Something short.  Er . . . shorter, at least for me *g*

 

 I’m not really sure this piece can even be said to have a plot, although it IS built around a central thread.  It’s mostly about relationships.  When I originally set out to write it, my main goal was to show Hutch and Grant in the positive phase of their relationship.  In the process, I ended up with a story that focuses on Hutch and Grant, Hutch and Starsky, and even Starsky and Grant.  In the timeline of my stories, this would follow several weeks after “Storm Gathering.”  A bit longer than I originally intended, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.  Comments, thoughts and S&H musings in general are all welcomed in my mailbox at veniceplace12@verizon.net

 

 

 

 

Game Playing

By Kate (CMT)

 

“What did you say?” Hutch asked vacantly, bowing his head while gingerly fingering the sore spot beneath his hairline.  He winced, uncertain if his discomfort was from the gnawing pain rooted just under his bangs or the knife-like glare of the overhead fluorescents in Dobey’s office.

 

“I said,” Starsky heaved theatrically like a man repeatedly forced to explain the obvious.  “Stop fingerin’ the bandage.  You ain’t helpin’ it any.” He swatted Hutch’s hand aside.

 

Startled, the blond detective blinked and sat up straighter.  That alone took more energy than he felt like sparing, but Starsky’s curly head was already bowed over a last-minute report.  It had been Starsky’s idea to commandeer Dobey’s office while the captain was engaged in a meeting elsewhere in the building.  By escaping the routine noise and general congestion of the squadroom, Starsky figured he’d be able to finish his hastily scrawled report a lot quicker.  And that meant Hutch could strip off his blood-encrusted shirt, clean up, and get comfortable much sooner.

 

While it sounded like a good idea, there were a few general problems.  “You know Dobey’s gonna want that thing typed up,” Hutch observed tiredly.

 

“Tough.”  Starsky didn’t bother raising his head.  “We just got done with a double shift, you get whacked with a set of nunchucks by some doped-up hood doin’ a bad Bruce Lee impersonation, and we end up spendin’ four hours in Emergency makin’ sure you don’t got brain swellin’ or something worse.  I vote we skip typin’ class and wing this thing with a Bic ballpoint.”  He shot Hutch a sideways glance.  “Besides - - you need a cold shower to get that blood offa you and make you wake up before you’re tempted to take a nap.”

 

Hutch yawned.  The ER doctor at Memorial General hadn’t seemed monumentally concerned by the laceration on his forehead or his subsequent concussion, but the man had made a point of telling Hutch to take it easy - - and to stay awake.  He’d been out cold for a good forty minutes, after all. The taking it easy part wasn’t going to be a problem, but staying awake for the next twelve hours could be difficult.  On a good day it would be a piece of cake, but he and Starsky were just coming off a double shift and he’d already been twenty-four hours without sleep.  Starsky, at least, had managed to grab five hours in the back of the Torino during their last stakeout before chaos erupted in the form of a scuffle with the aforesaid “doped-up hood” and a set of hardwood nunchucks. Hutch had gotten clipped before he could draw his gun, the blow knocking him cold.  Unfortunately, the chain had caught him too, laying open the skin just beneath his bangs.  The wound wasn’t deep - - it had only required two stitches - - but it had bled profusely, soiling the front of his brand new bisque-colored turtleneck.

 

$9.98 down the drain.  Blood never came out.  He’d had enough experience with soiled shirts, jeans, and slacks to know the turtleneck was probably shot.

 

“I’m not all that tired,” he said, lying through his teeth.  Odds were Starsky was probably already feeling guilty about his five hours in the Torino, especially since they’d flipped for it and Hutch had called foul.  “I think I’ll be okay to drive myself if you wanna head home.”  He was tempted to finger the bandage again but resisted the urge, knowing his hand would just get batted aside.

 

Starsky scowled.  “You said ‘wanna,’ Hutch.  You only talk like that when you’re tired or in a hurry.  Just hang on while I finish this thing.  I’m almost done, then I’m gonna be your shadow for the next twelve hours.”

 

“Starsky - - ”  The complaint was only half out of his mouth when the door cracked open and Phil Baker looked in. The brown-haired detective took one glance at Starsky bent over the report and shook his head. 

 

“Hey, Hutch.  If you can tear yourself away from Hemmingway over there, you’ve got a visitor.”

 

“Blondie ain’t here,” Starsky said without looking up.  He ignored the crack about his report-writing abilities, a running joke that was commonplace and fairly widespread among Metro’s detectives.  He’d earned the reputation by embellishing even the most basic reports with plump adjectives and colorful modifiers. “Whoever it is,” he called to Baker, “Just tell ‘em Sergeant Hutchinson already skipped out and they should come back in a few days.”

