and washed it down with coffee. He glanced at his watch. "Hey, it's three thirty already," he said in surprise.

"Yeah, I guess," Hutch said, looking to the west where the sun was already beginning its descent. "Be dark in another hour."

"Can't believe the day went so fast," Starsky said, leaning back against the tree stump. "And I hate to admit it, but I had fun."

Hutch smiled over at him, relaxing against his own wooden seat. "Me too," he sighed in contentment. "I thought I'd never...all this...." he waved a hand around vaguely, "I'm glad you came with me," he said finally.

Starsky grinned. "Like I was gonna stay home and have Christmas with the Dobeys?" he asked. "Sorry, Blintz, you're stuck with me." He pulled the zipper of his jacket up across his chest.

"Cold?"

"Yeah, a little," Starsky admitted, "getting there, anyhow. Sweat's drying...."

"The wind is picking up too," Hutch noted. "I hope it doesn't pick up too much, I thought maybe we could go riding tomorrow."

Starsky nodded, his plans for a morning of reading by the fire unfulfilled. "Okay, just make sure I get the slow one, all right?"

"They're both slow," Hutch assured him. "I thought maybe we'd ride up that path, up that way," he indicated the direction with a nod, "there are a lot of trails by the lake."

"Horses don't skate, do they?" Starsky teased.

"Not yet," Hutch said, "because the lake's huge. It won't be frozen all the way yet, just the top. They'd bust right through it." He sighed contentedly. "Don't take horses on ice anyhow, it's too dangerous for them." Despite his best efforts, he yawned widely, and Starsky couldn't help but smile at him.

"Ready for your nap?" he asked.

"Nah." Hutch yawned again. "Tired from dragging you all over the ice is all. Want to head up to the house?"

~*~*~*~

Hutch puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up the remains of the light dinner he and Starsky had just finished. As they had eaten lunch so late, neither one was ravenous, so they'd made do with heating up the leftovers Kim had sent along with them the night before. The leftovers were decidedly less in quantity than Hutch had remembered—until Starsky admitted having eaten some of them the night before, munching in the car on the short drive over while Hutch had dozed against the vehicle's window.

"Well, come on, Hutch," Starsky had said when confronted. "Your parents don't exactly lay out the welcome mat for us when we visit. I figured we'd be looking at an empty refrigerator, and a pretty bare cupboard. You don't want a guy to starve, do ya?"

Hutch had given him the expected hard time, although he was forced to agree with Starsky's assessment of the potential supply of sustenance. Unlike Starsky's mom, who laid in groceries by the truckload when her son and his partner were due to arrive, his own parents had apparently not bothered to grocery shop at all before their departure. There were the usual stock items, juice, milk, bread, soup, but it was clear they had removed anything that might have spoiled during their time away, and the freezer was fairly bare.

Hutch realized that this was par for the course anyway, mostly they ate out, at the Country Club, or with clients or friends. Home was not a cozy family dinner type of establishment, indeed it was more of a stopover between engagements.

He felt comfortable and warm and contented now, he was wearing flannel pajamas and his bathrobe, loosely tied, as he did the few dishes, and absently fiddled with the dial on the radio. A hot bath for both he and Starsky, each in one of the many Hutchinson Family Guest Bathrooms, had chased away the chill of the pond and the biting wind. He found himself humming along with the radio...then stopped, realizing that he didn't believe he had ever previously hummed in this kitchen...although he had lived in the house for almost all of his childhood. Suddenly he realized what the difference was. His parents weren't there.

"Hey, Starsk," he called cheerfully through the doorway. "You want some more wine?"

Starsky looked up from his book. "Yeah, sure, thanks," he said, untangling his legs from underneath him.

"Don't get up," Hutch urged, "I'll bring the bottle in."

Starsky settled back into the chair and turned a page of his book absently. He also wore pajamas and a bathrobe, and was warm and toasty, particularly since he had pulled the recliner chair a few feet closer to the fireplace. Something about the scene wasn't right, he thought, and he played it over in his mind. He looks happy, he thought, the picture of his partner in the doorway coming into his mind. And I've never seen him look happy here before. Realization dawned, and he grinned.

Well, the senior Hutchinsons were nowhere in the vicinity, that had to be it. Starsky looked around the room, and despite the lack of comfortable touches—like the ever present afghans he and Hutch kept on their own respective couches, the place itself wasn't so bad. It didn't seem nearly as chilly and devoid of feeling as he remembered it from previous visits, and it dawned on him that it wasn't the house at all...it was the usual occupants who dropped the temperature in every room by ten degrees. Damn, he thought, that's so weird.

"Here you go," Hutch offered, filling up Starsky's wine glass. Hutch set the bottle down on the end table, making sure there was a coaster underneath it. Then, clutching his own glass carefully, he flopped down on the sofa. A furtive glance around him assured him that there were no disapproving elders in evidence, and with a salacious grin he pulled his feet up on the elegant and expensive Hutchinson sectional. "Feel evil," he said. "I like it."

"Hey, go for it, Blintz," Starsky encouraged him. "They'll never know."

Hutch took a sip of wine. "Oh, sure they will," he said affably. "Wherever they are right now, the hair on the back of my father's neck is standing up. "Melinda, his feet are on the furniture," he said, in a perfect imitation of his father's haughty tone.

Starsky laughed, nearly spilling the wine in his glass. He looked around. "It's not a bad house when it's just you and me, is it?" he asked. "Missing something, though."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed. "Missing food. Sounds like we're gonna have a couple of storms the next few days. A tune up tomorrow, and a whopper on its heels, that might start the next day, or the day after that. We'd better stock up or you'll starve to death."

"Where'd you hear that?" Starsky asked.

"Radio. Oh, and we'd better hit the feed store too, just in case," Hutch added.

"Okay, we can do that in the morning, huh? When's the first one supposed to start?"

"Not till late tomorrow afternoon or early tomorrow evening," Hutch said, arranging himself more comfortably on the couch. "We can do that in the morning, and go for our ride in the afternoon, that okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Starsky said. "Oh, and one other thing...."

"What's that?"

"We need a Christmas tree."

"A Chr—Starsk...." Hutch shook his head. "Well, there's a real nice artificial one up in the attic, I'll find it for you if you want."

Starsky looked pained. "A fake tree? What are you, nuts? Gotta be a real tree." He drank some more wine. "I'm surprised at you, Nature Boy. Artificial tree, sheesh."

"Can't do a real one, Starsk," Hutch informed him. "They drop needles in the carpeting, they get sap on the walls, they're just messy and inconvenient, and it simply wouldn't do."

"Can we chop it down ourselves?" asked Starsky hopefully.

"Absolutely," Hutch said, as he drained his glass. He picked up the wine bottle and held it aloft. "More?" he asked with a devilish grin.

~*~*~*~

Hutch rounded the bakery aisle, and spotted his partner about halfway down. Starsky held identical loaves of bread, one in each hand, and he was gazing at them intently.

"What the hell are you doing?" Hutch hissed, coming up behind them.

"Huh? Uh...." Starsky frowned. "Jesus, Hutch, y'almost made me squish the bread." He looked down at the two loaves again, holding up first one, then the other. Then he looked up at Hutch, and tossed both loaves in the shopping cart.

"Starsky?" Hutch looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"I was checkin' for freshness," Starsky said defensively, "but then I figured, if we get as much snow as they say we're goin' to get, I'd better buy both of ‘em anyway."

"Okay," Hutch said. He looked down into the shopping cart, which was filled to the brim, overflowing, in fact. At quick glance he was able to identify two bags of chips, some candy canes, two chocolate bars, and several six packs of soda. "Do you only have junk food in there?" he asked.

"No," Starsky said, "You didn't look down far enough. I've got stuff for spaghetti, coupla roasts, chicken, steaks, hamburger, stuff to make soup with, lotta vegetables, because I know you like them, some fruit, you know, uh, flour, sugar, butter, milk, eggs...lotsa junk. Oh, and a turkey."

"You're the turkey," muttered Hutch. "Flour? Sugar? How long do you think we're going to be stuck there," Hutch asked him. "Like, forever?"

"No, not at all," Starsky replied, beginning to move the cart down the aisle. "But, you know, if it's over Christmas, and all, and we can't get out again...wanted to make sure we had good stuff to make."

"Yeah, but Starsk, flour and sugar?"

"Well," Starsky drawled, "you never know, I might wanna make cookies or somethin'."

Hutch rubbed his forehead tiredly, as if to stay the beginnings of a headache. "Starsky, in all the years I've known you, I've never seen you ‘wanna make cookies,'" the last three words echoing Starsky's intonation.

"Well, yeah, I know," Starsky admitted uncomfortably, "but it's Christmastime, it's gonna snow, isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

Hutch threw up his hands. "Oh, I give up. Can we afford all this?"

"Sure. I've been adding it up."

"I dropped you off here an hour ago," Hutch reminded him, "so anyway, how come you're only halfway through the store?"

"Oh, I, uh," Starsky smiled beatifically. "It's Christmas time, Blintz, I had to do a couple of other things before I came in here." He poked Hutch in the arm warningly. "It's Christmas, Blintz," he repeated. "So don't ask questions."

"Okay, okay," Hutch shook his head, resigned. He looked away, then, hiding a small smile as he thought how clever he'd been, offering to pick up the horse feed alone, when in actuality he'd done that and hit a few extra stores himself. "What can I do to help?"

"Well...." Starsky turned his list upside down so he could read something he'd scribbled along the edge. "Why don't you think of a couple of things you'd like to have, and get the stuff to make ‘em."

"Sounds good," Hutch agreed, "but I guess I'll need another cart. Do we need anything else for the house, you know, shampoo, razors, aspirin, anything like that?"

"Got ‘em, yours and mine both," Starsky assured him.

"All right," Hutch agreed affably. He loped off down the aisle, and headed for the produce section. "Bet there's not a single vegetable in that cart except frozen French fries," he said to himself, smiling, and he quickly gathered up makings for salad, and a few other vegetarian dishes he'd been meaning to try.

It didn't take him long, and he soon met up with Starsky who had not moved past the bakery aisle. "What're you doing?" Hutch asked him. "You've got bread."

"Huh?" Starsky blinked up at him, "Oh, I know, I know, just...thinkin'...."

"About what?" Hutch asked, concerned. "You feeling okay?"

"Sure."

"Then what?"

"Oh...." Starsky gestured vaguely. "My mom used to make this really cool bread stuffing for the turkey, I was tryin' to remember what she put in it, and...."

"Feeling a little homesick?" Hutch asked gently.

"Well...no, I...well, y'know, yeah...." Starsky shrugged his shoulders. "S'dumb, I know, I haven't spent the holidays there in...years...."

"True," Hutch agreed, patting his shoulder. "But usually we're in L.A., and the last couple of years we've worked. So we're here, it's cold and snowy, we're not on a case...I think it's perfectly understandable."

Starsky nodded. "I guess. And I keep thinking about everything that happened a few weeks ago," he said, softly. "How it coulda turned out, how I coulda been...." He shook his head to clear it and smiled sadly at his partner. "You'll never know, Hutch, what that was like. Knowing it was happening, watching it happen, not being able to do a damn thing about it, not being able to...."

"Hey," Hutch shook his shoulder. "I do know, or at least I think I do, honest. You've put me through a few scares in your time too, you know. But it's...." He stood against the shelves to allow a large woman, her four children, and two shopping carts to pass. The woman looked at him accusingly, and he smiled benevolently.

"Merry Christmas, ma'am," he said with a polite nod. After she passed, he turned back to Starsky. "It's over, pal, nothing like that is going to happen again. I promise." He grinned crookedly at his partner. "Just for your information, it was no picnic on my side of the glass either."

Starsky released the pent up breath he was not aware he had been holding. "Aw, Hutch, I know, that's why I felt stupid tellin' ya, I know that what was goin' on in my head was nothin' compared to...."

"That's not what I meant," Hutch interrupted him. "I was joking. What you went through was every bit as awful as me...or maybe more, because I was so out of it half the time."

"Yeah," Starsky agreed vaguely. "D'you ever, I mean, I'm thinkin' back here, in all the Christmases we've spent together, either at work, or at your place, or my place, you never mention...like, d'you...?"

"What?" Hutch asked, his voice clipped and guarded. "Feel nostalgic for a good old Christmas at home?"

Starsky nodded.

"Nope," he said shortly. "Never." He looked away for a moment, then looked back at Starsky, smiling, although the smile was tight and didn't extend to his eyes. "We about ready to check out here?" he asked in a jovial voice that Starsky knew was fabricated.

The woman and her children headed past them down the aisle again, this time the woman gave them a condescending stare as she passed.

Starsky beamed at her. "Merry Christmas again, ma'am," he purred. He looked back at Hutch. "Let's get outta here and go get a tree," he urged.

"Right behind you," Hutch agreed.

~*~*~*~

"Boy, it's flurrying," Starsky said, looking up at the sky. "Think it's startin' early?" When he looked back down a few stray snowflakes remained on his hair and cheek. He brushed them away with a gloved hand.

Hutch glanced at the sky. "I don't think so, Starsk, the clouds aren't thick enough yet. I think it's just random flaking. I hope so, don't want to miss out on our ride, who knows when we'll be able to clear a path after today." He looked around at the rows of Christmas trees that surrounded them. "See anything you like? He asked.

"Kinda like that one," Starsky said, pointing to a medium sized Douglas Fir. "It's got a nice shape and all."

Hutch went to stand next to the tree, which was not quite as tall as he. "It's nice," he said.

"But...."

"But...if we're gonna piss off my dad, we should get the biggest goddamned tree on the lot, you know?"

"Hutch," Starsky said, grinning, "Hutch, I'm so proud of you, I've taught you so well," he said. "Sweet revenge...it's the best medicine there is."

"You may be right," Hutch mused. "We're looking in the wrong place though. Let's find the extra sap section, and pick one out there."

Starsky laughed, then moved over to a taller, wider tree, with a perfect shape, that stood about eight feet tall. "How about this one?" he asked.

Hutch stood back, arms crossed over his chest, nodding as he appraised the evergreen. "I like it," he said. He moved to different angles, checking the tree out from all sides. "It's tall, it's full, got a good shape," he moved over and pinched the needles between his fingers. "Looks healthy," he said. Smiling at his partner, he added, "Final test...." and buried his nose in the branches and inhaled deeply. He looked up, pleased. "Mmmm...Smells great. This is the one."

Starsky leaned over to sniff at the tree. "Ouch!" he yelped as a needle caught him in the forehead. Rubbing the puncture, he glanced back at Hutch, as he held the saw aloft. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Hutch pronounced, reaching out to tousle Starsky's hair. "I'll hold it, you saw."

~*~*~*~

"Starsk?" Hutch called, pouring cocoa from the hot pan into the thermos he held tight on the counter. "You almost ready to go?" He lay the empty pot in the dishpan, and screwed the lid on the insulated carrier tight, giving it a shake then, to make sure it was well mixed. He carefully slid the thermos in one side of his saddlebag, and buckled the flap down tight, thinking to surprise his partner somewhere along the trail with a hot drink.

He checked the other side of the saddlebag, trying to remember if he had forgotten anything important. He'd packed his camera, extra film, and a couple of Styrofoam cups. At the last minute he'd added a wad of tissues, because sure as shit either the dust puffing up from the shaggy coated horses, or the frigid, biting air, were bound to make his nose run. He strapped that side down securely, and set the saddlebags down on the chair by the door. "Starsk?" he called again.

"I'm ready," Starsky said, clattering into the kitchen. He wore jeans and boots, and a few layered shirts. "Hope my jacket zips over this," he said smiling ruefully. He patted his stomach. "Too many leftovers."

Hutch grinned at him. "Know what you mean," he said, indicating his own midsection, although both of them knew that Hutch had not yet regained the weight he had lost while he was ill. He held out his shirttails, I've got a t-shirt, a pullover thing, and this on top," he tugged on the flap of an insulated flannel hunting shirt. "We ought to stay warm for a while anyhow. Got your gloves?"

Starsky peered out the window. "It's not snowing yet, is it?" he asked, casually, all the while thinking of the high calorie dinner he would prepare on their return. He looks like a good wind would blow him away, he thought, glancing back at his partner.

"Not yet, but the wind's picking up," Hutch offered.

"Terrific," Starsky said. "Hey, I'll make dinner tonight. How about linguine?"

Hutch considered for a moment. "Well, that depends. Clam sauce?"

"Whatever you want," Starsky said. "You're way too thin, Blintz," he said, tugging his partner's shirt. "Ya gotta eat some good stuff, build yourself back up."

Hutch shrugged. "I guess, sure, whatever." He puffed out his chest. "I thought I was looking lithe and agile these days," he said, defensively.

"Hutch, if my mom saw you now, she'd have an apoplectic fit," Starsky said firmly. "And she'd be pissed at me and say it was all my fault."

"Aw, come on, Starsk, I only lost a couple of pounds, don't over dramatize."

"Yeah, but you didn't have much extra to play with, you know?" Starsky said. He reached up into the cabinet, pulled something down, and popped it into Hutch's mouth. "Here," he said, "have a cookie."

Startled, Hutch nearly choked, and sprayed his partner liberally with a light layer of crumbs. He chewed what was in his mouth, and brushed at Starsky's shoulder. "Oops," he said. "Sorry." He grinned. "That's what you get, though."

Starsky reached into the cabinet and grabbed a cookie for himself. He poked it in his own mouth, and held another one out to Hutch. "Have another one."

"Starsky...."

"Eat it."

Hutch accepted the cookie with a roll of his eyes. "Yes, mother," he said, not letting on that for some reason, it tasted awfully good. "Evil sugar," he said, with a shake of his head as he swallowed. "Processed flour. Bleh."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "You want one more for the road?"

"Damn right I do," Hutch said, digging into the package and pulling back a handful. "Maybe three or four." He headed toward the door. "You coming, or what?" he asked over his shoulder.

Although Starsky admittedly didn't feel the same kinship with the Hutchinson horses as he had with his Striped Tomato in Malibu the previous week, he had been finding it rather pleasant to engage in the normal barn chores with his partner during the last two days.

The horses, both large bays, seemed friendly enough, and acted as if they enjoyed the attention when the men brushed them, and began to tack them up for the ride. "You need any help with that?" Hutch asked, peering around his horse's rump to see Starsky working with the cinch on his own saddle.

"Nope, I think I've got it," Starsky said, giving the horse a pat, and moving over between the two horses. "You better check it before I get on though. Now which one's Sam and which one's Ben?" he asked. "I can't tell when they're outta their stalls and there's no name tags."

Hutch patted his own horse. "This one's Big Ben," he offered. "Who is still filthy, despite the fact that I've been brushing him for fifteen minutes."

Starsky patted Ben on the rump enthusiastically, a cloud of dust well embedded in the shaggy winter coat rising up to envelop them both.

Hutch stood still for a moment, then doubled over in a loud sneeze as his allergies were put on alert by the visible burst of fine particles.

"Gesundheit," his partner offered, guilelessly.

"Damn it, Starsk," Hutch growled, straightening up.

"Oops, sorry," said Starsky, although he clearly wasn't. He hid a smirk and went back to his own horse, fiddling with the saddle that was already in place, as Hutch wiped his eyes and glared at him.

"Maybe you're gett'n to be allergic to horses," Starsky commented, scratching Sam between the ears.

"You know damn well what I'm allergic to," Hutch snapped with a sniffle. "Not horses."

"Well, okay, let's see, flowers, fuzzy dashboards...oh, yeah...dust...."

Hutch sneezed again. "Shit. Damn it."

"Oh, come on, you'll be fine when we get outside," Starsky soothed, unobtrusively crossing his fingers, and hoping he was right.

Fortunately, within moments of leading the horses into the barnyard, Hutch's eyes weren't watering any more, and his head had cleared. "Lucky for you," he muttered as he came over to hold Sam while Starsky got up.

Starsky swung into the saddle and sat still for a moment, getting his bearings. "He's bigger than the Tomato," he pointed out, patting the horse on the neck. "Aren't ya, Sam?"

"He's a good boy," Hutch said, stroking the horse's velvety nose. "He'll take good care of you." He glanced up at Starsky. "Not that you deserve it or anything."

Starsky grinned down at him. "Don't be a grouch, Blondie. Hey, are these stirrups right, they don't feel even."

Hutch looked from side to side appraisingly. "Which one feels better?" he asked.

"This one," Starsky indicated his left leg. "Th'other one's too short."

"I can fix that," Hutch said, pulling Starsky's foot from the stirrup. He adjusted the buckle, moved to the front of the horse to check for evenness, then came back and guided his partner's foot into the center. "Now stand up," he instructed, and put your weight in your heels. Feel better now?"

Starsky did as he was told, then sat back down. "Yeah, that's good," he approved. "Go get Ben."

Hutch released Ben from the cross ties and let him out to the barnyard. He put one foot in the stirrup on the left side, and swung into the saddle with ease, not missing a beat as the horse began to strut and prance. He talked softly to him, and stroked his neck, all the time securing his seat and not losing control of the reins.

"Why's he doin' that?" Starsky asked.

"Hm? The wind," Hutch said, "they're not crazy about the wind."

"You think we should do this some other time?" Starsky asked. Although Sam stood still, practically yawning with boredom, the sight of his partner perched on the still prancing mount made him nervous.

"Nah, we're fine," Hutch said calmly. He continued soothing the horse with his voice and his touch, and soon the big bay began to respond, settling down, and collecting himself. "Out that gate there," Hutch said, pointing toward the north end of the barnyard, "Okay? I'll go first." The two rode out silently, single file, through the gate, around the barn, and through a narrow woodsy path, until they finally came to a dirt road that ran alongside the huge lake. The afternoon sunlight was thin, indicative of the snow that was moving in from the west, an occasional flurry dotting the horses' backs as they moved along the road.

Starsky brought his mount alongside Hutch and Ben, and the two rode side by side, taking in the beauties of the outdoors and the afternoon. Hutch glanced over at his partner, who seemed to be holding his own as he kept a relaxed but brisk walk. He looked past him, taking in the sparkling beauty of the lake, so big it looked like an ocean, its surface covered with a thin sheen of ice that looked as delicate and lovely as the individual snowflakes that fell intermittently from the sky. He took a deep breath and sighed contentedly.

How he had missed this, he thought, just like last week, hopping into the saddle seemed as natural to him as breathing. There was something about the steamy breath expelled by the horses as they took in the icy air, the solid feeling of warmth and power beneath him, that made him feel at one with the creature he rode.

"You doin' okay?" he asked Starsky, breaking from his reverie.

"Pretty good, yeah," replied the dark-haired detective, flashing him a grin. "Feels a lot better than it did last week."

"Want to try a canter?" Hutch asked.

"Sure," Starsky said, looking over at him. "How do I do that?"

"Well, you want to have good contact on your reins," Hutch said, "and keep your legs tight. You're gonna give him a little kick, but really," he shortened his own reins slightly in anticipation, "once Ben and I are going, Sam will just do the same, he's a follower." Hutch held up a finger. "But if you want to stop, you know how to...."

"Sit tight, pull back on the reins a little bit and say ‘whoa,'" Starsky said, "I remember."

Hutch held his hands down low over the horse's withers, and nudged Ben's sides with his heels. "Canter, Ben," he said quietly, and the big horse lurched into an easy lope. He looked behind him to see Starsky follow suit, and soon the two of them were clattering up the dirt road, in tandem, matching stride for stride, the horses' hooves striking solid, even beats against the ground. The road ran right along the water's edge, and it was obvious to Hutch that Starsky's grin matched the sparkle of the glittering water they rode beside.

"Y'okay?" Hutch called.

"Doin' good," Starsky called back. "This feels great.helluva lot easier... than trot...."

Hutch laughed happily. ‘That's for sure," he called back.

Suddenly, a flock of birds flew out from a clump of trees and brush, directly to Hutch's left. The birds, frightened by the approaching horses, scattered in front of them, and flew away as quickly as they had appeared, flapping their tiny wings madly. Ben reared up on his hind legs, and Sam followed suit, catching their riders unaware, and unprepared. Through years of experience, Hutch was able to maintain his seat with little difficulty, but a quick glance to his right told him that his partner was in trouble.

Starsky clutched at Sam's mane, and the saddle, all the while, the trajectory of the horse's leap and sidestep, leaning him precariously off the horse's right side. He grabbed on tight to the horse's neck, even as he was sliding down to the side, dangling. At precisely this inopportune moment, the edge of a flailing hoof, sharpened by its iron shoe, caught him full in the forehead. Stunned, he lost his grip, and tumbled down the bank.

Hutch watched in horror as Starsky let go, almost as if he'd been shot. "Starsk!" he yelled, as a millisecond turned into the longest fall he had ever seen. Starsky crashed down the bank, and through the thin layer of ice that covered the lake, all but disappearing under the murky water. "Jesus!" Hutch whispered, in a voice that was somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

He launched himself from Ben's back, and as the two horses stood together, trembling in fear, he raced down the bank and plunged into the water himself, his only thought being the need to get his partner to safety. Truthfully, at this part of the lake, the water was not that deep, only just above his waist, but as he'd thrown himself at the spot where Starsky had disappeared, he'd plunged all the way under the water as well. Blasting through the surface, shaking his head, the shock of the cold water worse than knives invading his skin, he shook wet hair from his eyes, and grabbed his partner's arm as Starsky was struggling ineffectually to stand.

"Come on, come on, I've got you," Hutch said, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering uncontrollably. A quick look at Starsky's face, blood pouring down from the cut, eyes a little unfocused, told him that Starsky was not quite with him. Hutch quickly wrapped an arm around Starsky's chest from behind and began dragging him to the bank. The rocks were slick with forming ice, and Hutch lost his balance more than once, both he and Starsky dunking under the water each time, the effort to bring them back to the inclined bank seeming an insurmountable effort, even though it was only a few yards away.

Finally, devoid of breath, Hutch summoned a Herculean effort, and hauled Starsky up onto the shore, scrambling up beside him, both of them dripping rivers of water which ran back down the bank into the lake.

Starsky tried to sit up, rivulets of blood pouring down his right cheek. "Hu...." He gasped weakly. "Wha...."

Hutch looked at him in horror. Keeping his voice calm, he tilted Starsky's chin to look in his eyes. "It's okay, Starsk, you're okay," he murmured, looking into Starsky's eyes as if to assess the damage. He rubbed away some of the blood with his thumb, wiping it on his pants, so he could get a better look at its source. "That's a pretty good cut," he said, through chattering teeth, "you're gonna need stitches, you're still beautiful, it won't scar, don't worry, just gonna take you to the E.R., get you warmed up."

Starsky gazed at him through half lidded eyes. "Don't feel good," he mumbled, "...be sick...."

"Okay, okay, I know," Hutch soothed, as he immediately helped Starsky onto his hands and knees, holding him tightly from behind as he threw up over and over. With one hand he rubbed Starsky's back, squeezing a shoulder, and rubbing lightly again, until the spasm and heaves subsided. Pulling Starsky away, then, he settled him in a sitting position, Starsky's head resting on his knees.

Hutch leaned down and spoke softly. "Feel better? You okay?"

"No...and no...." Starsky's voice was muffled. "Cold...." and he began to shiver uncontrollably from both the icy plunge and the aftermath of being sick.

"Gotta...gotta blanket on the saddle," Hutch whispered, "don't go away." He lurched himself to a standing position and quickly retrieved the blanket and the saddlebag from Ben's back. The horses, quiet now, stood still, watching, waiting.

Hutch shook out the blanket and wrapped it around his partner, who clutched at it as if it were a lifeline. He was shaking so hard he couldn't speak, couldn't even muster the strength to wipe another trickle of blood that was running down his face. Hutch ripped open the saddlebag and retrieved the wad of tissues he had packed earlier.

Taking half of it, he folded it carefully, held it against the cut on Starsky's forehead, then lifted Starsky's own hand to hold it in place. "Keep that there," he instructed firmly, squeezing Starsky's other hand a bit to let him know that he was aware of how much effort this required.

His own hands shaking from the cold, he clumsily opened the thermos, pouring half a cupful of hot chocolate. "Starsk?" he said quietly, bringing the cup to his partner's lips. "Gotta drink a little for me, it's hot, warm you up...."

Starsky managed to get down a few sips before growing pale again, and he pushed Hutch's hand away. "Can't...."

"Okay," Hutch crooned, "okay...." he set the cup aside and wrapped strong arms around Starsky, rubbing his hands up and down Starsky's arms briskly in an effort to lessen the shuddering chills. He wrapped the blanket tighter and held onto his partner for a few more moments, trying to fight down his own shivers, and think, think, how to get Starsky back home.

"M'all right," Starsky mumbled into his chest. "M'okay...."

"Sure you are," Hutch agreed, "you're gonna be fine, but...." He pushed Starsky back to arm's length. "We've got to get you home, and it's a long walk."

"Aw, Hutch...." Starsky slurred, "You really know how to cheer a guy up,"

"You keep saying that," Hutch replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "and I keep tellin' you I do my best...but this is serious, buddy, we've got to get you back on the horse."

"Are you nuts?" Starsky blinked at him, and shivered hard again. "Can't...."

"You can, and you have to," Hutch said. "With me, it'll be okay." He pulled Starsky close again, his voice almost a whisper. "Can't carry you, Starss, it's too far...."

"Shit...."

Somehow, mustering every reserve of strength that was inside him, Hutch was able to get Starsky standing. Starsky came through in the clutch, holding onto Sam's saddle while Hutch boosted him up, and managing to hang on when Hutch climbed up behind him.

