Me & Thee Secret Santa 2008.

A compilation of all stories submitted to the Secret Santa 2008 on the Yahoo list, Loveofmeandthee, and published at:
www.eacalendula.net/secretsanta2008/.

The stories are presented in the order they were released, except for Doing It a Different Way, which has been moved last because of its length. Author names may be found at the website after they are revealed.

Copyright: Original content belong to the individual authors.

Index

• Christmas Presence
• Christmas Song
• Yule In a Different Place
• Spring Cleaning
• A Special Gift
• How To Separate a Pea from a Pod in a Million Easy Steps
• Four Ways Starsky and Hutch May Have Visited Neverland
• A Bugatti Veyron
• Stuck On You
• Prince Charming
• Callie's Boy
• All I Want
• The Ghosts of Christmas Crack
• The Allure of LA
• Doing It a Different Way

Christmas Presence

For Christina

"I'll get it!" Starsky called when the phone rang one evening in early December of 1980. He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Oh, David, dear? Is Ken there?" The gentle voice of Caroline Hutchinson, Hutch's mother, came through the line.

"Oh, hi, Mrs. H. Hutch is in the kitchen. I'll get him."

"Thank you, dear, but can you stay on the line too? This concerns both of you." There was a note of worry in her tone.

Starsky shrugged. "Yeah, sure, we have an extension. Hey, Hutch!" he called over his shoulder. "It's your ma on the line. She wants ta' talk to both of us, so can you pick it up in the bedroom?"

"Got it." There was a click as Hutch picked up the bedroom phone. "Hi Mom, what's up? Everything OK?"

"Well, no, dear." Mrs. Hutchinson sounded distressed. "I'm afraid we have a problem with Christmas. Your sister isn't going to be able to have us all over like we had planned."

A knot of concern tingled in Starsky's gut. Their plan for a Christmas visit to Duluth had involved staying in a hotel, and having the holiday hosted by Hutch's younger sister and her husband, and avoiding too much interaction with his father. Personally, he didn't care, but Hutch had been looking forward to it.

"What's the matter?" Hutch asked, concern in his voice.

"I'm afraid it's her mother-in-law. Poor Mrs. Freiberg was just diagnosed with cancer. It's very bad, they don't think she'll live for more than a few months, so of course they're going down to Florida to see them for Christmas."

"Well, of course…" Hutch started.

His mother cut him off. "But you see, dear, that's the problem. I was so hoping your father would finally see reason. He was willing to go to their house and see you and David there. But now we can't do that. And he still absolutely refuses to have David in our house. I'm so sorry dear, I've tried everything I can, and he just flat-out says no."

There was a moment's silence as that pronouncement sank in.

"I'd say 'come over anyway'," Mrs. Hutchinson went on unhappily, "but you know what he's like when he starts drinking, and I really wouldn't put it past him to do something like call the police to have the two of you removed."

Starsky felt his heart sink inside him. He knew how much this trip home had meant to his partner, to see his family, and have them get to know Starsky. They had only met once, briefly, the previous year, at a cousin's wedding. Hutch had never gotten along very well with his father, and learning the truth about his relationship with Starsky had only made things worse. However, his mother had been cautiously accepting, and Hutch had hoped his father might come around, too, given the opportunity.

There seemed only one thing for Starsky to do. "That's OK, Mrs. H. I don't have to come for Christmas. I'm Jewish; it's just another day for me. Hutch, you go, and see your ma and pop."

"No. That's not acceptable," Hutch said flatly.

"I'm sorry to say, it would be acceptable to your father, Ken. He says he doesn't mind having you in the house; it's just David he doesn't want. But I quite understand how you feel."

"Hutch, it's OK. You go and have fun. See your folks. I'll be here when you get back." At least it would give Hutch a chance to see them.

"No. It's absolutely out of the question." Hutch was emphatic. "I'm sorry, Mom, we'll have to figure out a visit another time."

"Well, dear," Mrs. Hutchinson said tentatively, "there is an alternative, if you boys are both agreeable."

"What's that?" Hutch asked dubiously.

"I know it's an imposition, but I could come there for Christmas. Not stay with you if you don't want me to, but take a motel room."

"Hey, that's a great idea!" Starsky said in relief. He hadn't been all that enthused about seeing the elder Hutchinson anyway, but Mrs. Hutchinson seemed nice enough. It wasn't perfect, but it was a way out of the problem.

"But what about Dad?" Hutch asked. "That would mean you wouldn't be with him for Christmas."

"Ken, I am so angry at that man right now that I just don't care. Let him stay alone for the holidays. Maybe it'll teach him a lesson," Mrs. Hutchinson said emphatically.

"Are you sure you mean that?" Hutch sounded surprised.

"Absolutely!" she said firmly. "I've had too many occasions spoiled by his stubbornness, and I certainly don't want this one to be. The first chance I've had to see my son for the holidays in years, and he has to make a fuss about something so silly as who you're living with." Starsky had to admire her delicate euphemism of "living with". She, like his own mother, managed to dance around the implications of their relationship, knowing quite well what it was, but still avoiding mention of the nitty-gritty.

"Well, we'd love to have you, then, Mom," Hutch said. "But don't worry about a motel. You can stay here with us. We have a spare room."

"No, no, dear, I couldn't put you out like that. I'm certain I can find a nice room somewhere nearby."

"You don't need to do that. Honest, Mrs. H., we'd love to have you," Starsky put in. "We had my ma stay here for a week in the summer; it's only fair to have you too."

"If you're sure." She sounded doubtful, but there was relief in her voice. "It will be nice not to be alone." Starsky thought she hadn't been looking forward to a motel.

"Absolutely sure," Hutch assured her.

"Well, all right then," she chirped cheerfully.

They talked for a while longer, making arrangements for her to get a flight for the day before Christmas Eve. "At least there's still time for us to get refunds on our tickets out," Hutch added.

After they hung up, Starsky closed up the apartment and went to joint Hutch in the bedroom. Hutch was sitting on the bed. Starsky sat beside him. Time to cheer him up before he spent the night brooding.

"I'm sorry about your sister's mother-in-law," he said. Not that he thought that was what the main problem was, but it seemed the place to start.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Hutch looked startled. "I only met her once, though, at their wedding, but it'll be hard on them I guess. I know my sister likes her."

"So, if it's not that, what are you looking all down in the mouth about, then? You're not angry that I suggested your ma stay here for awhile, are you?"

"No, it'll be nice seeing her. I'm glad you brought it up first, so she knows you don't mind."

"So, it's your father you're upset about?" He could have guessed as much, but he wanted to get it out in the open, and that meant from Hutch himself. Honestly, sometimes getting anything out of the blond blintz was as hard as pulling teeth.

"Yeah. I knew he wasn't very happy with me, but I didn't think he'd go this far." Hutch stared unhappily up at the ceiling.

"Forget it, and just enjoy having your mother visit," Starsky advised. "Your Dad'll come around eventually. It's not like he's disowned you; he just doesn't want to have anything to do with me." He put his arm around Hutch and gently pushed him down onto the bed. "You're worrying too much again. But I know just the way to take your mind off things."

Hutch smiled weakly. "I dunnow, Starsk, I don't think I'm quite in the mood…" He broke off with a gasp, as Starsky started nibbling on his neck.

"No? I think I can get you in the mood," Starsky murmured huskily. He captured Hutch's mouth with his, and swung himself onto the bed, straddling him. He snaked one arm around Hutch's neck, and slid the other hand up under his shirt, while he gently but firmly pressed their groins together, circling in a movement he knew drove Hutch into a frenzy. It didn't take long before Hutch was responding enthusiastically, all thoughts of protest, or of not being in the mood, driven from his mind.

Which was exactly what Starsky had wanted. It was never a good idea to let Hutch brood over his problems, real or imagined. This was a much better way of dealing with it. Not to mention being more fun for Starsky. He reached down to Hutch's crotch, feeling the swelling hardness there.

"Let's get a few of these clothes off," he whispered into Hutch's ear, punctuating his words with a swipe of his tongue. Hutch writhed and moaned as Starsky pulled his shirt up and off, then reached down for the fastening of his pants.

It didn't take long before they were both naked. Much later, when they were both happily sated, Hutch fell asleep, pillowed cozily on Starsky's chest. Starsky drowsily basked in the afterglow and stroked Hutch's hair.

He felt bad about causing problems in Hutch's family, but realistically there was nothing that could be done about it. At least his mother and sister were taking the new situation well, and Starsky did have hopes that Mr. Hutchinson would come around in time. After all, Hutch was his only son. He couldn't imagine a father totally rejecting his son, no matter what! Comforted by that thought, he finally drifted off to sleep.

The month passed quickly, and soon it was time for Mrs. Hutchinson's visit. Hutch arranged to pick her up at the airport Tuesday evening, and Starsky was waiting at their apartment when he brought her back.

Like her son, she was blond and blue-eyed, but short and fluttery, and she reminded Starsky of a little bird. She greeted Starsky with a peck on his cheek.

"David, dear, you're looking well," she chirruped as Hutch took her things to the spare room.

"Thanks, Mrs. H." Starsky said, smiling.

She looked around the apartment. "You two have made yourselves a nice place here," she said in approval.

"I'm glad you like it, Mom," Hutch said, coming back into the room.

Mrs. Hutchinson settled on the couch in front of the Christmas tree. "David, I have a favor to ask you," she said. "Could you take me shopping somewhere tomorrow?"

"Oh, I can do that," Hutch put in.

She shook her head. "No, dear, I want David to drive me. It's Christmas, after all, and I still need to get some surprises for you."

Starsky laughed. "A woman after my own heart, Mrs. H. Sure, I'll be happy ta' take you wherever you want to go."

She patted his hand. "Thank you, dear. I'll be looking forward to it. Now, about cooking for Christmas dinner."

"Mom, I thought we discussed that. You don't have to do anything, you're our guest."

"I know dear, and I'm not trying to take over. But when we were making plans with your sister, we agreed that I'd help her out with some of the things, and it only seems fair to do the same for you."

They ended up agreeing that she would do the vegetables, and bake some pies, and grocery shopping was added onto the "to do" list for the next day as well.

The evening passed pleasantly, until eventually Mrs. Hutchinson said she was tired, and retired to her bedroom.

"I like your mother," Starsky told Hutch as they were getting ready for bed themselves. "She's sweet."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed. "I've never had problems with Mom. It's just that sometimes she's too sweet and gentle. She can't stand up to Dad, and he's always overpowered her."

"Well, she stood up to him this time," Starsky pointed out. "She's here, after all."

"You're right." He paused, then said thoughtfully, "You know, it's the first time she's ever done anything like that, as far as I can remember. She doesn't travel without Dad, she's never stayed in a hotel alone that I know of…"

"I guess she really wanted to see you a lot."

"I guess she must have." He looked surprised at that thought.

"She loves you, you big blond idiot. Of course she wants to see you!" Starsky could never understand why Hutch didn't see how much people cared about him. Though that very blindness to his own lovability was part of what Starsky loved so much about him.

And a big turn-on, too. "So, do you want to…?" he murmured huskily, running a hand down the back of Hutch's pants and squeezing the firm curve of his ass.

"No!" Hutch said firmly. "Not with my mother in the house!"

"Aw, you're no fun," Starsky grumbled, but he backed off. Truthfully, the thought of Mrs. Hutchinson possibly overhearing them was a little deflating. She just looked so innocent and unworldly. Not like his own mother, who was much earthier. Though, now that he thought of it, Starsky had found himself uninterested in initiating anything when they had been staying in her apartment, too. Maybe it was just having your mother around, he mused as he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning after breakfast Starsky took Mrs. Hutchinson out shopping. He found it surprisingly enjoyable. She chattered to him all through the trip, and he found that she was an easy person to talk to. It was obvious where Hutch had gotten a lot of his charm.

They went to a department store, where she firmly but politely pushed her way through the crowds to pick out a warm woolly sweater for Hutch, and then they looked through the store for a few other small items. Eventually she declared herself finished, and Starsky drove her to their next stop, the grocery store.

On the way, he started wondering why she couldn't just have bought the sweater in Duluth. Of course, she would have had to carry it on the plane, but one sweater and the few small objects she'd gotten weren't much extra to add. It seemed a little odd.

"I guess you're wondering why I actually had you take me out," Mrs. Hutchinson broke into his thoughts, just as though she'd heard them.

"Well, yeah, kinda'."

"To be honest, I wanted some time alone with you, just to get to know you a little. I mean, after all, you're going to be like my… my… well, son-in-law, I guess…" She actually blushed a little as she said it. "So it just seemed I should spend some time with you."

"Oh." Starsky wasn't quite sure what to say to that. "Thanks, Mrs. H. Did I make the grade?"

Mrs. Hutchinson blushed even redder, but when he spoke, her voice was firm. "Oh yes, dear. I suppose it's obvious that this isn't anything I ever foresaw or wanted for Ken, but even last night I could see that you're a better match for him than any of his girl-friends." She sighed. "Much better than poor Vanessa ever was."

"I never did see what he saw in her." Starsky thought about that a moment. "Well, aside from the obvious, I guess." Vanessa certainly had known how to work the sex appeal, he had to admit.

"Yes, she was a very lovely girl to look at," Mrs. Hutchinson agreed. "And his father was very in favor of the match, you know. I think in part poor Ken saw it as a way of gaining his approval." She shook her head sadly. "I was never so certain about it, though. She was such a cold person. Why, David, I feel I know you better after this one day than I knew Vanessa after the whole time they were married!"

"Well, then, Mrs. H., does that mean I have your blessing to marry your son?" Starsky asked, only half joking. If he'd really won over Hutch's mother, that was half the battle.

"Why yes, I guess it does," Mrs. Hutchinson laughed, sounding surprised at herself. She smiled. "And you can stop calling me Mrs. H. That sounds so silly. You can call me Caroline, if you want. Or even Mom."

"How about 'Mom Hutchinson'?" Starsky asked. That sounded like something a son-in-law would say.

"Why, that's very nice dear." She actually looked happy about it. Starsky noticed for the first time she smiled enough to show that she had dimples.

"It's a pity your husband doesn't feel the same way," Starsky couldn't help adding.

Her face dropped, and pain darkened her eyes. "I know," she said softly. "I'll do my best to bring him around. I feel so bad about leaving him alone this Christmas. But he's so stubborn, and I guess this is a hard thing for a man to accept about his son."

She looked so sad that Starsky felt guilty bringing it up. "I'm sure that you'll bring him around," he said cheerfully.

"Well, I hope so, dear. Despite everything, he really does love Ken, you know. I hate seeing them estranged."

Starsky patted her hand. "It'll all work out," he said comfortingly. And since they had just reached the grocery store, he added, "And now that we have that settled, we have food shopping to do."

The evening was spent getting ready for Christmas. After dinner, Mrs. Hutchinson shooed both men out of the kitchen and moved in to bake her pies. She'd planned on pumpkin, apple and mince.

Starsky had already done all his present wrapping, but he helped Hutch take care of a few things for his mother that he still had left. He told Hutch about their conversation as they wrapped.

"So I guess I'm part of the family now, at least as far as your ma's concerned," he concluded.

"I wish my father would see it that way," Hutch said sadly.

Starsky made a rude noise. "What do you care?" he asked. He was getting more than a little tired of both of the Hutchinson's agonizing over Mr. Hutchinson's intolerance.

Hutch looked surprised. "Well, he is my father…" he started, but Starsky cut him off.

"Look, Babe, so he's your father. Big deal. If he can't deal with the way you are, that's his problem. I happen to think you're a pretty great person just the way you are. So do your friends, and so does your mother. So cut it out already yet, shut up, and just enjoy Christmas. The old bastard'll come around when he realizes he's all alone, you'll see."

"You think so, huh? I don't know, like Mom said, he's stubborn."

"I'll bet you. In fact, let's make that official. When he comes around, you owe me…" he stopped to think it over. A crafty smile came over his face, and he leaned closer, to avoid being heard by Hutch's mother. "You owe me one time of anything I ask for," he whispered, punctuating it with a wink and a leer so there could be no mistake about what he meant.

Hutch blushed. "You mean…?"

"Once, anywhere, anything, any time. You on?"

Hutch swallowed. "I don't know, Starsky, you can come up with some pretty wild ideas. Could be dangerous." Still, a small smile had lightened up his face.

"Yeah, but you think that I'm wrong, so what does it matter? I won't be able to collect, anyway. On the other hand, when you find I'm right…" he trailed off, leaving all the possibilities open to Hutch's imagination.

"You know, Starsky, I should take you up on that. Just so you'll learn you aren't always right about everything."

"You sure it's not because you're thinking about what I might do to you… anywhere, anytime?"

"Like when you wanted to try it in the back of the Torino in the parking lot of the stadium? Or the broom closet in city hall? That kind of idea? No thank you."

"Hey, you would have loved both of 'em, if you'd given 'em a try!"

"Either one could have gotten us arrested!" Hutch waggled an emphatic finger at Starsky.

"Aw, there was no chance we'd be caught. I was being careful." Starsky shrugged. "And I'm thinking of something even better now. But you'll never know, because you won't take the bet."

"I'll never know because even if we make the bet, he'll never come around and you'll never be able to collect," Hutch muttered darkly.

Starsky shrugged again. "Then you have nothing to lose. But if I'm right…" He grinned. "Think it over…"

"Oh all right. If it's the only way to get you to shut up, I'll take the bet. If my father ever relents about seeing us together, you get to choose one time, anywhere, any thing, any place. Happy?"

"Yeah, and so will you be, schweetheart." He chuckled lasciviously. "When you least expect it… expect it!" He pushed Hutch down on the couch for a kiss, feeling Hutch's initial resistance thawing, and his response rising…

"Oh!" There was a small noise from the living room doorway.

Starsky found himself being pushed away from Hutch, and rolling over onto the floor.

Mrs. Hutchinson was standing in the doorway, blushing.

"Oh Mrs. H., I mean Mom Hutchinson, sorry!"

"No, no, that's all right, dear," she said faintly.

"Oh Mom, we were just, er, just…" Hutch was blushing too, as deeply as his mother.

"No, no need to explain, Ken. I was just coming out to say that the pies are in baking and ask if you wanted any of the eggnog." She managed a small smile.

Starsky jumped up. "We'd love some. But you sit down, and I'll get it." He hurried off to the kitchen, and the awkward moment passed.

Christmas dawned bright and clear. Starsky bounced out of bed early, eager to open his presents. Hutch followed him, grumbling.

Early as it was, they found Mrs. Hutchinson already up, and making breakfast. "Since dinner won't be ready until later, we should all start with something first," she said sternly. "Presents can wait until after."

Meekly the two men went and waited. It was midmorning before they finally got to the presents, and Starsky tore into the pile, Hutch and his mother being more decorous and taking their time.

Eventually they were done. Mrs. Hutchinson and Hutch sat back sipping coffee, watching as Starsky added his new train car to the set that ran around the base of the Christmas tree. He had just gotten it running when the phone rang.

Hutch got to it first. "Hello?" An odd look came over his face. "Mom, it's for you," he said shortly, and passed it over to his mother.

She took it from him. "Hello? Oh, hello, dear. Merry Christmas!"

"It's my father," Hutch explained to Starsky.

Starsky inwardly crossed his fingers.

"Yes dear, we're having a lovely time. We all miss you. Did you open the presents I left for you? Oh good, I'm glad you liked them." There was a long pause as she listened to him. "Yes, he's here. Well, if you want to… All right, dear, I'll see."

She put her hand over the phone. "Ken, dear, your father wants to talk to you. Now be nice, and listen to what he has to say, please?" Her face had such a hopeful look that it would have melted an iceberg, Starsky thought.

Hutch sighed. "All right Mom." He took the phone she handed him. "Hi, Dad. What is it?" He listened for a few moments. "Well, that was your own decision," he said coldly. He listened again. Then his eyebrows went up in surprise. "Are you sure that's not the Christmas brandy talking, Dad?" he asked bitterly. There was another long pause.

Starsky took a look at Mrs. Hutchinson. She was twisting her hands anxiously in her lap.

"Do you really mean that?" Hutch said, pulling Starsky's attention back to him. He had an expression of utter amazement on his face. "Well, then, if you really do… it would have to be in the spring some time. When we could both get vacation again. Well, OK, then, we'll talk about it later, and make arrangements. Yeah, OK, I'll give you back to her." There was another pause, then, quietly he said, "Yeah, Dad, I love you too." He handed the phone wordlessly to his mother, and stared blankly ahead for a few seconds.

Starsky kicked him to get his attention. "Hey, Blondie, remember me? What's going on?"

"That was my father…"

"No kidding, I think I figured that out."

"He… he said he misses me and Mom, and he's sorry that we weren't there for Christmas, and that he wants to see me, and since I won't come to see him without you, we should both come up for a visit some time in the spring."

"Hey, that's great!" Starsky said ebulliently. "I told you he'd come around!"

"Yeah, yeah, you did." Hutch seemed to be in shock. "Not that he isn't still unhappy about our relationship, but at least he's willing to meet you."

"And I will win him over with my patented parent charming skills," Starsky said.

"Well good-bye, then dear, and I'll be coming home tomorrow like we planned. Yes, I'd love to have you meet me at the airport. All right, I'll see you then. Good-bye!"

Mrs. Hutchinson hung up the phone. "Well, that was just lovely," she said. Then she looked at the clock. "Oh my, look at the time, I have to go check the bean casserole." She hurried off into the kitchen, her eyes suspiciously bright. Starsky suspected she wanted some time alone to get her emotions under control. But that was all right, it gave him a moment alone with Hutch.

"And Babe, you know what this means, don't you?" he whispered, sidling up to Hutch on the couch.

"What?" Hutch asked uneasily.

"It means I win our bet. So from now on, be ready. 'Cause one day I'll collect. And that means… one day, somewhere… when you least expect it, expect it!"

Christmas Song

For Ancasta

"Santa baby, forgot to mention one more thing, a ring,
I don't mean on the telephone.
Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight."

Hutch let the last notes of the piano slow and soften to blend into the finish of Linda Baylor's husky alto. There was some desultory clapping from the patrons in the lounge, but most of them were too busy talking, drinking and playing it cool to pay much attention.

Which, Hutch thought with a touch of sour humor, was probably just as well. Baylor had cleaned up amazingly well, poured into a long slinky red and silver dress that showed off every curve to perfection, her black curls tamed into an old-fashioned chignon. Though she wasn't a great singer, she could put on a vamp performance worthy of Eartha Kitt, and Hutch had chosen music that would play to her strengths as much as possible. Still, if anybody had been listening seriously it would have been obvious she wasn't a professional, any more than Hutch himself was.

The Ocean View Lounge had pretensions to being a top of the line supper club, and Hutch had to admit the kitchen served a very good prime rib. The liquor was actually poured from the bottles behind the bar, rather than under the counter, and the maitre d' had a genuine French accent. It was packed on weekend nights with couples from the suburbs, or out of town visitors steered by their hotels to a place where the food would be familiar, but the atmosphere a little exotic. Just the thing for Mr. and Mrs. Middle America wanting a little holiday splurge.

But if you knew what to look for — and Hutch did, that was part of his job — there were telltale signs that things were a little hinky. A few too many guys hung around whose necks were too big for their collars, or who ruined the cut of their jackets with underarm bulges. Larger parties at lunch almost always consisted entirely of middle-aged men, for whom the surrounding tables were discreetly cleared, and whose too-young girlfriends got told to make a trip to the powder room once the talk got serious.

A lot of those middle-aged men were permanently on the radar of every law enforcement office in the city. And nobody more than Big Vinnie Verdano, club owner and racket boss with a finger in almost every illegal pie in Bay City. Alleged racket boss, and suspected fingers, as Dobey had said more than once in disgust. Which was why Hutch and Baylor were spending their pre-Christmas evenings masquerading as second-rate lounge entertainers, and Starsky was strutting his stuff tending bar.

"Ten minute break?" Baylor said quietly, leaning on Hutch's shoulder. Lowering her voice, she grumbled, "My feet are killing me."

"Sure." Hutch grinned up at her, and pressed a quick kiss to her fingertips.

"Don't push it." She tweaked the end of his mustache, before heading off through the dining room. At several tables she passed, men beckoned her over with requests or congratulations. Only one hand managed to get to her ass: sore feet or not, Baylor was fast.

Hutch straightened his back and stretched cautiously. A week undercover as a piano player had sharpened up his musical skills, but had been hell on his back. He took a swig from the glass on top of the baby grand and got stiffly to his feet. He stretched again, and then, glass in hand, made his way over to the bar.

His partner the bartender gave him a quick wink and Hutch grinned. As good as Baylor was at undercover work, he wouldn't have felt nearly as comfortable without the solid reassurance of Starsky as his backup.

"What can I getcha, blondie?"

"Refill on the tea." Part of Hutch's cover was that he drank a little more than was good for him. Part of Starsky's job in his cover was to ensure that Hutch looked like he was drinking more than he really was.

"Good thing that's not booze, buddy, or you'd be the one with the decimated liver." Starsky whipped the glass under the counter and a moment later swapped it up for another tall shot of tea filled with ice. He lifted one of the little prepared skewers of cherries and orange slices and propped it across the top with a flourish.

"Seen anything?" Hutch turned so he could brace his aching back against the bar, munching on an orange slice, his eyes skimming the room. It was easier than looking at his partner. Starsky had been born to wear a ruffled shirt and indigo bow tie, Hutch thought. In blue jeans and leather jacket he was a sexy street tough, but in the half-formal wear the Ocean View required of its waiters and bar men, he looked like a prince on his way home from a night on the town.

Wanting his partner was somehow easier to keep under control in their normal setting. Starsky in the Torino was a temptation, but a familiar and comforting one. Here, performing his graceful dance behind the bar, twirling bottles with the same flair he had with his gun, the temptation was a constant ache that Hutch had to keep consciously pushing down.

Starsky snorted. "Bupkes. Dobey should've set one of us up as an accountant. There's no other way we'll make it into Big Vinnie's office. I think he's starting to wonder if I've got a bladder infection, he's passed me back there so often."

"Yeah." Hutch sighed, and popped a cherry into his mouth. "Maybe he really is on the up-and-up." He and Starsky exchanged wry grins.

"Hey, Kenny. Ready to start up again?" Baylor slid onto the stool beside him, sneaking an arm behind him to grab the last of the fruit from his drink.

Hutch stretched, and winced. "Guess I'll have to be. Second set still okay with you?"

She nodded. "Blue Christmas, Holly Jolly, Mama Kissing Santa, White Christmas, oh, and that turkey at table nineteen wants Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Hutch groaned. Baby, It's Cold Outside was a duet, and that meant he'd have to sing. It wouldn't have been so bad if the song weren't another opportunity for Baylor to vamp and embarrass him with impunity.

Starsky winked. "C'mon, Hutch. Haven't heard you—"

"Since last night." Hutch pushed away from the bar. "Okay, we'll do it, but last in the set. Give me time to get my nerve up."

"Is that what you call it?" Baylor laughed over her shoulder as she headed back to the piano.

Hutch let himself drink in one last quick look at Starsky, the way the curls brushed his cheek, the quick rise of one eyebrow, and then moved it to the side of his mind so he could concentrate on the job.

He was pretty well used to stuffing part of his feelings for Starsky down into a box. A couple of times, after Rosey Malone for instance, he'd thought cautiously about letting them out, maybe opening that box up a little and seeing if those feelings could survive a bit of light and air. After Kira, he'd slammed the lid down and driven in a couple of roofing nails for good measure.

Gunther had changed everything.

Hutch still wasn't sure, almost eighteen months after the day the bullets had hit, and nearly six months after he and Starsky had hit the streets as a team again, how he could have spent so many years being so goddamned stupid. It was embarrassing how he'd been fooling himself. He'd thought that he and Starsky were friends, partners, good buddies, best ever, and on top of that he had the urge to roll him over in bed for a good time. He'd thought it was his dick talking, and even though he liked — hell, loved — Starsky like a brother, that that was basically all it was. Like being crazy about Lucy Willoughby all through ninth and tenth grade, and then actually going out with her for less than six weeks before deciding enough was enough.

He was pretty sure the shooting hadn't changed his feelings, so much as made him really look at them, and at himself. He hadn't much liked what he saw at first. It had taken more than a few nights sitting by Starsky's bed just to watch him breathe to wrap his head around the fact that he — Mr. Open-to-New Ideas Hutchinson — hadn't been able to admit to himself that he was in love with his partner.

Not that admitting it had given him the nerve to actually do anything about it.

Hutch warmed up playing a quick little jazz riff on Jingle Bells, and then he and Baylor were in the swing of it once more. Most of the music he knew by heart after a week, and he could keep a half eye on the comings and goings in the club. Not that it got them anywhere: it wasn't going to come as a shock to anyone to learn made men hung around the place. What they needed was a way to eavesdrop on those backroom conversations, or even better, get a chance to photograph some of those records. Hutch hoped that Dobey or somebody was going to come up with a better idea soon, because otherwise he and Baylor and Starsky were going to have second careers here.

They made it through White Christmas and Mama Kissing Santa Claus with only a minor problem on a chord change that Baylor luckily sang straight over, probably not even noticing. Hutch even felt confident enough to add some embellishment to Blue Christmas, a song that he'd come to loathe more over the past week than any crappy disco tune in the past four years. Baylor sang straight over those as well.

When they finally had no way to put off Baby, It's Cold Outside, Baylor came over and draped herself decoratively on the piano bench next to him, adjusting her gown slightly to show some leg. They'd discovered in the past week that a lot of musical sins would be ignored if the customers got a nice distraction. Hutch took a deep breath, prayed inwardly for his voice not to crack, and started.

"I really can't stay."

"Baby, it's cold outside." Baylor's throaty purr echoed him perfectly.

About halfway through there hadn't been any glitches yet, and Hutch risked a glance at the bar, and saw Starsky watching him. There was a funny look on his face, one that Hutch recognized but couldn't quite place. He'd been there for Starsky's first bite into a kiwi; this expression held the same mixture of apprehension and astonished enjoyment as when he'd realized that this weird fuzzy egg-shaped thing was delicious. But there was something else in his eyes Hutch couldn't place, and he didn't have time to look around and figure out what might be causing it. At any rate, it wasn't an expression that suggested Big Vinnie was sneaking up behind him with a set of brass knuckles, so Hutch put it away to ask about later and concentrated on getting through the song.

They got some nice applause this time, and gave an encore of I'll Be Home For Christmas, which quieted things down enough that nobody paid any attention when they finished their set and left. As usual, Baylor headed straight out, her last job of the day being to report to Dobey on their progress, or lack of it. Hutch hung around the bar, drank another iced tea and then switched gratefully to beer. If anyone looked, he was scribbling out musical arrangements and scraps of songs; it made a good enough cover for the notes he was really making on who they'd seen meeting who, and any fragments of conversation they'd picked up.

About fifteen minutes before closing time, he gave Starsky a wave and headed out the back way. Big Vinnie's office door was tightly closed. Out of habit, Hutch looked around and gave the knob a little shake, but there was no give to it. Not that it could ever be that easy, he thought, with a little headshake at his own optimism.

Even with the dumpsters out back, the air outside was clear and cool compared to inside. Hutch drew in a deep breath, and yanked loose his tie. Eight o'clock tomorrow night before he had to haul himself back there and pretend he liked performing tacky Christmas music for bored wiseguys and their indifferent bimbos. He shot a disgruntled look at his cover ride, a pale blue Honda Hutch loathed with a passion. Driving with his knees around his ears had never been high on his list of favorite things.

He sighed, and pulled out his keys to unlock it, when he heard footsteps rapidly approaching from behind. Whirling, he just managed to pull a punch as Starsky skidded to a stop in front of him.

"Whoa, buddy! Gettin' a little jumpy this time of night?" Starsky did a little bob-and-weave in front of him.

Hutch shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Not like there's anything to be nervous about at Big Vinnie's, right?" He looked closely at Starsky. "Something wrong? Thought you had to clean up before they'd spring you."

"Yeah. I, uh, just wanted to ask, um…" His voice trailed away.

Hutch felt a sudden catch of alarm. The last time he remembered Starsky sounding so rattled when they weren't actually in danger had been back in the early days of their partnership, when he'd asked Hutch exactly how a guy could tell if he'd gotten a girl knocked up. Starsky looked funny, too. He looked nervous, but there was more than a trace of that expression of surprise and delight he'd surprised on Starsky's face while he was singing.

"Starsk?" He reached out and lightly gripped Starsky's shoulder. "What's wrong, huh?"

For a minute, he thought Starsky wasn't going to answer. He looked down, and the fuzzy yellow light of the parking lot was enough to let Hutch see that he was going from nervous to a battle between stubbornness and embarrassed.

Despite his curiosity, he'd already decided he might as well let it all ride when Starsky suddenly took a deep breath and looked up. "You're getting along okay with Baylor, right?" Starsky asked, in a rush of breath.

"Yeah," Hutch said slowly, puzzled. This was what had Starsky charging out after him? "Gonna talk to Dobey when this is over, get him to push her to apply for detective. She's always been a natural undercover."

"I see." Starsky nodded jerkily. "You gonna ask her out?"

"What? No." Hutch knew he'd spoken too quickly, too sharply, but he couldn't have held it in if he'd tried. One of the promises he'd made to himself after Kira was never to date another cop. It was stupid, he knew: Kira's being a cop had nothing to do with her character — or his own. But he couldn't help the aversion that had grown up in him at the idea.

Of course, he'd always make an exception for Starsky.

"Hey, Hutch." Starsky gave him a light poke in the arm, and he realized he'd missed something.

"Say what?"

"I asked, why not? Baylor's smart, fun, and she's a knock-out in that dress."

"She's, um, well." It was Hutch's turn to stumble to a stop. It wasn't just his own reluctance, either; there was something about the way Starsky was talking Baylor up that sounded forced and he wasn't quite managing to look Hutch in the eye.

"She's what?"

"She's a cop," Hutch blurted out.

"Don't wanna date cops any more?" Starsky looked surprised, and the shadow of delight on his face dimmed.

"Yeah. No. I…" Hutch took a deep breath to try to slow himself down. "I learned my lesson," he went on grimly.

"Kira?" Starsky laughed. "Buddy, we both screwed that one up, and it didn't have anything to do with her being a cop. If she'd been a stewardess or a nuclear physicist we'd still have ended up throwing punches over her. That's what she got off on."

Hutch nodded. "I get that, really, but, there's just something stuck in my head." He looked at Starsky sharply. "Do you want to ask Baylor out? 'Cause if you do, go ahead. Like I said, she's good undercover, and good to work with, but that's it."

Starsky laughed again, a little wildly. "No, Hutch. I wanna ask a cop out, but it ain't Baylor."

Hutch felt a sudden kick in the pit of his stomach, a rush of butterflies worse than anything he'd felt all week sitting down at the piano. Don't be dumb, he scolded himself. Whoever he's talking about, he can't mean what you think. Get it together.

Still, he couldn't help the feeling, and his voice held a hint of challenge as he said, "So, you want to ask somebody for a date? Go ahead. Not like you to worry about getting a pretty lady to go out with you."

Starsky looked at him for a long moment, a quiet serious look that slowly lightened into that look of surprised happiness again. The smile Hutch got then was one he'd never seen before. A little shy, a little flirty, and full of a heart-stopping affection. His heart started to pound, and his mouth went dry.

"Okay." Starsky nodded, and then lifted his chin with determination. "So, you wanna go out?"

Hutch licked his lips, and tried to swallow a lump in his throat. "You—" His voice was a squeak, and he stopped and cleared his throat again. "You mean like a date? A real date?"

"Yup." Starsky looked as if one wrong word might send him running, but he stood his ground, and met Hutch's eyes. "Maybe even go steady." He swallowed as well, and Hutch heard the dry clicking sound of nerves. "What d'you think about that?"

"I think you might have a good idea there, Ollie." Hutch felt a grin spreading across his face. He probably looked dorky, he thought, and didn't give a damn.

Starsky's own grin gave the overhead light a run for its money. "You have any preferences?"

"Well," Hutch said thoughtfully," we could do what we usually do. Head over to Huggy's for a beer or two. Go down to the Diner Deluxe and get a couple of tuna burgers—"

"With pickles and onions," Starsky broke in.

"Right, pickles and onions. Then we could cruise up in the hills, find a nice place to park and watch the city lights."

"We are not cruising anywhere in that piece of junk." Starsky gave the Honda a disdainful look. "Not enough room in the back seat."

Hutch felt his mouth drop open and a heat rise in his cheeks. "Back seat?" It was a squeak.

Starsky stepped closer, and reached out to take one of Hutch's hands. His hand was shaking, Hutch noted, and slightly damp, but the grip was as firm as ever, the hold the same one Starsky had used over the years to haul him to his feet, reassure him after a firefight, or calm him down when anger could have gotten the better of him.

"I said, 'going steady', Hutch. I meant it. That kinda implies there's gonna be some action in the back seat some time."

"A bed will probably be easier on my back." He had to be sure that Starsky knew exactly what he meant, what Hutch wanted him to mean.

Starsky nodded. "That's the plan, blondie. Back seat, bed, anywhere we can get away with it."

Hutch met Starsky's eyes, and saw the feeling that backed the grip on his hand. The butterflies in his stomach settled, and a feeling of peace and calm slowly started to rise. Starsky hadn't changed. The love and trust and partnership were all still there.

"Okay then," Hutch said, and felt his grin get even broader.

"And we're taking my car," Starsky said firmly.

"This time," Hutch said just as firmly. "We're gonna share, right?"

"Always."

Starsky started for the far corner of the lot where the Torino was parked. He didn't let go of Hutch's hand, and Hutch turned his own so their fingers twined. Looking down at their joined hands, he felt those butterflies rise again in joyful flight. Their inspiration raised his voice, and as he began to sing, Starsky laughed, and joined in.

"You're all I want for Christmas, and if all my dreams come true, I'll find my stocking full of you."

The End.

Yule In a Different Place

For Susan

Tranes, Jylland, Midwinter, 954.

The sword came crashing down in front of him and Starsky jumped and twisted backwards.

Step back, lift up the shield, deflect the blow.

He was breathing heavily, no time to think, the blows coming hard and fast. They both retreated, ready to start a new round. What was it Hutch said? Don't give your opponent time to rest. Attack first, get the upper hand, and you can direct him where you want him.

Starsky took a firmer hold on his axe, stepped forward, and started to bring it up, as if going for Hutch's neck and shoulder. Suddenly, he turned to the right, bringing up his shield with the other arm, deflecting the blow of the sword from the left.

The feint brought up both of Hutch's arms, opening him up for lower blows, and Starsky twisted back towards the left, aiming for the body. But at the last moment, Hutch's shield crashed down on Starsky's right arm and almost broke it.

Regrouping, they prepared to attack again. Starsky was panting. He was so tired he could barely hold it together, but Hutch persisted, and Starsky kept avoiding the blows and sometimes even got in his own. Hutch had much more experience, but somehow Starsky could read Hutch's intentions, anticipate his moves, and was still standing. He knew they wouldn't stop until there was a winner.

Again Hutch attacked, and again Starsky deflected the blow and got away. He noted how low his opponent raised his sword; Hutch was getting tired. Then Starsky got his chance, saw the opening, and ran headfirst into Hutch's belly. With a big "Oof," Hutch went down, Starsky sprawling on top. The surprise gave him the upper hand, and using the last of his energy, Starsky twisted around and grabbed Hutch's arms, his knife at Hutch's throat, securing Hutch's body with his legs. Hutch writhed, trying to loosen Starsky's grip and get away from the knife. It was small, but sharp.

Starsky hung on. Finally, he had Hutch down, and he'd be damned if he'd give in now. It wouldn't be much longer anyway, he felt, until Hutch would give up. He must be tired, too. Starsky winced. His arm was definitely hurt, but Hutch being Hutch, he knew it wasn't broken. He'd just have big bruise for a couple of weeks, and next time, Hutch would be more careful. What had gotten into him today, Starsky couldn't guess, but their sparring had been fiercer than usual.

He leaned his face close to Hutch's and gasped between breaths, "So… Give up?"

"Never," Hutch said, writhing to free himself. Starsky scrambled to hold on, but Hutch's struggle quickly got weaker, and Starsky knew it would only be a few moments. He waited until Hutch relaxed, and with a wide grin he sat back and let go.

It wasn't until then that he noticed the small crowd they had attracted. Most often people would not take much notice of a pair of men sparring, but today's fight had been longer and more dramatic than usual, and Starsky's being a stranger — and no warrior — had made several detour past them or find some reason to stay and watch. He hoped he'd impressed them. Often it was hard to guess what people thought of him, a stranger from a big city far away. Starsky noticed Hutch's friend, Thorkil, standing aside and leaning on his own battle-axe. Taller than Hutch, who was one of the tallest men around, twice as wide, and with a mop of reddish hair and a redder beard, he was impossible to miss. He had a speculative look on his face, as if he wondered how quickly he could take down Starsky. He stepped forward with a wide grin, holding out a hand.

"Good leg-work, Starsky. You're getting better and better. Want to give it a try and spar with me next time?"

Starsky laughed, "I'd better not. I'm a little too fond of my life. That axe of yours looks even more dangerous than Hutch's sword."

Hutch, standing now, patted Starsky on the back. "Good choice. I want you alive. At least until I get revenge for this," he said, and winked.

Starsky just smiled, tired. "I'm half-dead. You really made me work." He ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair and shivered in the cold.

Hutch threw his arm over Starsky's shoulders and pushed them toward the houses. "Let's go wash and change clothes."

Starsky leaned a little closer, thankful for the support. His ankle, supposedly healed, had started throbbing again.

The house that Hutch led them to was the biggest in the village, almost twice as big as the others, and situated on the highest spot. Not that highest meant much, in a landscape as flat as this, less than a day's walk inland from the sea. On clear days, the sky seemed endless, only wind-worn, lopsided trees in the horizon to break the monotony, with more forest visible in the distance to the east. Crops were hard to raise in the biting, salty wind, and most of the land was used for cattle and sheep. Around the big long-house lay more than a dozen other houses, from impressive long-houses to tiny half-buried cabins. Hutch's uncle, Jarl, was chieftain of the small society, consisting of the village, a number of outlying farms, and a couple of fishers' families by the sea. Hutch and his family lived with Jarl and his wife, Astrid, in the big long-house, the hall, and now Starsky was their guest. A smaller, older long-house beside it was the old hall, which Jarl's grandfather had built, but now was turned into storage rooms and stables for the horses, as well as housing some of the family's servants.

Holding back Starsky, who was about to enter the door, Hutch stopped a woman coming out. This time in a winter afternoon, the women would have congregated for working and socializing, and Hutch knew better than to just barge in, disturbing them. Better have someone bring out a bucket and some towels.

Thorkil had followed them over, and he and Starsky had started discussing the finer points of the use of the axe as a close combat weapon. It was Thorkil's own weapon of choice, though his was considerably bigger than Starsky's, made for a big man to use with might and strength. When Hutch had suggested that Starsky should learn to use a bigger weapon than the knife he already was skilled with, Starsky had at first not wanted an axe. It looked clumsy and undignified compared with a sword. Now he was getting comfortable with the weapon and had started to appreciate the speed and agility he could use it with. Starsky had worried that it would be no match for Hutch's larger sword, but being light, with a good range, he could move quickly, and he'd noticed today that while he was in no way as good shape as Hutch, he could keep up. He began to see why Hutch had sparred so fiercely today.

Hutch came over with water and towels, as Thorkil was showing Starsky how he'd taken out three warriors in one go, when he was with King Harald in Normandy as a young man.

"…and then you got number four and five right after." Hutch said with a smile. "Thorkil, I think even Starsky has heard that story before."

"Well, it's a good story. Doesn't hurt to tell it again," Thorkil huffed.

"That's right. He was even getting to one of the good places," said Starsky, winking at Hutch, and reaching for one of the towels. "Give me that. I want to get dry. The water's not warm, is it?"

"What do you think? Of course not. Would be too much work to heat it, just to waste it on you." Hutch smiled.

Starsky scowled at Hutch. He hadn't expected warm water, but the last month had been so dark and cold, any kind of warmth was welcome. That was what he missed most — the warmth and sunlight of his home.

Thorkil fished out a candied Angelica stem and offered some for the other two men.

Hutch took a bite and asked, "What's with all the candy? You've been chewing these a lot lately."

Thorkil sighed and his shoulders slumped. "It's Siv. She says my breath stinks, and she won't let me lie with her. This is supposed to help with my breath."

"She's pregnant, Thorkil, and due in a few months. Are you sure it's even a good idea?" Starsky looked worried at the big man, who looked forlorn. He was an old friend of Hutch's and had been the only person beside Hutch who knew a little Latin, and so someone Starsky could talk with when he first arrived and hadn't learned the language yet.

"The midwife says it it'll help Siv relax, and she told me to drink some caraway tea to help with the smell, but I like these better. Can you smell anything?" Thorkil leaned over and exhaled into Starsky's face.

"Phew! I think Siv is right! Maybe you should try that caraway tea, too." Starsky made a show of fanning the odors away from his face and glowered at Hutch, who was snickering. "Thorkil, perhaps she just doesn't want too much attention right now."

"Maybe, but she's so beautiful when she's like this," Thorkil sighed, smiling as he noticed his wife coming to look for him.

Hutch patted his shoulder, "Well, here she is. Ask her and you'll figure it out between you."

"Ask me what?" said Siv, her hands on her hips, fixing Thorkil with a look. Tall as Starsky and as blonde as Hutch, she matched her husband well.

Thorkil got up, blushing. "Well. You see…" he stammered, as the couple walked off.

Hutch raised an eyebrow and looked at Starsky, who just smiled and shook his head. "Well, I guess we won't see much of him in the hall tonight." Starsky finished washing and dried off vigorously to warm his skin, then picked up their towels and motioned for them go back to the house. His feet were still wet from the grass, and he shuddered from the cold as they walked towards the house.

Midwinter was only a few days away, and he looked forward to the Yule feast and celebrations that Hutch had told him about. He felt cold all the time and missed the sun. Right now it was as if it got dark when the day was only half gone, and the feeble sun, when it did break through the clouds, couldn't warm a mouse. Some weeks ago it had even snowed a little, and he'd hoped it would stay. Even if it meant that the frost stayed, too, the snow brightened everything, but it had evaporated the next day. Right now, he cared most about getting inside, to sit for a while by the warmth of the center hearth of the house.

The house had a firepit running length-wise in the middle, usually with several fires lit. Along the long walls ran a low platform where people sat or slept. Benches and tables would be put up for eating.

Supper-time here always reminded him a little of home. Everyone showed up, from the head of the house to the lowest servant. Jarl and Astrid would sit at the high seat at one end with their family around them, then the free-man family that Jarl and Astrid employed to help with the farming, and then the servants and slaves. At this time of year, people huddled together, as much to share company in a dark time as to share warmth — with a great fire at the hearth and more than two dozen people in the house, it quickly got warm enough.

Starsky sighed and stretched out his legs as he sat down beside Hutch. Starsky'd spent the last hour with Svein, the village's main smith and metal-worker, working on a small project of his own.

Hutch had been talking with his six year old twin boys, who'd spent most of their day helping out their minder, Osric, with chores. Hutch had not yet re-married, since his wife, Nanna, died four years ago, and only owned a few people to take care of the needs of a small household. The one he relied most on were Osric, whom his father had given him when he married, and Osric's wife Aelfgifu, who, over the last three years, had become almost a mother to his children; the two young boys and a girl of twelve.

Supper started, as usual, with barley porridge, a dish that Starsky was beginning to feel he'd had too many times. As he ate, he closed his eyes and tried to remember the taste of fresh bread, straight from the oven. Bread was what he missed most. Sweet, fresh wheat bread.

Next was a mutton stew with vegetables. This time of year, he'd been told, there was plenty of fresh food, and everyone enjoyed not having to eat the dried meats and herring that usually would be the only things left at the end of winter. As with the porridge, bowls were handed around for several people to share. The young girl, who handed Starsky his and Hutch's, had been eyeing him for some time and often made sure that Starsky was aware of it. Despite enjoying the attention of the women, openly fascinated by his exotic dark looks, he'd kept to himself. He felt awkward at he thought of lying with a woman in the same room everyone else slept in. Hutch had hinted it wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't too noisy. Everyone would just pretend not to hear. But Starsky still felt put off by the thought.

After supper, someone told a story, and later Hutch and few others tried to engage him in a game of poetry — reciting verses made up on the spot. The one who could create the best boasts about himself, in addition to the best put-downs of his opponent, won. Starsky begged off — last time he tried, he'd lost miserably, making up verses in a strange language.

As the fires started to burn down, people found places to sleep. The children ran around until they were tired and easy to put to sleep. Starsky felt sleepy, too, tired from the long day, and relaxed by the warmth and familiar noises and smells. Shedding the outer layer of clothes and his indoor shoes, he crawled back on the platform and found the blankets and furs he shared with Hutch. Jarl and Astrid would sleep in their bed behind the high seat, but everyone else slept on the platforms by the walls.

He was almost asleep when he felt Hutch settle down beside him.

"You sleeping?" Hutch asked in a low voice.

"Um-mh, it's been a long day," Starsky yawned.

"I'm sorry if I was too hard on you today," Hutch said.

"I'll be fine. I feel better knowing I can handle it."

"That's what I wanted. Tomorrow I think we should go riding — you need more practice. Maybe take the boys with us down the coast. Jarl needs me to speak with the fishermen out there, and we might as well go that way. What do you think?"

"If I said no thanks, would you leave me at home?"

"No," said Hutch in a contented voice. "I'd just put you on the horse anyway. You need to learn to ride properly." Then he settled down in his customary position with his back along Starsky's.

Starsky smiled to himself and fell asleep quickly.

The next days were spent with preparations for Yule. According to Hutch, it was a ceremonious and solemn day that would end with a great feast. People from the outlying homesteads would come the day before, and everyone would be busy with preparations. Then, the next day at midday, Jarl, would conduct the sacrifice to Frey, god of fertility and prosperity, and at night they would have a meal of the meat of the sacrificed animals. Starsky couldn't participate, of course, but Jarl had said he was very welcome.

As people started arriving, they were given space to sleep in the houses in the village, the most important in Jarl's hall. Many were interested in meeting Starsky, whom they'd heard about, and it was very late before he got to go to sleep. People brought their own food, but still needed cooking space, and the air was intense with many people crammed in together, and the expectations for tomorrow's blót, the ceremonial sacrifice and service.

In the morning, the grass was crisp with frost but the sky was clear when Starsky went looking for Svein, who'd helped him with a special project. It was customary for a lord or chieftain to give presents at Yule to his men both as wage for their loyalty and to show off his wealth. Hutch had received many fine gifts from King Harald when he was in his service. Sometimes people gave gifts for other reasons, too, and Starsky had decided to use some precious stones and gold he'd saved from the shipwreck for a gift for Jarl for taking him in. Having almost lost his life, he thought his precious stones should make a fitting present for the man who'd saved him and given him a home. He'd chosen the large garnet, sided by two small sapphires. He hadn't enough metals for a proper neck-piece or armband, but Starsky had created a simple clasp for a cape, with a setting of mixed gold and silver he'd bought from Svein. The garnet was cut with a flat back, and few, broad facets on the front, and he'd fashioned an interwoven pattern of gold and silver as backing for the stone. The mix of gold and silver made the stone sparkle much more than garnets usually did. For Hutch, who'd become a great friend and who'd taken good care of him, he'd fashioned beads in gold and silver and mixed them with glass beads he'd bought from Svein, on a leather string plaited with a few fine strands of silver.