 

“Starsky - -”  Hutch attempted again, watching his friend aggressively dot an “i.”  He wasn’t sure which deserved the greater protest - - the fact his partner was speaking for him or that Starsky was blatantly lying.  Deciding his head hurt too much to sort it out, he let it pass without complaint. 

 

“I don’t think this guy’s gonna buy that,” Baker replied.  He vanished into the squadroom replaced a moment later by a familiar raven-haired man with pale blue eyes and a precisely trimmed mustache.

 

Hutch blinked, uncertain if he was seeing things.  “Dad?”

 

His exclamation brought Starsky’s head around in surprise.  “Dr. Hutchinson?”

 

Grant Hutchinson’s face split with a wide grin then immediately fell flat when he registered the splotches of dried blood on Hutch’s shirt.  “Ken?”  His voice lurched up in alarm as he stepped into the room.  “What happened here?  Are you hurt?”

 

More than a little dazed, still trying to make sense of what his father was doing in Bay City, let alone Metro, Hutch came to his feet sputtering something inarticulate.  Before he knew it, his shoulders were caught in a strong grip, and he was held at arm’s length while his father scrutinized his face.  A hand rose and gingerly fingered the bandage beneath his hairline.

 

“David?”  Grant queried over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from Hutch.  “What happened to my son?”

 

“Dad - -”

 

“He forgot to duck,” Starsky offered dryly, coming to his feet behind the taller man.  He grinned brashly.  “How ya doin’, Doc?  Seems like I just saw you not that long ago.”

 

Hutch had the presence of mind - - if somewhat muddled and sluggish - - to factor in Starsky’s comment.  It had only been a little over a month since Bentley Crest’s ill-fated September Retreat when they’d last seen Grant. While the reunion as a whole had been disastrous, it had afforded Hutch the opportunity to grow close to his father - - a man he’d been at odds with most of his life.  Subsequently, he’d walked away from Bentley’s retreat with a newfound respect and deeply-rooted love for the father he’d previously responded to with defensive antagonism and belligerence. Surprisingly, the only thing he felt now was a surge of warmth.

 

“It’s always a pleasure, David.” 

 

Hutch was vaguely aware of his father turning and acknowledging his partner with a quick handshake and a grin before immediately refocusing on him.  The throbbing in his head left him slow to respond when Grant tugged hard on his arm, pulling him into an embrace.  The blatant affection still came as a shock, bursting over him in a cavalcade of surprise and pure pleasure. 

 

Such greetings were still new, something to be treasured.  He clung for a moment, not certain his misfiring brain would send anything halfway sensible to his mouth.  Before he could summon a proper greeting, his father drew back, slid a hand under his jaw and tilted his face into the light.  A single black brow arched into Grant’s hair.  “Stitches?” he asked simply.

 

“Two,” Hutch replied, thankful he could manage the single syllable without sounding impaired.

 

Behind Grant, Starsky slid his report onto Dobey’s desk.  “He got clipped with a pair of nunchucks during a drug shakedown,” the curly-haired man explained, launching his pen at a plastic caddy.  He managed to sink the ballpoint between a number 2 pencil and a red felt-tip marker. “He definitely ain’t no Kato.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “Who?”

 

“You know . . . Kato,” Starsky elaborated.  “Bruce Lee’s kick-butt character from The Green Hornet.”  Shaking his head, he refocused on Grant.  “We just came from the ER.  Hutch got something for headaches, and he’s supposed to stay awake for the next 12 hours ‘cuz of a concussion. They wanna make sure he don’t slip off, since he was out cold for a good forty minutes.  Problem is, we just finished a double shift and he ain’t had any sleep in over twenty-four hours.”  Starsky grinned at his partner.  “I think he’s gettin’ pissy about it, ‘specially since he bloodied up his new turtleneck.”

 

Hutch found his tongue.  He knew Starsky was yanking his chain but couldn’t help the reflexive response.  “You know, Starsky, I can speak for myself.”  Once he said it, however, he wasn’t so sure.  He tried to remember what he’d been thinking before he’d been distracted, and got tripped up by the pounding in his head.  “Dad . . .”  Absently, he rubbed his temple.  “What are you doing here?”

 

“Visiting,” Grant supplied.  “I was in San Francisco for a medical conference and it ended early.  Since I’ve got a day or two to spare, I thought I’d swing by and see my, uh . . . favored son,” he grinned archly.  “ . . . before heading back to Duluth.”