Hutch wrapped one strong arm around his partner, holding him firmly in place, and held his reins in the other hand. Entwined in the fingers of the arm that was wrapped around the brunet, he kept a grip on Ben's reins as well, leading him back as horses and riders made slow progression back to the house.

Once in the barnyard, Hutch slid off, then eased his partner slowly down from the back of the large bay animal. Both of them were shivering uncontrollably now, from the icy water, the cold and biting wind, and from abject shock and fear. Hutch sat Starsky down on a hay bale while he untacked the horses, which took only seconds. He secured them in their stalls, and reached over to help his partner up. "Last mile, buddy," he urged, "back to the house, we'll get you warm, come on...."

Although it seemed to take forever, Hutch managed to get Starsky into the house, and upstairs to the master bathroom, the largest one in the dwelling. Sitting him on the edge of the tub, he began stripping away Starsky's heavy, wet clothing, despite Starsky's feeble attempts to help him, which mostly just got in his way.

He had Starsky shirtless, and had pulled off his boots, when Starsky suddenly said, "M'sorry, Hutch...." and lurched himself toward the toilet, where he was sick again.

When there was nothing left, he knelt there weakly, only remaining upright because of Hutch's strong arms, which kept him from falling. "Drank...drank half the lake...." he wheezed. "M'sorry...."

Hutch closed his eyes, hoping to heaven that the nausea was from swallowing lake water, and not a symptom of a serious head injury. "It's okay," he said, gently guiding Starsky to a sitting position on the floor. He took a washcloth, soaked it in warm water, and wiped his partner's face, then folded it in half, and tried to soothe away a bit of the dried blood on Starsky's cheek.

He leaned over and began filling up the bathtub with hot water, then returned to his task, pushing aside tangled wet curls until he could see the laceration splayed open beneath them.

"How'd I look?" Starsky asked, closing his eyes.

A quick grin, "Oh, you look terrific," Hutch assured him.

Starsky gave him a half smile, and the expected response. "I bet I do," he said. Another spasm of shivers overtook him, and Hutch tugged on his arm.

"Come on," he urged, "Let's get you cleaned up and warm."

Starsky pulled off his soaked jeans and socks, and Hutch held his arm as he climbed into the hot water that filled the tub.

"You can't stay there," Hutch said, his own voice shaky. "I just don't want to be embarrassed when I take you to the hospital, you're filthy."

"A'right," Starsky agreed, splashing ineffectually at his face.

"I'll help you in a sec," Hutch promised, gathering up Starsky's filthy, soaked clothing, and tossing it down the laundry chute. "How do you feel?" he asked, glancing back.

"Um...sleepy...n'cold...."

Hutch leaned down and grabbed the shampoo from the side of the tub. "Need to wash your hair, Starsk," he said gently, "it's full of leaves and lake crud, and I don't want the cut to get infected because of it, all right?"

Starsky closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. "I don't have to move, though, right?" he asked.

"Nope, stay right where you are," Hutch assured him, kneeling down next to the tub. He tilted Starsky's chin back with a finger. "Close your eyes," he said, "that's it...." He wet Starsky's hair with a glass he'd brought over from the sink, making sure that he pushed his hair back so it didn't touch the still bleeding laceration.

Squirting a tiny bit of shampoo into the palm of his hand, he fingered it through Starsky's dripping curls, massaging gently for a few moments. "Just gonna rinse and we're done, all right?"

"Okay...." Starsky said, never opening his eyes.

Hutch ran glass after glass of clean, warm water through his partner's hair until all the soap was out. He did not attempt any more than that, figuring that the hot water running over his back and chest was as much as he could take, and had likely warmed him up some, anyway. Reaching behind for a large, clean towel, he helped Starsky to stand, wrapping the towel around him securely. "Can you get dry?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"You know what, Starsk? Sit. I need to get you clean clothes, and I don't want you to fall."

Starsky sat heavily on the side of the tub, moaning as the move jolted his head and sent slivers of pain shooting in every direction. "Oh boy...." he muttered.

Hutch handed him the pile of clean clothes he'd swiftly procured. "Need some help?" he asked.

"Uh uh, I can do it...." Starsky pulled on his clothing slowly and painfully, but when it came time to button his shirt, found that his fingers did not wish to work, they were cold and clumsy, and after a few fumbles Hutch stepped in and buttoned them efficiently, though his own fingers were stiff with chill.

"There you go," his tone matter of fact. "Come on, hospital time," and he began to pull Starsky toward the stairs. Starsky leaned on him heavily, and was out of breath and pale by the time they reached the kitchen door.

"Blintz...."

"Yeah, Starsk, what is it?"

"You're wet, go change, gonna get sick...."

Hutch looked down at himself, surprised to see that he was still wearing the same wet jeans and shirts he'd had on when he'd crashed into the lake after his partner. His jacket was gone, although he did not remember taking it off. His one thought was to get Starsky someplace for treatment, and he shrugged.

"Doesn't matter," he said, "Come on, I'll change later...."

"Change now," Starsky said, with as much force as he could manage. "Don't be stupid. Just gett'n over...and Judith said...." He closed his eyes and bit his lip, the nausea threatening to return.

Hutch pushed him down into a chair, realizing both that Starsky was right, and that the calmer he could keep his injured partner, the better. Hutch pressed a gauze pad he held against the brunet's forehead. "Okay, I'll change," he acquiesced, "but you've got to hold this for me. Feel sick?"

"Not right now," Starsky said, eyes closing again.

"Okay," Hutch squeezed his shoulder. "Be right back."

Hutch took the steps two at a time and stood in the middle of his room, not being able to remember for a minute, what he was looking for. "Jesus, Hutchinson," he thought, in irritation, "you're great in a crisis."

Funny, he was so cold, he wasn't even cold anymore, more numb than anything. He peeled off his soaked clothing and grabbed clean jeans and a sweater from the drawer. The soft dry clothing felt wonderful against his chilled skin, and he stood still for a minute, pressing his fingers under opposite arms to warm them.

He pulled on a thick pair of socks, and dry sneakers, and grabbing a blanket from the top of the closet, raced down the steps to the kitchen. He stopped short at the doorway, as he was hit with an uncomfortable bout of shivers, both from having worn the wet clothing for so long, and from the sight of his partner. Head down, gamely pressing the gauze against his forehead, Starsky looked miserable and sick, and Hutch's heart felt ill thinking it was his fault for pushing Starsky into an equestrian pace for which he had not been ready.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning down next to Starsky. "You ready to go?"

Starsky gave a nearly imperceptible nod. "'M ready, 'm okay..."

Hutch squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, and began to unfold the blanket, wrapping it around Starsky's shoulders securely.

"'S that for?"

"Your coat is wet," Hutch explained patiently. "Remember? The lake?"

"Oh yeah...what about yours?"

"Starsk, I'm working on pure adrenalin here," Hutch said with a short laugh. "I'm sweating, see?" He held up his bangs so Starsky could see the dots of perspiration on his forehead, and he willed his own shivers to stop, although truthfully Starsky wasn't really with it enough to notice.

He located a sweatshirt hanging by the door. "I'll take this in case I need it, now stop arguing with me about stupid stuff and come on."

Hutch reached an arm around Starsky's waist and helped him get to his feet. Starsky draped a loose arm around Hutch's shoulders although Hutch was forced to grab his hand with Hutch's free one when it was apparent that Starsky was too weak to keep his hold. In this manner they lurched out to Kim's car, as fast as Starsky could manage.

Hutch leaned him against the side of the car while he opened the door, and carefully lowered him into the passenger's seat. As soon as the door was closed, Starsky slumped toward it, leaning his aching head against the cold glass. Hutch moved quickly to the driver's side, hopping in, starting the engine, and turning on the blower full force. "Be warm in a minute, Starsk," he promised, as a blast of cold air hit them both. Quickly he adjusted the vent so it was not directing icy air at his partner.

The car sputtered as it struggled to warm up in the frigid, damp temperature, and Hutch backed it around quickly, and moved out the long driveway. The drive to the hospital took well over a half hour, Hutch did his best to drive quickly, but to avoid any bump or sharp corner which might cause Starsky any more discomfort.

Starsky, for his part, dozed for most of the ride, although he woke occasionally to answer a question, and once when Hutch reached over at a stoplight, wiping away the thin trickle of blood that seeped through the gauze on his head. Hutch wiped his bloody thumb on his pants. "Doing okay?" he asked.

"Terrific," Starsky muttered. "You tell ‘em...." he sighed. "Tell ‘em I hate stitches, okay, Blintz?"

"I'll tell them," Hutch agreed.

Hutch pulled down the circular driveway, following the signs, which read "Emergency." He stopped the car in front of a set of double pneumatic doors, and came around to the passenger's side to help Starsky out.

Starsky leaned on him heavily, as they made their way to the reception desk. "Sit, Starsk," Hutch said quietly, easing him down.

Hutch was mildly surprised when his own legs felt weak, probably relief at having arrived at the hospital, he supposed. He sank into the chair next to his partner.

"You guys don't look so good," the receptionist said kindly. "Hang on a minute, and you can tell us all about it." She picked up a telephone on her desk, and spoke into it a moment later. "May I have someone to triage, please?" she asked calmly. Replacing the receiver, she handed over a fresh piece of gauze. "I think you need a new one," she offered, as Hutch accepted it, and held it to Starsky's head.

Almost immediately, a nurse breezed through the door marked "Majors," and leaned down next to Starsky. "Hi there," she said, "I'm Susan, one of the nurses here. What on earth did you get into?"

Starsky managed a crooked grin, feeling comfortable with her at once. "We were riding, up along the lake," he said, voice strained. "Something scared the...the horses, and I fell...hoof got me...."

"So much for thinking you have a hard head," Hutch said, nearly giddy with relief, now that help was at hand. He looked at the nurse. "He kinda crashed through the ice, and, uh, into the water, and...."

The nurse smiled warmly, taking in Hutch's disheveled appearance. "And you went in after him," she deduced. She nodded in approval. "Very heroic," she said.

"Thinks he's...White Knight...uh...I'm...."

"He's gonna throw up," Hutch said, rising quickly. "Bathroom?"

"Round the corner here," Susan pointed, "Come on, I'll help."

A few moments later, Hutch tugged a pale and diaphoretic Starsky from the men's room, to find Susan waiting patiently by the door. "Okay now?" she asked.

Starsky nodded, his lips white.

Susan put one hand under Starsky's arm, and her other hand on Hutch's shoulder. "I'm going to take him in," she said, "so he can lie down, and I can get a good look at this, okay? Maybe you could go back to the window and get him signed in. One of us will come and get you as soon as we've got him settled."

Hutch walked heavily back to the reception window, every muscle protesting, and feeling drained. "What do you need from me?" he asked the receptionist. "I've got all his information, insurance stuff, a permission to treat...."

"Permission to treat? Are you kidding?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. "I love you."

Hutch managed a grin. "He's my um, partner, we're policemen...always carry that stuff with us."

She poised her fingers over the typewriter keys. "Fantastic," she said, "Let's get to it, then. Can you spell his last name for me?"

~*~*~*~

Hutch peeked around the curtain, and smiled at the sight of his dark-haired partner lying quietly on the stretcher in Room Two. He was covered with white blankets, and Hutch was glad to see that he was no longer visibly shivering--unlike Hutch, who had his fingers jammed in his jeans pockets to warm them. "Hey," Hutch said, warmly. "How you doing?"

Starsky turned his head slightly. "Hi," he responded, "I'm glad they let you in. I asked them to...."

Hutch closed the curtain behind him. "She says I can stay till they're ready to stitch you up," he said. "Unless you wanted to rest or something." Hutch found himself caught in the traditionally awkward scenario of the hospital visit. It didn't matter that he had been speaking normally to his partner not fifteen minutes before. There was something about the sterile environment, the white blankets, the antiseptic smell, even the goddamned curtains, for Christ's sake, that made him tongue tied, unsure of himself, and pretty sure that he'd be shuffling his feet in a minute.

"No, don't wanna rest," Starsky said, "I'd rather have you here. How'm I doin'?" He slid over slightly on the stretcher and patted the edge with his hand. "Sit," he commanded, "and stop shuffling your feet."

"But I wasn't---" Hutch felt himself blushing. "Okay." He perched lightly on the edge of the bed. "You're doing fine, you need a bunch of stitches, but I guess you already know that. They're waiting for the plastics guy on call."

"Yeah, what does that mean?" Starsky asked him.

Hutch shrugged his shoulders. "She said, whenever there's stitches and it's on your face, they try to have a plastic surgeon do it so it doesn't scar, or something, I don't know...." He blinked down at his dark-haired partner. "How do you feel? Still throwing up?"

"Nnn...." Starsky shook his head almost imperceptably. "But don't talk about it or I might."

"Okay," Hutch smiled. "Warm enough?" He pulled the blankets higher over Starsky's reclining frame.

"Getting there," Starsky said. "Blankets are heated, pretty cool."

"Yeah," Hutch said awkwardly. "Cool. Um, warm. Um...."

"How about you?" Starsky asked. "You took a pretty good dunking too, as I recall."

"I'm fine," Hutch assured him. "I parked the car up in the lot, snow's comin' down pretty good, maybe we'll get a few inches out of this one. I wonder where my dad keeps the shovel. I think there's some rock salt in the garage." Even to himself, especially to himself, Hutch sounded stupid.

Starsky reached over and grabbed his wrist. "Hey."

"Hey?"

"Hey. Stop it. I'm fine."

"Starsk, you're not fine," the words rushed out in a torrent. "You're gonna have a mess of stitches, gonna look like Frankenstein, probably catch pneumonia, and it's all my...."

"Hutch." Starsky commanded firmly. "Knock it off right now. You're gett'n yourself all worked up for nothin', it's no big deal."

Hutch shook his head, drying blond strands of hair brushing over his collar. "It's not nothin', Starsk, and it is a big deal, and I should never have...."

Starsky tightened his grip on Hutch's wrist so hard that it nearly hurt. "Enough." He said. "Stop it now, or I'm gonna get up and slug ya." He grinned to let Hutch know that, although he meant what he said, he wasn't angry. "I love ya, Blintz, but I don't have the energy to argue right now, a'right?"

Hutch took a deep breath. "All right," he said. It was funny, he thought, as he smoothed back the dark curls from Starsky's forehead. He could be so calm in the middle of a crisis, he'd taken care of Starsky more times than he could count–on the job injuries, a sprained whatever from playing basketball or some other sport, Starsky's annual bout with the flu in which he was usually so miserable and whiny that Hutch was ready to kill him by the end. Hutch was always calm and collected and soothing–right until the real medical personnel stepped in, and then he somehow lost it. "I need to work on that," he said, ruefully.

"Yes, you do," Starsky agreed. "But you mean well."

"Hey, guys," Susan poked her head around the corner of the curtain. "Dr. Jennings is here to do his thing on the Puking Goose."

"That's puce," Starsky said darkly.

She grinned as Hutch began to snort. "So, Blond Blintz," she added, "guess that means you're back out in the waiting room." She looked at Hutch, and pointed back to Starsky. "We've bonded," she said, "I know it all."

Hutch nodded, gave her an even look, and leaned down to Starsky, whispering, "I will kill you for that," he pointed a finger at Starsky, who was trying not to chuckle. "I mean it," he said, putting on his mad face.

His exit would have had more effect had he not tripped on the leg of a chair, and nearly sent himself flying onto the bed. Face blazing, he slunk back to the relative anonymity of the waiting room, hearing Starksy and Susan laugh hysterically as the door whooshed shut behind him.

~*~*~*~

Hutch shivered and yawned. He stretched his legs out in front of him, and then pulled them back under the uncomfortable chair. He swirled his lukewarm coffee in the Styrofoam cup, taking a half-hearted sip before setting it down on the table next to him.

On the television set above, Merv Griffin continued his late afternoon patter with a group of guests. He glanced up and saw a guy wearing some kind of a mask over his face, getting ready to sing. Nice voice, but why would the guy wear a mask he wondered. Shaking his head, Hutch pulled his arms around himself, wishing he could stop the chills, which hadn't left him since he'd pulled Starsky from the icy lake.

"You look like you've had it," a cheerful voice to his right intoned, and Hutch jumped, startled.

"What?"

The receptionist smiled down at him. "I come bearing gifts," she said, handing him a folded blanket. "This is from the warmer in the E.R.," she offered. "I've been watching you shiver for an hour now, and you're making me cold."

Hutch looked up at her, "I think I love you," he said, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "My God this feels good."

"This might help, too," she said, holding out a mug. "Coffee from our lounge–it's fresh, and it's hot." She gestured toward the vending machine. "That stuff'll kill you, and it's just barely warm."

Hutch smiled at her, and took a grateful sip of the steaming liquid. "Thank you," he said, "thank you so much."

"No problem," she said, starting back to the reception area. "I'm sorry it's taking so long. Dr. Jennings takes forever to suture, but honestly, he's the best there is, it's worth it. Anything else you need, let me know...."

Hutch sighed and pulled the blanket closer, as he took another sip of coffee. Finally he felt as if he might be warming up, and it was wonderful. He sipped at the coffee slowly, letting his eyes wander back to the television. Merv was still on, but now he was interviewing two guys from some buddy cop show.

Hutch shook his head. "Ridiculous," he thought, "two pretty boy actors, how could anyone find that show believable–it was all car chases and implausible plots...." Every once in a while he and Starsky made a point to watch it, just because it was good for a laugh, particularly if they'd had a few beers before the show came on.

Finally warming up, Hutch felt an overwhelming sleepiness overtake him. He knew it was the aftereffect of the adrenalin rush he'd experienced, but despite the coffee, he was barely able to keep his eyes open.

"Hutch? Hutch?"

Hutch heard Starsky's soft voice, and his eyes flew open immediately. "Starsk?" He sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "You done? You okay?"

Starsky stood before him, nearly as pale as the gauze bandage that was taped to his forehead, but standing, talking.

Hutch stood up and clutched at Starsky's elbow. "Sit down," he urged.

Starsky sat gingerly, conscious of not jostling his head, which was beginning to throb now that the Novacain was wearing off. "The nurse will be out in a second," he said tiredly.

"How are you doing?" Hutch asked, concerned, and equally tired.

"I'm fine. Really." Starsky assured him. He tugged on the blanket that was still draped around his partner's shoulders. "Like the shawl, you look good in white," he teased.

"Okay, heroes," came Susan's voice as she headed out the doorway to the waiting room. "How are we doing?"

"We are looking forward to going home," Hutch answered, a smile in his voice as he rose to meet her. "He didn't give you too much trouble, did he?" he asked, indicating his partner with a nod of his head.

She grinned. "Nothing I couldn't handle, believe me. Compared to what usually tramps in here every Saturday night, your buddy's a pussycat. Sit," she urged him, and crouched down, facing both men. "I want to go over your discharge instructions here, okay?"

"Sure," Hutch said, shrugging out of the blanket, and holding it out to his partner. "You need this?"

"Uh uh," answered Starsky, with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

Susan took the blanket from Hutch's outstretched hand, and draped it around the dark-haired detective. "Wear it anyway," she said. "Now, the important thing is to keep the wound clean and dry. No showers till tomorrow, and even then, you've got to be careful."

"No showers?" Starsky asked.

"Mm mm," she said, with a shake of her head. She turned to Hutch. "I want this bandage in place for twenty four hours," she said, "but then you're going to have to change it, unless you want to come back here and we'll do it."

"No, I can do that," Hutch said, "that's not a problem."

"Okay, good," she nodded in approval. She handed Hutch a paper bag. "Here's all the supplies," she said, "got gauze, tape, antibiotic ointment, the whole nine yards. If you're just careful when you take that one off, and put a new dressing on tomorrow, that'll be great, then twice a day after that."

"Do I need to clean it or anything?"

"Yeah, twice a day, when you change the dressing. Just use a warm washcloth," she said, "and no soap. You can rinse away any dried blood or anything that's around it, and sort of pat at it. He could take a bath while you've got the dressing off too, tomorrow," she explained, "as long as you pat the incision dry before you redress it."

"Just watch what you're pattin', Blondie," Starsky put in, wiggled his eyebrow, then winced. "Ow," and he raised a hand toward his forehead, pressing his fingers into his hairline, above the bandage.

Hutch rolled his eyes and grinned at Susan. "You'll have to excuse him," he apologized, "he has a head injury."

Susan smiled broadly. "You mean he's not usually like this?" she asked.

"Oh, no," Hutch assured her. "Usually he's worse."

"Well that's just frightening," she replied. She turned to Starsky. "And you," she said firmly. "You're going to take it easy, right?"

"Right," he said.

Susan turned back to Hutch. "By the way," she offered, "it's not out of the realm of possibility that he's going to run a little fever tonight, that doesn't mean anything awful. His body's had a shock, and an invasive procedure."

"I'll say," muttered Starsky. "Hutch, do you know what they...."

Hutch patted his arm absently. "I know, I know," he said, as he turned his attention back to Susan. "Okay, so what do I...."

"Tylenol, aspirin, whatever you've got," Susan said. "What you're really watching for, over the next couple days, is an infection. Like...if it looks red, or swollen, or oozy, anything like that, you're going to need to bring him back to have it checked, and maybe be put on antibiotics, all right? And in any case, the stitches will need to come out in ten days, either here, or at home, family doc is fine, whatever."

Hutch took a deep breath. "We can handle that, right Starsk?"

"Absolutely."

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrific."

Susan stood up and moved to the window. "And now," she said, "although I will miss you both dreadfully, I think you should go." She pointed outside. "It's really snowing. You guys are from Los Angeles, either of you ever drive in snow before?"

"I grew up here," Hutch said quietly. "I can drive in it, no problem. I've got my sister's car, it's four wheel drive...."

"Okay," Susan said, "but be careful and drive slow. I don't want to see you guys back here tonight. Who's your sister?" she asked curiously. "I've been thinking you looked familiar since you got here."

"Kim H--Kim Kelly," Hutch said, embarrassed that he'd almost forgotten her married name.

"Kimmy? Oh wow," Susan's eyes lit up. "My daughter Sarah is in preschool with Jeremy."

"You're Sarah's mom?" asked Starsky. He grinned. "Jeremy speaks very highly of her," he said. "Thinks she's pretty cute, calls me for advice all the time."

Susan burst out laughing. "Ah," she said. "Then you would be the uncle from California who is responsible for the fact that Sarah now calls everybody 'schweetheart" huh?"

"Uh...."

"Jeremy taught all the kids to do that, and I really want to thank you, it has certainly enhanced our home life."

Starsky beamed, missing the sarcasm, and Hutch burst out laughing.

Susan held out the discharge instructions for Starsky to sign, and looked over her shoulder at Hutch. "I've, uh," she said, "met your dad a couple of times."

"Hm," Hutch said, noncommittally.

She smiled at Hutch kindly. "Never would have known," she said, "'cause you're not too much like him."

"Thank God," Starsky muttered, handing back the pen, and winking at Susan. He put a hand on Hutch's shoulder. "Ready to go, Blintz?" he asked.

Hutch nodded. "I'll go get the car and bring it down," he said.

"You guys take care, now," Susan said, moving back toward the Emergency Room proper. "If you need anything at all, call us, okay?"

~*~*~*~

Hutch drove slowly, both hands tight on the wheel. It was nearly dark now, and the snow was coming down harder than it had been all afternoon. It bounced and swirled in the headlights, and he was finding it a bit difficult to focus on the road, a situation not made better by the fact that his eyes were grainy with exhaustion and strain.

He sneaked a quick glance at his partner, who looked in a similar state. "How you doing, Starsk?" he asked. "You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah," Starsky sighed, "but I'm sure lookin' forward to puttin' on sweats and crawlin' into the couch," he said. "You?"

"Oh, yeah, fine," answered Hutch. "What do you want for dinner?" he asked.

"Truthfully? Nothin'" Starsky said honestly. "After all that, I'm...my stomach's a little...questionable."

"You don't feel like you're--"

"No, don't worry," Starsky chuckled. "Not gonna throw up again, just don't feel like eating especially."

Hutch exhaled noisily, and grinned. "Well, good," he said, "because the roads are slippery and if I had to stop fast I think we'd end up in a ditch."

"Great, that's all we need."

"Just hang in there, pal," Hutch said gently, reaching over to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "Why don't you try to sleep a little...we'll be home before you know it."

"Too late," Starsky mumbled, but he obligingly leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.

Hutch chuckled softly and turned his full attention back to the increasingly treacherous road. Between the dark and the heavily falling snow, most of the familiar landmarks were invisible, but he hoped that they were nearing the turnoff for County 7, the back road that was the next stage of the journey to the ranch.

Oops. Suddenly there it was, rising out of the dark and the swirling snow, and he hurriedly turned the car to the right. The rear of the car fishtailed a little, but good tires and years of driving at top speed on the street helped him keep it on the road. In a moment, they were straightened out, and headed in the right direction down CR 7.

He stole a glance over at Starsky.

Uh oh.

His friend's lips were set and white, and his throat was beginning to hitch. Hutch knew that look well enough; he began to slow down, and was able to stop just as Starsky said in a strained voice, "Uh...Hutch...."

He threw the car into park and somehow got over to the other side without falling flat on his butt. Starsky had shoved open the door and was hanging onto it with one hand, while he vomited weakly into the snow. He had thrown up so much earlier, there was very little to come up, but beads of sweat stood out on his forehead at the pain from the effort.

Heedless of the snow, Hutch knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders and pulling him back against his chest to help absorb the strength of some of the convulsions. After a moment, Starsky relaxed.

"Not here, pal, huh?" Hutch said gently. "Let's get you back in the car where it's warm and dry." Carefully, he helped Starsky lift himself back into the seat, then closed the door and rounded the car to return to the driver's seat.

He drove as cautiously as he could the rest of the way, dropping his speed so he wouldn't have to make another last-minute save when he spotted Spoede, the road on which the Hutchinson ranch was located. The snow continued to hurtle past the headlights, and it was with relief that he traversed the long driveway and finally brought the car to a stop beside the house.

Rounding the car, he pulled open the door carefully so he wouldn't dump Starsky onto the driveway, then circled his friend's waist with one arm and hoisted him to his feet. Starsky muttered a little, pressing a hand to the bandage on his head, as Hutch nudged the car door closed with his hip.

"Just a little further, buddy," he panted as the two of them made their way up the porch steps. "We can take a rest in the kitchen before I take you upstairs." He paused at the side door to dig the key out of his pocket.

"No." Starsky's voice was as stubborn as that of a petulant child. Hutch glanced over at him, eyebrows raised.

"No what?" he said, confused, as he inserted the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

"Don't wanna go upstairs."

"Starsk, c'mon," Hutch pleaded, getting them both inside and pushing the door closed. "It's been a long and lousy day...you need some rest."

"Don't wanna go up to that room," Starsky insisted. "Just lemme sleep in the den."

Hutch flicked a switch, and they both blinked in the bright light. Hutch looked over at his friend, and sighed. Starsky wore the mulish expression that meant arguing would be a waste of time and energy. He shrugged. "Okay, pal, whatever you say," he said. "Be better than lugging you up all those stairs anyway."

Not bothering to shed his boots, he changed their direction and started toward the den. As they reached the enormous leather couch, Starsky suddenly released a low chuckle.

"Did I ever tell ya that you're beautiful, Blintz?"

"Oh, you say that to all the blondes you know, Starsk," Hutch said teasingly, easing the blanket from Starsky's shoulders and helping him lower himself to the couch. "Easy... easy," he coached as Starsky winced. "Try not to move too fast."

Between the two of them, they got the dark-haired detective stretched out on the couch and covered with an afghan. Hutch built a roaring fire and then, with a smug smile, brought down the soft and fluffy blanket from his parents' bed to help warm his friend. Fetching a warm, damp cloth from the kitchen, he gently blotted the sweat from Starsky's forehead and neck, hoping the combined warmth of the fire, the blanket, and the cloth would ease his partner's shivers.

"Tha' feels good, Hutch...." Starsky murmured. His eyes opened a slit, and he smiled, emitting another hoarse little chuckle. "Tole you...you're beautiful, babe."

"And you," Hutch said fondly, tucking the covers more securely around Starsky's shoulders, "are drugged out of your mind. Now, c'mon, pal. You've had a long day...try to get some rest, huh?"

"Not ‘til you say you're beautiful," Starsky insisted stubbornly.

Hutch sighed. It was the pain and his exhaustion talking, but he knew Starsky. Now that he had this idea in his head, he would persist- until Hutch said what he wanted to hear, no matter how stupid it made him feel.

"All right, you win, Starsk," he conceded. "I'm beautiful. Now go to sleep, y'big lug."

"An' smar'...."

"Starsk...."

"A'right, a'right...." Starsky was beginning to fade, along with all his consonants. "Hutsh...."

Hutch leaned toward his partner, eyebrows raised. "Whatcha need, pal?"

"You res' too...ge' warm, dry...‘kay?"

Hutch half-grinned. "You got it."

"Prom'se."

"On my honor as a Sea Scout."

"‘kay...." The lids lowered over the dark blue eyes as Starsky began to drift off to sleep...then fluttered open a fraction of an inch as Hutch stifled a sneeze. "‘less you," he murmured.

"Thanks, Starsk," Hutch said quietly.

