Title: The Difference
Author: Hutchrules3
Type: Gen
Summary: Close calls for both him and Starsky bring a host of memories home for Hutch, when he and Starsky travel to New York for the December holidays.
Notes: Though not directly related to an episode, "The Difference" alludes to both The Fix and Shootout.
Eternal and heartfelt thanks, as always, to Paula and Keri, my two eternal buds and enthusiastic readers.
Format: Story
Categories: Hutch Angst, Pre-SR, Christmas
Rating: PG
Size: 57K
Date Added: 2003-03-14

The Difference
by Hutchrules3

"I don't know, Starsk--"

It was Thanksgiving evening, and the last guest had just left Hutch's cottage. Eying the debris spread across his living room and kitchen, Hutch had idly contemplated having a beer before tackling the mass of leftovers and dishes. With a sigh, however, he'd decided if he sat down he probably wouldn't want to get up for the next four hours. So he had rolled up his shirtsleeves and just begun to fill the sink with its first round of soapy water, when the phone rang.

He'd known who it would be before he even picked it up...and he was right.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Blintz."

"Hey, Stars." Carefully loading wine glasses and other pieces of crystal into the sink, Hutch had been filled with genuine pleasure at the sound of his partner's cheerful voice.

Starsky had flown to New York to spend the holiday with his mother, brother, and brood of cousins, courtesy of Dobey's gruff generosity and concern for his detectives' emotional and physical well-being. Worried about the aftereffects of Hutch's kidnaping on both partners, and the fact that the blond detective's bruises had barely faded before he and Starsky were thrown into another arduous case, he'd taken one look at both of them last week and declared he was giving them the entire week off. Starsky had been on the phone immediately, and with the help of a former girlfriend who worked for a travel agency, had managed to score a ticket to New York that wouldn't break his bank account.

He'd asked Hutch to come along, of course, but Hutch was still feeling shell-shocked, and longing desperately for some quiet time alone with his music and his plants. Between his need to recuperate from Forest's brutal treatment and the fact that he had yet to mingle with all of the Starskys simultaneously, the excursion sounded like more than he was willing or able to handle right now. Both Rachel and Starsky had coaxed and cajoled, but Hutch had held firm, and when he promised he wouldn't be alone on Thanksgiving day, they had finally given in.

True to his word, he'd invited a number of other "orphans" who either had no family or couldn't get home for the holidays. They'd had a small, quiet dinner, and the day had been pleasant and thankfully free of pressure. He'd expected some ribbing for substituting various health-food concoctions for "real" foods, and it had come in spades, but it had been good-natured, and the clean plates suggested his guests had ultimately enjoyed his offerings.

"Well, yeah, sure," he said now to Starsky, the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. Having left the wine glasses to soak, he was transferring oyster stuffing to a Tupperware bowl. "It was strange not having you here, but-"

"So that's what I'm sayin'," Starsky said persuasively. "You already broke Ma's heart by not coming for Thanksgiving--you don't wanna do that again, do you?"

"I did no such thing," Hutch protested indignantly, popping the lid on the container with a particularly vigorous "burp." "If anyone broke her heart, you did, promising her I'd come before you even asked me."

"Ken, David said your folks were going to Europe for a month and taking your sister along," Rachel Starsky's voice interjected reproachfully from an extension. "Christmas is no time to be alone, not when there's a whole family here just waiting to welcome you."

Hutch stifled a tired sigh; how could he explain, without hurting her feelings, that the "whole family" was precisely part of the problem? Right now he couldn't contemplate being with his own, decorous family, much less a houseful of Starsky's energetic relatives. "That's really very kind of you, Rachel, but--"

"No buts," Rachel pronounced firmly. "You have no excuses, we took a vote, and you're coming home with David for Hanukkah and Christmas."

Hutch started to protest again, then decided to save his breath. He could stand against Starsky alone--he'd had plenty of practice and an arsenal of psychological defenses--but Rachel was another matter, and she and Starsky together were an irresistible force that Hutch just didn't feel like fighting. Besides, the odds of them getting extended leave at both Thanksgiving and Christmas were approximately the same as Starsky knowingly ordering the vegetarian special at the Organic Marketplace.

"All right, okay, we'll see," he hedged, stretching the phone cord to its limit as he stacked the leftovers in his fridge and started washing the glassware. "How're all the little guys doin'?" he tossed out deftly; years of experience had taught him how to sidestep further pressure to commit himself.

"Aw, terrific." Starsky took the bait immediately, and Hutch could easily envision him beaming like the proud "uncle" he was. Though he had no sisters, there were three female cousins--Sarah, Hannah, and Susanna--each of whom had married within a year of each other. In the last two years, Sarah had delivered a daughter, Hannah a son, and Susanna one of each in a pair of twins. As a result, a full gathering of Starskys now included four children around the age of two--another reason why Hutch had found the idea of joining them a little overwhelming. He was crazy about his sister's kids, four-year-old Jeremy and just-turned-one Lydia, but had to admit he most enjoyed being with his nephew, whose budding philosophy had a delightfully fresh and newly eloquent quality.

Though there were also times when just sitting, Lydia curled up and sleeping warmly in his lap, filled him with a feeling of inexpressible peace.

"Thea's talking up a storm, Ken, wait until you hear her," Rachel was saying proudly. "And Gabe's been showing everybody how he can run up and down the stairs."

"Yeah, he only fell once," Starsky snickered.

"Only because his Uncle David was chasing him," Rachel scolded. "And Ken, you'll never guess--Nicky's got a steady girlfriend."

"Really." Hutch tried to inject some enthusiasm into his response, but the result was lukewarm; based on his partner's description of Nick's escapades, he had no affection for Starsky's brother.

"Brought her along," Starsky put in. "She's a real nice girl, Hutch--can't believe she's with a bum like my brother."

There was a protest in the background; Starsky laughed and added something Hutch couldn't make out. He heard a robust burst of laughter, and couldn't restrain the smile that tugged at his lips.

"Oh--I think I just saw the twins go into the kitchen," Rachel said with a little gasp. "I've got to go--Susanna! Where are those babies of yours going?"