He found Svein sitting in his workshop by the horse stables. He wasn't much for mixing with a lot of new people, and usually didn't talk much. He looked up suspiciously as Starsky entered the shed, but smiled when he saw who it was and fished out the jewelry he'd polished for Starsky, "Here. I don't think I can get the shine better."

Starsky raised the clasp with the garnet; it glittered in the low sun. Perfect. He didn't need to be ashamed of his work. He found a couple of pieces of cloth and carefully wrapped the clasp and the necklace for Hutch.

Leaving the shed, he was nearly run over by Hutch's daughter. "Starsky! There you are." She was panting. "Dad is looking for you. He has something to show you."

"There's nothing wrong?

"No! Of course not." She was grinning as if bursting with a secret. "Come on," she dragged him off by his hand. "I'm sure you're going to like it!"

Back in the house, he found Hutch standing by Aelfgifu, who held a pile of clothing in her arms.

"There you are. We couldn't find you!" Hutch looked pleased, despite the worried tone in his voice.

As Starsky's eyes adjusted to the indoor darkness, he saw that Hutch had changed out of his usual daily wear into a light, soft green tunic with trousers in a darker shade. The tunic was fitted to show off his shoulders and upper arms, and on the neck and sleeves were sewn broad woven bands in bright colors and small silver beads, and small polished mirror discs were embroidered in a pattern by the neckline. At the waist was a narrow belt and the thigh-length tunic flared out and fell in rich folds above the tightly fitted trousers. Over this, Hutch wore a short cape, red with a thin green checked pattern. It was thin cloth, only reached the hem of the tunic, and was edged with fur. Clearly, it was more for show than warmth. On both wrists he wore gold and silver bands, and the clasp on his cape was silver interwoven with gold.

"Damn, Hutch! That looks amazing." Starsky took a step back to get a better look. "It's great on you. Are you sure you want to be seen in my company?" He raised an eyebrow.

Hutch lit up. "That's exactly why I wanted to find you. You've been borrowing clothes since you came, and I thought you'd like some of your own. Aelfgifu suggested it, when that group of merchants came by last month. They sold me the cape, but Aelfgifu found time to make the rest." Hutch pointed to the tunic and trousers Aelfgifu held out. They were cut much like Hutch's, though a bit more conservatively, intended for daily use, which Hutch's set was not, but the tunic was edged with the same kind of brightly colored bands as Hutch's, and Starsky spotted a fur-edged cap lying on the bench along with a heavy cape in a mixed pattern of blue shades. The tunic and trousers were a soft blue, and the tunic had thin red stripes.

Starsky couldn't wait to change into his new clothes. The borrowed clothes he'd worn were nice enough, but couldn't compete with having his own again. He ran his fingers over the fur at the edge of the cape. A shame it would be too warm to wear indoors tonight.

When he'd changed, he looked at himself and turned to show off to the others. "I must thank you for this," he said to Aelfgifu, thanking her formally for her work. "It's wonderful to wear something of my own again, and something so beautiful and well made. And thank you, too, Hutch," he added, and looked down at himself, touching and feeling the garments.

Starsky let Aelgifu help him arrange the cape, and fastened his purse to his belt. Perhaps now would be a good time to give Hutch his present. Hutch was second-in-command to his uncle and would surely be needed much of the day.

"You mentioned that sometimes people give gifts at Yule. And now you've given me all this," Starsky indicated his clothes. "Well, I've thought of something, too. You and your family have taken me in, and I've found a great friend. You know I managed to save a few precious stones from the shipwreck, and Svein has helped me make settings." Starsky pulled out the necklace he'd made for Hutch and presented it to him.

Hutch took it carefully and put in on, and Aelfgifu found a small copper mirror so Hutch could see how it looked.

"It's beautiful." Hutch smiled. "Thank you. Now you've given me something, too, I can wear everyday."

"I have a gift for your uncle, too. I'd like to thank him formally for giving me a place here." Starsky pulled out the clasp. "It's the most beautiful stone I had. I wish I could have given it to you, but…"

"You're right. It's only proper that Uncle should have it. It's beautiful. The garnet will sparkle in the firelight. I think he'll appreciate it very much. A fitting gift, Starsky. Makes me proud to be your friend. And I love my necklace, I couldn't have worn a clasp like that every day." Hutch smiled and put an arm around Starsky's shoulders. "Come, let's get outside. There's more than enough to do. You can help me."

"Stop him!" Someone called out. "Aside!" called another. Hutch stopped abruptly and looked around, only to feel a heavy thump and suddenly found himself sprawled in the grass, three men running past him.

Starsky pulled him up.

"What was that?" asked Hutch. He looked dazed and shook his head as if to clear it.

"I think it's that pig over there," Starsky pointed at a large pig running with three men after it. "It must have gotten loose."

Hutch looked up. It was the hog meant for today's sacrifice. It was supposed to be cleaned up for the afternoon and had worked itself loose. As they looked on, one of the men got hold of it, only to lose his hold as another man tried to help. Finally someone found a long enough rope, and two men caught it and got the rope on it before it could move.

Hutch smiled at its antics, but shook his head. "Poor animal. He's always been wild, even after they gelded him. But he'll make a fine sacrifice."

"You said there would be a horse, too?" Starsky asked.

"Yes, a fine stallion of Jarl's. It's been a very good year, it would only be proper to give the best we have." Hutch tried to brush off dirt from his fall. "I'd better go back and have Aelfgifu brush off the stains."

"But why a hog and a stallion?" Asked Starsky as they walked back.

"I guess you could say we're celebrating life in the middle of winter, and it's Frey who gives us life and makes things grow. In a way you could say we give thanks and ask for a good next year. And the hog and the horse are Frey's animals. We give him back what he gave us."

Starsky sometimes found it difficult understand about their gods, but giving thanks for life he understood.

Close to noon, there was little for Starsky to do, and he wandered around the village, watching what was going on. There was already a sense of festivity and cheer.

At mid day people started to congregate in the great hall. It had been cleaned up and things put away, but even then, there was just room enough for everyone. He edged in and found a place on the platform by the wall near the door, where he had a good view of the room. He didn't want to get too close, felt it wasn't quite right to go too near, but he was too curious not be there at all. Hutch had things to do before the ceremony, and had left Starsky on his own, and other people he tried to talk to were preoccupied. He could already feel the expectations and energy in the room of rituals and gods not his own.

At one end, in front of the high seat, stood three simply carved images of the gods Odin, Frey and Thor. Between the images and the firepit was space for the sacrifice, and nearest the firepit stood the low stone table with the oath-ring and the broad knife, and a highly decorated copper and silver basin.

Jarl was already there and stood talking with a couple of older men, all of them finely dressed, though a bit more conservatively than Hutch, who stood by Jarl's side. A harried-looking Astrid hurried in, quickly smoothing her hair, to stand beside them. A group of young women stood by her, all carrying large jugs of the sweet-ale Astrid brewed for festivals, and Astrid herself holding a large drinking horn, heavily decorated with silver and gold, and a jug of mead.

Jarl stepped forward and gestured for silence, while Astrid gave him the mead-filled drinking horn. Jarl lifted it and bid Frey welcome, then Thor and Odin, and everyone cheered. He blessed the mead and ale, and poured mead on the floor for the gods, and then Astrid started serving the finest guests, and the women started to go around and pour the ale according to rank and class.

Starsky felt someone tugging his sleeve, and turned. "What?" he whispered to the boy who was standing there.

"Hutch wants you down there," said the boy and tugged at his sleeve again.

Starsky felt unsure, but he saw Hutch waving at him, and more people turned to look and drag him up the hall.

"I didn't—" Starsky whispered, and glowered at Hutch for putting him on the spot.

"I know. It's all right, it hasn't really started yet," Hutch said quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. "But you should be here when we bid people welcome. Jarl asked for you. I think he wants to show you off," he whispered and winked.

Starsky relaxed and was ready when Astrid approached him with the drinking horn. He took it and raised it and… what was that blessing Hutch had mentioned? Oh, yes, To a good year and peace. He saluted Jarl and Astrid and the guests around them. Jarl looked pleased. Apparently it had gone down well. Then Astrid moved on to the next. Hutch pushed gently at Starsky.

"It's all right to go back again, but I have to leave for a moment," he said and pushed his way to the door. Starsky followed and elbowed his way to his earlier spot.

A moment later, he heard shouting and swearing from outside, a hush fell over the gathering, and everyone looked expectantly at the door. In came Hutch and three other men dragging the hog, which had been hobbled on its front and rear feet, and a cheer erupted, which made the animal struggle even more.

The women withdrew to make room for the animal, and Jarl picked up the knife. Standing before the image of Frey, the four men struggled to hold the hog. Jarl, in a formal voice, asked Frey to receive their gift as a symbol of their covenant. Everyone was very quiet now, and Starsky felt the strong emotional currents in the air. It was important everything went well. The animal had already run away once today, and perhaps Frey wasn't even interested. Jarl moved forward and swiftly cut the animal's throat. Starsky didn't know which was loudest, the hog's screech or the eruption of yells and cheers from the crowd.

While the men held the dying animal down, Astrid held the basin to collect the blood. She gave Jarl a bowl of it, and with a small bundle of switches, he sprinkled blood first on the statues, then on the participants. Starsky noticed he went round the crowd, to everyone, though the people standing at the back only got symbolic drops of blood. He ducked into the door opening when Jarl came over to his corner. He didn't fancy blood on his new clothes. Then Jarl smeared blood around the door and sprinkled some on the fires.

Like the other three men, Hutch had stripped off his cape and tunic before retrieving the hog, and only wore his undershirt. Starsky felt a little shocked at seeing him standing there, excited and disheveled, in a blood-stained shirt. Until now, Hutch had seemed an easy-going, relaxed man, if a little authoritative — only natural in his position. Starsky hadn't expected to see him like this, in the center of a strange ceremony, wild-looking and covered in blood.

As the crowd started to relax a little, someone started up a drum solo. The slow beating built up the excitement, and when the crowd started to cheer, Hutch and the men ran out of the room. The crowd cheered on, and the drum erupted again when they returned, this time with the stallion. It was a small, but fine, dark brown horse, and Starsky recognized it as one of Jarl's finest animals. He was struggling against the ropes, but unlike the hog, the stallion seemed eager, and moved closer to the statues and Jarl's knife. A good omen.

Just as he was positioned, he stalled and reared. Hutch hung on to the halter, and Starsky's heart stuck in his throat as Hutch was dragged to the side, almost under his stomping hooves. Finally one of the other men got him down again. Jarl was quick to step in and cut his throat. The blood spurted and Astrid had trouble catching it in the basin. The animal struggled to the last, and Starsky thought that if the excitement over the hog had made the air thick, it had nothing on this.

The ceremonial sprinkling of blood was repeated, and then Jarl finished the sacrifice with yet another salutation to the gods. Then all were excused until late afternoon, when everyone would participate in the meal of the sacrificial animals.

As people started to break up to fetch the beer they'd brought, and a group of women started to butcher the animals, Starsky hung back to see where Hutch was. He found him in a corner, trying to brush off some of the dried blood in his hair. He grinned when Starsky came over. "This was the best in years!" He said, and hugged Starsky tightly. "Gods, I need some beer." Hutch put his arm around Starsky's shoulders and together they walked to where Thorkil and some other friends sat.

Starsky took a deep draught of beer. Even if he really hadn't wanted to participate, he felt drained from the excitement, and now he understood why everyone had brought so much beer. "So," he asked, "is it always like that?"

"Oh, yes," said a woman, "but this year was better than most. Perhaps you've brought us luck." She smiled at Starsky. "Tell me, Thorkil said… Is it true you can't share the meal of the sacrifice with us?"

"Yes, that's right." Starsky went for the simplest explanation. "My god doesn't want me to eat certain foods, or in certain combinations. It's usually not a problem, but I'm afraid I won't be able to share with you tonight."

"That's all right," Thorkil slapped him on his shoulder. "Then there'll be more for me. I suppose you can share the beer?"

"That's right, Thorkil," said Starsky and drained his mug. "Beer won't be a problem."

An hour later, when the sun started to set, more and more people came back in, out of the cold or from the other houses. It was turning dark, and the cold, humid air was biting. Already people had made good inroads into the beer supply and were in high spirits. The meat was cooking in the firepits, and Astrid was busy overseeing everything, while Jarl entertained a couple of the more prominent guests. Starsky stayed with Thorkil and the group of friends, while Hutch had to go to and fro, and at one point had to quiet a developing dispute.

People started to find their places in the hall. As before, the finest were near the high seat. As a personal guest of the family, Starsky was also seated there.

When most people had found seats, Jarl stood and gestured for silence. As he had earlier, he bid Frey and Thor and Odin welcome, then his guests, and blessed the mead and beer that Astrid and other women were pouring, though Starsky noted, the lower the rank of the guest, the more quickly they went around.

It was time for the gift giving and swearing of oaths. Jarl looked around, and the men he employed gathered by him. Each got silver and gold rings and in return made a promise to serve him in the next year. Hutch had stood by Jarl during the ceremonies, but now cast a look at Starsky to catch his attention. Starsky got the point and got up from the bench, the bejeweled clasp securely in his hand.

Jarl looked up, strangely not appearing very surprised, Starsky thought. More pleased. Starsky stepped forward.

"Jarl," Starsky started, and gave the little speech he'd prepared, thanking Jarl and his household for taking him in and giving him a place to live. In return he'd like to present Jarl this gift. He unwrapped the clasp and made sure that the light of the fires reflected in the stones as he presented it to Jarl. It sparkled beautifully, and he heard a few small gasps from people sitting close.

Jarl's thank-you was elaborate, and he made a show of replacing his cape needle with the new clasp. By his smile, Starsky felt sure Jarl was pleased with his gift. Like the simple glass and bead necklace fitted Hutch's easygoing and contemplative nature, this piece fitted the boisterous and extroverted Jarl.

After Starsky's present, Jarl concluded the ceremonies with a short speech and blessed the meat, and everyone joined in a song.

The stewed meat was served with flat, unleavened bread and several vegetable stews. One of Astrid's maids came with a small bowl of meat-stew for Starsky. "Astrid asked me to see to that you got this. It's beef — she knows you can't share the sacrifice with us."

Starsky nodded, thanked her, and looked around for Astrid. When he caught her attention, he raised his spoon and smiled. "Thanks! It smells wonderful." He took a bite and savored the rich taste of herbs and spices that was Astrid's trademark, and gave a silent note of thanks that while he might have been shipwrecked in a cold and inhospitable land, at least the mistress of the house was a master with herbs and spices.

Around him the level of noise rose when Jarl gave the sign to start. The beer people had drunk during the day was beginning to show its effects, and several times a group would break out in song, which soon had the whole hall joining in.

Starsky felt a sense of ceremony in the air. People didn't hurry to eat their food, and everyone was, by some unwritten rule, given an equal share. Starsky understood this was the second part of the sacrifice today. By eating the sacred animals, people shared the meal with their gods and were blessed by it.

The dessert for the high table was another of Astrid's specialties. Starsky hadn't been excited when he heard it was cold porridge, but it turned out it was sweetened with honey, spiced and filled with fruits and nuts, heated and topped with melted butter, and served with yoghurt. Actually, he thought it tasted a lot more like cake and had two helpings.

After the meal the beer flowed, and around the high seat, the mead as well. The mead was sweet and light, and it was easy to forget it was strong as wine, and Starsky started to feel very mellow, his surroundings a bit fuzzy. Someone had started reciting a story, accompanied by a lyre. The noise in the hall had quieted down and most people sat, listening. Starsky didn't know the language well enough to follow the story, but the steady rhythm enthralled him.

Later, other musicians took over from the lyre-player, and after having taken down some tables, a group of people started a chain dance. The tune was obviously popular as almost everyone joined in song. The musicians were working hard to keep up, often drowned out by the singing.

Hutch was in high spirits, clapping and singing. When one of the young women came over to drag Hutch out to dance, he was not very steady on his feet and his dancing not very well coordinated, but he looked like he had fun. It was a long time since Starsky had seen anything as comical, and obviously many other people thought so, too. Hutch didn't seem to mind, though.

Hutch ran over and held out a hand. "Come!"

Drunk and feeling nothing could be better than to join the dance, Starsky followed Hutch, dragging along two girls who'd decided to keep him company on the bench. He certainly was better than Hutch, judging by the looks he got from the women, and he danced until Hutch's legs somehow got in the way of his own and they tumbled to the floor together. A couple of friendly souls helped them to the platform, where they sat for a moment, leaning on each other.

Starsky dropped backwards. It felt like the platform was rotating and he was a little queasy. "Hutch. I think I'd better sleep now."

"Shure." Hutch slurred a little and swayed.

Hutch, two Hutches, turned and looked at him, and they looked sleepy, too…

Right before Starsky passed out, he remembered he'd said yes to the sports games next day.

Spring Cleaning

For Ea

"Hutch. Hutch. Hutch, wake up."

"Grummm, g'way, Starsk."

"Wake up, Hutch. It's Saturday!"

"Eve' more of a reason for you to g'way." Hutch burrowed farther under the covers until only the top of his head was showing.

"It's Saturday, March 28th, Hutch, and you promised." Starsky pulled the comforter and its accompanying sheet down to his partner's ankles.

"I didn't promise to get up," Hutch glanced at the clock, "at 7 a.m.!" He threw Starsky a half amazed, half annoyed look. "Are you out of your mind?" He reached down and tried to tug the bed covers away from him. "I'm going back to sleep, Starsk!"

Starsky grinned and yanked back hard; the quilt and sheet came off the bed, the mattress nearly lifting off the box spring as the covers slid out from underneath the mattress. "Your ass is mine today, Hutch." He began bundling the heavy covers into his arms. "And the sooner we get started, the sooner we finish. Now get up!"

Hutch swung his legs off the bed and slid his feet into his slippers. "Do I at least get breakfast first?"

"Yes, you get breakfast. I even made your green goop for you." He turned around, threw the blanket and sheet into the hamper and then turned back around again. Hutch was still sitting on the bed. "Move your ass, Blondie!"

Hutched glared at him, but rose to his feet. He crossed the room and exited into the hallway, muttering about the pain he wanted to inflict on bossy partners.

Starsky smiled as he watched Hutch leave the room. He then stripped the rest of the bed, picked the hamper up, and went downstairs to the laundry room set just off to the side of the kitchen.

As Starsky tossed the laundry into the washing machine, he felt a little stab of guilt for making Hutch do this on his day off, but then he quickly sent the feeling scurrying away. It was his birthday present, after all.

"You are, without any doubt, the best birthday present, ever." Starsky pressed several kisses to the back of Hutch's neck before he flopped down on the bed beside Hutch with a contented sigh.

"Oh, but there's more to this present than just me, babe." Hutch lifted himself up on one elbow to hover over his partner. His fingers tangled in Starsky's hair as he bent down to kiss him.

"More?"

"Yes, more. So do you want the rest of your present?"

"Are you kidding? Lay it on me, Blondie!"

Hutch laughed at his choice of words. "Okay, then." He kissed Starsky's forehead. "We have Saturday off." He kissed both of his partner's eyes. "I will do anything you want to do on Saturday." He kissed Starsky's mouth.

Starsky pulled back from him. "Anything?"

"Yes, anything."

"Are you sure about that, Hutch? Maybe you better think about it first…"

"I said anything, didn't I? I mean anything!"

Starsky crooked his little pinky between them. "Pinky swear?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Starsk!" Hutch rolled his eyes. "Okay, pinky swear." Hutch wrapped his little finger around Starsky's pinky. "I, Kenneth Richard Hutchinson, promise to do anything David Michael Starsky wants to do on Saturday, March 28th." He brought their entwined fingers up to his mouth and kissed them. "There. Satisfied now?"

"More than satisfied." Starsky kissed Hutch.

They lay together quietly as Hutch played with Starsky's hair, twirling and untwirling the curls between his fingers. "So do you know what you want us to do on Saturday? Or do you want to think about it?"

"No, I know what I want us to do."

"So what is it?"

Starsky stretched upwards to whisper in Hutch's ear.

Hutch closed his eyes and groaned loudly.

Starsky grabbed Hutch's breakfast plate from him and put it in the sink.

"You know, Starsk, maybe we should hire someone…"

Starsky cut him off. "Nope, nothing doing, pal. You promised to do anything today, and this is my anything. You want to be an Indian giver, then, and take my birthday present back?"

"No, of course not, but…"

"No buts allowed, Blondie." Starsky turned and slapped a pair of yellow latex gloves into Hutch's hands. "You get to do the bathroom first." He placed a hand on Hutch's back and shoved him toward the small room. "Cleaning stuff is under the sink."

"Oh, joy."

Two and a half hours later, Starsky gave a final, satisfied swipe to the gleaming kitchen counter. Both the livingroom and the kitchen had been thoroughly re-organized, cleaned, dusted, and vacuumed. He threw the rag in his hand over his shoulder, opened one cabinet, took out an orange plastic tie from a box, tied up the garbage bag in the corner, and then carried the heavy plastic bag outside to the garbage can at the side of the house.

He glanced down at his watch when he re-entered the house. "Record time! Damn, you're good."

It then occurred to him that he hadn't heard Hutch in a long time. He knew that Hutch couldn't have taken all this time just cleaning the bathroom. Scowling slightly, he opened the bathroom door, but then found himself smiling. Hutch had done a thorough job. All of the tile was shining brightly, the tub and sink scoured clean, the shower curtain and liner replaced with the brand new ones he had bought only yesterday, and even the drippy faucet had been repaired. He closed the door behind him.

He frowned a few moments later after he opened the door to the den. Hutch was not there, and it was fairly obvious to him that Hutch hadn't even begun to clean it. There was a layer of dust everywhere and the books precariously piled on the bookcases hadn't been moved. Music charts and pieces of paper with Hutch's scribbled song lyrics were strewn all over the desk, mixed up together with several receipts.

"Hutch!"

No answer. That meant his partner could only be in one place. Starsky went out the back door and crossed over their yard to the small greenhouse that Hutch had built for his beloved plants. Just as he suspected, Hutch was there, a small water bottle in his hand, spritzing one of his gigantic ferns.

"Nice way to keep your promise, Hutchinson."

Hutch swung around, his expression changing from schooled innocence to guilty chagrin.

"Hey, Starsk. Umm, plants, you know, needed watering."

"Yeah, well, they're probably drowned by now, considering you've been watering them this long."

"Ah, come on, Starsk…"

"You promised, Hutch! The den should have been done by now!"

"It's not like it's going anywhere."

Starsky crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at him. "Do you need a reminder of what happens when you break promises, Hutchinson?"

Hutch raised placating hands. "Okay, okay. I'll go do the den."

Starsky waited for Hutch to walk back into the house before he followed him inside.

Hutch turned to him. "You know what, Starsk, I'm getting hungry…"

"You know, if this is the way you give me my birthday present, maybe I don't…"

"Geez, Starsk, I just said I was hungry!"

"You're also stalling." Starsky pointed at the open den door. "Den. Now."

Hutch's shoulders slumped in protest, but he went into the den. Starsky watched him from the doorway as he began to sift through the papers on the desk.

"Look, I'm going to clean up in here, okay? I don't need a babysitter!" Hutch picked up all of the music charts and began to put them in order.

"You'll need this." Starsky took the rag from his shoulder and threw it at his partner. The cloth hit Hutch in the middle of his chest and then dropped down to the desk. A tiny cloud of dust drifted upward.

Hutch sneezed as Starsky closed the door behind him.

Starsky went upstairs to clean the guest bedroom and his dark room, but not much needed to be done in either room. As he unplugged the vacuum and then it dragged into their bedroom, he wondered why Hutch never simply grasped the fact that if you just did a little cleaning everyday that you wouldn't need to do a massive cleaning job later on.

Starsky dusted and vacuumed their bedroom before he made up the bed. He then turned his attention to the closet, taking out the clothes he intended to throw out or cut up for rags. Almost all of his clothing hung neatly on hangers, but most of Hutch's clothes were on the floor. "Damn it, Hutch. It takes just as long to hang stuff up as it does just to drop it anywhere." He bent down to pick up Hutch's clothes, noticing that some of the clothing was stuff Hutch had promised to get rid of. He put the clothing Hutch intended to keep on hangers and then stuffed rest of them in a garbage bag.

As he was tying the bag closed, he heard a loud, crashing sound from downstairs, followed by Hutch's voice.

"Ah, shit!"

Starsky dropped the bag and bolted down the stairs into the den. Hutch was sitting on the floor in the midst of a tumbled pile of books, one hand pressed against the right side of his head. Starsky glanced at the bookshelf. The top two shelves were completely bare.

He knelt down in front of his partner. "You okay, Hutch?"

"Are you nuts? Of course, I'm not okay! I just got beaned by two tons of books!"

Starsky pulled Hutch's hand away from his head. He inspected the area, softly pushing the hair away. He found a small bump. "You'll live."

"Thanks for the sympathy, Starsk." Hutch rubbed his head again.

Starsky stood up and smirked down at him. "And whose books were stacked so badly that you got beaned with them, Blondie?"

Hutch muttered something. Starsky pretended not to hear.

"Whose?"

"Mine, okay! Point taken!"

Starsky smiled in satisfaction before he bent down slightly and helped Hutch to his feet. "Come on, I'll help clean them up. Then I'll make lunch." He bent over and picked up some of the books and slid them on the shelves.

"So what do you want this afternoon? Garage or gutters?" Starsky asked as his put the last of the plates away in the cupboard.

Hutch shook his head. "Oh, no, buddy boy. I agreed to clean the den cause it was my mess in there." He pointed his finger at his partner. "The garage is your mess, so it's all yours."

Starsky bent down and opened the sink cabinet door and pulled out a pair of working gloves. "Gutters for you, then." He laid the gloves in Hutch's palm.

Starsky went back upstairs to their bedroom. He stuffed one more item in the garbage bag before he took it outside to dump it into a can. As he turned toward the garage, Hutch passed him, carrying the extension ladder on one shoulder. Starsky smiled at him. Hutch didn't smile back.

An hour later, Starsky left the garage. There were a few oil stains on his shirt and on his hands. He didn't see Hutch or the ladder, so he just assumed that Hutch was cleaning out the gutters on the other side of the house.

Starsky went back inside the house and straight into the bathroom to wash his hands.

"Starsky!"

Starsky dropped the hand towel to the floor at the terror-filled shout and sprinted up the stairs.

"Starsky, help!"

Starsky swerved into the guest bedroom. He could see the bottom half of Hutch's body dangling outside the window. He shoved the window open. As he reached out to grab Hutch, he glanced down quickly and saw the ladder splayed out on the lawn. Starsky wrapped one arm about Hutch's thighs. He could hear Hutch's panicked breathing. "Hold on tight, Hutch! I've got you!" He tightened his grip. "You need to swing up and in a little more, Hutch!" His grasp tightened further as Hutch swung his legs upward. Using his other arm, he pulled Hutch's legs in through the window. "I've got you, Hutch. Easy now. I've got you."

Hutch slid down to the floor in a spineless heap, his breathing gasping and harsh. "Thanks."

"Are you okay, babe?" Starsky tilted Hutch's face upward so he could see his eyes.

Hutch nodded. "Next year," he pulled in a deep breath, "could you please pick a birthday present that's a little less harmful to my health?"

Starsky kissed his forehead. "I promise. How about we go swimming naked in the Everglades with some gators?"

Hutch grinned. "Much better."

Starsky pulled back from him. "I'm sorry, Hutch. I know how much you hate cleaning. I shouldn't have made you promise to do this."

"It was your birthday present to pick, Starsk." Hutch slid his fingers down Starsky's cheek. "I just wanted to show you that I'd be willing to do anything for you, babe."

"I've always known that." Starsky brushed Hutch's hair away from his face. He stood up and then reached down to pull Hutch to his feet. "I promise to never ask for this kind of birthday present again. Okay?"

"Okay."

Starsky slipped his arms around Hutch's waist. "There's just one more cleaning job left to do for today, though."

Hutch groaned and pulled away. "I think I'm all cleaned out."

Starsky grabbed Hutch's hand. "Don't worry. This is one cleaning job you won't mind." He brought Hutch's hand to his lips and kissed it. "Come take a shower with me?"

Hutch grinned at him. "Now that's the one cleaning job I'll gladly do."

A Special Gift

For Verlaine

Four months ago

"Are you nervous?"

"No, not really."

Hutch took another look around. All these rooms looked the same. A few pictures on the walls, a small desk with an overhead cabinet, a standing weight scale, and one exam table — draped in that worthless, thin wrapping paper. He had to admit, though, a short time ago when Starsky sat there clad only in a paper gown, Hutch had entertained several scenarios which involved him acting like a five year old tearing into his first present under the Christmas tree.

But as he and his fully-dressed partner sat waiting for Starsky's doctor to return, all thoughts of holidays and presents had completely disappeared. Evidently tired of bumping his heels against the side of the table, Starsky sighed noisily and lay down on his back. Within a few seconds, his feet followed as he perched the pair of recently bought Adidas on the last bit of unoccupied surface.

"I think I know what getting a pap smear feels like, Hutch."

"You probably shouldn't let any women hear you say that, or you might really experience something that isn't pleasant." Hutch cringed a bit at that last comment. As the time kept dragging on, he became more convinced they were awaiting dismal news.

"You got any plans after we get out of here?" Hutch asked, trying to ease his mind.

"Not anything in particular. You?"

"I thought we might head down to the pier, maybe take a long walk around the beach."

"You're thinking he's gonna say the same thing…"

Hutch tried to make eye contact, but Starsky kept staring at the ceiling. Resigning his thoughts to what seemed like the inevitable, Hutch replied, "Well, he is taking his fuckin' time. I bet he's out there trying to see three other patients. But, maybe he's late because of another reason."

"My, you're being exceptionally optimistic there, partner."

"And you're not worried about what he might say?"

Starsky stayed silent for a while, then said, "Would it make any difference?"

"…what?"

He rolled his head to the side and looked at Hutch. "How I'm feeling isn't gonna make any difference in what he's going to tell me."

Just then, the door opened. Starsky sat up on the table as Doctor Jennings came into the room.

"Sorry that took so long," he began, "but I was trying to verify your test results."

"So, what's the verdict?" Starsky calmly asked.

Jennings glanced at Hutch, then addressed his patient. "I'm sorry, David, but the all the tests came back conclusive. Your symptoms can be controlled for a while, but eventually you'll need to be hospitalized…"

"How long before then?"

"Well, it's hard to tell. Everyone responds differently—"

"Look, doc, everyone doesn't have what I've got. How long?"

"A few months…maybe longer."

Hutch sat frozen in his seat, all of his attention focused on Starsky. If their places were reversed, Hutch doubted if he could sit there so stoically and think of things to ask. His eyes suddenly met with Starsky's. Surprisingly, there was no fear in his friend's expression, only what could be described as calm determination.

"Can he get it?" Starsky asked, nodding at Hutch.

"I…don't think I know what you're asking," Jennings said hesitantly.

"I think you do, but let me put it into something simpler. We're lovers, so if I fuck him or he fucks me, can he get it?"

"Oh, Starsky…" Hutch muttered quietly, embarrassed only by his partner's choice of words.

"No, it can't be spread by sexual contact."

"Well, at least that's good news, huh, buddy?"

Hutch looked up, not quite recovered from Starsky's previous question. "Yeah, real good news," he mumbled, totally unable to even glance at the doctor now.

Jennings opened the file he was holding and handed Starsky a few prescription slips. "These should keep you comfortable, just remember to drink plenty of fluids and make sure you get enough rest."

"And eat all of my vegetables, right?"

"I'm glad your sense of humor is strong. Not many people have that going for them." Jennings pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled some numbers down on a note pad. "I'm sure you have the phone number here at the office, but I'm giving you the number for my call service. If there's anything you need, twenty-four hours a day, just call that number and they'll get a hold of me."

Starsky took the paper and after folding it, stuck the note in his pants pocket. "Thanks, doc," he said humbly.

Jennings offered his hand to Starsky. "I'd like to see you back in a couple of weeks, see how you're doing on that medication."

Shaking the offered hand, Starsky said, "Sure, if I'm not out climbing Mount Everest or something."

Jennings smiled. "Take care of yourself, David." Turning to Hutch, the doctor shook his hand, also. "Try to keep him from doing anything too crazy, all right?"

"I'll try, doctor, but I can't guarantee it."

Present Day

Hutch dashed out of the bathroom. The fact that he still had a face full of shaving cream didn't matter. Reaching the kitchen, he quickly saw the source of the noise he'd heard. A broken glass of orange juice lay on the floor with Starsky gazing at the mess from his tenuous, half-seated position on a chair by the kitchen table.

As Hutch came closer, Starsky lifted his head, looking like a lost child.

"What happened?" Hutch asked, as he bent down to pick up some of the larger pieces.

"I don't know, I think maybe I blacked out or something."

"Do you feel sick?" Hutch studied his lover's face more closely, but considering Starsky's present condition, he didn't look too pale.

"No, more like really dizzy."

Hutch quickly placed the glass pieces on the table and stepped over the puddle on the tiled floor. Reaching Starsky's side, he put his hand on the brunet's forehead.

"You don't feel warm," he said. Keeping one hand on Starsky's shoulder, Hutch knelt in front of him. "How's your vision?"

"You want the truth, or just a good answer?"

The lop-sided grin made Hutch smile, but the blank stare in his partner's eyes was all the response he needed.

"C'mon, let me help get you back to bed."

"Hutch," Starsky moaned, "I've been in bed since yesterday. I'm tired of being in that damned room."

"You didn't seem too sick of it a couple of nights ago."

"And you didn't have a face full of shaving cream either. Honestly, Hutch, you look like some blond, psycho Santa Claus."

"Oh, I do, do I?" Hutch reached over and grabbed a towel lying on the counter. After wiping his face, he asked, "I look any better, now?"

"Naw, just fuzzy."

"You mean 'furry?'"

"No…"

Hutch recognized the edge in Starsky's voice. "All right, I think you'd feel better if you lie down. How about the couch, instead?"

"Fine."

Threading an arm around Starsky's back, Hutch helped him stand and navigate around the puddle and into the living room. Over the last few months, Starsky's sense of balance, along with his weight, had slowly diminished. The leaner body made it easier for Hutch to handle him, but harder to accept the fact that Starsky was losing his fight to stay alive. He guided Starsky onto the couch and let him get settled.

Hutch returned to the kitchen and cleaned up the spilled juice. He made sure that he hadn't missed any stray shards and then filled another glass to take back to the couch.

He nudged his butt onto a small ledge of cushion by Starsky's thigh and tried to place the glass into his friend's hand.

"I'm not thirsty," Starsky said, and laid an arm across his forehead.

"You gettin' another headache?"

Starsky barely nodded his head.

"Bad?"

Another slight nod.

"I'll go get your pills—"

"Hutch, don't bother," he muttered.

"Starsk, you've gotta take them."

"No. Please? Just give me a few."

"Okay, babe."

Hutch knew Starsky meant time, not medicine, so he left the glass on the coffee table and decided to finish his shaving. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Hutch tried to ease the razor around his chin, but he couldn't fight the emotion anymore. Dropping the razor, he leaned against the sink and let the tears flow freely. He stifled each sob so that Starsky couldn't hear through the opened door. Every symptom the doctor had warned them about was now showing up. Headaches, nausea, blurry vision…coma, death. The last two were just waiting for their inevitable arrival.

He thought back to all the days they'd been given since Starsky was diagnosed. Each one had been filled with as much life as they could cram in, but it still wasn't enough. Hutch wasn't any closer to being able to say goodbye to his best friend than he was four months ago. If he could only find something tangible to lash out at, something specific that was responsible for this nightmare. But the enemy he sought was in Starsky, manifesting and growing, and he couldn't harm a thing in that beautiful soul.

The only other responsible entity he could wage war against was equally as elusive. God, a Higher Power, the Divine Being — whatever people called him by — didn't seem to be around.

Hutch spent countless hours pleading and begging, which had all deteriorated into cussing and swearing at the Almighty, but to no avail. From his knowledge of religion reaped from attending countless Sunday school classes, Hutch realized that prayers weren't always answered…at least not in the way expected. Despite that, he felt the real reason was God just didn't have time for sinners. No, strike that. God didn't have time for homosexuals. So much for all that 'hate the sin, love the sinner' garbage. And by that reasoning, the statement of 'greater love hath no man have, than to lay his life down for another,' was just pure bullshit, too. Shaking his head, Hutch placed the razor back on his face. He'd have plenty of time to argue over why these things didn't make sense when Starsky…when he was gone.

Finally finished, Hutch quietly returned to the living room, not wanting to wake Starsky in case he'd fallen asleep. Standing a few feet from the couch, Hutch took in the peaceful look on his lover's face. With his eyes closed, and both arms resting on his chest, Starsky's hands were curled and tucked just under his chin. For a few moments, Hutch watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his partner's chest, marveling, as he always did, of the miracle that shared his life.

Deciding to search inside the refrigerator for something to prepare for lunch, Hutch headed for the kitchen, but stopped inexplicitly. He looked back at Starsky, and was suddenly struck with the urge to be at his side. As he found a spot wide enough to sit on, Hutch brushed his hand lightly across Starsky's head. Sleepy lids began to flutter, then opened, revealing tinges of crystal blue eyes.

"Hey, buddy. You doing okay?" Hutch asked, watching Starsky's eyelids flicker a few more times.

"Hutch? That you?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry I woke you. You go back to sleep, okay?"

"Hutch?"

Starsky's gaze seemed distant and unfocused, and Hutch wondered if he was having more vision problems again.

"I'm right here, babe. Can't you see me?"

A few more blinks, and then his Adam's apple bounced.

"I can't see anything," Starsky uttered painfully.

Hutch drew back, unable to think of what to say. He took hold of Starsky's hands, grasping them firmly.

"Hutch, I'm scared."

The words tore through him, heightening his own fear. Clearing his throat, Hutch said, "Maybe we should go to the emergency room."

"No. Please. I don't want to die in a stupid hospital," Starsky groaned.

"Starsky, you're not dying—" Hutch caught himself, "you're not going to die…not today. You hear me?"

Starsky started to smile, but it fell back into a worried frown. "Hold me," he said.

Hutch released his grasp, then leaned forward so he could gather his lover in his arms. Starsky pressed his hands against Hutch's chest.

"No, hold me down there," he begged.

Wanting to oblige, Hutch laid a hand on Starsky's stomach, then slipped it under the elastic waist band of his sweat pants. Finally locating his target, Hutch glided his hand around the soft shaft. He watched Starsky's eyes narrow as he tightened his grip, and using his fingers, started to massage the underside of the hardening penis.

Starsky's upper body jerked. "Oh, God…" he whispered with obvious pleasure as both thighs began to twitch.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Hutch said, "Babe, you sure you want me to keep going?"

Starsky swept his hand blindly across the top of Hutch's shoulder and rested it along the back of his neck. "Make me come, please?" he moaned, stroking the blond hair.

Compelled to finish, Hutch quickened his ministrations. He watched as an orgasmic wave built up and then flowed through his partner's body. Starsky's final climax produced a small spurt of cream and a short, but exhilarating shudder.

It was enough for Starsky to lay spent. Trying to catch his breath, he said, "That one…almost got me to heaven."

The humor in his words lost their appeal as areas of tightness developed on Starsky's face. Placing a hand on the pale forehead, Hutch said, "I think you need to take your pills, buddy."

Starsky lowered his hand onto Hutch's thigh, then moved it towards his groin. "You want me to do you?" he asked, ignoring the last comment.

Aside from Starsky getting well, that would've been the only thing Hutch wanted right then, but he couldn't allow selfishness to override well-meaning intentions.

Softly, he said, "All I want from you, I already have," then bent down and kissed Starsky's forehead, eyelids and finally, his mouth.

When Hutch leaned back, the look of content on his friend's face was priceless.

Seeing a grimace appear, Hutch cupped the side of Starsky's cheek with his hand. "Hey, no more fooling around," he said, fear starting to build inside him again. "You need to see a doctor."

"No," Starsky pleaded, darting unfocused eyes, "Just hold me…all of me."

Hutch enveloped Starsky in his arms, squeezing him as tightly as he dared. He felt one shudder, then a release of air, and finally…stillness.

Two weeks later, Hutch plodded through the rooms of his apartment. Everything that reminded him of Starsky had been carefully packed and put away, except for one framed picture of them standing on top of the Torino. Hutch kept that on his bedroom dresser. While he didn't need the picture to remind him of a different time, he felt it befitting that Starsky was the first thing he saw when he woke up and the last thing he thought about before he went to bed.

During the last several days, friends had come and visited. Some had stayed for hours; a few even stayed overnight, but tonight would be the first time Hutch had been alone for the entire day. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the now half-empty bottle of Scotch, taking it with him into the living room. He plopped down on the couch and scanned the room's perimeter. As he had done many times before, he imagined Starsky walking out of the bedroom, a sly grin on his face, or going into the kitchen to grab a couple of beers, then joining him on the couch to watch another mindless movie.

But that's all these were, just fleeting images of someone he loved. The blinking lights on the Christmas tree drew his attention. Tomorrow would be filled with trips to see Huggy and a Christmas day dinner at Dobey's, but for tonight, Hutch had only memories and a liquor bottle to keep him company.

As the hour approached midnight, Hutch weakly raised the bottle towards the tree in a vain attempt at a toast.

Before forcing one last gulp of alcohol down his throat, Hutch slurred out loud, "Here's to you, pal. Sorry I don't have the guts to join ya."

"Ah you big, blond dummy…what're you sayin'?"

Hutch instantly froze. Keeping his head still, he tracked his eyes left and right but didn't see anything. Slowly, he turned around and looked behind him and across the room. Nothing. He looked at the bottle's remaining contents and figured that maybe, for once, he had drunk too much.

"I guess it's time for the pink elephants to show up," he muttered.

"I hope you're not callin' me a pink elephant, are you?"

Hutch shot up, and immediately let go of the bottle, thinking nothing of it crashing to the floor.

"Starsky!? Is that you?"

"You know, for someone always claiming he was the brains of the outfit, you sure are losing your touch."

Turning around from side to side, Hutch yelled, "Starsky? Where are you!?"

"Here, Hutch. I'm right here."

Frustrated, he stumbled around the couch, still not seeing anything. "I can't see you!" he cried out.

"That's because I'm in your heart, exactly where I belong."

Hutch stopped and placed a hand on his chest. To his amazement, it felt very warm there.

"Oh, my God," he whispered out. "I've missed you, so much…" Hutch paused, feeling a buildup of tears.

"I know, I've missed you too, but you've got to quit thinkin' about joining me."

"Oh, God…you…you can hear my thoughts?"

"Sometimes. Just for once, though, listen to me, will you?"

Hutch felt himself smile, but he had to know one thing. "Starsk, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But you've got to let me go."

Confused, he asked, "Why? I love you, Starsk…and it's lonely here without you."

"If you really love me, then you gotta let go — it's holding you back from doing what you're supposed to."

"Doing what?"

"That, you need to find out for yourself. Hutch, I can't stay any longer."

"No! Starsky, please. I can't take you being gone!"

"Hutch, when you think of me, am I smiling?"

"Yes, you're always smiling," Hutch recalled fondly.

Suddenly, everything felt still. Hutch pressed his hand harder against his chest, but the warmth had cooled down. The combination of alcohol and exhaustion quickly took their toll and he sagged down to the couch. The blinking lights on the Christmas tree drew his attention, and soon he became mesmerized by their hazy glow, made even more surreal through tear-filled eyes. He laid his head down, thinking about his earlier pleas to God, and couldn't help but realize how the most important one had just been answered.

"Thank you — I'm glad he's still being loved," he whispered, then quickly fell off to sleep.

"It's all about love, Hutch. Always has been, always will."

FIN

How To Separate a Pea from a Pod in a Million Easy Steps

For SilverChipmunk

It's Christmas time again, and after ten long years, I finally know what that means. Some kind of weird alchemy that turns my White Knight into a Green Grinch with a heart three sizes too small.

Though, and I gotta be fair on this, my Grinch hasn't been quite so Grinchy this year. I think it's probably because of the shooting. Strike that. I know it's because of the shooting. If some of his old scratchiness didn't peek out every now and then, I'd have been long convinced that while I died and came back to life, Hutch lived and came back as a pod person.

Warm, caring, compassionate Hutch, I love. Happy, happy, nice, nice all the damn time Hutch, frankly, scares me.

I'll give you a few examples, just to prove my point.

"Hey, Hutch! I'm hungry. How 'bout goin' out to Big Buster's All You Can Eat Burrito Buffet? Your treat!"

"Sure, Starsk."

Or how about this one?

"Hey, Hutch! Merle's having a half-price paint and detail special down at the shop. How's about we take the rolling squash in and have her done up right, huh? Maybe a little fur on the dash — the kind that doesn't grow there naturally, I mean. Maybe a new color. What do ya think about… magenta? With a lime green stripe? And we can drop her real low and have him put those ground effects in that's all the rage these days?"

"Fine with me, Starsk."

You see what I mean? It's enough to drive a man to drink! Or at least a man who's got more of a stomach than I've got left, courtesy of one James Marshall Gunther, may he die a thousand deaths, each one more horrible than the last.

God, I sound like my grandmother.

But still, do you see what I'm going through now? Do you really see it? I'm honestly not sure how much more of 'nice Hutch' I can take. The Jekyll and Hyde act is close to driving me around the bend, and I was never very far from that bend to begin with. Hell, I can take long doses of Mr. Hyde. Did it for almost the entire year before I was shot, you know? But living with Dr. Jekyll is some seriously creepy stuff. Enough to give a man like me nightmares.

Still, I figure that even if most of Hutch's personality has changed since the shooting, I'm betting one thing hasn't, and that's his absolute hatred of the Christmas season. So, instead of begging him for presents — and do you know how hard that is? In his present state of… whatever… he'd give me the most expensive, useless (to him, at least) thing made without hardly batting an eyelash — I've decided to treat him to a place he's always wanted to go but has never been.

New Mexico. And not one of those fancy resorts, either. No, just him and me, a tent, a couple sleeping bags, some sun, some sand — if the desert counts as sand, anyway — and skiing up in the mountains. My body might not quite be ready to strap on a couple slippery boards to go flying down a mountain I just busted my ass climbing up, but I know it's a great love of his, and I don't think that love has changed, even though he has.

And, surprise of surprises, when I suggest it, he accepts, just like that. "Sure, Starsk. Whatever you want."

I admit, I got a little frustrated at that. "You big dumb blintz, it's not what I want that's important here. It's what you want! I want you to be happy, Hutch! Not this fake happy that you're wearin' like a mask that's about to shatter, but real happy."

What do I get in return? That dopey, vacant smile. "Whatever makes you happy, Starsk, makes me happy."

God.

If I didn't love the big lug so damn much, I'd take him to Cabrillo State on the next thing movin' and have him checked out six ways from Sunday until they could tell me how to get my Hutch back.

"My" Hutch? Damn right. My Hutch. My best friend. The man who makes me laugh when I want to cry. The man who irritates my last frayed nerve, and comforts me when the worst of the pain hits, usually in the middle of the night when it all seems so hopeless.

My Hutch. The man I love. Yes, damnit. Love. If you don't like it, take a hike, buddy, because that's the way it is.

And so here we are. New Mexico. And it's as gorgeous and peaceful as I imagined. The desert itself is really colorful, you know? Like some giant hand threw cans of pastel paint down on it and called it good. And don't even get me started on the sunsets.

"Hey, Hutch, how come the sky has so many pretty colors in it?" I ask during one particular sunset, praying hard that he'll slip into that professorial mode that normally shreds me but I now need like I need to breathe.

"Smog," he answers.

"Smog? Hate to break it to ya, pal, but we got more than enough smog over in LA and I've never seen a sunset as pretty as this."

C'mon, Hutch, tell me that's because I'm dumb. Tell me it's because I'm too busy looking straight ahead to ever take in the beauty of what's above. Tell me something, damn it! I'm goin' nuts here!

"It's not the same kind of smog," he says, though his voice is light and happy. "It's the dust from the sands. The more dust in the atmosphere, the prettier the sunset."

Well. Maybe I'm managing to break through a little. Or maybe I'm just dreaming it up. I don't know anymore.

We'd rented a couple of donkeys to take us on our trek into the desert. Placid things, both of them, more interested in picking at the sagebrush than actually walking anywhere, but you can't always get what you want in life, right? Me, I only want my Hutch back the way he was.

Once the sun is almost completely set, it starts to get dark and chilly in a hurry, and I suggest that Hutch might want to start looking for a place where we can camp out for the night.

"Anywhere you want to stop is fine with me, Starsk."

I slam my head down into my hand. It hurts, but I don't care. "Hutch, it's me here. Your buddy, Starsky, remember? The guy who doesn't know nothing from deserts and forests or anything that doesn't come with a relatively comfortable bed, a real roof over my head, and an easy drive to the nearest hamburger stand? You gotta help me out some here, please."

Is that a sigh I hear? Nah. It's probably just the wind. Going through the newly empty place in his skull where his brain used to be.

"Hutch…."

"Okay," he says, all chipper, like I've presented him with the keys to the executive crapper or something. "How about right off that trail over there? Seems like a nice, safe place to bunk down for the night."

At last. A chance to bait him. "You sure?" I ask in as timid a voice as I can manage. "I mean, what about the snakes, huh Hutch? I heard snakes like warm things, like rocks and even bodies, to snuggle up to in the night. They're cold-blooded you know. And how about the scorpions, huh? The guy who rented these donkeys to us warned us about the scorpions."

Do I get snapped at? Made fun of? No. What I get, instead, is, "It's okay, buddy. I'll protect you. Nothing will hurt you while you're with me. I promise."

Ah, the crux of the problem named "I can't leave Starsky alone to as much as take a piss in case he breaks into a million pieces I can't put back together again." I've become convinced that that is the very reason for Pod-Hutch's existence.

And I'm more than sick of it.

In fact, I think I'd rather sleep in a rattlesnake den covered with scorpions than have to deal with this… this duplicate of a person I've loved and looked up to for a decade or more.

Do I say anything about it? Hell no. Instead, I slide wearily off my donkey and start to pull down the stuff we'd packed the morning before. Then I get an idea. It's a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.

If there's one thing that Hutch absolutely hates when we go on trips like these, it's when I try to 'help' putting up the tent. Now I'm good at a lotta things. Tent building ain't one of 'em. So I say, all airily, "It's ok, Hutch. I'll take care of the tent. You just unpack the other stuff and relax, huh?"

I wait. One. Two. Three. Then, "Sure, Starsk. If that's what you want."

No, that's not what I want, damnit! I want you to growl at me, to poke at me, to make fun of my pitiful attempts to put up a tent that I know hated me from the minute it spied me from its place on Hutch's bedroom shelf.

I don't say any of that aloud, of course. It would be a waste of breath, and he wouldn't be listening anyway, trapped behind that happy mask he insists on wearing day in and day out.

Instead, I practice what I preach and start to set up the damned tent. At first, I consider making my usual bumbling job of it, but the effort suddenly seems too much, and so I go at it as best I can. And wouldn't you know? It comes together perfectly, not a tie out of place, not a loose stake in the bunch.

"Would you look at that," I mutter to myself in amazement. Never thought that'd be a skill I'd master, but there you have it.

I feel him come behind me and lay an arm across my shoulders. It feels good and I lean in more, letting him take some of my weight. He does, without complaint. "See, buddy?" he says. "I always knew you could do it."

And there, right there, I see a glimpse of him. My Hutch, happy and proud of me for doing something I could never get before.

"Thanks," I say, feeling kinda shy for who knows what reason.

"Now that you've got that set up, you can put down the pads and the sleeping bags, and I'll get some rocks and sticks and start a fire. Can't have a campout without a fire, right?"

"Don't forget the marshmallows!" I shout out after him and get a lazy wave in return.