He stood there for a moment, watching and listening as some of the pain lines smoothed out of Starsky's face and his breathing became slow and deep. Then, glancing at his watch, he decided he should go feed the horses before he got too drowsy and comfortable himself.

He searched through the hall coat closet and found a dry jacket. Returning to the kitchen, he zipped the jacket up, and tightened the thick woolen scarf around his neck. Humming somewhat absently, he filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove, leaving the lid open so the whistle wouldn't disturb his friend. Pulling on his gloves, he started out the door...and stopped, realizing what he had done.

It had been a habit of his grandfather's, starting the teakettle before going out to the barn. Robert had always said that it made the trek back from the barn much more pleasant on a cold winter night or morning, knowing a hot cup of tea would be waiting for them. And somehow, he managed to set the heat just high enough, and do the chores just quick enough, that the kettle would have just begun to whistle when they stepped back in the door.

It was something Hutch himself had done, when he had been home after his grandfather died...but not in years. Yet, he had done it automatically, as part of the twice-daily ritual.

He chuckled to himself, then stepped outside into the chilly night.

As he walked across the yard, the snow had a different feel and look to it. He didn't know how, but years of living in Minnesota told him that the worst of it was past. The storm would probably stop sometime that night, leaving at most 2-3 inches on the ground. He half-grinned, wondering what weather novice had decided to call this a "dangerous storm," then pulled open the barn door and ducked gratefully into the warmth and friendliness generated by the creatures inside.

The routine was familiar enough that he went through it easily and rapidly, pausing at each stall to greet its occupant by name and stroke a velvet nose, or rub a flank thick with winter fur. As he made his way down the row, he breathed in the smell that had never failed to comfort him, remembering the many times he had fled here after a particularly devastating reprimand from his father or a performance that fell short of expectations. When his grandfather was still alive, he would often follow the boy and find him tucked away in one of the stalls, crying as if his heart would break, with one of the horses snuffling gently at the towhead to offer comfort.

Now, Ken. His grandfather's voice would precede him, with that combination of gruff and tender that was as soothing as the warm scent rising from the animals around him. Then his head would appear around the corner, eyes rich with compassion, and he would enter the stall with perfect confidence, knowing the horse would move aside and allow him to crouch down beside his distraught grandson. I know your dad hurt your feelings, but don't take on so.

But no matter what I do, it's never good enough, Ken would whisper miserably, unable to meet his grandfather's eyes, feeling small and worthless.

Now that's just not true. At this point, Robert would lower himself to the ground with a slight moan as his arthritic knees protested the movement. He would lean against the wall of the stall and pull the boy close to his side. Your father's a very hard man to please, Ken, and sometimes he expects far more of you than you could ever give. All you can do is your best, my boy, and let the rest fall where it will.

Easy for you to say, Ken would grumble, though he'd have perked up a little by now and would be sitting up straighter in the circle of his grandfather's arm. You're not the one he's grounding because you got a B on your geography test.

His grandfather's rich laughter would ring through the barn. The horses' ears would flicker back, but not in disturbance, for the sound of Robert Hutchinson's laughter was familiar in that setting, and a sign that all was right with the world.

Unfortunately, the young boy's sobs were becoming just as familiar, and an indication of what was wrong rather than right in the house beyond.

One of the horses nudged him, nickering softly, and Hutch started back to the present with a jolt. Jesus, he thought, with an enormous, exhausted yawn and a hand passed over his face. Goin' down that road again...I need some sleep. "Thanks, old girl." He gave one final stroke to the horse that had broken his reverie and braced himself for the trip back to the house.

As he climbed the steps to the porch, stamping his feet to shake off the snow, he rubbed the back of his neck and shoulders...and cursed the day's events and the hospital's molded plastic, designed-for-your-discomfort chairs on behalf of muscles that seemed drawn tight as wire. He thought briefly and longingly about a long, hot shower, but he really didn't want to leave Starsky alone for that long. Silly, he knew, but maybe it would assuage some of his guilt for getting the poor guy into this mess in the first place.

Cut it out, Hutch.

He heard the words as clearly as if Starsky had been standing beside him, and laughed to himself as he dropped the coat off his shoulders to the kitchen table, and prepared his cup of tea. The chuckle triggered a tickle, and he cleared his throat, massaging the base of his neck. Then, looping the string of the tea bag--for of course, his parents would never dream of owning a tea ball or strainer, much less loose tea leaves--–around the cup's handle, he went quietly back into the den.

Just inside the door, he paused, leaning against the arched frame and taking a sip from his cup. He couldn't restrain a half-smile at the sight of Starsky, snuggled cozily under the blanket and warmed by the fire, sound asleep. The pain lines had disappeared, along with the drawn tightness around his mouth, and the only sign of the day's events was the white bandage on his forehead.

Hutch sighed and rubbed his own forehead, then pushed himself off the doorjamb. Setting the cup of tea on the hearth, he tucked the covers more securely around his friend. Then, in one final chore before he allowed himself to rest, he fetched both of their wet jackets and hung them on the backs of kitchen chairs before the fire -- with luck, they'd be dry by tomorrow. Retrieving the cup, he then settled himself in the recliner on the other side of the fireplace, throwing an afghan around his own long legs. Taking another sip of his tea, he sank back into the chair's embrace, inhaling the scent of his grandfather that rose to him, that olfactory concoction of pipe tobacco, aftershave, and horse. For just a moment, he did nothing more than let his eyes roam the room, as he absorbed the warmth and loving safety of its original inhabitant.

It was the one room in the house to which both he and Starsky instantly and repeatedly gravitated, and no wonder. Two generations earlier, when Hutch's grandfather had first purchased the bundle of land that had birthed the Hutchinson ranch, this room had been the sole dwelling. Robert had first patched, then renovated, the tiny one-room shack, then gradually built around it the grand structure of the current house...and his son had added onto it further. In a rare fit of sentimentality, however, James Hutchinson had left this room alone when he had completely gutted and redecorated the homestead after his father's death.

The room still bore one of its original log walls, and had been furnished by Robert in warm earth tones, with deep, comfortable carpeting and welcoming furniture. The walls were covered with aerial and ground photos of the ranch's growth and expansion over the years, appreciation plaques attesting to Robert's generosity and service to various civic organizations...and, other than the one in the kitchen, the only family photos that included Hutch.

How right it was to share this warmth with his best friend, one of the few other people in his universe who showed him the same love and acceptance that his grandfather had.

He turned his eyes from the room to his partner, and as his gaze lingered for a moment, he felt another pang of guilt about the equestrian disaster. He had been so caught up in his own pleasure at riding again, he had forgotten how risky it could be in the winter, even for an experienced horseperson. He should have anticipated some unexpected event might spook the horse...combined with the ground conditions and a novice rider, it was an accident waiting to happen, and his own damn fault.

He'd been so close to dying, not too long ago. Since then, he had been determined to...notice everything, whether it was the sun shining off the water, a child running down the street, or a particularly beautiful strain of music. Somehow, all of those things now made his chest ache in a way they never had before...simultaneously better and worse...and he just couldn't get enough of them. Had he lost track of his partner's welfare, in the midst of his own need to experience his life more fully, more vividly than he had before he had been ill?

He brought himself up short then, with a sharp, humorless laugh. What was it about this place that made him feel so inadequate, so self-accusatory, he wondered; it was as if his father's disapproval hovered in the shadows, just waiting to launch its insidious attack on Hutch's sense of himself.

Draining his cup, he set it on the table with a small, weary sigh, and tried to replace the despondence with a dose of common sense. They had both been enjoying themselves, he couldn't have predicted the birds, and it certainly could have worked out a lot worse. Starsky had had a bad knock on the head, that was true, but he hadn't lost consciousness, and the cut hadn't needed too many stitches to close it. They'd both taken a bad dunking, but Starsky seemed none the worse for it, and his own shivers finally seemed to have subsided.

He hitched the afghan up further on his shoulders, and ordered himself to think happier thoughts, as his eyelids began to droop.

The room enveloped him. Before he could help himself, he had dropped off to sleep.

~*~*~*~

The boy lay shivering in the bed, covers pulled up tightly around his ears. He had as many blankets on him as he could drag out of the closet, but he was still so cold, so cold

There was a tap on the door, and Melinda Hutchinson peeked in.

"Ken?" she said with a touch of impatience. "Come on, dear, it's time to get ready for school."

"C-can't," the child said from under the covers, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. "Mom...I don't feel so good."

With a sigh, Melinda pushed open the door and entered the room. Taking in her son's appearance, she touched a hand to his forehead and then withdrew it with a frown. "Well, you do feel like you have a fever," she said uncertainly. "Let's find out for sure."

A few moments later, she was shaking down the thermometer. "101," she stated. "What were you doing last night? Going outside without your coat?"

"No, M-mom," Ken said, hunching his shoulders underneath the pile of blankets.

"Well, I just don't know what to do," she said to herself, twisting her hands. "I can't stay home with youI have three meetings at the hospital and a half-dozen errands to run...oh, Ken, are you sure you can't just go to school and see if you feel better?"

"I - - I don't think so, Mom."

"What's going on in here?" James entered the room and flicked on the light. Ken flinched at the sudden brightness and turned his head away from the fixture. "Ken? Why aren't you up?"

"I think he's sick, James," Melinda said helplessly. "He's got a fever of 101."

"Told you not to leave your coat at home, didn't I?" James said disapprovingly.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I can't stay home...I've got to be in court this morning," James said. "I'll have to see what Dad has planned for today. Come, Melinda...."

Still shivering with cold, the boy barely noticed as his parents left the room, his mother somehow apologetic, his father impatient and clearly ready to get out of the house and away from this inconvenience. He drifted off to an uneasy sleep, broken occasionally by weird images of the monsters that had inhabited his closet when he was much younger but which he hadn't seen in forever...and he could see the other students at school, wondering where he was...his teachers...wait, did he have a geography test today? No, that was next week...no, it was today, and he hadn't studied!

Suddenly there was a gentle, warm hand on his forehead, and a soothing voice broke through the haze of images. "It's all right, Ken," his grandfather murmured. "It's just a fever dream, son...you're all right."

Ken opened his eyes to find his grandfather sitting beside the bed, smiling softly down at him. He had a glass of orange juice in one hand and a cup of something that smelled wonderful in the other. "Here," Robert said encouragingly. "Try to take a sip of that...that might warm you up a bit."

Ken freed his hands from under the covers and took the cup in his hands, almost sighing at the lovely warmth that seeped instantly into his hands. Careful not to spill, he moved the cup to his lips and took a long, grateful sip. This time, he did sigh as the heat spread down into his body and began to quell the tremors.

"Thanks, Granddad," he said hoarsely, draining the cup and handing it back to his grandfather. "Feels a lot better."

"I bet it does," Robert chuckled. "Here...take a couple of these." He handed the boy two aspirin and the glass of orange juice.

Ken swallowed the tablets obediently, washing them down with the orange juice that felt heavenly sliding down his dry, aching throat. Then, with another sigh, he leaned back onto his pillow, feeling better already.

"Now, since it's just you and me today," Robert said conspiratorially, glancing over his shoulder as if to ensure no one could overhear them, "I thought it would be better if you came downstairs with me, to the den."

"But Mom and Dad...." Ken began falteringly, knowing his parents would object.

"We'll make sure you're back up here long before they get home," Robert assured him. "And if we don't, I'll just tell them I didn't want to go up and down those stairs all day long...not the best thing in the world for these old legs of mine."

"I guess you're right," Ken agreed. He was more than eager to leave the bedroom, which always seemed cold no matter what the thermostat read, for the warm haven of his grandfather's den, and was glad that Robert had come up with an excuse that his parents might find acceptable.

He sat up, and Robert helped him arrange the blankets so he was still reasonably well covered but wouldn't trip on any trailing edges. Then, the two of them went down to the den, where Robert immediately bundled the boy into his enormous leather chair, where Ken watched from a cocoon of blankets while his grandfather built a blazing fire, talking all the while.

Enveloped in the covers, soothed by the fire and the lingering warmth of the hot soup, listening to the familiar tale of how his grandfather had renovated the one-room log house, the boy's shivers subsided. And it was not long before he drifted off to a contented, healing sleep...not to awaken until the long shadows of the afternoon sun stretched across the lawn, and his grandfather gently shook him awake so he could go back upstairs before his parents arrived home.

"Ken...Ken...come on, son, it's time to get up..."

~*~*~*~

"Hutch?"

No response.

"Hutch...hey, Hutch."

Slowly, Hutch opened his eyes, somehow expecting to find his grandfather standing beside him. Ridiculous, as his grandfather had never heard him called Hutch in his lifetime...Jack was the only one who had done that, and never in the Hutchinson house. But then, stranger things had been known to happen....

Nope. It was Starsky who knelt beside him, looking considerably more alert than he had last night, holding a steaming cup in his hands.

"Starsk?"

"Hey, mornin'," Starsky said cheerfully.

"What're you doin' up?"

"It's morning," Starsky repeated with exaggerated patience. "Time to get up and at ‘em, Blintz...you should see all the snow outside. Here...take this," he added, extending the cup of coffee. "That'll open your eyes."

Hutch took a sip...and whistled at the potent taste. "Holy shit, Starsk...what the hell is this?"

"Double strength," Starsky said, his cheerfulness now just this side of annoying. "Figured you'd need it after last night. Come on, up and at ‘em, Blintz, I wanna go walk around in this white stuff. Haven't seen snow in an age...bet I can still make a killer snowball."

Hutch snorted. "Yeah, right, city boy," he scoffed. "How could you find enough snow in New York to put together a decent snowball?"

"Wasn't easy," Starsky replied, not the least daunted by his partner's cynicism. "Roust it out, Blondie. There's breakfast on the stove for me, a shiny high-tech blender for that nauseating stuff you call a morning meal, and a batch of hungry horses waitin' in the barn. So, c'mon, c'mon...."

"All right, all right." Taking another sip of the coffee and praying that it wouldn't blast his head right off, Hutch lowered the foot of the recliner and got to his feet, pleasantly surprised to find that he was not the least bit stiff. Well, it wasn't really a surprise, he thought with a half-smile. Trust his grandfather to find the one chair in the world that you could sleep in without regretting it the next morning. As he folded the comforter, he heard Starsky's feet thudding up the front stairs, in a rhythm this house had not heard since - - well, ever. He and Kim had rarely been permitted to "romp," at least not indoors and certainly not in the formal front hallway. But though Starsky's eyes had widened on his first visit to the ranch, he had quickly recognized the sprawling homestead for what it was: a showcase, prepared for the reaction of its guests rather than the comfort of its residents. Typically, he had warmed his own niche of it and avoided, then gently mocked, the pomposity of the rest. Now, with Hutch's parents gone, he had even less reason to worry about the propriety that seemed to ooze from every corner; rather, he appeared determined to chase it back to its hiding place. Allowing himself a final whiff of the comforter, and the accompanying happy memories, Hutch mounted the front stairs himself, whistling cheerfully, and perversely enjoying the acoustics of the great hallway.

His feet seemed to fly up the steps; he felt a hundred times lighter than when he had trembled up here yesterday and stood in his room in freezing wet clothes, idiotically trying to remember why he was there. The early rising, the relentless teasing, and the blast-the-top-off-your-head coffee could mean only one thing: Starsky was all right. The words sang through his head, lyrics to the tune he continued to whistle as he stripped off his jeans and sweater and headed for the shower. Starsky's eyes had looked bright and cheerful, his speech and smart-ass wit as sharp as ever. Of all the fears that had unreeled through Hutch's head as he had watched the horse's hooves paw the air and his friend take that hideous slow-motion slide under the lake's surface, it looked like none of them had come true.

The hot water of the shower was a balm to his neck and shoulder muscles. He felt them loosen their grip at last on the lingering tension from being unbelievably cold and frightened, followed by hours of sitting in the most uncomfortable chairs manufactured. If the receptionist hadn't been equally observant and kind, Hutch thought as he shampooed the leaves and lake debris from his own hair, he suspected he'd be shivering yet, hunched permanently into a ball of cold and misery.

He took his time in the shower, then wrapped himself in a fluffy robe. As he toweled his hair dry, he felt a slight ache in his throat, accompanied by an equally minor pulse in his head and his back. Well, no wonder, Hutchinson, he told himself, swiping the mirror free of steam so he could comb his hair. Did you think you'd take that dip in the lake yourself and be free of all aftereffects? He'd leapt off Ben so fast, hurtling down the bank and into the lake, that he had probably jarred no end of bones and muscles; they'd be complaining to him for hours, or until he did something to warm and loosen them up.

Like a good, old-fashioned Minnesota snowball fight.

He yanked on warm socks, jeans, and three layers of shirts, then strode down the hall to his partner's room. Ready to issue a full-throated challenge to an East Coast-Midwest snowball contest, he hesitated, hand raised to pound on the door. Though he wanted nothing more than to tumble immediately into the fluffy white stuff with his closest friend, his conscience was insisting that he take care of the livestock first. Sighing, and half-cursing his Midwestern work ethic, he dropped his hand and headed for the stairs instead.

All was not lost, however; he amused himself by thumping decisively and happily down the front staircase. He had such a good chuckle over that, in fact, that he had to pause at the bottom of the steps to catch his breath and clear the little tickle from his throat. Then, shaking his head at this clear emergence of his once-suppressed adolescence, he went out to the barn, grabbing his now dry, down-filled jacket along the way.

~*~*~*~

Between his cheery mood and the increasing practice, it didn't take long to feed the horses, and give them fresh water and a loving scratch to each furry, fragrant head. He returned to the house, stamping the satisfying but still somewhat skimpy snow from his boots, and charged up the stairs to begin the Snowball Event of the Century.

He opened Starsky's door without knocking, preparing to greet Starsky with his most robust version of "Winter Wonderland"...then stopped short, just inside the threshold.

Starsky was sprawled across the bed, his carefree sleeping form an echo of the position where Hutch had found him that first night. He was dressed in an assertively red sweater with reindeer dancing saucily around the middle. A thick wool sock covered one foot; the other was bare, its intended covering forgotten in the dark-haired man's lax hand.

Hutch chuckled, and felt a tenderness pierce his heart. Starsky had clearly used his small reservoir of energy on making his special coffee and waking Hutch. Now he looked like a child who had spent himself on one round of play, and was only refueling. Gently, Hutch brushed the brunet curls from his partner's forehead, careful not to touch the bandage, then silently pulled up the blankets and laid them over the sleeping form.

Quietly switching off the lamp, he began to tiptoe out, then he hesitated and went back toward the bed. He was sure Starsky would be all right...and yet.... Feeling somewhat foolish, but not caring, he drew a second blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, pulled the comfortable chair from the small sitting area across the room, and settled himself beside the bed. Snuggling into the soft blanket, he thought of all the things he would never take for granted again, from the simple warmth of a bed covering, to the man now gently snoring in front of him. He yawned hugely, allowing himself to sink back into the combined embrace of blanket and chair, and just let his eyes linger.

"You're so different," his sister had observed when he'd brought Starsky home for the first time. "But, as soon as I saw you together, I couldn't envision you separately anymore."

Join the club, Hutch chuckled to himself. On the bed, Starsky shifted and emitted a soft, sleep-blurred mumble. Hutch sat very still, holding his breath without knowing why. But without waking, Starsky merely dropped the orphan sock, scooted until his head was in its proper place on the pillow, and burrowed more deeply under the feathery comforter of the bed. Quietly, gently, Hutch laid his feet on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle his partner...though he had the strangest urge to drape his legs over Starsky's, the way sleeping kittens tangle their limbs together in the midst of contented slumber.

We are different, he reflected. Starsky was like a kid in so many ways...maddeningly impulsive, and yet so incredibly open to every experience that crossed his path. And though Hutch often pretended to scoff and condescend, he was frequently envious of Starsky's wonder and awe at some of the simplest things. Between his father's rigid exclusion of emotional displays and his own insecurity and fears, Hutch had somehow locked out that kind of full-hearted embrace of the world in all its facets. In a way, he had been like this house - - neatly and deliberately organized and presented, with a façade that the world could and did admire...and yet somehow yearning for something indefinable and indescribable, and almost unbearably delectable now that he had found it.

He chuckled again, softly. Starsky had charged into his life the way he had into the Hutchinson house: he had respected and appreciated the good and solid things, the genuine intelligence and strength in Hutch, but he had refused to kowtow to the silly formality and distance that had been bred into the blond man practically from birth. Instead, he had cajoled and coerced and coaxed until Hutch found himself participating in some of the most ridiculous activities he had ever imagined.

Or not, actually.

And he had found himself loving every minute of it.

Had he ever believed he was capable of this whole new dimension of caring...of experiencing?

No. And it was entirely possible that it never would have happened, if not for this man who could easily have been taken from him the day before.

Suddenly seized with an absurd lump of tenderness and fear that threatened to burst into tears, Hutch sat up and leaned his elbows on the bed. He tucked a hand that had somehow strayed back into the safe cave of covers, and once again stroked the curls back from Starsky's forehead. Then he relaxed back in the chair, wiggled down until he himself was enveloped in warm softness, and closed his eyes.

Forgetting the snowball fight, forgetting the horror of the night before...and the months before...he let the love and peace in the room carry him away.

~*~*~*~

Incredibly for both of them, they slept the day away, waking in the evening only to throw together an impromptu dinner, change clothes, and stumble to their respective bedrooms. Hutch didn't understand why he was so exhausted after sleeping for nearly 24 hours straight, but since his body was still twinging with various aches and pains, he resisted analysis and just succumbed to it. He slept seamlessly, waking from time to time with only vague memories of colors skating across a field of rich, velvet darkness.

He awoke the next morning to a virtual replay of the day before, to the scent of powerhouse coffee permeating his nostrils first, then Starsky's presence, so near Hutch felt his friend's breath stirring the blond strands on his forehead. Then Hutch realized that Starsky was saying, over and over, "Wake up, Blintz...wake up, Blintz...." He feigned sleep, watching through one slitted eye as Starsky paused for breath, set the coffee cup on the nightstand, and began his litany again. Then, when the dark-haired man reached up to yank the covers away, Hutch grabbed both his wrists and neatly flipped him onto his back on the bed.

"Cheater," Starsky grumbled, rubbing his wrists as the blond man rose gracefully to his feet and took a long pull from the cup. Hutch tapped his temple.

"Brains over brawn every time, Starsk," he pronounced, with a slightly smug grin. "Someday you're gonna learn."

"Yeah, and in about twenty seconds you're gonna be eating snow with those words," Starsky predicted, flopping back on the bed. "Get dressed, Blondie. We got a score to settle."

Snorting derisively, Hutch nevertheless obeyed, taking the cup of coffee into the bathroom with him.

It didn't take long for Hutch to shower and dress, and for the two to wolf down breakfast. For two people who had practically been in hibernation for 36 hours, Hutch thought they had indecently hearty appetites. But the eggs were just soft enough, the bacon crisp, and the orange juice chilled to that perfect tartness that actually made waking up worth the effort, so he even restrained his lectures on the cholesterol elements of such an all-American breakfast.

He downed the last dregs of his glass and nudged his partner, who was pursuing the last bite of egg yolk with his toast. "Let's go," he urged, shrugging into his jacket and wrapping the muffler around his throat. "I'm bettin' the horses have an appetite as big as yours."

"Ve' fu'y," Starsky mumbled through his mouthful of eggs and toast, but he rose to his feet and tugged on his own jacket.

The horses were as eager as Hutch had predicted, and it wasn't long before the air was filled with the sound of happy munching. Starsky strolled contentedly up and down the aisle between the stalls, pausing to scratch this one's forehead or comment on that one's eating style. Hutch didn't bother to smother his chuckle as he poured feed into the last bin, and returned the bucket to its resting place. Starsky looked up, and Hutch felt renewed relief surge through him at the robust color and healthy light in his friend's face.

"What?" Starsky said suspiciously.

"Nothin', city boy," Hutch teased. "C'mon, I want to let these guys out...they're probably more than ready for a run around the yard."

Moments later, Hutch had the barn doors wide open, and the horses were venturing into the cool, crisp air. For a moment, they simply stood in the paddock, nostrils flaring busily, feet pawing at the snow on the ground. Then, they suddenly seemed to catch their caretakers' lightheartedness, and as one, burst into play. Snorting, snuffling, they kicked up their heels and romped around the yard, stopping occasionally to drop, roll, then heave to their feet again, crazy white patterns dotting their coats.

Leaning on a fence rail, Hutch grinned at the animals' antics, and heard Starsky laugh out loud behind him. He had to admit, he missed this. There was nothing like going to the beach all year long, or the warmth that let him keep his windows open well into the winter...but he'd forgotten how beautiful snow could be, and how fun it was to watch the horses cavort in it.

Thwack.

"Hey!"

"Sneakiness over smarts, Hutch, every time," Starsky said smugly. "Someday, maybe you'll learn."

Hutch brushed snow from the back of his neck, and turned just in time to duck a second missile from Starsky's mittened hand. "All right, city boy," he said. "This means war."

For several minutes, the snow flew, and the horses' frolic increased as if they wanted to join in the game. They nickered to the fence, then dashed away, tails and hooves high. Neither man seemed to gain the upper hand. Starsky's snowballs were perfectly formed and packed; they struck with a resounding thump, then scattered snow everywhere, coating Hutch's front in no time. But making them took time, while Hutch sacrificed style for speed and landed two shots for every one of the dark-haired man's.

At last, they paused, both gasping for breath, hair damp with perspiration. Leaning against the fence, Ben's lips nibbling at his shoulder, Hutch gasped, "Are--you--rea—dy--to--give?"

"No--way," Starsky replied, the words huffing out in clouds of steam. "I got you up against the wall."

"Maybe," Hutch said, pleased that he managed to squeeze two syllables in one breath, "we should--settle this--like gentlemen." He knelt and scooped a clump of snow, then rose to his feet, forming it between his hands. "One shot, winner takes all."

Starsky snorted, but mimicked his partner's actions, then took several minutes patting the snowball here, flicking edges off there, and shaping the ball between his mittens.

"C'mon, Wyatt Earp," Hutch complained. "The rate you're goin', that thing'll be melted before you miss me with it."

"These things take time," Starsky said airily. "I don't want you to lose to anything less than snowball perfection." He held the orb aloft, eying it critically, then nodded. "Okay, it's ready. What's the drill?"

"We stand back to back, here," Hutch said, moving forward and marking an X in the snow. "Then take ten paces, turn, and fire."

"A duel?" Starsky said incredulously. "Do you have any idea what a geek you are sometimes?"

"At least you know what one is," Hutch fired back. "Got any other ideas?"

"Naw, and I'm gettin' cold," Starsky conceded with a shiver. "So no 'do-overs' – one shot and that's it."

"Agreed," Hutch said. "So haul it over here, and let's see who's gonna be the Snowball King."

"Loser makes dinner?" Starsky suggested.

"You're on."

Soberly, they positioned themselves on the X, snowballs held at shoulder level. Slowly, they counted off the ten steps, turned, and prepared to throw. As Starsky drew his arm back, one of the horses gave a particularly spectacular and amusing leap into the air; he burst into laughter, and the ball went wide, missing Hutch by at least six feet. Simultaneously, Hutch's snowball struck his arm with a thump, spraying snow into his face and making him laugh that much harder.

"The winner and still champion," Hutch gloated, striding up to the dark-haired man, who was now collapsed in helpless laughter in the snow. "And I know just which of my favorite recipes I want you to make."

"Aw, c'mon, Hutch," Starsky managed from his supine position on the ground. "That wasn't fair...I was distracted."

"No do-overs," Hutch reminded him, extending a hand to help Starsky up. "Take it like a man, Starsk...I got a new liver recipe I've been dying to try; that'll build up your throwin' arm."

Starsky's laughter choked off as if a switch had been flipped. "Liver?" he echoed, blanching. "Hutch. You know I hate liver. I can't even stand the smell of it while it's cookin'."

"Hey, that was the bet," Hutch told him, suppressing a grin as they headed back toward the house. "Snowball King picks the meal, you make it."

"I never said you got to pick," Starsky pouted. "I just said I'd make dinner."

"True," Hutch conceded. "Okay, how about vegetables?"

"Hutch."

"Okay, okay, we'll compromise," Hutch said. "You pick the meat. Everything else is up to me." He stamped his feet, and brushed the snow from his jacket. "Deal?"

Starsky nodded, following suit. "Except dessert," he said. "I'd trust you with my life, Hutch, but never, in a thousand years, with dessert."

~*~*~*~

It was a meal full of contentment, since Starsky actually grilled a mean steak and Hutch further compromised by preparing baked potatoes in addition to mixed fresh vegetables. Both ate with appetites whetted by the physical activity and the fresh air, and as the sun went down, sat in the kitchen with the lights off and watched the waning light make rainbows in the stirred snow. Hutch was surprised to find that he was still tired; after he smothered half a dozen yawns, Starsky finally ordered him to bed.

"You're makin' me tired, and I wanna read this book," he said. "Go on, get outta here."

"Guess I'm just finally relaxing," Hutch said, reluctantly rising to his feet. "I'll see you in the morning." Starsky, already absorbed in the novel he had picked up from the table, gave an assenting grunt.

At the door, Hutch paused, then turned back. "Hey."

Starsky didn't respond.

"Hey."

Without looking up, Starsky said, "What?"

"I'm glad we did this."

With that, Starsky looked up. "You're welcome, Blintz. Now scram."

~*~*~*~

Hutch awoke with a small start, not quite sure what had woken him.