 

Hutch wasn’t so far gone that the term didn’t register.  King Island and his heated verbal explosion at Grant that his father should have had a ‘favored son’ to follow in his footsteps had been the turning point in their previously spotty relationship.  From that point forward, his father had actually been receptive to his clumsy overtures and attempts to heal the rift between them.  When Grant grinned at him, Hutch felt himself relaxing and smiling in return.

 

“I’m sorry.  I guess I’m not very good company right now.”

 

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” Grant countered.  “According to your partner, you have to stay awake for the next twelve hours and it doesn’t sound - - or look - -” he added with a pointed glance for Hutch’s bedraggled appearance, “ - - like you’re going to have an easy time managing it.  You’re perfect company, since I’m going to make it my job to keep you entertained, focused and awake.”

 

“Mine too,” Starsky seconded.  “I was just gettin’ ready to drive him back to Venice, then I was gonna camp out at his place.”  He rolled his shoulders, allowing leeway in the event he was no longer welcome.  “Unless of course, you’d rather spend some time on your own with Hutch.  I can just as easily - -”

 

“Nonsense!”  Grant waved the absurd notion aside.  “I took a cab here and haven’t bothered to check into a hotel yet.  If Ken has to stay awake for the next twelve hours, I’ll make do at his apartment, but I could use some help in keeping him entertained.”

 

“I’m not a kid,” Hutch said crossly, disgruntled when the conversation circulated around him.

 

“You’re not,” Grant agreed, slipping an arm around his shoulders.  “But I remember you’re irritable as hell when you don’t get enough sleep.  I don’t think I want to be dodging your mood swings by myself when I can have David as backup.”

 

“Dad - -”

 

“Forget it, Blondie.”  Starsky prodded him toward the door before he could finish the complaint.  “You’re outgunned.  Just shut up and enjoy the ride home.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky drove his Torino while Grant drove Hutch’s much-abused LTD back to Venice Place.  It was an eye-opening experience for the upper crust doctor who was accustomed to luxury in everything he owned, automobiles included.  Hutch could tell from the disbelieving glance his father gave the vehicle that he was sorely tempted to toss off a remark or two but held his tongue.  It wasn’t until Grant parked the Ford in front of Hutch’s apartment on Ocean Avenue, that he finally gave an incredulous shake of his head and heaved a sigh of relief. 

 

“I didn’t think it would actually get us here,” he commented mildly, shooting a sideways glance at his son.  “I know you haven’t touched any of the funds your grandfather put into Trust for you, but surely you can afford something better than this on your salary?”

 

“It’s got nothing to do with what I can afford, Dad,” Hutch returned.  An absent glance in the side-view mirror showed him Starsky’s Torino sliding into place behind the LTD.  “I happen to like this car.  She might not be much to look at, but she gets me around just fine.” 

 

Tiredly, he popped the door handle and pulled himself to his feet.  The movement awakened a new clamor of rockets in his head, each prickly explosion splintering behind his eyes.  Wincing, he closed the door and sagged against the battered frame of the car.  If he weren’t so tired, he would have enjoyed the sight of his immaculately-tailored father climbing from the decrepit Ford.  Hutch knew the LTD wasn’t much to look at, which only heightened the contrast to Grant’s V-necked cable-knit sweater, light blue Oxford dress shirt and sharply creased heavy twill pants.  Even casual, he looks like he’s headed for the country club.  

 

There was a time that thought might have irritated him.  Now it only conjured amused affection.  Before he could contemplate it further, Grant was at his side, slipping a supporting hand under his arm and steering him toward his apartment.  Starsky sprinted past, opening the door with an obnoxiously sweeping bow.  He grinned playfully. “After you, Kato.”

 

Hutch mumbled something off-color, earning an amused snort from Grant.  At the top of the stairs, he fumbled for the key on the lintel but his father beat him to it, using the one on the car ring to gain access.  “You get comfortable, Ken, and I’ll get my suitcase.  I have my medical bag with me too.  I wouldn’t mind a better look at that cut on your head.”

 

Hutch mumbled an affirmative, knowing it was inevitable.  Having grown up the son of a doctor, he knew there was little chance of escaping examination when he was injured or sick.  Even as a child when he’d been uncomfortable around his father, Grant had always made sure every minor cut or sniffle was well tended to. 

 

Inside, Hutch headed for the bedroom, sprawling face down on the bed.  The mattress felt like sheer heaven and within seconds of plopping his head on the pillow, he curled onto his side and closed his eyes. 