Well, what do you know about that? Maybe my plan's starting to work. Maybe I'll finally get him back for good.

In less than a half an hour — those Sea Scouts sure taught him how to start a fire in a hurry. Why, I'm not sure, but I welcome the skill, believe me — we're sitting side by side in front of the roaring fire, our dinner of hotdogs and beans gobbled up and the marshmallows roasting just fine on the thin, green sticks it took me an hour to find. Can't roast marshmallows on anything else. Makes 'em taste funny.

So, the fire's blazing, and we're both warm and toasty in our jackets and leaning against each other, munching on our gooey treats and I'm about as happy as a pig in… well, wherever pigs are happiest at, I guess. Of course, when things are at their best, I just gotta poke. I think it's what they call one of those defective jeans… or genes, whatever. Hutch would know. "Hey, Hutch?" I ask.

"Yeah, Starsk?"

"Are you happy?"

"Of course I am, buddy."

"Happy for you, I mean. Not just happy cause I am."

He turns to me, that smile still on his face. Man, I'd like to slap it right off, you know? "Your happiness is my happiness, babe. You know that."

If there was a rock nearby, I'd consider crushing my own skull with it. Not because I don't appreciate the sentiment, because I do. But I'd much rather hear it comin' from my Hutch than this waxwork dummy I've been saddled with for the past seven months.

Finally, I decide to give it up for the night. Either that, or I'll wind up working myself into a mood that will wind up having even me wanting to stay far away from myself. I give a pretend yawn and a real stretch that stops just short of painful. The scars are nearly healed, but every once in awhile, they give me a twinge.

And, of course, Hutch is immediately all over me like a cheap suit. "Are you alright? Are you hurting? Did you pull anything? What's wrong, huh? Can you talk?"

Letting my frustration get the better of me, I slap his hands away and get up on my feet, on my very own, thank you. "I'm fine," I snap, hating myself for it, but not knowing any other way to express myself.

I look down, knowing I've hurt him with my attitude, but damnit, the man's smiling again! Smiling like my little hissy fit was the most precious thing on this earth. I feel like a toddler who just took his first crap in the potty chair. Believe me, it's not the best feeling in the world for an adult.

Turning on my heel, I open the flap of our tent, make sure there aren't any hungry scorpions or heat seeking snakes around, and crawl into my sleeping bag without bothering to strip.

That's another thing that's changed since the shooting. From the time we'd finally admitted our feelings to one another, up until the shooting, we went at it like rabbits every chance we got. The loving was so hot and heavy that I thought I could die from so much pleasure and adoration.

Now, he won't even touch me. I've even resorted to begging, reminding him that something as simple as a rub off has about as much a chance of injuring me as tripping over an invisible ant in the sidewalk.

Does that logic work? Course not. He reminds me (and reminds me, and reminds me!) that my heart stopped once, and he was damn sure not going to be the cause of it stopping again.

I got so mad after that particular argument that I spent the next three days on the couch. The worst part? He didn't even notice. Or if he did, he didn't seem like he cared. He even, god damn him, seemed a little bit relieved. Relieved, can you believe it? If I wasn't so sure he loved me, I'd be having some serious doubts about the state of our relationship.

Anyway, between the exercise and the mind contortions I went through that day, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the little blow-up pillow I brought along.

Whether Hutch ever joined me, I'll never know.

Morning comes and the inside of the tent is about the right temperature for basting a turkey. I look to the side to see that I'm the only one basting. Hutch is long gone, if he ever bothered to join me, that is.

Fumbling with the damn grabby thing pretending to be my sleeping bag, I finally manage to crawl out, unzip the tent, and step out into the cool, beautiful New Mexico morning. The air is bracing, and I take in a deep breath of it, feeling it cooling me from the inside out. Has anything ever felt so good? Even my morning stretch goes off without a hitch or twinge or a Hutch all over me in a way I'd prefer him not to be.

The next order of business, taking a leak on a nearby tree, is done without any problems, and then I'm ready to go on my search for Pod-Hutch, knowing he couldn't have gotten very far. Or hoping so, anyway.

And I'm right. He's just a few hundred feet away, sitting crosslegged on top of a tall rock with a flat top, perfect for sitting and watching the sun rise. I walk as softly as I can so as not to disturb him, and I see, finally, my Hutch. No mask, no empty headed smiles, just the man himself. And he's crying.

"Hutch? Why're you crying, buddy?"

His expression changes faster than the Torino can take a corner and the fake, plastic smile goes right back on his face. "I'm not crying, Starsk," he says in that too gentle tone of his that drives me up and over the creek. "It's just sweat." He 'proves' it to me by wiping his cheeks and showing me his wet hands. "See? Nothing but a little sweat from being out in the sun too long, that's all."

I may not be a country boy, versed on all the things that can happen to you when you sit in the sun too long, but I do know tears when I see them, and I was seeing them right then, no matter what he said.

"Hutch…."

He jumps off the rock like he's got springs in his ass and moves up to me, still smiling that stupid smile that he thinks I can't see through. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry, Starsk? I bet after all that riding yesterday, you could eat a horse. Well, I don't have any horses handy, and I don't think Mr. Callahan would like it if we ate one of the donkeys, but I think I can whip up something that you'll like. How about it, huh?"

When Hutch gets nervous, he either stutters, or he talks fast. This time, he sounded like a 33 1/3 vinyl played at 78 speed.

"Hutch," I say, calm as I can, "it's okay. Sure, I'm hungry, but it's my turn to cook, remember? You cooked last night."

"And you put up the tent, buddy. So it's my turn to cook."

Why is there never a good, deep hole around when you want to jump into one, huh? Tell me that.

"Hutch, it's my turn to make breakfast. How about if you take down the tent. Then we'll be even, ok?"

After a second, he smiles again and nods. "Sure, Starsk. Anything you want. I've already started heating up the water for coffee, and cold rations are set out by the rocks. I'll see you in a minute, huh?"

God damn him and the donkey he rode in on. I can't help feeling that my last chance to get my Hutch back is slipping through my fingers like his beautiful hair used to when we were making love.

Trudging back over to the newly revived campfire, I start to spoon some grounds into the pot of boiling water when a scream comes over the small mesa we've camped out on. I straighten quick and reach for the gun I'm not wearing. "Coyote?" I ask.

"A woman," Hutch answers, for once without that damn blasted smile of his.

"Let's go, partner," I say. "She sounds like she needs our help."

And for once, for once he doesn't question me. Instead, he just kind of gathers himself and trots off toward the sound, staying with me step for step.

The scream, loud and piercing, sounds again, much closer this time, and when we step around a tall boulder, we come upon two people, a man and a woman, on the ground, their donkeys picking at the brush uninterestedly behind them.

The man looks up, scared as I've ever seen a man look, except for maybe that time I saw Hutch looking down at me when I'd almost bought it at the police garage. "Please, can you help us? My wife, she's in labor and I don't think the baby's going to wait!"

I resist the urge to bite the chump's head off. What in the hell was he doing taking a very pregnant woman, his wife no less, on a trek across miles of empty desert on a donkey for God's sake? Instead, Hutch and I move forward as the team I've wanted us to be since forever.

He squats down while I remain standing, trying to shade the poor woman with my body as best as I can.

The husband moves away from Hutch quickly, and my partner gently spreads the woman's legs, peering inside as well as he can. The angle's bad, I know, but damn if he doesn't look good doing it. "I'm going to have to put some fingers inside you to see how dilated you are and if I can feel the baby's head. Is that okay?"

"Anything!" the woman screams. "Oh, God, anything! My baby! It hurts!!"

Damned if I don't feel jealous. There kneels my Hutch, the one I've begged for months to see, spending all that special… Hutchness… on a complete and total stranger.

Then I kick myself and go on from there. "You got any water?" I ask the husband, who looks like he's gonna become one with the sand in about a minute.

"W-water?"

"Yeah, you know, the wet stuff that you drink?" Boy, where did this bozo come from, and how in the world did he know how to make her pregnant?

"Yeah, I got some, over… over…" And like that, he's out.

"Terrific," I groan, walking over to the two donkeys and rifling through the packs until I find bottles of water, a couple of relatively clean blankets, and a knife.

I walk the stuff over to Hutch and set it down beside him.

"Thanks," he says, not even looking at me, but saying it just like he used to before the pod people took him over. I'm so happy, I feel like I could jump to the moon and back.

Wetting one of the rags, I go to the lady's head, squat down, and wipe her face and what I can see of her chest. She's sweating up a storm, and crying, both, and yeah, I can definitely tell the difference, no matter what some bozo wants me to believe. "How're you doing?" I ask her.

After she's done imitating one of my trains, she strains to look up at me. "Not so bad now, thank god."

"Well, if you don't mind me asking, what are you doing out here, pregnant as you are?"

"No room at the inn?" she says, smiling just a little bit.

Even though we don't exactly worship in the same churches, I get the joke and give her smile right back to her. "Well, don't worry. Even if the Angel Gabriel didn't make it down here with his trumpet, you've got Angel Hutchinson here, ready to make your dreams come true."

"You-you think so?"

"I know so."

I know he hears me, but he won't look up, so I've got no idea what my words mean to him, if anything at all. Still, it doesn't matter for the moment. Pod-Hutch takes a back seat to this minor emergency. "How you doin' down there, buddy?" I ask.

"She's fully dilated and 90 percent effaced," he replies, speaking in tongues that I can't understand without a translator present.

"Does that mean the baby's almost ready?" I hazard.

He looks up then and gives me a sunny smile that is one hundred percent pure, undiluted Hutchinson. "It means the baby's almost ready, buddy."

Yes!

"Oh god, Oh GOD," the woman wails. "He's coming! My baby's coming!"

"He is," Hutch answers, his voice as cool and professional as a doctor's. "And if you feel the urge, push. Push as hard as you can. I've got my fingers under his head right now, so it's okay to push."

"Oh god! It's coming!"

"Take a deep breath and push!" I yell, realizing for the first time I don't even know her name. This is getting weirder by the second. "Push!"

"I am pushing!" she screams, nearly rupturing both my eardrums. I suddenly have a new respect for women. I think I'd die if I tried to push a bowling ball through my dick. In fact, I know I would. How they manage, I'll never understand. I'm pretty glad that I don't, actually.

"He's starting to crown, Ma'am," Hutch says, all country-boy polite. "Keep pushing when you feel the urge. We're almost there."

Ok, it's really entering weirdville here when I find myself making those choo-choo noises along with her, but it seems to help, as does her clawed hand around my wrist, so I just keep doin' it.

"Head's out," Hutch announces from between her legs. "Gonna give the shoulder a little turn so it can make it past the vaginal entrance."

Yes, I'm man enough to admit that I blushed when he said… that… word. Lucky my skin is so dark. Then again, by the twinkle in his eye when he looked up at me, I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. And hell, for that twinkle, I'd keep myself in a permanent state of blushing embarrassment.

"And here comes the shoulders, and… congratulations, Mrs.… er… Mrs.…"

"Anderson," she replies weakly.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Anderson. You are the proud mama of a bouncing baby boy!"

"Oh thank god," she sighs. "Oh, thank you god. My baby, my son, alive, thanks to you two brave men."

"Wasn't me, Mrs. Anderson," I say, smiling fit to split my face wide open. "It was all Hutch."

"You did your fair share too… partner," he says, smiling big at me as he places the wet, squirming bundle on the woman's chest. "Teamwork. The key to any successful partnership, don't you think?"

His words knock the wind outta me, I swear they do. Mrs. Anderson might have gotten a son outta the deal, but it was my Christmas wish that was fulfilled. Damn if my eyes don't start to sting, and I real quick wipe at 'em with the back of my hand.

But he catches me at it and grins knowingly, still all Hutch.

"Just some sand," I say, lying like a rug. "Got some in my eye."

"Uh-huh. Next time, try blinking. I hear that usually works in circumstances like this."

Before I can spout off my usual retort, he's back to delivering the placenta, a thing that looks like what my ma cooks with onions. He looks over to the husband to see if he wants the cord cut, but the dumb cluck is still out cold, so he uses a lace from one of his own boots, ties a couple of knots, and hands me the knife.

I, of course, look at him like he's nuts.

He grins and bumps me with his shoulder. "C'mon, partner. You can do this. Piece of cake, right?"

And there it is, what I've been waiting for even more than his real smile: his confidence in me as a man, as a cop, as a partner. Nodding, I take the knife, count to three in my head, and make the cut.

Little Anderson Jr decides it's high time his presence is noticed, and lets out a loud wail. Mrs. A immediately puts him to her breast, where he starts suckling happily and yes, I'm blushing again.

Damn it.

After he washes the blood and other gunk from his hands, Hutch stands up, takes one of the remaining bottles of water, the gallon jug this time, and dumps it over the unconscious Mr. Anderson, who awakes with a splutter and a "What happened? Is it over? What happened?"

"Well," Hutch says, "I'd give you a cigar, but since I don't have one handy, how about a handshake? Congratulations, Mr. Anderson. You're a Daddy."

For a minute, it looks like the big dope is gonna go right back out again, but he finally steadies and crawls over, dripping wet and all, to greet his wife and the newest member of his family.

It's a sweet scene that's made all the more sweeter when Hutch comes up next to me and slips an arm around my waist, squeezing me tight for good measure. "Merry Christmas, Hutch," I whisper.

"Merry Christmas, babe," he whispers back, kissing me in front of god and all and not giving a single good goddamn. "Thanks for leading me back to myself."

I shrug like it was nothin'. "Piece o' cake," I say, so filled with joy that I could burst into a million pieces.

Another sound, this one a deep rumbling, interrupts our peace, and in a very short time, a desert buggy comes to a stop in front of us. Two Park Rangers jump out and survey the scene, relief all over their faces. "We got worried when you didn't return to the camp," one of them says. "So we figured we'd come out for a look-see."

"Looks like we got here too late for the festivities," the other says, smiling at the mom and dad and kid.

"It's okay," Mrs. Anderson replies as she switches the kid to her other breast. "God sent down two very special angels to watch over us and give us peace."

Hutch and I look at one another. Angels we are not.

"We're just glad we could help, Ma'am," Hutch says, all earnest.

"Well, we'll be taking the three of you out now, Mrs. Anderson. We've got to get you and the baby to the hospital to get you checked out. Make sure everything's ok, you know." The Ranger turns to us. "We could take you guys back, too, if you want. We got enough room."

"Nah," Hutch says, unconcerned. "We can hike it out. No problem."

And the smile he gives me makes me feel like the most powerful man on this earth. "Right," I reply, or at least I think I do. I'm not too sure my voice is workin' too good at the moment.

"Okay, but be careful out there."

"Piece of cake," Hutch cracks and elbows me in the belly to get me to laugh, which I do, grudgingly I might add. "Right, partner?"

"Yeah."

Within a couple of minutes, the family and their kid are loaded aboard the buggy and it disappears from sight. Hutch still has his arm around me, and if it was up to me, we could stay this way until the sun explodes and turns the earth into a charcoal briquette.

After a moment, Hutch clears his throat and says, "Hey, how about packing it in and hiking back out of here, huh? I've got this sudden urge for a private Christmas celebration. Indoors. All night long."

"Yeah?" I ask, my heart poundin' so hard in my chest I'm afraid it's gonna escape through my ribs and go hopping down the desert all by itself.

"Oh yeah," he purrs in my ear. "All. Night. Long."

"You break down the tent, I'll pack up our gear. Let's get goin', partner. Time's a'wastin'."

The sound of a true Hutchinson laugh is one of the finest sounds in the world.

It isn't long before we're all packed and aboard our furry friends, headed back to civilization as we know it.

I give my donkey a little kick to spur him on a little ahead of Hutch and, when the time is right, I start singing, as loud and as off-key as I can. "Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire…."

"Starsky!"

"Jack's snot dripping from his nose…."

"Starsky!!"

"Drooling Carol getting stoned by the fire…."

"Starsky, so help me god, if I catch you, I'm gonna…."

The rest of his threat is cut off by my belly laugh.

He's back. My Hutch is back.

Christmas miracles do happen, after all.

In the immortal words of a certain boy, "Merry Christmas, every one."

Four Ways Starsky and Hutch May Have Visited Neverland

For Dawn

Slash, non-explicit, not betaed.

Summary: A life story, truly!

"Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories."

— "Peter Pan", by J.M. Barrie

"…the Pan stories are in the German-English tradition of the Totenkindergeschichte (roughly, "tales of the death of children"), and the idea that Peter and all of the lost boys are dead in a Neverland afterlife is consistent with that genre…"

— Author Kevin Orlin Johnson on Wikipedia

Hutch's fragmented memories came fast and fierce these days, like the balls that Dodger Don Newcombe whipped at opposing batters every Saturday of Starsky's childhood.

"Remember when we chased the guy in the dress? What was his name?"

"Yeah Hutch, I remember."

"Remember Lisa? Whatever happened to Lisa?"

"She's been in a group home for years now. You asked me that yesterday."

Peter Pan is ten, she had told him, so many years ago. And he never wants to grow up either. He's always happy, and only children can see him.

I haven't seen him for a long time, he had replied. Back in the here-and-now, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I haven't seen her in a long time," he echoed his ancient words back to Hutch. "Since her mom passed. A long time."

"And that car wash guy. What a jerk. Wasn't he a jerk, Starsk?"

"Yes, a jerk." That was his life now. Repeating and reinforcing. Supporting a child's efforts to remember and understand, except this wasn't a child, or even Lisa… it was Hutch. And Hutch was old, and he was old, and while his life had moved forward into a mélange of arthritis and midnight pee-breaks and senior discounts on his morning coffee, Hutch's life had moved backwards. Memories scrubbed clean, along with the ability to shave and dress, the energy to walk or eat, and the desire to connect with anyone (except on a verbally superficial level that left Starsky exhausted with the effort).

"They are dead to me, David and his friend. Dead, " his mother had said to Nicky when the detectives approached Starsky's family 30 years ago, aglow in new love.

Now the irony cut through his heart. He shifted in bed. "Well Ma, you'll be glad to hear we might as well be," he muttered.

A drowsy Hutch offered up a "Guh?" in response. For a brief moment, Starsky could think that his partner would reach over and grab his hand in sympathetic companionship, before the fantasy shattered (as it always did these days) into uncried tears and the painfully piercing "Do you remember, Starsk?…"

"Every time a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,' there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead. "

The first few weeks, the tears would only come late at night.

On the TV, the late show twitched and flickered in the darkened house like black branches against a moonlit sky. Hutch fingered pine needles that the dog had tracked onto the couch from the tree, a tree that should have come down weeks ago. By Twelfth Night, the tree is gone, his mother always insisted. But Starsky wouldn't hear of it.

"You know that movie, where the kid hears the bell ring on the tree and says 'every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.' "

"We don't have any bells on the tree, Starsk."

"No, but it's the principle of the thing. Keep the tree up, and I'll get wings."

And Hutch left the tree up. He believed in angels. And he had to believe that Starsky had wings now. He held up his hand, reaching out to the shimmering darkness. Pine needles wept from between his outstretched fingers.

"Every moment her light was growing fainter; and he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it."

— Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie.

Rosie Dobey knocked again. No answer. Her keys came out of her purse, jangling slightly in shaking fingers. She unlocked the door with one hand, while fishing for her cell phone with the other.

"Starsky? Hutch?" she called as she entered.

He was in his favorite chair, the fake Queen Anne with the worn-out cushions. His eyes were closed. She could almost fool herself into thinking that he was sleeping except for his pale, still face. At his feet sat Starsky, legs pretzeled under him on the floor, head in Hutch's lap, eyes shut tight.

"Oh no, not both," she panicked.

Then the figure on the floor spoke, eyes still closed.

"I was hoping he'd wait until Christmas."

She walked across the room and sat on the couch. "He made it this long," she said softly.

"He probably didn't want his passing to be part of the whole 'euphoric sentimentalism' thing."

They shared a reluctant smile. She began dialing the necessary numbers on her phone. Starsky opened his eyes and looked up briefly at his partner, before closing them again and burying his face in Hutch's lap.

"If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire. But just before they go on fire you see the lagoon. This is the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment…."

"You. What's-your-name. Hold this thing while I read it." Hutch's arthritic fingers handed the book off to one of his nephews.

"Why can't you read us a Christmas book?" asked Sandra's youngest.

"Because we need to finish this one from the last time you visited."

"You know your Uncle Ken," his sister called from the kitchen. "He can't leave things undone or half-way."

"If he started reading you that book five years ago, he'd still be going on about finishing it," Starsky added.

Hutch ignored them both. "'Pan, who and what art thou?'" he read. His niece and nephews snapped to attention, immediately taken in by their uncle's deeply-voiced Captain Hook.

"'I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.'"

"A little bird?" Starsky interrupted.

"It's allegory. It's metaphor. It's a bunch of things you don't know anything about, dummy," Hutch responded. "Let me read."

The children kept their attention on their uncle throughout his telling of Peter's fight on the rock with Captain Hook, all the way until Peter's near-mortal wounding.

"'Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big adventure".'"

"Not really so awfully big. More likely awfully painful and depressing," Starsky groused.

The children turned to him, eyes big.

"Don't listen to him," Hutch said, pulling their attention back to him. "Once again, Starsk nearly ruins a children's classic with his resistance to metaphor. Now let's see how Wendy reacted when Peter survived and came home."

At midnight, Sandra and the children finally left for their hotel, Christmas Eve presents firmly in their sleepy hands. Starsky and Hutch fell into bed, Hutch snoring before he could even get his clothing off, Starsky just managing to brush his teeth before plopping next to him in a dead snooze.

He had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tight.

The End

A Bugatti Veyron

For Marion

"A Bugatti Veyron."

"Oh, of course, what color?"

Starsky looked at Hutch incredulously.

"Red — with a wh…"

"A white stripe — very funny."

"Ok, a beach house, right on the sand with palm trees and a private area so I can…"

"You can forget all about private areas — help me out here, Starsk"

"No." The answer came blunt and firm.

"Why not?"

"Because it's the thought that counts and that thought should be your thought and not my thought. It's not a thought at all if you didn't think it."

Hutch gave no answer to that, and Starsky went on.

"Lists don't count. I want you to want to buy me something 'cos you think I'll want it, otherwise you might as well hand me the money and send me out to buy my own gift."

"It would be easier."

"Sorry?" A raised eyebrow and a slightly less tolerant tone informed Hutch he was pushing his luck.

"Nothing."

"If it's about easiness perhaps you shouldn't get me anything at all."

"Now, come on…"

"Seriously Hutch, I'm not going to give you a shopping list. You know me, you know what I like — asides from you that is." He gave a leering grin, which softened into a genuine smile. "Besides if you buy it I'm bound to like it."

Hutch mumbled something about "The tree" but Starsky was letting nothing slip by.

"That's not fair; I love that tree — now. Even if you didn't buy it for me."

Hutch bit even though he knew he shouldn't.

"It's your name on the…"

And Starsky's response was as quick as he expected

"So it might be, but you bought it to prove a point and that's no kind of present at all." He paused, then went on "Seriously sweetheart, don't buy me a gift just 'cos you gotta. If you can't think of anything now wait until you can. I'm a grown man. I'm not going to mind"

"Hogwash!"

"Excuse me?"

"Beautiful sentiments Starsk, let's hear the same thing on Christmas day when there's no presents under the tree."

"Oh, there'll be presents Hutch, one half of this partnership still knows the other half pretty well."

"That's because one half's been offering hints for the past two months." But it came out as a mutter.

"What's that?" That came out as anything but. Pointed and slightly pissed.

"Nothing."

Starsk got up and strode out with the dogs, pausing at the doorway to throw, "Let's face it Hutch, if you don't know exactly what I like after thirty-odd years, then, well, you can't know the first nor last thing about me," over his shoulder as he went.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

That was truly all Hutch could say in its favor. At the time, riled by the argument they'd just had and slightly desperate, a desperation made worse by the storefronts and TV ads screeching about the ever declining number of "shopping days to go", it had seemed a good idea and he'd clicked his way into this ridiculous situation.

He'd thought to sneak himself a few ideas by browsing through Starsky's internet history. If Starsk wouldn't provide him with a list, he'd find his own. And so he'd snuck online when Starsky was in bed and clicked through cached pages and account histories. He'd found his way to a Flickr account that contained recently scanned photographs of their not so recent past. Blue-clad, snake-hipped images of Starsky and himself peered back at him and he'd wallowed in nostalgia for a while before the shopping frenzy returned.

He'd found Starsky logged onto forums and chat sites and his guilt at spying on his partner had waned as he'd drifted from a site offering support and advise for ex-cops, to an information site for the TV show "Heroes" and then into a "Men in Uniform" site.

It had seemed a good idea at the time.

Even clicking "Extra Large" on the order form hadn't awakened Hutch to his reality. His mind was blurred with images of his youthful self, mingled with Starsky's or rather 'Stars1cy's' comments as he'd waxed lyrical over a picture of Travis he'd seen posted on the At_Attention! website. Hah! He'd show Starsky he knew exactly what he liked…

Hutch sighed, or would have done if he could breathe in far enough, and creaked his way to the mirror.

The cap was fine. It covered his hair loss nicely and took a few years off him. And the collar — that fitted. The PVC — thing - hugged his torso tightly. Very tightly. It had been a struggle to get it on, one involving talcum powder and wriggle capabilities he thought he'd long since lost, and he already feared for the body hair he knew he would be losing when he tried to unzip it.

Hutch wanted to weep. How could he have been so stupid? Starsky wasn't looking at those pictures because he liked men in uniform; he was looking at pictures of what he'd once had. He prodded himself in the stomach, wincing as the PVC pulled at his skin. He'd allowed himself to become complacent; confident that Starsky loved him, he'd let himself believe he still had what it took to get his partner's motor running. He thought back to the photographs on the computer screen… did Starsky need to look at them before he could come to their bed? How could Hutch compare with images like that? He continued his stock-take in the mirror, growing more despondent as he did so. The sleeves were … okay. They were meant to hug and snuggle well-worked biceps and as Hutch flexed his arms, he acknowledged he had a trace of those left. The shorts were meant for emphasis and they *did* make his thighs look huge. Unfortunately his stomach stuck out further than his manhood had ever been able to so the only part of the costume that should be clinging tightly was instead forming a concave anti-bulge, as his belly stuck out in the shining, straining blackness like.… like…

Hutch slumped. It had seemed a good idea at the time.

He reached for the cuffs that lay on the bed and winced as the back seam of the shorts threatened to probe him deeper than Starsky ever had. He clipped the cheap, plastic restraints to the belt and wilted further.

He should have sold a kidney and bought the Veyron.

"Hey babe?" Hutch heard the door slam as Starsky arrived home from walking the dog. A Christmas day dog walk was one of their traditions, but Hutch had cried off to "prepare Starsky's gift."

Why hadn't he tried it on before Christmas morning?

"Hutch? The sea was beautiful, Misty loved it — she's exhausted now though." Hutch listened to the clatter as Starsky hung the dog lead on its peg and took off his coat, making his way through the house and coming ever nearer to his 'surprise'. He heard Starsky in the kitchen pouring a glass of water as he continued. "We missed you, it wasn't the same. I hope it was worth it," he laughed. "I better have something spectacular to unwrap!"

Hutch's natural instinct to flee was foiled by his inability to move, and he turned sadly from the mirror to await the inevitable reaction.

Spectacular would not be the word he chose.

For one second, the sharp intake of breath had echoed their earliest passions, that brief, unrepeatable moment the very first time they'd gazed on each other as lovers. A moment when they'd scarcely been able to breathe through the terror and wonder of what they were about to do.

The next moment however, Starsky was crying with laughter, holding his stomach as it shook with mirth; speechless with glee and breathless from hysteria, not lust. Hutch, though he'd been expecting it, sagged. What a way to fuck up something so simple. He turned abruptly away from Starsky and struggled to reach the zipper, struggling to disguise the hollow feeling in his chest.

"Hey! Hands off!" He was startled by Starsky's shout. "That's MY present." Starsky slapped his hands away and rested his own upon Hutch's shoulders before continuing. "My present, my gift, my treat." He snorted a little, and then cupped his hands round Hutch's face. "Trust you to know exactly what I want — what I'll always want." He leaned in for a long, warm kiss before stepping back again, viewing Hutch appraisingly. "Thing is — shall I unwrap it quickly or slowly?" He reached out and grasped the zipper at Hutch's throat and began to slowly, seductively lower it, with a purring growl "I'm gonna want to make the most of…"

"Ow! Ow! Starsky, stop!"

"Wha?"

"You've got my hair…"

"Oh." Starsky sniggered before starting to lower the zipper once more, making no progress at all before Hutch slapped his hands away, yelling in pain.

"Leave it!"

Thirty minutes later even Starsky had stopped laughing.

"We're gonna have to cut it off."

"No way." Hutch shuddered. It had been a stupid idea, stupid. He was too old and fat and stupid and…

Starsky lowered his lids and looked at him, and Hutch knew that he could see his thoughts as if he'd spoken them. He pulled his eyes away.

"Hutch, c'mon. We've tried everything else — no one makes their present opening last this long." Starsky softened his voice "C'mon, I've got a beautiful present just waiting for me. Can ya blame me for wanting to get into it?"

Starsky gently caught Hutch's hand and walked him to the bed. "Let's get you out of those and into this." He pushed Hutch down on to the covers and turned to get a pair of scissors, stopping as he heard the tell tale sound of tearing fabric.

"It didn't?" He stopped, and Hutch could see compassion warring on his face with the desire to laugh once more. "It didn't?" The hysteria won out as he turned to see Hutch's backside exposed from the flimsy PVC. "Oh, babe." He collapsed squeaking with mirth to the floor, grunting as he slipped from the bed and slumped to the ground.

Meanwhile, with the pressure released, Hutch had maneuverability and managed to de-snag his hair from the zipper, before tearing the rest of the costume away from him in disgust. He balled it into his hands, noticing anew how very small it had been before throwing it across the room at Starsky.

"It was a stupid idea."

Starsky looked up at him from the spot on the floor where his laughter had taken him. His eyes were shining with tears and even now, he carried a wide lop-sided grin on his face.

"It was," he said firmly, rising to his knees and 'walking' to sit at Hutch's feet, "an absolutely wonderful idea." He ran his hands along Hutch's thighs, caressing the slightly reddened areas, before allowing them to rest at the tops of his legs, where he massaged his thumbs gently back and forth, just catching the sides of Hutch's cock as he did so.

"It was a present for me," he leaned forward and gently kissed the very tip. "It was exactly what I like." He kissed it again. "It's something I can keep and treasure." He smiled in approval as Hutch's cock showed signs of stiffening. "And it's something I can play with…" He swiped the top with his tongue, looking up at Hutch as he did so, "…for hours."

Hutch looked down at Starsk, who was now slowly running his tongue up his length, showing every sign of enjoying his task. "I thought… I saw you'd been looking. I found those old pictures of us," He stammered, half from awkwardness at what he was trying to say, half because Starsky was allowing his teeth to tease him, threatening to scrape the tender flesh before running his tongue over the sensitive vein on the underside, soothing and tormenting at the same time.

Starsky stopped his ministrations and looked up at him.

"Us in blues? I found those snaps when I was looking for my license." He groaned as he pulled himself up from his position at Hutch's feet, knees clicking as he slumped down on the bed beside him. "Can you believe how young we were?" He put out a hand and pushed Hutch to lie back on the bed, leaning over him and pausing to stroke a finger over a newly bald patch where the zip had found a tight hold. He lowered his mouth to the spot and gently lapped at it, soothing and suckling. He raised his head once more.

"I can't believe it, looking at pictures like that, how blind we were. Standing there with no idea." His mouth lowered once more and he began to work his way down Hutch's body. Stopping at each sore spot to tend it, lavishly and tenderly. He once again reached Hutch's cock and licked a long, thorough strip from top to bottom before blowing gently, causing Hutch's head to spin and tingles to shoot to his toes. "I wouldn't be them again for a second."

Hutch looked down at him, confused, and stretched down a hand to get Starsky's attention.

"Them?"

"Them us. I mean us then. We may have looked good in uniform, Hutch-" he smiled, adding, "some of us still do!" then continued, "But when I remember us then, chasing crooks, chasing good times…" He paused, looking up at Hutch, "…chasing girls…" He crawled up the bed to place a kiss against Hutch's lips, deepening it into a long, familiar embrace.

"I feel sorry for them, so close but far apart. I'd rather have this.." Starsky grabbed his own belly and wobbled it, "and this…" he grabbed Hutch's and echoed the movement. "As long as I've got this…" he reached out and caressed Hutch's cock, "and this…" he kissed Hutch once more; wet and sloppy and hot.

"Now," he said shifting his attention lower once more, "I believe I've got a present to play with."

Hutch lay back; the police cap still perched jauntily on his head, and sighed with pleasure as Starsky continued.

It had been a great idea.

Stuck on You

For Tina

Starsky took a cautious breath, staring up into the intensely blue eyes of his partner. Hutch was panting, his mouth partially opened, sweat beaded on his brow. Hutch swallowed quick and hard, his Adam's apple moving up and down the long column of his throat. Starsky felt suspended in time — weirdly floaty. It was one of those transcendental moments when everything that had come before was inalterably changed forever.

"Oh, God, Hutch…"

"Starsk?" Hutch whispered, reaching out to him.

"Pull it out, Hu-tch." The last was said on an outward gasp, taking almost all of his usable air with it. His lungs locked up, making it that much harder to breathe.

"Can't, babe." Hutch bit his lip, something stark and indefinable twisting across his face.

"That you talking?" Starsky tried for a chuckle, anything to wipe away Hutch's expression. "Or some damned manual?"

"Neither, and both." Hutch favored him with a tight smile and scrambled out of his jacket, ripping one of the buttons on the cuff in his haste. "Can't take it out right now, Starsk."

Filled with an urgent need to move, to arch back or even just shift his hips, Starsky reached up, trying to get at the monster that impaled him. His right hand made one clumsy attempt before Hutch caught his fingers in a gentle grasp.

"No, you have to wait." He tucked his jacket around Starsky's shoulders, very tenderly brushing his knuckles along Starsky's jaw line in the process. A barely there caress, superb in its brevity, immense in its ability to soothe.

"What about…?" It was so hard to think, as if all the blood had fled from his brain for lower parts of his body. They'd come to this place, this construction site, for a reason, but for the life of him, Starsky couldn't remember it now. Images crowded in: of Hutch's hand on his belly, then running and ducking bullets, stumbling, trying to keep his balance on an unsteady pile of cast-off lumber. A shout and a scream, possibly overlapping each other.

"Starsk?" There was such fear in Hutch's voice. "Stay with me, don't let go."

"Don't think I can," Starsky said dryly, but it took such terrible effort to talk. "You've got me for the duration." He shuddered, which jarred the rod pinning him to the dirt. "Oh, fuck!" The pain was taking hold, strangling his belly with a horrible intensity. "Take it out!"

"Starsky," Hutch said with infinite patience, and his voice trembled as if he couldn't manage to hold the same register for any length of time. "You'll bleed to death. The paramedics are on their way."

"Sanchez?" Starsky pursued the fleeting thought instead of letting the pain tear him to shreds. "You got him?"

"He could qualify for the Olympics next year." Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand. "Jerry Sikes — one of the uniforms that showed up for back-up — saw him take the fence like a champion hurdler, down there where the property edges the wharf."

"I shoulda…" Starsky started, but he had to bite his lip to keep from begging for relief again. There had to be something better than lying on the chilly ground, pinned like the pithed frogs in his high school biology class. "Shoulda caught him but he was throwing stuff—"

With the uneven ground strewn with discarded equipment, and the contrast between the bright noon sun and the murky shadows cast by the unfinished office tower, Starsky'd been hard-pressed to keep up with the fleet footed suspect. He'd stumbled on a length of wood and windmilled wildly to keep his footing just as something long and hard shoved him backwards. Starsky had caught a glimpse of Sanchez laughing manically as he raced away toward the distant fence line. The memory made Starsky push his feet into the ground as if he could launch himself up and away in a single bound.

"Starsky, would you just stay still?" Hutch pressed down on his shoulder just a fraction too hard, increasing the pain level beyond endurance. Starsky whimpered, even though he really, really didn't want to.

"I'm sorry!" Hutch reared back, contrition written large like a scarlet C on his forehead.

"Come back," Starsky moaned, wiggling his fingers to maintain the contact. "Stay with me."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Never." Starsky closed his eyes as Hutch's palm settled against his once more. That kept him grounded far better than the damned piece of steel that pinned him to the dirt. He kept slipping into a detached, filtered world where nothing much mattered. He wanted to avoid getting lost there at all costs. Surely those damned paramedics should have been here by now to cut him free. If Hutch was going to be a weenie about pulling the rod out of his belly, then he'd just have to rely on the kindness of strangers. That struck him as inordinately funny, and he half-chuckled before remembering what a really bad idea that was.

Pain unraveled his resolve, exploding through his chest with enough force to steal the breath from his lungs.

"Starsk!" Hutch roared far too close to his ear.

"All right! I'm all right!" Starsky insisted irritably when he could actually speak without losing bits of himself to the monster. He looked up, straight into Hutch's eyes, and found who he was again. This was taking too damned long. "Where…"

"Where the hell are those paramedics?" Hutch yelled.

Apparently Hutch had the exact same thought. This both comforted and slightly alarmed Starsky, which was useful in its own way because the disturbing idea managed to distract him from the pain for about a tenth of a second.

That was all the time he needed; sirens screamed around the corner, the sound bouncing like a live thing off the cement walls looming over Starsky and Hutch.

"Tell 'em to pull it out quick, like a band-aid," Starsky said, hearing his own voice recede as if he was going down a long tunnel away from the scene. "'S taking too long. I'm cold."

"Damn," Hutch said so softly Starsky barely heard him. "You're going into shock."

"Am not," Starsky argued, to stay focused. "It's f-fucking December, wha'd you expect?"

The siren sliced through Starsky's head, red lancing pain racing from ear to ear and then suddenly, there was silence. He exhaled with a grunt and gripped Hutch's hand as hard as he could, suddenly afraid. This could end badly.

"Paramedics are here. I'm gonna get you a blanket."

Hutch eased his hand out of Starsky's grasp and dashed off. Alone, Starsky shivered which jostled the damned rod and caused awful sensations through his belly and chest. Every instinct in him told him to get up, yank the metal out of his body and get away.

Get away from the pain and the smell of fear, the heavy scent of blood.

All he wanted was to find Hutch and grab on.

Indistinct thoughts danced through his addled brain, memories of them coupling on the bed, Starsky flat on the mattress in this exact position, Hutch's cock up his ass, threaded through his body as if he were a bead on a string, slack and dislocated.

He was cold and lifeless, on a bed, unable to move and Hutch loomed above him, far away and crying.

No, it was a doctor and he was performing CPR. Starsky floated up above his own body, wondering where the hell he was….

And then knew that that was a memory. Not here and now. As broken and disjointed as he was, he wasn't dead. That was in the past.

He could hear people talking, voices coming near him. There was cold dirt under his back where his shirt had ridden up and a rock dug into his hipbone. That was real.

He ghosted his right hand upward, trying to grasp the lance that held him fast, but he had no strength to pull Excalibur out of the stone. Wasn't that a Disney movie? He could see a valiant knight in full shiny armor pierced by his opponent's sword, the hilt pinning him to the earth.

Wasn't Hutch the white knight? Did that make Starsky the black knight?

Starsky caught his breath, trembling with cold, and then Hutch was suddenly there again, bundling a thick blanket around his shoulders, surrounding him with warmth. It should have helped but Starsky was so icy he couldn't feel his hands or feet anymore.

Parts of him were breaking off, floating away on the wind.

"How'd this happen?" a man asked with the voice of a radio announcer.

Didn't he know? Starsky thought irritably. Paramedics should know.

Hutch was talking, relating the accident. Starsky tried to listen but the blanket had stuffed into his ears, muffling all sound. Something sharp jabbed into his arm and he cried out, grateful that his left arm was still there, still attached to his body.

"Wha's?" he asked, confused. "Tell 'em to take it out, Hutch. Had 'nough."

"I know, babe," Hutch rumbled directly into his ear. "Not too much longer."

"I'm giving you some morphine to dull the pain," the radio announcer said. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Starsky," he answered, absurdly proud of his ability to do so. The blessed morphine was working its magic. He was floating on an ice flow in the artic ocean. It was frigidly cold but surprisingly peaceful.

"Great, Starsky. I'm Dave."

"'S'my name."

"So your partner told me." He chuckled. "My partner, Kevin, who is great with his hands, is going to cut through the rebar, but we're going to need you to raise up as high as you're able so that he can get below you."

Was he nuts?

"Just pull it out," Starsky said as reasonably as possible. The agony in his belly was still there but with the narcotics on board, he could ignore it for seconds at a time, pretend that he wasn't pinned like some science experiment, ready to be dissected.

"Starsk, I got you." Hutch put one hand under Starsky's left shoulder. "Just going to take it slow, ease you up into my lap."

"F-fuck…" He was clay, molded into pain, wrenched from the dirt. Each inch was hell, ragged talons scrabbling over his flesh, ripping him apart from both inside and out. "D-don't… Hutch!" Starsky wasn't sure that he'd spoken or just screamed the words inside his head. Sharp, fresh, hot agony pressed in on him and he heard the whine of an electric saw.

"You're the luckiest bastard in the entire state," Hutch said. "Maybe the whole U.S."

"Continental or countin' Alaska and Hawaii, too?" Starsky asked lazily with his eyes closed, reveling in the total absence of pain.

"You just have to be contrary?" Hutch sighed, wiping a weary hand across his forehead.

Starsky turned his head to peer at Hutch, ignoring the object he was holding. "It's a gift. You didn't answer the question."

"Luckiest man in all fifty states and including Puerto Rico."

Starsky was still having difficulty seeing straight. A couple of doses of morphine plus enough lorazepam to fell a horse, according to the nurse, would do that. However, he could see that Hutch had a patch of dirt on his cheek and his clothes were filthy, covered in dirt and streaks of blood. The latter turned Starsky's stomach. He swallowed against the bitter tang in the back of his throat until the urge to hurl passed.

"Need a drink of water?" Hutch asked dryly.

Intelligent man, he'd wisely decided against asking if Starsky was okay.

"Nope." He swallowed again, waiting for things to settle just a little more securely. Anything coming near his throat or stomach was likely to upset the balance right now. "What time is it?"

"Not sure, there's no clock in here."

Starsky chuckled hoarsely. "They never want you to know how long you've languished in the ER."

"We're on the third floor, buddy, and you've been admitted." There was something odd about the way Hutch spoke, like he was choking just a little.

"When did that happen?" Starsky closed his eyes again.

Hutch cleared his throat. "A couple of hours ago. After about half a dozen x-rays, when they determined that the rebar didn't puncture anything really important and that surgery wasn't warranted."

"I remember all that," Starsky said, very grumpy.

"Then that doctor who looked about fifteen years old gave you an epidural—"

"That I distinctly remember," Starsky agreed. The position required to get the IV into his spine had been hellish because of the piece of metal still sticking obscenely from his belly.

"Again, I agree with the aforementioned doctor who pulled this hunk of metal out. You're the luckiest son of a bitch in the state."

"You said bastard the last time." Starsky held up a finger, quite proud of his memory on this point.

"I was quoting the teenager masquerading as a doctor."

"He got the job done," Starsky said quietly, looking down at his flat belly. A light blanket covered him from the waist and he was wearing a hospital Johnny, a worthless garment, in his estimation, which only served to embarrass patients enough so that they didn't go trotting down the hall with their tushes sticking out. He suspected there was a bandage below the blankets and gown, although he couldn't really feel his lower half, which was very much a good thing until the epidural wore off. He really wasn't looking forward to that.

He looked over at Hutch again, registering the familiarity of a standard hospital room this time, and the object that Hutch was turning over and over in his hands. A length of rebar, roughly eight or so inches long.

Starsky gulped, his throat spasming, and focused on Hutch's pale face.

"Hutch, you okay?" he asked after a long time. Hutch never raised his eyes from his intense examination of the rebar.

"What am I supposed to say here?" he hitched a breath and sat back. There was the track of a single tear through the dirt on his cheek. "Not an hour after we were in bed, you're flat on your back, bleeding out, a damned piece of metal stuck through your belly."

"It was just some dumb ol' hunk of junk that didn't have the decency to stay on the ground where it belonged," Starsky whispered, pierced through the heart once again for the love of this man. "Nothing in the scheme of things." He put his hand out, relieved when Hutch dropped the rebar. It landed with a harsh clang, and Hutch closed his fingers around Starsky's, holding him tightly. "Big enough for two in this bed."

Images of them lying together that morning, Hutch impaling him with his long, thick length assailed him. Damned rebar was only an inch or so in diameter. He'd had much, much thicker things shoved into his body, and enjoyed himself a hell of a lot more.

Hutch swallowed, his Adam's apple moving up and down very slowly and he finally looked directly at Starsky. His blue eyes were suspiciously watery, but then, Starsky's vision was still kind of spacey. "Hey, look what happened the last time I crawled into a hospital bed with you."

"I was kinda hoping that would happen again." Starsky tried on his biggest smile, but either it didn't have the usual effect or Hutch was still fixated on the worst case scenario. "Without the stuffed veal, natch."

"Wouldn't be the same," Hutch said softly. The corners of his mouth moved upwards, mirroring Starsky's smile. "I was drunk on half a bottle of vino and love 'cause you survived."

"And now?" Starsky bounced their joined hands.

"You survived again, damn you." Hutch moved fast, kissing him hard on the lips with a wild desperation. He pressed their foreheads together, holding Starsky at the base of his skull, both thumbs rubbing circles into Starsky's scalp. "Damn you, Starsk. Seeing you like that — God."

Starsky closed his eyes, the flutter of Hutch's eyelashes on his skin like a thank you. The warmth of Hutch's forehead against his kept him sane. He felt like he had an invisible keyhole somewhere inside him that only unlocked to the key made from Hutch's soul.

"Move over." Hutch took a deep breath that Starsky could feel to the bottom of his own lungs.

The epidural was starting to wear off. Weird twinges of isolated pain sparked from different points on his lower belly while other places were blessedly numb. Starsky scooted along the mattress, pretending that he didn't feel a sharp ache directly over the right side of his pelvis. All the drugs he'd had left him with a disjointed, floaty sensation as if his head and body weren't attached.

Hutch climbed up on the bed, arranging his long legs down Starsky's left side, a human sized heating pad with arms that wrapped around him tightly.

"Feels good. Too bad we can't do what we usually do in bed." He leaned against Hutch, storing up all the goodness. How had he ever recovered from the injuries he'd sustained before he and Hutch came together as a couple? Sure, Hutch had always been there — pouring out brotherly love, which had been terrific, but nothing compared to having his lover, as well as his soul mate, at his back.

"Anybody ever tell you that you have a dirty mind?"

"You want a specific number?" Starsky giggled. For some reason, that struck him as particularly funny.

"You talk big, but can you produce the…"

"Shuddup." Starsky smiled wearily when Hutch kissed him on the cheek. "So, this baby doctor said I was the luckiest bastard on the planet? How many stitches do I get to add to my life's total?"

"Don't ask." Hutch hitched a breath, as if dispelling the morbid thoughts. Starsky felt the rise and fall of Hutch's ribcage against his own backbone. "The rebar missed all major arteries, and it only took the doc two tugs to pull it out."

Starsky wasn't looking at Hutch but he could feel his partner's fear leaching away with every second that they embraced. He closed his eyes, projecting back to the morning when they'd cuddled in the aftermath of sex, content. "Wish this was our day off."

"It was."

"Who answered the phone?" Starsky retorted. "Who agreed to come in? Volunteered us! Wasn't me."

"Hey!" Hutch rapped his knuckled very gently on Starsky's bicep. "Marty's wife just had twins! He was needed in the delivery room. It was the least we could do for the guy."

Starsky turned his head, blinking when the room seemed to glide eerily back and forth. No more morphine for him. He took a deep breath to steady the tilt-a-whirl, which only half worked. "What if we hadn't gone in?" Things would have been so different. "Would we be doing this?"

"Yeah." Hutch bent to kiss him. This time, Starsky's mouth was where his cheek had been, so he got to taste his lover, feel the dry, sweet brush of his lips.

"Thank you."

"You certainly made this a memorable Christmas," Hutch said, finishing the kiss with obvious regret. "But let's not make this a tradition, huh?"

"No more ER visits next December?" Starsky chuckled, pressing a hand over his rib cage. Damn, he shouldn't laugh on the same day he'd had stitches. "I had something all planned as an encore."

"I'd prefer quiet evenings around the menorah or a little evergreen, and dinner together." Hutch glanced at the door as if expecting a nurse to come break up their little tryst momentarily.

"Don't tell me you're suddenly nostalgic for euphoric sentimentalism."

"Perish the thought, cretin."

"You say the sweetest things, asshole," Starsky said just as his stomach decided to join the party in a flooding rush.

Hutch was no fool; he grabbed a kidney shaped basin and shoved it under Starsky's chin. They'd missed breakfast due to the early morning canoodling and hadn't eaten anything since, so there was nothing much to throw up, but Starsky was drained and hurting by the time he wiped his mouth.

"So much for Christmas, huh?" Starsky said weakly. "No gingerbread cookies and eggnog for me this year."

Hutch drew Starsky against his body, one arm around his shoulders. "Euphoric sentimentalism is just a state of mind, like anything else. The thing that always got me in the spirit, Starsk, was you. Because no matter what shit we waded through, you still saw a jolly old saint Nick in those boozers ringing their bell for the Salvation Army on the corner." Hutch shifted carefully so that Starsky was basically sitting in his lap. "And a celebration in two turkey sandwiches and a mug of mulled cider sitting in the Tomato on a stakeout."

"Ho, ho, ho…" Starsky held onto his belly, which had never once shook like a bowl full of jelly, but continued to threaten him with nausea. He leaned his head on Hutch's shoulder, lulled by the soft rumble of his partner's voice.

"I have always maintained a strict no Christmas carols policy," Hutch said loftily.

"No Blue Christmas?"

"Go to Vegas for any and all Elvis covers. However, this song has been on the tip of my tongue since this morning." Hutch began to hum, a low, mellow sound that gained volume as if he was searching for the words and only discovered them mid stanza. "…I've got this feeling down deep in my soul that I just can't lose. Guess I'm on my way. Needed a friend. And the way I feel now I guess I'll be with you 'til the end…"

"Mighty glad you stayed… Stuck on you," Starsky finished.

The End

Prince Charming

For Pepper

"Hutch? You in there, Hutch?"

Starsky glanced at his watch, then knocked on the door again. It was getting late. If they didn't get on the road soon, they were going to get caught in all the weekend traffic.

"What's the hold-up, Blondie?" he called, considering for a moment whether he should be concerned by the lack of response. He didn't think so. He was pretty sure he could hear movement coming from inside the apartment. But what the heck was taking so long? "You know as well as I do, your spare key ain't where it oughta be. So come on, wouldja? Let me in."

Thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Starsky waited a few seconds more. When his partner still didn't answer the door, he began contemplating which shoulder he should use to bust it down. Both shoulders celebrated when a familiar voice at long last filtered through the wood.

"Starsk… I just… just a second, all right?"

Okay. Good. So he wasn't dead.

Not that Hutch's demise was anything to joke about, Starsky thought with a mental kick in his own behind. Not after Vic Humphries and 48 hours of terror on both Hutch's part and his.

God. He could hardly believe a month had passed since Hutch had been pinned beneath his own car.

Starsky wondered how many more months it would be before the dreams stopped.

Oh, for crying out loud. Let it go.