He lay in bed for several seconds, eyes examining his surroundings, ears straining for a repeat of any possible aural explanations...but the room was dark and silent.

Dark? Silent?

Where was the moonlight bouncing off the canal, and that streetlight just above the kitchen window that drove him crazy? What about the sounds of cars from the street a block away...or the distant sounds of the beach festivities that somehow never went away, no matter what time of year or night it was?

He sat up and started to throw the covers back...then paused with a frown as he realized he had been sleeping under a blanket and two quilts...and he was wearing a t-shirt in addition to his usual sweatpants.

Then he remembered...he and Starsky were far from the beaches of Venice. At his parents' house in Duluth, in fact, where the temperature had risen to all of 20 degrees the day before, when the neighbors declared a heat wave.

Amused at his own disorientation, he shook his head at himself and started to lie back down...then he also remembered the accident from earlier that week.

He swung his feet out of the bed, yawning and rubbing at a vague ache in his forehead. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he couldn't restrain a yelp at the feel of the cold hardwood. He dropped back onto the bed and crawled to the end of it, where his suitcase rested on a cedar chest.

Digging in the dark, he found a pair of socks, pulled them on - - then on second thought, dragged on a robe, too.

The air in the room was cold. He sniffled, then wrapped the robe over his chest, braved the floor again...it was much better with the socks on...and padded out of the room.

The hallway was dark, too, but Hutch traversed it sure-footedly, letting childhood memories carry him down the elegant, old-fashioned Oriental rugs, past rare paintings and antique tables holding priceless vases, to the guest room. He carefully pressed open the large, heavy oak door on the right, somehow remembering that the left one had a squeaky hinge, and poked his head inside the room.

He couldn't tell much, though there seemed to be a dark lump somewhere around the center of the bed, which was illuminated only by a small opening in the heavy velvet draperies. The lump didn't appear to be moving; Hutch took this as a good sign but was not about to base his judgment solely on this impression. He crept into the room, going first to the drapes to open them the slightest bit more, and then turned to the bed where his partner was sleeping, examining him closely for any ill effects from his head injury, or the rigorous snowball fight.

In the slender sliver of light, Starsky's face was half-visible, the other half buried deep in a thick feather pillow. His eyes were closed, his mouth half-open, and the smallest snore escaped from the depths of the pillow as Hutch stood there. A white bandage stood out against the dark curls, but otherwise, there was no sign of that wild ride.

Hutch stifled a cough, then watched anxiously to make sure he hadn't wakened his partner. He should have known better; once he dropped off, Starsky was one of the soundest sleepers Hutch had ever encountered. Still, Hutch turned and tiptoed out of the room, rubbing his head again. Since he was up anyway, he decided this might be a good time to go out and take care of the horses...and then, since his throat felt dry and somewhat scratchy, he just might make himself some chamomile tea.

A short time later, he was taking a sip from the steaming cup, and sighing with pleasure. Relaxing, he glanced around the kitchen, thinking it was the one room that hadn't changed at all since he had left here more than ten years ago.

"If that's what you want to do with your life, Ken, then you may rest assured that you will do it without my permission, my blessing, or my money."

The immediate family - - Vanessa was at her parents' for the evening - - had been gathered around the table for Christmas Eve dinner. Twenty-two-year-old Ken, freshly returned from a triumphant semester at graduate school, was barely able to wait for the main course to be served, for that was the rule in the Hutchinson household: nothing of a family nature to be discussed until the main course was on the table. His father was a firm believer in the adage, "Not in front of the help." Across from him, 18-year-old Kimberly, fresh from her first semester at college, beamed delightedly at her big brother. Unable to restrain himself, Ken had told her everything earlier that day, then sworn her to secrecy as she squealed and hugged him tightly.

Now, full of excitement, proud that he had been admitted to the toughest police academy in California and done it all on his own, Ken announced his plans to his parents.

He had thought his father would choke on his wine.

"What the hell are you talking about, Ken?"

"James, please...there's no need to use profanity...."

"I told you, Dad. I applied to the academy in California and they accepted me," the younger Hutchinson said proudly. "I start in February...and I intend to take the detectives' course as soon as they'll let me."

James Robert Hutchinson, Esquire, stared at his son, the son who had been a shining star and valedictorian of his high school class, who seven months ago had graduated summa cum laude from the University of Minnesota, in addition to winning a fencing championship, who had earned top grades during his first semester in graduate school. The son whom he intended to see in office, or in a corporate boardroom one day. The son who had never, in his twenty-two years on this earth, defied his father or his father's wishes.

The son who had just begun his dinner and then informed James and Melinda that he wanted to be a police officer. In California, of all places.

"And what does your wife think of this?" he asked tightly, his forehead gathered in a dangerous frown.

"She doesn't know yet," Ken replied, his excitement beginning to fade under his father's harsh glare. "I wanted to tell all of you first."

James gazed at his son a beat longer, then returned his attention to his meal.

"No," he said, very simply, spearing a piece of meat with his fork and turning it over. "Melinda," he continued roughly, his mouth turning down in displeasure, "the new cook is terrible...this meat is barely warm. Please tell her to take this back and serve me something that won't give me food poisoning, will you?"

There was no response. At first, James didn't notice the silence; then, taking a sip of wine, he realized that his wife and both of his children were staring at him.

Ken's face was pale, and wore a stubborn expression James could not remember seeing before.

As soon as her husband's cold gaze turned to her, Melinda's eyes dropped, and she bit her lip.

Kimberly's eyes, wide and frightened, darted back and forth between her father and her brother.

James raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Is there something wrong?"

Ken looked down at his plate, but his jaw moved and set. For several seconds, the only sound in the dining room was the heavy tick of the grandfather clock, then the young man spoke.

"I'm going, Dad."

"You know the rules, Ken," James said mildly. "No one is excused until the meal is over."

Now Ken's eyes shifted back from his plate to his father, and in their gaze James saw something else he had never seen before.

Defiance.

"That's not what I mean," he said firmly.

Under the table, his hands were shaking. But he meant to have this, no matter what his father said.

James sat back in his chair, both eyebrows cocked now, fingers steepled before him. "Oh?" he said archly. "And just what do you mean?"

"The police academy," Ken said, his voice somewhat stronger. "I'm going."

James laughed shortly. "Out of the question," he pronounced. "Now finish your dinner...I can only hope the cook has something more...completed...for dessert." He lifted his fork.

"No."

The fork froze in mid-air. Over it, frigid blue eyes contemplated the young man.

"What did you say?"

"No," Ken repeated, ordering his hands to remain steady.

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" The icy tone matched the gaze; despite herself, Melinda Hutchinson shuddered.

"It means I'm twenty-one and I have the right to decide what I want to do with my life." Ken began heatedly, then stopped himself, knowing that getting angry with his father would do him absolutely no good. "Dad, listen...I got my bachelor's, married a great girl in the bargain, and I got into the PhD program at the U," he said persuasively. "I've got all kinds of time to get my doctorate...I want some real life experience for a change."

Once again, James Hutchinson said, "No."

It was not a tone that invited...or even permitted...argument.

Ignoring this fact that he knew all too well, Ken dropped his persuasive manner. "I intend to do it, Dad."

"If that's what you want to do with your life, Ken, then you may rest assured that you will do it without my permission, my blessing, or my money."

Ken's lips whitened, but when he spoke, his voice did not waver.

"Fine, Dad...that's just fine with me."

He pushed his chair back and tossed the snowy white linen napkin onto his plate. As if his movement released some hidden lever, Kimberly jumped up too, eyes spilling tears, horrified at the very thought that he would be leaving.

"Dad...K.J....stop!"

"Kimberly!" James thundered authoritatively. "Stay out of this." He fixed her with a ferocious gaze that returned her submissively to her seat. "And how many times have I told you not to call your brother by that ridiculous name?"

Kim subsided. Order restored, James turned back to his son.

"Well, Ken, if that's the way you feel about it, I have no wish to stand in the way of your ‘real-life experience,' " he said coldly. "Feel free to pack your things and find somewhere else to stay at any moment."

"I'll do that," Ken threw over his shoulder as he strode out the door.

"K.J.!" Heedless of the certain consequences, Kimberly threw back her chair and flew out the door after her brother.

Melinda turned to her husband, eyes wide, mouth open slightly in disbelief.

"Oh, finish your dinner," James ordered.

"But, James...he's leaving," she protested.

"Don't be ridiculous," James snapped, spearing another piece of meat and scrutinizing its color suspiciously. "He's not going anywhere."

But he had.

Hutch contemplated the room as he drained the cup of tea, reflecting on how long it had been since he had returned to this kitchen...and how the memories still twisted his stomach into knots. He smiled somewhat wryly at the idea that his father could make him this uncomfortable even while absent, and then, frowning, passed another hand across his forehead. He seemed to have a headache, which in and of itself wasn't unusual given his tendency to grind his teeth in his sleep. However, it usually went away by the time he really woke up...and he had been awake for at least an hour. He yawned, and rubbed the base of his throat absently, worrying at a little tickle that kept nagging at him there.

Then, suddenly, without a hint of warning, a spasm of coughing hit him.

A cold vague thought brushed over him and he shuddered, shoving it away with all his mental strength.

Everything should be fine, Ken.

Judith. Kissing him goodbye at the airport.

The doctor assuring him in her best medical voice that the plague that had nearly killed him was a one-time thing, a fluke, that his system had absorbed the antibodies and developed them into his very own personal vaccine. The odds of him catching it again, she had told him, were minimal, as long as he took the time to build himself back up.

All the while, the woman's eyes telling him how much she hated to leave.

Just take care of yourself, all right? Don't try to do too much too fast...I don't want to come back here. She had paused. At least...not like this.

For a moment, he thought of how he'd been dragging Starsky all over Bay City...and now Duluth...to do the things he had wanted to do for years, but had deemed himself "too busy." Almost dying had changed his priorities; lying in that damned hospital bed, roasting from fever and feeling the clutch of the virus tighten around his chest and throat, he had sworn that "too busy" would never stop him from experiencing things again.

You gotta slow down, Blintz...you can't do everything at once.

With a set to his jaw that echoed that of the 22-year-old Kenneth Hutchinson, Hutch point-blank refused the notion. It was dust in the house that had been empty since his folks had been gone, it was nothing, he was fine.

So fine, in fact, that he would take advantage of his early rising to go out to the barn and give the horses food and fresh water.

He set himself into quick, efficient motion, setting the cup on the counter, collecting his jacket and scarf from the closet, and pulling heavy boots onto his feet. Opening the side door and making sure it was unlocked, he pulled on the jacket, zipped it up, and wrapped the scarf securely around his neck. He turned the burner on under the teakettle. Then he stepped out into the still-dark winter morning.

Snow was falling in thick flakes, whirling in the whistling wind that seemed to find his ears immediately. It seemed the previous storm had been just a sneak preview, and they were now in for a real Minnesota howler. He hurried through the several inches that were already on the ground, emerged into the circle of light at the barn entrance, and went inside, barely able to keep hold of the door.

For a moment he just stood there in the welcoming warmth, remembering the last time he had taken refuge in this place. He had been eighteen then, just about to graduate from high school, and his grandfather had been ill for some time. His father had insisted on taking him to a hospital in his final days, ignoring Robert's wish to die in his own bed, surrounded by the land and creatures he loved and the ranch he had built from a few acres of land and a tumbledown house. He had died hours after being placed in Intensive Care, slipping soundlessly away with Hutch by his side, clutching his hand, tears streaming down his face.

The family had returned home, and Hutch had veered off to the barn to check on his own horse and spend a few moments collecting himself after the long and saddening ordeal.

To his discomfort, his father had followed him and chosen this moment to lecture him on the unseemliness of letting his feelings show so blatantly at the hospital.

It's just...not appropriate for a young man your age to be...crying like that in public, he had said stiffly, looking very out of place in the open area between the two rows of stalls.

Ken could only stare at his father in disbelief. His own father had died, and James was worried about "the impression Ken has made on the hospital staff." Even at his young age, even with his inherent and persistent desire to please his father whenever he could, he knew there was something very, very wrong with that line of thought.

His horse had poked his head over the stall gate and nudged him. Ken laid his cheek against the animal's velvet jowl, letting the warmth seep into him, and looked up into the trusting brown eyes. In that intelligent gaze, he remembered, he had found more comfort than he ever would in his father's voice or touch...and this made him unutterably sad.

Stop it.

Face drawn at the painful memory, Hutch shook himself. Jesus Christ, you're getting maudlin in your old age, he told himself sternly. You're on vacation, for cryin' out loud, your dad's not here...put it to rest, huh?

He gave the final horse one last pat on the neck, then braced himself for the return trip back to the house.

Back in the kitchen, he pulled off his boots and padded in his stocking feet to answer the teakettle's insistent whistle, turning off the stove and moving the kettle to another, cool burner. Dropping a tea bag into the cup, he poured the boiling water, appreciating the steam that rose to his nostrils. He placed the kettle on a back burner and dipped the tea bag absently into the mixture then, as usual, looped the string around the handle and left the cup on the counter to steep.

Deciding he wanted something a little sweeter this time, he shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it onto the kitchen table with his scarf, then started digging through the cabinets, in search of honey or some other semi-natural substance for his tea. He tried the refrigerator, thinking he might locate a stray lemon...but the only one he found was shriveled and somehow pitiful. With a noise of disgust, he nudged the door shut and went back to the counter to fetch his cup.

He had taken an experimental sip of the tea, and resigned himself to adding a spoonful of sugar, when another spasm of coughing struck him and bent him double. For a moment, he couldn't catch his breath, and he couldn't help the wave of terror that washed over him.

It was several seconds before he recovered. When he did, the thought he had pushed away returned, and hit him with such violence that his knees buckled and he sank to the floor beside the stove.

Sore throat. Headache. Cough.

He touched his forehead with the back of his hand, and realized how warm his skin was; yet, he was trembling with cold and he felt an ominous ache in his lower back.

Fever.

Sweet Jesus.

He sat there for several moments, thoughts swooping around in his head like distracted bats. He tried desperately to find rational ways to battle the panic, but it wouldn't be checked. All he could think of was the last few weeks, and how he had found a new passion for his life, an appreciation he had never experienced before...and now that joy, that - - zest - - came back to mock and taunt him. As if somehow, it had not been real, but merely a mask the illness had worn as it waited to pounce when he least expected it.

And it was just like the first time.

One minute, he had felt fine, and he and Starsky had been intent on catching the celebrated hitman who had somehow managed to fly into the city undetected, spread a deadly virus, and make at least one attempt at fulfilling his contract. He had been so focused on that hunt, he hadn't had time to think of tomorrow, or the next day, because he assumed they would be there and he would attend to them when the time came.

Then...slam. Without a warning, without so much as a chill or a hint of fatigue...the call had come in from Judith. Not for him - - which should have been his first clue that something was terribly wrong - - but for Starsky.

He remembered the look on Starsky's face, how it had changed from teasing pleasure at talking to "the lady doc" to something else, a look Hutch had never seen before. Starsky's eyes had darted back and forth for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching and then setting firmly, and he had turned away from Hutch. Puzzled, Hutch had waited for his partner to pass him the phone so he, too, could talk to Judith...but Starsky had merely said, "No. I'll take care of it," and hung up.

For several seconds, the dark-haired detective had not moved. Concerned, Hutch laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Starsk? You okay?"

Starsky nodded once, then took a deep breath, and finally, turned back to face his partner.

Hutch's frown deepened at his expression. "Something's happened," he guessed.

Not yet trusting his voice, Starsky nodded.

"What?" Hutch urged gently.

Starsky looked away, then back at Hutch again, licked his lips. "Judith said they rechecked the blood samples they've been holding, just to see if anyone who was exposed before turned up with this thing."

"Someone did," Hutch assumed. Starsky nodded. Hutch waited, then when nothing else was forthcoming, he prompted, "Who?"

Again, Starsky was silent for several seconds. Hutch could see his partner struggling for composure, eyes blinking, throat working.

He hadn't needed to say anything more.

And just that fast, his life had shrunk. Not turned upside down, but reduced the way the television picture used to race down to a tiny dot when you turned it off, from the whole city to the hospital...and then to that suffocating room...and then, finally, to that bed where he had felt his life being ripped away with every painful breath and ragged cough. He had been certain, in those last hours that he was going to die...and it wasn't something he had seriously faced before.

Sure, he had been in danger plenty of times, but always with some degree of power in his own hands. This...this had been vastly, terrifyingly different. And he could not describe the gratitude with which he had faced each day after Starsky had found Callendar and the serum had been successfully formulated. He knew he had survived by the barest slice of luck...or at least, he thought he had.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

Enough. He'd been thinking far too much, and the cold floor beneath him was not helping the way he felt. Slowly, somewhat shakily, he got to his feet. Wrapping the robe more securely in an effort to ward off the chills, he turned the light out in the kitchen and made his way back upstairs.

He paused for a moment outside the guest room door; hearing nothing amiss, he went on to his own room. Not bothering to turn on the light, he shed the robe and slipped back into the bed, shivering slightly as he hit sheets that had cooled in his absence. He pulled the covers up close to his neck and burrowed down into the blankets as far as he could. Eventually, the shivering eased somewhat, and he drifted off into a heavy, although far from easy, sleep.

~*~*~*~

Several hours later, it was Starsky's eyes that popped open, and gazed around fuzzily at the unfamiliar, richly appointed surroundings. For a moment, the dark brows drew together in a frown, wondering as his partner had where he was and what had awakened him. Realization was quick in dawning, and he sat up, reaching for the robe that lay across the foot of the bed. Throwing the covers back, he swung out of the bed and shoved his feet into the sheepskin slippers he had purchased especially for this trip.

Quickly - - and, he had to admit, somewhat excitedly - - he went over to the draperies and fumbled among folds of material for the cord. The air had a particularly muffled feel, and he hoped it wasn't just the heavy material causing that absence of sound he remembered from his years in New York. Locating the drapery cord at last, he yanked at it impatiently...and was literally struck breathless by the sight that met his eyes.

Snow.

Thick, enormous flakes of snow fell heavily outside the window, obscuring the view of the Hutchinson ranch. Where last night he had been able to distinguish the garage, the horse barn, and a vast grazing field, now there were only mounds and stretches of white as far as the eye could see, broken only by the trees that looked as if they had been heaped with powdered sugar. Starsky grinned as he moved closer to the window and saw that Kim's car was completely buried. Judging from that, and the drifts on the balcony, there were several inches already on the ground.

He looked up. Judging from the slate gray skies, it wasn't letting up any time soon. His grin widened as he decided that his vague wish for a "good old-fashioned, snowed-in white Christmas" might come true after all. He hadn't realized how much he missed it, after spending more than half his life in California, until he gazed across the picture-postcard landscape and felt that simple joy and pleasure that only nature's beauty can bring.

Particularly when you don't have to drive in it.

He turned away from the window and flipped on the bedside light, grateful that the Hutchinsons had a generator that would ensure electricity even if the rest of the city lost power in the winter storm. Though the idea of being cut off from the world for a few days undoubtedly appealed to him, he had no wish to do it without heat or hot water, not in the midst of a frigid Duluth winter. He rummaged in his duffle bag for a few minutes, came up with his shaving gear and other sundries, then disappeared into the bathroom for a nice, leisurely shower.

Some thirty minutes later, he emerged, clean, freshly shaven, and wide awake. Humming a mixture of Christmas tunes under his breath, he dressed in his customary jeans and t-shirt, topped off by a thick sweater, and sat down on the bed to pull on his shoes. As he was tying the laces, his eye fell on the clock and he paused, surprised to see that it was well after eleven - - later than he normally would have slept, and far past the time he would have expected Hutch to be up and about. Of course, at home, everyone was awake once Hutch was - - the diminutive size and open floor plan of Hutch's apartment virtually assured that - - but "Hutchinson Manor," as Starsky had dubbed it, could have held approximately ten of Hutch's home with room for at least two of the Starsky abode as well.

He headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs, fully expecting to find Hutch in the kitchen, or failing that, in the library reading or noodling around on the grand piano. Surprised at the empty silence that met him in both those places, he went from room to room, wondering where his partner could be.

The more he wandered, the more amazed he was at the meticulously conspicuous consumption that marked so much of the Hutchinson home. Each room clearly had been coordinated around a particular theme, from a dainty floral sitting room with delicate, pale furniture and fabrics, to an obviously masculine den that virtually emanated the scent of cigars and brandy. As Starsky poked his head into a room filled with carefully arranged objets d'art and chairs that looked eminently unsittable, he thought of the vastly different furnishings of Hutch's apartment, which was a hodgepodge of antiques his grandfather had left him and odds and ends he'd picked up during his time in California, and the warm earthiness of Kim's house that sat on the northern edge of the ranch's boundaries. He tried to envision Hutch and Kim living in this museum piece...tried to imagine any child running down the carpeted hallways or thudding down the gleaming hardwood stairs...and failed utterly.

Appearances, he thought to himself, as he returned to the kitchen. Hutch's always said that's all his old man cared about...how things looked to the outside world. He had to admit, it made him somewhat sad to think of Kim and Hutch growing up in this sterile environment, and then he shook himself. Hutch's parents weren't here, the snow was at least six inches outside and fallin' fast, it was almost Christmas, and they were on vacation.

It wasn't the norm, but it wasn't completely unheard of for Hutch to turn off his alarm and crash for a few extra hours from time to time. The week had been more eventful than either of them had bargained for, and if he knew his partner, he'd bet Hutch had been in at least once or twice to check on him during the night. Maybe Hutch was still sacked out upstairs, and would appreciate a little room service.

Having grown familiar with the Hutchinson kitchen, it took him no time to make a pot of steaming hot coffee; he even located a thermal carafe to pour it into. Pleased with himself, he took the carafe and two mugs up the stairs and nudged open the door to Hutch's room.

"Up and at ‘em, Blintz," he said cheerfully as he set his offerings on the night table beside Hutch's bed. "It's practically tomorrow, Blondie...plannin' on sleepin' the day away?"

When there was no response, he reached over to flip on the light, and turned back to the bed, thinking he'd whip the covers off and drag his partner up as he'd tried to the morning before...but then he caught sight of Hutch and froze.

He sank down on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on the blond man's shoulder. As he did, Hutch moaned in his sleep and turned away, then was racked with a deep, rattling cough that hurt Starsky's chest just listening to it. He moved his hand up to touch Hutch's forehead, and frowned at the heat and dampness that met his hand. As he drew back, Hutch groaned and turned again, this time onto his back, and his eyes opened.

With a lurch that nearly knocked him off the bed, Starsky saw the look of fever and pain in the pale blue eyes...a look that was all too familiar.

He swallowed.

"Hutch?" he said softly. "Hey, buddy...what's goin' on?"

"Starsk," Hutch said hoarsely. "Woke up earlier...felt like shit...."

"Yeah, ya look it, too," Starsky ribbed him gently, battling his own sense of panic. "What is it?"

"Sore throat," Hutch whispered. "Headache...." He brought a hand to his mouth as another spasm of coughing struck him with such force that the bed shook under both of them. "Cough," he added unnecessarily, bringing an involuntary twisted grin to Starsky's lips. "Think I've got a...fever, too...." He shivered. "Starsk...I'm so cold...."

"Probably just a bad cold," Starsky said with a reassurance he did not feel. "Got a thermometer around anywhere?"

At the moment, Hutch was coughing too hard to reply, but he waved a hand toward a nearby door. Starsky pulled the blankets back up and tucked them firmly around his friend's neck, then squeezed his shoulder once and got up from the bed. Keeping his demeanor casual and confident, he went into the bathroom and closed the door...then sank down onto the commode as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

Sore throat. Headache. Cough. Fever.

"His temperature's up...his white count is dropping."

"In other words, he's dying."

"Yes."

No way. There was no way that this could be that, not again. Judith had assured them both of that, that Hutch was immune to a recurrence of the weird plague that had almost killed him. This couldn't be it. It had to be a fluke, a cold, Hutch's system protesting the breakneck pace he'd been driving himself at over the last few weeks, in his desire to taste everything he'd been certain he'd never experience. He'd have a slight fever, nothing dangerous, and after a few days of RandR under the care of one David Michael Starsky, he'd be up and around....

Alakazam, Captain Marvel....

He'd almost been wrong then. What if...?

He shook his head again, and ordered himself to get to his feet, find the thermometer, and go back to his friend, who needed overreaction and conclusion jumping like a hole in the head at this point. Whatever it was, they'd handle it...they'd go to a doc in town if they had to, get a shot, and they'd be on their way in no time. Nothing, but nothing, was going to spoil this recovery time...not this tomb of a showcase home, and not some jumped up version of the common cold.

He had a fleeting thought of the heaped snow outside his window, but shoved it aside firmly. One thing at a time.

He forced a smile to his face and pulled open the bathroom door, returning to Hutch's bed and sinking back down on the side of it. Hutch had half-drifted back into a doze, and Starsky shook his shoulder gently, though he hated to wake him. "Hey, Blintz...hold onto that for a couple minutes, huh?" He slid the thermometer into Hutch's mouth and glanced at the clock beside the bed.

It seemed forever before the requisite minutes were up...and yet, the time that both men could tell themselves it was nothing serious flew by. Starsky withdrew the slender glass tube and examined the level of the mercury...then shoved it under the light of the lamp, not wanting to believe what he saw. He gave a low whistle. "Holy shit, Hutch," he said teasingly, again trying to keep his own composure, "Your temperature's higher than my bank account."

From the sweat-dampened pillows, Hutch started to chuckle, but the sound was swept away by another coughing spell. Starsky swallowed hard, and occupied himself with shaking the thermometer down, returning to the bathroom and running it under cold water, then returning it to its case in the medicine cabinet. As he closed the door, he saw his own stricken face in the mirror, and told himself to stay calm.

"Starsk," he heard from the bed, and he nearly gave himself whiplash turning back to the room.

"Yeah, buddy, right here," he said, crouching beside the bed and taking Hutch's hot hand in his own. "Whaddya need?"

"Maybe...just in case...we should go into town and find a doctor," Hutch said hoarsely.

"That's a good idea, Ollie," Starsky replied with a sigh. "Unfortunately, there's about a ton of snow out there that might get in the way."

Hutch half-smiled. "White Christmas," he whispered. "Got your wish, partner."

"Yeah, well, it coulda waited a few more days...or you coulda," Starsky responded. "Lookit, I'm gonna go down to the kitchen and rustle up some orange juice or somethin'...don't go away, huh?"

Hutch snorted, and for once the sound didn't bring on the racking cough. "Very funny." Then his face contorted in pain, and he clutched the blankets tight to his chest, half-turning away from Starsky once again.

"Just take care of that little sucker...that's twisting my chest into a knot...."

Starsky ordered his brain to stop running that movie, got to his feet, and hurried out of the room.

Tucked under the blankets but still shaking with cold, Hutch finally felt the pressure in his chest lessen, and attempted to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. Desperately, he tried to draw in a deep breath to help himself relax, but his irritated lungs and throat would not permit it. Despite his best efforts to try to calm himself, he could feel his logic slipping away in the riptide of the high fever and the all-too-vivid memories.

Then Starsky was beside him, setting a pitcher on the night table and pressing a tall, wonderfully cool glass into his hand. "Take this, Blintz," he urged gently. "Least your folks've got plenty of orange juice down in that high-tech kitchen."

As Hutch tried to take a sip of the juice, another coughing spell struck, knocking a generous splash of orange out of the glass and over the sheets and the pillowcase. Starsky moved the glass to the safety of the bedside table, then scooted further onto the bed, edging his arm underneath his partner's shoulders. "Here," he said. "Try sittin' up and see if that helps ya breathe any easier."

With Starsky's help, Hutch was able to rise into a sitting position, still fighting for breath. Starsky held him tightly against his chest, trying to absorb some of the terrible force of the paroxysms heaving through his friend's body, stunned at the heat that was radiating from him.

Finally, Hutch's breathing eased, and Starsky felt his body slump with exhaustion. For a moment, neither of them spoke; they just sat there, Hutch trying to recover from the physical strain, and Starsky trying to sort through possible solutions in his mind.

"Starsk," he finally heard Hutch saying. "Starsk...can you loosen up a little bit?"

"Yeah...sorry," he said, somewhat hoarsely, as he relaxed the arm that was wrapped around Hutch's shoulders. Hutch lay back against the pillows, his face drawn and pale from pain and effort, and closed his eyes. Starsky laid a hand on his shoulder; a beat later, an answering hand slipped out from under the covers and rested on his thigh, heat seeping almost instantly through the jeans to pulse against his skin.

Starsky tipped his head back and blinked up at the ceiling, willing himself again to stay calm.

"Starsk," Hutch whispered, and Starsky's eyes flew immediately to his friend's. "Got any ideas?"

"Fresh out at the moment," Starsky admitted. "That storm they told us about at the hospital musta moved in...there's gotta be seven or eight inches of snow out there, and more on the way." A thought struck him, and he snapped his fingers. "Ambulance," he said. "You do have one of those around here, don't ya?"

Bizarrely, Hutch thought about how Starsky's New York accent always showed itself more strongly when he was under stress and trying to convince Hutch that nothing was wrong.

"Yeah," he murmured, through a throat that felt like sandpaper. "Phone book should be...in the kitchen." He tensed again as pain swept through him, blessedly without a cough this time. "Hate the idea...." he began, as it ebbed away again, but Starsky interrupted.