Hutch flinched; Rachel had either forgotten she still held the phone or, more likely, didn't much care. She shouted for her youngest niece again, and Hutch held the phone away from his ear until he heard the blessed click and abrupt silence, followed by Starsky's soft chuckle.

"Sounds like a real circus over there," Hutch commented wryly. He laid a towel on his kitchen table, set the now-clean wine glasses out to dry, and loaded silverware into the sink.

"It is," Starsky agreed without surprise or defensiveness. "Don't you wish you were here?"

"Honestly, no," Hutch laughed. "The whole thing sounds like a recipe for chaos."

"Recipe, hell," Starsky snorted. "It's a four-course dinner."

Hutch laughed again.

"So," Starsky said, and Hutch's eyes narrowed at his friend's overly casual tone. "How're you doin'?"

Hutch shrugged the shoulder that wasn't holding the phone. "All right," he replied quietly, rinsing a knife.

"Hutch--"

"Really, Starsk," Hutch insisted. "Huggy, Minnie, and Linda came, and Romaro and Selles. They got here around one, we had a nice dinner, and they just left."

Just as Starsky, with unerring psychic accuracy, had sensed that his partner was alone.

"What about last night?" Starsky persisted.

"What about it?" Hutch said evasively, scrubbing a serving spoon with more vigor than the task really required.

"Any nightmares?"

"I--" His hands stilled in the soapy water, and Hutch stared down at the utensil in his hands, watched it blur and shimmer. "All right, yes," he admitted, finally rinsing the spoon and dropping it into the basket on his dish drainer. "But just one," he added hastily. "And I was okay."

"Go back to sleep?"

This time, Hutch didn't mask his sigh. Dammit, how does he know?

Even as he asked, however, he knew the answer. Starsky knew because he'd spent nearly every night at the cottage since Hutch had been found and Forest safely locked away. He knew exactly how many times Hutch had woken, streaming with sweat and clutching his arm where the needles had entered, or doubled over by a phantom cramp that seemed to be breaking every rib in his body. He knew how Hutch would try to go back to sleep, then finally drag himself out of bed, conceding he wanted nothing more to do with an oblivion that hurtled him repeatedly back to the nightmare that was Forest's lingering legacy.

"No," he admitted again in a low voice. "But I needed to get up anyway, to get the dinner started."

It was Starsky's turn to sigh, and Hutch braced himself for the lecture that would be well-meaning but which he didn't feel like hearing. But his partner surprised him.

"I'll be back Sunday afternoon," Starsky said, instead of suggesting for the hundredth time that Hutch go to his apartment to sleep, rather than staying in the cottage with its all too active ghosts. "Pick me up at the airport?"

Hutch relaxed, rinsing the last of the silverware and dumping it into the dish drainer. "Sure," he replied. "Just be sure to call me Saturday with the flight number and the time."

"Don't hafta," Starsky told him matter-of-factly. "Stuck it on your fridge before I left."

Hutch craned his neck; sure enough, there was a piece of paper with the information written in Starsky's bold handwriting. He chuckled. Trust Starsky to do everything he could to make sure Hutch wouldn't strand him at LAX.

"Got it," he said, pulling the sink's plug so he could drain the water and then start round two of the dishwashing. "See you then, huh?"

"Yeah, try not to be late, will ya?" Starsky requested plaintively. "It's one of those no-frills flights where they don't even feed you; I'm gonna be starved by the time we touch down."

"Yeah, so what else is new," Hutch teased back. "There's a great new place they just opened up out near there--serves a mean chili--"

"Hey, that sounds good," Starsky said with interest.

"--with tofu instead of that gristly, artery-clogging meat."

"On second thought, I'll wait til I get home."

"Aw, c'mon, Starsk," Hutch said persuasively. "You'll need something healthy after this week--I bet your mom's pecan pie alone shot your cholesterol into the stratosphere."

"Yeah, well, you got no idea what that stuff you eat's doin' to your system, either," Starsky retorted.

"I was clean as a whistle at the last department physical," Hutch reminded him smugly.

"It just hasn't had time to settle," Starsky predicted darkly. "Just wait until you're 40 or 50, Hutch --they'll find out the damage all that bean curd and dessicated liver's done to you."

Hutch laughed again. He had to admit, as much as he'd enjoyed time with his other friends, this phone call was definitely the highlight of his day.

There was another burst of noise in the background; Hutch heard Starsky's muffled words as he covered the phone with one hand to do verbal battle with his rowdy relations. "Hey, I gotta go," he said regretfully when he returned to the line. "They're puttin' together some game and Ma won't play unless I do." He paused, and Hutch heard him on the other end, somehow just listening.

"Starsk, go," he said gently. "I'm fine."

"Warm milk," Starsky ordered. "And think about--"

"I will," Hutch interrupted the familiar refrain. "I promise."

"An' put Christmas on your calendar," Starsky told him. "You don't come, Ma'll probably come to L.A. herself and drag you out here by your ear."

Hutch snorted; having met Rachel Starsky a few times, the threat wasn't as far-fetched as one might think. "We get the time off, I'll go," he promised. "But somehow I don't think Dobey'd let that happen."

**********************

"Okay, buddy, I think it's our turn."

Hutch unfolded himself from the ridiculously small airplane seat that always turned his legs into numb knots after a long trip. Bad enough the flight was several hours long, but his torture had been unmercifully extended by a forty-five minute park on the runway while the pilot waited for a clear gate, and the excruciatingly slow procession of the other passengers as they dragged bags stuffed with gifts down the aisle and off the plane. Ducking into the aisle, he stretched his legs gratefully, and reached up to pull his and Starsky's bags from the overhead bin.

"Hutch--"

"Just sit tight, babe," Hutch told him gently. "Everybody else is gone, we got lots of time." He slung both bags over his shoulder, groaning under the weight of Starsky's and glad he'd thought to ship his own gifts out to Rachel ahead of time, and extended one hand to his partner.

Starsky unbuckled the seatbelt with his good hand, and Hutch caught him under the elbow as he rose stiffly and painfully to his feet. "Take it easy," Hutch crooned, his grip firm. "Nice and slow."