He heard Hutch approach, the thump of his crutches dull against the plank floor. The deadbolt turned and the door opened.

Starsky saw the blood before he saw anything else.

"Holy fucking god. What the hell did you do?"

Hutch grimaced and raised his hand, palm outward, like a traffic cop trying to stop an oncoming semi. "I'm all right—"

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that, huh?"

Biting back the urge to say more, Starsky pushed his way into the apartment and closed the door behind him, his eyes never leaving his partner as he assessed the damage. Hutch glared back at him, defiant despite the wavy ribbon of red running down the side of his face. It wasn't until his balance wavered that the glare faltered and….

Starsky reached out to steady him. "Easy now."

Hutch bowed his head, his brow resting for a moment on Starsky's shoulder, before he mumbled, "Starsk—"

But Starsky didn't want to hear it. Not just yet. "Save it. Shut up and sit down before you fall down. Again."

Helping Hutch turn in the direction of the sofa, Starsky let him actually get there under his own steam. Even if Starsky couldn't keep himself from hovering behind his wounded friend, poised to rescue Hutch from further disaster. Such poise proved unnecessary. Hutch made it unharmed.

"Be right back."

Leaving Hutch safe on the sofa, Starsky retrieved a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, and assorted first aid supplies. Returning to the living room, he stepped in front of his friend, and deposited everything on the coffee table.

"C'mere."

Taking care, he tilted Hutch's head down and to the side a bit, trying to get a better look at the injury. It appeared to be hiding above Hutch's temple, just inside his hairline. Starsky combed carefully through the fine hair there with his fingertips to see how bad it was. Hutch sighed, slumped forward, and let him.

"When did this happen?" Starsky asked, bending close.

"Not all that long before you knocked. Your timing is impeccable."

There it was. A ragged cut an inch or two long. Lucky for all concerned, it looked like it was already clotting. "How did it happen?" Starsky asked, dipping the washcloth in the water, then wringing it free of the excess.

"My crutch got caught on the damned rug. Again."

Starsky folded the cloth and swabbed carefully around the wound. "Babe, I'm telling you — once one of those things tastes human blood, it can turn man-eater."

Hutch winced, but otherwise held still. "I didn't bleed the first time I fell."

"Maybe not," Starsky said, cradling Hutch's cheek with his free hand, holding his partner steady while he continued to dab away the drying blood, rewetting the cloth as needed. "But a rug like yours can sense those things. After that first time, it'd realized the potential was there."

"Has anybody ever told you what a big weirdo you are?"

"Has anybody ever told you you were a klutz?"

Hutch sighed again. "You. Plenty of times."

"Yeah, well — I'm a keen observer of the human condition." Having cleaned around the wound, Starsky rinsed the cloth again, refolded it, and pressed it against the cut.

Hutch jerked and sucked in a quick, harsh breath. Immediately, Starsky eased up on the pressure he had been applying.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said, taking hold of Hutch's wrist, and lifting it until the blond's hand was pressed against the washcloth. "Here, hold this a sec." He circled around the sofa towards the bathroom.

"Where are you going?"

"You focus on getting that bleeding stopped, and I'll see what I can do about cleaning you up." Grabbing a hand towel off the rack by the sink, Starsky wetted it down like he had the washcloth. Returning to the living room, he sat alongside Hutch. Taking hold of his partner's chin, he lifted it so he could duck under Hutch's arm and get at the injured man's face and neck.

"You know, if you didn't want to go away to the lake this weekend, all you had to do was say so," Starsky murmured, intent on washing the red away from Hutch's flushed skin. "You didn't have to put yourself in the hospital, trying to avoid it."

"Don't be an idiot," Hutch grumbled, his breath puffing against the tender inside of Starsky's wrist. "I want to go."

"You sure you feel up to it?" Starsky asked, rinsing out the towel and returning to scrub lightly along Hutch's hairline. "I mean — you didn't black out or anything, did you?"

"No. I didn't lose consciousness."

"What did you hit your head on anyway?"

"The edge of the table," Hutch said, darting a glance in that direction, as if wondering if perhaps that too was now in attack mode. "I cracked it going down."

Satisfied he had gotten rid of the worst of the blood, Starsky stood, both the stained towel and bowl of water in hand. "Yeah? Well, let's all be thankful your melon is hard enough to withstand that kind of punishment. How's the bleeding coming?"

Hutch pulled away the washcloth and examined the evidence. "I think the worst of it is over."

"Good," Starsky said. "Give it here." Hutch laid the square of fabric in the bowl. "I'll bandage you up and we can get out of here."

"I can do it."

"Yeah. You probably could," Starsky said, crossing into the bathroom to dump out the foul water and rinse out the toweling. "But you ain't gonna. Just sit there, would you please? Consider it a personal favor to me."

"Fine," Hutch growled, his tone of voice suggesting it was anything but.

"Thanks," Starsky said, ignoring the growl. It was nothing new.

It didn't take him long to dab a little antibacterial ointment onto the wound and tape down a clean gauze square over it. Hutch was already packed, so Starsky wasted no time in running his suitcase and crutches down to the maroon Lincoln they had borrowed for the trip from Huggy. Then he dashed back up to retrieve his partner.

When Starsky had first proposed their trip, Hutch and he had talked about it, and decided to leave the Torino at home. Its bench seat had meant, since Hutch's injury, anytime Starsky had played chauffeur, ferrying Hutch to doctor's visits or running errands, his other half had needed to sit sideways in the back in order to accommodate his leg which, cast as it was, was unable to bend.

"No offense, Stark," Hutch had said. "But if we're really going to do this, drive nearly five hours up to Birchwood Lake, I think I'd prefer something more exciting to look at than the back of your head."

Starsky couldn't blame the guy. When Starsky had picked him up at the hospital, it had been nothing short of a nightmare trying to maneuver Hutch's big aching body into the back seat of the two-door Torino.

"No problem," Starsky had said with a smile and a shrug. "I know a guy."

And Huggy had come up aces. Just like always.

Getting from the second floor to the first took a bit of planning and resolve. But it wasn't the first time they had done it. Hutch draped his arm across Starsky's shoulders, while Starsky wrapped his arm tightly around Hutch's waist. Moving slowly and carefully, they made their way to the head of the stairs.

"Okay," Starsky said. "You remember the drill.  Grab hold of the banister on your side and I'll do the same on mine. We're not running a race here. Take your time — especially with your noggin. And if you get dizzy or feel like you're going to lose your balance, say something."

"Don't worry. I will."

Together, they hopped and hobbled their way down the stairs, both men breathing hard by the time they made it to the street. Starsky was thankful he'd lucked into a parking spot right in front.

"In you go, hotshot. Try not to hit your head again, climbing in."

"You're a regular comedian, Starsky." Once he was settled in the front seat, Hutch said nothing more. His scowl, however, spoke volumes.

He remained quiet as Starsky guided the Lincoln towards the freeway, offering little more than mumbled affirmatives when asked if he were comfortable and if he thought he could live with Starsky's choice of radio stations. Focused on the thick Friday afternoon traffic, Starsky didn't noticed the precise moment when his partner went from tight-lipped to asleep, but he was grateful the other man was grabbing some shut-eye.

Lately, it had been in awfully short supply.

When Hutch had been released from the hospital, Starsky had been there to pick him up, all set to lavish plenty of TLC on his injured partner.

The only problem was Hutch had wound up seeing Starsky as more Nurse Ratched than Florence Nightingale.

Which, to Starsky's way of thinking, was a pretty harsh judgment to lay on a guy who had stayed on the phone with his ma an extra twenty minutes just to get her special recipe for chicken and matzo ball soup.

Those matzo balls had always made Starsky feel better when he'd been laid up as a kid.

And that's all he'd been trying to do for Hutch — make him feel better. The Blintz certainly hadn't been able to catch a break in that area on his own.

First there had been the crash, which had left Hutch with a broken femur, a concussion, dehydration, a wrenched back, and enough bumps and bruises to make Starsky wince just looking at him.

In the movies, everything would have magically been fixed once Hutch had been rescued. Only Starsky and Hutch didn't live in the movies. And Hutch hadn't gone from lying helpless beneath a ton of battered LTD to dancing a jig.

Once they had gotten him to the hospital, the docs had determined that before they could cast his leg, they needed to put Hutch in traction for a few days, so everything was aligned right and his muscles didn't shorten up on him.

Then they took him in and operated on him, putting a long metal rod in his thigh to help support the bone.

Next had come the cast, which enveloped Hutch's long, long leg from hip to ankle like a particularly fiendish mummy's wrap. The damned thing was bulky as hell and as heavy as a bulletproof vest.

With any ordinary guy, that would have been that. All Hutch should have needed were a pair of crutches and a wheelchair to get him from his room to the hospital parking lot. Then goodbye, Orthopedics. Hello, Venice Place.

But it hadn't quite worked out that way.

After the cast had been put on, but before Starsky could wheel Hutch out of Memorial Hospital Medical Center, the poor guy had come down with a viral infection. Dr. Gale, Hutch's physician, had said the bug had hit Hutch especially hard because of his already weakened condition. After being trapped under his car for so long, Hutch was run down, and that made him more vulnerable to some of the nastier stuff floating around inside Memorial.

Starsky didn't care what the reason had been. He thought the whole thing was pretty fucking unfair. After all he'd already been through, Hutch had had to suffer through three whole days of sneezing and wheezing and hacking before the meds had finally kicked in and given him a little relief.

Bottom line — by the time Hutch had finally been sprung from the hospital, he was wiped out. Sure he'd had that little spurt of adrenaline when Starsky had picked him up and introduced him to his latest junker. But what get up and go he had shown had got up and went long before they had ever gotten to Hutch's apartment. The big blond had conked out in the Torino on the way home.

And he really hadn't shown much improvement since. It was making Starsky kind of nervous.

Hutch was exhausted all the time, yet his cast kept him from getting a good night's sleep. His appetite was for shit, but not even Ma Starsky's extra special matzo balls could tempt him to finish a meal. And worst of all, he was absolutely, positively nutso stir crazy after being confined first to his hospital bed, then to his second floor apartment.

Only the harder Starsky had tried to make it better — coming by Hutch's place every free second he had, cooking food Hutch didn't eat, picking up after Hutch (who, given his injury, was even more lacking in the housekeeping department than usual), offering to play every board game known to man with Hutch, allowing Hutch to rule the television remote with an iron fist — the grumpier Hutch had become. Until four days ago, it had all come to a head.

"Starsky, I'm sure you mean well," Hutch snarled from his place at the kitchen table, "but back the hell off."

"What?" Starsky said, dishtowel tucked into the front of jeans as a makeshift apron, a skillet filled with scrambled eggs in his hand. "What did I do? All I'd asked was if you were ready to eat something."

"And I told you — I'll eat when I'm hungry," Hutch said, tone stinging like a wasp. "For cryin' out loud. I've already got one mother. I don't need two."

"I'm not trying to be your mother, you big dummy," Starsky said, turning to set the skillet back on the stove, his own patience beginning to wear thin. "I'm trying to keep you from having to buy a whole new wardrobe. You keep up this hunger strike and pretty soon not a damned thing is going to fit you."

"Yeah?" Hutch grumbled, arms crossed. "Well excuse me, Mr. Blackwell. We can't all wear our pants as tight as yours, you know."

Thinking only to keep it light, Starsky smiled, did a little wiggle, and said, "You been eying my ass again, babe?"

Without warning, Hutch paled, his eyes doing their best saucer imitations, before his face turned seemingly to stone. "That's it. Get out."

"What?" Starsky said, moving towards his partner. Hutch was struggling to his feet. It was second nature for Starsky to help the guy. Only, judging from the glare aimed his way, Hutch wasn't in the mood for any assistance. "Come on. I was kidding around. You know that. What the hell are you getting so touchy about?"

Hutch shoved his crutches under his arms and, turning towards the living room, made his labored way across the floor, now taking care to avoid Starsky's eyes. "I'm not getting touchy. I've just had enough. Enough of this. Enough of you… here… I can't… I need you out of here, Starsky. I need my own space. I need…"

In his haste to escape from Starsky's presence, Hutch wasn't paying close attention to where he was placing his crutches. One of them snagged the edge of the rug in front of the sofa. The carpet curled over, trapping the narrow support, and Hutch lurched heavily to the side.

"Hutch!" Starsky started towards his friend.

Using the arm of the sofa as a prop, Hutch caught himself and recaptured his balance before Starsky could reach him. "Don't!" he said, waving off his partner's help. "I'm fine. I'm just… I'm fine. All right?"

Starsky would have argued further, only at that second Hutch raised his head and at long last looked at him. The misery Starsky saw in his partner's gaze made everything tighten up inside him, like some circus strong man had mistaken Starsky's insides for one of those foam stress balls.

What the hell was wrong? Despite what he had said, had the big lummox done something to himself?

As if aware of what his eyes must be giving away, Hutch dredged up a smile. The only problem was it was too feeble to give Starsky any real measure of reassurance. "Please, Starsk? Really… just… go home. Okay? It'll be all right. I'll be all right. I promise."

Damn. Starsky could never refuse Hutch anything when his voice got all soft and rumbly like that.

He sighed, and scrubbed the back of his neck with his palm. "All right. If that's what you want."

"It is."

Pulling the dishtowel from his jeans and tossing it on the table, Starsky headed for the exit. Hutch was already standing there, hunched over his crutches, waiting for him. The door was open.

"Here's your hat. What's your hurry?" Starsky murmured as he drew near.

Before Starsky could cross past his partner and out the door, Hutch put his hand on Starsky's arm, stopping him. "Wait."

'Bout time, Starsky thought. If you apologize real nice, Blondie, maybe I'll cook you up a fresh batch of eggs.

Hutch edged past Starsky into the hall. "Forgot something." Balancing carefully on his good leg, he shifted both crutches under one arm, reached up and grabbed the key he kept on top of the lintel, tucking it into the pocket of his sweat pants. "This way, you won't be tempted."

You know, if he didn't love the guy so much, there were times when Starsky could have quite cheerfully strangled Hutch.

"Terrific," was all he said as he sauntered out of Hutch's apartment, hurt, but determined not to show it.

"Starsk?"

Starsky considered not stopping. For about two seconds. Sighing again, he came to a halt and looked over his shoulder. "What is it, Blintz?"

Hutch had kind of propped himself in the doorway. The chucklehead. Starsky knew he was still having trouble staying on his feet for long. "Just… ah… I just wanted to say I'll call you if I need anything."

"You do that," Starsky told him.

Hutch nodded. "Yeah. Um… okay. See you."

"Count on it," Starsky said as he turned and headed for the stairs. He could hear Hutch clomping his way back inside the apartment as Starsky trotted lightly down the steps.

"Don't you for a second believe a locked door could keep me out if I wanted in badly enough, babe," he mumbled as he stepped out onto the street. "A guy can learn a lot of interesting things growing up in a neighborhood like mine. One of the most useful was how to pick a goddamn lock."

Yet as it had turned out, Starsky hadn't needed to go to such lengths. Somehow, he had managed to stay away, giving Hutch the space he had claimed he craved. Starsky had instead put the time to good use, trying to come up with a way to lift his buddy's spirits.

If there was one thing Starsky knew, it was that the easiest way to Hutch's surprisingly vulnerable heart ran right through the great outdoors.

So it only stood to reason, if he wanted to help with his pal's doom and gloom, his first step should be to get Hutch out of that apartment turned prison cell.

The further from the city, the better.

Getting the time off had been easy. Hutch was on the disabled list and Starsky had so much vacation time saved up he was going to lose days if he didn't start taking a few. What had been trickier was figuring out where to go.

The Dobeys' cabin at Pine Lake was unavailable.

"Sorry, Starsky," the captain said when Starsky inquired, "but I already promised the place to my brother this weekend. You can have it the week after, if you like."

But Starsky was worried that waiting a week would let Hutch's mood to go from bad to worse. Plus, if he were being honest with himself, Starsky had to admit he didn't want to go without Hutch for a whole two weeks. He kind of missed the big idiot. "Thanks, Cap'n. But I was sort of hoping to do this sooner rather than later."

"Well, in that case, try talking to Cooperton."

"Alan Cooperton, over in Bunco?"

"Yeah. I heard through his captain that Coop and his wife have a place up north. I'm pretty sure it's on a lake — Beech, Birch, Bass… something like that."

"Thanks," Starsky said. "I'll check it out."

It didn't take much to get Cooperton on board. "Sure, Starsky. You're welcome to it for a weekend. The cabin is nothing fancy, you know. And it only has the one bedroom. But it's comfortable enough, and should be stocked with everything you need."

"Thanks, Coop. I really appreciate this. I know Hutch will too."

"Don't worry about it. I heard what happened to that partner of yours. This is the least I can do. Word of advice, though — make sure you pack some warm clothes. The days should be nice enough for everything but swimming — not that Hutch would really be up for that anyway. But the evenings get chilly. The cabin's fireplace helps, but so will some nice thick sweaters."

"Good to know. Thanks."

Taking Coop's words to heart, Starsky had packed his old bulky cardigan, a couple of sweat shirts and, in a fit of sentimentality, an almost sinfully soft red cashmere sweater Hutch had gotten him for Christmas the year before.

"If you're going to insist on our exchanging presents every year, then I'm going to buy you something practical," Hutch had told him, the affection in his eyes making a lie out his gruff tone.

Only someone who had grown up in a house overlooking a golf course would equate "cashmere" with "practical."

Still, Starsky loved it. He didn't think he had ever owned anything so luxurious.

It was that kind of thing that made him want to give something back to Hutch. Not the gift itself, nice as it was. But more the thought behind it. The idea that Hutch had wanted him to have something like that. Something extravagant. Frivolous, even. Not practical. No matter what Hutch might have tried to insist.

Some might not think it was practical to take a guy on crutches out into the woods on vacation, but Hutch had taken to the whole weekend getaway idea pretty well. Especially once Starsky had explained why they were making the trip.

"You want to spend a long weekend on a lake in the middle of nowhere? Why? You hate the outdoors."

"So? You love it."

"Oh…"

"Yeah. 'Oh'. So whaddya say, nature boy? Are we on?"

"Yeah, um… sure, Starsk. We're on."

"This is gonna help make it better, babe," Starsky murmured now, merging on to the highway that would lead them in the direction of Coop's cabin. "I know it. A little peace and quiet, a little fresh air. You'll come back to Bay City a new man."

The Lincoln now moving smoothly with the flow of traffic, Starsky indulged in a glance to his right.

Damn.

Hutch was sleeping soundly, his big hands limp and loosely curled, rested in his lap. His hair was tousled, his face turned Starsky's way. The setting sun painted his features the warmest gold.

He was so fucking beautiful it almost hurt to look at him.

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Starsky turned his attention back to the road, all the while wishing he could understand why things had started to change, when the familiar sight of Hutch had begun to stir very unfamiliar longings in Starsky's soul.

Maybe this trip will be good for the both of us. You can start to feel a little stronger, and I can start to feel a little more sane.

Because it was madness to want what Starsky thought he might now want.

But that was okay. He was determined their little holiday would go a long way towards fixing what ailed them both.

After all, they cured crazy people sometimes.

Didn't they?

When Hutch awoke, it was dark, and he was alone in the car. The air had turned cool, but he had his jacket on, so he was comfortable enough. His mouth felt cottony and tasted stale. His back ached, but not as badly as his head.

"What the hell…."

He blinked his bleary eyes, trying to clear them. It appeared the Lincoln was parked in a nearly empty supermarket parking lot. Reaching in to his jacket pocket, Hutch pulled free his grandfather's old watch, snapped it open and held it to the car window, angling it to catch the light streaming down from a nearby pole.

8:48

Starsk must have decided to stop for groceries on the way in. Smart move. That way they could sleep in the next morning, assured that coffee and — knowing Starsky — donuts were waiting for them when they got up.

Hutch tucked his watch back into his jacket and, wincing, pushed himself further upright. Damn, a handful of aspirin would go down pretty well right about now. Why, when lately he never seemed able to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a stretch on his own extra firm mattress, had he sacked out for more than double that in the front seat of a Lincoln? Must have been the motion. Maybe he was becoming like one of those babies who have to be lulled to sleep by their anxious father, driving in circles straight on through till dawn.

Starsky as Daddy.

Great.

As if the way he had already begun to think of his partner weren't disturbing enough.

Stop it.

Hutch closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his face, rubbing over his tense brow, massaging his aching temples. Man. What he wouldn't give to feel truly good, just for a minute or two. He couldn't remember the last time his body had actually felt like his. One that responded to his commands, that moved him from place to place smoothly and with power. One that didn't require planning for the simplest task. He'd broken his arm in high school, but he'd never broken his leg before now. He would never have believed taking a shower could require the same feats of balance and daring found under a circus tent.

A knock on the car window startled him out of his funk.

"Hey, sleeping beauty. I bought you some of that twigs and berries stuff you like."

Starsky.

Despite the pounding in his head, Hutch smiled at his friend. How could he not, especially when he knew if he did, Starsky would smile back at him?

Like clockwork, Starsky obligingly grinned.

His own smile fading, Hutch watched Starsky in the rear view mirror as his partner circled around to the trunk and began stowing the bags of groceries. The simple act made him feel like a voyeur.

You been eying my ass again, babe?

Yeah, Starsk. I have. And I don't know what the hell to do, how to keep it all from going wrong.

Guilt washed over Hutch, as it had so frequently of late. He tore his gaze away from Starsky's light-footed grace, closing his eyes completely, and leaning his head back against the seat.

The car door opened.

"Here. Take a couple of these. You look like you could use 'em."

A bottle of aspirin landed in Hutch's lap.

"You can wash them down with some of my Coke," Starsky said, slipping behind the wheel, Coke in hand and already stretched towards Hutch.

Hutch shoved three aspirin in his mouth and chased them down his throat with Starsky's soda.

"Shouldn't be too long now," Starsky said, taking a sip of his drink as he pulled out of the parking lot. "I was talking to the girl at the service counter — picked up our fishing licenses, by the way. She said we need to follow the main road out of this burg about five miles, then turn right on Alder Rd. She said that'll twist and turn for probably another five before we get to the lake. Then we've just got to look for the right number."

"Be kind of tricky looking for house numbers this time of night," Hutch said, determined not to wonder how cute the girl behind the counter was and if Starsky had been flirting while asking for directions.

Because if she had a pulse, chances were he had.

"Nah. Not with your eagle eyes."

Awake now in a way he hadn't been for hours, Hutch stared out the window, watching the shadowed scenery go by. He saw a sporting goods store, two bars, a diner called Desi's, and a gas station zip past. The town reminded him of the small villages in northern Minnesota that served as launching points for trips through the Boundary Waters. They were packed in summer, their streets full of hikers and campers, and families packed into bulging station wagons. Once the leaves began to change however, the crowds thinned out.

That was the situation here and now. While the parking lots surrounding the two taverns were fuller than the one for the supermarket, there wasn't a lot of traffic on the road. He supposed with it being a couple of weeks before Memorial Day, the season hadn't really started yet.

Once they cleared the city limits, businesses gave way to stands of trees and the occasional house. Taking his job as co-pilot seriously, despite his persistent headache, Hutch narrowed his eyes against the darkness and kept lookout for Alder Rd.

"There it is."

Alder was unpaved, and a bumpy ride even with the suspension Lincolns were famous for. Despite Starsky's firm grip on the wheel, the car shook and shimmied as it rolled along the narrow path.

Starsky stole a peek in Hutch's direction, frowning at what he saw. "Hang in there. It can't be long now."

"From your lips to God's ear," Hutch gritted out in response.

As if the deity had indeed been listening, they came around one final curve and the first lake house came into view.

"That's more like it," Starsky murmured with satisfaction.

Here the road was less worn and pitted. Starsky slowed so Hutch could read the numbers on the mailboxes. "We're looking for 91 Alder Road."

In true vacation home style, the houses were spread out some, evergreens and other assorted trees and shrubs providing a natural barrier between the dwellings. Hutch watched the numbers climb from 3 upwards. After a moment or two, he pointed. "There, on the right."

Starsky took the turn. They bounced their way down another gravel drive, this one mercifully shorter than the last. It wasn't long before a cedar sided cabin came into view.

"I think this is the place," Starsky said, pulling up alongside.

When the car came to a stop, Hutch pushed open the door. The air was chilly, but smelled fresh and clean. He could hear water lapping against the shore, somewhere in the darkness close by.

"Wait! Let me help you," Starsky said, opening the door and coming around the back of the car. As sick to death as Hutch was of being reliant on people — especially Starsky — he realized he couldn't very well hop into the house under his own steam. So he shifted in his seat and carefully eased his legs to his right until he sat sideways in the car doorway.

"Just sit tight for a sec," Starsky said, hand braced against the doorframe as he leaned in. "I'm going to go in and turn on the lights before we try to unload you and the luggage."

"Great. Now you're lumping me with the baggage," Hutch grumped, though he really didn't mean it.

He watched as, using the glow from the open car door for guidance, Starsky found his way up the stairs to the cabin door and, after a fumble or two with the borrowed key, inside the cabin. The lights popped on almost immediately.

"The place ain't bad at all," Starsky announced moments later as he returned to Hutch's side. "I think you're going to like it."

"If it has a bed, I'll like it," Hutch promised, taking Starsky's outstretched hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Roomy as the Lincoln was, Hutch was still stiff after the long car ride, especially with the way he had been slouched down in the seat asleep. He couldn't keep a soft groan from escaping once he was up and balanced on his good leg. Starsky steadied him with an arm around his waist, and looked at him with concern.

"You've about had it, babe."

"It's just the damned fall. Gave myself a headache."

"Yeah. On top of everything else. Come on, gimpy. Let's get you inside."

The two men found it a heck of a lot easier going up the short flight of stairs into the cabin than they had going from Hutch's apartment to the street. They made it inside without any problem.

With Starsky's help, Hutch fell gratefully onto a large overstuffed plaid sofa that faced an equally oversized fireplace. The cabin wasn't all that big, so the hearth took up one entire wall. Hutch looked around. Starsky was right. The place wasn't half bad.

The main room reminded him of Venice Place, in that it was open and had no walls dividing the kitchen and eating area from the living room. However, the cabin had two doors on the far wall. Hutch couldn't see inside them from where he was sitting, but he assumed one led to the bathroom, and the other to the bedrooms. The décor was simple yet homey — a farmhouse style table and chairs in the kitchen, two comfortable looking wingback chairs flanking the sofa in the living room, a coffee table and end tables filled in the blanks. Colorful rag rugs anchored each space.

"Just hang out here for a minute, okay?" Starsky said. "I'll bring in your crutches, our bags and the groceries. The fishing stuff can stay in the trunk until tomorrow morning."

Hutch nodded, watching as Starsky went back outside. He would have liked to have protested, to have done his fair share of the work. He was so sick to death of being useless. That was the worst of Sutton's handiwork. Sure, physically he was a mess since the attack. Even on his better days, the best Hutch could say about himself was he was uncomfortable. But the aches and pains he could deal with. It was the other stuff — the helplessness, the vulnerability — that made him question who he was and what he was worth.

His memory of the crash was all too clear. He recalled lying there beneath his car, pinned to the ground as surely as a butterfly on a board, the sun beating down on him mercilessly by day, night's chill air setting his teeth to chattering once that sun had fallen below the horizon. He hadn't been able to do anything to save himself. All his training, all his smarts. Useless. The body he took such pride in keeping healthy and strong had offered him no real advantage. His only option had been to lie on his back, and wait to be rescued.

It had been galling.

Scary.

And reminded him far too much of Forrest and another time his control had been utterly stripped away.

"God. I didn't think the bags were gonna hold up. Lucky they did. I'd hate to be out there chasing down apples and cans of soup in the dark."

Starsky came staggering in the cabin, Hutch's duffle over his shoulder, his own suitcase in one hand, three brown paper bags clutched to his body with his other arm. Bumping the door shut with his hip, he moved quickly to the kitchen counter and unceremoniously dumped the groceries there.

"I'll get your crutches in a minute. They were too big to carry with everything else."

"Don't worry about it. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

Starsky grinned as he made his way towards the front door. "I think I like the sound of that. I've got you at my mercy now." Giving Hutch a wink, he headed outside.

Hutch knew his partner was only teasing, but Starsky's playful words struck way too close to home. Looking for something to distract himself, he eyed the fireplace. While the cabin had a small electric heating unit tucked away in the corner, and judging by its hum, Starsky had turned it on, the little house was pretty nippy.

"That heater is never going to get the job done on its own," Hutch murmured, pushing a bit unsteadily to his feet.

Coop had done a good job organizing the space around the fireplace. Split logs were neatly stacked in a cubby alongside the firebox. Old newspapers were similarly piled nearby. Kindling had already been laid and was at the ready.

Hutch couldn't put any weight on his broken leg. But he could hop, and the furniture was placed closely enough together that he could steady himself by hanging on to pieces of it as he moved.

"What are you doin'?" Starsky asked, coming inside, Hutch's crutches in one hand, one final bag of groceries in the other.

Hutch had reached the hearth. He held onto the mantel for balance. "Toss me your lighter, would you?"

Starsky set the crutches alongside the door and dug in his coat pocket for his Zippo. "I thought you Boy Scouts were always prepared."

"Sea Scouts," Hutch said with a smile. "We didn't get a lot of call for building fires on the water."

"My mistake."

"I'll forgive you. If you'll give me a hand."

Starsky took the groceries to the kitchen, then crossed to him and handed him the lighter. "What else do you need, Blintz?"

"Help me get down to the floor, would you? I want to get a fire going."

Starsky looked pleased he was taking such initiative. "Great idea. You get that started and I'll put the groceries away."

It took Hutch no time at all to get a blaze going. The wood must have been chopped ages ago. It was dry and caught quickly.

Starsky had been busy in the kitchen too.

"I know it's late, but I could do with a little food before we turn in. You up for some chicken noodle soup?"

Hutch had stayed on the floor, content to warm himself before the flickering fire. He looked across the room and saw Starsky eyeing him as he might a growling stray, worried that stretching out a hand might get it bitten off.

Aw, babe. I've really done a number on you, haven't I? Why the hell do you put up with me?

"You know, soup actually sounds pretty good right now," Hutch said, hoping his casual manner didn't sound too studied. "Be nice to warm up on the inside as well as the out, you know?"

You would have thought Starsky had found the prize inside a box of Cracker Jack. His whole face lit up. "Yeah? Terrific. I'll heat it up. Maybe make some toast or something to go with it."

Their late night supper didn't take long to prepare, and by that time the little cabin was snug and warm. After a helping hand up from Starsky, Hutch made his way to the table, initially telling himself he was doing this only to please his partner. But when he sat down in front of bowl of Campbell's finest, he found, much to his surprise, he was actually hungry. Hutch couldn't remember the last time that had been the case. He even helped himself to a couple of toast triangles. Starsky watched him eat, all but beaming with approval.

Shit, Starsk. If I'd known it meant that much to you, I'd have choked down all those meals you'd prepared long before now.

Eventually, both men had finished eating and Hutch found himself nodding over his empty bowl. Starsky noticed, pushed himself away from the table, and came to stand at Hutch's side.

"Come on, you. Let's put you to bed before you do a nose dive into the toast crumbs."

Embarrassed to be caught in the act, Hutch blinked himself more alert and shooed Starsky away. "Don't worry about me. I can get ready on my own. Which bedroom is mine?"

Starsky got a weird look on his face, half puzzlement, half embarrassment. "Uh… actually, that's not too hard to figure out. Seeing as there's only one."

That announcement urged Hutch even further awake. "One?"

Starsky nodded, that half embarrassment growing to whole. "Yeah. I thought I'd told you that. Is it a problem?"

Hutch hurriedly tried to cover his dismay. "Um… no, no, that's fine. I just didn't realize—"

"Oh, it's your leg, isn't it?" Starsky said, like a light bulb had suddenly blazed to life above his head. "I'm sorry, babe, I wasn't thinking. I'll just bunk on the couch."

"No, Starsk… it's not that." The last thing Hutch wanted was for Starsky to spend the night on the couch like some husband in the doghouse. It never mattered how long or how deep a couch was, it was never as comfortable to sleep on as a mattress. "If anything, I'm worried about keeping you awake."

That seemed to set Starsky's mind at ease. He smiled broadly, and clapped Hutch on the shoulder. "Whaddya talkin' about? You're so tired, you'll be unconscious the minute your head hits the pillow. Don't worry about me. As long as you're not worried about me bumping you or something, we'll be fine."

"No. I'm not worried about that."

And Hutch wasn't. Not at all. He also wasn't concerned that he would suddenly have the urge to jump poor Starsky in his sleep. His feelings might have changed towards his partner, but that didn't mean all his inhibitions had vanished. Hutch was pretty sure he could keep his hands to himself.

Instead he saw it more as a betrayal of their friendship. After all, Starsky would be sleeping trustingly beside him, thinking nothing had changed, that they were pals, just like always. He'd have no idea that his best friend had begun to look at him with different eyes, want different things, things Hutch knew damned well could only drive a wedge between them if Starsky knew the truth.

But what were his options? He couldn't fess up, and Hutch was fairly certain Starsky would never agree to him sleeping on the couch.

Which, in an entirely selfish way, made Hutch awfully relieved.

"All right then," Hutch said, maneuvering to his feet. "Hand me my crutches, will you? I'm just going to brush my teeth and hit the hay."

Starsky did as he was asked, then got out of the way. "Here. Yell if you need anything. I'm gonna do a little KP. But I don't expect to be that far behind you."

"'Night, Starsk."

"'Night."

The bedroom wasn't particularly spacious, yet was large enough to hold a queen sized bed, dresser, a chest at the end of the bed for blankets and bedding, and a lone straight back chair. The warmth from the main room wasn't as evident in here. Hutch decided an extra blanket or two wouldn't be a bad idea.

He got ready quickly and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. Taking the far side of the bed, Hutch lifted up the many layers of covers and got settled on his back. Jesus. It felt good to lie down. Starsky was right. Tired as he was, Hutch thought he might actually be able to get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep for a change. Closing his eyes, he took a slow, deep breath and sank into the bed's comfortable depths.

Footfalls thumped against the cabin's wooden floors, sock-soft and muffled.

"Everything all right? You need anything?"

Hutch opened his eyes. Starsky stood silhouetted in the doorway. Hutch wished he could better see his partner's face. Maybe it was his imagination, but he'd thought he'd heard something swimming beneath the surface of Starsky's softly spoken questions. Sadness, maybe? Wistfulness? Whatever it was bothered Hutch. He didn't want Starsky to ever be sad.

"I'm good," Hutch said, his voice gravelly and hushed. "You okay?"

Starsky cocked his head with what looked like surprise. Maybe he was wrong, Hutch thought. Maybe he was imagining things. "Me? I'm golden. Why?"

Hutch shrugged. "Just wondered."

"Well, cut it out. All that wondering is keeping you from sleeping."

"I don't think anything could do that." As if to punctuate that statement, an enormous yawn rolled up unexpectedly from deep inside him, stretching his mouth wide.

Starsky chuckled. "I think that's my cue. Sweet dreams, Blintz. I'll see you the morning."

"'Night." Smiling now too, Hutch closed his eyes.

It wasn't long before his breath slowed and deepened. His muscles grew heavy and relaxed. Soon Hutch could feel sleep pulling him under, like a friend drawing him into a warm, soothing pool.

This was a good idea, he thought with what was left of his awareness. Starsk and he getting away. What a good guy, Starsky was. The best. Hutch was so lucky to have him in his life. Even if some of the feelings Hutch had towards him remained unrequited, Hutch would always be grateful for what they had.

Sighing, the last of his consciousness slipped away. But before it did, one strange and random observation drifted through his mind, the thread of thought so fragile it broke before it could take up residence in his memory.

That's funny. I don't think I ever heard Starsky walk away.

Starsky had to hand it to Hutch. While he might be way off-track with all that health food mumbo-jumbo, he was on the money when it came to the great outdoors and sleep. Starsky didn't know what it was, but whenever he accompanied Hutch on one of their wilderness expeditions, he always slept terrific. Especially when there was a chill in the air.

And there had certainly been that last night. Starsky had built up the fire before he'd crashed, but he'd known the blaze wouldn't last till dawn. He'd remembered how cold the cabin had been when they'd first gotten there, and had been grateful Hutch had loaded all those extra covers on the bed.

The bedding must have done the trick, because that morning he was nice and toasty.

Starsky was lying on his side, comfortable as could be, only the top of his head peering out above the layers of blankets.

God, this was a great bed. He'd have to say something to Coop when they got back. Exactly the right firmness, and the sheets smelled fresh and clean, like they'd just been pulled from the dryer.

His pillow was nice too. Soft, but not mushy. Warm, beautifully warm…

…and moving, lifting and falling with a gentle, measured rhythm.

When he thought about it later, Starsky was embarrassed to admit it hadn't been the moving pillow that had clued him in to the situation, but the sound coming from the moving pillow — a faint but regular thump that had echoed right below his ear. That persistent beat had finally been enough to wipe the sleep from his muddled brain, and urge him to investigate. He opened his eyes and lifted his head.

Shit!

He was tangled around Hutch like a kite string around a telephone wire. Hutch's arm was looped loosely around his shoulder. Starsky had his draped across Hutch's middle.

When he pulled it away, sneaking it beneath the covers like a thief slinking into the night, Hutch stirred. He wrinkled his forehead, murmured some nonsense. His arm fell away. Starsky stayed absolutely still. He didn't even dare breathe.

Don't wake up, babe. Please, please don't wake up!

It was funny, though. Even as Starsky played statue, he couldn't say for certain exactly why he wanted Hutch to keep his eyes shut.

Partly it was so Starsky could escape embarrassment, sure. Hutch and he were buds. Closer than brothers, willing to die for each other, the whole nine yards. But they'd never gone so far as to sleep in each other's arms.

No matter what kind of crazy longings Starsky had been wrestling with lately.

But it was also partly so Starsky could keep looking at him, up close and personal like. So he could pretend, just for a little while, that this was how it was with Hutch and him now. Waking up alongside each other, warm and cozy. That familiarity they'd shared dating back to their days at the academy now more intimate still.

Leaning over Hutch the way he was, feeling the other man's soft breath wash over his cheek, Starsky thought about the dreams he'd been having on and off since the attack. He knew where the dreams had come from, of course. Remembered with heart-stopping clarity the moment he'd gone tearing down the hillside to find Hutch all but unconscious beneath his LTD. Starsky had fallen to his knees at the wounded man's side, trembling with fear and adrenaline, reached out and cradled Hutch's face between his palms. It was the only part of him Starsky had felt confident he could touch and not hurt Hutch further. His favorite blond hadn't been firing on all cylinders; his eyes hadn't even been open. But when Starsky had moved in close, said Hutch's name, and those pale lashes had fluttered, the weirdest urge had come over him.

So help me, God, I want to kiss him. Like one of those fairy tale princes kisses his true love.

Starsky knew as well as anyone how dopey that idea was. Not only would it have meant coming out of a closet he had never even realized he was in. But Hutch was as far away from one of those Disney princesses as anything.

And Starsky was pretty fucking sure the big, tough guy he worked beside wouldn't appreciate being cast in the role of a skirt.

Still, that's when it had all begun. The yearning, the what-ifs. And with the way Starsky's morning chubby was getting chubbier by the minute, it didn't look like the problem was all in his head.

Not that head, anyway.

Damn it!

This was nuts. He was not going to lie there, popping a woody for his best friend, who was lying beside him in all innocence, dead to the world.

He had to get out of there.

Starsky pushed up a little higher on his forearm and began to carefully slide his leg free from between Hutch's. He didn't get far, though, before Hutch took a deep breath, stiffened, and opened his eyes.

Starsky froze again, looming over Hutch, hand-in-the-cookie-jar guilty.

Hutch blinked up at him, slow and sleepy. He wasn't totally awake yet, Starsky could tell. He would be any second, though, and Starsky could only imagine what would happen when he was.

A cutting remark.

A two-handed shove to the chest.

An awkward withdrawal.

But instead, Hutch's gaze turned tender, shining up at Starsky with such… sweetness, and he smiled, gentle and warm. "Hey."

And Starsky's insides turned to moosh.

Oh, man. He was a goner, no two ways about it.

I love him. I'm in love with him.

Honest to fucking god, I am.

And why wouldn't he be? Who wouldn't want to wake up to that every morning? That much love, that much strength. Starsky understood now why countless sweet young things had fallen like bowling pins before Hutch's devastating smile. He sympathized with all the Barbies and the Tammis and the Melissas. In a way, he had just signed on as some kind of weird mascot to their sisterhood. To be looked at like that by Hutch and know — just know — at that moment you're the absolute center of his universe….

"Starsk?"

Starsky started. Hutch was looking at him now with concern, and maybe even a touch of…

…fear?

Shit. Had Starsky given something away?

"How'd you sleep, babe?" Starsky said, sitting up and pulling away.

But Hutch wasn't going to let him get away with a misdirection. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. 'Course it is," Starsky said as enthusiastically as he could. "What could be wrong on our first morning of vacation?"

Hutch frowned, but didn't answer.

Pushing to his feet, Starsky ran his hands restlessly over his curly hair, walking first one way, then the other, trying to figure out how best to make his getaway.

Separation, that's what he needed. Some time to think.

And Starsky always did his best thinking in the shower.

Perfect.

He turned to say something, and saw Hutch watching him with a look that said he wasn't buying any of the bologna Starsky was overselling. As Starsky looked back, he saw Hutch's worried eyes turn cloudy and darken into something that seemed to Starsky an awful lot like embarrassment.

But that was ridiculous.

What the hell would the Blintz have to be embarrassed about?

"If it's okay with you, I was thinking I'd grab the shower first," Starsky said.

Hutch nodded, but avoided Starsky's eyes as he scooted his long legs over to the side of the bed. "Sure. Let me take a leak before you get in, though. Okay? While you're getting cleaned up, I'll see if I can't get the fire going again."

"Sounds good," Starsky said. "You need any help?"

"No, I'm good."

Sheesh. We sound like strangers or something.

But that didn't stop him from all but bolting into the bathroom when the opportunity arose, and closing the door behind him.

That's just great, Davey-boy. So you're not only a big homo now, but apparently you're also a coward.

Standing with his back against the bathroom door, Starsky thought about that. What exactly was it he was so freakin' scared of? It had nothing to do with him and the way he felt about himself — all that identity crap and know your own true self psycho-babble filling the paperback shelves. No, his fears all had to do with Hutch.

If he found out how Starsky felt, would Hutch hate him? Or worse yet, pity him.

Starsky didn't think he could stand that, to look at Hutch and see that looking back at him.

"Never gonna happen," Starsky swore, the words spoken low and soft. "I won't let it happen."

No. He would be the best friend Hutch would ever have. He'd be there for him through thick and thin. Protecting him. Making him laugh, even when he didn't really want to. He'd love the guy like the other half of himself. But that was it. Starsky had no choice.

To do anything else would be to risk everything.

Hutch did what was expected of him. He got up, got ready, got dressed. He ate the granola Starsky had bought for him, sipped at a cup of the rocket fuel Starsky considered coffee. He went through the motions. But his heart wasn't in it.

How could it when that heart belonged to Starsky?

And clearly he didn't want it.

God. How could Hutch have been so stupid? To let his guard down like that… It was because those feelings he'd had for months had ganged up on him when he wasn't even awake. That's the reason he'd made such a blunder. When he'd opened his eyes and seen Starsky leaning over him, five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw, his hair mashed on one side, his blue eyes bright and alert and focused solely on him….

Hutch had known it could be dangerous sleeping beside Starsky with his feelings turned upside down as they were. But he'd really thought he would be able to hold it together better than he had. He had done undercover work, for crying out loud. He knew how to disguise what he was really thinking. But all he'd needed to do was say a single word, and his partner had recognized all he hadn't said.

I wonder if a taxi would come and pick me up all the way out here in the woods.

That was the worst of it, of course. Well maybe not the worst, but it was certainly bad enough. Hutch was well and truly trapped, just like he'd been under his car not all that long ago. Regardless of how much he might want to, he couldn't escape from Starsky or his well-meaning kindness.

And Hutch thought it might be the kindness that finally did him in.

Starsky obviously knew how mortified Hutch was by what he'd revealed. So Starsk was working overtime to try and convince Hutch they were fine and everything was business as usual. He'd spent the morning being charming, obliging, quick with a quip or a joke. Hutch fully expected he'd launch into juggling any minute now. Anything to make his partner smile.

But smiling was the last thing Hutch had on his mind. It was humiliating to have Starsky bending over backwards like he was. Hutch wanted to say to him, It's okay, you know. I understand you don't want me, like that. I'll admit it hurts, but it won't kill me. Just give me time and I'll get these feelings under control. You'll see. Only please, please don't change. I can take it, I can take anything, as long as I don't lose what I already have.

Only he couldn't say any of that, not if Starsky didn't want to hear it. And he didn't. Starsky had made that plain enough. If Hutch's partner had wanted to talk it out, he would have when he'd realized what was going on. But instead, he'd all but pole vaulted from the bed, trying to get away from Hutch and all of Hutch's unfortunate needs. Hutch had watched Starsky pace the floor, his hands in his hair, obviously beside himself. But rather than confront the situation head-on, Starsky had fled.

Right into the bathroom.

Hutch wouldn't force Starsky to talk about something that made him so uncomfortable. Especially not when Hutch was right there with him, feeling that same discomfort.

So they would both just pretend nothing had happened.

Yeah. That'll work.

"Come on, Blondie," Starsky said, clearing away the breakfast dishes. "It's a beautiful day. We got rods, we've got worms, we spent money on the damned licenses — let's go terrorize some fish."

"You go ahead, Starsk," Hutch said, pushing away from the table. "I think I'm just going to take it easy, maybe stretch out on the couch and read a bit."

"Oh… okay. That's cool. But you know — you could do your reading outside. Take advantage of all the sun. Coop has a couple of those great big Adirondack chairs set up. Should be comfy. You could keep me company."

Hutch took a calming breath before he spoke. "Fine. All right. I'll go outside."

Hutch knew Starsky was right. It would have been ridiculous to come all the way out into the Sierra Nevada foothills and then sit inside for a weekend. He also knew he hadn't exactly given in gracefully. But Starsky didn't seem to mind any of it. He merely smiled when Hutch agreed. Then, after the two of them had cleaned up the kitchen, Starsky helped his friend to one of the chairs right near the waterline, carrying his book for him — a Crichton novel — and a glass of lemonade.

"Here you go," he said as Hutch leaned his crutches against the back of the chair and lowered himself down onto the seat. "You want a blanket or anything?"

Hutch glared up at him. "For god's sake, Starsky. I'm not an 80 year old invalid."

Starsky handed him his things and backed away, hands up in the classic "Don't Shoot, Officer" pose. "All right. All right. I never said you were."

"Go fish."

"I'm goin', I'm goin'."

Hutch put his lemonade on the ground beside him and looked out over the lake and surrounding shoreline. It really was pretty up here. With them being at a higher elevation, the trees weren't quite as dense with leaves as they were back home. But everywhere he looked, things were budding and green. The sky overhead was a deep, pristine blue, with only the most delicate wisps of cloud to break up all the solid color. The water below reflected all that color back up again, with the gentle breeze creating ripples in the surface that echoed the clouds.

It was beautiful. No question about it. And his idiot partner, who Hutch loved more than anything in the world, was the one who had given it to him, practically tied up with a bow.

Reaching down to retrieve his lemonade, Hutch took a sip and turned his attention to Starsky. His friend might claim to hate the great outdoors, but he looked good in it. Starsky was dressed much as Hutch was — jeans and a sweatshirt. But where Hutch's shirt was a faded grassy green, Starsky's was gray and proudly proclaimed "BCPD" across its chest.

Hutch watched as Starsky got his fishing gear from the trunk of the car, and carried it down to the pier.

"You know, I think the last time I went fishing was with my dad off Coney Island," Starsky called over to him, squinting against the sun.

"Oh yeah?" Hutch replied. "What did you catch?"

Starsky grinned. "Nothing. Pop bought me a chili cheese dog with the works, and a malted, just to cheer me up after. It was a great day."

Hutch had to smile at that, at the picture that formed in his head of much younger Starsky cheered by a junk food meal and a day with his favorite guy.

Takes so little to make you happy, buddy, doesn't it? I need to get better at that. At bringing you joy, instead of bringing you down.

Making that promise to himself and to Starsky, Hutch cracked open his book and lost himself for a time in the thriller's plot.

A kind of peace settled over him as he read, one that began to fill him with hope instead of dread. That morning had been bad. He had exposed his feelings for Starsky and been rejected. And yet, it wasn't going to be the end of everything. Starsky had taken great pains to show him that. And if the whole thing was embarrassing, well… no one had ever died from a little embarrassment. It would pass. The bad stuff always did.

"Hey, Hutch! Do me a favor, wouldja? Watch how I cast. I don't think I'm snapping my wrist right. I feel like I should be getting more distance than I am."

Feeling better than he had all morning, Hutch marked his place and looked up, eager to help out, to be as good a friend to Starsky as Starsky was to him. "Okay, buddy. Show me what you got."

Starsky had dropped his eyes, and was adjusting his worm on the hook. When he heard Hutch's response, he looked up and started to turn to face the lake. Just then a large fish — Hutch couldn't tell what kind — broke the water only a couple of feet from the pier. Starsky startled, and stepped onto the pole he hadn't been using, which had been lying by his feet.

To Hutch's horrified eyes, from then on, everything seemed to happen at once.

The pole rolled.

Starsky lost his footing.

He dropped the rod in his hands.

And fell.

Hitting his head on the edge of the pier and disappearing into the lake.

"STARSKY!"

Without even thinking, Hutch fumbled to his feet. He grabbed hold of his crutches, propped them under his arms, and with speed he hadn't known he possessed, clomped his way onto the pier.

Starsky's head broke the water a few yards from the dock. Hutch heard him gasp for air.

"Starsk!"

Before he vanished once more.

"STARSKY!"

There wasn't anyone around, no one to turn to, no one to help. Hutch did the only thing he could do.

He dropped his crutches.

And dove in.

The water was fucking freezing.

Immediately, his cast, which was heavy enough on dry land, turned into an anchor around his leg, dragging him deeper, away from the lake's surface and precious air.

Away from Starsky.

Hutch clenched his teeth and fought its pull with everything he had. He kicked and thrashed in the water, his arms straining against its frigid depths, his good leg compensating as best it could for his injured one.

Hutch kept his eyes open as he swam. The water, which had looked so clear from shore, turned out to be murkier than he'd expected, dulled by algae and aquatic plants, and the churn Starsky and he were creating.

He could see Starsky now, flailing before him, seemingly aware, yet confused. He didn't have his head above water. Hutch pushed towards him, propelling himself forward, his lungs burning, his muscles screaming with exertion.

Finally, he reached Starsky's side. He wrapped an arm around the other man's ribs and launched them both towards the surface, his face tilted upwards to snatch a breath as quickly as he could. He needed to. Spots were beginning form around the edges of his vision.

Not a moment too soon, they popped free of the water. Hutch gasped, gulped in a breath, then gulped in another. Holding his partner close, he felt Starsky do the same.

"Babe… don't fight me, okay?" Hutch panted into Starsky's hair. He had his one arm hooked now around Starsky's chest and was using the other to help guide them to shore. "Don't fight… just… lie there. Okay? You're all right. I've got you. I've got you."

Hutch couldn't tell just how alert Starsky was, but something of what he'd said must have gotten through, because Starsky stilled in his arms and allowed Hutch to support them both.

Hutch had done this sort of thing before. He'd spent every summer of high school and college as a lifeguard at his father's country club. Under normal circumstances, he was an excellent swimmer with good lung capacity.