"Deal with it," he said firmly. "I told you, I almost lost ya once and I'm not takin' any chances." He pulled the blankets back up around Hutch's throat once more, gripped his hand briefly, then went back downstairs.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, he spotted the phone book under a pile of papers on the shelf of a small occasional table. He reached for it, thinking his limbs were moving smoothly and efficiently...only to have that impression completely dispelled when the sheaf of papers went flying in one direction and the thick book in another, landing on the floor with a plop. As he sighed exasperatedly and bent to pick it up, he understood why his coordination was suddenly so Hutch-like...his hands were trembling violently.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up the book and chucked it onto the counter, then clenched his fists and spoke sternly to himself. He knew he was scared, he knew of what, and he knew he had every right to be. But that didn't change the facts. You gotta hold it together, he ordered. Hutch is countin' on you.

Hands steady once more, he flipped open the phone book and rapidly scanned the inside cover. Spotting the number almost immediately, he committed it quickly to memory, then strode over and lifted the receiver, thinking briefly that if the phone service was out they were in some serious trouble.

Luck was with him; the dial tone hummed busily in his ear. He jabbed the numbers for the Duluth hospital, and when it was answered, explained the situation.

The dispatcher at the other end paused for a moment. "Where did you say you were again, sir?" she said, and Starsky thought he detected a note of disquiet in her voice.

"The James Hutchinson residence," he replied briskly. "Uh..." he looked around for a piece of mail or some other item that would have the address on it, "I'm staying here as a guest with their son," he explained, scattering papers again in his search. "I'm not sure what the address is...."

"I know the address, sir," the operator said, her voice becoming uneasy. She hesitated, then continued bravely, "I'm afraid there's no way for us to get out there."

"What?" Starsky heard the yelp of protest bounce off the ceiling and reined himself back in sharply. "What do you mean, you can't get out here? You're an emergency medical service, this is a medical emergency, and you need to get an ambulance out here as soon as possible."

"Sir, please," she said, her tone now somewhat pleading. "I know you're frightened for your friend, but that's a full-scale Minnesota snowstorm going on out there, and the plows can't keep up with what's coming down. The highways aren't even cleared out, and the Hutchinson ranch is a good ten miles from the nearest major street...twenty from the highway. I want to help you, I really do...but I can't get anyone anywhere near your location."

"Okay, okay," Starsky relented, his mind continuing to flip through possible alternatives. "How about this...can you patch me through to one of your paramedics?"

"Yes, that I can do," she said.

"Good," he said with a sigh of relief. "Do it."

There was a series of clicks and whirs, and then a tinny voice came onto the line. "Pierce here...what seems to be the problem?"

"Detective Starsky, here on vacation from L.A.," Starsky said brusquely, hoping his "cop voice" would speed things along. "My partner's here with a bad cough, headache, high fever...and I got no way of getting him out or you in. Got any advice?"

There was a small pause on the other end of the line, then the voice said somewhat testily. "Detective Starsky, we're on our way to a ten-car pileup through a freakin' blizzard, and you're asking me what to do with a case of the flu?"

"It's not that simple," Starsky snapped. "You hear about that plague that was in our neck of the woods last month?"

"Yeah...."

"Well, my partner had it, and he's only been out of the hospital a coupla weeks."

"And...."

"And this looks an awful lot like it," Starsky said with exaggerated patience. "Now do you see why this is an emergency?"

Again, there was a pause and a sigh at the other end of the line. Over the wire's hum, Starsky could hear the muted wail of the ambulance siren. He waited, feeling his pulse pound in his chest and his throat, for somebody else to understand just how serious this was.

But this jerk wasn't it.

"Look, Detective, I wish there was something more I could do for you, but there's no way we could get any kind of medical supplies to you way out there. All I can suggest is that you take the normal precautions for a cold or flu, and try to get him to a doctor as soon as the weather clears." The siren's shriek slowed and stopped, and Starsky heard slamming doors and voices speaking urgently, all underscored by the howling of the winter wind. "I'll be right there!" the paramedic said tightly to someone, then returned his attention to Starsky. "I'm sorry, Detective...I really am. Good luck, to you and your friend."

"Yeah, thanks," Starsky said, resisting the urge to slam the phone down. He cradled the receiver, then, in a gesture of helpless fury, swept the telephone and the directory to the floor. As the din from that faded in the kitchen, he stood stock still, fists clenched at his side, forcing himself to think.

Fortunately, portions of the Starsky brain were clearly working as the good Lord had intended, and another idea popped into his consciousness. He dug his wallet out of his hip pocket, and sifted hurriedly through its contents until he located the business card he was seeking. Rescuing the phone, its cord tangled but the instrument otherwise unharmed, he flicked the hook switch to restore the dial tone, then hurriedly punched in the number on the card.

After what seemed like forever, the phone on the other end rang... and rang...and rang.

"C'mon, babe, c'mon," Starsky said urgently under his breath. "Be there, you gotta be there." Finally there was a click, and he breathed a sigh of relief...but his hopes were almost immediately dashed.

"This is Dr. Judith Kaufman of the Center for Disease Control, answering by recording...I'm sorry I'm not available to take your call at this time, but please leave your name and number after the tone, and I'll get back with you as quickly as I can."

Starsky lowered his head as the beep pierced through his hearing. For a moment, he was unable to speak, then slowly, his voice strained, he said, "Judith...this is David Starsky. I'm in Duluth with Hutch, and he's...he's real sick. High fever, chills, cough...just like before. There's a blizzard here and nobody can get to us. Call me here at..." He searched frantically again for the phone number...finally finding it penciled neatly on the telephone itself. He read it off, then repeated it, and paused again. "Right away...hear me, Judith? Call me right away."

This time, he returned the phone slowly and carefully to its cradle, eyes blinking rapidly, shoulders slumping as if they literally bore the responsibility that seemed more and more to be his alone. In less than an hour, his delight in the heavy snow had changed to a dread that lay in his stomach like a soggy lump. No ambulance. No doctor. No one around for miles...or even available for questioning, it seemed. All the services he took for granted in the city were completely out of his reach. And who knew how sick Hutch really was? Maybe it was just the flu...or maybe all their nightmares had come true.

Dammit, Hutch, he thought with a bitterness some detached part of him knew was unreasonable, his fear so intense that it gave birth to resentment at Hutch for putting him in this horrible place again. I told you...I told you to slow it down and take better care of yourself. This oughta be you...you're the one who knows what to do in these medical situations, not me.

He stopped himself then, knowing that being mad at Hutch for doing too much too soon was like being mad at a river for overflowing its banks. That was just how his partner was. Give Hutch an allergy and he'd give you news updates on the hour and milk it for all it was worth. Something like this, and he'd call you long distance to tell you he was fine, he was skiing, it was just a little concussion and a broken leg and a sprained wrist.

There had been only one time when even Ken Hutchinson had to admit things were damned serious.

This ain't no f-fun...and the game is, Hutch is dying.

Memories ripped through Starsky like razors, so sharp that he lost his breath for a moment. When he'd stalked out of the isolation room that day, ripping away the paper gown and mask, he had sworn viciously, that he would never, ever be in that spot again, of watching his friend dying while all of his own best efforts fell short again and again.

And yet here he was. Utterly cut off from the world around him, poised on the cusp of complete helplessness when it came to taking care of his best friend.

No way.

He tapped his fingers on the phone furiously, forcing himself to think, eyes scanning the room for any possible source of inspiration. His glance swept past a gallery of pictures on a kitchen sideboard...then backtracked to one of Hutch with his mother. His eyes narrowed...what a cliché...and then he shrugged; what did he have to lose? He picked up the phone and rapidly punched in a New York number.

To his relief, his mother picked up after only two rings.

"Ma...hey, Ma, it's David."

"David!" Ruth Starsky's delight at hearing her son's voice was immediately apparent, even across the telephone wires. Despite his fear, Starsky smiled, and he couldn't help being grateful that this was his mom, instead of that impeccably groomed woman who sat with a much younger Hutch, both smiling stiffly out of the silver frame. "How are you, darling?"

"Not great, Ma, and that's why I'm callin'," Starsky admitted. Under normal circumstances, he would have engaged in some small talk, a little teasing, and a lot of affection with his mother before getting down to brass tacks, but he was too worried about Hutch to take the time just now. "Hutch and I are here in Duluth, at his parents' house...."

"Oh, right, I remember you said you were going there for Christmas," Ruth said. Starsky could hear muffled thumps in the background, and he imagined his mother cradling the phone between her chin and her shoulder as she busily pounded dough into submission on the counter. "How's Ken?"

"Not great," Starsky repeated with a rueful half smile. "Matter of fact, he's pretty sick."

"You sound worried," his mother said, her tone acquiring a maternal concern that was intended for Hutch as well as her son. "What's the matter with Ken?"

"Chills, cough, headache, high fever," Starsky rattled off. "Remember he had that - - that virus?"

That almost killed him, he thought but did not say.

"Well, this looks like a lot like the same thing."

Ruth left the dough at peace for a moment so she could give her son and his dilemma her full attention. Her lively face with its merry blue eyes became somber, as she remembered how frantic Starsky had been when Hutch had fallen ill, not so long ago. "Oh, David," she murmured softly, and her voice was as soothing as the warm hand she undoubtedly would have stroked across his forehead if she had been there. "I'm sure it's nothing that serious...it could just be a case of the flu. Everyone's got it here, too...people staying home in droves. Stores are saying it's the worst Christmas shopping in years."

"They say that every year, Ma," Starsky reminded her, wishing she wouldn't climb the soapbox like she always did...but at the same time loving her for trying to shrink this down to something manageable.

"So they do," she agreed, and Starsky could almost see that expressive lift she gave to her shoulder when she didn't agree with you but didn't consider the argument worth pursuing. "So. Bundle Ken up, and get him to the doctor, or a hospital...."

"No can do," Starsky said regretfully. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he looked out at the whirling snow, which seemed, if anything, to be falling even more heavily than before. "We're havin' a blizzard out here, and you gotta go twenty miles from his folk's place just to get to the edge of nowhere. I've been tryin' to reach the doc who treated Hutch while he was in the hospital, but she wasn't in her office."

"What about an ambulance?"

"They can't get through either, because of the snow." Starsky sighed. "And all the paramedics could tell me was to treat it like a regular cold or flu."

"That sounds like good advice," Ruth stated firmly. She knew her son, and she suspected he knew exactly what to do but needed reassurance more than anything else - - reassurance and a sense that he wasn't in this thing alone. She gave the dough a final thump and dusted off her hands as if preparing to hunt through the Duluth cabinets herself. "So, tell me, David. What do these rich Hutchinsons have in the house? Any kind of juice at all? Soup?"

"Juice I know for sure," Starsky replied, finding a half-dozen cans of frozen concentrate in the freezer. He located a food pantry and scanned the contents, "And....yep. Cans of soup, all shapes and sizes." He could feel his tension beginning to ease under the capable certainty of his mother's verbal ministrations.

"He's not going to want to eat," Ruth predicted briskly. "But you'll have to make him, because he'll need his strength."

"Ma, you ever tried to make Hutch do somethin' he doesn't want to?" Starsky queried plaintively. "Trust me...it's like puttin' toe shoes on a bull."

"Make him whatever kind of soup he wants," Ruth Starsky ordered, ignoring her son's glibness. "And sit on him if you have to, but make him eat."

His mood improving by the second, Starsky grinned at the image that conjured in his head. "Roger, Ma...anything else?"

"Have they got a vaporizer?"

Starsky rolled his eyes, a sure sign that his natural good humor had returned full strength. "Hell, I don't know...I've been in this house all of a week."

"Don't swear," his mother chided him automatically. "Well, see if they do...and if they don't, take him into the bathroom, close the door, and turn the shower on as hot as you can. The steam'll help clear up his head and chest. He'll feel a lot better, trust me."

Starsky agreed with her wholeheartedly, and his smile grew somewhat lopsided as he recalled a single mother, worn out from the long day at work, nevertheless sitting for hours in a sweltering bathroom with one croupy boy or another...holding him close in her arms, rocking and crooning a soft tune, her caring as much a cure for what ailed him as the waves of steam.

"Start with that," his mother's voice ordered, breaking his reverie, "and keep trying to reach that doctor. She probably knows more about this than I do, especially since she took care of Ken before." She gazed out her kitchen window thoughtfully and her tone grew soft once more. "David?"

"Yeah, Ma?"

"Are you okay?"

The smile wobbled further and grew very, very fond. "Yeah, Ma, I'm fine...or at least a lot better."

"Ken'll be okay," she assured him gently. "Try not to worry."

"Thanks, Ma," Starsky said sincerely. "I'll call you on Christmas."

"Day after," she told him. "The lines won't be so busy."

Starsky's grin became a throaty chuckle. They both knew he'd call her on Christmas, and probably the day after, too. "All right, Ma. Talk to you then."

He hung up the phone, feeling vastly better, comforted in that way that sometimes, only a mother can accomplish. He glanced again at the pictures on the sideboard, and felt a pang of sympathy for his partner, who had probably never had the kind of affectionate conversation Starsky shared with his mother on a regular basis...and indeed took for granted.

It was strange, he thought, dragging a can of concentrate out of the freezer and dumping it into a convenient blender. Most people would have looked at the two of them and considered Hutch the lucky one, growing up in a wealthy suburb in the heart of Americana. With his attorney father, private schools, and a college degree assured, he would have been envied by many as the golden boy of the pair.

Whereas Starsky had lost his father at the tender age of ten, and watched his mother struggle...first with raising him and Nick in an inner city neighborhood, then with the decision to send Starsky to California. It had been the hardest decision she had ever made, he reflected, filling the blender with water. But his aunt and uncle were loving, childless, and they adored young David. In less rough-and-tumble surroundings, Ruth had hoped her son would have a chance at a better life.

Starsky slapped the lid on the blender and jabbed at the "mix" button. Sure, things had been lean, even when he'd come to his Aunt Rosie's; though they were better fixed than the New York Starskys, they were by no means wealthy...not like Hutch's folks, anyway. But for all its material deprivation, the Starsky home had been jam-packed with warmth and noise and people constantly reaching out to each other - - sometimes with a hug, sometimes a slap, but still, the contact was there.

Unlike the Hutchinson home, where the overwhelming message was as clear as if it had been posted on every available surface, including the living ones: DON'T TOUCH.

Which made it all the more amazing that Hutch always responded so immediately to anyone in pain, whether it was a victim, a child, or Starsky himself, with a warm and tender touch, that laying on of hands that communicated his caring so completely.

And this was one of those times, Starsky decided, for his partner to get some of that back.

Searching rapidly through the kitchen cabinets, he located another thermal carafe, and dumped the freshly-made orange juice into it. Under the sink, he found a small serving tray, on which he placed the carafe, two glasses, and a bowl of ice. Hefting this, he went back up the stairs and into Hutch's room.

Hutch seemed to have dozed off, but he was restless, twisting back and forth in his sleep, his eyes and mouth twitching, small moans escaping from time to time. Starsky set the tray on the nightstand, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Hutch?" he said softly, laying his hand on his partner's shoulder and rubbing gently until the fevered blue eyes opened and blinked up at him. "Got some stuff for you here...prescribed by Mama Starsky."

Hutch's lips half-twitched into a faint smile, then fell again as if even that took too much effort now. Starsky tried to ignore the waves of heat that poured up at him as he slid his arm under Hutch's shoulders and helped him into a sitting position. He handed his friend a glass of the orange juice, ordered him to "Drink it," and then got up from the bed and went into the bathroom, where he dampened a number of washcloths.

Grateful for the liquid that soothed his parched throat, Hutch drained half the glass as he watched his partner bustle around the rooms. Under other circumstances, he might have protested, might have insisted that his friend go back to bed and rest his own injured head and let Hutch take care of himself. But he was too tired, and too scared, to fight that age-old battle...so for a change, he just relaxed and let Starsky take charge and fuss over him.

And, he had to admit as he polished off the glass of juice, it felt pretty darned good.

Starsky nodded approvingly when he returned and saw the empty glass. As he refilled it, Hutch half-smiled at him. "Bet you never thought this was how you'd spend Christmas," he said, his voice husky.

"Bite your tongue," Starsky commanded. "It's still five days before Christmas, Blondie... I'm countin' on you bein' up and around by then." He handed Hutch the fresh glass of juice. "Here. Drink this, and then we're gonna take a little walk."

"Walk?" The glass halted halfway to Hutch's lips as he raised an eyebrow at Starsky's words. "What?"

"Don't try to figure it out, Hutch," Starsky suggested, patting his friend's forehead and face with one of the washcloths. "Just do what you're told, and everything'll be fine."

Hutch snorted, but couldn't restrain a small sigh of relief and pleasure at the blessedly cool feel of the damp cloth on his burning face and aching head. Starsky traded the rapidly warming cloth for a fresh one, gently blotting away the sweat that had accumulated from hours of fever and pain. He repeated the process with the third cloth, then tossed all three onto the table and pushed the covers back. "C'mon."

"Where we goin'?" Hutch asked, nevertheless obeying as Starsky guided his legs to the side of the bed.

"Just trust me," Starsky said, scooting next to him. Draping one of Hutch's arms over his shoulder, and placing his own arm around his friend's waist, he looked up. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, I guess," Hutch shrugged. He tried to help as Starsky rose to his feet and steered both of them toward the bathroom, but his legs didn't seem to want to hold him, and they just barely made it.

Situating his friend on the commode, ignoring Hutch's puzzled looks and half-mumbled questions, Starsky closed the door, turned on the shower, and cranked up the hot water. The room was fairly tiny, and it wasn't long before the steam began to billow forth, enveloping both of them in the moisture and heat.

Starsky parked himself on the vanity counter, and wrapped an arm around Hutch's chest, drawing the blond man close against him. For one thing, he wanted to make sure that Hutch wouldn't slip off his seat if he launched into another coughing fit...and for another, he was bound and determined to give Hutch that human contact...that healing, holding power of touch that he knew his partner desperately needed but for which he would never ask. As he pulled Hutch close against his legs, Hutch's hand, still burning with fever, groped up, and clasped Starsky's tightly. In the strength of that grip, Starsky knew that despite his attempts at joking, despite the delirium of the fever, Hutch was thinking about the plague too, and was as frightened as he was.

Before too long, both men were drenched in sweat from the makeshift steam bath, but Hutch's breathing sounded somewhat easier. Untangling himself, Starsky turned off the water, and somehow got both of them back to the bed. Settling Hutch under the covers, he re-wet the cloths and fetched a few towels so he could blot some of the perspiration from both of them.

Hutch watched him with eyes that were a little more alert and comprehending. "I take it the ambulance isn't coming," he said at last.

"Nope, it's me and thee as usual," Starsky said, trying to keep his tone light as he applied the cloths and towels to his friend's face, chest, and arms. "Man, you're soaked, Blintz...if I get you something else to wear, do you think you can change out of these?"

"Don't bother," Hutch said dismissingly. "I'd just sweat through those too."

"Yeah, but it seems like you shouldn't be layin' there in wet clothes...."

"Stop fussin'," Hutch said drowsily. "I feel a lot better."

"Liar," Starsky accused him affectionately. "But it was a killer performance."

"Hey," Hutch said, eyes widening as a sudden thought struck him. "Why don't you call Judith...maybe she can help us out...."

"Already did," Starsky said, picking up the thermometer and shaking it down. "Here." He slipped it between Hutch's lips, and then responded to the question his partner's eyes were asking. "She wasn't there," he explained. "I left a message for her to call as soon as possible."

They sat there again as the seconds ticked by on the clock. Hutch was still struggling for each breath, and Starsky could still feel the fever and see it in his eyes. When he withdrew the thermometer, he had to look at it twice, then shook it down without a word, his lips tightening as Hutch's eyes fluttered shut and stayed that way.

Higher than before. Hutch was cooking inside there, and nothing they were doing seemed to help.

Dammit, what now?

As if on cue, as if for once, something was going to go his way, the phone rang. Somehow, he managed to pull the covers around Hutch's shoulders and sweep the receiver to his ear, all in one motion.

"Hello!"

"Dave?"

It was only when he heard Judith's voice that he realized just how much he had hoped it was her.

"Judith...thank God."

"You said Ken was sick? What's wrong?"

"Fever, chills, cough...just like...." His voice faltered.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. When Judith's voice returned, it was strong and unwavering, but Starsky didn't know her well enough to know if this were true confidence or just her own brand of bravado. "I'm sure it's not a recurrence, Dave," she said firmly. "We had over 300 cases of this in BC, and not a single one relapsed after they received the antitoxin."

Starsky blew out the breath he didn't know he had been holding. His shoulders, hunched under the tension of both his and Hutch's fear, began to drop...then tensed again at Judith's next words.

"I'm still concerned," she confessed. "He's probably not 100% recovered, and his immune system was pretty severely compromised by the virus." She paused again; then went on, knowing the answer but asking anyway: "There's no way you can get him to a doctor?"

"Nope," Starsky confirmed. "Roads are closed from here to eternity...the ambulances can't even get through."

"All right," and her brisk professional voice returned. "What have you done so far?" Starsky told her about the orange juice and the improvised steam bath. "Good...keep doing that, every couple of hours, but try to get him into something dry afterward," she instructed. "He doesn't need to get chilled again from damp clothes. Do you think you can find some aspirin?"

"Yeah, of course," Starsky said, mentally smacking himself on the forehead for not thinking of that before.

"Two aspirin, every four hours, til the fever gets down to something reasonable," she said. "Keep using the cool washcloths, particularly on the pulse points - - his wrists, neck, and face. That'll help bring the fever down, too." She paused again, and Starsky could almost hear her mind ticking through a mental checklist, to see if she had missed anything.

When she spoke again, the quality of her voice had changed completely. Gone was the brisk certainty, replaced by that sweet, slightly shy quality that had endeared her to both men from the day they had met her. "Starsky?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to him for just a second?"

"Sure." Starsky went back to the bed and nudged Hutch gently until his eyes opened. Starsky's heart lurched when he saw that the brief bout of alertness was gone, the blue depths glazed once more. "Judith," he said, gesturing with the phone. "Wants to say hello."

Hutch half-grinned, then took the phone, laying it on the pillow and anchoring it between his ear and his shoulder. "Hey, there," he greeted her, his words faint and hoarse.

"Hey, yourself," she replied, smiling involuntarily at the familiar sound of his voice...and then frowning at the harsh rasp that marred it. "How're you feeling?"

"Marvelous," Hutch lied. "Never been better."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed. "Listen, I've given Dave all kinds of things to do to help bring the fever down. I don't think it's anything too serious, but you need to do what Dave says and take care of yourself, got it?"

"Yes, Doctor," Hutch said drowsily.

"And Ken," she said, her voice catching just a little.

"Yeah?"

"I...."At the other end of the phone, she smiled regretfully at herself. She was a thousand miles away from him now; more than that once he went back home. There was really nothing more to say, not in that direction anyway...and even if there was, he wouldn't remember it once the fever passed. "Take care of yourself," she repeated.

"Scout's honor," Hutch promised.

"Now let me talk to Dave again."

"Okay." Hutch waved the phone back at Starsky, who took it and walked a few paces away from the bed.

"Yeah?"

"He sounds like he's delirious," she said immediately, the professional veneer back in her voice. "Get him some aspirin right away, get him into dry clothes, pump fluids into him, and keep those washcloths coming. I'll call you back in a couple of hours to see how he's doing."

"Got it," Starsky said. "Thanks, Judith, I...." He found himself at a loss for words, and settled for repeating, "Thanks."

For the next several minutes, neither he nor Hutch spoke as he found the aspirin in the medicine cabinet, forced two down his partner, and dug through Hutch's suitcase for a dry t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Hutch managed to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom to change his clothes, while Starsky stripped the bed and replaced the sweat-soaked sheets.

Hutch had to admit, the clean clothes were infinitely more comfortable than the ones he had been wearing, and the fresh, cool sheets felt marvelous as he slipped between them and settled back onto pillows that were newly plumped and sheathed in crisp, dry cases. With Starsky's help, he propped himself back up for a moment and downed another glass of orange juice, and let his partner pat his wrists and neck with the damp cloths.

He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to give his full attention to the fever colors that danced behind his lids. Worries about the future slipped away as the headache began to ease in response to the aspirin. Other thoughts flitted through his head, but he didn't feel capable of examining them too closely, so he didn't try. Images popped up, seemingly at random, of the cottage and ducks on the canal...his greenhouse...that stupid ant farm Starsky had given him for Christmas one year....

His breathing slowed, though it still rattled in and out of his chest, and he drifted off to sleep.

As the storm raged outside, the two men repeated the pattern Judith had recommended. Starsky would wake Hutch, they would somehow stumble to the bathroom, and sit, huddled together, for several minutes while the rivulets ran down the mirrors and the steam rose in clouds from the shower. At first, Starsky rummaged through Hutch's clothes, and eventually his own, to find dry items for them both to wear; then Hutch reminded him that there was a washer and dryer off the kitchen that he could use to provide an endless supply of clean clothes and bed linens. So Starsky would change the bed, then run downstairs to throw a load in the laundry and replenish the orange juice carafe. At one point, he managed to scrounge together and wolf down a sandwich, but Hutch insisted he wasn't hungry and stubbornly refused the soup that Starsky tried to make him eat.

He talked with Judith twice more as the fever remained high, but there wasn't much more she could suggest, and nothing she could offer besides words of encouragement and another human's voice to assure him he wasn't alone. Eventually, the night came and went, bringing with it an eerie surrealism for both men.

For Hutch, it was long stretches of fevered sleep, broken by startled awakenings, drowsy, half-awake moments in the steamy bathroom, and the soothing feel of clean, dry clothes and fresh bed linens. Once, Starsky muttered that it would be easier to move to different rooms in the Hutchinson home than to endlessly change the bed.

From somewhere, Hutch vaguely remembered smiling at this through fever-dried lips, but the cough arrested the laugh that wanted to rise from his throat. Too soon, too soon, he had drifted back into the sleeping place, which had its advantages, since the pain wasn't so bad there...but it was still red hot, with flickering demons from the past popping out of the dark at the oddest moments.

Occasionally, he would lose track of time completely and awake with a start, sure that it was Christmas and he had forgotten to do something. Always then, there would be the cool touch of the damp cloth on his face, neck, and wrists, and the soft, crooning sound of Starsky's voice, telling him it was just a dream, everything was okay, he was right here, buddy, right here....

Each time Hutch awoke, Starsky's heart rose a little, hoping this would be the time when the blue eyes would open and be lucid...but his hope began to wane as the night wore on and Hutch's condition remained virtually unchanged. For hours he sat, straining forward in the chair by the bed, watching his partner labor for breath, as exhausted as if he were helping draw each one.

The only thing that had been worse had been going through this whole thing from outside the hospital isolation ward, forbidden to touch or care for his friend...able only to send a simple message in lipstick on the glass.

Starsk.

All the things that message had said...don't give up, I'm here for you, I love you...Starsky now said with ice-cold orange juice and clean clothes...with crisp, fresh pillowcases and dry sheets...with cool, damp cloths and bowls of soup that he made more tempting each time. Somehow, he deciphered Hutch's whispered, feverish instructions and plowed through the snow to tend the livestock. And though his ministrations made no discernible dent in the course of Hutch's illness, it seemed to make both of them feel better, to show them that this time, neither one was fighting alone.

He knew he dozed from time to time, and as the sun began to rise, and Hutch seemed to rest a little more easily, he dropped off for a couple of hours.

When Starsky woke, it was full daylight. Sitting up with difficulty through stiff muscles and an aching neck, he blinked at the clock and saw that it was just past nine. He looked over at Hutch, who was propped up slightly on the pillows. The blond man was asleep, but not soundly; from time to time, his face tightened and he muttered something, in a dry whisper that sounded like dead leaves rattling down an empty sidewalk and made about as much sense.

Leaning over, Starsky pulled up the blankets that had slipped down during the night, and tucked them around Hutch's shoulders. He stood there for a moment, rubbing at the stubble on his chin, and tried to decide what to do next.

The phone rang.

"How is he?" Judith's voice, no preliminaries, beginning to sound a little concerned now. Hutch had been sick for over 24 hours now, his symptoms slowly worsening as the time went on. Without saying, he and Judith each knew what the other was thinking.

He means we have to find an antitoxin in the next two days.

And if you don't?

"Not great," Starsky admitted, pressing the back of his hand against Hutch's forehead. Hutch's eyes opened; with an inward sigh, Starsky noted they were as clouded as they had been the night before.

"What's his temperature?"

"Wait a sec, I'll see."

He, Hutch, and Judith went through the ritual, waiting for the time to tick by until the glass tube gave its report. When Starsky examined the thermometer, he felt a slight surge of hope. "Hey, it's down a little bit," he said. "Hey, Blintz, maybe you're gonna make it through this thing after all...."

Lips turned up ever so slightly, Hutch gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head...then his eyes drifted shut again.

At the other end, Starsky could feel that Judith was somehow...not relieved. "What?" he barked, more harshly than he intended, afraid of what she was going to say.

"Dave...I don't want to...." She sighed. "Fevers tend to be lower in the morning. This could be a true break, but it might just be the regular symptom pattern. Don't stop what you've been doing, all right?"

"No chance," Starsky said tightly, filing away her comment for later processing. Right now, he was too tired, his nerves too raw, to address the meaning of her statement. Which way things would go would become clear all too soon, he was sure.