 

“Oh, no you don’t.”  Starsky rattled his shoulder, sending a new ache pinging around inside his skull. “Sorry, buddy, but you’ve got eleven-and-a-half hours to go.  I thought you wanted a shower?”

 

Hutch groaned what he thought of the idea.  “Lemme alone.”

 

“No can-do.”  Starsky tugged on his arm, forcing him to sit up and drop his feet to the floor. 

 

He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he really was until forced to part with the siren call of the mattress.  “Just five minutes,” he pleaded.  “Come on, Starsk . . .”

 

“Uh-uh.  I know you.  Five minutes’ll turn into five hours and I won’t be able to wake you up at all.  Next time, maybe you’ll remember to duck.”

 

“You’re a fucking sadist, you know that?”  Hutch snapped, growing immediately cross. 

 

“Love you to, pal,” Starsky tossed back with a grin.  “Come on - - you’ve got a date with a cold shower.  I’ll get you some clean clothes while you’re in there . . . maybe even make you something to eat if you smile pretty.”

 

“Stuff it.”

 

Starsky chuckled and propelled him toward the door.  “You really gotta work on your social skills, Hutchinson.” 

 

Thirty minutes later, showered and changed, Hutch had to admit he felt marginally better.  His head still throbbed, but at least he didn’t feel ready to keel over with fatigue.  The shower had thinned his exhaustion and even helped him focus better.  He changed into a pair of navy sweatpants, white crew socks and an avocado-green tee-shirt.  By the time he emerged from the bathroom, his father and Starsky were busy in the kitchen, talking companionably as they jointly oversaw a hastily prepared dinner.

 

Intrigued, Hutch watched for a moment, enjoying the sight of his father and his partner so completely comfortable with one another.  Diametrically different in every aspect of their personalities, they somehow fit together with ease.  As uncommonly cultured as he was, Grant had come to appreciate Starsky’s frankness and street candor.  There was no question Hutch’s partner ‘told it like it was’ and while that boldness had initially left Grant flustered and annoyed, the upper-crust surgeon now found it refreshing.  In Grant’s world, friends and associates often maintained relationships for personal gain and advancement strategies. Hutch guessed his father found Starsky’s direct honesty a welcome change of pace.  Even now, Starsky rattled on about customizing his precious Torino with new mags, his usual exuberance coming through as he waved a spoon in the air above a small saucepan of something or other to punctuate a point.  Just a few feet away, Grant chopped lettuce and carrots for a salad, grinning as he listened, occasionally inserting a question or comment of his own.  A year ago, Hutch never could have conceived of his father holding a discussion with anyone about Craiger mags, let alone an overly enthusiastic street cop who suddenly developed a slangy New York accent whenever he grew excited.

 

“What’s for dinner?”  Hutch asked, stepping into the living area, trying to decipher the tantalizing mixture of smells wafting from the stove.  His stomach rumbled and he realized he was hungry despite the low-level ache rooted in his head.

 

“Ho, look at that!”  Starsky tossed a glance over his shoulder, flashing a broad grin.  “It speaks - - civilized-like too.  Amazing what a shower can do for a Scandinavian with a piss-poor attitude.”

 

“Only because you’re feeding me something other than pizza or burritos,” Hutch shot back, heading for the refrigerator.  He rummaged around on the middle shelf until he found a beer.  “I see salad.”

 

“That was your dad’s idea,” Starsky inserted, appearing suddenly at his side.  He confiscated the bottle before Hutch could twist off the cap.

 

“Hey!  What’s the idea?”

 

“Beer makes you tired,” Starsky countered, moving around him to push the bottle back into the refrigerator and close the door.  “In case you forgot, you’ve still got eleven hours to go.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “I appreciate the constant countdown, partner.”

 

“And well you should,” Grant added, placing the bowl of salad on the table.  “Besides - - alcohol of any kind doesn’t go with concussions, not to mention the medication they gave you at the hospital.  Trust me, Ken - - it will just make your headache worse and make you feel miserable.  Now come over here and take a seat while David and I get the rest of the food on the table.  I’ll pour you a glass of iced water.”

 

Irked that he couldn’t have a beer, Hutch stalked toward the cupboard containing his glassware.  “I’ll do it myself,” he grumbled.

 

“Kenneth,” Grant said sternly, favoring him with a disapproving glance.

 

Hutch immediately hedged.  He found it amazing that at 33 years of age he could still feel the effects of that glance and frosty tone of voice, but he did.  His response had been ingrained since childhood when he automatically did whatever his father ordered him to do - - at least when Grant spoke like that. 