"Hurts like hell," Starsky muttered under his breath as he eased himself out of the row of seats, to finally stand upright in the aisle.

"I know it does," Hutch soothed. He adjusted the sling over Starsky's shoulder, and grabbed the battered leather jacket from the seat his partner had vacated. "You wanna put this on, huh? Or just sort of--drape it?"

"I can do it," Starsky insisted, but his protest sounded perfunctory, and he offered no further resistance as Hutch slipped a sleeve over his good arm, then draped the jacket over Starsky's left shoulder and sling and pulled the front as tightly as he could. "Thanks," Starsky sighed, and Hutch could hear him repressing his impatience at having to be helped. "You ready?"

"Yeah, let's get outta this flying sardine can," Hutch said fervently, stepping back so Starsky could precede him. He eyed his partner worriedly as Starsky passed; the dark-haired detective looked worn out from having his injured shoulder cramped into a coach seat for hours on end. "You gonna make it, huh?" he asked as he fell in behind Starsky and laid a hand on the leather-covered shoulder. "Or should I have the stewardess bring one of those wheelchairs so you can ride out in style?"

"No, thanks, that's all I need," Starsky said with feeling. "Ma'd freak out completely if I came off this thing under anything but my own power."

Hutch chuckled, and felt the shoulder under his hand square determinedly. They made their way through the plane, Starsky first and Hutch following, watching vigilantly for the slightest wobble in his partner's walk, and said their polite goodbyes to the flight crew.

"Probably glad to see us go," Starsky murmured as they started up the jetway. "Wish I had a nickle for every time you rang that bell."

"Well, you needed a blanket and a pillow," Hutch defended himself, pulling the slipping jacket more securely around Starsky's shoulder. "No way you were going the whole flight as cold as you were."

"They were okay with that," Starsky conceded. "But by the time you asked for the fourth cup of coffee, I think they were gettin' ready to clock you."

Hutch shrugged, but a smile teased at his lips. "You may be right about that, buddy, but if they'd make the damned stuff drinkable, I would've left 'em alone."

"That's just because you drink it black," Starsky told him philosophically. "Four packs of sugar, and you'd never know the difference."

"Oh, yes, I would," Hutch said with convictiong as they emerged into the waiting area. "All the sugar in the world can't hide the taste of lousy coffee."

He was instantly and boisterously interrupted, as a throng of chattering, fretting Starskys descended en masse upon the two detectives. Though he'd expected the onslaught, Hutch hadn't prepared himself for quite this much movement and sound, and he faltered, falling back as Starsky's mother and cousins swarmed around his partner.

Rachel took her oldest son's head in her hands and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. "Davey," she fairly wept, holding him close while she tried to avoid jostling or squeezing his shoulder. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so glad to see you."

Clutching a child on her hip, Hannah passed a gentle hand through the dark curls. "She's been beside herself all week, Dave," she confided. "Even after you and your partner both called, she wouldn't believe you were okay until she saw you for herself."

Starsky grinned, and carefully placed his good arm around his mother's shoulders, hugging her tightly. "It's okay, Ma," he assured her. "It's nothin' but a shoulder wound--I'll be good as new before you know it."

"I know, Davey, I know," she gulped, blowing her nose delicately with a lavender handkerchief. "But I'm just so glad you're all right--and that you're here."

Hutch watched as the rest of the gathered Starskys took their turn at cautious yet clearly loving embraces with his partner. Starsky admired the twins' stumbling steps and listened solemnly as a girl toddler spoke to him at length from her mother's arms. And though Hutch was concerned that so much stimulation would exacerbate the plane-borne fatigue, Starsky seemed to be gaining energy from his family's expressions of love and welcome.

"Ken."

Two arms had enfolded him now, taking him so much by surprise that he stumbled a step backward. Recovering, he offered a smile to Rachel, who was beaming up at him with pleasure. "Hi, Rachel," he greeted her warmly. "Happy Hanukkah, and Merry Christmas."

"The same to you, my dear," she returned. "But you look so tired and thin--what kind of food are they serving you in California?"

Hutch laughed out loud; it was precisely the greeting Starsky had predicted his mother would give. He knew he hadn't come close to gaining back the weight he'd lost from the kidnaping, or the weeks afterward when food had done nothing but turn his stomach. And in the last week, ever since Starsky had been shot during that tense and terrible night at the Italian restaurant, he'd been awake almost around the clock, only snatching brief periods of sleep while Starsky dozed. Even then, he'd woken several times, partially to be sure Starsky wasn't in pain and didn't need anything, but mostly to simply touch him and reassure himself that Starsky was really there. True, the night hadn't ended as he had feared it might, but the shooting had left its impact on him nonetheless, adding yet another ingredient of anxiety to his own still-simmering pot of nightmares.

"Come," Rachel said then, breaking into his thoughts as she tucked a hand through his elbow. "Let Nicky take the bags, and you can chat with me while the girls fuss over David."

Starsky's brother was quiet, almost sullen, and offered no comment to his mother's volunteering him as temporary bellhop. Nevertheless, Hutch was grateful to transfer Starsky's bag to Nick's clearly capable hands; the kid looked as strong as an ox, and Hutch had no idea what Starsky had packed, but it felt like all the weights the physical therapist had told him to lift to rebuild his strength. He massaged his own shoulder, feeling the prominent bone under his hand, and allowed Rachel to escort him after his partner, the three women, and children in various stages of slumber and jubilance.

******************

It was Christmas Eve, and the Starsky family celebration was about to begin.

In Starsky's bedroom, clad only in dark brown slacks, Hutch held up the three dress shirts Starsky had brought with him. "Which one?" he asked his partner, who was struggling into a pair of jeans. "Hey, buddy," he said solicitously, dropping the shirts onto the bed and stepping forward. "Let me--"

"Don't take another step," Starsky commanded breathlessly, waving him away with a warning hand. "You can help with a lotta things, Hutch, but this ain't one of 'em."