But this wasn't normal circumstances. He still hadn't recovered from the attack and his hospital stay, his cast made him feel as if he were dragging a ball and chain while trying to support Starsky's weight and his, and the icy water was sapping what strength he did have with every stroke. He knew he didn't have all that far to swim, but Hutch began to worry about making it to shore.

"H-Hutch?"

Hutch couldn't answer. He simply didn't have enough air in his lungs for words. But hearing Starsky's voice spurred him on. He couldn't give up. He couldn't fail. Starsky was depending on him.

So he kept stroking.

And kicking.

And fighting.

Until finally, his heel hit lake bottom and he began an awkward kind of hopping through the shallows, dragging his beloved burden along with him.

One more hop.

Then another.

Then, trembling with exhaustion, his good leg finally gave out. Hutch fell down hard, carrying Starsky with him, water splashing everywhere.

And he began to crawl, still dragging Starsky, until the only part of him that remained in the water was the bottom half of his legs. Finally, he could go no further. He collapsed onto his back and looked up into the clear blue sky, Starsky still clutched to his heart.

"We made it, Starsk," Hutch whispered, letting go of his friend, his one hand falling heavily now on Starsky's dripping curls. His chest heaved, struggling to give him the oxygen he required. But it was a losing battle. His poor abused body had put up with about all it was going to put up with. It needed a break, and it decided to take it.

Hutch's eyelashes grew heavy. His vision blurred. Heat raced up the back of his neck to flood his brow, even as his extremities grew colder still.

"S-Starsk…?" he gasped, and then said nothing more.

He passed out.

He would later realize it was the first time he had ever fainted.

Starsky really wasn't sure what the hell had happened. One minute he was standing on the dock, talking to Hutch. The next, he was wet and cold. And his head hurt really bad.

He didn't ever black out, but he had gotten awfully confused. He'd known he'd fallen in the lake, but he hadn't been able to find his way to the surface. No matter which way he'd turned, there had always seemed to be more water.

That's when he'd gotten a little scared. Because, muddled though he was, he knew unless he could figure out a way to grow some gills, and quickly, he was going to be in for some pretty serious trouble.

Only it hadn't come to that. Since something big and strong, with a better sense of direction, had found him and brought him out into the air.

Starsky had never thought oxygen could taste so sweet.

He had remained a little fuzzy as he and his rescuer had made their way to shore. He'd been told everything was all right, and he'd believed the one who had told him so. Only he hadn't, for the life of him, been able to work out who that one might have been.

But he'd tried not to get too stressed about it. After all, they were both okay. That, he was sure of. He'd figured the rest of it would all get clearer in time.

And now, as he lay sprawled, belly down, on the lakeshore, exhausted and chilled to the bone, despite the bright sun overhead, it did.

"Hutch?"

Starsky pushed himself up to his forearms and looked to his left. His partner lay beside him, eyes closed, mouth slack, his cast a disintegrating mess.

"Hutch!"

Starsky elbow-walked his way closer, then scrambled to his knees and took hold of the other man's shoulder. "Hutch? Babe, come on. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to me, you son of a bitch. Not again."

Trembling now with what he was sure was more panic than cold, Starsky ran his hands over Hutch's pale features, and down to rest on the other man's chest. "Okay. Okay, so you're breathing. That's good, right? Better than the alternative, huh. So come on, open up those baby blues and tell me you're all right. Whaddya say?"

Apparently nothing. Hutch continued to lie there, unresponsive.

No. This is unacceptable.

Starsky came closer still, leaned down, and captured Hutch's face between his palms. "No. No, no, no. We are not doing this again. You hear me, Hutchinson? I've had enough of you being hurt and hurting, and me standing around, useless, watching you suffer. So get with the program, Blondie. You hear me? You wake the hell up!"

And with that, Starsky brought Hutch's face to his, and kissed him, softly, on the lips.

And wouldn't you know it, as soon as their lips parted, Hutch shifted, just a little, just enough to let Starsky know he was coming around. Then he opened his eyes, just like Starsky had asked him to.

Well, maybe it was more demanded than asked.

"Welcome back," Starsky murmured, still cradling him in his hands.

"Starsk?" Hutch whispered, frowning like he couldn't make sense of it all. Starsky knew the feeling.

"None other."

"Are you… are you okay?" Hutch asked, reaching out to grab hold of Starsky's sodden sweatshirt.

"Yeah," Starsky said. "Other than a pretty good headache, I'm fine. How are you holding up?"

Hutch thought about it for a minute. "I feel like I could sleep for about a million years and every muscle in my body aches. Otherwise, I think I'm okay."

"Glad to hear it," Starsky said, smiling. "You're a hero, Blintz. You saved my life."

Hutch smiled back, then looked away, as if embarrassed. The goof. "Must have been my turn."

"Must have been."

With that, Hutch looked up at him again. Their eyes held, and Starsky searched Hutch's gaze. Really searched, in a way he hadn't before because he'd been too afraid of what he might find.

Starsky didn't know why he was suddenly feeling so brave.

But he supposed cheating death might have that kind of effect on a guy.

What he saw in Hutch's eyes surprised him, though it was familiar. He was pretty sure his own eyes had looked that same way a time or two.

Whenever they looked in Hutch's direction.

Well, what do you know?

"Hutch, I'm going to do something right now. And I need you to let me do it. If you don't like it, you can tell me so after. Okay? Just don't say no right away, though."

Hutch looked confused. Starsky really couldn't blame him. "Okay, Starsk. Whatever you need."

Starsky nodded. "Thanks." Then he lowered his head once more, and pressed their lips together.

The first time had been nice, but Hutch hadn't really been an equal participant. For Starsky to know for sure they were going to have a chance, he had to make certain Hutch and he were on the same page.

If nothing else, this would be a very pleasant way to find out.

Hutch's lips were cool at first, chilled no doubt from his unexpected swim. They warmed quickly, though, softened, and parted. With a groan, Starsky begged entry with his tongue. Hutch welcomed him, opening his mouth even further, and slipping forth his own tongue to rub and play.

God, it was good. Hutch tasted good. He felt good. Starsky could have done this all day. Only both of them were soaking wet and shivering, Hutch needed at the very least a new cast, and Starsky's back was killing him from bending over the way he was. Reluctantly, he pulled away and released Hutch, lowering him back against the shore. Hutch gazed up at him, his eyes wide and more than a little bit shocked.

"W-What was that?" Hutch asked.

"What do you want it to be?"

All that shock got burned away quickly by the heat of Hutch's anger. Starsky hadn't meant to, but it appeared he had royally pissed the other man off. "Don't play around with me, Starsky. You know what I'm asking. What did you mean by that kiss?"

It was a fair enough question. Starsky would probably have asked it himself, if the shoe had been on the other foot. "It means I think something has changed with me, Hutch. I'm not sure why. And I swear to god, I never planned it. But… somehow… I've fallen in love with you. Isn't that weird? And I don't know what to do about it."

He stopped there, thinking this might be a good place for Hutch to jump in. Only the blond missed his cue. He continued to stare up at Starsky, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy's, so many emotions flitting across his features, Starsky was getting dizzy just watching it.

So he prompted Hutch. "You got any ideas?"

Come on, Hutch. Please don't leave me hanging.

All at once, Hutch's eyes cleared. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard before saying, "I've… I've maybe got a few."

Starsky could feel a smile coming on, but he controlled it. It wasn't time. Not yet. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

Hutch pretended to think about it. "Well first, I think maybe you should go back into the house and call for an ambulance…"

"Oh, shit, Hutch. Why didn't you say something? You'd told me you were okay!"

"Take it easy," Hutch said, giving him a shake. "I am okay. It's just… as sore as I am, I don't know how mobile I'm going to be if you were to try and take me in yourself. And with the terrain being what it is here, you're not going to be able to bring the car all the way down to the lake. It just seems simpler all the way round to call in the professionals."

His heart slowing to a more regular beat, Starsky nodded. "All right. Understood. That'll be step one. What comes after?"

"After we let the docs do their magic — I want them to check out your head, by way — and as soon as they cut us loose, we come back here, call Dobey, tell him we need a few more days and then…"

"And then?" Starsky prodded when Hutch had trailed off. Don't go messing with me, Handsome. I've had a very trying day. "And then what?"

Hutch smiled. "And then you let me show you how much I love you too."

Starsky didn't have anything to say to that. Well, he did. But he was having trouble just then with this throat. As hopeful as he had been going into all this, part of him had never really believed he'd hear Hutch say the words.

Finally, he murmured, "I could get behind that."

"Good," Hutch said, reaching up to rest his palm against Starsky's cheek. "Because I do, you know. I love you like crazy."

That warranted a smile, a big one, full of teeth. "I was pretty sure crazy factored in somehow."

"Yeah, well at least we're in it together," Hutch said, taking his hand.

"You know it," Starsky said, pushing back some tangled hair from Hutch's forehead, then pressing a quick hard kiss there, to seal the deal. "I'm really sorry, babe, that you got hurt again, saving my sorry ass. I don't know what the doctors will say, and I hope to hell whatever is wrong now is nothing a couple Tylenol and some icepacks won't cure, but I have to tell you — I've got some ideas of my own about how to get you back to fighting form in no time."

"Oh yeah?" Hutch said, smiling. "What did you have in mind?"

"Bed rest," Starsky said, doing all he could to keep a straight face. "Lots and lots of bed rest. Only not alone, 'cause see — I'd be afraid you'd get bored."

"You volunteering to keep me company?"

"You better believe it. Because Hutch — that is an awesome bed. And you and me? We're going to be awesome together in it."

The End

Callie's Boy

For Audrey

December 24, 1975. Late yesterday afternoon, a woman peacefully surrendered the two year old boy she had been holding at gunpoint for five hours in a home at 212 Walker Street. The woman, identified by police as 26 year old Calliope Miller, was arrested on charges of forcible confinement, kidnapping and armed assault. The child, whom police have not identified, was later placed in the care of Bay City Social Services. Detective Kenneth Hutchinson, whom sources say was instrumental in negotiating the child's release, was not available for comment.

That was how the newspaper told it. The facts were right, more or less. The truth, as always, was a bit harder to pin down.

"No." Starsky's voice was cold. "No way." He leaned back against the Torino, arms folded.

"Starsk, we've been standing out here for an hour." "Here" was in front of a small stucco cottage on Walker. Faded paint, patchy grass, gravel drive. Not the best part of town, but probably not the worst. Social worker from County had called it in when she got chased from the house with a gun. Now the woman was refusing to come out. With or without the kid.

"We got a report about possible child neglect. I had to investigate," she'd told them when they first showed up. She seemed more annoyed than frightened. "You get her and the kid out of the house. They don't pay me enough for this."

"Ain't none of us getting rich here, lady," Starsky muttered.

"Anyone know who she is?" Hutch asked.

"Neighbor says her name is Callie Miller. There's a kid — a boy, she thinks, about two or three — and a boyfriend apparently, but she didn't know their names. She only knows Callie's because she got some of her mail by mistake. She said the boyfriend looks like a real winner. Her words, not mine. Look, can I go now?" she asked impatiently. "I have six other cases to get to today. Goddamn Christmas brings out the crazy in people."

"What are we supposed to do with the kid?" Starsky asked.

"Call my office." She reached in her purse for a business card. "They'll send someone. I'll phone ahead and let them know we'll need a place for the boy tonight."

That was an hour ago.

"Someone needs to go in there, Starsk. Make sure the kid's okay. I'm only going to talk to her." He'd already made up his mind, so getting Starsky to agree was more politeness than protocol.

"No."

"You're beginning to sound like my ex-wife." Hutch waited for a smile but didn't get one. "Anyway, I'm not asking for permission." He was already taking off his jacket, unbuckling his shoulder holster.

Starsky let out a long breath and rested a hand on Hutch's shoulder. "Just be careful, okay? And don't expect me to explain it to the captain for you."

"I'll be fine. Better me in there than some trigger happy rookie out here." Hutch wondered if that sounded as lame to Starsky as it did to him.

"Moron," Starsky called after him.

Hutch didn't disagree.

Merry fucking Christmas.

He knocked. Explained who he was, told her he was unarmed. Left out the part about how he was breaking every rule in the police handbook. A dirty curtain moved in the window, so he kept talking. "See all those police cars out there? They're not just going to go away. And they're not nearly as patient as I am."

"Leave me alone."

"Too late for that. But maybe I can help you figure a way out of this… situation, Callie."

She didn't answer for so long he began to think she wouldn't. Maybe using her name so soon had been a mistake. "Okay, you can come in," she said. "Back up from the door."

She held a gun in one shaky hand and a little boy in a diaper and stained t-shirt in the other. She took a step backward from the front door and nodded toward the kitchen.

"Sit down in there," she said. "Away from the window. And keep your hands where I can see them." She'd obviously seen enough cop shows to pick up some pointers.

He lowered himself onto the dirty kitchen floor, his back pressed up hard against a cabinet door, the metal handle digging into his skin. She sat opposite him, and pulled the boy down onto her lap. Her long, straight hair fell forward and the little boy laughed and grabbed a handful and put it in his mouth.

"Go on," she said. "Start talking."

For a long minute, he could think of nothing to say that wouldn't sound like the bullshit it was. He suspected they both knew there was only one way out of this that didn't end up with her spending Christmas in jail. Any chance she had at keeping the kid with her disappeared the minute she pulled the gun on the social worker.

"I promise nothing bad will happen to you or the boy if you just give me the gun."

She released a flare of laughter. "Christ. You men — you're all the same. You sound like Jamie — 'stay with me, baby, and I'll take care of you.' Last time I saw him, he was walking out the door with the rent money and all my shit… he probably called Social Services before he left. Bastard took everything else, no way he's getting the kid. Only reason I had the gun was because I thought it was Jamie at the door come back to get him. Then the bitch starts screaming and I get pissed and tell her to get the fuck out, and next thing you know I got a hundred cops parked in front of the house. Who pissed in her corn flakes?"

As she talked, Hutch imagined the girl she used to be, blonde and the kind of pretty that peaks at sixteen. She wore her disappointment — in men, in life — like a six point star sewn onto the sleeve of her India cotton shirt. She told him it was Jamie who got her pregnant, convinced her to have the baby. "I didn't want a kid, all I wanted was the three hundred bucks to get rid of it. But he said this guy he met promised him a job at a garage down on Freemont, he was going to make enough money to pay for everything." She patted the boy's thin, blond hair absently. "He promised to take care of me." She laughed bitterly. "Know what my grandma calls those?"

Hutch shook his head.

"Piecrust promises. Easily made. Easily broken."

He wanted to tell her to stop talking about the boy like he wasn't there. He wanted to tell her to grow the fuck up. Instead he said, "Do you have any family that can help out? It must be hard to be alone at Christmas."

"I got a mother, if that's what you mean. She lives over in Barstow with her boyfriend."

"Maybe you should call her, Callie. See if she can help. My partner and I could drive you out there later if you wanted."

She rolled her eyes. "Gee, Ken, she'd love that — finally give her the chance to say 'I told you so.' Thanks, but no thanks."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-one," she said after a moment's hesitation and he almost believed her. That had always been his weakness, he knew, believing the lies that women told him.

The boy whined and squirmed to get away. He pointed at the empty bottle on the kitchen table and repeated something that sounded like "bah-bah."

"Sit the fuck down," she swore and pulled him back down, never taking her eyes off Hutch.

"Let me get him what he wants," he offered when the boy began to whimper.

She hesitated. "He wants milk, but I don't got any left. There's apple juice on the counter beside the fridge. You can fill his bottle with that."

Hutch stood in front of the window and filled the bottle with apple juice from the half-empty can. He caught a glimpse of Starsky standing beside one of the SWAT team surrounding the house, and Hutch mouthed "I'm fine" at him quickly before he turned back and handed the boy the bottle and sat down.

He tried to keep her talking, but she was distracted and kept looking at the clock over the stove.

"Can I get you something?" he asked eventually. He wished he was like Starsky, a candy bar always tucked away into a shirt pocket like insurance against an unexpected famine.

She shrugged. "How about a white Christmas? Why don't you call up one of your cop friends outside and order me one of those?"

"Come on, Callie. You know I can't."

"I had one once, you know… a white Christmas, I mean. My father took us to Lake Tahoe one year when I was a kid. First time I ever saw snow… last time too." She kissed the boy quickly on his cheek and said, "This whole thing," she waved the gun around the room, "ain't going nowhere, is it? You can't do nothing except to wait until I get all sad and sorry and hand over the gun and the kid." Her tone had shifted, the coy self-pity, replaced by something harder, needier. "Bet you're not used to someone else calling the shots, are you?"

"I just want to help, that's all. Make sure no one gets hurt."

"Can you promise me that if I give you the gun, everyone out there's going to go home and forget what I done?"

"I'm sure I can get them to go easy, realize it was all just a misunderstanding." It was the sorriest excuse for a lie he'd ever told.

"I can't decide if you're a liar or just stupid. And I'm tired of trying to figure it out." She looked down at the gun like she just remembered she'd had it all along.

"C'mon, Callie. We can still work this out." For the first time since it started, he heard the fear bleed through his words. And he knew she'd heard it too.

"I should just fucking get this over with." She pushed the boy off her lap, stood up, and walked over to Hutch and pressed the gun against his temple. The plastic bottle fell to the floor and rolled out of reach and the boy whimpered.

All Hutch could think was how pissed Starsky would be if she actually killed him. At her, of course, but mostly at him, for the stupid Boy Scout way he always thought he could fix things.

"Put the gun down. Please." He wanted to warn her about the SWAT team. About how they could only get a clean shot if she were standing. But he was tired now, his legs cramped and his back sore, and he wanted it to end. For an instant, he wished someone would take the shot. Take her out. Take control.

The boy wailed, great gulping sobs that left him breathless. "Please," Hutch said. "He's scared." Maybe he should've grabbed the gun then, in the moment she turned away from him to look at the boy. But the boy held out his arms to him, and he leaned forward to pick him up without thinking. She leaped at them, hitting Hutch with the barrel of the gun, hard, against the side of his head, and he twisted away from the boy. He felt the blood in his hair, hot and sticky.

"Don't you fucking touch him," she shouted, pulling the boy into her arms and sinking to the floor.

She was crying now too, and Hutch watched the gun clatter to the floor beside them. He kicked it out of reach, but didn't make a move to stand.

It was over.

She rocked the boy, singing Desperado like a lullaby, and it worked to calm them both. She didn't protest when Hutch stood, wiped his bloody hand on his jeans, and picked up the gun off the floor. He held out his arms for the boy. "It's time."

She nodded and pushed him towards Hutch. "I'll get him back, I swear, I'll get him back. I'm his mother."

The boy was heavier than he imagined. "What's his name, Callie? I want to know his name."

"Jamie. Like his father. Probably why I never use it." She smiled a small broken smile, wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt, and stood. She kissed Jamie's small blond head, took a deep breath and walked out with her hands above her head.

Hutch sat in the front seat of the Torino and cradled the sleeping boy on his lap until a tired social worker held out impatient arms and took him away.

Starsky slid into the seat beside him, reached up and fingered the matted blood on the side of Hutch's head. "Stitches, you think?"

He flinched but didn't pull away. "Aspirin and scotch should do it. Where is she?"

"McElroy and Dodds took her in." He glanced at his watch. "Our shift ended three hours ago. Captain said you can write it up in the morning. Judge won't hear it before then anyway."

"So I can go home?" He yawned and rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Unless you want to talk to some reporters first. They'd love a good Christmas sob story." Hutch shook his head and Starsky turned the key in the ignition. "You did good in there, you know."

"Did I?" He leaned his head back against the seat and blinked slowly, thinking about all the ways it could have gone wrong.

"Kid's safe and you're more or less in one piece."

"His name's Jamie."

"OK. Jamie's safe. Plus I've just about forgiven you for going in alone. You want to talk about what happened?"

"Not now."

Starsky fed him scrambled eggs, a tumbler of scotch, and a lie about how the kid was better off in a foster home anyway.

"I suppose." Hutch was too tired to argue. He swirled the scotch in the glass and wondered how many it would take to let him sleep. More than Starsky would let him have, he guessed.

"You can't save everyone," Starsky said. It's what he always said.

"I suppose," Hutch repeated. It was what he always said.

Starsky had pointed Hutch toward the couch after dinner, threw a blanket at him and told him to get comfortable. Then he'd stood at the sink humming Christmas songs while he washed dishes, singing louder every time he turned around and saw Hutch's eyes closing.

"No sleep, remember? She whacked you pretty hard and you might have a concussion. Not that I'd ever know of course, Mr. Suffers-in-Silence."

"Who gets to suffer in silence with you around?" Truth was, his head hurt like hell and he probably should have gone to the ER. But given a choice between three hours in Emergency and sitting here, listening to Starsky's off-key version of White Christmas — "Do you miss it? A white Christmas, I mean?"

"The movie? Never saw it."

"No, I mean snow. You know, like the song?"

Starsky dried his hands on a dishtowel. "God, no. I shoveled enough snow when I was a kid. I swear my mother had some racket going — every time it snowed, she 'volunteered' my services to everyone in the neighborhood. I must have shoveled enough driveways to get me to California and back. And it's not exactly like Christmas was a big thing in the Starsky house. Jews don't get a hard-on for sleigh bells in the snow like you people do."

Hutch would've laughed if he didn't think it would make his head hurt ten times worse than it already did.

Starsky sat in the armchair opposite him and leaned forward. "You gonna tell me what went on in that house today? Or are we going to have a long talk about snow instead?"

Hutch smiled. "Something Callie said made me think of it, that's all." Then he added, "My mother's name is Callie. Did I ever tell you that?"

"So how come I call her Catherine?"

"Catherine is what my father calls her. Her grown-up name, she always says. But she's still Callie to her family."

"What's really bugging you, Hutch? Last time I'm going to ask."

"It's all luck, isn't it? Someone tossed the dice and I got my mother and Jamie got his." When Starsky looked confused, he said, "I have good parents, Starsk, and it never occurred to me when I was a kid that it could be any other way. He's two years old and he's already fucked. And the worst part of it is, Callie's not evil, she's just not good enough. Like her parents weren't good enough."

Starsky rested a hand on Hutch's knee. "So do something about it."

"How? There's too many kids. Too many screwed up parents."

"Then pick one and help that one." Starsky said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Maybe it was. "I'm staying over tonight," he added.

"You may regret it. White Christmas is on at ten."

"You know the song was originally called White Hanukkah, right? Sold ten copies. Then Irving Berlin gets the bright idea to change it to White Christmas…"

fin
December 2008

All I Want

For Sue

We've talked about our fantasies before, but in truth we haven't done a whole lot of exploring.

The handcuffs are out; neither of us wants to mix business with pleasure.

The only time hot wax got dripped on bare skin was during a power outage, and we were more interested in locating a flashlight.

And as for dressing up and playing a kink, well, we get enough of that with undercover work.

Buzzed a bit on beer one night, I confessed to Hutch what I fantasized about the most.

The most erotic thing imaginable, I told my partner, was of him displaying his body, masturbating with me as only an observer.

"I want you to show me how you touch yourself. I want to watch…" I faltered, gasping from a thirst I did not understand and a heat I knew all too well.

I think my intensity probably scared him a little. I know it did me.

Hutch's first reaction was boyish discomfort. He blushed quietly and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth.

Then, he narrowed his eyes, and a sly look came over his face.

"Tell me what you want." His voice had a husky edge. "What do you want me to do?"

"I… I want to watch you jerk off."

I told him this five minutes ago, and now I'm completely rethinking my game plan.

I think I'm way in over my head.

Hutch's spread out before me, his back up against pillows at the headboard, and his knees slightly bent and apart. The soft light from the bedside lamp illuminates his strong, golden body, and he looks at me through half-lidded eyes.

I'm on my own knees at his feet.

Hutch's hand reaches for the oil he keeps on the bedside table.

I watch in sheer agony as he drizzles silky liquid into his hand, snaps the lid shut with his mouth, and tosses the bottle aside.

Rubbing his palms together unhurriedly, Hutch settles back against the pillows once more and directs me with his eyebrows to scoot further away from him. I do, but not too far. I feel my own heavy cock sway with the movement and start to fill.

I'm also beginning to feel a little crazy here, all that luscious Hutch so close to me, and yet he's out of reach.

I know I'm staring, drinking in the sight before me, but I can't help it. He's just so goddamned gorgeous, more so than ever before.

My head is spinning a bit, maybe from lack of blood, of pleasure that must be like the pure pop of heroin, but most of all, I think I'm starting to now understand just how he's in control of this show.

I think that's the fucking point.

Oh, god.

My own hardening cock is dancing against my thigh, an ache like a wound, and I feel like howling at the moon.

I want to touch myself in the worst way possible but don't want this to be over too soon. At this rate though, I might just have to sit on my hands to keep them from roaming.

Hutch is brazenly milking himself just for me, and suddenly I'm the one feeling shy and unsure. Go figure.

His gaze locks on mine, daring me to look away.

I allow my hand to sweep across myself a few times, gauging his reaction.

Hutch smiles that warm smile of his, and he allows his gaze to drop to my hand for a second. I see the beginning of a slight furrow forming between his eyes, so I snatch my hand away before there's time for his expression to turn into a full-blown frown.

I lean forward a bit, graze my kneecap over his foot lightly, and then completely surrender to Hutch's display.

And what a show it is.

Hutch's running his open hand along the full length of his rigid cock, twisting his wrist a little to cover every inch of exposed skin and showing me the shiny, veined thing it's become. The cover, the sheath, rides up and down as he slides it back, and then home.

His other hand maps out his stomach, pausing every so often to dig his fingers in his belly.

Then he moves that hand over his nipples, and I watch with wonder and longing as they harden and darken under his touch.

Hutch strokes up to his throat, and then sweeps back down to his belly, and all the while works his dick like it's the only thing in the room.

Actually, I think it might be.

Except for mine, of course, now so full and so hard I think if I close my eyes, I'll see stars.

Hutch's own eyes are trying valiantly to maintain contact with mine, but I can see his resolve slowly erode. It's as if all his concentration is on his working hands, and that there's precious little left to keep his eyes focused or, occasionally, even open.

I can hear Hutch's breathing become labored, see his chest rapidly rise and fall, and it suddenly occurs to me that, despite his initial shyness, Hutch really wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't getting into it himself. This pleases me to no end. I think that if he likes it, then I could convince him to do it again, especially if I…

"Starsky," he puffs suddenly, blue eyes startlingly dilated, leveled on me. "Are you paying attention?"

Embarrassed beyond belief at allowing my mind to drift at such a ridiculously inopportune moment, I choke, "God yes, Hutch. Are you kidding? How could you think I'd…?"

"Shut. Up." And he rests his head on the pillows, clearly needing to regain his concentration.

I'm completely fixated on him now. I swear silently that I won't drift even an inch away, in body or mind.

An abrupt intake of breath brings his head forward again, and I see from his hazy expression that he's quickly recouped any ground he may have lost by speaking.

Hutch's actions become more methodical. He tweaks his left nipple hard and then works the right one.

His strong grip works his shaft rhythmically, and then his other hand joins it, sliding under himself, getting lost in there for a moment.

I focus for a moment on his tightening testicles tangling in the thatch of blond hair, the very place I want to bury my nose.

He rakes at his smooth thigh with a fingernail. I can see the initial white mark start to blaze red; I imagine my lips wetting him there, running my tongue over the welt.

Then Hutch's hips come off the bed slightly, offering me a glimpse of his dark opening.

I hear my moan join his in the quiet room and can smell his musk, his need.

The tempo of Hutch's right hand quickens, and his thumb runs over the spot just behind the head, the place that must be as sweet for him as it is for me.

Then he brutally pulls on his now-taut balls and throws his shoulders back against the pillows.

Now that Hutch is that far gone, I grab at my cock in relief and start to match his strokes. My dick is hot, and heavy and, god, so ready to pop I think I might shout out loud.

I hear the sound, the low growl at the back of his throat. It's the noise he makes when he's close, impatient, and yet still trying to hold back so he can milk every bit of sensation from the moment just before he goes over the edge.

Suddenly, Hutch almost violently bends his cock, trapping it against his tight stomach, and I can only look on in awe as his back arches once, twice.

His head dips low before smashing back again against the pillow.

And then Hutch roars ferociously and spurts. It's something that sends me into orbit along with him.

The protective hand he has over his gleaming tip is covered with milky fluid. He grunts a few more times, forcing the last bit of liquid, and shuddering, a moment after I do.

"God!" Hutch pants triumphantly. "Oh, god." His fingers are shiny, lax and wet.

I'm still incapable of speech. My own climax was so powerful, I think I may have given birth to a new solar system somewhere.

When I finally blink enough times to see clearly, I focus on Hutch sitting slack-limbed against the pillows, a fresh glow to his cheeks and chest, and a lazy, crooked smile on his lips.

I somehow harness the energy to crawl over to him.

Hutch looks pretty wiped out. I want to ask him if he's all right. Before I can, he smiles at me sweetly.

"Come here," he says, and opens his arms to me.

The end.

The Ghosts of Christmas Crack

For Lolabobs

I. December 2008

Just as promised, in a cryptic voicemail the day before, a stretch limo waited just outside the stage door. Paul watched the back window slide down and a familiar hand appeared, cigarette clutched between two fingers. He shook his head and watched the fingers tap off ash and disappear back into the limo. The window remained cracked. He could only imagine the air quality — there could've been a thousand cigarettes since London. He hoped the driver had kept the divider up.

"Mr. Glaser… Paul…"

He turned from the limo to the fans clustered around the door, and began his post show ritual — signing autographs, smiling for pictures. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and saw the hand again and figured he had about five minutes before the door swung open. He heard the click of the locks and knew he had overestimated Davey's patience. He was signing the back of some 70s British fan rag, nodding to the conversation about knitted cardigans and red Torinos when he felt the air change.

"Are you trying to piss me off?" Davey growled at the same time he smiled and clapped an arm around Paul's shoulder.

Paul looked up to see most of the women in front of him in mid-stroke, mouths open, eyes bulged, as Davey leaned in and bussed him on the cheek. The flashbulbs erupted and the cacophony that followed brought three security guards and most of the cast out the stage door. Davey kept his arm around Paul and maneuvered them around the crowd, talking and signing, flirting and fawning over the same damn 30 year old pictures they'd seen for the last hundred years.

"So ladies, how was my partner here?" Davey hugged him harder, obviously trying to really piss him off.

"Oh David, he was wonderful…"

"Brilliant villain…"

"Still so sexy…"

Davey laughed and pulled Paul toward the car. "Well, you've had him all afternoon — he's mine now." He pushed him into the open door and turned. "I promise to bring him back unharmed. Happy Christmas!"

The choruses of Happy Christmas and we love you Starsky and Hutch that followed chased them around the corner. Paul reached under him and pulled out a bottle of Scotch, sat it on the seat beside him. Davey sighed and patted him on the leg.

"Now that was fun, huh?"

"Are you kidding me? You just made sure we're on the cover of every rag from here to Cardiff."

"Oh, lighten up, will ya — it's Christmas. Here…" Davey handed him a package. "Don't say I never gave you anything." He popped a cigarette in his mouth and cracked the window.

Paul stared at the gold-wrapped package and smiled. Reached over and took the cigarette from Davey's mouth, took a puff, sighed. He remembered he had no idea where they were going. "So, where are you taking me?"

Davey snatched the cigarette back. "Somewhere quiet. Warm. With an obscenely well stocked liquor cabinet and a ridiculously large bed."

"In Sunderland?"

"Not exactly." Davey handed him a highball glass. "Here."

"Not exactly?"

"You know you're a real buzz kill. Can't you just sit back and relax. Enjoy the company? I know you've missed me."

Paul took the glass. "I did miss you — until you decided to make this Starsky and Hutch World Tour Number Seven Thousand. You know I hate that shit."

"How can I forget — you remind me every minute of every day."

Paul sighed and took a drink. He hated to admit that it had been funny watching his cast mates walk out the stage door to see him and Davey together. He hated to admit there was still something about the two of them together. That they worked. That he felt good with Davey's arm around him. Felt even better with his thigh pressed against Davey's as they drove who knows how long into the middle of nowhere Northeast England. He had two days off and had illogically agreed to do whatever Davey told him to do. Well almost anything. He wasn't completely insane.

"And I better not see Stephen Fry this year."

"Again with the buzz kill — I'm gonna rename it The Festival of Lighten the Hell Up if you don't watch it. You know I've been killing myself with these plans."

"Which reminds me — we getting to our destination before sundown?"

"Yes, Rabbi, don't worry — it's all been worked out. Of course it took me forever — you know there are like three Jews in all of Sunderland?"

"112 actually."

"Really? And you know this how?"

"Oh, there was this thing… a meet and greet…"

"Is that where you wore the cardigan. For fuck's sake, Paulie, I almost had to come down and do an intervention when I saw that picture. You in the fucking sweater — seriously, I was getting worried."

Paul sighed. "I know, I know. But it's all about publicity here. For the theatre. For the Panto. I'm happy to help."

"Well, there's helping and then there's whoring…"

"Really, Mr. Maestro? You know the difference?"

Davey leaned back and laughed. "That's more like it, asshole — I love you, too."

Paul fingered the package still in his hand. "So, is this my first present or my only present?"

Davey reached over and snatched the present. "I guess you'll have to wait and find out."

Paulie snatched it back. "No, you said I could open it now."

Davey shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, well, it's not sundown yet. Plus it's just… a token, ya know?"

Paulie watched Davey try to act nonchalant. He shook the box. Something knocked against the side. So it wasn't a scarf. He was disappointed. He loved Davey's scarves. Always wore them. Inappropriately according to Davey, but he was a little sentimental about them. And Davey. Ben Stiller had told him he thought they were cool…

"I mean it's a lot of pressure you know — I've got to find you eight fucking presents, you have to get me one. Ein. Un. Uno. It's not fair."

"Oh, boo hoo." Paul held the present up to his ear. "What the hell is this?"

"I told you, Curious George, it's just a little token… something I found when I moved last summer."

"So, can I open it?"

David ignored him, rolled down the window. "We're here!" He opened the door and stepped out. "Come on, Paulie — burning daylight here."

Paul opened his door and climbed out, package still in his hand. He looked over the hood of the limo to Davey's idea of a Christmas hideaway. Which apparently was also Charles Dickens idea of a Christmas hideaway. A magnificent stone manor house, wreath on the door, garland and candles in every window. He could smell the fire from the dozen chimneys. The door opened and Stephen Fry stepped out.

"Welcome, colonists!"

Davey walked toward him and Paul hissed under his breath. "I told you — no Fry!"

Davey turned around. "Oh calm down, woman — he's just here to let us in — this is his house."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, my dear Aladdin Sane — looking splendid as usual. Welcome to Ty Carreg, which literally translates from the Welsh to Stone House. Built in 1764 by a homesick Cymro by the name of Thomas Morgan. I took ownership in 1987 after a very lucrative card game aboard the Orient Express, but that's a story for another holiday. Come in, come in… I'm just finishing my packing and then I will avail myself of your lovely coach and you can avail yourselves of…" Stephen walked through the door and turned "… well, I'm sure the two of you will find something here to avail yourselves… knowing the randy bastard that one is." Stephen nodded at Davey, who was carrying a bag into the house.

"Merry Fucking Christmas to you too, Fry." Davey put the bag down, and whistled. "Hell, you were right. This is brilliant."

Paul stood in the doorway, allowing the scent of every Christmas cliché to surround him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Fresh bread and cinnamon and pine and some kind of berry and maybe bacon, a little smoky… Davey had really outdone himself.

"Close the door, will you?" Davey walked over and took the present out of Paulie's hand. "Tell Stephen hello and goodbye."

"Hello, Stephen. Goodbye Stephen. Thank you so much Stephen." Paul walked into the house, peeking down a hall. "Damn, this is…"

"Oh, I know — it's horrendous. All Lord of the Manor and drafty as my mum's knickers, but I've laid in a nice little holiday spread for you. And Jasper's in the back house if you need anything. So give me a kiss and go out to the kitchen. There's a light supper and some rather fine wine breathing in the pantry."

Davey gave Stephen a peck on both cheeks and a big hug. "Thanks, asshole."

Stephen turned to Paul. "Come on, Starsky — I've been waiting for my big wet Christmas kiss from you all year. And I've been such a naughty, naughty, boy." He held out his arms.

Paul reluctantly stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss Stephen on the cheek, but was instantly captured against his chest and kissed firmly on his lips, Stephen's hands moving like lightning down Paul's back, grabbing his ass with both hands.

"Hey, Fry — get your hands off his ass. Or I'll kick yours."

Stephen lowered him to the floor, kissed the top of his head and sighed. "Someday, my little Starsky Michael Gorgeousness, we will have our moment."

"Say goodbye, Fry." Davey moved between Paul and Stephen.

Paul chucked and wiped his lips. "Maybe next year, Stephen." He winked and Stephen grabbed at his chest.

"Oh, I will live on the hope of angels. Ta ra." He disappeared down the hall.

They turned around and headed down the other hall, Paul making sure to take the package. They found the large airy kitchen, light and warm, with coffee brewing and wine uncorked. A platter of meats and cheeses on the counter and Christmas carols playing softly on the CD player.

"It's too much, isn't it?"

Paul could tell the question wasn't just about the Christmas puddings steaming on the stove. "Naw, Davey — it's perfect. Thank you. I needed this." He filled the wine glasses and handed one to Davey. "Happy Christmas."

Davey clinked his glass. "And Happy Hanukkah my friend. It's been a hell of a year."

"True."

They sat in silence for a while, soaking in the wine and the music, happy to be together. Then Davey grabbed the bottle and slid off the stool.

"Come on, let's explore this castle. See if there are any ghosts."

Paulie followed him out the door, glass in hand. "Just as long as it's not Marley in chains."

"Or the Ghost of Christmas Future — that fucker always scared the shit out of me." Davey nudged open a tall door just off the kitchen. "Still scares the shit out of me."

"Don't worry; I'm here to protect you." Paulie laid a hand on Davey's back as they tiptoed through the door. He hadn't been this happy in a long time.

Two hours and two bottles of wine later they were back in the kitchen, eating roast beef and cheese and pickles and tiny puffed pastries. The rest of the house had not disappointed and they had been transformed into twelve year olds, discovering both a suit of armor and a secret door behind an old bookcase.

"This is really great," Paulie said for the tenth time.

"Yeah, it is." Davey looked up and saw the last of the daylight disappear through the window. "Ready to light some candles?"

"Ready to open my present." Paulie reached for the gold package.

Davey grabbed it first. "Okay, okay, but just remember. It's just a little—"

"Token, I know. I know. I'm not expecting an Hermes scarf. Well, not yet."

"Greedy bastard." Davey held out the package. "I guess this is in the spirit of the season. Ghosts of Christmas past and all. Happy Holidays, my friend."

Paul took the package and unwrapped it slowly, looking up at Davey once, wondering what could be so… mysterious. He pushed back the white tissue paper and stared for a moment at the blue Star of David. Looked up at Davey, back at the star, back to Davey, who was running a hand through his hair. He picked up the star, turned it over. It was heavy plastic, scratched. A paperweight, maybe. He knew he should know what this was. And then he did. He sucked in a breath as it all came tumbling back in. "Ghost of Christmas Past, Davey? From the show, right?"

"I just thought you might like a little reminder of the old days. Thought it was kind of fitting for this house. Knights in shining armor, all that. It's cheesy, I know."

He placed the star back in the package, set it on the table and walked into Davey's arms. "It's perfect. It was… "

"A goddamn long time ago." Davey pulled him to his chest and kissed him.

And this Christmas and that Christmas folded into each other and he wasn't sure about any of it. He felt like ol' Ebenezer, soaring over rooftops in his nightgown and cap, with Davey as Ghost of Christmas Past and Present, sending him back to a place he didn't know he missed.

II. December 1978

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"It's okay, Davey."

"Hell it is, Paulie. Goddamn Goldberg. Goddamn network. Fucking prejudiced bastards."

Paul managed to steer Davey away from the soundstage and around the corner toward the honey wagons. He hoped everyone was at lunch. They didn't need another headline about how Starsky and Hutch were fighting again. "Calm down, will ya? You knew it would be like this."

"Fucking bastards, Paulie. They can't do this — it's our show. We decide who they are. We do. Me and Thee. Fucking bastards." Davey paced back and forth in front of Paul.

"Come over to my trailer, okay? We'll figure this out. Together." Paul tugged him until they were both walking down the long row of trailers. They stopped at the largest one on the end and Paul unlocked the door. Davey stepped in and resumed his pacing, now between the living room and hallway in the small space.

"Can you stop the pacing?"

"You got a beer in here?" Davey threw himself into a chair.

Paul reached into the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. "You know, you really need to do yoga, Davey. Your blood pressure must be off the charts."

"Yeah, well, it happens to upset me when people try to fuck with us. With the show. Did you read the fucking thing?"

Paul sat on the couch opposite. "Yes, it's typical ABC Christmas bullshit. So what? We know the kid's good. You're going to be great. You get to act all over the place — what's the deal, really? So Starsky's not exactly Jewish…"

"Not exactly… that's like saying Frank Sinatra's not exactly Italian." Davey took a swig of the beer. "I think we should walk. Until we get a rewrite."

"Why? It's just going to piss off the crew, who are ready for a break. It's going to piss off Aaron, who thinks we're too expensive already. Is it that important?"

Davey stood and sat his beer on the table. "Well, fuck, I guess not. What's next then, Paulie? Hutch's not from Minnesota? Maybe he secretly eats junk food. Maybe Starsky really met Huggy in the back room of the Manhole on Sunset — been fucking him through the series — how would you like to try to play that?"

Paul stood and faced Davey. He hated when he got this worked up. He didn't know how he was ever going to break it to him that he already had lawyers trying to figure out a way to get him out of his contract as early as the end of the season. The other problem was that he also loved it when he got worked up. Those fine jaw muscles tensed, the eyes sparked, the mouth… he couldn't think about his mouth. The last time he found himself pondering the soft curves of that mouth, he ended up pushed against the fake back wall of Dobey's office, trying to commit that mouth to memory, his hands up under Davey's shirt, the sparks between finally ignited, nowhere to go but where they were headed. Until footsteps on the soundstage tore them apart, panting.

Since then it was all touch all the time. But only in front of the cameras. They didn't dare tempt fate twice. There were too many dark corners and too many ways to get caught. But as Starsky and Hutch — they could maul each other all day long in the name of the "brotherhood of cops" and no one would think twice. Paul was beginning to think he was actually falling in love with Hutch instead.

"Uh, Paulie… did you hear anything I said?"

And there it was. That mouth. Those eyes. Overworked, overwrought, unavailable. And so Paul did the only logical thing he could think of at that moment and lunged, shoving Davey back onto the couch and falling on him, twisting his hands in that fucking girly soft hair, hearing the small protest from Davey right before he kissed him, ignoring everything except the ridiculous need he'd been harboring since the pilot to run his hands and lips over every inch of him. He felt Davey shift a bit and he almost came up off the couch when Davey reached inside his shirt and ran his hands up his chest. He lost his balance for a second, but Davey hung on, pulling him right on top of him, his tongue pushing down his throat, every thought of Christmas or Hanukkah or even the fact they were due on set in twenty minutes scorched out of their minds by the heat and combustion of a chemistry experiment gone horribly right.

They were lying tangled on the floor when the knock came.

"Paul — we're waiting for you on set." Amy, the set PA.

"Thanks. Tell Earl I'll be there in five minutes."

"Okay… uh, do you know where David is? I knocked on his trailer door and no answer… and Kristy's in school at three, so we have to wrap early today."

Davey started to speak but Paul put his hand over his mouth. "Check catering — I think he went to find some coffee."

He heard Amy walk away and struggled to his feet. Davey looked up at him from the floor.

"You really think we can do this after… this?"

Paul smiled. "Well, buddy, we're going to have to now. You heard her — Kristy's in school." He held out his hand and Davey took it, hoisting himself off the floor.

"Yeah, well, that's why I hate acting with kids."

"You better get used to it — she's Aaron's princess you know — he's developing some show for her already."

Davey smoothed his pants, tucked in his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, so maybe we can get a guest shot when we get fired from this one."

"Davey…"

"You can't seduce me into agreeing, Paulie. I'm still pissed off."

"I didn't… I mean… well, you didn't seem to…"

Davey leaned in and kissed Paul hard on the lips. "No, I didn't seem to at all. Been wondering when this was going to happen for a while. Thought it might happen in Vegas — you all goo goo eyed at me…"

"I was not!"

Davey chuckled. "Okay, so what are we going to do about this?"

"I don't know — we can't really go public, I mean, I'm not sure what 'this' is… I just… well, I mean, you know I love you, Davey, but…" He stopped when Davey threw his head back and laughed.

"What?"

"I meant about the show. What are we going to do about the show. Not… this. I mean, this was… aw hell, Paulie — I've been fucking crazy about you since the beginning. You've had to know that. I just don't want to fuck it up — you and me and this and…"

"Yeah, I know. Great potential for fucking up."

"Even greater potential for the best fucking thing to happen to either of us."

Paul sighed. "It's complicated."

"What isn't? Hell, you'll probably still be copping a feel in the rest home. But for now — what are we going to do about this fucking script?"

Paul sat back down on the couch. "I don't know — I guess we can Jew it up."

Davey grabbed a beer from the fridge. "Pardon me?"

"Well, if Starsky's Jewish, then let's get it in there — maybe they could argue about Hanukkah, fight over a dreidel… "

"It can't be obvious — S and P will knock it out. It's got to be secret. Undercover."

"You want us to go undercover on our own show where we in fact frequently go undercover?"

Davey began pacing. "It's perfect. If they want Starsky to love Christmas — let's make him love Christmas. Really love Christmas."

Paul wondered if he had damaged Davey when they had just… "Overboard? You mean like Starsky should carry a Christmas tree everywhere — drive a sleigh, buy a reindeer?"

Davey was now rifling through shelves above the little table. "Yeah, yeah, but think more subtle. Know any carols?"

"Know a lot of Janices, not so many Carols." Paul wriggled his eyebrows, trying to get Davey's attention.

Davey turned quickly. "What's this?" He held up a blue Star of David.

"Well, Davey, it's a Star of David — a paperweight I think. A fan sent it — see, they get it, Starsky's a Jew. Maybe that's all we need."

Davey grabbed a towel from the table and wrapped the Star of David. "This is good."

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to hide it somewhere."

Paul stood now, grabbed Davey's arm. "Slow down, Davey. You want me to sing Christmas carols and you're going to hide a Star of David — where? In your…" He looked at Davey's crotch and then looked away, his face turning a new shade of red. "Uh, sorry…"

Davey shook his head. "Didn't think you'd turn into the girl, Paulie — and you know there's no room down there…" He ran a hand across Paul's stomach. "Come on, we gotta get on set. Operation Starsky Christmas Fever has begun." He opened the door and hopped down the steps, tucking the towel under his arm.

"Paul, can I see you a minute?"

Paul looked over the camera at Earl Bellamy, the director, who was motioning him across the set.

"Here it comes," Davey whispered and disappeared behind Hutch's apartment.

Operation Starsky Christmas Fever had been up and running for four days. Paul had been singing Christmas songs and ho ho ho — ing all over the set. He had even managed to work a completely dressed tree into the script. Well, Davey had managed it. Something about Earl's niece and concert tickets and Paul hadn't wanted to hear any more. He still hadn't figured out where Davey had hidden the star.

"How's it going?" Paul tried to act interested. Innocent.

"Just wanted to let you know the dailies are shaping up nicely. And I'm really digging what you're doing with all the whistling — the interplay between you two is coming off great on screen.

"Oh, uh, good. Yeah, well, we like to mix it up a bit — keep the characters fresh." Paul wondered if there was a shovel big enough for what was coming out of his mouth. "It's not too much? We can pull back if you want…"

"Hell, no. It's making this script better and my job easier. And the kid's great."

"She's something else. A real pro." Paul gave Earl a pat on the back and then turned toward his trailer. "We still set for three?"

Earl nodded and instantly was surrounded by crew. Paul walked toward his trailer smiling. He realized he was whistling We Three Kings, when he felt a hand on his back.

"Did we get busted?" Davey joined him.

"Just the opposite. Apparently an overdose of Starsky cheer with a side order of Hutchinson huffiness is just what the director ordered. He practically gave my head a pat." Paul unlocked his trailer and opened the door. "You coming in?"

Davey stared at him, an eyebrow wagging, a slow smile creeping. "You want me to?"

"I asked you didn't I?"

"Yeah, but what are you asking?"

Paul sighed. "Now who's the girl? Get in the damn trailer Davey, or not. We're back on at three."

Davey walked past him and tossed himself onto the couch. "You know I haven't been to my trailer for a week. People are beginning to talk."

"What people?"

"My people, your people."

"We have people?" Paul handed Davey a beer.

"Oh, we've got people. People who need peop—"

"If you finish that, you'll be sorry."

Davey popped the top off the beer. "Never sorry, Paulie. Not when I'm with you."

Paul sat down on the couch, pulled Davey's legs into his lap. "Well, if I hear another Christmas song…"

"That's Streisand, buddy. Definitely not Christmas."

Paul laid his head back and closed his eyes. He absently rubbed Davey's calf and smiled when he heard him moan.

"You will kill me one day, you know that?" Davey practically purred.

"Not my intention. Trying to get you to relax. Seriously, you've gotta do some yoga."

Davey lifted his head. "Is that an invitation?"

"For yoga, yes. For whatever is skipping through your dirty little mind, no. We've only got an hour."

"Could do a lot of damage in an hour."

"Rest, Davey, rest. You can damage me later."

"Really?"

Paul sighed and switched legs. "Yes, really. Why don't you come out to the beach tonight. I'll cook some steaks. We can talk."

"Oh, talk. Okay."

"We need to talk, Davey."

"We're talking now, Paulie."

"You know what I mean."

"I do, but maybe I don't want to talk. Maybe talking is code for not fucking."

"Maybe. I don't know. It's not my intention…"

"But I know you, Paulie. You've had just enough time to think way too fucking much about this and you're about to give me the Glaser special and send me packing." Davey lifted his legs off Paul's lap. "But, the problem is, you can't send me packing. You're stuck. We're stuck. Three more years at least. Hell, who knows how long after that."

"That's not what I'm…"

"I get it, Paulie — you've got plans, I've got plans. Hell, I'll be in Europe all summer with the fucking tour. Can't we just let this be what it is? Can't you just leave it alone?"

Paul stood and faced Davey. "Can you? Can you let it be what it is?"

"Depends on what you think it is."

"No, it depends on if you can keep your shit together."

Davey stood. "My shit? I'm not the one in the Torino with a hard on yesterday."

"No, you're the one with your hand down my pants giving it to me."

They were breathing hard and pissed off and neither one could admit they were scared to death that it would all be gone in an instant and even more scared that it never would. And Davey reached up to smooth Paul's scowl and Paul fisted the front of Davey's shirt and Davey trailed his hand around to Paul's neck and Paul wrapped his arms around Davey and then lifted his head and the first kiss made words redundant. The second kiss answered any questions either of them had about any of it. The third kiss took them right over the edge of no going back, but by then neither one of them noticed.

III. December 2008

"Okay, but I can't remember where you hid it? In the apartment? Didn't we shoot in the apartment? "

They were lying together in the promised ridiculously large bed, all down and silk and warm. The fire crackled, cigars and brandy waited on the bedside table. Paul wished he never had to go back. To the Panto. To the States. To anything. His priorities seemed to magically rearrange themselves whenever he was with Davey.

"Seriously, man — did you ever watch our show?"

"No. Well, yes, I do remember some nights catching the opening credits before you pounced — hard to keep you off me in those days."