"Let's try giving him three aspirin instead of two," Judith suggested. "And get him to eat something. I don't care what, give him whatever he wants, but he needs some kind of fuel to help him fight this."

"He's not eatin'," Starsky told her. "I've been tryin', but he says he's not hungry."

"He has to," Judith said simply. "He hasn't had anything in over 24 hours...and that doesn't help his system any. Try to catch him when he's a little rational and explain that to him...promise him a four-course health food dinner when he's better...use your best guilt trip...it doesn't matter how, Dave, just do it."

"Okay," Starsky said, dubious but willing to give it a try.

"Dave...." Judith's voice became apologetic. "Listen, I've got meetings all day long today...so close to the holidays, we're going crazy trying to get stuff in place before people leave on vacation. But I'll call you this evening to see how he is, okay?"

"Okay," Starsky repeated.

"And Dave?"

"Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself, too," she advised gently. "He needs you...and that means you have to keep your strength up, too. Eat a good meal, sleep when you can, try to duck out for a little bit if it's at all possible. He won't get acutely worse in the fifteen minutes it will take you to stick your nose outside and get some fresh air."

"I'll try, Judith," Starsky promised, though he was as skeptical about this as the possibility of "making" Hutch do anything he really didn't want to. "Thanks...talk to you later."

He hung up, thinking it was going to be a helluva long day...and he was right.

The snow finally stopped, but another phone call to the hospital yielded only the news that while the highways were open, the back roads remained piled high with drifts. The dispatcher, who now knew Starsky by name, again promised the worried detective that she would notify the road crew of their dilemma, and send some form of medical help as soon as it was humanly possible.

Starsky roused his partner and got him into the shower, then back into fresh clothes, and settled him back into bed. He threw another load into the washer and trudged upstairs with the latest dry batch. Somehow, he managed to convince Hutch to consume a half-bowl of soup...later, he had absolutely no recollection of how he had accomplished it. He was running on will at this point, like a man who is crossing the desert and focuses only on the next step, never on the expanse of sand in front of him.

Shower. Laundry. Eat something. I fed the horses, Hutch, quit worrying. Take the aspirin, babe. Don't argue with me, just swallow it, then you can go back to sleep. C'mon, wake up, time to go back into the sauna. Coaxing, soothing, cajoling, inserting a note of humor here and there to keep them both somewhere close to sane, feeling absurdly relieved when Hutch chuckled, even though the sound was hoarse and shallow.

Judith called in the late afternoon. Hearing that the fever had not broken - - had, in fact, risen over the course of the day to its all-time high - - she prescribed another increase in the aspirin. Learning that Starsky had eaten and taken brief catnaps but not left the room since his trek to the barn that morning, she ordered him to hang up the phone and get his butt outside.

"Give Hutch the phone if it'll make you feel better," she cracked, and Starsky couldn't restrain a laugh at the ludicrous notion of his partner stringing together a complete, comprehensible sentence at this point in time. The brief interlude broke the tension somewhat, and he did as she bade, leaving the dozing Hutch with a full glass of orange juice and three freshly dampened washcloths.

He pulled on Hutch's thick, down-filled winter jacket, and wound a soft woolen scarf around his neck. Stuffing his hands into the gloves he found in Hutch's pocket, he unlocked the door and stepped out into the crisp air and brilliant sunshine. Blinking, he gazed at his surroundings and thought, This is where the phrase winter wonderland comes from.

Rays from the setting sun bounced off piles and piles of snow, shooting off glimmers like a million tiny diamonds scattered everywhere around the ranch house. Everything was buried. He could barely make out the shapes of the barn and the garage. Kim's car was somewhere beside the door, but at this moment, he had no idea where. There was no sound. The cold air bit at his face, but after a world that had shrunk to two rooms, one bed, and a washer and dryer, it felt marvelous against his skin. He drew in a deep breath, appreciating the sweet freshness, and blew out the clouds of vapor, and leaned against the wall of the house, trying to think of something else he could do to help his friend.

Abruptly, he flashed onto a vivid memory of Hutch, bracing himself with one hand against the wall of an Italian restaurant, his face glistening with sweat and his forehead furrowed deeply, as if he could generate a solution by the sheer force of his will. He had thought Starsky, lying a few feet away with a bullet buried deep in his shoulder, couldn't see him in that moment of terrible vulnerability and helplessness...and Starsky had never told him that he had. It had moved him beyond words that his friend had fought constantly and ferociously for him...and wanted so desperately to hide it when he had no strength or weapons left to fight.

Somehow, Hutch had picked up his head and gone on...and eventually, they had all gotten through it alive.

In the days that had followed, Starsky had labeled that image "THINK, Hutchinson"...and now, he determined to borrow its fortitude for himself.

He turned and went back into the house.

He heard the sound before he even hit the stairs...and as he crossed the threshold he found Hutch doubled over and coughing, clutching at the blankets as he tried to regain his breath. Without a word, Starsky strode over, climbed onto the bed behind his partner, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling Hutch tight to his chest to absorb the shock of the convulsions ripping through his body. When at last they passed, a spent Hutch leaned back against Starsky, who tightened his hold and tried to keep his growing fear in check.

"Starsk...."

The hoarse voice caught his attention immediately, and he rubbed his hand up and down Hutch's arm. "Right here, Hutch, right here...whatever you need."

"...gotta talk."

"Not a good idea, Blintz," Starsky said gently but firmly. "Save your strength...'ven if you don't need it, your lungs sure do."

"I mean it, Starsk," Hutch insisted, in what was quite possibly the first full and coherent sentence he had uttered all day, "...humor me...."

With a sigh, Starsky gave his arm a final pat, then released him and climbed off the bed. Hutch propped himself up on the pillows as the dark-haired detective pulled his chair close to the bedside.

"Okay, you got two minutes," Starsky said in his best schoolteacher voice, making a great show of synchronizing his watch. "Shoot."

"Get serious," Hutch ordered, the command weakened considerably by the lack of strength in his voice and the fact that he was not exactly firing with all cylinders at this point. "No Captain Marvel bullshit this time, huh?"

At the reference, Starsky's teasing demeanor dropped. He reached forward and took Hutch's hand in both of his. "I'm listenin', Blintz."

"Look...you...I just wanna...aw, shit," Hutch groaned, groping for the words that were hard enough to find when he wasn't burning with fever. "Starsk...you're the best friend I've ever had...been better to me than my own family, you know that, ‘cept for Kim...."

"Yeah," Starsky said quietly. "Not exactly a news flash, Hutch."

"I know...but...."

Starsky leaned forward. "What, babe?"

Hutch gave up. He could give an entire lecture on why double parking was inconsiderate as well as impractical, he could trap a suspect with seemingly innocent questions and precisely chosen statements, and he could sweet-talk about any woman in the place into letting him buy her a drink. But when it came to telling his best friend how he felt...the words just wouldn't come. It wasn't how he did things, and his brain was too damned tired to learn new tricks right now. Tears spilled out of his eyes and burned hot trails down the side of his face.

"Hutch...." Nearly in tears himself, Starsky grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and tried to staunch the flow.

"Don't," Hutch protested weakly, attempting to brush his hand away. "Give it to me...I can do it." He shivered. "Dammit," he muttered. "I think I'd feel all right if I weren't so damned cold."

"Yeah, right," Starsky said, relinquishing the tissue and snorting at the idea that a warm blanket would take care of everything.

On second thought....

He got up and hurried out of the room. "Don't go ‘way," he tossed over his shoulder at Hutch. "I got an idea."

Hutch managed to do a reasonable job of wiping away the tears. As he crumpled the tissue in his hand and leaned back with a sigh, Starsky re-entered the room, carrying something folded in his hands. He unfolded it and spread it tenderly over his partner...and Hutch realized that it was his grandfather's quilt. The tears threatened again as Starsky leaned over him to tuck the quilt around his other side.

Hutch closed his eyes and inhaled, breathing in the scents of his grandfather and his best friend, enveloped by the real and remembered of those who loved him unconditionally.

"There," Starsky said softly. "That oughta do the trick."

Hutch's eyes struggled open. He began to speak.

"Just go with it, Hutch," Starsky urged, sinking back into the chair and covering his partner's hand. "I gotta feeling we're comin' down the homestretch."

Hutch's eyes fluttered, then closed.

Absolutely drained, Starsky leaned back in the chair and rubbed his forehead with his hands, trying vainly to rub some life back into his numb brain, which had shut down long ago and was now working on autopilot. His eyelids drooped...snapped open once...then dropped again. The thick dark lashes remained on the cheeks nearly as pale as his partner's, and his breathing became slow and even.

~*~*~*~

Hours later, Starsky sat up abruptly, not sure what had nudged him awake. He looked around the room, squinting, trying to identify the room in the dim morning light, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing there. Then everything came back in a rush as he heard Hutch's ragged breathing...and heard his friend mumble in his sleep.

Rising silently from the chair, Starsky leaned over the bed and tugged at the quilt his friend had shoved away in his sleep. Moving slowly and carefully, he pulled the cover back up to Hutch's shoulders, then paused, frowning. Hutch was absolutely soaked, drenched in perspiration that had seeped through the t-shirt he wore, as well as the sheet and much of the blanket that covered him. Though he'd been sweating throughout the last two days, this somehow had a different quality to it, as if....

Starsky pressed the back of his hand to Hutch's forehead.

Did it...? Was it...?

He pressed harder, and Hutch's eyes opened.

"Starsk...what're you...."

Starsky could swear his friend's eyes looked clearer.

"Don't go away," he ordered the bewildered Hutch. Hands trembling, he removed the thermometer from its case and shook it down, then inserted it between Hutch's lips.

Twenty minutes later, Starsky had completed another round of changing the bed linens while Hutch exchanged his damp clothes for clean, dry ones. Once again leaving his friend with a full glass of fresh orange juice, Starsky headed back downstairs. Grabbing Hutch's jacket and scarf from the kitchen table, he burst through the door and out into the snow.

He headed for the barn first to take care of the horses again, this time enjoying their warmth and seeing the appeal in what Hutch called, "that horsey smell." Having finished this very serious responsibility, he closed the barn doors and let loose, unable to restrain his tremendous, unspeakable relief.

Whooping at the top of his lungs, he tramped around in the snow until his toes reminded him that he had forgotten to put on boots and sneakers were hardly appropriate for an icy Duluth morning and several inches of snow. Shivering, he waded back to the steps and onto the porch, where he stamped his feet to shake off some of the snow and get his blood moving again.

Then, on a whim born as much from his own exhausted stupor as any conscious thought, he flew back down the steps to the yard. Somehow, he managed to find a spot where the snow was not so deep, and dropped himself backward into its soft embrace. Wincing as the cold wetness hit the back of his head, he nevertheless swept his arms and legs back and forth, in that movement children have emulated for centuries.

When he went back inside, he was covered with snow from head to toe and grinning from ear to ear...and a somewhat lopsided snow angel adorned the Hutchinson side lawn.

Upstairs, Hutch heard the commotion...and smiled before he drifted back to sleep. He didn't hear Starsky return to check on him before going back to the guest room for the first time in over 48 hours.

~*~*~*~

Each exhausted in their own way, the two men slept soundly through the rest of the day, and woke only when an insistent ringing of the doorbell pealed through the house.

Starsky staggered out of his bed. Pulling on his bathrobe, shoving his feet into his slippers, he stumbled down the stairs and yanked open the front door. "Will you keep it down?" he hissed at the figure on the porch. "We gotta sick man here, for cryin' out loud."

The young man on the porch raised his eyebrows. "I know that, Mr. Starsky," he said politely. He indicated the boxes he held in his hands. "That's why I'm here...Ben Pierce, from the EMT squad?"

"Right, Mr. Charm and Delight," Starsky grumbled, holding his bathrobe closed with one hand while he stepped back and gestured the paramedic in with a jerk of his head. "C'mon in; he's upstairs."

"Sorry about the static the other day," Pierce apologized as they climbed the great curving staircase to the second floor. "I was a little overwhelmed."

Starsky thawed enough to smile grudgingly. "Yeah, there was a lotta that goin' around," he conceded. He pushed open the door to Hutch's room and led the paramedic to the bed. "Hey, Blondie, time to shake it awake," he said, shaking Hutch gently to wake him. "Second string's here...guess they wanna verify you're alive so they can grab all the glory."

Hutch's eyes opened, and Starsky breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were clear, free of the fever blur that had clouded them for the last 48 hours.

"Hey, Ken," Ben greeted Hutch quietly, moving close to the bed. "Heard you got knocked down by a nasty virus...mind if I take a look at you?"

"Sure, why not," Hutch said with a lazy yawn. "Might as well get the Good Housekeeping seal of approval."

Starsky decided this was a good time for him to go out to the barn, give the horses their breakfast, and brave the task of mucking out the stalls. Not being practiced in this, it took him a while, and he was winded and already sore by the time he mounted the side porch. Stamping the snow from his feet, he entered the house to find Pierce in the kitchen, just pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Hope you don't mind," he said in response to Starsky's questioning look. "Ken said it would be all right to make a pot of coffee...it's a long drive back to civilization from here."

"Tell me about it," Starsky said with feeling. "Think I'll join you."

There was silence for a few moments while the two men added sugar and milk to their respective cups. Starsky sank down at the kitchen table with a sigh, cupping his hands around the hot cup and resting his tired feet and legs with a sigh of relief. "So," he began conversationally, having drained half his cup with one pull. "How is he?"

"He's going to be fine," Pierce replied, leaning against the kitchen counter and cutting straight to the chase, as he sensed Starsky would prefer. "Just a garden-variety flu, though made pretty scary by that virus you mentioned. He's still got a low-grade fever and a pretty nasty cough that you want to keep an eye on, but I don't think there's any real danger at this point." He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and, setting his cup on the counter, reached for the phone. "I'll have the OD call in a couple of prescriptions for him...the pharmacy delivers, and they have a four-wheel drive that'd climb Mount Everest if it had to."

He turned his attention to his phone call, and Starsky wandered to the kitchen window. The sun was again shining brilliantly, and he could make out the shape of his snow angel from the night before, only just beginning to blur from the solar onslaught. Half-smiling, he began to turn away, then caught sight of the huge Christmas tree he and Hutch had cut down and hauled to the porch earlier that week. In all the excitement, between his accident and Hutch's getting sick, they had forgotten to bring it in...just as well; the icy air would have helped it stay crisp and fresh.

An idea entered his head and the other half of the smile appeared.

"All set," Pierce's voice interrupted his plotting. "They said they'd be here in a couple of hours." He retrieved his cup and took a long, grateful sip of the steaming liquid, then frowned thoughtfully at Starsky. "Hey, weren't you at the hospital the other night?" he said curiously. "Fell off a horse or something, wasn't it, and took a pretty bad nick to your head?"

"Yeah, that was us," Starsky said dryly. "Not exactly our best week, huh?"

"It sure isn't," Pierce agreed. "Why don't you let me take a look at that and change the dressing, as long as I'm here?"

"Sure," Starsky said, echoing his friend's words. "Why not?"

Hutch slept for the rest of the afternoon and evening, then woke briefly in the evening when Starsky brought soup and the medication the pharmacy had dropped off. To his partner's relief, he actually had an appetite, and polished off a reasonably sized meal. Though his voice was still somewhat weak, and the cough still shook him from time to time, he was more alert and they were able to joke throughout the dinner.

The medicine relieved the cough but knocked him back out, and he was asleep by the time Starsky came back up from taking the dishes downstairs. Starsky set fresh orange juice on the table, ensured his friend was thoroughly covered, and tiptoed back to the guest room for his own period of well-earned rest.

For the next 24 hours, their routine was similar. Their world had expanded somewhat, and both vaguely remembered that Christmas was approaching, but for the moment they focused on reinforcing Hutch's recovery, and daring to believe that this had been a fluke, nothing more.

~*~*~*~

In the early evening of Christmas Eve, Hutch's eyes blinked open. He lay there for a moment, barely daring to breathe, taking stock of how he felt and sounded. Fever's gone. Headache feels a lot better. Cough is...still there, but at least it's doin' something now. All things considered, he felt...better.

The relief that swept through him was enormous...and he decided it was high time he got out of bed under his own steam.

Groaning along with his muscles as he sat up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and managed to stand. He'd been sweating for two days and had only sponge baths to refresh him; more than anything right now, he wanted a hot, cleansing shower. He headed for the bathroom, stripping off the sweatpants and shirt he had been wearing along the way, and turned the faucets on full force. He stepped into it, sighing involuntarily as the water began to sweep away three days of sweat and grime. After he had shampooed his hair and soaped himself thoroughly, he just stood in the blissful hot spray that felt heavenly on his stiff, aching muscles, inhaling the steam that soothed the remaining congestion in his head and chest.

After a half hour, he emerged, toweled himself dry, and dressed in a clean pair of sweatpants and his robe. Returning to the bathroom, he wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror - - smiling as he remembered Starsky's improvised steam baths - - shaved, and combed his hair.

Feeling indescribably better, he finally emerged from his room for the first time in four days...and was met with an absolutely wonderful smell that was drifting up from the kitchen. Tightening the belt of his robe around his waist, he made his way down the stairs and followed the sound of Starsky's voice to the back of the house, which was lit to high heaven and toasted as warm as the inside of the oven.

At the door he stopped short; then, stifling his first response, he settled himself against the doorjamb with crossed arms and an amused smile, so he could watch his partner unobserved.

A towel wrapped around him and tucked into the waistband of his jeans, Starsky had set up shop on the long kitchen counter next to the sink. This had perhaps kept the lower half of him clean, but he seemed to be dotted with flour everywhere else, from the sleeves and chest of his dark blue shirt to patches of his hair, and even a smudge on his left cheek. He was surrounded by the packets of flour and sugar the two of them had purchased at the grocery store, a rolling pin, and a number of bowls, and was clearly engrossed in some serious baking task. As Hutch watched, he took a handful of flour from one of the bowls, and began to dust a section of the counter.

Realizing that he either had to speak or burst out laughing, Hutch chose the former. "What're you doin'?" he asked, his voice still hoarse from the hours of coughing.

Starsky jumped, a small cloud of flour surrounding him as his head snapped up to see his friend leaning against the doorjamb.

"Hutch," he gulped, trying to return his heartbeat to something normal. "Jesus Christ, you scared me half to death." He set down the cup and eyed his friend. Outwardly, his expression and demeanor were stern; inside, he was rejoicing at the light that had returned to Hutch's eyes, the damp hair, clean clothes, and fresh shave that indicated Hutch was feeling somewhat more normal. "What're you doin' up?"

"No fair," Hutch said with a grin. "I asked you first." Starsky looked down at himself, as if seeing his mad chef appearance for the first time, and waved a hand at the items spread out on the counter.

"Uh, well...I...." The oven buzzer went off; grateful for the reprieve, he grabbed a pair of potholders, opened the door, and removed a pan from the shelf inside. Carefully, he carried the tray to the kitchen table, where layers of wax paper were laid out and waiting, and with a spatula removed from the tray, two dozen sugar cookies.

Hutch raised an eyebrow.

"Cookies, Starsk?"

"Well, yeah," Starsky defended himself, arranging the cookies on the paper with what appeared to be military precision. "I thought it might be good for the kids."

Hutch snorted. Yeah, and the biggest one's standin' right in front of me, he thought. "The kids, huh? You mean, the ones that aren't due back for another week and a half?"

"Well, yeah, but...." Starsky returned to his main base of operations, dumping the tray into a sink of soapy water, and loading a fresh one with a new set of shapes. "I figured we could make these and then leave them at Kim's, y'know? That way she'll have somethin' to give ‘em, that'll make ‘em feel better about coming back here after their trip."

Hutch couldn't restrain his affectionate smile. Trust Starsky to think ahead about matters like these; it was the kind of thing that his mother did all the time when the two detectives made one of their rare visits to New York. He couldn't count the times he had unpacked his bags, only to find some treat tucked away, accompanied by a loving note in Ruth's Palmer penmanship. It didn't surprise him a bit to find that her son had the same streak of thoughtfulness, and could understand that cookies from his beloved Starsky would cheer up a cranky and overtired Jeremy and provide Kim with a few moments of relief on her return home.

He pushed himself off the doorjamb and came further into the kitchen, sinking onto one of the barstools that edged the counter where Starsky was working. He glanced down at the dough waiting to be transferred to the cookie sheets, and frowned.

"Hey, Starsk...what are these supposed to be?"

"Snowmen," Starsky replied with a slightly sheepish grin, showing Hutch the juice glass in his hand. "I had to use what was available...couldn't find any real cookie cutters."

"Oh. Right." Hutch tried to smother his widening grin and failed miserably. Starsky grinned back.

"So, Blintz...would you mind tellin' me where your family keeps the genuine article? Then I could do somethin' besides snowmen...maybe some reindeer, maybe a Santa Claus or two...."

Despite himself, Hutch felt his smile stiffen somewhat. Rising from the barstool, he rounded the kitchen counter and went past Starsky to a cupboard beside the sink. "Sorry, Starsk, I can't help ya there," he said, in a tone that he purposely tried to keep light as he took down another juice glass and then crossed over to the refrigerator. "You know the Hutchinsons...always too many Christmas galas to muck about in the kitchen." He pretended to occupy himself in a search for the juice pitcher, which in reality was sitting inches from his face.

Recognizing the same "shutting down" tone Hutch had exhibited at the grocery store, Starsky eyed his friend as he came over to the fridge, and reached past him to remove the pitcher. Not pursuing the subject, but watching Hutch out of the corner of his eye, he took the blond man's glass and filled it up. "Here," he said, handing Hutch the glass and returning the pitcher to the shelf. "Drink it...it'll help get your strength back up."

"Yes, Ma." Hutch made a face at his partner's parental tone but drained half the glass anyway.

"Hutch...." Starsky began, but Hutch stopped him.

"Don't ask, huh, Starsk?" he requested, lowering the glass with an expression that was suddenly vulnerable and half-pleading. "It's way too long a story."

Starsky patted his friend's arm, leaving a white handprint on the red terrycloth. "Sure, all right," he said gently. "But you know you can tell me later if you want."

Hutch half-smiled. "Yeah," he acknowledged. "I know that."

For a moment, there was silence, as Starsky returned to his baking activities and Hutch leaned against the refrigerator and just watched. It had been a long time since he had felt this at home, this comfortable, in this room...probably not since his grandfather had died. After the scare of the last few days, it felt good to just...be, standing here, watching Starsky putter around the kitchen, humming along with the radio. Starsky seemed to know all the Christmas carols...better than Hutch did, as a matter of fact...and though he started out humming under his breath, he was soon singing softly. Then, when "White Christmas" began, he cranked up the radio, put on his best Bing Crosby voice, and belted out the words in a rather excellent baritone.

Hutch applauded when he was finished, but couldn't resist saying to him, "You know, you're certifiable."

"Aw, bah humbug to you," Starsky retorted without missing a beat. He had slid another tray of cookies into the oven and was taking a break, sipping at a bottle of beer and testing some of his own handiwork. "Hey, not bad," he complimented himself. "Try one?"

"Nah, not just now." Hutch refilled his glass from the fridge and then pulled open the freezer door, poking through the items they had purchased for their various dinners.

"What're you doin'?" Starsky demanded with mock sternness, nudging his partner away from the door.

"Well, you're busy...baking," Hutch said, barely managing to swallow his laughter, "so I thought I'd get started on dinner."

"Ab-solutely not," Starsky pronounced, placing his body between Hutch and the fridge. "For your information, dinner's behind Door #2 – " he waved his spatula at the dual ovens – "And your job is to take your orange juice into the den and not get nosy."

At his partner's tone, which bore the essence of an indignant housewife whose sanctum has been invaded, Hutch couldn't bear it another minute. Throwing his head back, he burst into laughter.

Starsky crossed his arms, spatula still in hand, and watched his partner with a completely sober expression, tapping his foot as if he were waiting for Hutch's moment of mirth to pass so he could get back down to business.

Seeing this only set Hutch off again.

He set the glass of orange juice on the counter and gave himself up to it, relishing the first good laugh he'd had in days, not minding that it made his chest ache and irritated muscles that were already disgruntled about the hours of coughing.

Starsky raised imperious eyebrows and waited...but then couldn't resist an answering smile.

Finally, Hutch ran out of steam. Wiping his eyes, wrapping one arm around his protesting ribs, he straightened and retrieved his glass of orange juice. "Thanks, buddy," he said sincerely. "It hurts like hell, but I needed that."

"Get outta here," Starsky ordered, pointing toward the door with the spatula. "And don't let me see you peekin', neither."

"Yes, Ma," Hutch repeated, grinning foolishly as he crossed the kitchen, and entered the den, settling down in the recliner beside the fireplace. Scanning the books that lay on the end table, he selected one by Steinbeck and opened it to the first page. In minutes, he was totally engrossed in the familiar and beloved story. He did not notice the passage of time until Starsky appeared at the door, steaming plates in hand.

"Room service," he announced, handing one plate to his partner and setting the other one on another end table, beside the soft brown leather couch. He bustled out, returned with silverware and napkins, then exited a third time and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

"Uh, Starsk, I don't know if I should, with the medicine and all," Hutch said dubiously.

"Aw, c'mon, Hutch," Starsky said persuasively, expertly extracting the cork. "It's Christmas Eve. I think we can ease off the pharmaceuticals for the evening, huh?" Without waiting for an answer, he poured a glass of the garnet-colored liquid and handed it to his partner. "Hey," he continued, inclining his head toward the far corner of the room. "You haven't said how you like my addition to the décor."

Taking a sip of the wine and savoring its rich flavor, Hutch let his eyes follow Starsky's nod...and nearly spit the mouthful of wine into his lap.

"Hey, you okay?" Starsky said with concern, as his partner was seized by a fit of coughs that were partially inhaled wine and partially flu remains.

"Yeah," Hutch managed, finally regaining his breath. He waved a hand at the corner. "Starsk...did you bring that thing in from the side porch?"

Starsky grinned at his partner and gazed at the tall, beautiful tree that now grazed the ceiling of the den. "Yep," he said proudly. "Did it while you were still playin' Sleeping Beauty upstairs...put on the lights, too. Doesn't it look terrific?"

Hutch said softly, "Yeah...yeah."

Starsky looked over at his partner...and was amazed to see that his eyes were bright with pooled tears. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Doncha like it?"

"Yeah," Hutch repeated hoarsely. "It's just..." He trailed off, then, blinked, said, "Starsk... where did you get those ornaments?"

"Found ‘em in the attic," Starsky replied, bewildered. "Why?" He grinned and, abandoning his dinner for a moment, walked over to the tree. "This one's my favorite." With one finger, he lifted an awkwardly constructed reindeer, formed from brown and red construction paper. Details such as the eyes, reins, and a shiny red nose had been carefully crayoned in their proper places, and a banner that ran around its neck and draped jauntily to the side read, "To Mother and Father, from Ken."

Hutch was speechless.

Starsky turned to him, still grinning, and saw the stricken look on his friend's face. "Hutch?" In a heartbeat, he was at his partner's side, sinking onto the hearth. "Hey." When Hutch still didn't respond, didn't even look at him, he placed a hand on Hutch's arm. "What is it?"

Hutch still said nothing, eyes never leaving the reindeer; not daring to blink because he knew the tears would spill over. At last, he managed to compose himself and turned to Starsky with a crooked smile. "Nothin'," he said, shaking his head and turning his attention back to his dinner plate. "Hey...steamed vegetables," he observed with surprise. "This is terrific, Starsk...."

"Hutch," Starsky interrupted. "I wish you'd tell me what it is with you and Christmas."

Hutch began to speak, but Starsky broke in again, fixing him with another of his mock-stern gazes and wagging a fork at him. "And don't give me non'a that ‘euphoric sentimentalism' crap, either."

Hutch couldn't restrain a grin as he remembered the years he had railed against the rampant commercialism of Christmas. Every time, he vowed he was not going to participate in it by doing gift giving...and every year, he broke his vow, for Starsky if nobody else. Because, he admitted to himself, he kind of enjoyed seeing that look on Starsky's face...first, just by the fact that Hutch had actually broken down and gotten him a present, and then, by the nature of the gift.

One year, Hutch had been unable to resist his own sense of humor and had ostensibly given Starsky nothing but a tree planted in his name in a local park. It was only when he returned home that Starsky found the caboose for his train set, topped with a cheerful red bow and perched atop a pillow on his bed.

"Hutch," Starsky prompted, nudging his friend's knee. "C'mon. Spill it."

Hutch looked down at his plate and toyed with the contents for a moment, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. Finally, he put the plate aside and leaned back in the chair, wine glass in his hand, contemplative eyes on the reindeer.

"You know, I made that when I was eight," he said reflectively. "And not once, in all the years that I was growing up, did my parents let me hang it on the tree."

Starsky's eyes narrowed. "You gotta be shittin' me," he said in a low, disbelieving voice.

Hutch shook his head. "Nope. The year I made it...my mom had spent all this money to have a professional come in and decorate the tree, and when I tried to add that on, she told me it ‘didn't go with the theme'. One night, I snuck downstairs and hung it on there anyway...boy, was there hell to pay over that, from both of them."

Starsky felt an ache deep in his chest. Like a movie reeling through his head, he saw Hanukah at his household, with handmade items and drawings in every room, and his aunt Rosie bursting with pride as she added another lopsided, cardboard dreidel to the display on the mantel. Starsky had a hunch that even if she had had a professional come and decorate the house...and the odds of Rose Starsky relinquishing that much control over her home were slim approaching none...she would still augment the results with anything that little Davey brought home from school. That Hutch would experience so much less, so much...rejection...from his own mother, made Starsky unutterably sad.