"Okay." Hutch stepped back, folded his arms across his bare chest, and watched as Starsky continued trying, with one hand, to close the fly and pull the zipper simultaneously. He kept his peace until both the hand and Starsky's brow were beginning to shine with sweat, then spoke up determinedly. "This is ridiculous," he pronounced. "Either let me help you or settle for something a little less tight."

Starsky glared at him, but Hutch saw the resignation in his eyes, and took that as his cue to dig through his partner's suitcase. "These're wrinkled," he muttered as he pulled navy slacks from the tumbled contents. "Jesus, Starsk, didn't you hang anything up when we got here?"

"No," Starsky answered stubbornly, grabbing the pants from Hutch's hand. He stepped into them and, defiant eyes on his partner, zipped the fly quickly and easily. "Some of us aren't anal retentive with a capital A." He chose a shirt, seemingly at random, from the assortment on the bed.

"What's up with you tonight?" Hutch asked, curiosity mingled with real concern as he snagged the jeans from the floor to fold them and place them neatly in Starsky's suitcase. While he was there, he spent a few moments tidying everything else; though his apartment bore the slightly musty and rumpled air of the classic absent-minded professor, he was meticulous in the care and treatment of his clothes when he was traveling, while his neatnik partner tended to toss everything in willy-nilly and pull it out in the same fashion. "You've been snapping at me ever since we got up."

"Nothin'," Starsky grumbled, but as he tried to shrug into the shirt, Hutch saw him grimace in pain.

He was at his partner's side in an instant.

"Hey, hey," he said worriedly, gently freeing the shirt's lapels from Starsky's white-knuckled fingers. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurting like this?" He shook the shirt out, then tossed it on the bed and took a long, hard look at Starsky's face, taking in the pinched mouth and the deep furrow between the feathery dark brows. "Where's your sling?"

"Dunno," Starsky muttered, and his lips set in an obstinate expression Hutch recognized at once. "I'm not wearin' it."

Hutch sighed; this would take delicate maneuvering. "Okay," he said, pretending to give in. "Let's just try to get you into this shirt, huh?"

Carefully, he guided Starsky's left hand into the shirt's sleeve, and guided the material up his arm and onto his shoulder. Along the way, he casually brushed his hand across the area around Starsky's bullet wound; he cocked an eyebrow at the warmth he felt, but said nothing, merely held the shirt in place while Starsky worked his right arm into its sleeve and settled the garment on his shoulders with a grateful sigh.

"Hey," Hutch said, pinching a fold of the cloth where Starsky couldn't possibly see. "This thing's got a big stain on it that I didn't see before--do you want to change shirts?"

Starsky puffed his cheeks out wearily. "Naw, it's too much trouble," he decided, in a tired voice that tugged at Hutch's heart. "Can you maybe just get see if you can blot it out?"

Hutch smothered a victorious smile. "Sure," he replied agreeably; retreating to the bathroom, he popped open Starsky's bottle of pain medication, and ran the water in the sink until it was ice-cold. He half-filled a glass with water, and then soaked a washcloth in the cool water and wrung it damp. Armed with these weapons against his partner's discomfort, he re-entered the bedroom, to find that Starsky had somehow worked the shirt off and was searching the back for the alleged stain.

Accusing dark blue eyes flicked up to his. Hutch shrugged philosophically at the discovery of his deception. "Well, it's better this way, anyway," he admitted, climbing onto the bed behind Starsky. "Come on, swallow this while I take a look."

Though the glare didn’t soften, Starsky obediently took the glass and the tablet, and Hutch heard a small sigh of relief escape him as he downed the cold water. His smile flickered again, then faded as he carefully lifted the dressing on the back of Starsky's shoulder. He winced at the darkening pink skin around the wound; folding the washcloth, he pressed it gently against the too-warm flesh.

In front of him, another sigh slipped from Starsky's lips.

"This doesn't look too good," Hutch fussed, peering anxiously as he shifted the cloth to cool the area further. "Maybe we ought to find a doctor tomorrow--make sure it's not getting infected--"

He stopped then, and chuckled at his own forgetfulness.

"Tomorrow's Christmas, Blintz," Starsky reminded him with a little moan as the dampness soothed his hot skin. "Only folks on duty'll be at a hospital--and they'll all be med students, or single docs who're low on the totem pole and got conned into workin' so everybody else could be with their families."

"Well, that's not so bad," Hutch said, passing the cloth around the wound one last time. "You and I've worked our share of Christmases; it's not always the dregs that're hanging around saving lives."

Starsky grunted. "Yeah, you got a point."

"It happens from time to time," Hutch said smugly, lifting the cloth to inspect his handiwork. Despite the obvious relief Starsky had gotten from his efforts, he still wasn't happy with what he saw. "I don't like the way this looks," he declared thoughtfully, sitting back on his heels and weighing their options. "Let me see if your mom's got something that'll work in the meantime."

He ducked back into the bathroom. Searching through the medicine cabinets and drawers, he loaded ointments, gauze, and tape in one hand and started out--then paused. He glanced back at the bedroom, where Starsky was gingerly pulling on a sock, his face tight with pain. Shaking his head, Hutch dumped the first aid materials beside the bathroom sink, opened the linen closet door, and dug behind the laundry basket where he knew Rachel had hidden some of the gifts he'd sent. Finally locating the proper one, he scooped up the paraphernalia from the counter and re-entered the bedroom.

Starsky stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Hutch bit back a grin.

"What the hell--?"

"It's a present, Starsk," he informed his partner, as if he were speaking to a child. "I was saving it for tomorrow, but I think it'll come in handy right about now."

Starsky rolled his eyes, but Hutch caught the twitch of a smile at his lips. Never fails, he congratulated himself. Wave a package in front of him, and he forgets all about being cranky. He dropped the gaily-wrapped present into Starsky's lap and climbed back onto the bed.

"Yeah, I thought that'd get you," he teased, as he started opening boxes and sterile packets. Uncapping a tube of antibiotic ointment, he squeezed a small amount onto his finger. "Hold on a sec--let me work some of this in here, maybe that'll help."

With practiced, careful fingers, he massaged the ointment into the slowly healing wound, then quickly redressed it with fresh gauze.