Davey rolled on his side and ran a hand over Paul's bare chest. "Not so easy now."

"Yes, but at least now there are naps."

"God, I love naps." Davey reached for a snifter. "We're going to owe Fry after this."

"You owe him. I'm still in trouble for last Christmas — the fire, Hugh."

"So you're serious — you can't remember?"

"Not exactly, but it was a hundred years ago — Ghosts of Christmas way way Past."

"Okay, so short of making you watch the episode…"

Paul reached over and pinched Davey's nipple. "You wouldn't dare."

Davey swatted his hand away. "God no, I know you. One frame of your gorgeous ass of yore and your dick's the size of a toothpick for the rest of the weekend."

"Funny — what about you? One look at your old head full of hair and you're crying like a baby. Guaranteed."

Davey sighed. "Aw, you know me, Paulie. You truly know me."

"I'd hope so — ah hell, the fucking car!"

"What?"

"You hid it in the car. I remember now — it kept sliding all over."

"Give the man a blow-job."

Paul leaned up and kissed him. "Rain check — now I want to see the show." He shoved the covers off and hopped out of bed. "Show me the disc."

Davey struggled up to his elbows. "Get the fuck back in here — it's cold."

"Come on, Davey — I wanna see it — the Christmas episode."

"You're either drunk or having a stroke — lie down."

Paul walked over to the other side of the bed and pulled the covers. "Seriously, you started this — now show me the money."

Davey pulled the covers back up. "I don't have the disc — Jesus, you think I carry the show with me at all times?"

"I'm not going to answer that — but I bet you've got it here. Now. Come on."

"Sorry, man. I stopped all of that shit long ago. When you threatened to actually shoot me. With a gun."

"I did not." Paul sat on the bed. "Well, hell — where are we going to get a copy of it?" He snapped his fingers, jumped up and threw open the door. "Fry's got it."

"Fry? Why would he—"

"For fuck's sake, of course he does — he's always telling me how he enjoys my "assets" or whatever… now where you suppose he keeps them? Did we pass a TV anywhere?"

Davey pushed the covers down and sat up. "I swear to God, Paulie, if you're yanking my chain about this…"

"Later, Davey — come help me look."

Davey wrapped a blanket around him, grabbed the snifter and followed Paulie out the door.

They found the whole series in the library, with a post it note attached. In case you boys want to reminisce… Love, Stephen. It took them a while to find the episode.

"Little Girl Lost? It was called Little Girl Lost? I thought it was a Christmas episode." Paulie popped in the disc and sat down beside Davey, who had moved from brandy to scotch.

"It was — but remember, Kristy McNichol was in it — she got lost… we found her."

"I forgot. Hey, did you know she lives up in Topanga now, near your old house. With her girlfriend."

"I love Topanga. And I figured about the girlfriend. I had her pegged way back then." Davey handed him a cigar.

"You did not. Didn't you try to get her back to your trailer when she came back for that piece we did in that fucking barn? Froze my ass off in the fucking barn."

"Shhh, this is my favorite part."

"The credits? Oh, of course it is. Sorry, buddy."

"Shh…"

The show started and familiar Torino roared down the alley, screeching out into the street. They sat silent, both wincing when Hutch leaped onto the roof of the car.

"You know you can trace all your back problems to right there." Paul lit a cigar.

"Thank you, Mother."

"Fuck, were we really this young?" Paul squinted at the TV.

Davey stretched out on the couch, his legs in Paul's lap. "We were fucking babies."

Paul massaged his ankle. "Fucking, that's for sure… remember when we…"

Davey nudged him in the stomach with his knee. "Seriously, Paulie — I'm watching this."

Paul blew cigar smoke at him and then pointed at the screen. "There it is. Damn. I can't believe you kept that star."

"We look good." Davey leaned up and rubbed Paul's shoulder. "See, it's not so bad."

Paul grinned. "The reindeer on the rearview? Your idea?"

"My idea."

"Is that my next Hanukkah gift? Is this going to be the Props of Christmas Past?"

"I'm good, Paulie, but even I'm not that good. I just thought the star was… you know…"

"I know — a touch of … what did I just say?"

"Euphoric sentimentalism. All those years in California have really rounded out your accent."

Paul chuckled. "I forgot how smart Starsky was."

"And how handsome Hutch was?"

"Well, you do have nice hair."

"Are you trying to make me cry, Paulie? On Christmas?"

"Davey, shut up, will ya? I'm watching my favorite show."

fin

The Allure of LA

Rating: nothing implicit

Genre: implied pre-slash

Description: 2008 Secret Santa gift for Laura. Married & living in Duluth, Hutch ponders his life choices and future

~~**~~

22-year old Ken Hutchinson sat in his car as it faced Caribou Lake.

He wasn't watching anything in particular. Not that there would be anything or anyone out on the lake at night in March. He just stared out over the cold, white, monotonous landscape, a bottle of Schlitz in his hand, with the rest of the six pack nestled in its cardboard container on the passenger seat beside him.

The gray sky and cold air seeped into his soul; a restlessness seemed to permeate him. Of course, this feeling of dreariness could just be his reaction to the path his life was currently on. Nancy, he could blame a lot on, he thought.

But, if he was honest with himself, it wasn't completely Nancy's fault that she got pregnant just after graduation, just as it wasn't Nancy's fault she lost the baby. Neither could he blame her for the shotgun wedding. She didn't want to get married any more than he did. That was both their fathers' insistence that they get married anyway since he 'ruined' her.

His father-in-law was happy to be related to the William Hutchinson family, he offered his new son-in-law a job as a salesman in his appliance store. To his way of thinking, a handsome young salesman was sure to get the bored housewives to buy into the latest fads and features of washers & dryers.

Instead of finishing his aborted education — after three years of attending college part-time they just couldn't afford it anymore — he felt trapped in a boring, dead-end job 'wasting his mind and bringing down the family name', as his father put it.

Now he was stuck in a dying marriage; a wife who all of a sudden had 'bridge meetings' several times a week and no interest in sex or keeping house; and a job that bored him to no end. His father barely spoke to him, so disappointed was he with Ken's choices.

Tipping the beer bottle slowly as he took another mouthful, Ken pondered if he had the courage to make a change.

His one time best-friend Jack Mitchell had written recently of his parent's excitement at finishing the first leg of medical school. Instead of going right on to his doctorate, they were allowing him some time off to enjoy himself and he wanted Hutch (as Jack called him) and Nancy to join him this summer in L.A. to experience life outside the confines of "potlucks and church socials".

"Dancing, plays, beaches, sun, music, good-times!" Jack had written. It sounded compelling. A chance to re-group both his career path and his marriage.

Now all he had to do was convince his wife to go and his father-in-law to give him some time off.

~~**~~

"Divorce? I don't understand?"

Ken's younger sister Kathy — still living at home — looked bewildered and confused as she sat across the dinner table from her brother.

"It's simple, we don't love each other; we never did."

"That's no excuse. You make it work." Ken's father took another slice of roast beef from the meat platter as if his son's news held no more interest than the mating habits of the gray wolf.

Ken ignored him as he continued, "I want to go to Los Angeles. She doesn't."

William Hutchinson snorted. "You made the bed, you can lie in it."

"You're real good with the clichés, aren't you?" Then Ken turned away, stunning both himself and his father, as for the first time in his life he stood up to his paternal tyrant. "And I suspect she's cheating on me. Pretending to she's meeting with her girlfriends when I suspect she's shacking up at Doug's."

<bang>

All three Hutchinson's looked over to the end of the table where Agnes Hutchinson had slammed a serving spoon loudly.

"We will not discuss this matter. Especially at the dinner table."

"Discuss what?!" Ken was becoming outraged. "That my life is in the crapper? That my wife — who I never wanted to marry in the first place — is screwing around and making the Hutchinson name a laughing stock?!"

Agnes paled at her son's vehemence and choice of words. But she deferred to her husband, who finally showed a spark of interest in the conversation.

"First of all, you will refrain from using that kind of language around your mother. Second of all, if you had shown some restraint, you wouldn't be in this position. Third of all, if anyone is embarrassing the family name, it's you. Working in some low class field, married to a common…." He paused, unwilling to say anything vulgar, and to continue his tirade. "And if she is cheating, then it's your fault for not being an attentive husband." William Hutchinson turned to address the whole table as Lord & Master: "Now, I would like to continue my dinner and the rest of my evening in peace!"

Ken and Kathy just stared at their father, dumbstruck, while their mother kept her eyes lowered to her plate and her hands busy.

"More peas Kathy?" She held out the bowl to her daughter.

Without another word, Ken pushed his plate forward and his chair back and walked out of the dining room; straight out the front door, slamming it on the way to his car. Apparently the Crown Prince is now the Court Jester.

~~**~~

Same circumstances, different week, thought Ken as he once again sat in his parked car staring over the darkening view of Caribou Lake.

This evening's dinner went over just as well as he figured.

His father's stern, "you'll mind my rules" attitude — never mind that he didn't live in his house; his mother unfocused and need to be blinded of reality. Only his sister's love and concern for him kept causing him to go back to his parent's house, he just realized. Kathy and I mean nothing to them. I don't think we ever have. We were just another status symbol to brag about at the Country Club.

He was in no hurry to return to his empty apartment; Nancy having moved back with her parents. Nor did he desire to seek out any friends to help drown his sorrow or celebrate his freedom. If he was honest with himself — and right now Ken knew he needed to be — he really didn't have many real friends.

Only Jack would listen and just be there for him, instead of offering any advice or solution — not that Jack was good for that anyway — but he'd tell Ken to buck up and fix the mess that his life was currently and quit moaning about it. To enjoy himself while he could, but to get a damn goal and stick with it.

So Ken took that first step this week, first with Nancy and then his family. Now he would follow through with his first impulse since he got Jack's invitation and travel to California. Hell, he might even stay there if he liked it and figure out what to do with his life.

Because honestly, there was something in that notion that intrigued him. Not Jack's invite, but something else he felt deep down that was pulling him toward the west coast.

Jack's note was only the catalyst Ken now realized. He'd been feeling a pulling away from his job, his family, his wife, toward something else for the last few months. But he'd be damned if he knew exactly what it was.

Maybe I will stay in California with Jack. Go back to school, get a job. Jumping back into a lovelife wasn't in the picture, at least not at the present. There's really nothing here for me. If I get settled, maybe I can convince Kathy to break the chains binding her and join me out there.

~~**~~

Ken called his parents to let them know when he would be leaving. He felt he owed them that much courtesy and he had had respect drilled into him since before he even understood the word.

When the time came, only Kathy showed up to say good-bye and wish him luck.

She parked at the curb and ran to give him a hug, where Ken stood by his car. "I'm glad I picked up the phone when you called, otherwise I might not've gotten the message."

"I'm sure Mom or Dad would've told you, if not Carmella."

Biting her quivering lip and shaking her head so her blonde ponytail bounced, she sadly informed him, "I'm not so sure. When I told them you were leaving today, Mom didn't seem to believe me, and Dad just blew it off. He's so sure you're not going anywhere. He even told Carmella that your name was not to be spoken if you dared to disobey him. Then he smirked and said something like 'Tell your brother that. Then we'll see if he dares to go against my wishes.' I'm sorry Kenny."

He didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he was surprised with his father's attitude. But it hurt to think that his father thought he was a wimp, instead of a man. "I guess that's that, then."

"So you're going to go? You're actually moving out there?" Kathy asked, as if her father's attitude had influenced her belief as well. "I still don't understand."

"I don't either, Kath. And I don't know if I'll be staying out there permanently. It's just something I know I have to do." As he usually did when worried over something, Ken rubbed the center of his forehead. "It's like the siren's call from Greek mythology. I feel like there's something out in California calling to me and it's mesmerizing me. I have to find it."

"Just remember, Kenny, that the siren's call was a call of death." She touched his sleeve lightly, as if in warning.

Ken kissed his sister on the cheek lovingly. "I'll remember and I'll let you know if I find it. Maybe it's just my friendship with Jack, maybe it's my career, maybe it's my future."

Jokingly Kath added, "Or maybe it's your soul mate calling to you."

Putting his last bag — travel size personal bag — in the passenger front seat, Ken chuckled. "I don't think so. I think I've had enough with the relationships; for now anyway."

"Well, you never know." The petite blonde paused, "I'll miss you, big brother. Even for a month. And you call when you get out there. Keep us informed."

"Us?" One blond eyebrow lifted questioningly.

"Us, me. You know what I mean."

He kissed her cheek again. "I know. You take care of yourself. Don't let them get to you." And he got into his car.

Kathy watched her brother drive off into the fading sun, toward his future; sure he'd find what he needed.

Doing It a Different Way: "The Plague" Uncensored

For Annette

A what-if novel of missing and altered scenes, for my Secret Santa recipient, whoever she might be, who wanted a case story, slash, and whose favorite episodes include: The Fix, Shootout, Tap Dancing Her Way Back into Your Hearts, The Plague, and Sweet Revenge.

Part one

Warm, too warm, Hutch slowed his run to a jog then to a lope and eased into walking. After a few steps, letting his muscles adjust, he stopped and bent over, sucking in air. Too warm a November day for his black sweat suit, for sure. He'd absorbed every ray of sun, and the sweat sliding down his chest, back, and legs under the heavy black cotton did little to cool him. Staring down at his old green Nikes for another second, he brushed wet tendrils of hair off his forehead and unstuck a few strands from his cheeks, finally ready to lift his head for a look at his surroundings.

He saw dirty streets, chain link fences, abandoned buildings with cracked windows, and faded, sagging-board shotgun houses, an architectural trend that hadn't caught on well this far from New Orleans. He heard dogs barking, a shrill woman's voice in a language he didn't recognize, and the faint hum of someone's television. Damn. He'd done it again. He'd run all the way to the outer limits of the ninth precinct, where fingers of the inner city stretched toward suburbia. He'd run to the neighborhood where Starsky had found that damned money pit with the leaky roof over it.

Hutch started walking. He always did. Whenever he ended up here on the mornings he had time for a long-distance run, he didn't turn and run right back to Venice. He walked and looked, searching for something not in the dingy neighborhood but within himself.

In the weeks since John Blaine's murder, Hutch had run farther, swum more laps than he had in training before entering the police academy. He could run to the North Pole, and he'd get there frostbitten and still have these feelings he now had a name for. He could swim the Pacific, and he'd wash up on Japanese soil half-drowned and still crazy about a man in a way he had to put a label on or lose his ability to look himself in the mirror. His feet couldn't outrun his brain, and even the ocean couldn't wash away the desire.

Years of friendship with Starsky had slowly, quietly whittled away the rough, baring a diamond to the sunlight, and the new sparkling blinded Hutch at times. He couldn't even read his own sheet music. Lately when he sat down at his piano, the way a lonely old man bellied up to a bar in search of solace, he meant to play one of his songs but found himself playing a sentimental chestnut instead. As Time Goes By with that Starsky-Bogey voice in his ear. "Here's lookin' at you, kid." Or Night and Day, classic Cole Porter, and shouldn't that have told him a thing or two?

Turning down Winchell Street he walked the crack-riddled sidewalk fronting the row of small businesses owned by families clinging to their tiny corners of the market, desperate to keep the gobbling chain businesses at bay. He passed the record store, bookstore, coin laundry, hardware store, stopping at Eldarov's Family Market.

Hutch found his usual cup of plain yogurt in the cold case at the back of the narrow store, and went over to the bins of nuts to dip a serving of sliced almonds in one of the little baggies. This time when he brought his bounty and plastic spoon and napkins to the counter, he had a chance to talk to the stoop-shouldered old man behind the register. The small man had seen at least eight decades, his whitening hair sharp in contrast to his warm complexion and dark eyes.

"Did you find everything you needed?" the old man asked in clipped, accented English.

"Yeah, sure did, thanks. You're Mr. Eldarov?" Hutch rolled up his left sweatshirt sleeve to reveal the small leather pouch he wore strapped around his forearm. Hard experience had taught him not to run without ID or money on his person. He handed over a ten spot.

"Yes."

"Unusual name."

"Here it is, yes. It is not so unusual in the country of my birth. Azerbaijan."

"Oh?" Hutch smiled. "I was just reading an article about a village in Azerbaijan."

The small man had a big, friendly smile, his teeth clean, white, and healthy for someone his age. "About the longevity of the villagers. Yes? In the National Geographic. I too read this article. I was raised near the old city of Baku." Mr. Eldarov handed him his change.

Hutch dropped the coins into the March of Dimes donation box on the counter, and took one of the thank-you peppermints. He tucked the wrapped mint and dollar bills into his pouch and strapped it around his arm. "How long have you lived in this neighborhood?"

"I have lived here over twenty years."

"You've seen a lot of changes around here then?"

Mr. Eldarov gave him a quick, sharp nod. "This is a good neighborhood. The people here, we are a, how do you say, a melting pan?"

"Pot."

"Yes. Melting pot. We have many differences, but we are all the same in how we want to better this place where we live. We do for ourselves. We don't have much help. We are not the first people the city, the officials, you say, council? We are not their first priority."

"No, I guess not. Well, you have a nice place here, Mr. Eldarov." Hutch lifted his cup of yogurt and baggie of almonds. With a smile he said, "Always fresh and crunchy."

Mr. Eldarov gave him another big smile. "Thank you. Eldarov's Market values quality. Do you mix the almonds in your yogurt?"

"Yeah. Even better that way."

"Then here, use my counter. I will throw away what you do not need. You are running?"

"That's right. Thank you."

When Hutch left Eldarov's, promising to be a regular customer, he had only his spoon and his yogurt cup wrapped in a napkin. He ate slowly, savoring the creamy-tang of yogurt with its nutty crunch, and walked slower, taking in the sights. After the conversation with Mr. Eldarov — I need to tell Starsky about that village in Azerbaijan where people live to 148 — Hutch saw details he'd missed on his previous explorations.

He noticed the small group of people, including one pregnant lady, picking up litter from the dusty playground with its dilapidated jungle gym and rusty-chain swings. Down the next street he heard the tap-tap-tap of hammering and the buzz of a saw. That shack wasn't the only fixer-upper in the area.

By the time he reached the street of interest to him, he'd put away most of the yogurt. Stopping in front of an old wire trash can attached to a street lamp, he scooped and crunched and swallowed the last few bites of his breakfast and tossed the empty cup and spoon. He licked his lips, wiped his mouth. The napkin balled in his fist, he walked a little faster as he neared his destination.

Ah. There it was. The little house. Hutch took another long look at the gray concrete-brick foundation, the cracked, faded burgundy paint, the filthy porch he'd stumbled on to courtesy of a rotting door doubling as steps, and tumbled off of courtesy of a rickety board porch rail. In his mind he heard a replay of his angry words that day Starsky brought him to see their bright and shining shared investment.

Once he got off the ground, dusting himself off, he had three problems when faced with Starsky's concerned, apologetic expression. He had a sore back, a rush of fury, and a hard-on. He took care of the first problem with a few stretches, and the second he would relieve with a finger-wagging lambasting of his hopeful partner. He would just ignore the third problem throbbing in his jeans.

"Hey, uh, now wait a second. Just wait. This house has got great water pressure, Hutch."

"Starsky! Don't try to play realtor. The real estate company probably has the water turned off. Anyway, good water pressure does not a house make. That's not a house, it's a— it's a money pit with a leaky roof over it."

"If you're gonna badmouth the house, get your facts straight. The roof doesn't leak."

"How do you know? You've been inside this dump on a rainy day? I've seen hovels with more going for them than this place."

"Hovels."

"Yeah, hovels."

"Uh-huh. What exactly do you mean by hovel?"

"A step up from what you've spent our money on, Starsky! Temporarily spent, because by God, you better contact the realtors and withdraw the offer. You'd have to put Astroturf down to get anything resembling a front yard—"

"Hey! We could use that as a selling point later. Low maintenance lawn, the brand pro athletes trust—"

"Starsky!"

That day two weeks ago, the first time he'd ever gone fully erect for his partner, Hutch had wanted to come off that dusty ground and shock the hell out of Starsky by planting one on that motor mouth trying to quick talk his way out of the doghouse. Common sense, the open setting, and preservation of their safety and careers had combined to stop him before he could carry out his wild plan. He wished now he could've ignored all three deterrents the way he'd ignored his hard-on.

Hutch discreetly adjusted the spread of his sweatpants across the swell of his groin. Damn it. He was harder than that concrete porch again. He knew damn well he wasn't hard for the roach-motel in front of him. He ached for what it represented: time with Starsky, shared property, a common goal. He envisioned them bickering over paint colors, teasing each other over carpentry mishaps, sprawling on that porch and knocking back a few brews out of a cooler after several hours of back-breaking labor.

Oh, Christ. Starsky, I made a mistake. I made a huge mistake.

He'd misjudged the neighborhood as well. Two weeks ago, he'd had acerbic commentary on the real estate catchphrase. Location, location, location. He understood now what had drawn Starsky to the place. A community trying to pull itself up by the bootstraps would appeal to Starsky, who found common ground with struggling taco-stand owners and empathized with the inmates of an insane asylum after a day of playing patient.

One of the things about you I've been falling for… longer than even I realized.

Rubbing his brow, Hutch cursed at the "sold" sign nailed over the real estate company's wooden advertisement on the porch pillar. Someone hadn't wasted time after Starsky withdrew their offer. Someone else had scooped up this goldmine of potential.

Too late. Too late, Hutchinson. When will you ever learn?

He turned away, starting for home, walking at first to let his breakfast settle. After ten minutes, he would give his legs the go-ahead and give the wind a run for its money. He deserved whatever discomfort came with speed-jogging under the influence of a frustrated woody. He didn't deserve the relief he would get from a jerk-off under the trickle-spray showerhead at Venice Place, but needs must. Starsky was picking him up later that morning so they could meet Jake Donner at the airport and take their old friend out to lunch at the place of his choosing.

Hutch scanned the sky for sun location. Right. He had two hours to get sex, fixer-uppers, and Starsky off the brain. He would enjoy this rare day off, come hell, high water, or inconvenient blood flow to his dick. Who knew when he'd get another one? A day off, not blood flow to the dick. Hutch smiled sourly at himself. He and Starsky had two grueling weekend shifts ahead of them, and they were down on the roster for a twelve-hour on Monday. To whom little is given, much is still expected — that was Dobey's take on Scripture when it came to scheduling.

"Oh, yeah. Oh. Ye-e-ah."

Starsky slowed the Torino to a rumbling crawl down Ocean, wanting a few extra seconds to appreciate the scenery. By scenery he didn't mean the roller skating princess wearing less material than Thanksgiving turkeys come wrapped in. She got a quick once-over, and he'd give her a six out of ten for looks, but a three for common sense, because it was November, no matter what the thermometer said, not July. The fashion maven in funky platforms who walked her pooch on a sequined leash got nothing but a two-second glance. Great tits, but the skyscrapers on her feet knocked her down to a five out of ten.

For a perfect ten, Starsky had no farther to look than the tall sunbeam in khaki from shoulders to shoes. He knew better than to think of that leather jacket as mustard-colored. He'd once teased its wearer that the jacket reminded him of mustard, not the bright yellow kind that got spurted on hotdogs, but that fancy spoon-dipping kind with the French name. He'd gotten a cool blue glare and then an hour of chillier silence. No one could do silent outraged dignity like Ken Hutchinson.

"Oh, ye-e-a-ah," Starsky purr-growled again as he got close enough to see how the early morning sun played on that blond hair and how far down Hutch had left that beige shirt unbuttoned, showing smooth chest Starsky wanted to feel against his fingertips.

God, this was fun.

He did some of his best thinking — Hutch would call it soul searching — on the basketball court. In the weeks since Blaine's murder, Starsky had communed with the hoop a few times. While he worked his hook shot, finessed the arc on his jump shot, and smoothed out his lay-up, he'd done some hard thinking on role models and love, dignity and justice, political platforms and shirt sleeves, tendencies and time.

Amazing what could happen when a guy unlocked a door inside his mind, and what he could find that he'd locked behind that door for years.

Somehow along the way he'd convinced himself that door was like the one in the old story about a tiger and a lady. Turned out it wasn't the lady behind that bolted door, it was his partner, and Starsky wanted to know if Hutch was a tiger in the sack.

With that door swinging wide open in his mind, Starsky had discovered new fun in little things like the rush of arousal he got with that first glimpse of Hutch for the day. Soon as he stopped spinning from the newness, he'd try to get a peek inside Hutch's head to see if that "it's no big thing" philosophy meant Hutch had a wide-open door of his own.

For now, he'd enjoy the scenery.

He eased the Torino to a stop, and Hutch wasted no time getting in, pulling the car door shut with a slam that almost wilted Starsky's aspiring hard-on.

Starsky tried heading off Hutchinson grouchiness at the pass with a bright grin. "Good mornin' to you." He got a tight-lipped warning look that meant he should check the traffic, pull away from the curb, and keep his big trap shut. He did two out of three. "What's the matter?"

"The damn shower again! Felt like I was standing under a water hose that someone had tied into a knot. I got a few trickles, a sprinkle or two, and that's it. Took me thirty minutes to wash my hair, for God's sake."

Oh, man. Could he really resist an opening so huge he could drive the whole set of Laugh-In through it? Yeah, he could: smarter to leave hair jokes undelivered in favor of more important matters. Even a grouchy Hutch couldn't do much ass-chewing on such a beautiful November day. "So, who's buying?"

"Who's buying what?"

"Lunch, dummy. Jake. The airport? Sound familiar?"

"Oh, you mean Lieutenant Donner."

Starsky cruised through the right on to Venice Boulevard. "You're gonna call him that?"

"Well, he's been in Europe on an extended tour at the expense of the department, rubbing elbows with Interpol and Scotland Yard and the Sûreté. He might not take too kindly to plain old detective sergeants hailing him by his first name."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right. Nah. Come on, Hutch, this is Jake."

"Call him Jake if you want to, Starsky."

Starsky knew then he was being suckered by a straight-faced Midwesterner who could beat a psychic at poker. "Tellya what, if Jake wants us to call him by his first name, I'll buy lunch, and if you're right, you spring for the lunch tab."

"Wait, that's backward. Why should I buy lunch if I'm right?"

"Thought we'd do something a little different." He sent a quick side glance Hutch's way and got a wide-eyed and wary stare in return. "Hutch?"

Hutch jerked that stare back to the windshield. "Watch the road, Starsky! You ride that guy's bumper any closer we'll owe him for the tow job."

A light brake tap brought him out of tailgating distance. Damn. Starsky tightened his grip on the wheel. Maybe Hutch had already taken a peek or two inside his head and spotted that open door. Maybe Hutch wanted to shut it.

When Jake went in search of the cleanest table under the umbrellas, Hutch tugged on Starsky's leather jacket sleeve, halting the dig for his wallet. "I'll get this."

"Yeah? But I—"

"You were right, I know, but come on, that was a dumb bet, Starsk. Guy who's wrong should pay up." Hutch dug for his own wallet. "Now, if Jake had wanted Claud's Fine Steakhouse instead of a world-famous burger, I'd let you pay."

Starsky could roll his eyes like a pro when he wanted. "That I can believe, Mr. Generosity. Okay. I'll go help Jake wipe ketchup off the seats."

Hutch watched Starsky's relaxed strut. Starsky had several struts, each one with its special appeal. This one drew the eye to subtle ass-shaking. Shaking his head at himself, Hutch wanted to know when he'd turned into a naturalist studying some new exotic species. Recently he'd lounged in front of this same order window and commented on the pure grace of a blonde lady journalist in a skirt and heels. Fourteen life-changing days later, he'd fully embraced the truth deeper inside himself. The only real grace that could keep him interested for 148 years belonged to a male street cop in blue jeans and Adidas.

What kind of hypocrite was he? Less than an hour had passed since he called Starsky "gross" for being too fixated on sex to appreciate the benefits of advanced age, and here Hutch couldn't shift his gaze one millimeter from those splotched-denim jeans that showed off Starsky's slender waist, muscled ass, and clung to his legs in the best places.

Hypocrite, hell. True to his nature, that's what it was. Over the years he'd perfected the art of covering his own vulnerability by playing devil's advocate to Starsky's.

After Blaine's death, he'd let Starsky voice the hard questions, the doubts, the hidden prejudices, shielding his own behind glib liberality.

Face to face with horrific child abuse, and Starsky's pained, brooding appall on top of that picnic table outside the school, Hutch had responded with Carol's educator theories instead of his own rage, disgust, and helplessness.

Right here at this window, he'd needled Starsky for ogling C.D. Phelps's legs while he talked up his "sensitive man" persona, claiming a deeper interest in her core personality. Bullshit. He hadn't given a damn about her mind any more than Starsky had until she used her journalistic prowess to devastating effect.

And finally the house….

He'd let Starsky stand there chuckling with unabashed enthusiasm, while he'd swept his own enthusiasm for a happy Starsky under a rug of practicality, concern for their bank accounts, and put-downs.

Jesus! What was he scared of, way down deep? If he couldn't show his vulnerabilities to Starsky, after all these years, when Starsky had seen him at his best, his worse, and all points in between, who the hell could he ever show them to? Well, enough was enough. History only repeated itself if someone let it. Next time Starsky ventured into vulnerable territory, he would have a fellow pathfinder blazing the trail with him.

"Hey, mister!"

Hutch jumped and spun around to face the order window. The server thrust a loaded tray at him. With a curt nod, Hutch balanced the weight of sodas, burgers, and fries and took the tray over to the guys waiting under the brightly colored umbrella.

Starsky still couldn't believe it. He had to be giving Hutch some kind of what's-got-into-you look. Jake tore into his double cheeseburger with an appreciative growl, and Hutch had already shoved three fries into his mouth, but Starsky was squeaking the straw in his lime-and-yellow soda cup and staring at Hutch.

Man. Hutch footing the bill the one time Starsky hadn't tried to find a loophole? Right after he'd talked his way out of a sky-high tow bill at the airport, too. Starsky wanted to know what he'd done to please the gods, so he could keep doing it.

"Starsky!"

He blinked at the snap of Hutch's fingers in front of his nose. "What?"

Jake absently rubbed that scratch on his hand. "I was asking you guys what's new, what's been cooking on the streets while I was gone."

"Oh." Starsky unwrapped his chiliburger. "A lotta same old, same old. Nothing to write to Europe about. Well, except there's a little rumbling in the syndicate ranks."

"Yeah?" Jake grabbed a few fries. "What's that about?"

"We don't have a clear picture yet, Jake." Hutch handed over the ketchup squeeze bottle when Jake motioned for it. "But we're hearing things. Possible new numbers banks in an area that used to be strictly porno and prostitution. Working girls better bankrolled and changing territories."

Jake whistled around his soda straw. "Sounds like somebody's found upward mobility."

"That's what we think." Starsky squirted ketchup on a clean corner of his burger wrapper. "We're just not sure who. Dobey's got us eyeballing the situation, but until we get a homicide out of it, it's mostly Vice and Gambling's problem."

"But you know how it is in the syndicate world." Hutch reached two fries over to dip them in Starsky's glob of ketchup. "When somebody smaller than somebody else starts getting big ideas, somebody usually gets dead."

"And then the whole mess lands right in our laps." Starsky squirted more ketchup. If Hutch wanted to share, fine, but he didn't intend to be left with cold, dry fries.

"I'll tell you what, fellas, it's a small world. Here you are talking about a possible shake-up in the syndicate pecking order, and guess what the buzz was in Naples while I was swinging through Italy on my tour?"

Starsky noticed Hutch pointing at the corner of his own mouth, then at him. He fingered a smear of chili off his chin. "You got me."

"Stern. One of our homegrown nasties. He was over there, been there the past month or so, and Interpol and the counter-mafia squad in Naples want real bad to know why."

Hutch shot Starsky a raised-eyebrow glance. "I'm with them. We didn't even know Stern had left his hilltop palazzo here in Bay City. What do you think, Starsk? Syndicate rumblings on the verge of outright gangland war?"

Starsky refused to let that nasty thought sour his stomach while he had the city's best chiliburger in his hands. "Could be. Could be Stern's trying to skip out on all those library fines. Probably a few years late returning The Little Mobster That Could."

Jake laughed. Hutch treated Starsky to a soft smile and quiet chuckles.

Starsky got a warm rush of happiness followed by a sudden chill.

Dead.

Virginia Donner dead.

First Jake, then….

They got the word forty-eight hours into their quarantine, and like the word on the street, harsh, deadly truth always had a certain ring to it. Hutch hated that sound. He'd wanted time with Starsky away from the job. Well, if this didn't fall into the category of "be careful what you wish for," he didn't know what did.

For the first twelve hours cooped up in the small observation room on the isolation ward, he and Starsky slept off the strain of weekend zebra-unit duty packed with three armed robberies, two stabbings, and one rape. The shock of losing Jake to an unidentified illness couldn't keep them awake when they got within fall-down range of two glorified cots.

The second twelve hours they paced in their yellow hospital gowns and black hospital slippers, argued over TV programming, let nurses tap their veins, and dodged what-ifs.

The third twelve hours they didn't talk or look at each other for more than a few seconds.

The fourth they tossed and turned and sniped at each other about snoring.

Then the masked, gowned, and gloved doctor on rounds gave them the news about Mrs. Donner. Hutch saw Starsky's eyes gleam and blink rapidly, while tears stung his own.

Night had come again. Hutch could tell by the darkness outside their exterior window, and the change in activity level in the hallway outside the observation windows.

Lounging on top of olive drab covers that had to take Starsky back to his army days, Hutch propped against the slab of white granite masquerading as a pillow. He stretched his legs out to the very foot of the bed, crossing his ankles. His back sent an achy warning signal to his brain. Twisting his midsection a little, he gave up on comfort, and watched his quarantine roommate creep closer to the observation glass.

With only the wall light by the door and the greenish light over Starsky's bed, Hutch didn't strain his eyesight looking for the occasional flash of those tight black bikini briefs Starsky wore under his paper gown. Numb with grief and uncertainty, he couldn't escape into the distraction of sneaking glances. He lacked the mental energy to analyze what a different world his life had become when he wanted to slide his hand inside the slit on that gown and cup a handful of Starsky's ass and squeeze. He just wanted to.

Hutch shook his head, a little ashamed of himself. Man really was just a mammal. Basic instincts and baser nature always held the upper hand against higher reason and emotion.

"Starsky, stalking that window won't make it run away like a frightened prey animal."

"What?"

"I know you're getting claustrophobic, but you'll just feel worse over there."

Starsky glanced over his shoulder. "That's the dumbest—" Shrugging, he swiveled and paced back to the beds. His grimace eased. "Hey, maybe it's not so dumb. Farther I get from the window, the less I wanna bust through it."

"See? Your partner knows best."

Starsky perched on the very edge of the other bed and stared across the two feet of space. "I still don't get it. I don't get how Jake and Virgie can be dead. I mean, seems like just yesterday you and me and Jake were at that open-air burger joint."

"I know, Starsk."

"And now he's gone. Just like that. And nobody's got any answers—"

"Starsky, I know, I was there."

"They must think we both got it," Starsky nearly whispered. "Or we both don't."

"How you figure that?"

"Well, they put us together but put Virgie off by herself in another quarantine room."

"Starsky, come on, they couldn't put Virgie in here with us."

"No, that's not what I mean. Look, if they thought one of us had it and one of us didn't, wouldn't they put us in separate rooms?"

"I don't know. I'm no infectious disease specialist."

Starsky looked down at his lap. "I wish—"

"Don't! Don't talk about wishes and regrets like we've got some kind of terminal diagnosis. They're running tests on all that blood they've drained out of us, and we have to go on the assumption that no news is good news."

When Starsky hopped off the bedside on a rush for that observation window, Hutch realized he was in danger of repeating the old pattern. They stood on the brink of vulnerable territory, and Starsky needed a trailblazing partner, not a stoic hiding his fear.

"Starsk?"

Starsky looked back at him.

Hutch took a deep breath. "I'm scared too. Haven't been this scared since you were missing back in January, and I knew that bastard Marcus had something to do with it."

Across the dimly lit room, Starsky's wide eyes showed astonishment Hutch could read like a traffic signal. He came back over and sat down on the edge of Hutch's bed. "Crazy coincidence. I was thinking a while ago I couldn't remember being this antsy, this—"

"Scared?"

"Yeah," Starsky sighed. "Yeah, since you were missing and Huggy told me there was a contract on you. Can't shake it. Keep thinking about you stuck in that canyon. And—"

"And what, Starsky?"

"I can't put outta my head how long you sat with Virgie, you know, with your arms around her and her crying all over you in that doctor's office." Starsky shuddered.

Hutch felt a wave of chills break over his spine. Not too hard to follow Starsky's thought process, and if he knew one thing, he knew not to discount that uncanny Starsky instinct.

Starsky slammed a fist down on the bed. "Could've been me. Should've — but I'm no good at that shit, damn it. You turn into a warm blanket around somebody when they need it, but I was too busy asking that doctor questions he couldn't even answer!"

"Starsky, stop. I'm okay, I feel fine. I'm restless like you and hungry for something better than hospital slop, but I'm certainly not about to keel over like Jake in the locker room."

"How do you know? Huh? We don't know one damn thing. Scratch that. We know Jake's dead, Virgie's dead. We could be dying a little by the hour and no one's telling us."

"Damn it, Starsky!" Hutch gritted his teeth and looked away, over at the yellow curtains obscuring his view of the nighttime city. "We've been there before, both of us. We've faced down longer odds than these. Times when we knew we were in trouble."

"Yeah. Another thing I been thinking about. When fate's got a gun on you, and you're staring down the business end… what you want most right then, that's gotta be more important than anything. Right? That's what really counts."

Hutch decided eye contact with his best friend had more going for it than dusty yellow curtains. "What're you saying, Starsky?"

"Well, like what you were talking about. When I was being held in that maniac cult funhouse… or when I was poisoned. Hell, both times you were missing, 'cause if that wasn't staring down a dark tunnel, I've never seen one. All those times, I wanted one thing. I wanted time." Starsky's face tensed, his necklace coins shining brighter than his darkened eyes. "Not just time. Let me lay it all out there. Time with you."

Hutch sucked in his breath and held it. Here was the most vulnerable of territory, where he could make the biggest mistake in his life if he assumed too much. Under the circumstances, sentimentality didn't necessarily mean romantic feelings. If Starsky wanted to walk the road less traveled, Hutch would consider it a privilege to walk with him, but he needed a little light shed on the path first.

"Starsky, I wanted the same thing. It's understandable. We're close."

"You're not hearing me, and I got no patience to sit and stare at you until I know if it's 'cause you're trying not to hear me. I'm saying those times I thought I wouldn't make it, I wasn't cut up inside knowing I wouldn't live to get married, have kids. I didn't even think about that. I thought about you. Last month or so I've been getting a clue why."

Eager to meet him halfway, Hutch sat forward and rubbed his thumb across Starsky's jaw, venturing down his neck to his chest. He gasped in surprise and arousal when the warmth of Starsky's hand closed around his ankle and traveled in a slow, stroking glide up his bare leg to the hem of his gown at his knee. Upping the ante, Hutch drew his hand on down Starsky's chest to rub his stomach. A touch he'd given Starsky in the past, yes, but never while staring at his mouth and then up into his eyes, never while Starsky's hand curved around his knee, fingertips flicking at his ticklish inner leg.

Moving his leg on the scratchy bed cover reminded him where they were. He and Starsky turned their heads at the same time. A nurse pushed a metal cart past the observation window but didn't glance in their direction. Still, it was a call too close for comfort.

"Not here, Starsk. Not now."

"You're not kidding." Starsky looked up and around, his gaze lingering on the corners of the room at the ceiling. "I didn't notice whether they got cameras on us. Like in a bank."

"I doubt it. I think by observation they mean the doctors and nurses make periodic rounds, and they're watching our lab work closely. I don't think they mean literal observation via closed circuit."

"No sense taking chances now when we might need to take them later." Starsky pushed off the bed and in one burst of forward momentum flopped down on his own. "Wanna look at you instead of the damn ceiling, but if I do, I'll just have something to deal with I can't deal with here." He flashed a grin over at Hutch. "You, uh, know what I mean?"

Hutch found in the middle of grief and uncertainty he could still laugh. "Don't worry. Tomorrow evening will be seventy-two hours. I really don't see them hanging on to us any longer than that."

"Yeah? I'll believe it when I see human beings walk through that door without masks and gloves on, and no worry in their eyes."

Judith Kaufman stopped at the bank of payphones. "Fitz?"

Her senior partner, Fitz Meredith, walked along in the world of research inside his own mind. He rarely stepped out of that academic cocoon until the everyday necessities of going on assignment forced him to deal with the real world. Or until his vivacious wife Cassie tapped her foot loud enough to get his attention. Few people expected Fitz's wife to be a yoga instructor with the personality of a university athletic director. Judith had enormous respect and appreciation for Cassie Meredith. She would have welcomed her here now. Fitz was still walking.

"Fitz!"

He stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"Do we have time for me to make a quick phone call?"

Oblivious to the wristwatch he wore, Fitz glanced around in a clear search for a wall clock. The wall above the auxiliary workers' information desk obliged him. "Yes. We have fifteen minutes before our meeting with Dr. Phillips, and after that we're going to the isolation ward to release those police officers from quarantine."

"I'll meet you at Dr. Phillips's office in a few minutes then."

He looked at her, at the payphones, and back at her. "Do you need change?"

She hid a smile at the small practicality. Fitz was leaving the cocoon. "Yes, thank you."

Digging in his pocket, he scrunched his thin mouth, another sign he was entering the same dimension occupied by the rest of the world. "Your phone call? Mason?"

Heat pricked her cheeks, and she got the nervous fluttering in her stomach she experienced with every mention of that name. She wasn't really with Mason. Mason helped her differentiate between personal time and work time; that was all. She wasn't feeling anything she couldn't stop feeling, whenever she wanted, the way she strictly controlled her meals, her exercise, her other emotions. Making an "I'm here, I'm safe" phone call was only a courtesy, a kindness.

"Yes. I tried to call earlier, but no one answered."

"Give Mason my regards." Fitz dropped a small handful of coins into her cupped palm and turned away before she could thank him. That quick turn wasn't out of rudeness, she knew, but respect for her privacy.

This time when she dialed the number from memory, she got lucky. A gruff Alabama twang-drawl answered after three rings. "Hay-uh-lo."

"Mason?"

"Joo-dee!"

"I tried calling earlier, but you didn't pick up."

"Today? Musta been when I hobbled my crippled butt on crutches out to the mailbox."

She heard the irritation of frustrated independence. "You're fortunate you didn't break more than your leg with a fall from that height, and it would've been your own fault."

"Can I help it my daddy raised a rugged individualist?"

She sighed. "Promise me next time you'll call the professionals?"

"Now why on God's green earth should I shell out my hard-earned money for some roofing company to buy a custom-painted van when I got two arms and two legs of my own that work just fine, and I can fix a damn leak in my own damn roof?"

"Well, one of the four isn't working just fine now."

"It will be a week from now when I get the dang cast off." Throaty laughter warmed her. "How your sugars holding, sugar?"

Judith sometimes hated how adept Southerners were at turning tables. "Don't you start, Mason! I'll get plenty of that from Fitz during this assignment."

"Hey, now, don't knock Fitz. I like him."

"You've never met him."

"No, but you let me see pictures. He's got my vote cuz I cain't be too jealous of you hanging around with a man in his fifties who's married, losing his hair, and looks like he stepped right out of a morgue somewhere with the tag still round his toe."

She gasped through a chuckle. "Mason!"

"And named Fitzwilliam on top of it all, the poor cuss."

"You don't have a common name yourself."

"Now, Judy, I done told you how I got my name. I popped out of Mama a touch early, and Daddy told the midwife to stick me back in the oven and let me cook some more cuz I wasn't no bigger than a mason jar. This case you're on gohna be a bad one, pritty girl?"

"Too soon to tell, and I'm sorry, but I have to run. I'm at a payphone in the hospital lobby. I just wanted to let you know we arrived safely. Oh, and Fitz sends his regards."

"Give him mine right back. Where you headed now?"

"A meeting, and then to release two police detectives from quarantine. They have to feel the universe exacted some kind of revenge and put them in jail for seventy-two hours."

"Detectives? Young?"

"Around our age, I believe. Why?"

"You watch out, then." More throaty laughter. "They'll wohnta flirt with you."

She smiled. "I think I can hold my own. I'll call when I can."

"Take care of yourself, beautiful."

Starsky wanted to kick himself. He'd just had to ask for it. He'd had to open his damned big mouth and ask for human beings without masks. He hadn't counted on Judith Kaufman, M.D. He hadn't counted on the kick to the gut he got from one flirtatious exchange between Hutch and the pretty lady in her conservative blazer and schoolteacher blouse and sensible skirt.

"Are you really a doctor or you just beautiful?"

"I'm just beautiful."

"I think I'm in love."

She was a real doctor. Hip, Hip, Hooray for women's lib. Starsky had given Hutch a censored up-yours look and directed his questions at the other doctor, that older guy with a receding hairline and a bad suit, what doctors were supposed to look like, damn it.

He'd enjoyed the relief of putting on clothes and walking through the hospital like a normal person, but that relief faded faster than a puff of smoke at the news that Jake and Virgie Donner had died of something these big shots from Alabama didn't understand. Something that might be hanging around inside him or… oh, shit… or Hutch, and they didn't even know it. Made no sense. They were either sick or they weren't.

Right?

He had to think of it like that. He had to shrug off his tendency to what-if shit like this, and while he was at it, he had to shrug off the idea of Hutch playing doctor with a doctor. They had a job to do, and Starsky might have hit the experts with his skepticism in that doctor's office, but now that they had arrived at Metro, his confidence was on the rise.

This was detective work. Nobody, but nobody, could do detective work on the streets the way he and Hutch could… together. Sure, they could retrace Jake's steps, find the source, and then let the Bama folks do their thing. Nothing to it. Slice of pie.

But first….

With a growl in his gut, Starsky stopped in front of the candy machine.

"Starsk?"

"Instant energy." Starsky patted his front pockets. Did he have any change? "I'm running on empty after that hunger strike protesting the crap they called food at that hospital."

Hutch had on that indulgent smile he got when flying high on new infatuation. Coming up empty after a search of his beige jacket pockets, Hutch delved into the front pocket on those tight khaki denims. With that lady doctor standing by watching, her dark eyes giving nothing away, Starsky had to call on undercover experience to keep a straight face instead of gawking at every tiny movement of Hutch's long fingers that close to….

God! Well, now he knew what happened to a guy when he fell for his best friend. Little things he never would've noticed before suddenly became material for sweaty nighttime fantasies. His reflexes came through for him. Two shiny quarters arced through the air; he nabbed the coins, closing his fist around them.

"Get yourself two candy bars, partner." Hutch turned that smile on Doctor What's-Her-Name. "Let's go brief the captain. Starsky knows the way."

Starsky started to make a face at Hutch's back but thought better of it. A responsible adult, a taxpayer, employed in a position of authority, he could act his age, not his dick size. He could even go the extra mile and treat that dark-haired rival like one of the team. Knowing this candy machine didn't kowtow to a special click of the punch button and give free candy bars, he thrust his hand in his leather jacket pockets and felt around for any coins. He didn't wear the black jacket often and maybe… alakazam! He dug out two dimes and a nickel.

Three candy bars safely in hand, he hurried down the hall to Dobey's office, determined to stay in the center ring of this new three-ring circus. He got there in time to meet Hutch and their new ride-along coming out. Dobey gave him and his handful of candy a stern silent headshake. Starsky foresaw significant damage to his future vacation time.

Terrific.

"One of those for me?" Hutch plucked the peanut bar out of Starsky's grasp. "Thanks."

"You want?" Forcing a smile, Starsky offered their third wheel one of the other two bars.

She smiled back. "No, thank you."

"You don't eat candy? Come on. Everybody eats candy."

Her smile flattened. "I don't."

Hutch gave him a subtler headshake than Dobey's and led the way down the hall.

Oh, for—! Fine. He was apparently destined to look the dumb-ass all evening. Tearing into the candy bar, he caught up to them in the wider hallway, walking in step on the other side of the doctor who had no sweet tooth. "One question? How do we know Jake didn't pick this, whatever it is, up in Europe?"

Hutch gave him a nod of approval. "We were just talking about that in Dobey's office."

"We have to assume Lieutenant Donner was infected after he arrived in California. Before Mrs. Donner's symptoms made it impossible to get a clear history, she sketched out her husband's itinerary in Europe. We've contacted the various law enforcement agencies, and no one on staff has reported any similar symptoms."

That sounded flimsy to Starsky. "Yeah, but Jake didn't eat, breathe, and sleep police work over there. He would've done some sightseeing, gone out to eat, that kinda thing."

She gave him that patient smile. "We know. We can't rule out every possibility, but the rapid deterioration in condition once symptoms appear suggests a shorter incubation period than that. Unless Mr. Donner was infected on the last day of his trip, he likely would have been sick while over there. He wasn't, according to his patient history."

They stopped at the elevator and Hutch punched the down button. "What about his flight, Doc? Could he have been exposed to something on the plane?"

"We're checking into that. We contacted the airline for a passenger list, and Lincoln Hospital staff members are contacting each person listed as being on Mr. Donner's flight. We'll concentrate our attention locally. We just need a starting point."

The elevator door slid open. Hutch gestured her in ahead of him. "That's easy enough. Jake's first stop after landing was with us. We took him to lunch at his favorite burger place in the precinct."

Starsky thumb-pushed the close-door button then had to wipe a chocolate smear off it. "Could this be a food thing? We've never heard anything bad about that place, but there's a first time for everything."

"Virgie didn't eat with us, Starsky, and we're not sick. Although… could Jake have gotten sick from something he ate, picked up some virus, and brought it home to Virgie?"

The slightest headshake bounced all of the doctor lady's dark curls around. "This illness doesn't behave like any of the known food-borne viruses. We still haven't ruled out bacterial contagion, but Dr. Meredith and I anticipate this will prove to be a virus."

"Should we bypass the burger place?" Hutch asked. "Start on Jake's list?"

"No, we have to be thorough, and depending on the level of contact Mr. Donner had with the employees at the restaurant, any or all of them may need to be placed in observation."

Starsky didn't like the shadow he saw fall over Hutch's face then. He could read the concern in Hutch's eyes too easily. Damn. If this thing could spread like that….

So much in life came down to chance and timing.

Hours spent tracking down forty-three people on Jake's log sheets yielded no likely candidate for the disease carrier, and then the pickpocket from the airport just happened to appear on the busy crosswalk ahead of the Torino idling in traffic.

Hutch won the race to the iron-barred fence where the sick man clung, panting and sweaty, so he just happened to be the one left in the alley with Judith while Starsky raced back to the Torino for the radio. When the guy made a last ditch effort at escape, springing off that fence, his arms out, his hands curved into claws, Hutch couldn't take a chance on the fever-crazed bail jumper making contact with the civilian under his protection. He threw himself against the guy, using his elbow to deliver a vicious uppercut to the chin that sent the man spiraling to the dirty pavement.

Seconds later it occurred to him what a mistake he'd made, and that he could have used his gun to cold-cock the guy, or hell, aimed it at him as a deterrent. He stepped quickly away from the fallen man, but when he caught Judith's eye, he saw worry there. "I didn't really touch him."

"You had close contact." Her voice was so quiet.

"It was nothing." He frowned. "You can forget putting me back into quarantine over something insignificant like that. I won't have Starsky doing street work without me because I used my elbow on the guy instead of my gun."

She looked over her shoulder at the alleyway.

A worrisome possibility hit him like a flash of light in front of the eyes. "Will I be a threat to Starsky just riding in the car with him, walking around with him?"