But there was something else. He could feel it.

His silence apparently spoke volumes, for Hutch sighed, and lacing his fingers behind his head, told his partner about the Christmas Eve when he was 21.

Starsky listened with barely restrained anger as Hutch told how his father had "suggested" that young Ken might want to leave the house and begin his "real-life experience" without delay...and how Hutch had immediately gone upstairs, packed a bag, and walked out, without a hint of second thought or "wait, let's talk about this" from his cold and rigid father.

"If it hadn't been for Vanessa's parents, I would have left Duluth that night," Hutch recalled, realizing with a start that his wine glass was somehow empty. Without a word, Starsky refilled it, and Hutch went on, gazing into the red depths. "But they insisted that we stay through Christmas...I think they thought that my folks would have to break down and call at some point."

"But they didn't," Starsky assumed.

"Nope." Hutch took a long swig of wine and thought about how furious his father had been when he had made good on his threat, leaving the city and the state, dragging a protesting and flabbergasted wife behind him. "I tried to let them know when we got to B.C., and then again when I graduated from the academy...but they never returned my calls." He snorted. "The only time my father did talk to me was when Vanessa left me...he heard about it around the office because one of his colleagues handled the divorce." He laughed bitterly and raised his wine glass in a mocking toast. "He called to let me know that there had never been a divorce in the Hutchinson family and, congratulations...I had managed to disgrace the family name once again."

Starsky realized suddenly that his fists were clenched, his muscles were coiled, and he was breathing in a slow, oxygen-building manner, as if he were getting ready for a fight. And he was, he realized; this was what his body did when they were on duty and he thought someone or something was threatening Hutch.

"I had just moved to the cottage in Venice," Hutch went on, not noticing that his friend was ready to rumble in front of the fireplace. "I was so calm...I didn't say anything, I just hung up the phone...and then I threw it right through the front door." He chuckled hoarsely; again, the sound contained not a modicum of mirth.

They were both silent for several seconds, while the fire crackled and hissed behind Starsky's back.

"But y'know what, Starsk?"

Starsky could tell the few sips of wine and the aftereffects of the flu were beginning to affect his friend; his words were beginning to blur ever so slightly. He tightened the hand that had been resting on Hutch's knee. "What's that, babe?"

"After that, I swore I was never gonna let my dad get to me like that again...and I haven't." He nodded decisively. "That was just how it was, and I came to take that as a fact of life."

"I know, pal, I know," Starsky said soothingly, wondering if he should nip this in the bud. But Hutch had kept this locked up for a long time, though Starsky discerned a lot of things about his family from their behavior and their sheer absence.

"But I almost lost it the day that Kim called me, after the divorce was final," Hutch went on. His face shifted, and Starsky's chest hurt again at the wounded look that rose there, even after all this time. Hutch looked down at his glass, and back up again, and the pain in his eyes was so great that Starsky was glad James Hutchinson wasn't there...because he would have killed him, and happily.

"You know that guest room that I'm in?" Hutch said quietly, all traces of drunkenness gone. Starsky nodded, not trusting his voice. "That used to be my room. After Vanessa divorced me, Kim called and said that my dad had taken it all apart. Taken everything that I had in there and had it hauled away to a dump somewhere. Took every picture down from every room except the one my mom managed to hide in the kitchen. Basically obliterated me from the place...changed his will...the whole nine yards." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "It was like I never existed."

"But there's pictures of you in here," Starsky pointed out.

"This was my grandfather's room," Hutch said, eyes still closed. "It was the one place my dad didn't dare touch." He sighed once, drowsily, and the glass of wine began to tip in his hand.

Despite his grim and homicidal thoughts toward Hutch's father, Starsky couldn't repress his grin as he rescued the glass before it spilled its excellent Cabernet Sauvignon all over Hutch's robe.

Clearly his friend wasn't quite as well as he wanted to be, and retelling the story of his father's banishment of him from his life had wearied him even more. Hutch's breathing became slow and even, and Starsky crept quickly upstairs to retrieve the quilt from his friend's bed, thinking he would try to offer a bit of solace to help clear away the bitter memories.

~*~*~*~

Starsky draped the quilt tenderly around his partner, still reeling from the conversation he and Hutch had shared before the combination of illness and the minimal alcohol consumption had sapped the last resources of his partner's limited strength and he had begun to doze in his grandfather's chair. Starsky tucked him in carefully, and Hutch nestled into the quilt as if it were a loving embrace.

Which in a way, Starsky thought, it is. He straightened, stretching muscles sore from days of sleeping in odd positions, and feeling an odd kinship with Hutch's grandfather, whom he had never even met. He sighed, looking down at Hutch. What a precious gift this man is, he thought. He reached over and, in a motion which had become second nature to him over the last few days, smoothed the hair back from Hutch's forehead, then sat back against the sofa, sipping the last of his own wine somberly.

He blinked his eyes slowly as he contemplated the evening, this very special Christmas Eve they had just shared. He and Hutch had been friends for so many years, partners, had been through so much, had shared innumerable confidences, that before this evening Starsky would have thought it well nigh impossible that there was something new he could possibly learn about the lanky, blond man who slept before him.

And yet, he thought. And yet.... Somehow their conversation this evening had confirmed suspicions and reinforced speculations that Starsky had held to himself for years and years. His heart broke for Hutch, for the little boy lost, and he was amazed that such a kind, nurturing, giving man had risen from the emotional wasteland of this stark family. All because of the grandfather, he knew, and he gave silent thanks to the elder Hutchinson for delivering a nearly intact brother into his care.

He reached over and unnecessarily tucked the quilt tighter around Hutch's frame, wishing with all his heart that he could circumvent any trace of pain that might ever touch his best friend. He hoped desperately that sharing some of these painful memories out loud might prove cleansing for Hutch, might exorcise even a few of the demons that lie within this bruised and complex man.

Starsky stood slowly and yawned. He crept around the room, unplugging the tree, turning out the lights, blowing out the candles. He hesitated by the stereo, and chose to leave it on, playing soft seasonal music, which he hoped would envelop Hutch in a lullabied cocoon and soothe painful and bitter memories from his subconscious.

Standing beside his partner once more, Starsky leaned down and dropped a soft kiss on the top of Hutch's head, as one might do when tucking in a child for the night. He wondered if anyone had ever crept into Hutch's room when he was small, just to watch him sleep, and wonder at the magic of his soul.

"Sleep well," he whispered, feeling curiously lighter as he realized that he had, by some divine intervention, been granted guardianship of this child, this man, this spirit. Grateful, and feeling fiercely protective of this responsibility he had chosen, he smiled briefly, and headed up the stairs to bed.

How the hell much wine did I drink, anyway? He wondered, as he crawled beneath the blankets. Boy, for somebody who hates soapy scenes... was his last conscious thought as he drifted off to sleep, a light smile softening his countenance.

~*~*~*~

Hutch blinked his eyes slowly in the early morning dark. Not yet light, it took him several moments to remember where he was, and why his entire being felt infused with a serenity that was so pervasive it was nearly incomprehensible. A cough brought him to full awareness, and he rubbed his chest absently, sniffling. Sick, he remembered.

Better, though, his mind added, as he remembered more. He sat up, pushing aside the covers, smiling as he realized that the quilt which covered him was the same one from his grandparents' bed, the one with which Starsky had enfolded him a few days before, during the darkest point of his illness.

Cold, he thought, the flu. Not the plague. Christmas. Somehow he felt like Ebenezer Scrooge awakening on Christmas morning, having divested himself of his past, reconciled his present, and a feeling of joy overtook him so intensely that he felt his eyes pool with tears.

He listened silently to the soft strains of Christmas music that created a backdrop to his mood. For a fleeting moment, he considered waking Starsky, perhaps jumping on the bed to herald the holiday, as he'd heard that children did on Christmas morning to awaken their parents. The thought made him grin, and yet he knew how utterly exhausted his partner had to be, after having spent days on end taking care of him, nursing him day and night.

The cookie baking probably wore him out, too, Hutch realized, then thought, cookies. Mm. He moved to the kitchen, yawning and stretching, and turned the kettle on to make tea. Lifting the lid of an elegant cookie jar, he peered inside and saw Starsky's prized creations nestled inside invitingly. Cookies before breakfast, he considered. Not something he'd done often in his lifetime, and never before in this kitchen. You will probably burn in hell for this, Hutchinson, he thought with a grin, reached in, and extracted two cookies, inspecting them to make sure each contained a suitable amount of icing and decoration, before taking a bite of one, and munching happily.

While he waited for the water to boil, he poured a small glass of juice and downed his medicine. He squinted at the label of the antibiotics. Not to be taken on an empty stomach. Hutch screwed the lid back on the bottle, and took another bite of cookie. See that? I had no choice. I had to eat them. Feeling somewhat vindicated, and caring even less, he popped the last of the sweet in his mouth, and started in on the other one for good measure.

He took his tea back to the den and let it steep on the coffee table while he folded up the quilt and placed it reverently on the back of the couch. He plugged in the tree lights, then tossed some kindling, newspaper, and a log in the fireplace, starting it up, and cajoling it along until it was crackling merrily, the heady scent of wood smoke pervading the room instantaneously, and making him feel inexplicably secure.

Moving to the hall closet, he pulled out the bag of presents he had stashed there. As he set them out under the tree, he wondered if he'd gone just a bit overboard. Nope, he decided, not possible. After all that Starsky had done for him over the last month, Hutch was determined that he would return the kindness in a way that would please his dark-haired partner—give him the best Christmas he knew how to do. He sat back on his heels and regarded the pile of presents. Perfect.

Snapping his fingers, he remembered the bag of presents that Kim had slipped to him a few nights before. He'd stashed them in the trunk of the car, and hidden them in the hall closet as well, but out of sight, behind his parents' collection of spring and summer outerwear. He pulled the bag out carefully, and arranged these gifts under the tree with the others—three apiece for him and Starsky, and from the looks of the ribbons and tape, Jeremy had lent an extensive hand in the wrap job.

He moved to the kitchen and snagged another handful of cookies, and they tasted so good he briefly considered giving up his healthy lifestyle to become a sugar junkie like his partner. Well, I've hardly eaten all week, he told himself, that's probably why they taste so damned good.

Wishing to share his goodwill toward man and beast, he quietly pulled on boots and his coat, finding both the gloves in one pocket rather than one in each as he usually stored them. As he zipped the jacket up high, he caught a whiff of Starsky's aftershave, and smiled as he realized that his partner must have borrowed his coat for one of his trips to the barn. Rather than checking for stains or rips as he normally might do when Starsky borrowed a piece of his apparel, he grinned feeling closer to his partner than he could have imagined.

Hutch stepped outside for the first time in nearly a week, and stood on the porch for a moment, taking in a deep breath of the clean, crisp, wintry air. Although it made him cough a bit, and his nose began to run immediately, he didn't mind at all, the air smelled fresh and icy and wonderful. He pulled his collar up higher, and trudged to the barn. There was no sun, in fact the sky was gray, and light, dancing snowflakes filtered through the air. Hutch grinned happily as one landed on his nose, and he brushed it away with a gloved hand.

He pulled open the barn door, and the horses greeted him with soft, sleepy wuffles. It was obvious that they had been well taken care of during his incapacitation, everything smelled clean and fresh and full of woodchips and hay. "All right, you guys," he said aloud. "Now, it's Christmas, and I'm not sure if any of you remember, but that means I make breakfast for you in the house, right?"

The horses regarded him solemnly, having no clue what he was about, but enjoying the sound of his voice nonetheless. He moved around confidently, filling water buckets, and portioning out laps of hay, and the horses began a quiet munching, their anxiousness for their grain temporarily forgotten.

Hutch filled a large bucket with grain, and when he had finished giving the horses their hay and water, staggered back to the house with his burden, to make the horses the Christmas mash that had been a yearly, beloved tradition between he and his grandfather.

In the kitchen, he shed his coat and gloves, but left them by the door, easily retrievable when he was finished with his preparations. He found his mother's spaghetti pot, and took a perverse pleasure in dumping the horse feed into it. He assembled some ingredients from the refrigerator and the cabinets, and began cutting up carrots and apples and dumping them into the pot. He found a bottle of molasses in the pantry, and poured it in slowly, turning up the flame slightly, as he stirred carefully, coating the oats and other grains with the sweet liquid.

He leaned in close and sniffed, appreciatively, the scent taking him back to Christmas mornings past, much as evergreen and the smells of baking might affect someone who had grown up in a different sort of family environment. Continuing to stir and simmer the mixture, he finally turned it off and set it aside.

Hutch looked at the kitchen clock. Seven a.m. More than anything, he wanted to wake up Starsky and tear into the presents. He stopped for a moment, and shook his head. God, must have been sicker than I thought, when's the last time I wanted to tear into presents on Christmas? Um...never.... Hutch wondered if he'd sustained brain damage from the illness, and the thought made him smile. He couldn't actually believe that Starsky wasn't awake yet, but then again, he'd put in an awfully rough few days.

Unable to restrain himself, Hutch downed another two cookies, which he ate while he made some hot chocolate. He carefully poured it into two mugs, put the pot in the sink to soak, and made his way up the steps to Starsky's room. He peered around the doorway to see Starsky splayed out across the bed, sound asleep, and again resisted the urge to wake him. He set one of the mugs down on the nightstand, and, holding the other, lowered himself carefully onto the foot of the bed, where he relaxed, sipped at his cocoa, and watched his partner sleep, a goofy, sentimental expression on his face.

Peace.

Contentment.

Joy.

These were not familiar emotions for the blond haired man, and he reveled in them.

Eventually, Starsky began to stir, perhaps it was the smell of the cocoa pervading his very being, or the sensation of being watched in his sleep. He obviously knew before he opened his eyes that Hutch was there.

"'Bout time," Hutch said fondly, taking a sip of hot chocolate.

"Time for what?" Starsky asked, not fully awake. "What time is it?"

"Christmastime," Hutch offered. "Get up. We got presents."

"Mm...." Starsky rolled over on his back, and draped an arm across his eyes. He yawned, rubbed his face, and turned over on his side, propping his head with an arm. "Merry Christmas," he said. "How you feeling?"

"Great," Hutch told him.

"How you feeling?" Starsky asked again.

"Okay," Hutch answered honestly. "A lot better."

Starsky allowed him a smile. "Define better." He picked up the mug from the nightstand. "Thanks for this, by the way. Now define better."

"Um...no fever, little bit stuffy, cough's still there, but a lot less, and it doesn't hurt any more. Okay? Do I pass? I studied hard." He ducked his head shyly and smiled.

"Okay," Starsky grinned, relieved. "That we can deal with. You get an ‘A'." He took another sip of cocoa. "Did you say presents?"

"Sure did," Hutch replied. "Lots of ‘em."

Starsky sat up. "Okay, now this is the part where I want to go rip through them, and you tell me that we have to get cleaned up and dressed and make the beds, and then we can sit down and have some tea, and perhaps open one present and save the rest for later, right?" He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.

"Starsky, are you crazy?" Hutch stood up and started for the door. "It's Christmas, for God's sake." And he took off, thundering down the steps toward the den, Starsky close on his heels.

~*~*~*~

Once in the den, Starsky moved behind the wing chair that sat to the side of the fireplace. He pulled out a bulging trash bag, and began to open it carefully. Reaching in, he took out several brightly wrapped packages, which he piled neatly, and placed under the tree.

"Geez, Starsk, what's all that?" Hutch asked him. "I thought we already gave Kim everything for the—" He walked over and nudged the pile, boxes in varying shapes and sizes. Looking down, he realized that each and every package said "Hutch." "Starsky, what have you done?" he asked, unable to hide a pleased smile. "Does this mean I'm going to have to lend you rent money next month?"

"Probably," Starsky shrugged. "But this Christmas is special."

Hutch felt himself flush, both pleased and embarrassed at the same time. "It is for me too, Starsk." He nudged Starsky's pile under the tree. "That's yours."

"You're kidding," Starsky exclaimed. He moved over and planted his hand firmly on his partner's forehead. "Okay, now I know you're still sick. You never do this."

Hutch burst out laughing. "Well...we've never had a month quite like this, have we?"

Starsky exhaled loudly. "And I hope we never do again. Except for the presents, of course." He looked at Hutch appraisingly. There were still dark circles under his eyes, and his face was still too pale, although he looked much better without the unnatural flush of fever. But the clarity of his eyes, and the joy that emanated from within, spoke of returning health and, moreover, peace. Starsky pulled him into an affectionate hug. "Merry Christmas, babe," he said, a slight catch in his voice.

Accommodating the difference in their heights, Hutch nestled his head into Starsky's shoulder, and returned the hug, holding on tightly, and closing his eyes tightly. "Starsk?" he said softly.

"Hm?"

Hutch didn't continue, instead he held tighter to his partner and shook his head slightly. Starsky rested a hand on the back of Hutch's head, fingers threading gently through the blond hair.

"S'okay," he said, "I know. Me, too."

Hutch nodded, but did not speak.

Starsky pushed him away, holding him by the shoulders, and studied the familiar face closely. "You all right?" He brushed a thumb across Hutch's cheek.

Hutch nodded again, eyes bright, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "More than all right," he finally said.

Starsky grinned at him. "Me, too," he answered. "Hutch, I know what I'm about to say is gonna change everything you think you know about me...but it's something I just...I've gotta tell you."

Hutch nodded seriously. "Okay, shoot."

"Well," Starsky bit his lip. He gazed at Hutch for a moment, then his eyes swept the area under the tree, taking in the piles of presents, the warm, glowing lights, and finally lighting on Hutch's childhood ornament. "It's just that...."

"What, Starsk?" Hutch prodded.

"I don't want this to be over," Starsky said. "I don't wanna rip through the presents. I... I want to get dressed, and eat breakfast, and then open all this stuff."

Hutch burst out laughing, unable to stop until the effort made him cough, and he doubled over as Starsky thumped him on the back.

"Whatsa matter with you?" Starsky demanded, perturbed.

Hutch straightened up, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks. He laid the back of his hand across Starsky's forehead. "I think it's you who's delirious," he said, laughter still evident in his voice. "Maybe you caught my—"

"Shaddup," Starsky grinned, batting his hand away. He took hold of Hutch's sleeve. "Come on," he urged. "Let's get breakfast."

Hutch stood up straight and allowed himself to be tugged. As they entered the kitchen, Hutch stopped. "Hey, I left a present upstairs," he remembered. "I'll be right back."

Hutch loped up the stairs to his room, and reached into the dresser drawer, pushing aside a pile of t-shirts. He pulled out a simply wrapped package, and smiled when he thought what Starsky's expression might be when he unwrapped it. He knew how lucky he was, this Christmas morning.

"Hey, Starsk, have you seen my...." Hutch broke off as he came into the kitchen. "What the hell are you doing?"

Starsky looked up from the bowl in his hand, still munching. "Mm...." he indicated the contents with his spoon. "Mm...." he swallowed. "I can't believe you made breakfast," he said. "What is this? Some kinda granola stuff? It's great." He took another mouthful and spoke around it. "Sweet. You put brown sugar in here or what?"

Hutch's eyes widened, and one eyebrow shot up and disappeared under the blond bangs. "Um...it's, uh...molasses," he shrugged, "and, um...oats...bran...."

"Wow," Starsky said, swallowing another mouthful. "How come you never made me this at home."

"Well, uh, that's, uh, because...." Despite his best effort, Hutch could no longer contain the gulps of laughter that were welling up from deep inside him.

"Whatsa matter with you?" Starsky frowned. "Gonna make the cough worse, stop it."

Hutch continued to laugh, and Starsky set down the bowl and stared at him. "Hutch, what is the matter? Did I do something?"

Hutch shook his head, and doubled over in a spasm of coughs. He got it under control and straightened up, but as soon as he looked at Starsky, the chortles began again, tears pouring down his face from the effort. Finally he calmed down, wiping his eyes and nose with the napkin Starsky handed him.

"Are you going to share with the class?" Starsky demanded.

Hutch nodded, looking down, unable to meet his partner's eyes. "It's horse feed."

"It's what did you say?"

"Horse feed?"

"You made me horse feed for breakfast? Why would you do a thing like that?"

Hutch blinked quickly. "I didn't make it for you, Starsk, it's Christmas mash. I made it for the horses."

Stunned, Starsky stared at his partner for a long moment. He looked down at the bowl for a moment, back at his partner, and back at the bowl again. "The carrots threw me," he said, calmly.

"Yes, I would imagine they did," Hutch agreed with a nod.

"Thing is," Starsky continued, a lopsided smile breaking out over his face. "It's not half bad."

"Um, no, it's not," Hutch brushed imaginary lint off his shirt. "Kim and I tasted it once on a dare."

"Horse feed, huh?" Starsky lost his own battle with solemnity, and burst into hysterical laughter, which started Hutch off again. The two clutched at each other, and each time one stopped to catch his breath, the other started him off in a new wash of mirth.

"Gimme one of them," Starsky reached for the napkins and wiped his streaming eyes. He took a deep breath. "Eggs?" he asked.

"That'd be terrific," Hutch said. "I'll make the toast."

"Okay," Starsky said agreeably. He reached for the bowl of horse feed and spooned the last swallow into his mouth. Talking around it, with a grin, was not easy. "Hate to waste it," he explained.

Hutch reached over and tousled his hair. "You're a nut." He walked over and picked up his coat, then pulled Starsky's off the hook, and tossed it to his partner. "Put this on, we need to feed before you eat all the mash. We'll make our breakfast when we come in."

Starsky, still chewing, nodded. He moved to the coat rack, and shrugged into his jacket, zipping it up high. "Still cold out there?"

"Yes, but it feels...amazing."

Starsky shivered in anticipation. "I'll bet." He turned to the coat rack again, and extracted a scarf, which he draped around Hutch's neck, tying it firmly, then handed Hutch his coat. "Not takin' any chances." He let his hands slide to Hutch's shoulders and held on for a moment. He looked into his partner's eyes intently. "Can't go through that again, either one of us, you know?"

"I know," Hutch answered quietly. "I'm sorry I—"

Starsky put a finger to Hutch's lips, and shook his head. "Don't." He took a deep breath. "Not your fault. None of it."

"Okay." A slight tug at the corner of his mouth passed for an agreeing smile. Hutch nodded, and took a deep breath. "Okay."

Starsky dropped his arms and fished in his own pocket for his gloves. Although the physical contact was broken, the warmth of the bond remained between them, nearly palpable, enveloping them in such richness that the biting air was not even felt as they stepped outside.

Once in the barn, Starsky carried the spaghetti pot full of mash, and followed Hutch from stall to stall, drinking in Hutch's joy as he portioned it out to his beloved horses. Hutch had special, quiet words for each one, and the horses dropped their noses into their feed bins, greedily devouring their special treat.

"I think they like it better than I do even, Blintz," Starsky observed.

"Lucky there's some left for them," Hutch muttered, scraping the last of it for Jeremy's pony. "Here you go, darlin'," he said, giving the pony a pat.

"Shall I do the hay?" Starsky asked.

"Already did," Hutch told him. "While you were still snoring upstairs."

"Don't snore."

"Don't bet on it," Hutch yanked on a curl.

How the hell would you know?" Starsky demanded.

"Spent enough nights on that crummy couch of yours...."

"Like yours is any better," Starsky pointed out. "N'you snore too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Oh yeah?" Hutch picked up a handful of hay and tossed it at his partner, laughing as the strands became entangled in his partner's hair.

"Hutch!" Starsky leaned down and scooped up his own handful of hay. He held it aloft as Hutch backed up with a grin. "Right down your back this is going."

Hutch drew himself up to his full height. "I think not, Gordo," he looked down haughtily. Then he launched himself at Starsky's middle, barreling into him, and pushing him over into a pile of unbaled hay. He flipped Starsky over on his stomach, and using one well-placed knee to hold him down, deposited the handful of hay down Starsky's shirt.

Starsky wriggled around as the scratchy strands poked and tickled him. He narrowed his eyes, pulling his head up as best he could. "You are dead meat, Hutchinson. Let me up now."

Hutch considered for a moment. "Well...okay," he agreed, jumping off Starsky and racing for the house with Starsky in quick pursuit. Sensing that Starsky was gaining on him, he did a quick dodge and roll in the thick snow that covered the lawn, causing Starsky, in mid launch, to flop face first in the snow.

Hutch sat up quickly, the sight of his snow covered partner scrambling for purchase in the drifted whiteness made him laugh. Moving over toward Starsky, he stood and held out a hand to help him up. Starsky extended his own hand to accept the gesture, then tugged sharply at Hutch's wrist, pulling him down into the drift, and partially on top of Starsky.

They lay still for a few moments, and Hutch spoke in a measured voice. "I should put snow down your back for that one."

Starsky chuckled, feeling half the weight of his blond headed partner across his legs. "You'd never catch me," he teased.

"You don't think?"

"Nah...."

"But," Hutch indicated their position with a wave of his hand. "I've got you pinned right now."

"Yeah, but you'd never do it that way," Starsky told him. "Unfair advantage, you know...all that...not honorable...."

Hutch nodded and moved his legs, allowing Starsky to sit up. "Good point," he agreed. "Besides...I'd rather have the element of surprise, I think."

"Right, exactly," Starsky said, emphatically. He braced his hand against the ground and began to push himself up with a knee, when suddenly Hutch deposited a handful of snow down the back of his shirt.

"Like now," Hutch offered.

Starsky burst out laughing, and shivered as the snow dropped quickly down his spine. "I say it again," he grinned. "You're dead meat, Hutchinson."

Both men sat up, and began brushing snow from their hair and faces. Starsky reached out and brushed at Hutch's shoulder. "Missed a spot," he said, and squeezed through the heavy jacket. "Good to have you back," he offered softly, then, running a hand back through his own hair. "We'd better go in. It's cold."

~*~*~*~

Starsky leaned back from the table, giving his mouth a swipe with a napkin. He eyed his partner suspiciously. "You didn't eat very much."

"Oh, well, you know I—" Hutch grinned at him, "all that grease, and..." he sniffled dramatically, "... taste buds aren't back to normal yet."

"Mm." Starsky nodded, not quite sure if he was being manipulated. "Fine, but you'd better eat a huge dinner if I'm gonna go to all the trouble of roasting a turkey."

"I will, I promise," Hutch answered quickly. "Presents now?"

Starsky rubbed his hands together. "Sounds great," he said, pushing back his chair. "Need something to tide me over, though."

"You just finished breakfast," Hutch reminded him.

"Yeah," Starsky said agreeably. He got up and moved to the cookie jar he had filled the day before. Lifting the lid, he peered inside, then dipped his head down for a better look. "Hutch?" he asked.

"Yeah, Starss, what?" Hutch answered, depositing plates and silverware into the dishpan, which he was filling with hot water.

"Um, I'm lookin' in the cookie jar."

"Yeah?" Hutch squeezed in a measure of dish soap, slightly more than he had intended, and he glanced over his shoulder quickly, as he tried unsuccessfully to pat down the resultant billowing bubbles. "Lookin' in the cookie jar, huh?"

"Yeah. Lookin' in the cookie jar."

"Mm," Hutch answered, trying to bat the bubbles down the drain so his partner would not notice.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah, Starsk?" Hutch felt his face beginning to flush, both from being sure he'd been caught, and from the effort of heaving great gobs of suds to get them out of sight.

"There's hardly any cookies in here."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, there's..." Starsky pointed with an index finger, "...four, five...six. There's only six cookies left."

"Only six cookies left?"

"Six, Hutch." Starsky turned to face him. "Where did the rest of the cookies go? And what the hell are you doing?"

Hutch blushed furiously, holding up a sudsy hand. "Too much soap," he said lamely. "And, uh...I ate the cookies this morning."

"You ate the cookies?"

"I was really hungry."

"You ate cookies for breakfast?"

"I did," Hutch nodded solemnly. "A whole, whole lot of them."

"And how were the cookies, Hutch?" Starsky asked, eyes twinkling.

"Starsk...they...." Hutch lowered his voice and spoke in a reverent tone. "They were the best damned cookies I've ever had in my life."

Starsky allowed the grin he'd been suppressing to emerge. "I guess I'll have to make some more, then," he said. "You big goof. Come on, let's open some presents."

~*~*~*~

Hutch yanked the dark green sweater over his head. "How'd I look?" he asked, smoothing down strands of blond, hair, which were full of static electricity.

"You look terrific, Hutch," Starsk assured him, smiling at the look of delight on his partner's face as he sat, surrounded by wrapping paper and presents.

"It's so warm," Hutch said, running his fingers over the woven fabric. "And so soft." He looked around. "I can't thank you enough for all this..." he indicated the new bathrobe, several records, books, and other assorted items which he knew had been chosen with careful deliberation and overwhelming affection.

"Well, you're welcome," Starsky replied, "but I'm still in shock over here." He indicated his own stash. "To think that you—I mean...you never...." He shrugged, finding words inadequate, but needing to try. "Thank you. Thank you for...for the presents, and for...for not dying...." he finished with a sheepish smile.

Hutch looked at him for a long moment. "Thank you," he answered quietly. "For not letting me die, for finding Callendar...for this week...for always...." He shook his head. He leaned over and kissed Stasky quickly on the cheek. "I—" Sitting back, cheeks coloring, he whispered. "...love you."