Meanwhile, Starsky had ripped open the present and was holding its contents in his lap, staring down at them without comment. As Hutch gathered the torn wrappings to discard them, the dark-haired man glanced up at him with bemused eyes.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"What is this?"

Hutch glanced down at it. "It's a handkerchief," he replied patiently. "I know you hardly ever use one, so--"

"Hutch."

"Yeah?"

"What is on it?"

"Oh, that." Hutch tossed the trash into a wastebasket, set the gauze, ointment, and scissors on the bathroom counter, and cleared his throat. "That's, uh--mistletoe."

"Mistletoe."

"Yeah." Hutch lifted one corner of the large square of brightly colored cloth. "Mistletoe."

"And, why--?"

"I'll show you." Hutch plucked the oversized handkerchief from his partner's hands, and folded and tied it deftly into a crude but effective sling. "See?"

Starsky's brows raced together into a scowl. "Hutch--"

"Starsk." Hutch tipped his head to one side, extending the sling and giving his partner his most persuasive smile. "C'mon. You don't wanna hurt my feelings by refusing to wear this now, do you?"

The scowl deepened, and Starsky grumbled something under his breath that Hutch figured he was better off not hearing. But he shrugged in acquiescence, and Hutch's smile broadened to a grin as he helped his partner put the shirt back on and arrange his left arm in the makeshift sling.

"There," he said with satisfaction, fingers moving rapidly up the remaining buttons before his partner could protest. "Very festive."

Starsky's good hand smacked the long fingers away before they could tuck in his shirt. "Enough," he ordered peevishly. "I got it, I got it."

"Okay." Conceding easily now that he'd won the bigger battle, Hutch opened the closet door, drew out an ivory shirt, and shrugged into it, then left it open while he pulled on a pair of highly polished dark brown boots. Buttoning the shirt and tucking it into his slacks, he glanced over at Starsky, who was running a comb through his dark curls and looking infinitely more comfortable.

Hutch plucked the comb from his hand and settled his own blond strands, then gave it back. "'Bout ready?" he said encouragingly.

"Yeah." Starsky looked up at him and half-smiled sheepishly. "Thanks, Hutch. Feels a lot better."

Hutch nudged against his good shoulder and smiled back, feeling a lot better himself. "You're welcome."

***********************

He tried not to hover, but he couldn't help watching Starsky carefully, looking for signs of fatigue or strain; nor could he resist taking every possible step to prevent his partner from experiencing further pain.

Starting with scouting out the perfect chair.

Why this one, Hutch? What difference does it make?

Because this one's got wide arms so nobody'll jostle you.

He unobtrusively tucked a pillow behind Starsky's back, to provide some support so he wouldn't have to work to keep himself upright. He kept Starsky's glass filled with cool water, and quietly asked the cousins not to offer anything that would mix badly with the pain medicine. And rather than having Starsky leave his seat to sample the offerings spread around the room, Hutch prepared the plate himself, closing his eyes to his better judgment and piling it high with the things he knew his partner would like. At last, satisfied that he had done everything he could to make Starsky as comfortable as possible, he retreated to the kitchen for a bottle of beer and the special vegetarian plate Rachel had set aside just for him.

When he returned to the living room, he found his place usurped, as Starsky held court with the cousins and their children clustered around him. Biting his lips to repress a smile, he leaned against the doorjamb, set his beer on a nearby table, and popped a slice of fresh tomato into his mouth, letting his eyes wander over the cozy, contented scene.

The tree in the corner was fat and lopsided, its top listing at least ten degrees to starboard. It was laden with ornaments and lit with every color of the rainbow. Scattered on the floor was a pile of gaily-wrapped presents, and on the table beside it was an assortment of Hanukkah items--a menorah with candles flickering, a dreidel, and some gold-wrapped chocolate coins. It was a busy, happy tumbling together of this Jewish tradition and that Christian one, much as Starsky's varied relatives came together in a mix that somehow worked in its warmth and welcome.

Idly, Hutch bit the end off a piece of celery and eyed the tree, comparing it to the one that was undoubtedly gracing the enormous Hutchinson hall for his parents' open house. It would be tall and full, and the gardener would have trimmed it to perfect symmetry under his mother's watchful eye. And though he had no way of knowing what theme his parents had chosen this year, he was certain the ornaments matched the wall hangings, which in turn coordinated with the flowers, the table dressings, and even the decorations adorning the front of the house. Everything would be new and pristine, free of any chips or defects. There would be no presents under the tree; such displays were considered gauche by his father, and the professionally wrapped gifts would not appear until the last guest had departed.

As he peered more closely at an ornament that appeared to be a Santa wearing a yarmulke, he overheard Sarah on the phone in the kitchen.

"Yes, Dave's here!" she was saying excitedly. "I don't know, actually--I'm afraid he might've had to get shot to get the time off." She chuckled ruefully. "No, no, he's fine, actually--or at least he says he is. If you ask me, he looks a little tired, but--" She paused for several seconds, and when she continued, her voice was indignant. "Well, of course we're taking good care of him! Aunt Rachel won't let him out of her sight, and the kids are waiting on him hand and foot." She listened again, and this time her laugh was warm and fond. "Yes, Mom, don't worry, we'll tell him you're proud of him and worried about him all at the same time....and yes, he needs to come to dinner--with Ken--as soon as he gets back to California, so you can see for yourself that he's okay." She laughed merrily. "Well, I can't promise we won't kill him with kindness, but we'll certainly do our best...Okay, Mom...oh, boy, I love you too...bye."

Embarrassed and not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, Hutch had eased his way out of the doorway to lean against the wall beside the door. In a moment, Sarah emerged from the kitchen without seeing him, and headed straight for Starsky. Hiking a hip on the arm of the chair, she wrapped one arm tenderly around his neck, whispered into his ear for several seconds, and delivered a sound kiss to his cheek.

Suddenly, Hutch was struck with an unbearable pang that took his breath away and shot prickles straight to the back of his eyes. Horrified, sure he was about to burst into humiliating tears in front of the entire Starsky clan, he ducked swiftly out of the living room, deposited his plate on the kitchen table, and fled out to the back porch of the small but comfortable house. The cold instantly enfolded him in a malicious bear hug, and he inhaled again at its force, welcoming the distraction from the strange pain that had lodged itself in his gut.