"You didn't have skin on skin contact. Did you feel any sweat droplets?" She came over, looked at his jacket sleeve. "I don't see anything. I consider this minimal risk contact, but I suggest you change clothes as soon as possible, and limit contact you have with anyone until we're sure you haven't had an infectious exposure. I'll also need to get new samples from you later, and you need to let us know immediately if you develop any unusual weakness, fatigue, dizziness, or pain with breathing."

He rubbed his eyes. "Damn."

He heard Starsky's voice from last night, deeper with seldom heard fear: Hell, both times you were missing, 'cause if that wasn't staring down a dark tunnel, I've never seen one.

"Listen, I don't want Starsky to hear about this. I don't want him worried unless he… until he has to be. This was probably nothing. I had a lot more contact with Jake and Virginia Donner, and I'm fine. With any luck, this guy is your carrier, right, and… what?"

"Not necessarily."

"Well, if he's not, you and Meredith will need Starsky and me out here working the streets while you tackle the lab work we can't do." He turned for another look at that damned metal fence.

I won't let Starsky stare down another dark tunnel over nothing. It has to be nothing.

"Ambulance is on its way. Man, he's really down for the count."

Hutch swung around at the sound of Starsky's voice, and gave thanks for small favors when he saw that Starsky had sunshades back on. He couldn't have faced a naked stare from those observant eyes. I'm an idiot! Guess what, Starsk? Your partner's a moron!

"Guess it was too much to hope for, that collar from the airport being the carrier. Maybe that security chief can help us backtrack some of Jake's steps at the airport. You and me were chasing that dipper up one escalator and down another. We might've missed something." Starsky yawned, slumping a little in the seat, and dropped his left hand to a loose grip along the bottom curve of steering wheel. "My place? Closer."

"Drop me by Venice."

Starsky had to double clutch at the wheel as his hand slipped in his surprise. He'd taken it as a given they would stick close. "What? Why?"

"I need a change of clothes, and—"

Clothes? That had never bothered Hutch before. "It wouldn't be 'dropping you by' Venice, and we're looking at an early start tomorrow. You got some things at my place."

"Like what?"

"Your black leather jacket's there, a pair of dark jeans, and there's a green shirt that's yours 'cause I don't remember buying anything that shade green my whole life. The rest you can borrow." He looked over at his passenger. Hutch sat rigid, all tensed up, and so close to the door he'd need the damn thing cut away from him after a while. "Hey. What's goin' on? Hm? You've been all quiet and uptight since we left the lab at the hospital."

"What's going on?" Hutch sounded weird still, all choked. "You're asking me what's going on? You heard those doctors. This virus is a killer, and it moves faster than you can gun this Tomato down the freeway. That's not enough?"

"Ok-a-ay."

The weirdness didn't end when they got to his place. Hutch blew out of the car, rushed up the stairs, and started shedding holster and clothes one foot over the threshold. Starsky almost did a celebratory boogie, but he had a feeling Hutch wasn't getting naked that fast for his benefit. Down to underwear and socks, Hutch slung his holster over the back of the sofa, scooped up the pile of beige and plaid clothes, and headed for the kitchen.

The kitchen?!

"You have an extra trash bag?"

"Trash bag? What you need a— just put them in my hamper. I'll throw yours in with mine when I get around to laundry again, maybe a month from now way things are going."

"Starsky, a trash bag?"

"Okay, all right, you want a trash bag, you get one." Starsky joined his best crazy pal in the kitchen and pulled a bag out of the under-sink cabinet.

"Thanks." Hutch stuffed the clothes in the bag and twisted the ends into a knot. He threw the bundle under the table by the wall phone. "Mind if I hit the shower first?"

"Nope." Starsky offered a grin, aiming for seductive, hoping his uncertainty didn't come across in his voice. "Want company?"

Hutch wouldn't look at him. "Not this time, Starsky. I'll take a pair of your underwear. Not any of your skin-tights." His smile looked strange with his face turned to the side. "Don't get me wrong. I have no complaints with them on you. Quarantine would've been boring as hell without that occasional flash of black under that hospital gown."

Finally! Some corroborating evidence that he hadn't hallucinated that stroke of Hutch's thumb across his jaw, or how he'd come damn near feeling Hutch up, close as he could get in a room with windows for walls. He hadn't forgotten running his hand up Hutch's leg; he hadn't forgotten the feel of silken fine hair over warm skin and hard muscle against his palm, so different than a woman's softer, smoother leg, and somehow… sexier.

He reached out to touch Hutch's cheek but ended up caressing thin air when Hutch stepped away and then made for the bathroom like his ass was on fire.

What the—?!

Starsky decided his shower could wait for morning. He wanted sleep more than pastrami on rye with hot mustard. Shrugging out of his jacket, yawning his way to the bedroom, he listened for the sound of water running while he stripped down. Hey, Hutch could shower solo all he wanted, but once he got his ass in bed, he had a goodnight kiss coming.

Out of the shower, Hutch outmaneuvered him again. Sporting a towel and glistening chest, he grabbed the boxers off the end of the bed… and left Starsky alone in that bed. Alone and naked and hard. Starsky snarled a few choice words and flung back the covers. He didn't bother with his robe. If Hutch could talk about his male partner's ass, he could handle seeing that male partner hard and aching for him.

He had to blink three times before he believed what he saw in the living room. Hutch had turned the rattan chair into his throne and sat there shivering in nothing but Starsky's boxers. "What's the matter with you?!"

Hutch made a visible effort to stop shivering. "What?"

"What you mean: what? I doubt anybody's spent more'n five minutes in that chair since Dobey was here when we had Willits stashed in my room."

"Well, if it held Dobey, it'll hold me. Good for my back."

"Bullshit, good for your back, and you'll freeze without a blanket. I got a nice, warm bed with nice, warm covers. Get your ass in there where it belongs."

"I'll be fine here, Starsky."

Anyone who thought it wasn't awkward changing from friends into lovers needed his head examined. Add into the equation that the friends were both guys, and awkward wasn't even the word. Surreal, maybe.

"Uh, Hutch, listen. I know we said some things last night. Or I said some things and you acted like you agreed with me, and I know I'm standing here with my dick pointing at my chin, but man, that doesn't mean we gotta rush this thing. You know? You can sack out with me in that bed and do nothing but snore. I just want you in there."

Hutch's eyes got a pleading softness in them, and he gripped the sides of that throne chair as if he had to keep himself glued to it at all costs. Starsky got the impression if Hutch let up his grip by one finger or two, he'd catapult himself out of it. "Get some sleep, Starsk."

Muttering over gorgeous masochists, Starsky went in search of the heaviest spare blanket he had. He chose his old bedspread and brought it to Hutch with the intent of tucking it around him and stealing a kiss on the cheek if nothing else. No such luck. Hutch whipped out his hand and snatched the bedspread before Starsky got within a foot of the chair.

That topped off Starsky's rejection tolerance, right there. He didn't say another word. He got his ass back to bed and stared wide awake at the ceiling. He wanted to put Judith Kaufman on a nonstop flight to Novosibirsk, but somehow he knew she wasn't to blame for Hutch suddenly treating him like he had the….

The plague.

Starsky sat bolt upright in bed, wanting to sock himself a good hard one in the jaw. How could he be so dense? Make that adolescent and dense. No, wait. If Hutch thought I had the plague, he'd be all over me, offering comfort, reassurances, hounding me to go back to the hospital so the docs could throw me into a bed and hook me up to God knows what.

Instead, Hutch had wanted to go to Venice, alone, and wouldn't bunk down on Starsky's sofa. Cold dread clenched Starsky around the throat.

He thinks he has it. Ah, Hutch. My fault, buddy. I had to run off at the mouth last night about how close you stuck to Virgie after we got the word on Jake. Damn it.

Starsky scrambled out of bed and hit the floor on a stride-run that got him to the rattan chair so fast Hutch had no warning time to evade him. He slid one hand up Hutch's arm to knead and rub his shoulder, and cupped his cheek. "You don't have it. Hear me?"

Hutch had snake-strike reflexes too. He batted Starsky's hand away from his cheek and jerked away from the grasp of his shoulder. "You heard Meredith. We may not be infected. That's a big word, Starsky. A big, dangerous word."

"Yeah, but why you think it's gotta be you? You do. Admit it. Well, I'm telling you, forget it, no dice. They let us go. We're fine. Hutch? We're okay." He ducked his head to kiss away the fear and cold, but Hutch intercepted him, fingertips hard against his lips.

"No, Starsky. We can't. We don't know how easily this thing's transmitted. Yeah, Jake and Virgie probably had intimate contact. Man comes home from several weeks in Europe, he's gonna at least kiss his wife, and knowing Jake and Virgie, I'd wager a lot more than kissing went on. But Jake wasn't making out with the ambulance attendant or his ER nurse, for God's sake, and he hardly had any contact with that pickpocket."

That pickpocket now occupied a shelf in the morgue. Starsky seriously wondered if that chill clenching his throat might actually strangle him. "Hutch—"

"Until we know we're in the clear, we can't afford risks, Starsky. Think about it."

Starsky reluctantly moved away to perch on the sofa arm. "You're saying if one of us has it, the other will need to be able to get out there and do the legwork."

"Right."

He brushed his hands down his thighs and gripped his knees. That was what happened when he canned the what-if game. He'd gone along ignoring worst case scenarios until he'd stopped thinking with the head on his shoulders. From here on in, he pledged, he would be strictly business. He owed it to the man in that rattan chair. Hutch needed his partner. Starsky could wow him… and woo him… when Bay City didn't have a plague of bubonic proportions threatening to break out.

"Okay, well, we need sleep, and you won't get it cramped in that chair."

"Starsky, I'm—"

"You're not fine, damn it." He had to smile. "Well, you are, but comfortable you're not. You don't have that killer virus, Hutch, you don't, but if you got to worry your head about it anyway, I can't stop you. No need to worry and throw your back out. Stretch out on the sofa. If you're thinking you'll contaminate it somehow, get over it: I can buy another damn sofa. For that matter, I can buy a new bed. You go in there, I'll crash in here."

Hutch grabbed Starsky's left wrist in a loose bracelet hold of forefinger and thumb and pulled him forward. His pinky rings got a quick, light kiss. Then Hutch wiped any moisture from the rings with the pad of his thumb and let him go. "Go on, get in there, Starsky, get some rest."

"Want me to drive you to Venice? Or you don't wanna sleep in your own bed either?"

"No, I—" Hutch looked around the room, his gaze flickering over the bookshelves, over to the kitchen, back to Starsky. "I'm glad I'm here."

"Yeah? Up! Come on, I got an idea."

Hutch's expression turned stubborn. "Starsky, you're making this harder."

"Either you get up, or I pull you up, and that's close contact. Your choice."

"All right!" Bedspread tucked around him, Hutch pushed up from the chair. "There. I'm up. What the hell good it'll— Starsky? What're you—?"

Starsky lifted the rattan chair and walked it into his room, twisting and turning to get it through the doorway. He parked the chair just inside the room at the corner of his bed, and padded the interior of the "throne" with two of his pillows. Hutch lingered in the doorway, trailing the bedspread behind him like a ratty old train.

"Starsky, you're missing the point. I don't need to spend all night three feet from you."

"Gimme a break. You rode around in the car for hours with me since we got our walking papers at Lincoln. Pretty little Doctor Kaufman didn't mind squeezing between us in the front seat. Personally, I think this bed's big enough for us to keep what you call a safe distance, but you won't go for it, you won't. This way, you get to stretch your legs out on the bed and maybe you'll still manage to walk upright tomorrow."

Hutch didn't argue. He yawned behind his hand and followed Starsky's suggestion, shifting around in the chair and propping his legs across the foot of the bed. "Oh, all right," he said when Starsky grinned at him from the bed. "This is better. You slide over to the far side of the bed."

Starsky gave him a headshake of frustration but slid over. He lay facing Hutch. They looked at each other. "Hey." Starsky yawned again. "This is like quarantine."

"Only better."

"Why's that?"

"You're not covered shoulders to knees in a yellow paper hospital gown."

Starsky took the warmth of that compliment all the way into sleep.

"Guy looks like an international businessman or an investment banker." Starsky shuffled through the photos, handing them one at a time to Hutch. "I got a feeling he's neither."

"He looks familiar, but I can't place him." Hutch pointed at the airport lockers behind the three-piece suit man. "Starsky, when you flip through these in order, don't you think it looks like maybe he'd just gotten something out of one of the lockers?"

"Thought so, yeah. Only thing he's carrying is that attaché. Means he got it out of the locker, right? Little unusual, isn't it? Passenger coming off a flight with no kind of carry-on, and picking up an attaché out of a locker? Least, we got to hope he was arriving and not departing. If he got on a plane bound for who knows where, we're in real trouble."

"Trouble I'd rather not think about." Hutch shook his head when Lieutenant Anderson held up the coffee carafe in a gesture of hospitality. Starsky waved away the offer, going back over to the file cabinet by the window and running his fingers along the model airliner's wing. "These aren't coin-operated lockers."

"No. Those are longer term rental lockers."

Hutch studied the photos, trying to make an educated guess which one the man of interest had used. No. Too risky. Too easy to pick the wrong one. "Can you get us a list of who rented each one of those lockers?"

Coffee mug in hand, Anderson sat down on the corner of his desk. "Fourteen lockers in that section. I want to work with you guys, but to release that information, I'd need—"

"We don't have time for special warrants to make you feel covered in case of privacy invasion lawsuits." Starsky gestured at the photos in Hutch's hands. "Your cameras didn't turn on in time for us to see what locker the guy used. Only hope we got is running all the names through our computer in R&I and seeing if something pops up."

"Sounds like a long shot to me."

Hutch saw the tension gather along Starsky's shoulders, and knew his short diplomatic fuse had nearly burned down. He pointed the photos to get Anderson's attention. "My partner's gut is telling him this guy's no ordinary passenger flying in for a business conference. Mine tells me the same. I know this guy from somewhere, and it's not the local branch of the Lions Clubs. Long shot or not, we need to know who he is, and we don't have time to waste."

"If you could give me some idea what's so pressing—"

"Jake Donner is dead." Starsky nodded at the blank security monitor screens lined up against the wall. "That airport dipper who triggered these cameras is dead. Now we're asking you how you're feeling, wanting you to check in at the hospital. That scratch on Jake's hand might not be the nothing you think it is. What's all that tell you?"

Anderson's complexion paled. "Tells me I need to get that information for you right away. I'll get you a list covering that day and the day before."

Hutch let out a breath of relief. "Smart man."

"Tell me something, Starsky."

Starsky opened the Wallace Hotel's grimy front door. Maybe in the twenties the fleabag had lived up to its grand name, but now it rented by the hour, and the ornate façade had more cracks than an inner city sidewalk. "Yeah, what?"

"Any reason you're dressed almost identically to what I wore yesterday?"

Letting Hutch edge past him into the lobby, Starsky did a quick wardrobe check in the glass door. Through the grime he saw a gritty reflection of his khaki jacket, plaid shirt, and jeans. "Not identical. You had on khaki pants. Not jeans."

"Big difference."

"Yeah, well, you got on a black leather jacket like I had on yesterday."

Hutch flicked at his jacket collar. "Simple explanation. This was all I had at your place I could put on over my…" He lowered his voice. "Hardware."

Starsky gulped. What was Hutch trying to do to him, for the love of—?! He'd pledged himself to a strictly business attitude, and now Hutch wanted to flirt? Well, hell, two could play that game much better than one. He walked as close as Hutch would let him and whispered, "Yeah, that jacket might be covering your police issue, but my boxers are covering the hardware you can't put in a holster. Remember?"

Hutch gave him a superior smile. "I could when I'm in the upright and locked position."

That put an image in Starsky's head that sucked all the moisture out of his mouth and turned his dick to stone. Sliding his empty holster down over Hutch's hard….

On duty, on duty, on duty!

Starsky roughened his next whisper, "Now you tell me. All night long you stayed so far away you would've had to airmail me a kiss, and now we're on duty and I can't do the first damn thing to retaliate the way I wanna, you pull this on me." He got one of those barely-there Hutchinson winks anyone but him would have a hard time spotting. "Well, don't do it! You're evil."

The "evil" little smile on Hutch's face made up for the nauseating surroundings. With a tingle of lust and a spring in his step, Starsky found it much easier to pick out a path between the street citizenry who used the lobby floor to sleep off after-high lows.

By unspoken agreement they avoided the old-fashioned car-gated elevator. No one with a sense of smell better than a block of wood could last for a three-floor ride without bringing breakfast up for an encore. Reaching the third floor landing they heard the least welcome sound in a world with a plague in it: groans of pain.

"Shit." Hutch closed his eyes.

"I'll check it out; make sure it's the real thing."

"I'll check it out. You go radio for the ambulance and isolation equipment."

"Hutch, we've tracked down four of that airport collar's known associates, and all four times you stayed with the sick person and secured the scene while I made the call. It's time for us to divide the labor, huh? I'll stay and make sure no one goes in or out."

"No, Starsky! You don't—"

"I don't have it already, that's what you're trying not to say? You don't either, how many times I gotta tell you that? What the hell you aiming for, a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

Hutch glared at him, more fear than anger showing in his eyes. "Four out of the five people we had reason to suspect had any contact with that pickpocket are sick, Starsky! I had contact with that pickpocket, at the airport after Jake did, and—"

"And what? You heard the docs. They don't think the pickpocket was the carrier. Jake got cut by that guy with the attaché case, not during the collar."

"What are you saying?"

Starsky let out a groan of frustration. "I don't know. I guess I'm saying maybe Lieutenant Anderson really is coming down with the flu, not this bug. He didn't even have contact with that attaché guy. You want me to believe Anderson is getting sick 'cause he was around Jake for a few minutes right after Jake got cut by that guy's fingernails maybe?"

"The pickpocket was only around Jake for a few minutes right after we collared him, and he's dead, and his autopsy showed the same kind of fluid in his lungs as Jake's."

"God! Then how are we walking around without it? None'a this makes sense."

"We're not epidemiologists."

"Come on, Hutch, I got a feeling this doesn't make sense to the epidemo-whoevers. If it hops from person to person like that, we'll have people dropping in the streets."

Hutch's eyes widened; he made a come-on-come-on gesture. "What did you say?"

"What? Hop from person to person, people dropping in the streets, what?"

"Dropping in the street. Something… damn. I can't nail it down. Well, anyway, I don't want your stubborn ass dropping in the street, so will you get out of here, go make that call for the ambulance? We don't have time to argue or flip a coin for it."

Starsky's hard stare got nothing in return but Hutch's flashing-eyed, don't-push-me warning, with lifted finger for emphasis. No other man in the world could get away with pulling that face or that finger on him. From the earliest days of their partnership it was part of Hutch's magic that Starsky knew himself powerless against.

"Stay in the hall!" He clenched his fist around his car keys. "I mean it, Hutch. You can guard the scene without gettin' in sneezing, coughing, breathing distance of that person."

"Roger, ten-four, scram already."

Hutch didn't need a medical degree to diagnose what he saw when he pushed open the cracked door down the hall. Penny, a thirty-something working girl, frequented the spoon-and-needle circuit, but her sweaty wheezing and writhing in the bed had nothing to do with a long stretch between fixes.

"Help… me," she gasped, turning her head and weakly lifting her hand.

He leaned against the doorjamb. "Help is on the way."

Sure. What help? A ride in an ambulance to a hospital just to die in an oxygen tent. He winced at the woman's moan of agony. Any other time he could go in there, sit on the bedside, and hold her hand, giving her the peace of mind that she wasn't alone. Not this time. He couldn't go in there. Medical personnel wouldn't go in that room without smocks and gloves and face masks.

Nothing they can do for her. It's too late, it's already too late, damn it.

Four out of five people, and with this one a working prostitute, that meant johns walking around sick and not even realizing it, perhaps taking contagion home to wives and kids.

Swallowing hard, Hutch tasted bile in his throat. Christ, this is hopeless. He had thought they caught a break when they learned Virgie Donner had stayed home the weekend after Jake's homecoming. Hah, nothing doing. What did he and Starsky think they could do? Did they really believe they could stop the spread by rounding people up like this? The damned killer was on the loose, microscopic, impossible to run down and lock in cuffs and haul off to jail. What hope did the entire fucking city have?!

What hope do I have?

Oh, God. Starsky. Starsk!

"Hutch? Is that you?"

"Yes, Penny, it's me. I'm here in the doorway. Not going anywhere."

Penny retched, her breath harsh and rattling. "What's… happening… to me?"

Hutch turned and pressed his forehead against the jamb. "You're sick." Hell of a way to state the obvious. "We have an ambulance on the way. They'll take you to Lincoln Hospital where some doctors and nurses are waiting for you. They'll take care of you, Penny. You won't be alone."

He had to face facts. He could no longer hide behind flirting with Starsky and trying to pretend they were working any other case. He'd had more contact with Jake, closer contact with Virgie, and, what Starsky still didn't know, that unexpected contact with the dying pickpocket in the alley. Didn't matter if the bail jumper wasn't the carrier.

Law of averages….

Hutchinson, when you decide to be negative, you don't go for the half-empty glass; you take the glass and shatter it!

"Hey. Hutch?"

Hutch opened his eyes and held out his hand to ward off Starsky's approach beyond a certain point. "What took you so long?"

"Got a patch-through call from Records while I was down there."

"Sta—arsky?"

"God, it is Penny?"

Hutch nodded.

Starsky balled a fist, popping himself in the thigh, and poked his head in the room. "Hiya, Penny. Know you're feelin' lousy. We got helping coming. Hang in there."

"Don't… go."

Hutch slammed his palm against the doorjamb. "We won't leave you like this, Penny."

"Hutch and me, we're both here; we're staying put 'til the ambulance comes." Starsky ducked back out of the room, his expression neutral again, all business. "None of those locker names pulled sheet. Only six lockers were reserved that day, three under male names. I think they were… yeah, a Daniels, Lewis, and Steele. I asked for a DMV search on all six names, just in case."

"I didn't really think any of the names would send up flags. Did you? I didn't want to agree with Anderson and give him reason to turn us down, but if this guy with the attaché isn't on the side of the angels, that locker's probably rented under an alias."

Starsky agreed with a nod. "Well, we got a last known address for the fifth possible on our pickpocket contact list. Soon as the ambulance shows here, let's go knock on the last door and maybe by then we'll get a read-back from the DMV."

"Just how 'last' is that last known address?" Hutch asked when Starsky got in the car.

Starsky slapped the steering wheel. Waving at the windshield didn't transform the purple Quickie Photo film development booth into a by-the-week apartment house. "Girl behind the counter said she's worked there two years. We got a killer virus about to rip through the city and we can't get fresh information!"

"This is a dead end anyway. Let's face it: we can't round up everybody who might be infected. We need to concentrate on the guy in that photo."

"Yeah. How's this grab you? We get some of Anderson's airport security crew to flash those photos at the various cabbies and the rental car people. Maybe we'll get lucky and the guy took a cab somewhere, and one of the drivers will remember him."

Hutch didn't smile or nod, just turned his head to the window. "You know the problem with that. If this guy is the carrier, and he took a taxi, his driver might already be…."

Dead.

Hutch didn't have to say the word.

Starsky got that clenching chill around his throat again. "Worth a shot. Comes down to it, the attaché guy himself might be dead already."

"Don't say that. I have a suspicion that would be worst case scenario in this situation."

"Okay, I won't say it. What's our next step? Hm? We need a line on the guy in the photo. What do we know or, hell, even assume in this case, 'cause at this point, I'm willing to chase hunches. Anderson thinks the guy was a passenger. We got reason to believe he picked up an attaché out of a locker. Makes you wonder what's in the attaché. Case that size? Money, drugs, weapons maybe. More important question: was he picking up the attaché on arrival or departure?"

"Arrival. Had to be, if we assume he had contraband, like weapons or drugs. He couldn't get it past security scanning to carry it on, and checked luggage gets scanned eventually. That's why he needed the locker. He couldn't carry whatever it was with him on the flight, but someone here made sure that attaché was waiting for him on arrival."

"You're thinking he's some imported—"

"Imported!" Hutch thumped the dashboard and turned in his seat. "That's it, Starsky. Dropping in the street. The Monte assassination. What'd we do with the photos?"

Vic Monte. One attempt foiled by two street cops — one on the front lines and one laid out wounded on a couch and praying to any god that would listen for his partner's life — didn't stop the international syndicate. Monte had to go, and when out-of-state killers couldn't do the job, the higher-ups called in an out-of-country triggerman. The prince of pros. With the typical arrogance of mob bosses, Monte didn't learn his lesson about frequenting one restaurant on a regular schedule. From what the Organized Crime Unit with the LAPD could piece together afterward, Thomas Callendar had surprised ole Vic at his new favorite place, and dropped him to the street out front with a perfect kill shot.

Starsky wanted to know what Bay City had done to piss off the universe and get hit with a plague and Thomas Callendar. "You're talking about the syndicate's top mechanic. Ex-top mechanic. Didn't Callendar take his millions off somewhere to live the good life?"

Hutch rapidly flipped the photos. "Not if I'm right, he didn't. Syndicate! That's it. Starsky, remember at lunch with Jake, we talked about unrest in the Bay City syndicate ranks?"

"Yeah, hey, you got something there. Jake said Stern was in Naples, and Interpol was taking a real big interest in why. You think it's cause and effect that Stern's over there and then Callendar flies in here from parts unknown with an agenda locked up in an attaché?"

"I think it's possible. If we can confirm that Callendar came in from Naples, we have a likely connection between him and Stern. Doesn't tell us who the target is, but it's a start. What we need is someone who knows how to work the lines of communication with Interpol. Jake was the BCPD's best go-between. That's why he was invited over there."

"Allan Kelsey, he's our guy. He's forgotten more names on the syndicate playbook than we ever knew, and he's in real tight with Interpol." Starsky liked the idea enough to key the ignition. "But he's LAPD. We're supposed to keep any epidemic talk to a minimum."

"I know that, but if we don't ask the right questions, how long do you think it'll be until LA is staring down a plague with us? We'll feed him a cover story. Play it off as part of our investigation of increased activity in our district. He'll buy that."

"Works for me." Starsky backed out of the space and cut across the small parking lot. "I'll let you explain that reasoning to Dobey when he starts bellowing."

"Chicken."

"Uh-uh. I got a strong instinct of vacation-preservation. After he saw me with those candy bars yesterday, I can't afford another Dobey headshake. And for what, I askya? You only ate half your peanut bar, and our lady doctor friend doesn't even eat candy." He zoomed into a tiny opening in traffic. "Who doesn't eat candy? I guess that's how she plans to stay a size two."

"It's not that, Starsky. She's diabetic. She has to watch what she eats, and when."

For that, Starsky had to turn his head. "What?" Uh-oh. When had Hutch found time to make that kind of in-road with Dr. Kaufman, DC? "She tell you that?"

"Of course not, turkey, do you think we had time to sit and chat about her medical history? Last night at the lab, I heard Dr. Meredith ask her if she'd checked her sugars."

"No kidding. Huh. I thought diabetics wore that special jewelry."

"Maybe she wears hers somewhere it's not readily visible."

Starsky concentrated on the road ahead. He knew he had something readily visible on his face he wasn't ready for Hutch to see. Yeah, buddy boy, don't you plan on finding out where she wears her medical jewelry.

As it turned out, they didn't have to worry about carrying tales to Los Angeles. Lieutenant Allan Kelsey had gone through a few life stressors in the last year, among them divorce and retirement, and had settled in Bay City to devote himself to his second love. Their contact in the LAPD Organized Crime Unit pointed them in the direction of Mandalay Heights Airfield, where the ex-cop "lived" with his beloved Piper Cub in a rented hangar.

After Hutch saw Starsky crane his neck in nearly a 360-degree threat assessment and then whirl at the clatter of a wrench or some other tool on the tarmac nearby, he risked a finger tap to Starsky's jacketed shoulder. Starsky jumped, thrusting his hand inside his jacket.

Hutch smiled. "What are you so nervous about?"

"I'm not nervous, I'm alert." Starsky went right back to eyeballing all four directions. "Seems like every time we come here we get shot at."

"Oh, don't be—! Starsky, we're here to visit an ex-cop. A police officer. A colleague. One of the good guys." Hutch snickered. "You think he'll use us for target practice?"

"Very funny." Starsky's hyper-tense stance relaxed a little.

"There it is."

"There's what?"

"The hangar, and look, there's an opening. Should be able to squeeze through sideways. I know I will. You'll need to suck in some air." Hutch shook his head. "All those chili-cheeseburgers."

Starsky gave him a light shove to the back. "Go on, smart ass. You're not paper thin."

Hutch ducked away. "You first."

"No way. We go together."

Their face-to-face sideways shuffle through the opening lodged them half in, half out. Aware of the close proximity, afraid of viral what-ifs, Hutch kept his face averted, holding his breath, but Starsky jutted his pelvis forward by a fraction of an inch at the exact time Hutch did the same, trying to dislodge them.

Hutch turned his head; Starsky's eyes shot wide, and circulation worked against them. The tiniest mutual nudging below had them drawing in harsh breaths in unison. One of them had to move. They had to move, and separately, and fast! This was insane.

Suddenly the seemingly arbitrary regulations against fraternization in police partnerships made good sense… when the smallest, most insignificant contact could do that!

For years they had played their partnership like a contact sport. They'd crushed against each other behind a swinging door, pushed each other out of danger, bumped butts on a dance floor. They hugged away each other's torment, both physical and emotional; they touched, swatted, and pinched to tease, and danced and dipped in jest. All those times, too many to remember, to count, they'd never triggered the Fourth of July.

Now the merest brush of bulging denim against bulging denim had just given Hutch a better understanding of that "bombs bursting in air" lyric from The Star Spangled Banner.

With choppy breaths, Starsky shuffled an inch one way, Hutch an inch the other, and they cleared the opening, Starsky the winner by a second or two. They stood apart, avoiding eye contact, both taking in loud gulps of air like they'd come off a two-mile sprint. Finally normalcy returned.

"Nifty little plane." Starsky cocked his head to the side in the once-over he gave anything from unusual cars to eye-catching strippers. "Allan keeps her in tiptop shape."

"I've seen prettier. That brown-black paint job makes it look like some big, metal wasp."

Side by side they started past the single-engine aircraft toward the wood paneling and glass windows that closed off hangar space for an office, or in Allan's case, an unofficial apartment. In the blink of an eye, World War III erupted around them, the tat-tat-tat of semi-automatic and staccato revolver cracks louder than a firing range, against the zudda-zudda-zudda back beat of machine gun. Reaching for his Magnum while trying to side step in front of Starsky, Hutch got pushed down and slammed on to the unforgiving hangar floor, Starsky draped halfway over him. They stayed down, prone, as if they'd simply gone down for a nap on their bellies, snuggled together.

"That's what you get for insulting the man's plane," Starsky gasped right in Hutch's ear.

Warm, safe….

Contagious?

"Starsky! Get off me, stay down, but get off me now!"

Starsky rolled a few feet away and ended up on his belly, lifting his chest just inches to aim the Beretta in a careful two-hand grip. His what-the-hell look included Hutch. "Where's it coming from? That much firepower, we'd see somebody."

"It's not coming from the rear office." Hutch held his gun steady, twisting his neck and shoulders for a sweeping glance along the hangar's curved ceiling, behind them, to either side. "Wait. The plane's not catching a single round that I can see or hear."

"You kidding me? Many rounds as we've heard, the thing should've gone up, taking half the hangar and us with it!"

The rhythmic thunder died.

In the silence, a man called, "Okay, daddy-o, you can get up!"

Hutch tried to place the origin of the sound. "Allan?! That you?"

"The one and only. I'll be out there in a wink."

Starsky rose to his knees. "He could've gone with a welcome mat, a fake doorbell."

"Starsky, remind me not to downplay your instincts when it comes to this airfield."

"I'll hold you to that."

"After we get Callendar, and this plague's under control, why don't you try out just the first part of that?"

Starsky's grin warmed Hutch's sudden chill. "You got a deal."

Hutch pulled himself into a crouch and then to his feet. He reached out instinctively for Starsky's lifted hand but clasped instead his elbow through the double layers of clothing, giving him the lift up. The disappointment in Starsky's quizzical frown told him he'd guessed right: Starsky had wanted the clasp of hands more than help standing.

Ah, Starsk. That contact sport thing again. You're not used to me pulling away from a chance to touch you. I never did, even before I realized why. Damn this virus, this uncertainty, this…. Oil?

Hutch sniffed. He caught another pungent whiff of fuel oil and looked down at his shirtfront and from there to the floor where the iridescent spill had smeared. "There goes one good shirt."

Starsky held out the side placket of his jacket. "I got it on me too."

"Hey, sorry about that, hepcats. I run a tight hangar, you could say, but the little tow vehicle has a tendency to leak. I have to keep the eyeballs rolling and go behind them with my cleaner. You just hit the deck at exactly the wrong spot."

"Why'd we have to hit the deck at all?"

A short, graying stick of dynamite with a long fuse, Allan Kelsey had apparently never heard of the Napoleonic complex. He didn't have one. He didn't need it. Heavily muscled, thick necked, and voiced like a man eight inches taller, he had no problem commanding or intimidating, whatever the situation called for. He didn't bat an eye at Starsky's bark.

"Oh, you mean my little early warning system? How'd you like that? Isn't it just the ginchiest? Works every time."

The ginchiest? Starsky mouthed at Hutch.

"Very effective." Hutch plucked at his soiled shirt. "We'll send you the laundry bill."

"You didn't tell us why, Allan."

"Didn't think I needed to, Starsky. You know what I did with the LAPD for over twenty years. You think I made friends in high syndicate places? I have fifteen years on you hipsters. I need a little extra time getting ready for action. Anyone crosses that sensor, they do what you guys did, and I get the chance to see if they're friend or foe before they have the chance to complicate my life. It's just a harmless recording."

Hutch patted his ringing ears. "Not sure I buy the harmless part."

"Me neither." Starsky retrieved the set of Callendar photos from inside his jacket on the opposite side of his holster. "Sergeant Jamison over at the OCU was supposed to call and let you know to expect us."

"Nope, never got the call. Jamison's probably choking on his donut with laughter right now. Little joke between brother cops."

Some joke. Hutch glanced at the hangar floor. Christ, I hope Starsky wasn't too close, too long. Maybe I should've let Judith put me back in quarantine. He cleared his throat. "Well, Allan, we're here to complicate your life. Take a peek at those; tell us if you recognize the guy."

Allan seized the photos and held them in both hands at arms length, sliding them one behind the other, pulling them closer. "The one that got away. Man, it's been a real dark seven, but this is better than a headache grappler for what ails me, dig my groove? Never thought I'd see that face again. Can I have one? I have a collection, but this looks fresh."

Collection?! Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance of unprintable comment, but they followed their former colleague across the hangar to the rear office. Hutch could sense Starsky's relief blending with his when they got a look at Allan's quarters. The retired cop had transformed the space into a miniature squad room and academy dorm, but the walls held no shrine of Thomas Callendar newspaper clippings or pictures.

Allan went straight to one of several four-drawer file cabinets. "C for Callendar."

"Well, there's our confirmation," Hutch whispered behind his hand to Starsky.

"Of what? Your good memory for old case files, or this guy's problem with obsession and channeling Kookie from 77 Sunset Strip?"

Allan returned with a bulging file. "Here. I'll trade you one of these for one of those." As if swapping baseball cards, he held up a black-and-white glossy of Callendar that resembled some actor's pose for a publicity shot. "It's okay, I have two."

Hutch had to pat his hip to keep from pressing his finger against his temple in a cuckoo-warning for Starsky, who was wide eyed and slack jawed.

How short-lived relief could be….

"Uh." Starsky eyed Hutch and got a shrug in return for his. He handed Allan one of the airport photos. "You're sure that's Thomas Callendar?" Hutch shot a look up at the hangar ceiling and caught Starsky's glare on the way down. "That's, um, one hell of a file you got, Allan. The LAPD know you keep copies of case files over here?"

Allan could play the shrug game as well. "What the LAPD doesn't know—"

"Can't hurt them?" Hutch finished.

"Would fill Dodger Stadium." Allan's grin was a few inches on the wrong side of sanity.

Whew boy.

"I almost nailed him for the Monte murder, guys. That happened on my turf, and I came this close—" Allan held up two fingers with no distinguishable space between them. "To catching up with him before he could skip the country. How recent is this photo?"

Hutch pursed his lips, unsure how much information they could reliably share with a guy three steps from playing the kazoo all day at Cabrillo State. "Less than a week old."

"Really?!" Allan's face lit up. "He's back?"

"Allan, we need information outside official channels, understand? Only way we stand a chance sneaking up on this guy is keeping radio traffic to a minimum. Got it?"

Oh, yeah. Knocked that one out of the ballpark, Starsk. Hutch gave him a subtle smile. Talk Allan's game and serve our purposes at the same time.

"Sure, sure, what you need to know?"

"Well, anything you got. We need to find him and double quick."

"Best thing is to find his syndicate flunky. I got a make on his west coast flunky, but he's slippery. Warrants still out on him. Callendar uses one guy on the west coast, one on the east, one in Europe, one in Asia, you get the picture? A guy who makes arrangements for him: finds him a place to stay, makes sure he has access to the weapons he needs."

Hutch mouthed "rental locker" at Starsky.

"Risky business." Starsky had on the deadly serious expression he used to show respect for someone's inside knowledge. "Leaving people around who could put the finger on his itinerary. Or not. I guess one finger's all they'd put before they got a bullet in the brain."

"Here on the west coast it's a weasel too greasy for cuffs. Goes by Bob Chino, one of fifty aliases. Birth name Robert Cicchino. Originally from Naples, been over here since childhood. I got a picture of him too, but it's poor quality. C for Cicchino."

Behind Allan's turned back, Hutch whispered, "Interpol."

Starsky held up his hand in his sign language for "patience, patience."

"Starsky?"

"Um?"

"If we ever start going that far off the deep end, we quit. Right then. We toss our badges, walk away, and we don't look back."

"Really."

They looked at each other across the Torino's roof.

"Ready to chase a ghost that drove a good cop mad?" Hutch asked.

"Got no choice. Need to throw out a net for this Cicchino dude too."

"All right. We'll swing by Metro and brief Dobey, then wait for that call from Interpol."

"Hutch, you really think Allan's still got friends over there who'll put the rush on contacting us just 'cause he asks them to?"

"I think we have to hope he wasn't spinning us one. When the call comes through, we'll verify the source independently, and we'll make a few official calls to be on the safe side. We're racing the clock, Starsky. Any shortcuts within reason, we need to take them."

"Yeah. Speaking of which, you got a spare shirt in your locker at the station?"

"I think my green t-shirt's wadded up in the bottom of my locker." Hutch turned a frown down at his oil-stained shirt. "I do need a change before we go by Lincoln."

"Lincoln Hospital?" Starsky was proud his voice didn't squeak. "Why we going there?"

"Don't you think the docs want an update on Callendar?"

Uh-huh. Like Hutch gave a damn about Dr. Meredith. Starsky knew a cover excuse out of Hutch when he heard one. He got an upside-down-rollercoaster head rush. "I guess. Any reason it's gotta be today?"

Hutch looked away. "No point in sitting on the information."

"Well, it needs to be a quick visit. Callendar's not here for the surfing. He's here to do a job. That means a target, and we gotta find out who the target is."

"And Allan couldn't help with that. I know, Starsky. Has to be related to the syndicate activity we've heard about lately. I think we're one step closer to tying in Stern. We need to bend a few ears on the Gambling squad, talk to a few people in Vice."

"Let's get to it."

Hutch stared at the row of vitamin bottles on his locker's top shelf. His t-shirt smelled like a locker, and he'd had to press the cloth against the door to rub out the wrinkles. He didn't care. He wasn't aiming for a fashion statement with a hitman on the loose carrying more than the potential weapons in his attaché. He had other things to worry about… such as giving Judith that fresh blood sample without Starsky getting wind of it. He reached for a few of the vitamin bottles.

"How many'a those you take in a day?"

He nearly dropped the vitamin C. Tucking two bottles in the crook of his arm, Hutch schooled his face, turned around. Starsky had exchanged his oil-stained khaki jacket and plaid for brown leather and burgundy. Trust Starsky's locker to keep clothes laundry-fresh. "With a nasty virus on the prowl, it can't hurt to load up on a little C, E, zinc."

"Toss me a few. Anything in there for energy? Come two a.m. when we're staking out that poker game I'll need a boost. I'll need one before then after we make the rounds of the morgues, hospitals, and clinics looking for Callendar. Hutch? What's wrong?"

Hutch bent over to pick up the bottles he'd dropped. "Didn't get much sleep last night."

"In that damn chair? Guess not. Toldya to quit acting loony and get in the bed."

Waiting for the shoe to drop… when this shoe drops, they'll hear it in Copenhagen.

"You boys created a power vacuum when you ran Malinda out of town." Cupcake pulled her jacket tighter around her low-cut top. Both the jacket and top were no thicker than a lettuce leaf, and did nothing to conceal her plentiful cleavage. Her head was probably toasty warm under her long platinum wig, but the rest of her had to feel the bite in the air, judging by her perked nipples. Starsky took a nice long look, glanced up and caught Hutch staring too, and they looked at each other, and back at Cupcake.

"Cold?" Hutch asked her. "Hot out today but it's cooled down a lot tonight."

Cupcake and Georgie Girl exchanged scornful smiles, no doubt at the ignorance of two dumb men who'd never tried hooking.

"You think our pimp watches the weather forecasts and tells us how to dress for comfort?!" Georgie Girl snapped, trying to hide a shiver in sequined hotpants and a leotard that gave johns two plums to ogle if they got tired of Cupcake's peaches.

With a shared glance, Starsky and Hutch shot a double bird at regulations about covered holsters, and shed their jackets. Starsky draped his around Cupcake's quaking shoulders; Georgie Girl got Hutch's to wrap up in. The girls offered them genuine smiles.

"What you were saying about a power vacuum?" Hutch got them back on track.

"Oh, yeah." With a loud jangle of bracelets and bangles, Cupcake waved her arm around in a wide circle. "See this posh piece of real estate here, Fourth and Hayes? It's been our man Vincenzio's turf for a few years. He used to answer to Malinda. Then he answered to Stern. Now he's bowing and scraping whenever Roper shows off his muscle."

Pale yellow headlights got brighter with the louder roar of a custom engine. Georgie Girl swished her Cher wig around, looking over her shoulder at the street. "Pimp patrol."

Cupcake pushed Starsky back against the storefront; he ran his hand up her side under his jacket and then under her jacket to just short of her breast. "Another inch up and over," Cupcake said, "and I'll grab your gun."

"Which one?"

"Honey, the one strapped under your arm just doesn't thrill me. I have one myself."

Georgie Girl hiked her leg up around Hutch's waist, wrapping her arms around his neck; he took firm hold of her rear curves and didn't look unhappy with the turn of events. They held the poses until the light blue Eldorado convertible cruised by with its flashy dressed Italian stallion behind the wheel. The flash ride sped up rounding the corner.

Hutch straightened his jacket around Georgie Girl's shoulders as she unhooked her leg from him and stepped back. "Vincenzio, I presume?"

Detective Georgia "Georgie Girl" Newcomb could slice a man to ribbons with her bubblegum voice and cotton-candy pink frown. Starsky was very glad not to be Vincenzio. "Yeah, that's the creep. I could die a happy woman if I busted his ass."

Detective Carmen "Cupcake" Shea squeezed her partner's shoulder in solidarity. "We'll get him, GG. Take a little time, maybe, but we'll get him."

"He's smellier than the usual garbage?" Starsky asked her.

"The smelliest. Word is, with Roper taking over, Vincenzio's importing some '64 models manufactured in the Far East. Wants to add a little exoticism to his stable."

"Christ! Thirteen year olds?" Hutch fingered his holster snap, evidence of his probable desire to blow out all four tires on that Eldorado if it did another prowl down the street.

Starsky wanted to share the fantasy. Hutch could aim for the tires; he would take a shot or two at the windshield. Give the scumbag something to think about besides underage girls.

"Why else you think we're freezing our tushes off out here?" Georgie laughed. "We're not out to bust lonely old men who don't get any at home. Haven't seen any sign of the young ladies yet, but when we do? Boom! We're dropping the bomb on Mr. Pasta Primavera."

"Well, I hope you get him, ladies. Anything we can do to help, let us know. Right now Starsky and I have to go stake out a poker game we're not supposed to know about."

"Don't you boys have better things to do than ruin somebody's good time?"

Hutch patted Georgie's cheek. "We're not planning a raid, just waiting for our contact to find a break in the action and slip away. We need information. Same reason we dropped by to socialize with you girls tonight."

Carmen drew her hand down Starsky's chest. "Get everything you needed?"

Starsky took a small step backward in a natural move that wouldn't draw attention or hurt feelings. "I got one more question."

"What's that?"

He visually inspected her skintight leather skirt. "Where you keep your badge?"

She canted her hip. "Hey, buy me dinner at Claud's Fine Steakhouse and bring me fresh flowers, and I'll show you next time I'm off duty."

Georgie nudged her in the arm. "Where is this Claud's? I keep hearing about it."

"Over on Elmwood. So expensive they take credit references with your reservation." Starsky patted his pockets. "No Claud's for me this week, Carmen; I'm all tapped out." He snapped his fingers at Hutch. "Reminds me. Hit them with the green."

Hutch gently removed his jacket from Georgie's shoulders and pulled two folded bills from the interior pocket. "Here you go. Courtesy of Dobey's flash money fund."

Georgie unfolded the bills, whistling as she handed one to Carmen. "Fifties! You guys are top drawer. Simmons and Babcock were here earlier, and they left us with twenties."

Starsky accepted his jacket from Carmen. "Have a pimp patrol while they were here?"

At the matching headshakes, Hutch smiled. "Well, there you go. All you gave Simmons and Babcock was talk. You gave us the full ride."

Georgie fanned herself with her crisp fifty. "Don't tempt a couple of hardworking police officers beyond what they can stand!"

They stopped a few feet into the alley where the Torino waited. Starsky's sigh of relief let out so much air Hutch thought he saw wadded up potato chip bags and crumpled beer cans move six feet away.

"I told you nobody would bother your precious Tomato if we left it here."

Starsky pulled his hand out from under his jacket where he'd likely had a just-in-case grip on his Beretta. "Man, I'm glad I didn't have to draw on anyone getting cute with my car."

"Risk of excessive force, you mean?"

"No. We got no time to go by Metro and fill out weapons discharge forms in triplicate."

Hutch stared at him. "Starsky? You should give serious thought to the possibility that you're as obsessed with this car as Allan Kelsey is with Thomas Callendar."

"Obsessed?! I'm obsessed 'cause I didn't want my hubcaps gone and my windows busted, my sound system ripped out?" Starsky didn't open his car door. He propped against it. "Why we arguing about cars right now?"

Hutch stood in front of him and indulged in a quick glance below the hem of Starsky's jacket. "Wound up from the pimp patrol?"

Starsky looked down at himself and with a sheepish smile swept a glance up Hutch's telltale stance. "You too. Confusing, huh? What gets to a guy and how and when. Women like to throw off on men having one-track minds. Driven by the basics, you know? I think we're more complicated than they give us credit for."

"How's that?"

"Well, I got a theory. I think men are like slot machines in Vegas. You know, you pull the lever and give it a roll, and only way you hit the jackpot is pulling up three of a kind."

"Oh, boy. I'll probably regret asking, but how do we as men compare to those machines?"

"I think guys got three places a person can get to." Starsky grabbed his crotch. "Here." He tapped his temple. "Here." He thumped a fist over his heart. "And here."

"I'll buy that. So?"

"So, Carmen back there? She got to me here." Starsky grabbed his crotch again. "Like Georgie got to you there. Lots of girls get to me here. Get to you there too."

"You won't hear me argue with that."

"Now take Sharman Crane. When I was a horny teenager, she got to me there. When we met up with her last year, she got to me here." He tapped his temple. "I wanted to figure her out. Same with Rosey. She made me think. Then you got the kind who gets to a guy here." Starsky thumped his chest. "Kind who makes you better just knowing them. Helen, Terry, they got to me there." His voice thickened. "They're still there. Always will be. You got a couple of special ladies who'll always be there in that same place."

"Starsky—"

"But a guy only hits the jackpot, the real blockbuster, sirens blaring, all those coins shooting out, when someone gets to him all three places. That's when a guy is ready for the big leagues, Hutch. How often you think that happens? Yeah. Guys don't have it as easy as women wanna think we do."

"It's an interesting theory, Starsky, and I'd even say it makes sense, but I still think I'm missing some point you're trying to make."

Starsky folded his arms over his chest and lounged against the car with one leg slightly bent, one hip jutted. Hutch got socked harder in the crotch by that sight than he had from Georgie Girl hiking her leg up around him and letting him cup her ass.

"At Lincoln, after we got through passing around the pictures of Callendar, and you sent me out to the car while you doubled back to the john, you didn't go to the john. Did you?"

Hutch got socked a different place then. The mind, yes, but not the way Starsky meant. His conscience throbbed, and he had to fight the weird urge to rub the tiny piece of gauze still taped over the interior of his left elbow.

Starsky nodded. "You went back to see the good doctor, and I don't mean Meredith."

"All right, I had a few questions for her."

"Yeah? About what?"

"You know, contagion, incubation period. What else is there to talk about right now?"

Starsky had on a smile. "It's okay, Hutch. Like I was sayin', some women get to you here." He lightly thumped his temple. "I think that's where Doc Kaufman gets to you."

Hutch wanted to lift his left arm and say, No, Starsk, she got to me here. He made a face at his tendency to land between rocks and hard places. "Can we change the subject?"

Starsky's smile vanished. "Sure. What you wanna talk about instead?"

"Recent technological advances, the nuclear non-proliferation pact, I don't care."

On his way around the car, Hutch rechecked the pros and cons of keeping silent about the encounter with the pickpocket in the alley. They added up the same way, more pros than cons. He was fine, no unusual weakness or dizziness, and he and Starsky would find Callendar. In another week, Judith Kaufman would be a memory, and when he didn't moon around like some jilted Romeo, Starsky would lose the greenness around the gills.

With no dark tunnel of panic for Hutch's safety to stare down….

"Okay." Starsky cranked the car. "How 'bout this? You done any reading on that Wow signal they got back in August? Ohio State University."

Hutch settled in the seat. "You mean the Big Ear radio telescope?"

"Yeah. They got a radio signal from deep space." Starsky backed out of the alley. "Brave new universe out there, Hutch, and we're not alone in it."

"You should know. When the little green men finally do show up on our doorstep, it'll be one hell of a family reunion for you." He looked away from waving out the window at Carmen and Georgie as they passed by. "That one fell flat?"

Starsky nodded. "Flatter than splat. I'm no Martian." He split the fingers of his right hand into that Vulcan salute. "Live long and prosper."

Laughter caught Hutch by surprise — his own, bursting out, while that new warmth burst inside his chest, his heart racing. "You're sure as hell no Spock."

"Maybe I'm Spock's sexier cousin."

"I'll give you the sexier part. Okay, talking about a brave new universe, have you been following the Harvey Milk thing in San Francisco? First openly gay elected official in a large U.S. city."

"Yeah, actually. Kinda impressed with the guy. Hope he does all right up there."

Hutch bit down on the tip of his tongue. Yes, it was there, he hadn't swallowed it. "You're serious? Starsky, the guy's Mayor of Castro campaign did exactly what you weren't impressed with about Peter Whitelaw's. Personal life as platform. Sexuality as activism."

"Maybe I've done a little thinking about the things I said to Whitelaw that day."

"Really."

"Really. You don't have to sound that skeptical, Hutch. Fact is, I got a little bummed out when the results were in and I saw how bad he lost. I didn't think he had much of a shot at winning, but it says something about Bay City that the other guy ran away with it."