Starsky reached out an arm, wrapping it around Hutch's neck, and pulling him into a tight hug. "Love you too, Blintz," he breathed softly. He closed his eyes, and rested his forehead in Hutch's hair. "...always have," he murmured.

"I...um...."

Starsky placed a light finger on Hutch's lips. "Shh...It's okay," he said. "It's good, I—" He kissed Hutch on the forehead, and pulled the blond head back against him. "We'll talk later, okay?"

Relieved, Hutch nodded against Starsky's shirt. "Yes."

"Yes," Starsky echoed, reveling in the moment, and wondered how to always keep hold of the feelings whirling inside him, feelings which were all at once the same, but so very different, peaceful, serene, content, exhilarating, and just a little terrifying. And all at the same time. It was enough to give a guy a headache.

Finally Hutch pulled away, and surreptitiously wiped his eyes. "Talk about euphoric sentimentalism," he said with a laugh. "We're totally nauseating."

"You got one more," Starsk produced a box, from under the couch and handed it to Hutch.

"So do you," Hutch answered softly, reaching behind him and handing over the package he had retrieved from upstairs. "You go first."

Starsky looked at him a moment, eyes shining, then carefully unwrapped a framed photograph. He turned it over, speechless. It was a picture of himself and Hutch, obviously taken by Kim the night they had arrived, and without his knowledge. The photograph was a close up, the two of them engaged in conversation, and Starsky remembered they'd been seated on the couch at the time, facing one another, heads together, each completely focused on the other. "My God," he breathed. "I didn't know she...."

Hutch squirmed slightly. "D'you like it?"

"Hutch I—" Struck uncharacteristically speechless, he looked at the picture again. He looked up and grinned crookedly at Hutch. "Maybe you'd better open this." He thrust his own wrapped package at the blond.

"Okay." Hutch peered at him, not quite sure whether he should be disappointed in the reaction or not. He'd felt that the picture represented everything about their friendship, the closeness, the love, the expressions on their faces were clearly only about their involvement with one another—"We look smitten with each other," he'd told Kim on the phone the evening he'd had the pictures developed, and had been ever so slightly puzzled by her fit of giggles following his statement.

"Open it," Starsky urged him huskily.

Hutch looked up at him, half smiled, and set about opening his own last gift. Obviously a picture frame, what kind of a coincidence was that? But when he turned it over, he felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs, and his mouth opened and closed a couple of times, a slight squeak the only audible sound.

It was another picture of him and Starsky together, and another obviously taken by Kim. They were outside, against one of the big oaks on the bank of the lake, and from the vibrant colors of leaves and water in the background, Hutch knew it must have been taken when they'd come east for Kate's christening.

Again, the two were enmeshed in conversation, oblivious to the other partygoers whom, Hutch knew, had been around them on the lawn, and on the porch. In the photograph both were smiling slightly, Hutch looking shy and slightly embarrassed, and he remembered the moment, the exact moment.

After the typical run-in with his dad that had taken place in the kitchen, and a brief attempt to socialize in the den with Kim the other guests, Starsky had steered Hutch outside knowing that if he hadn't, his fair haired partner was going to blow up and say something he probably wouldn't regret, but would probably be reminded of by his father for the next thirty years.

Starsky had shouldered good-naturedly through the throngs of partygoers, and parked the two of them by the tree, alternately making sympathetic noises and affectionate wisecracks until the blond had begun to simmer down. Finally, Hutch had begun to focus, and relax and, a little embarrassed by how much he'd let his dad get to him, to smile.

"Your sister took this," Starsky said, reaching over and squeezing Hutch's knee.

"I d-d-d...." Hutch swallowed, and tried again. "I remember standing there, but I didn't know she—"

"She sent it to me, right after," Starsky explained. "Because she thought that it—well...."

"It does," Hutch answered softly. "It does, and I—"

Starsky nodded, unable to articulate. "Yeah," he echoed. "It does."

"I...um...." Hutch blinked his eyes quickly and met Starsky's unwavering gaze. "I guess we've got a...a lot to talk about, huh?"

Starsky stroked a thumb across Hutch's cheek. "Do we?" he asked.

Hutch closed his eyes. "I mean, if we—we—if..." He leaned back and sighed. "it's all so...feeling like this...so new, and I—"

"Is it, though?" Starsky smiled at him fondly. "I mean, I gotta tell you, Hutch, I don't really feel any different than I did this morning, or last week, or last month...do you?"

Hutch thought a moment, biting his lip, then looked back at his partner. "No, I don't think I do. And yet—"

Starsky scooted closer to him, and pulled the troubled blond head down on his shoulder. "To me, it's like...for years now, I've had this wonderful gift, this unbelievable treasure." He kissed the top of Hutch's head softly. "Something so precious that I---well, I couldn't put a name to it, you know? Didn't really understand it, maybe, I don't know...."

Hutch nodded against his shoulder.

"And then," Starsky continued, "I almost lost it, it was almost taken away from me," He squeezed the blond's shoulder tightly. "And when I got it back, it was somehow...all the more magical—except now it had a name."

"What was the name?" Hutch asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Starsky leaned down again, burying his nose in the soft blond hair. "Don't you know?"

"Love," Hutch said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. He spoke in a stronger voice. "It's love."

"What we have," Starsky offered, "is...is...."

Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky's midsection and squeezed him. "Starsk...we are so, so lucky. Some people never—"

Starsky took hold of Hutch's chin with his finger, and tilted his face toward him, then leaned in slowly, and kissed Hutch with great care. He pulled back and watched Hutch slowly open his eyes. "No," he agreed, "they don't," and he leaned in for another kiss.

"Merry Christmas, Blintz," he breathed, just before their lips touched again.

~*~*~*~

"Kim?" Starsky held the phone away from his ear. "Kim, if you don't calm down, I'm gonna hang up, and I mean it," he said, although he didn't. "He's fine, I promise you. I shouldn't have said anything." I didn't mean to say anything. "It was just a, you know, touch of the flu, or a chest cold or something...." He thrust the telephone at Hutch, who had just come in from evening chores in the barn. "It's your sister," Starsky said, "I blew it, I'm sorry."

Hutch looked at him, startled. Although the two had spent the day talking and cuddling and exploring the ramifications of the new direction their partnership had taken, Hutch was nowhere near ready to share such confidences with anyone beyond the two of them, and he paled visibly. "What do you mean you blew it?" he hissed, holding a hand over the receiver.

"Just...just talk to her, Hutch, come on, please."

"Kimmy?" Hutch spoke tentatively into the telephone. "Um...Merry Christmas?"

"You!" his sister shouted back at him. "Kenneth James Hutchinson, what is wrong with you?"

"Uh oh," Hutch mouthed to Starsky. "Look, Kimmy, it's like...we've been through so much together, Starsk and me, and I...well, it wasn't like it was something we'd planned or anything, it just kind of...."

"What the hell are you talking about?" his sister demanded.

Starsky waved his arms frantically at his partner, but Hutch brushed a hand through the air and turned away, clutching at the receiver like a lifeline. "I mean, it's like it was always there, only we just didn't...and then there were the pictures...and, I don't know, it just kind of h-h-happened...I mean, come on, Goddamnit, you're the one who took the pictures, for God's sake, and you kept giggling when I said we looked smitten with each other, and I...."

"Hutch," Starsky whispered fiercely.

Hutch covered the receiver with his hand. "What?" he demanded. "Will you—what?"

"I didn't tell her about us," Starsky said in a low voice. "I told her you were sick."

Hutch flushed bright red to the roots of his hair. "Oh. Well, I...Oh." He held the phone back up to his ear. "Kim?"

"K.J., what is the matter with you, are you delirious or something?" she asked him.

"N-no, I...I didn't know what Starsky...I thought he...." He looked helplessly at his partner who, now that things were in the open, wore a tantalizingly amused smirk. "I—I mean, we—we realized...."

"You finally realized what I've been trying to tell both of you for the last five years?" Kim asked, her voice slightly gentler. "Well, congratulations, Blondie, maybe you're not so dumb after all."

"That's it?" Hutch asked. "You're not pissed or disgusted or horrified or...anything?"

"About that?" Kim laughed warmly. "Are you crazy? I think it's great."

"Great? You mean...you're not gonna revoke our Uncle rights to the kids?"

Kim's tone softened again. "K.J., what you two have, what you two are together, most people don't ever find, not in their whole lives. The way you care about each other, care for one another...is a gift, and it radiates from both of you when you're together. It shines in both your eyes, and it touches everyone you love, and everyone who loves you back, including Jeremy and Kate. If my kids grow up learning to love open-heartedly and caringly, and if any of that comes from having spent time with you and Starsky—how could that possibly be wrong?"

Hutch's eyes prickled with tears. "Thank you," he said, quietly, and cleared his throat. "Thank you. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart," she answered. "Now what's this bullshit about you being sick again?"

The catch in Hutch's voice turned to laughter, almost immediately. "Just the sniffles," he said, "I'm fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I promise." Hutch took a deep breath. "I'm more than fine."

"Terrific," she said. "Put Starsky back on."

Hutch held out the phone to his partner, whose grin immediately vanished as he backed away. "Uh uh," he said, emphatically, then, "Kim?" as the phone was unceremoniously placed against his ear.

Hutch began to chuckle at Starsky's side of the conversation.

"Kim...Kim...come on...aw, Kim, be reasonable, what was I supposed to do? Call you up in Hawaii and say, 'your brother's got a cold?'...Yes, I know he was real sick before, but...oh, like there was anything you were gonna do about it bein' four thousand miles away...yes I had him takin' vitamins, I...yes I fed him healthy crud...Kim, I promise, there were no burritos involved...."

Starsky looked helplessly at his partner, but Hutch was doubled over against the refrigerator, shoulders shaking silently in mirth. "You're as pushy as your brother, Kimmy, you know that?" Starsky's stance softened slightly. "Honest to God, hon, he's okay... bit of a cough left, that's about it...no, I didn't catch it, I'm fine...." Starsky blinked very hard several times. "I love you too," he said. "Thank you for...." he shrugged his shoulders. "Thank you."

He hung up the phone carefully, and yanked Hutch up by an arm, pulling him into a tight hug. "She's somethin' else," he whispered, then pushed Hutch away slightly so he could look him full in the face. "I can't believe you just did that," he said incredulously.

"Me neither," Hutch answered, "But, um, it...went well, don't you think?"

Starsky traced an eyebrow with his thumb. "Sure," he agreed, "but you're still blushin'."

Hutch nodded slightly. "Not every day a guy comes out to his sister," he said, raising an eyebrow, and allowing a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "Especially when...." he shrugged. "Especially when he's such a dope that he only just figured it out for himself."

Starsky pulled him forward and kissed him on the nose. "Feels good," he said. "Feels...right. Feels like it always shoulda been this way."

"I guess maybe it always was this way, but we—"

"You know what scares the hell out of me, Blondie?"

"What?"

"We're detectives. Aren't we supposed to be able to figure stuff like this out? I mean, come on, your sister was on it. What is she, anyhow, Nancy Drew?"

Hutch grinned, and tugged Starsky toward the den. "Come on," he said, patting Starsky's stomach lightly. "You're starting to babble. Too much excitement, and too much turkey." He pushed Starsky down on the sofa. "Stay here, I'll get us some tea, and we can...we can talk...if you want to...."

~*~*~*~

Starsky looked around the room, and listened to the sounds of his partner filling the kettle, and taking down mugs from the cabinet. This is the day, he thought, that probably changes my life...our lives...forever. Instead of feeling nervous and unsettled, he felt calm, at peace, as if all the previous months, hell, years of the relationship, had somehow contributed to this moment. He closed his eyes and wondered at the gradual ascent the path had taken, wondered if there was anyone in the world who was as happy and as contented as he was at this moment. He pictured his partner, coming full circle, from this room, back to this room, and all of the lifespan that had taken place in between.

It amazed him constantly that someone who'd had so much to deal with as a child, who'd never felt the reckless abandon of continuous unconditional love, could be so able to give it to others as an adult. To me, Starsky thought, he gives it to me, has always given it....

"Here you go," Hutch said softly, holding out a mug.

Reverie interrupted, Starsky smiled up his thanks. "Sit," he urged, patting the sofa beside him.

Hutch slid onto the couch, obliterating the physical distance between the two, as he settled in, arm against arm with Starsky. They sat in silence for a good while, until finally Starsky set his mug aside, and lifted his arm, settling it around the blond's shoulders as Hutch cuddled in closer to him.

Hutch rested his head on Starsky's shoulder, yawning tiredly.

"How you feelin', huh?" Starsky asked, his lips against Hutch's hair.

"Good," Hutch answered. "Like I...like it's all inside me, everything I've ever wanted."

Starsky chuckled. "That's terrific, babe, but I meant..." he brushed back strands of blond hair from Hutch's forehead and laid the back of his other hand there, against the warm skin. "...how you feelin'?"

"Um...like I've been through every cycle in a washing machine. Soak, rinse, dry, spin, and wringer." Hutch answered him honestly. He yawned again.

Starsky pressed his hand tighter against Hutch's forehead, and squeezed his shoulders at the same time. "Why don't you go to bed?" he asked. "You need the rest."

"In a minute," Hutch allowed. "Just let's...for a little bit...stay here...."

"Nah," Starsky released his hold, and stood, pulling the tired blond along. "We got the rest of our lives to 'stay here for a little bit'...wherever we are." The warm smile was evident in his tone. "You need to sleep. Your voice is getting' all scratchy again."

"No it's not," Hutch insisted, leaning away from him to cough briefly.

Starsky shook his head. "Big dope. Why don't you want to go to bed?"

"Honestly?" Hutch looked him in the eyes. "I don't want this day to be over."

Starsky's heart melted at the fluidity of the love and trust that was pooled within the depths of Hutch's eyes. "It's not gonna be over, Hutch, because...it's just what we've always had, but more, and I...."

Hutch nodded in acquiescence, but did not speak. He took Starsky's hand, and led him up the steps to the bedroom. He slowly climbed between the sheets, and with a tilt of his head, indicated that he wished his partner to join him.

"You sure?" Starsky asked. "You're ready for...."

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," Hutch answered.

Starsky leaned down to kiss him quickly. "Me either," he admitted. "But let me...I need to lock up, and unplug the tree and um..." he flashed a brilliant grin, "brush my teeth."

"Do it quick," Hutch instructed. "I'll...."

Starsky covered his face with light kisses. "You do that, Blintz," he urged. "You keep it warm for me. The bed, I mean," he smiled, straightening.

Hutch smiled into the pillow.

Starsky took the stairs quickly, and strode about the downstairs, turning off lights, gathering mugs and stray spoons and dropping them in the sink, and looking around briefly to make sure he'd put all the leftovers from their Christmas dinner away. Finally satisfied, he made his way back up the steps, flicking off the hallway light as he moved toward Hutch's bedroom.

He stopped short in the doorway, overwhelmed by the sight of his partner, golden hair splayed across the pillow in the moonlight, his expression one of calm and a kind of peace that Starsky could not remember quite having seen there before. His own eyes glistened at the beauty of it, and he closed them quickly, giving thanks to the heavens that this beauteous treasure was forever linked to him, heart and soul.

Hutch's breathing was congested with a slight rasp, and yet Starsky felt nothing but secure, knowing that the sound showed much improvement over the ragged, hoarse gasps of a few days before. We can deal with this, he thought, moving slowly into the room. He placed one knee on the edge of the bed, sliding under the covers in a fluid motion, and Hutch automatically moved closer until their bodies were nestled together as if they'd always shared a bed.

Which they had, of course, on numerous occasions—gentling an illness or an injury, sleeping off a stakeout when either was too exhausted to make up the couch, the night Gillian had died, and Hutch, shattered into tiny, jagged shards, had needed someone to hold him together till morning's light.

Starsky slid an arm around the blond, and dropped a soft kiss on the edge of an ear, and suddenly realized that Hutch, exhausted both from being sick, and from the revelations of the day, had fallen fast asleep. Starsky stilled a momentary urge to wake him, instead wrapping his arms more tightly around Hutch, and his partner responded by moving even closer, burying his face somewhere in the middle of Starsky's chest. Starsky grinned down at him, overcome with warmth and a contentment that seemed infinite and filling at that moment, then closed his own eyes and drifted off to sleep.

~*~*~*~

"Hutch? Hutch, come on," Starsky insisted, shaking a shoulder, and gently running an index finger down Hutch's nose. "Come on, babe."

Hutch opened one eye blearily and absolved the resultant tickle with the hand he ran down his face. "What the hell time is it," he managed, his voice sleep-scratched and tired.

"Six," Starsky informed him, "and the sun's startin' to come up already, you gotta get up."

Hutch flopped onto his back. "You expect me to get up now? After last night? Are you out of your mind?" His sleepy smile belied the harshness of his words, and Starsky bent down to kiss the full, soft, morning lips.

"Damn right, Blondie," Starsky insisted, hovering in for another kiss. "It's the first day of a new year. Time to do somethin' important."

Hutch grinned and draped an arm over his eyes, hoping to close them for just a few more moments while Starsky elaborated on whatever his plans were for the upcoming day. "Starsk, come on," he moaned half heartedly, "last night was New Year's Eve, and we were up drinking champagne still at one a.m. And after that...." Hutch sat up slightly, "We did do something important." He raised one eyebrow. "Or have you forgotten?"

Starsky's smile illuminated the room like the morning sunshine that had not yet appeared. "Nope," he said, sitting down on the side of the bed. "Never gonna forget that."

Hutch reached up and tugged at a wayward curl. "You'd better not," he teased. "Or I'll...."

"You'll what?"

"I'll...be forced to do it over and over until it's emblazoned on your memory," Hutch pushed back the covers and nudged Starsky's back. "Okay, out of my way if you want me to get up. What are we doing this morning that's so special, anyhow?"

"Well," Starsky replied cryptically, "Two things, actually."

"Two?" Hutch repeated, stretching and yawning. He looked down at Starsky. "You know what I'm really thankful for today?" he asked.

"Me?" Starsky asked hopefully, canting his eyebrows.

"Well, obviously," Hutch replied, "That goes without saying. No...I'm thankful that we're home and I can get out of bed in the morning in bare feet without freezing off a toe. Venice in early January is definitely preferable to Duluth, no matter how much you like the snow."

Starsky regarded him solemnly. "To be honest, I'm kind of glad to be back here too," he admitted. "Especially after your parents got home yesterday morning. They kept looking at me weird. Why'd they say they came home early again?"

"They said it was because they found out that my father's biggest client...."

"Rance Murdoch," Starsky said the name in his finest Brooklyn-British accent.

"Rance Murdoch," Hutch agreed, "is giving a New Year's Eve bash at the Country Club." He blinked at Starsky seriously. "Really, I think it was because they were trying to catch us in the act."

"They almost did," Starsky pointed out, grinning. "Never saw you get dressed so fast in my life. You think they knew?"

"They knew," Hutch assured him.

"You told them?"

"Hell no," Hutch reached for his bathrobe. "They knew, they knew what was going on, and they knew..." he leaned down and kissed Starsky quickly on the cheek, "...it was going on in their house. In addition to which," he knotted the bathrobe around his waist, "they knew I had my feet on the sofa, and I'm pretty sure they figured out we had a Christmas tree in there."

"My God," Starsky teased, in a horror stricken voice. "So, um...which thing you think upset them the most?"

Hutch regarded him seriously. "I can't believe you'd even ask me that question," he said, a touch of impatience audible in his tone. "They weren't happy about you and me, but," He pulled Starsky close and hugged him tightly. "They were really, really pissed about the pine needles."

~*~*~*~

"I don't understand why we're spending New Year's morning in the middle of LAX," Hutch complained. "We were just here yesterday. I thought this was a good surprise."

"Oh, it is, absolutely," Starsky assured him, eyes twinkling. "The best. You want coffee?"

"Bad coffee at the airport is my surprise?" Hutch tried to get comfortable against the orange molded plastic chair. "I'm gonna sulk now, I think," he said.

"Uncle Hutch!!!!!"

Hutch leapt to his feet just in time to once again catch that familiar green-jacketed, blue-jeaned blur as it flew through the air toward him. "Jeremy?" Chubby arms went round his neck, and he closed his eyes into Jeremy's shoulder. When he looked up at Starsky, his eyes were bright. "This is my surprise?"

"Hell, no, Blondie, I had no idea this kid was gonna be here," Starsky replied. He turned around quickly and motioned with a hand, and soon Kim, Kate, Michael and a very large diaper bag appeared from behind some large tropical plants, which decorated a partitioned area of the terminal.

Hutch looked up to see the rest of his family coming toward him, bumping Jeremy up a little higher on his arm, and reaching for his sister, niece, and brother-in-law with the other.

Michael stepped back first, allowing his wife free access to her brother. He cuffed Starksy lightly on the shoulder, and pulled him in for a quick embrace. "How you doin', buddy?" he asked, thumping the dark-haired detective on the back. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," Starsky responded, eyes twinkling. "Nice tan." He tilted his head toward Hutch, who now held both Jeremy and Kate, and had Kim's arms wrapped around his middle besides. "Think we surprised him," he said. "Thanks."

"I just wish we had more than two hours layover before our flight home," Michael said. "But we were thinking February, maybe, to come out for a better visit?"

"That sounds terrific," Starsky said. "Hutch is gonna have to start baby-proofing." He indicated the laughing infant who was alternately poking fingers in Hutch's eyes, in his mouth, and trying to grab his nose. "She might be crawlin' by then."

"So have you two...are you...."

"No," Starsky shook his head. "Not yet. For now, we're takin' things one day at a time, not making any big decisions right now."

"I think that's wise," Michael agreed. "I mean, it's only been...."

"Officially, yeah," Starsky ducked his head shyly. "Even though...." he shrugged his shoulders. "But we've got work to consider, and finances, figure if we keep on the way we are for a year, year and a half or so, save up some money...."

"Very wise," Michael nodded in approval. "And when you guys are ready for some legal counseling, or to start looking for a house, or whatever, you let me know, okay?" He tousled Starsky's hair. "Family discount." He made a wry face. "Uh...have the parents...?"

"Not really," Starsky answered him, reaching out to take Kate from his partner's arms. "They know, or Hutch thinks they know. It's terse. But how would you tell if it were otherwise—Ow!" he yelped as Kate pulled on his ear and wiggled with a robust baby chuckle.

~*~*~*~

"You're my best uncle," Jeremy told Hutch solemnly. He tugged at Starsky's sleeve. "N'him too, right, Starsk?"

"You bet, pal," Starsky hunkered down next to the child. "So you gonna come see us in a few weeks?"

"Sure am," Jeremy agreed. "Mommy says we just have to go home for a couple weeks to get clean clothes 'n stuff."

"We'll be all ready when you come back," Hutch assured him. "We've got some great stuff planned to do. Disneyland? And the beach? How's that sound?"

"Can we go surfin'?"

Hutch looked quickly at Starsky. "Well, um, sure, if you want, but neither Starsky nor I...."

"You 'n my Starsky can do anything," the little boy said honestly. "My mom told my dad that, and I heard her." He frowned. "They weren't talkin' about surfing, but it's prob'ly the same."

Hutch pulled him into a quick hug, then stood and faced his sister. "You told his dad that, huh?" he asked, gently brushing back her bangs.

"Mm hm," she said. "I did." Her eyes were bright with tears. "You know, I always swear I'm not going to cry when I'm saying goodbye to you...."

Hutch kissed her cheek. "But you always do anyway," he smiled. "It's only a few weeks, kiddo, not worth crying about this time."

She wiped her eyes quickly. "That's not what I'm crying about," she said. "It's because...."

Hutch placed a finger against her lips. "Sh...." he soothed. "I know why. And I'm happy too. Really happy."

"Okay," she said, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. "You ready, Michael?" she asked, nodding toward the gate. "Think they're starting to board."

"Yup." Her husband swooped up his son in one arm, and caught Hutch in a quick hug with the other. "You hang in there, K.J.," he said, smiling. "We'll run interference with the parents, keep 'em from calling to bug you two, all right?

Hutch slapped him on the back. "Knew I could count on you, Mikey," he grinned.

"You know what?" Kim asked Starsky, as she hugged him fiercely. "I have always wanted another brother, and particularly one who's a good dancer—you know what a klutz K.J. can be."

Starsky laughed heartily. "Do I ever," he agreed, then turned Kim around in a perfect dip. He leaned in and kissed her on the nose, before setting her back up on her feet, breathless. "I always wanted a sister," he told her. "So try and get rid of me now."

She pulled away and grinned at him. "But there is one stipulation," she said.

"I know, I know..." he raised a hand in self defense. "The next time the Blintz so much as clears his throat, I'll be on the phone to you...."

"I don't think so, Gordo," Hutch broke in, draping an arm around his partner's shoulders. He looked at Kim's darkening expression. "We'll negotiate that point when you come back out, okay?" he said, placating her with a kiss and a nudge. "Now get out of here, you'll miss your plane, and I didn't clean the bathroom at home."

Amidst laughter and a hint of tears, the Kelly family trooped down into the jetway toward the airplane that would bear them home to Duluth.

~*~*~*~

"Come on, Hutch, it'll be fun," Starsky cajoled, as he urged the Torino down the Santa Monica ramp to the Pacific Coast Highway. "You'll see." He pointed out the window, waving a hand in the direction of the ocean, and then toward the foothills lining the other side. "See the ocean? See the mountains? See the—"

"See your partner, incredulous," Hutch sat up straighter and grinned. "You could at least tell me where we're going," he added.

"It's a surprise," Starsky glanced over at him.

Hutch placed a hand on Starsky's knee, and gave it a squeeze. "This morning...seeing my sister, and the kids, and Michael...that was already the best surprise," Hutch told him. "How on earth did you...."

"Hey, you've gotta sleep sometimes," Starsky shot back. "When Kimmy called yesterday morning for her daily 'Hutchdate' we figured out the times and stuff." He reached down and patted the hand on his knee.

Hutch nodded, and leaned back against the car's seat, closing his eyes dreamily. As the memories of his illnesses, both of them, began to recede, quickly, like the tide washing away from the beach, he had been left with an incredible combination of both euphoria, and peace. No longer compelled to fit everything he'd ever wanted to do in his lifetime into the next two hours, he wondered at the abject pleasure of serenity and contentment.

Nearly recovered, the only residual symptom was the occasional wave of overwhelming sleepiness—to which he had learned to give in, finding that the energy fueled by dozing with reckless abandon gave him new strength upon awakening, and only heightened the pleasure of the things he was doing when he was awake and alert. No more did he feel the pressure of a time constraint, and he knew that, in large part, had less to do with feeling better, and the return of health, than with the direction of his relationship with his partner.

All the pieces were in place now, he realized, and there was every reason in the world to take things at a slower pace, to savor each moment, and to revel in its magic. He wondered just where it was that Starsky was taking him, as the golden midmorning sunlight warmed him through the car window—and then he realized that it really didn't matter.

"We're here," Starsky announced, pulling the car off the road, and Hutch could smell the hay and the sunshine, and the indefinable heady scent of early-morning-horse before he opened his eyes.

"I don't believe this," he said, sitting up straighter. "You're willing to give this another shot after...." He reached up and touched the healing scar on Starsky's head, from which the sutures had only been removed two days previously.

"Hey, you know what they say," Starsky replied, putting the car in park, and turning off the engine. "You fall off the horse, you gotta get right back on." He looked at Hutch, eyes twinkling in surprise. "Wow, who'd ever've thought I'd be able to say that in real life and mean it? Now come on, I've got a date with the Tomato."

Hutch burst out laughing, and he reached up and tousled Starsky's curls gently. "Okay, Cowboy," he said, "let's see what you've got."

"Well, actually...." Starsky knit his brows together in a devilish leer. "I think I kinda showed you that last night, but...."

~*~*~*~

The horses slowed their paces in tandem from an all out canter, to a trot, and finally to a leisurely, calm walk, as the sparkling breakers twinkled under their hooves like a magic carpet. The horses moved closer together, merging like liquid lava, so that the riders' knees occasionally touched companionably as they moved down the beach.

"How are you doing?" Hutch asked, taking the reins in one hand as he pushed windblown bangs from his face. "You doing okay?"

"I am doing terrific," Starsky answered, nudging Hutch's calf with his toe. "Me and this horse, we've got some kinda understanding going here."

"You and the horse, huh?" Hutch smiled indulgently.

"Yeah," Starsky leaned down and patted the horse's neck affectionately. "How you doin'?" He squinted over at the blond. "Ready to head back?"

"I guess," Hutch sighed. "Can't help feeling, though..." he shrugged his shoulders, "...that this...this time in our lives...should just...you know...."

"Go on forever?"

"Mm hm," Hutch nodded, shading his eyes with his hand. "You know?"

"I get it," Starsky agreed, "and I feel the same, but..." he smiled broadly, "maybe the path that takes us wherever it is we're headed will be even better than the one that got us here."

"Pretty profound. What about the details?"

"We'll figure them out as we go, Blintz," Starsky said gently. "Same's we always have."

"And that's enough?"

"That's a gift, Hutch. For both of us, all the time, together. Remember that, and the rest will fall into place."

Hutch nodded, smiled, and allowed his horse to bump up against Starsky's, their knees brushing together again, a show of solidarity. "In tandem, huh?" he asked.

"You got it, babe," Starsky grinned brilliantly as the horses began to move, with the riders, in perfect harmony, back up the long beach toward the rest of their lives.

THE END

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