Tucking his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the wind and the snow spitting half-heartedly from the sky, he walked a few paces from the back door, until he left the cheery light behind and found himself enveloped completely in the dark. A few more steps, and he had reached the rickety glider that Starsky's uncle had built for his mother. He brushed the light dusting of snow from the seat and sank down, flinching as the cold wood met his behind.

The pain shifted in his midsection, and the tears rose again; this time, they would not be checked, and slid down his cheeks in warm trails that cooled before they left his jaw. Bewildered, he reached up and swiped them away, wondering what on earth had struck him with such emotional intensity. The feeling welled up again, and sensing it was on verge of overtaking him, he folded his arms tightly across his belly and willed himself to regain control, to shove the thing back down where it belonged. But the effort was futile; as if on its own his throat hitched, and a soft sob bubbled into the night, to hang briefly in the air before being lost in the noises of the neighborhood and the house behind him.

This is absurd, he thought, puzzled, feeling oddly detached and distant from himself as his hands dug into his pocket, searching for his handkerchief. I haven't been home for Christmas in years, haven't wanted to, why--

Unbidden, his questing mind delivered up homesickness, the feeling that had felled most of his college classmates during freshman year but from which Hutch had been primarily immune. He'd watched the other young men tote themselves home weekend after weekend, catapulting from the campus after their last class on Friday and returning at the last possible minute Sunday night, looking as woebegone as if they'd been deserted by their last friend. He'd looked on in amazement and curiosity, comparing their drooping melancholy to his own gratitude to be free from his father's rigid rules and unwavering expectations, and wondered what in the world anyone could miss so much about being home?

And from time to time this same feeling had hit him like a rock solid punch, this knot in the pit of his stomach that occasionally turned to uncontrollable tears, driving him to his room or an isolated corner of the campus where he could purge them without being teased unmercifully or, worse, greeted with kindness that would only unleash the thing and make matters worse. After several minutes of sitting on his bed or a chilly stone wall or park bench, he'd realize that he'd been running a split screen in his head--on one side were images of the austere Hutchinson household with the distant, demanding father, subdued mother, and two children expected to take second place behind a doctor's patients, and to be flawless adults far before their time. On the other, he envisioned places where family dinners were noisy, cheerful gathering times, where no one worried about bursting into laughter, much less tears, where everyone was certain of receiving whatever support the prevailing emotion warranted, where kids knew they were accepted and loved no matter what grades they brought home from school or what mishap they'd entangled themselves in during the day.

Back then, the connection had eluded him, but now he knew: he was homesick for somewhere he'd never been.

Jesus, he said to himself, shaking his head impatiently and trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of tears. You couldn't have jumped on the self-pity train any faster if you'd tried...pull it together before they notice you're gone and someone comes out to--

"Hutch?"

--look for you.

He knew without looking that Starsky stood, halfway down the steps, arm still cradled in the ridiculous mistletoe kerchief. Snuffling as quietly as he could, he plastered a smile on his face, and half-turned to face his partner.

"Hey, buddy," he greeted Starsky quietly, then frowned, his internal maelstrom temporarily forgotten. "Where's your jacket?" he asked querulously. "It's barely twenty degrees out here, Starsk--are you nuts?"

Shadowed by the light behind him, Starsky's face wasn't visible, but Hutch could hear the raised eyebrows in his partner's response. "And what're you wearin'--your invisible winter coat?" he inquired archly. "What the hell're you doin' out here?"

"Uh--"

Starsky descended the last two steps from the back porch; swallowed up by the darkness as Hutch had been, he approached his partner's seat on the glider. Hutch took a swipe at his nose with the handkerchief and balled it in his hand, groping for an excuse that would both set Starsky's mind at ease and send him back into the warmth.

"Just--thinking," finally emerged, the words weak and unconvincing even to his own ears. He winced, rolling his eyes. Oh, yeah, that's a good one. That oughta do it.

As he might have predicted, Starsky was not placated; he moved closer, and in a moment, his weight was settling beside Hutch's. The glider's worn wood gave a squeak of protest, then fell silent. Starsky did the same, saying nothing as he shifted to find a relatively comfortable position on the cold surface.

Hutch recrossed his arms tightly across his middle, to shelter himself against the relentless cold and rein in his momentary lapse of control. Taking advantage of the fact that his eyes were accustomed to the dark while Starsky's were still adjusting, he glanced over at his partner, quickly scanning his appearance for signs of returning pain. However, though there were still soft dark smudges under Starsky's eyes and some lingering lines beside his mouth, the dark-haired man generally looked more relaxed than he had all day.

Starsky let the quiet deepen for a moment, then leaned against the back of the glider, sending the structure into a small shudder and sigh. "What're you doin' out here?" he repeated.

Hutch gave one last pass of the handkerchief over his face and jammed it into his pocket, determined to collect himself and hide this disconcerting episode from his partner. Starsky had had weeks of nursemaiding Hutch through the sweat-popping moments that had hung on tiresomely after the kidnaping, and now he had his own well-being to tend to. He deserved this good time with his family, and Hutch was resolved he would have it, unspoiled by this bizarre emotional tailspin.

"Nothing," he murmured, taking a deep breath and doing his best to sound nonchalant and reassuring. "Never mind, Starsk, it's really not important."

"Hey." Starsky's hand found his shoulder and gave a slight shake. "You know better than to think I'm buyin' that. Now you better spill it, because I'm not leavin' here til you do."

Dirty pool. Starsky knew damned well Hutch would tell him everything before he'd let Starsky freeze in the New York night.

"All right, all right," he conceded, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "But on one condition--you go back inside and get a coat."

"No chance, Hutch," Starsky said evenly, and Hutch saw the dark blue eyes regarding him without a blink. "I go back in there, you'll figure some way to dance outta this. I'm not goin' anywhere--so give."

Hutch sighed. "You are the most infuriating person, you know that?"

"Second most," Starsky retorted affectionately without missing a beat. "Now don't make me ask you again--what're you doin' out here?"