"Yes." Hutch wondered if it was his imagination in overdrive or if the city outside his window really did look darker all of a sudden. "Something I don't like. I thought about calling Whitelaw, telling him to hang in there, but I didn't think the poor guy needed a heart attack on top of a loss like that one, and—"

"And it would've been a risky phone call."

Hutch smiled. "You really have some new political ideas I need to hear?"

"Nothing earth-shattering. But yeah, I've been thinking some."

"Is that why your hook shot was so much better last time we went one on one?"

Starsky grinned at him. "You know me too well, damn it."

"Well, let's hear it. The Starsky Manifesto."

While he listened to Starsky talk about level playing fields and a few other sports and car metaphors that actually fit politics remarkably well, Hutch felt his heart leap with the pull of some imaginary lever. Sirens blared in his head. That metallic flood of "coins" pooled in the front of his pants. Heart, mind, and body….

Somewhere in Vegas a slot machine had pulled up three matching Torinos.

"Stretching it!" Starsky grumped. "Can you believe Dobey? Up half the night last night waiting on that guy from the Gambling squad, and we're in Dobey's office bright and too damn early this morning with solid leads pointing to Roper as Callendar's target, and what's Dobey say? Huh? We're stretching it."

"Starsky, what's eating you? You've complained about that five, no six times today."

Why was he complaining?

Yeah, he and Hutch hadn't seen a bed in twenty-four hours, but the hours they'd spent hadn't exactly crawled. They'd talked. From politics they'd gone on to baseball in Canada to that horrible plane crash in Mississippi involving Lynyrd Skynyrd. Then they hashed out the case: Roper, Callendar, their next move. He'd never met anyone he could talk to the way he talked to Hutch. Somehow that meant so much more now than it ever had.

So, what had him crankier than he got before an IA questioning?

"I'm tired of chasing my tail, Hutch. That DMV read-back on Cicchino was a wash-out. We've been in and out of every flop-house, fleabag, and dive in the city today and nobody knows a damn thing. No hint of Callendar; it's like the guy landed in California and just vaporized. Then there's Dobey acting like nothing real big is going down, drawing those lines on whatever the hell that was, and throwing our hard work back in our faces."

"Dobey has a whole precinct to worry about, Starsky. To us, this thing's personal because we spent days in quarantine staring it down. To him it's just one headache out of many."

"What's it gonna take to make it personal to him?" Starsky pulled his hand back through his hair and rubbed at his achy neck. "I don't know. I got this strange feeling I need Dobey all fired up about what we're up against with this thing."

"You know what you need? You need real food. We both need fresh clothes. I hope Judith and Meredith can stand to let us in their nice clean corporate rental."

The colony of ants in Starsky's pants had a sudden population spike. "We showered and shaved at Metro. That ain't good enough, tough. Must be nice. They go on assignment, and the DC in Alabama doesn't put them in a hotel. They get a two-bedroom apartment."

Hutch laughed. "Well, they couldn't exactly share a hotel room, Starsky."

"What's got you in such a good mood?"

Please don't let it be where we're headed right now.

"I think we're close, that's what. We'll fill the doctors in on our new Interpol info and get out there, stake out Roper's mansion, and nab Callendar before he gets to the target."

"You make it sound so easy."

"How hard could it be? This is ABC police work, Starsky. Listen, on the way to Roper's we'll pick up deli sandwiches and get a thermos of coffee from that place you like—"

"Sully's?"

"Yeah. The strong stuff, so much caffeine it should be a controlled substance. I'll buy."

Starsky gaped at him. Hutch had on that soft, indulgent smile again. That and an open wallet meant one thing: Hutch was falling. Falling hard. Never failed. Let him get his head good and turned, and he started springing for candy bars, deli sandwiches and coffee, until Starsky teased him about ending up in the poor house.

Maybe Doc Kaufman had found her way to more than just Hutch's mind.

Then Starsky remembered something that jazzed him more than a vat of Sully's coffee.

"Tired?" Fitz asked.

Yawning, Judith pulled herself up off the sofa. "Yes."

"Should I get out the ARM and Dextrostix? You're very drowsy. That wine—"

"I'm not hyperglycemic. I had three sips of wine, Fitz! I only poured myself a glass so—"

"So the detectives wouldn't notice you weren't drinking?"

"You know I don't like… questions."

"I realize you would prefer to ignore your condition, Judith, but Kellman was offering you job security when he invested in the glucose meter for you to carry on assignment. He can praise your work, but that's vastly different than appropriating special funds. You may be the only diabetic in the Southeast with a personal Ames Reflectance Meter."

"I know what I owe Kellman. Under his bureaucratic exterior, he has a heart of gold."

Fitz's smile was wry. "I wouldn't go that far."

"No. I shouldn't have to depend on a glucose meter usually reserved for physician offices. I was already in medical school when Dextrostix came out. I won't talk about life before then. Home glucose monitoring for laypeople, that's the only future for diabetics."

"I agree. I think that future is even closer than we imagine."

She wanted to change the subject. Immediately. "Hutch is still asymptomatic."

"Hutch." He had a slight furrow to his brow. "You're getting fond of Officer Hutchinson."

"I like him. Other than you, he's one of the few men to take me seriously, so casually, from almost the beginning of our acquaintance. Until today, he called me 'Doctor' or 'Doc.' I want to believe he's out of danger. We'll be going back to the lab at daybreak?"

"Yes. With the virus spreading, we're looking at a tiny window of opportunity to develop a serum before this epidemic outpaces the one in the Sudan last year."

She wanted to shudder at the memory of those slide shows, but Fitz would probably mistake shuddering for sudden-swing hypoglycemia. "We'll be tethered to the hospital by a short string until we get a serum synthesized. I'm turning in. Goodnight, Fitz."

"Goodnight. Leave the wine glasses. I'll get them."

"Thank you."

Yawning again, she went to her room across the small apartment, and straight to the bathroom to brush her teeth and cleanse her face of makeup and eye-shadow. Her suitcase sat empty on the dresser; her blazer, carefully folded, went inside it for the trip home. The epidemic had reached that critical point. She would spend the rest of the time in clothes that fit comfortably under her lab coat.

She pulled her satin nightgown down from its hanger in the closet. Facing the mirrored dresser, she lifted the hem of her turtleneck and pulled off the sweater with minimal static cling to her hair. Her medic alert pendant hung low on her chest, in the hollow between her breasts, the red Caduceus on its silver background a reminder she hated.

Mason liked to play with the pendant before venturing fingertips over to her lacy bra.

Mason.

She had promised to call when she could.

Judith rarely took advantage of the amenities provided with the DC-funded rental, but she needed the comfort of Mason's naturally wood-smoky voice in her ear, and Fitz would say she had earned a few minutes of long distance. Without bothering to change into her nightgown first, she sat down on the edge of her bed and reached for the nightstand phone. The clock beside it made her think twice.

"Call any old time, Judy, and I do mean any time."

Before she lost her nerve, she dialed. She expected to hear a sleep-roughened greeting, but she got an earful of canine song and softer music in the background.

"Hay-uh-lo?"

"Mason. I know it's late—"

"Shoot, naw. Late's best time of all. You sound like you been put through the wringer and then hung out on the line to dry in a stiff wind."

"I'm tired. What are you doing? What's all the noise I hear?"

"I'm still in mourning. Not even a month since the crash. I got Skynyrd on the tape deck and me and Shrimp and Grits all howling to beat the band. Redneck opera."

Their running argument; just what she needed to take her mind off viruses, diabetes, and Ken Hutchinson's exposure to contagion. "You're not a redneck, Mason."

"Oh, now. Them's fighting words, little lady. I breed, train, and handle champion Treeing Walker coonhounds. What's that tell you?"

Her lips twitched. "You're an animal lover."

"Um-huh. My idea of vacation is a weekend in my bass boat on Logan Martin."

She smiled. "You like getting back to nature."

"Mama thinks she raised a Southern Baptist, but the only religion I got is Crimson Tide football. When I die I wohnta be buried in my old Tide jersey, the one I wore for a week before Bama won the national championship in '65. You seen my Roll, Tide, Roll tattoo."

"I like that tattoo. You take pride in your alma mater, and you're a sports enthusiast."

"I could bait a fishhook before I could read and shoot a thirty-thirty before I could drive."

"You had an interesting childhood."

"I live out in the sticks in a place that's half log cabin, half singlewide. I hate to be the one to break it to you, beautiful, but I'm a redneck."

She was laughing now. "You also have friends of various ethnicities, you hate beer, you don't have more year-round ornaments in your yard than on your Christmas tree, and I've never seen a rebel flag within a mile of you except on a Lynyrd Skynyrd album cover."

"Okay, I'm a civilized redneck. Question I ought should be askin' myself, if I had a lick of sense, is what's a sophisticated Yankee like you hanging round me for anyhow?"

"You make me laugh."

"Well, hell damn, ten years since I was on the Bama squad, a whole decade of keeping myself in shape, and the pritty girl tells me I make her laugh. I'm goin' right out tomorrow and blowing a wad on a case of Natural Light."

She laughed harder and had to remind herself to be quieter. No need to disturb Fitz. "No, you won't. You hate beer, remember? You know I appreciate your physical attributes."

"Yeah-huh?"

"Yes. Your long legs, your cute butt, your tight stomach, your strong arms, your big—"

"Good Lord'a mercy, I'm gohn crawl through this phone line to get at you, you don't stop talking like that. What's got into you, Judy?"

She sobered quickly, something raw within her flinching at the fresh air as she opened up, letting herself feel. How had she ever thought she could control feelings? "I may not always have the courage to say what I feel, but that doesn't mean I don't feel it."

"I'm gettin' tired of this. If Roper is the target, where's Callendar?"

Hutch hid a smile. Starsky had the morning-after-stakeout grumps, down to ragging on him for tossing empty coffee cups in the backseat. Nothing could dim Hutch's almost euphoric mood. I'm too happy for my own good. The kind of happy that usually got him kicked in the ass when he least expected it. "Maybe he's looking for an opening."

"Or at the bottom of the lake in a concrete overcoat. If we were able to get a make on him, then Roper's gorillas would too. Maybe that's what checked his fever this long."

"Well, it's all we've got." Hutch let the morning breeze cool his face. Why wouldn't he feel a little flushed, stuck in the car all night long? "You know, if Callendar is alive, Judith says he's beat it. Judith says his blood is manufacturing antibodies right now."

"Judith says."

"Yeah."

"You two are gettin' pretty tight."

Surprised, Hutch glanced at the grumpy, coffee-sipping driver. "It's Judith and Meredith."

"Oh." Starsky could pack a hell of a lot of skepticism into one syllable.

"They think there's an outside chance that maybe his body has developed a degree of immunity, maybe enough resistance to give him an edge."

"Meredith's grabbing at straws."

"That's all he's got."

They had followed Roper's chauffeured sedan to the edge of the business district. Hutch faced the open window again, wanting more of that breeze. "Starsky, I know this isn't the time or place, but maybe we should clear something up."

"What's that?"

"You know Judith isn't the one I want to get that kind of tight with, right?" He didn't turn from the window, but he could feel Starsky's look, almost a touch to the cheek.

"You tell me you got a thing for Dr. Meredith, and we'll have words. The man's too old for you and he's got zero sex appeal."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, okay, you kinda threw me the day we met her. That 'I think I'm in love' shit."

"Oh, come on, Starsky. We both enjoy flirting with beautiful women, and I doubt a surgeon could lobotomize that out of us. My flirtation is just more sophisticated than that 'peruse my person, ma'am' line you gave that airport security woman."

Starsky chuckled. "She dug it."

"That's where you're wrong. If you weren't a cop, she would've shoved that metal detector somewhere you'd still be feeling it, buddy. I saw the look on her face."

"Yeah, sure. Thing is, partner, you've been acting like you do when, you know—"

"When what?"

"When you're, you know, in love."

"What's that mean, how I'm acting?"

"You get a different smile on your face, and suddenly your pockets are real deep, and you're doling out extra money for candy and paying for meals."

"And you've got it in your head that Judith's responsible for that?"

"I fell for the red herring at first, but then I started thinking."

Hutch decided the Bekins Moving and Storage warehouse didn't need his attention. He gave Starsky's profile a brief study and spotted a smile in progress. "Yeah? About what?"

Starsky turned the Torino down the warehouse district side road, keeping textbook tail distance from Roper's sedan. "Day we took Jake to the burger joint. I was supposed to buy lunch, but you took it off my hands, and you laughed at my jokes and got that softie smile on your face. I'd bet my badge it wasn't 'cause Jake got back from Europe."

Gaze straight ahead, unwavering, Starsky telegraphed sudden nervousness in his hand's tight grip on the steering wheel. Hutch watched Starsky clench down tighter on the wheel until five pale knuckles stood out against their tan backdrop. If Starsky clutched that coffee cup half as tight, he'd end up wearing the coffee.

Hutch understood the feeling. He couldn't feel more vulnerable himself if he peeled out of his old shoes and jeans and blue shirt and light leather jacket in broad daylight in front of Metro, and stood on those steps down to nothing but socks and holster.

With a quick shift in the seat, he gave the breeze drifting through his window another chance to cool him down, and remembered his decision to blaze these trails at Starsky's side. Maybe this time he could walk a few steps ahead, and show Starsky the path had no dangerous holes or traps.

"I am, Starsk." Hutch concentrated on the slowing blur of scenery.

"What?"

"In love." He took a deep breath, waiting for the seat to drop out from under him, or for Starsky to slam on brakes, or the earth to tilt differently on its axis. "And Judith Kaufman doesn't have one damn thing to do with it."

He heard a harsh intake of breath and then a softer sound, like a sigh.

"Hey. Hutch? Look at me."

He gave Starsky a sideways look.

"You think you said something I don't wanna hear? Think again. You just made me the happiest Joe on the planet. Got that?"

"There's one problem with that, Starsky."

"What?"

"Your name's not Joe."

Starsky groaned and flung the little Styrofoam cup at him. "That's one'a your worst ever. Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Enough with the soap."

Hutch tossed the empty in the backseat with the others. "Well, for now anyway, when we can't do anything about it."

"Really. I think Roper's reached his destination. Time to do more sitting and waiting."

"We had him."

"Well, at least we know he's alive."

Starsky swallowed rage he didn't understand. Sure, he hated like hell lousing up a collar after spending all night crawling back and forth between the driver's seat and the back, trading places with Hutch, sleeping in shifts. Besides, this was no ordinary collar.

Frustration he could get, but he was furious.

Callendar, right there, a five-second sprint away from them the whole time they bickered over waiting, longevity, and National Geographic, and they hadn't seen him for who he was until the hit went down. Jesus Christ, if they told Allan Kelsey about it, the man would need electroshock therapy or something.

And Hutch…. This weird rage had his name on it. Starsky struggled to blank his mind of Hutch wheeling to the ground away from Callendar's car. Hutch had almost eaten a pavement breakfast, and he sat over there now, no anger, no frustration, just sounding grateful as all hell that Callendar was still alive. Something didn't add up.

"I'll call it in and get an APB out on the escape vehicle."

Starsky continued to stare out the windshield.

"Starsky? The new plan is to sit here idling all morning?"

"No one behind us. Somebody comes up behind us, I'll move."

The radio's scratch-squawk of transmission beat Hutch to the punch. "Zebra-three."

Starsky's glare at the radio shifted into open-mouthed surprise. Hutch had reached for the mike but stopped short, his hand hovering inches from the receiver, as if the muscles in his arm couldn't get a clear brain signal to move the rest of the way for the pick up.

"Hutch?"

"Zebra-three? Do you copy, Zebra-three? Dispatch over."

Starsky grabbed the mike. "Zebra-three, we read you. Loud and full'a static as usual."

"Zebra-three, stand by for patch-through from Captain Dobey."

"Starsky? Hutch?"

"It's Starsky, Cap. What you got?"

"What I got is a call from Lincoln Hospital. Those doctors from Disease Control want you and Hutch to drop whatever you're doing and get back to the lab."

"Ah, man, what do they want? Did they say why? We just had Callendar in our sights."

"No, they didn't, Starsky, and that means when you get there and find out what they want, I need to hear about it. That Dr. Meredith didn't sound cheerful."

"He never does. All right. We're on our way." Starsky re-cradled the mike. "Damn it, forgot about the APB on Callendar's—" He looked up, startled, at the sudden clasp of his arm, Hutch gripping him so hard he heard the faintest squeak of skin on leather.

"Starsky."

He couldn't shake off Hutch's vise grip on his arm. "No! No, I know what you're thinking. You think they're calling us in to tell us one of us has it. Get it outta your head, Hutch. They could've made some breakthrough or—"

"Meredith could've relayed that information through Dobey. I'm sorry, Starsky… I… I think you'll be hunting Callendar without me from here on in."

"You don't know that. Why you, why not me? Huh? I had the same contact with Jake you did, close enough, and, yeah, you got closer to Virgie, but she wasn't sick yet."

"Starsky, listen to me. When I went back to the lab day before yesterday, and you thought I wanted to talk to Judith, I went to let her draw more blood. Remember the day we cornered the airport dipper in that alley and you ran back to the car to radio it in?"

"Yeah?"

"He tried to make a run for it." Hutch's quiet laugh sounded too much like a smothered shout. "Sick as he was, he tried to spring off that fence and knock Judith and me down if he had to. I didn't think. Didn't fucking think about my gun or, hell, my feet. I could've kicked him, but… I just reacted, went in close, elbowed him under the chin, and he went down in a heap."

Starsky tried to focus through the icy cold around his throat, the hot flush of anger across his forehead, the pain around his eyes. He remembered making some remark about that pickpocket, about him being down for the count. Oh, shit. Shit!

"Why," he spit the word through pursed lips. "Why's this the first I'm hearing of it?"

"Judith called it minimum-risk contact. I hoped, I, I wanted to believe it was nothing."

"Nothing like the 'nothing' Anderson thought Jake's scratch was? Jesus Christ!"

Starsky twisted so viciously fast in the seat he got a stinging pain in his back. He grabbed Hutch by that Dijon-mustard leather jacket. Hutch had yet to let go of his arm. They sat there, attached in three places, staring at each other. Starsky knew he had violence on his face; Hutch only had sadness in his eyes, more sadness than anger or fear.

Resignation.

Starsky loosened his fists around Hutch's jacket, pushed back from him, jerked free. Later, he knew, he would wish he'd let Hutch hold his arm for a solid hour. Right then, he couldn't take it. He roughly geared the Torino into reverse, gunned backward, then slammed into drive and pulled over to the side of the warehouse service road.

Outside, turning a tight circle, running his hands through his hair and wanting to pull out clumps of it, he couldn't plug his ears to the sound of his own voice in his memory. You don't have it, hear me? What the hell you aiming for, a self-fulfilling prophecy? Live long and prosper. Or the sound of Hutch's. Starsky, get off me, stay down, but get off me now!

He wanted to kick Hutch's ass and kiss him at the same time, all too aware Hutch would let him do neither. He gulped in air only to feel it slam against his tight throat.

"Starsk?"

So soft, that voice. Soft, steady, the same husky tenderness Starsky had heard that morning when Hutch told him…. Oh, God. Starsky suddenly throbbed all over, and knew why. Hell of a long way down from the moon he'd been over, to the asphalt of a plague-ridden city, and one hard damn landing. He thrust out his hands to grip Hutch's shoulders. Hutch clutched his forearms, squeezing him with those long fingers.

The look they shared had the wet heat of ten impossible kisses.

The shoe had dropped, and it made one doozy of a thud. Hutch had to believe he'd made the right decision for a change, letting Starsky hear it first from him, letting Starsky get out the anger, shock, and denial with no audience but him and that abused Torino steering wheel. Starsky had swatted it with the heel of his palm every half mile or so on the way to Lincoln, until Hutch expected the poor thing to bleed rubber.

In front of Judith and Meredith, Starsky put on the face of a soldier. Hutch would never forget the quiet strength he saw in those pain-darkened eyes when he handed over his holstered gun, and he also had to believe he would have more than forty-eight hours to remember it. He hoped if he managed to sleep, he would dream of his name in Starsky's voice, that gruff whisper and that promise of hope Starsky offered him.

"I'm gonna find Callendar."

Hutch finished tying the yellow hospital gown in the back. He heard a knock on glass. Looking over at the observation window, he dredged up a smile for Judith. She pointed at the dedicated phone. He picked up his receiver and joined her at the window.

"How do you feel?"

He shrugged. "No different than five minutes ago. Ask me in about twelve hours, after Starsky gets back here with Callendar under cuff and key, and you whip up a serum."

"You believe he'll find him that quickly?"

"Hope's all I've got, right?"

She looked away as a nurse passed down the hall behind her. "I need to ask you a difficult question before you're feverish with symptoms."

He almost swallowed wrong. Did she think—? But he and Starsky hadn't even— "Let me ask you something first. Did Starsky give you a fresh blood sample? I told him on the way here he'd better not hassle you guys about it. He didn't think it was necessary, but with two stakeouts in forty-eight hours, we spent a lot of time in close quarters, and—"

She was nodding, a small smile curving her pretty mouth. "He let us draw blood, but made it very clear he was going after Callendar regardless. He said we'd need heavy artillery to keep him in the hospital, no matter what we found in his sample. I tried to reassure him. If Dr. Meredith's correlation is accurate you won't be that highly contagious until your symptoms appear."

"Thank God for big favors. Do I need to give you a list of other people I had contact with?" He thought about holding Georgie Girl during the pimp patrol, letting her wear his jacket. He remembered sitting in Dobey's office. Dobey… Edith, Cal, Rosie!

"I really think you have nothing to worry about, but give us a list, and we'll contact each individual and decide if the contact requires testing. I'll have the nurses bring you paper and pen, some magazines, anything else they might have that can fight boredom."

"Thanks. Okay. Hit me with your difficult question."

"Do you have family you'd like for us to call?"

His quick intake of breath hurt his throat. "That's a little premature, isn't it?"

"I know it has to seem that way to you now."

"I… no."

"No, you don't want us to call your family?"

"Not now. Not until you're absolutely certain I won't…." He'd lost eye contact with her again. Hard for you, Doc, seeing the human face on all this, those tiny killers you study? "My parents are in Minnesota. I want them to stay there, more than a thousand miles from this thing. I don't want them anywhere near this city or this hospital."

"With no warning, the news will come as a hard blow."

He bit off a laugh. "Judith, I'm a cop in a dangerous city. My parents have lived for years with the possibility of getting a call like that. You don't know my mother. She can handle what I do from a distance. She can handle anything from a distance. She used to nag me about making sure I had clean underwear in case I was in an accident, so I wouldn't disgust the nurses. You understand?"

"Ah. I see."

"Mom wouldn't know how to start coping with oxygen tents and how ugly this thing gets before it's…" Christ. I don't want Starsky left with that for a last memory of me, but an armored battalion would never keep him away. "If Starsky doesn't find Callendar in time, and you can't develop a serum, then you can call my father. Call him at his office. Week day, weekend, he's there every day. Captain Dobey has the contact information. Dad's solid, level-headed. He'll know how to talk to my mother."

"All right, if you're sure—"

"Judith, my closest family already knows. My closest family is out there getting ready to tear this whole city down to molecules looking for Callendar."

"I understand." She smiled again. "I've seen your partnership in action. Well, I need to get back to the lab, but I'll check on you later. Let us know if you need anything."

"Thanks."

They hung the phones up at the same time. Hutch didn't watch her walk away. He stared through the window at the empty hall, thinking about Starsky and family, and wanted to take his badge out of his pants pocket and kiss the damn thing. That cover of shield and partnership had given him what many men involved with men didn't have: safe disclosure in time of illness, or at the end of life.

No! Starsky would find Callendar.

Hutch winced, closing his eyes. Or get himself killed trying.

Hutch was dying.

Starsky stormed across the parking lot, nearly busted the station doors, and stormed down the hall, strong-arming a clear path through cops who didn't get the fuck out of his way fast enough. His storm didn't blow itself out until he got to the locker room. Face to face with Hutch's locker, he splayed his hands across the cold surface and bowed his head, chest heaving, all his wind swirling on the inside now, cutting a swath through his chest.

Hutch!

Dying!

Limousine service. I'll bet you ladies have a wardrobe change. Why don't you nice ladies show me to my new quarters? Marvelous talking to all of you. Well, do it, buddy, because I plan to be around for a hundred-forty-eight years.

"Goddamn it!"

He couldn't do it yet. He couldn't match Hutch's joke-cracking in the middle of this disaster. Not yet. Next time he saw Hutch, he would. He would paste a smile on his face he'd need rubbing alcohol to wipe off, and he would find a way to make Hutch smile. He needed another glimpse of that smile and the special light in Hutch's eyes that now shone for him…and brighter than it ever had for anyone else. Until then….

Starsky fumbled with the lock, yanked the locker door open. In the privacy of the empty room, he snatched Hutch's olive green button-up, wadding it against his face, but he got more fuel oil smell than Hutch's scent in his nose. He tossed the shirt down in the bottom of the locker. The row of vitamin bottles caught his attention. Enraged, he shoveled the bottles of useless pills to the floor. Those left he grabbed and threw at the neighboring section of lockers. He had the irrational fantasy of tracking down the manufacturers and wringing their necks for bottling false hope, or false sense of security, something false.

All your vitamins and yogurt and seaweed, what good's it, Hutch? What good's that shit? You take care of yourself, and look what happens! Why you? I'm the shit-for-brains who didn't care to live a hundred years. Yeah. I should be the one in that isolation room.

He wasn't. He was out in the world, free as a bird, healthy. He was Hutch's hope. He would be his savior. First things first, he had to go break the news to Dobey and rub the man's face in it if he had to, make the captain see that this plague had just got personal.

Part two

When Hutch heard the tap on glass, he almost didn't look up from his boring movie magazine, but a peripheral glance showed him blue jeans, black shirt, and brown leather. Hutch threw the magazine down and burst out of the uncomfortable plastic chair, drawn to that sideways smile Starsky wore for him. Noting the lack of hallway traffic, Hutch gave him a flirtatious smile in return, and flipped the hem of his hospital gown, hiking it a few inches above his knees.

Starsky's smile heated to a grin on his way to the wall phone.

Hutch picked up the receiver and hid behind the wall.

"How you feelin'?" Starsky's tone had forced cheer in it.

Hutch could joke him out of that. One of the services they rendered each other. The one suffering usually cheered the other up, knowing the other suffered more. "Humiliated."

"Why?"

"Well, how would you like to walk around all day in a paper dress that makes you look like Florence Nightingale? Wait a minute, you've already done that, and better." Caution made him lower his voice. "You have the ass for it."

Starsky's voice dropped to a matching whisper. "It's what's underneath that counts. You got the legs for it, Blondie."

"Now you tell me." Hutch eased over to the window. "That's what you're hot for?"

Starsky got closer to the glass. "Your legs aren't hard on the eyes, I'll say that. Bet you'd do a mean tango in that paper dress."

"Watch it, Ramón. Keep talking like that, I'm gonna break right through this window."

"It's your mouth." Starsky rubbed his thumb over the glass at the level of Hutch's lips.

Hutch ached to feel that thumb on his lips. "What is?"

"What I'm hot for. What that smile, the one I told you about, what it does to your upper lip. Gets me right here." Starsky balled a fist and thumped himself in the chest.

Hutch expected the phone to melt in his hand. He had the best kind of fever spiking his temperature to a thousand degrees Fahrenheit. He wanted to ask if he got to Starsky in the other two places, if he made Starsky's slot machine light up and wail sirens and shoot money all over the place, but some questions a man just couldn't ask another man.

Instead, he turned Starsky's joke from the other day around on him. "You're just talking like that because you're out there, and I'm in here." Starsky winked; Hutch laughed. "Well, don't do it."

"Come on. You know me better'n that. I don't say what I don't mean." Starsky looked down the hall again in an obvious check for inadvertent listeners or eavesdroppers. "I'm gonna get you well, get you outta here, take you somewhere special, and prove it."

"I'm counting on that, Starsk. Counting on you. What's the word? Any leads?"

"A few, yeah. They found Callendar's car abandoned on the side of the road. Out of the city, one of the farm-truck routes. Got sheriff's deputies out combing the fields, but I doubt they find anything. Car rental under the name Mullins."

"Another alias or a stolen rental."

"That's my guess. Huggy got in touch with me through dispatch. Told me to pick him up and we'd go see this guy who might know something about that Robert Cicchino. You know, the 'syndicate flunky' Allan Kelsey told us about? Guy won't spill on the phone. Only in person and only with Huggy there. We're on our way there now, but I wanted to stop and check in, see if you got settled okay."

"Cagey snitch."

"Yeah, well, the guy's getting ready to dump on a dude with connections to international organized crime. He's got to know interesting things could happen to his life expectancy if he's not careful." Starsky's smile twisted into a grimace, revealing raw agony that punched Hutch right in the bread basket. "My God, I—"

"Don't, Starsky. This is me you're talking to. I'm the one person who doesn't want you putting some kind of television time delay between your brain and your mouth. Look at it this way: you're out there, on the job, you'll probably have Callendar in here getting his blood drawn before I have a chance to sweat up this hospital gown. I'm more likely to die of boredom in this—" He broke off, empathizing with Starsky's inward anger.

Starsky smiled with just his lips, not his whole face the way he did when genuinely happy. He stroked the glass, a touch Hutch would have felt on his hair without the glass wall between them. "What's that you said about no time delays? Look, I gotta run. Huggy and me can't make this guy wait. You know how it is with snitches like that. You get there one second later than they think you oughta, and they're gone, poof."

"Does he know? Huggy, I mean."

"Yeah."

"You be careful out there, Starsky."

With a salute and one last smile, brighter this time, Starsky turned and started down the hall. Hutch knew he should let Starsky go do what he did best, free him from this setting of dark, heavy emotion that could hamstring him worse than sliding wrong in a police department softball game. What Hutch knew and what he needed clashed in a battle of wills. More frightened than he wanted to let on, he wasn't surprised that need won.

He tapped on the glass. Starsky stopped in his tracks.

When he had Starsky's attention, he beckoned him closer to the glass. Starsky got close enough to fog the glass with his breath. Hutch did the same. Even with the hallway still empty behind Starsky, they didn't risk pressing their lips to the glass, or closing their eyes, but they watched each other from the proximity of a kiss and then took a step back in tandem for a longer look.

Hutch committed to memory details he could think about while in isolation. Trivialities that combined to create the only man he'd ever fallen in love with. He saw how the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll on Starsky: the unruliness of his hair, dark stubble on cheeks and chin, sleep-loss purple circles developing under his bright eyes. Hutch looked for details he could see on a normal day: the little "blemishes" by Starsky's right eye and on his left cheek, the slight sheen on the bridge of his nose, the hollow of throat framed by the leather necklace that dangled those coins. He realized he was smiling when Starsky's eyes flashed something hotter than affection at him.

He realized next that they weren't alone.

He pointed behind Starsky where Huggy waited with an ill-fitting lab coat on top of his suede-and-denim pullover. Starsky whirled. A heated conversation followed, both men talking more with their hands than their mouths, and Starsky took off in a dead run down the hall. Hutch motioned for Huggy to pick up the wall phone.

"What're you trying to do, Huggy? Get yourself arrested for impersonating a doctor?"

"Knew I had to get in here some way, brother. That squawker in Starsky's car started doin' its thing, but dispatch wouldn't talk to me. Lucky I saw this coat at the nurse's station. Looked so lonely I decided to adopt it. How you bearing up in these conditions?"

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Conditions? That's a hell of a way to talk about a death sentence." He tapped his ear with the receiver. "Damn. Morbid humor. Seems to be the trend today."

"I hear that. Better any kinda humor than tears. Really, you okay? For now anyway?"

"I'm fine, Huggy. The one I'm worried about is Starsky. Stick close to him, would you? For as long as he'll let you. He's wired, he hasn't had much sleep, and I'm not out there to put the brakes on when he gets a crazy idea that could put more than his ass in a sling. It'll get heavy, Huggy. Be ready for him to explode in your face. You'll have to accept that it's not you, it's the situation."

"You wrote the Starsky Instruction Manual, my friend, but I've read a page or three over the years. I know how heavy it gets. I saw what he was like those times you did those involuntary disappearing acts, and man, this time I think it'll go easier, 'cause he knows where you are, and you got people watching out for you."

"You don't understand." Damn. Someone needed to know what Starsky was really dealing with out there. Hutch made a unilateral decision to trust the man staring at him now through glass. He could worry about any potential Starsky discomfort later… if he lived to worry about anything. "This time there's a new wrinkle. Starsky's not just out there trying to salvage a police partnership or keep his best buddy above ground, and that's all I can say."

Huggy's face could contort itself into expressions impossible for most humans, but that time he showed only even-lipped, dark-eyed solemnity. "If you think you was ever just anything to Starsky, or vice versa, I got news for you. All right, I'm gone. I loiter in this restricted area, I might get Starsky in hot water with the guys who wear these coats for real, and then my ass would be grass. You hang in there. Next time I talk to you I want it to be over brews and a steak and baked."

"Thanks, Huggy."

Huggy tilted his head to the side. "Worries me how you so calm."

"I saw this coming, Huggy." Hutch shooed him. "What're you standing around, waiting for? Get out there with Starsky."

Huggy boggled the phone in a rush to hang it up, and got a move on.

After putting his receiver on its base, Hutch stood in front of the glass with his plastic smile on until he'd counted over thirty seconds. Then he let his smile slip, and he paced over to the plastic chair and flung it a few feet across the room, scattering magazines and making one hell of a racket.

Starsky pulled into the last space in front of a dive bar that wanted to be mistaken for a restaurant. His memory took him back in time to the day he shared a table with a little pickled cockroach named Mickey, desperate for any information about Hutch.

Memories, he didn't need.

Determined to be first to the door and make an intimidating entrance, he used the car bonnet as a footbridge in a move he would've smacked Hutch in the back of the head for. Huggy hung back, letting him take the lead.

The place never changed. Waitresses still wore tight black skirts, white shirts, and mod haircuts. People crowded the checkered cloth tables and rickety wooden booths. Huggy nodded at the last booth on the right where a guy waited behind two empty beer mugs. His faded skin and red nose stood out with his bad comb-over and worse fashion sense.

Motioning for Huggy to slide in first, Starsky gave the exit a hard look before he sat down. He hated having his back to the door, but he couldn't risk spooking this guy by playing up his training. He might have to play the heavy later. "Huggy says you got something for me."

The guy ran his hand over the four strands of hair he'd combed across his dome head. "You don't remember me, d'ya?"

Starsky counted to ten, clearing his throat. "Look, I've had too little sleep, too much coffee, and my partner's life might depend on what you got to say. That's all I got on my mind. Truth is, my mother could walk by this table and I wouldn't recognize her."

"You and Hutch got me off a rape rap last year. Witnesses fingered me for it, 'cause I had the shit-ass luck of looking too much like the guy who did do it. Man, I thought I'd be sent up, but you and Hutch kept hammering away at the thing. You knew rape's not my bag. I play the ponies and I get in over my head with poker. Sometimes I sell stuff for people who can't take their goods to a reputable pawn shop. But rape? Give me a break, man. I want my ladies happy little wildcats in bed 'cause they wanna be. Anyway, you guys found the bastard who did the poor girl, and so, yeah, I owe you one."

"Thanks for letting me call in a marker. What you got?"

The guy looked uncomfortable. "Um, Huggy said—" He wiggled his fingers in a silent request for some green slapped down on his palm.

Starsky stared at him, turning the look on Huggy before the jittery snitch could soil the old wooden bench seat. Huggy shrugged.

"Hey, man, I'm here 'cause I owe you and Hutch one, yeah, but I got debts, and nasty people dogging me who want their money."

Starsky held up a crisp fifty between two fingers. He tightened down on the bill when the guy reached for the other end. "I let up on my end when you hold up yours," he told the gambler. "One more time: what you got?"

"Huggy said you wanted a line on Robert Cicchino. Me, I know him as Bob. He plays the ponies too. We hang out and gab sometimes between races. Lately he was telling me about this major bad dude he does some work for when he has to come to town. A killer, sounds like. Pro mechanic. Bob calls him Steele. Bob does things for this Steele. Sets stuff up for him. This time he rented him a room out of the want ads and a locker at the airport for some shit the guy couldn't bring in the country with him."

Steele? Starsky knew that name… where… oh, one of the names on the airport locker rental sheet. Callendar! "You know what paper your track buddy found the room in?"

"No. Bob didn't talk that much. But he did say he was thinking about asking for a raise this time on account of this Steele had a real juicy target, and Bob felt he was sticking his neck out more than usual. Only fair he get compensated for it, right?" The snitch smiled, putting crooked yellow teeth on display. "Next time I see him at the track he'll have more bread to lay down."

"Don't bet on it. You won't be seeing your track buddy again."

The guy's smile fell. "Say what?"

"I can't tell you specifics, but you don't have a hole in your head. Figure it out. How long you think Cicchino would last after he went back on his word with some heavy dude like this Steele? Huh? Sorry. You know where your greedy pal crashed at night? Address we got on him hasn't been occupied in two years."

Stunned, the guy had let loose his end of the fifty dollar bill. He sat opening and closing his mouth, blinking at Starsky. Out of patience, Starsky slammed his other fist down on the table. He felt Huggy's hand come down on his shoulder, squeezing.

The guy jumped in his seat. "Okay. Bob spent nights at his woman's place. You know the Orange Springs Villas? Hers is on the third floor. Something like 324 or… yeah."

"Did she know what Cicchino was into?"

"Sure, man. That's how Bob made it with her. He kept her in new clothes and shoes."

"For that you get your fifty." Starsky dropped the bill on the table and slid out of the booth. "Come on, Huggy, I ain't got all day."

Out in the car, cranking up, Starsky felt Huggy's stare heavy on him. "What?"

"I know you up against the wall, my man, and I know when Hutch is up against it even harder, you get real blind to lines in the sand even if they spray-painted the same color as this car. I dig that, but you had to let that broken-down guy think his friend is dead?"

"Some friend. He finked on him for fifty bucks." Starsky pulled into the flow of traffic. "I wasn't playing a head game on him, Hug. Cicchino is dead. The radio call you came to tell me about was Dobey trying to get hold'a me. Guy matching Cicchino's description was found at a high-rise construction site. Workers found the body. Knifed. ID on him matches one of Cicchino's known aliases. Get this: he had an envelope fat with five thousand worth of hundred dollar bills on him."

"You mean this Callendar cat knifed him for the double cross then left the money?" Huggy whistled. "Holy shit. That puts a new spin on Judas's thirty pieces of silver."

"No fooling. Let's see if Cicchino's lady friend can tell us anything useful."

Quarantine was worse without Starsky. Hell, it was worse when he knew he had reason to be isolated from the rest of humanity, including his partner, his best friend… his….

Hutch walked the length of the hospital room for the hundredth time. If he thought about what might never be, he'd go bonkers. He had tried imagining Starsky's lips against his, how Starsky would taste, how it would feel giving Starsky tongue, and getting it in return. The fantasizing only brought home to him, hard, that his lifespan might not match up with the lifeline on his palm.

Planning for the future lost all of its fun when that future itself was in question.

He tried writing letters, several to Starsky that he crumpled into paper balls and tossed in the trash. None of the words sounded right or like him. They read stilted, too dark like Poe or too perky like Pollyanna, and besides, he could be spreading germs on the paper for all he knew. For that same reason he cut short an effort to write his parents.

He tried jotting down case details from the Callendar investigation on the off chance he could come up with some brilliant new suggestion for finding the assassin, but brilliant new suggestions were in shorter supply than diplomacy probably was for Starsky by that point. Maybe the damn virus gobbled brain cells before it brought on fever and chills.

Darkness had fallen, but he didn't want sleep.

The phone on the wall started a strange buzzing.

Well, well. Something new to think about.

Hutch went over to investigate the phone. He lifted the receiver. "Hello, Waldorf Astoria, Dignitary Suite, Ambassador Hutchinson speaking."

"Very funny, funny guy."

"Starsky?"

"You know, I don't like the question mark I heard at the end'a my name, Hutch."

"I just didn't… hell, I didn't even know this phone had an incoming or outside line."

"Well, I would've come up there in the flesh but the charge nurse on duty has this weird notion visiting hours end earlier on your unit than anywhere else in the hospital. I flashed my badge, tried to charm her, nothin' doing. Can't reach Judith or Meredith. Guess they're holed up in the lab trying to synthesize that serum. How you doing, huh?"

"Stir crazy, Starsky, that's all. Already fed up with being cooped up. How's it going?"

"Street's tightening down, Hutch. Word's out that Callendar's in town and looking to strike. I dropped Huggy off at his place for the night; I'm picking him up early in the morning and we'll make the rounds again, see if we can get anything to turn."

Hutch ran his fingers up and down the wall beside the phone. The breaking-point tension in Starsky's voice disturbed him. No good. No good. Wound tighter than dental floss, Starsky would implode before long if he didn't get some kind of release. "How'd it go with the cagey snitch?"

"He put us on to Cicchino's girlfriend. Cicchino's dead. Looks like he tried some last-minute haggling with Callendar and got knifed for it. Girlfriend tried to brick wall me."

"Yeah? How did you get past it?"

"I reminded her that sweetie pie was an accessory to more murders than she had pairs of shoes, and since those shoes came out of his mob paycheck, and she knew it, she really didn't wanna play Philadelphia lawyer with me. Search turned up nothing much. Cicchino's gambling buddy told me he rented a room for Callendar under the name Steele. Found the room in the want ads. Didn't know what paper. I've been gathering copies of every major newspaper from the whole week before Callendar landed. Real long shot, I know, but I thought I'd try to call the numbers for any rooms to rent, and—"

"Starsky, I can do that."

"What?"

"Sure I can. Now I know this phone has an outside line, I can do telephone canvassing. What else do I have to do in this glass cage?"

"You sure you feel up to it?"

"Starsky, I'm bored out of my skull. I don't want to think about… well, you know what I'm trying not to think about. The magazines they brought me might hold the attention of a fourteen-year old for a few minutes, the food is lousy, and there's nothing on TV. You'd be doing me a favor. Can you get the nurse to deliver the papers?"

"Oh, yeah. You bet. Ah, man, Hutch, it'd be great. It'd—" Starsky's voice tightened, cracked a little. "You'd be working the case with me."

"Damn right. Send them on up."

"I will. I figured I'd ask about Chino, Cicchino, Cicchi, Steele, Mullins, or Callendar, the names we know either that flunky or Callendar's been using. If they used another one for the rental, that's just our… uh… tough luck."

"Right." Now, what could he do to prevent Starsky from cracking more than just his voice? Hutch remembered his bittersweet imaginings earlier. If he made it about his need, not Starsky's, he had a shot. "Are you on police band patch-through?"

"No, I'm down in the hospital lobby. Payphone. Why, Hutch?"

Hutch scratched his cheek, flushing. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I've been trying to keep my mind off you-know-what, and something occurred to me. I know every sound you make except one. I need to hear that sound, Starsk." I need to hear it in case I never get another chance. "I want that sound stuck in my head instead of some song I heard on the radio."

"Oho. I follow." Starsky's chuckle had new life. "Can't help you with that here, buddy boy, but I got a lead near Venice I'm following up when I leave the hospital. I could stop by your place, call you from there. Take a quick peek at your leafies if you want."

"Why not your place, Starsky? If you haven't been home at all today, you need a change of clothes, a shower, something to eat."

"No, Hutch. Until you get to go home, I don't go home."

"Ah, Starsk."

"Tell you what: I'll call around nine sharp. If you're making those room rental calls, take a break then so I can get through."

"It's a… " Hutch swallowed hard. "It's a date."

"Sounds good. I'll send the papers up with one of the ladies in the smocks and masks."

"Talk to you later, Starsky." He hung up, his mood lighter, his heart beating fast.

He felt alive.

Ah, the power of anticipation.

Perhaps ten minutes later one of the masked nurses draped in yellow paper knocked on his interior window and gestured at the brown grocery bag she'd set on the anteroom's cart where meal trays were delivered. He nodded at her with a smile. With her safely out of the way, he opened the door and leaned into the anteroom to grab the bag.

He dumped the bag out on the room's other bed. Sifting through the newspapers, he saw that Starsky had only sent up the classified sections of each one. In the middle of the newspaper sections, he spotted a piece of scrap paper and very familiar handwriting.

Don't forget our date at nine. Love, Starsk

"Oh, man," he said out loud. "Starsky."

Yes, they were taking chances. The hospital phone likely had the security of a 1920s party line number, and certainly a nosy nurse could have rifled through the bag and found the note. What did any of that matter if he really did have less than a few days left on earth? He knew Starsky. If it came right down to the wire, no hope left, making sure Starsky had a police career intact would be the least of his worries.

He'd have to make sure Starsky still wanted a life.

To crowd that out of his brain, Hutch threw himself into the telephone work. First he marked off duplicates to make efficient use of his time. Once he learned how to dial for an outside line, the usual "eight" before the number, he was in business.

He knew part of the long shot involved the kind of man they were chasing. Callendar knew cops had a make on him. If the hired killer had risked returning to his rented digs, he could have the landlord hostage or in fear of his or her life. Keeping that in mind, Hutch asked each person who answered his call to respond with yes or no answers. He only needed confirmation that a room was rented under one of the names pertinent to the case. Then he could alert Starsky to close in, preferably with two no-sirens patrol units for backup, but he didn't think he'd get Starsky to go for that.

When 8:55 rolled around, Hutch took his break, his skin tingling with excitement. In a few minutes, Starsky would call, and….

The phone buzzed.

Early for their "date," Starsky was obviously excited too, hopefully in more ways than one. Hutch dashed for the phone, hospital gown flapping against his legs. "Hello?"

He heard short breaths, panting. "Hutch? You… ready?"

"Let me have it, Starsky."

He heard a muttered curse, a choked groan, rapid gasps for breath, and then Starsky's deep voice reached an octave Hutch had never heard from him, a sexual growl-shout that boned Hutch to full hardness under his thin paper dress.

"Ohoomigod, omigod, Hu-u-utchahAhahahHutch!"

Dizzy, Hutch closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the wall. "Starsk." He listened to the change in breathing.

"Man, I needed that," Starsky said after a moment of not-quite silence. He chuckled. "Why do I get the feeling you thought I needed it?"

"I did. Yeah. I needed it too, Starsky. I'd love to know what you were thinking about."

"Well, it wasn't Eartha Kitt. You, dummy."

"I know that, considering the name you were shouting at the end. But—"

"Oh. I'll tell you when you're outta that place."

Hutch opened his eyes. "I'll look forward to it. Sorry I can't return the favor for you."

"That's okay. I'll see yours in person." Starsky laughed again. "That sounded lewd, huh?"

"Hell, yes. You and lewd go real good together. Where are you?"

"Where you think? Times Square? I'm at Venice Place."

"No, I mean—"

"Your bed."

No. Our bed. One day. Please.

"Hu-uh-tch?"

"I'm here. That had a yawn in it. Maybe you should sack out for a few hours."

"No way. Too much to do."

Hutch held in his frustration. He would give Starsky another common-sense nudge in a minute or two. "What was your lead in Venice?"

"Report of a counterfeit C-note. Based on the info I got from Cicchino's girl and the money found on Cicchino's body, Callendar does the occasional business with hundreds."

"Aha, and you're thinking some businesses that don't see many hundreds automatically think they've gotten funny money and call it in. Yeah, that's true."

"Uh-huh." Starsky yawned again. "I asked one of our contacts in Counterfeit to give me a call whenever they get a report on a hundred."

"Good thinking, Starsky, but it's still the longest shot yet. The odds that a counterfeit called in would actually be real aren't good, but beyond that, for the hundred to come from Callendar in a city this size? Nah, nah. I doubt that'll turn much."

"I know, but it's a no stone left unturned thing. The one long shot I don't take a chance on might be the one that'd break this thing wide open."

"Can't argue with that. I guess the report in Venice really was a counterfeit?"

"Yeah. Damn it. You get anywhere with those room-for-rent calls?"

"Not yet, but I should get a few more calls in before the nurses hound me about sleep."

"Don't… " Another yawn. "Don't wear yourself out."

"Starsky, you're one to talk. You sound whipped. You won't do me any good if you wrap your car around a telephone pole. Get a few hours of shut-eye, grab a shower, and raid my fridge. Should be something clean there you could change into."

"No. All right, I'll do some'a what you said, but I can't go around wearing your clothes."

"Why not, for God's sake?"

"I'm human, Hutch. It'll distract the hell outta me, way things are for us right now, and me all keyed up. I can't afford the distraction. You think I was just pulling your leg earlier today when I said I'm hot for you? When I got here tonight I didn't know if I'd even get it up, I was so tense, crazy to be out there running down every hint of a lead, but man, one look around your place, seeing you everywhere, and soon as I hit your bed, I was hard."

"Starsk. It's mutual. I have to stand behind the wall right now or part of me would be poking at the glass, and I don't mean my finger."

"Man. You and lewd do all right together too."

Hutch knew his smile had its fair share of smugness. He was entitled, making Starsky sound that breathless. "You're not in this alone. You're not really out there alone."

"I know that. Only reason I'm not talking in backward sentences already. And you keep in mind I'm there every way I can be, okay?"

"Yes." Before he said the next thing on his mind, Hutch had to find confidence within so Starsky would hear it in his voice. "We'll get through this. Get some rest. Thanks for—"

"Hey, that was nothing, babe. I get you alone somewhere with no glass walls and I'll show you what you been missing all your life. Get some sleep, Hutch."

At the dial tone, Hutch held the receiver for a minute before he could bear hanging up.

"Nothing! A big, fat nothing!" Starsky had struck every piece of furniture in Dobey's office on his angry circuit. "Huggy says he can't even call in for a favor. All day on the street, we turned nothing but bogus addresses. One for retired nuns. I didn't know nuns retired!" He hit the water cooler. "I'm offering everything from my car to one'a my kidneys, and getting no where. Creeps who'd roll over on their mothers for one thin dime won't talk to me for fifty bucks." He slapped the back of the chair facing Dobey's desk.

"Sit down, Starsky. I'm tired of watching you abuse my furniture."

Starsky shot the captain a vile look but slumped down in the chair he'd just assaulted.

Dobey put down his pen and closed the file folder in front of him. "You shouldn't even be out there without a partner."

"I got a partner," Starsky snarled. "I don't need another one."

Dobey frowned. "Where's Huggy?"

"I took him home on the way here. He's making some calls. I had to cut him loose. I got a little rough with him out there today. He took it like the stand-up guy he is, and he wanted to keep on sticking like glue, but…."

"He knows you didn't mean anything by it. Those calls Hutch made didn't turn anything?"

"Not one damn thing. He called every number in the papers I gave him, called some of them two or three times until he got someone to the phone. Nothing. Either Callendar's there and he's got the landlord too scared to spit yes or no, or the landlord's lying for other reasons, or Callendar really never was at any'a the places. Who knows? Maybe Cicchino booked the room two weeks in advance, and the ad wasn't in the papers I got. Maybe he used a name we don't know. Maybe he used the want ads in some small circulation paper I didn't get copies of. Maybe, maybe, maybe!"

"Okay, we didn't expect this to be easy. Callendar's the kind of pro who can blend into the pavement if he has to. Man like him doesn't get where he is if he's easy to run down."

"Tell me something I don't know." Man, Hutch would be proud of that sarcasm!

Dobey's scowl threatened deeper cuts into Starsky's vacation time, but the phone rang, holding off any verbal retaliation. Dobey grabbed the receiver. "Dobey here. Oh. Allan. Good to hear from you. It's been a long time. Wha