Hutch laughed shortly, deep in his throat. "Feeling sorry for myself, I guess," he confessed sardonically, the left side of his mouth twitching up in self-derision.

Starsky said nothing, but the glider shivered again; in a second, Hutch felt the warm pressure of his partner's thigh against his own.

"What about?" The question was sympathetic but matter-of-face; Starsky was clearly giving him charge of the discussion, letting him decide how deeply he wanted to go.

"Stupid stuff." Hutch shook his head, and felt Starsky's leg press more firmly against him. He sighed, and relented. "Just--the difference, I guess."

"Difference?" Starsky echoed, his voice puzzled as his eyes never left the few stars that could be seen between the scattered clouds. "Between what?"

"Lots of things. Christmas here. Christmas there." Hutch felt his throat half-close, felt terrible for the next words even as they escaped. "The way your family's reacting to your being shot."

Eyes still turned skyward, Starsky nodded in acknowledgment of the gulf that probably existed between the Starsky and Hutchinson holidays, but refused to accept the last without comment. "C'mon, babe," he chided, as his thigh bumped gently against Hutch's. "If you'd seen your folks, they'd've fussed over you-- "

"Yeah, right." Hutch snorted. "If they'd found time in their busy social calendar, between the hospital holiday party and their all-important Christmas Eve open house--"

He stopped short and bit his lip, cursing his runaway tongue.

The silence was different this time, and when Starsky spoke his voice was troubled. "Hutch--Your folks didn't go to Europe, did they."

Hutch puffed his cheeks, blew out the air. "No," he admitted in a low voice. "They didn't."

"You just didn't wanna go to Duluth for Christmas?"

Hutch shook his head. "No," he repeated.

"How come?"

Hutch waved a hand as if the gesture could somehow express all the issues surrounding life with his parents. "Your mom's seen me maybe three times in her life, and she knew something was wrong as soon as I stepped off the plane. My dad's a doctor, Starsk--you think he's not gonna see that something happened to me? Ask a lot of questions I just can't answer? Maybe insist on a blood test or two?"

Now Starsky turned to look at him, and Hutch saw his forehead furrow. "You never told them about Forest?"

"What, are you kidding?" Hutch said incredulously. "No. No way they would've understood that."

"What're you talkin' about," Starsky said, laying a hand on his friend's arm. Hutch tried to pull it away, didn't want Starsky to feel the emotion coursing through him in miniature tremors. "Surely they would've--"

"Surely they would've found a way to make it my fault," Hutch burst out, his tone bitter. He gave a harsh bark of humorless laughter. "Yeah, I can just see it--Mom, Dad, sorry I didn't call you last weekend but I was too busy being shot up with heroin."

"Hutch." Starsky's voice was firm, matching the hand that refused to be shaken from Hutch's arm. "You know damned well it wasn't your fault."

"Doesn't matter, Starsk. I--I just--I can't--" He shook his head, mouth moving ineffectually as he searched for adequate words to describe his father's reaction. "You don't know my dad," he went on at last, his voice flat and empty. "This is the man who--when I was ten, he didn't think I'd cleaned my room well enough. I spent every single minute that I wasn't sleeping, eating, or in school, dusting, vacuuming, and putting things away--over and over again. It took me three weeks, Starsk--three weeks."

Starsky's hand moved from his shoulder. A moment later, he felt its warmth curl comfortingly around his thigh and its strength sent gratitude through him as he remembered how feeble it had been just a week ago.

The contact emboldened him, and staring down at his own hands, he tried again to explain.

"He'd just keep asking, Starsk, until he finally got me so pissed off that I'd blurt it all out in the worst possible way. First he'd ask the clinical things--like how long did they string me out, how much, what were my withdrawal symptoms, what am I still experiencing." His hands tightened in his lap. "And then he'd ask about Jeannie, about where I found her and what I knew about her, and why I got into a relationship with her when she was clearly homeless and on the run."

"This is what comes of that job of yours, Ken. I've told you time and again that it's nonsense, borne out of this--this over-developed sense of responsibility you seem to have toward these--street people. Giving your money to bums and prostitutes--don't look at me like that, I know why you come up short every paycheck. And just look where it's gotten you. Assaulted. Kidnaped. Drugged."

There would be a curl of the patrician upper lip as the elegant surgeon's hands lifted the Scotch in its heavy crystal glass.

"That's no place for a Hutchinson, Ken, and it's time you got out."

Of course he'd refuse, and then there would be the subtlest shift of their attitude toward him. His fault or not, the heroin would leave him indelibly tainted in his parents' eyes. They'd watch him, his mother trying not to show her vigilance, his father not bothering to hide his. And when he returned to L.A., everything he did would take on new meaning: the next time he wasn't home when they tried to call, or wasn't feeling well, or let it slip that he was strapped for cash, they'd wonder and suspect--and the interrogations would begin again.

No. He'd been scrutinized for 21 years under his father's judgmental microscope, and had spent several more defending himself and his choices of home, profession, and friends. No way he was letting himself in for more.

He turned; in the dim light he could see his partner's face, features now tight with concern for him. He faltered, pulled back, checked himself; the last thing he wanted right now was to tax Starsky after all he'd been through.

Beside him, Starsky sat, unmoving, his silence not thinking, not even judging, just reaching and supporting, holding Hutch as if he'd physically wrapped his arms around him. The tears shot up again, and this time Hutch didn't bother trying to restrain them; he was too tired.

When at last Starsky spoke, his voice was hushed, almost reverent. "What you did last week, Hutch--"

Hutch shook his head. "Starsk--"

"No, hear me," Starsky insisted. "What you did was incredible."

"Starss," Hutch demurred again, feeling a flush begin in his cheeks.

"Hutch, I was--you were amazin' in that restaurant." Starsky held up a hand to stem Hutch's protest, his voice gathering strength and speed. "They coulda killed you at any minute, but you didn't back down an inch. You stopped them from killing Monte--"

Hutch snorted. "Yeah, that's an accomplishment," he muttered under his breath, but Starsky plowed on.

"You saved all those people and busted the bad guys, not to mention takin' pretty good care of me." He reached up and gave Hutch's shoulder another shake. "What if you told them that, huh? That you're a goddamned hero to a lotta people, including the ones inside my house right now. Don't you think that might mean somethin' to them?"

Hutch's gaze dropped again, and he shook his head once, almost imperceptibly. "No," he whispered honestly. "I don't."

"Well, it does here," Starsky told him firmly. He released Hutch's shoulder and scooted next to him again, pressing the length of his body against Hutch's side. His tone gentled. "I know your folks can't appreciate the things you are, and they don't even know a tenth of it," he murmured. "And I know you gotta grieve that--but when you're done, come inside, huh? Because there's a lot of people in there who can."

"Starsk, I hear what you're saying, but--"

"David, go inside."

It was not a request, and Hutch felt Starsky rise almost instantly to his feet, his response automatically obedient. As the glider rocked gently in his partner's wake, he heard a soft whisper between Starsky and his mother, then the clatter of the screen door as Starsky pulled it open. There was a brief burst of noise from the house, where the children were hurling themselves into their usual pre-bedtime frenzy, then silence as Starsky closed the door.

A moment later, a blanket came around his shoulders. Rachel Starsky's arm came with it and stayed.

"You shouldn't be out here in the cold," she chided him solicitously.

"I know," was all he could think of to say.

For a moment, she merely sat there, her slippered toes easing the glider back and forth. Then her arm tightened around his shoulders. "Ken, do you have any idea how grateful I am for you?"

"What?" Feeling stupid and tongue-tied, Hutch could do nothing more than blink at her. "Oh, you mean because of--"

"That, yes," she agreed, and he felt her shudder, just once, as if she were contemplating the other horrible ways December 17^th could have ended.

Hutch sympathized; it was a litany his own head had played a hundred times since the shootout.

"Davey--he told me how you stood up to those people, how you kept your head and saved him and all those other people." She took in a deep breath, and continued. "And do you know, Ken, he didn't even have to tell me, because I just knew that's what you would've done. When he called so I'd know he was okay, I cried like a baby, I was so proud of both you boys, how brave you were--"

Hutch's head lowered. Not so brave, he thought caustically. What kind of guts did it take to give Jeannie over for a lousy fix?

"Rachel," he said hesitantly, blinking back another round of the goddamned tears. "You don't--don't say that, you don't know--"

"I know it hasn't been so long since you got hurt yourself," she interrupted. "I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know you're afraid to tell your own parents, as if it's something you should be ashamed of."

Hutch couldn't speak. The arm around his shoulders gripped him tighter, gave him a little shake.

"Tell me, Ken," she urged. "Tell me what's so awful that you think it'll make a bit of difference."

And to his astonishment, Hutch did. Bypassing all his caution and fear, the words simply tumbled out, as he talked about the kidnaping for the first time to someone who didn't already know about it. He told her about Jeannie, and his desire to protect her, about waking up to pain and then a steady slide into unreality that he couldn't check no matter how hard he tried. His voice low, eyes never leaving the ground, he recounted how his courage and resolve had slipped from his desperately clutching hands until he found himself begging for the drug, and welcoming the needle when it came. And finally, so quietly that Rachel had to lean close to hear him, he described the horror that struck when he could finally think clearly again, and realized what he had done.

When he was finished, he sat back, discovering as he did that his shirt was soaked in sweat. He swiped his hair off his forehead, to find the same slickness covering his face and hand.

"My God," Rachel murmured, and the arm became two as she clasped him to her. The glider swayed gently beneath them, and Hutch felt her tears add to the dampness on his shirt. "You poor, dear boy--I can't believe you even survived that."

Then the arms were gone, replaced by a maternal hand underneath his chin, lifting it so he was forced to meet her eyes. They were alight even in the dark, blazing with a ferocious compassion Hutch had seen many times before--in her son's.

"You listen to me, Kenneth," she said fiercely, and Hutch was jolted by how different his full name sounded on her lips as compared to his father's. "There's not a night goes by that I don't thank God that you and David found each other," she went on. "And nothing you just told me changes that, or the way me and mine feel about you."

"Rachel--"

"And it isn't just about last week." She pulled back and placed both hands on his shoulders, her gaze still fixed on his. "The whole time Davey was growing up, here and in California, he kept bringing people home that--worried me."

Despite himself, Hutch grinned.

"When he met John Blaine, I worried less, but--" She shrugged one expressive shoulder. "A nice enough man, but rough, you know? A little too much like Davey's father for my taste. And he never seemed to have anyone he was really close to. He's always been independent, maybe too much so--"

Hutch snorted, beginning to feel marginally better. "Gotta agree with you on that."

She chuckled, the sound as warm and soothing as the hand that now sought his, rubbing and then clasping tightly. "When he met you, he changed," she told him. "In some ways, he became more serious--in others, he--he seemed to--relax." She shook her head, and Hutch saw her struggling to find the right words. "Like--like suddenly he didn't have the entire weight of the world on his shoulders, like he'd found someone to carry it with him." Her dark eyebrows, so like his partner's, drew in, in that look of concentration and absolute determination to be understood. "That's a rare person who can do that, commit themselves to making the world a better place, no matter what it costs. You and my Davey--you do that, and now--now he knows he's not alone." She shook her head. "That's one in a million, Ken--do you know what I mean?"

It was as if the door Starsky had been pushing at flew open, pouring brilliant light inside Hutch's head and illuminating the dark recesses in which he'd dwelt for the last several weeks.

"Yeah, I do." And he meant it, as he turned his hand over and grasped hers, laying his other hand over them both protectively.

She tugged her hands away to embrace him, squeezing so hard Hutch nearly lost his breath, then released him as she rose briskly to her feet. "Now, come inside and stop being so ridiculous," she ordered fondly, extending her hand. "We've all been waiting for you."

Her words propelled Hutch willingly to his feet, and as he followed her inside, he realized it was because they had been delivered with love and caring, rather than impatience and disappointment over his brooding.

And that, he thought gratefully as he was enveloped in the Starsky clan's midst, made all the difference.

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