 

Heaving a defeated sigh, he ran a hand through his shower-damp hair.  Behind him, he heard Starsky chuckle.

 

“Yeah, Kenneth, go sit down.  Your dad and I will handle everything.”

 

“Paybacks are hell, buddy,” Hutch muttered, shooting his friend a barbed smile, but he did as he was told. 

 

For a hastily prepared meal, pieced together from leftovers he had in the refrigerator, dinner wasn’t bad.  Grant had thrown together a salad of iceberg and romaine lettuces with some cherry tomatoes, carrots and cucumbers.  In charge of the main meal, Starsky whipped up a casserole from leftover chicken and boxed pasta, then drenched the whole thing in a mushroom-based soup.  Hungry at first, Hutch found the ache in his head replacing the rumble in his stomach after only a few bites.  He tried to concentrate on the easy conversation, even join in, but after a short time found himself squinting against the glare of the overhead light.  He took another bite of the casserole, then closed his eyes and bowed his head to massage his throbbing temple.

 

He heard the scrape of a chair against the floorboards and after several seconds realized the conversation had stopped.  Someone slid a hand onto his shoulder and squeezed gently.

 

“Here, buddy - - take one of these.” 

 

Hutch blinked, tilting his head to gaze up at his partner.  Starsky was standing slightly behind him and to the side, one hand clasped on his shoulder, the other offering the plastic pill container from the hospital. 

 

“Um . . .”  He hesitated, not really wanting the pills.  Thankfully, he was mostly past his inbred fear of addiction, having exorcised his demons last year.  It hadn’t been easy telling Grant about his ordeal with heroin, especially when he’d feared his father would be judgmental.  He’d stumbled through the conversation, relying on anger and defiance, expecting Grant to criticize his weakness, perhaps even disown him for allowing the stigma of drug addiction to become attached to the Hutchinson name.  But Grant had done the complete opposite, berating himself because Hutch hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him at the time.  He’d been supportive and doting, monstrously hard on himself for being such a coolly aloof father.  It was another step to healing the decades-old rift in their relationship.

 

Yet even with all of that behind him, Hutch still felt a glimmer of unease whenever confronted by narcotics or medication in general.  “Um . . .” he said again, his reaction to the proffered pills automatic.  His gut clenched in habitual revulsion.

 

“He needs two, David,” Grant instructed, nudging Hutch’s water glass closer.  “One isn’t enough to really do anything.

 

Hutch chanced a glance at his father.  There was that look again, coupled with an authoritative edge in his voice.   He felt Starsky’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, non-verbal assurance of his partner’s devotion to him.  Both men were perfectly comfortable with him swallowing a handful of pain tablets, so he supposed he should be too.  With concentrated effort, he shoved aside his instinctive aversion.  Reluctantly, he held out his hand, watching as Starsky tumbled two into his palm. The pounding in his head steadily escalated and he secretly hoped the pills would do something to alleviate the throbbing.

 

It wasn’t until twenty minutes later, sitting on the couch while Starsky and Grant cleaned up the kitchen that he felt a slight ease in pressure.  Grant’s suitcase was by the door along with his medical bag, and after a time his father grabbed the smaller case, telling Hutch he wanted a closer look at the cut on his head. 

 

The exam was brief, lasting only a few minutes, but it seemed to satisfy Grant.  He set his bag on the coffee table, then took a seat in a Tuscan-gold side chair across from Hutch and asked for a more detailed explanation of how the injury had taken place. 

 

Hutch shot a glance to his partner puttering around in the kitchen.  Starsky was busy cutting slabs of cheesecake, putting the perfectly sliced pieces on three dessert plates. The fattening treat wasn’t something Hutch normally kept in the refrigerator, so he guessed Starsky had jogged down the street to the mom-and-pop bakery on the corner of Ocean and Quay while he was in the shower. 

 

“I got a little careless,” Hutch told his father reluctantly.  A year or so ago, he wouldn’t have bothered to relay what had gone down at all.  Grant hadn’t been interested in his career, and he’d felt no compulsion to share the day-to-day risks of his job.

 

But all of that was different now.  His father was actually interested in what he did for a living.  The renowned surgeon who’d once told him he was wasting his time by becoming a cop had actually grown proud of his accomplishments.  The thought was simultaneously warming and scary.  Warming, because after decades of feeling like a failure in his father’s eyes, Hutch had finally achieved Grant’s approval.  Scary, because their new relationship made Grant openly worry about the danger he faced. 

 

“It really wasn’t any big deal,” Hutch said, not wanting to make an issue of it.

 

“He was coverin’ my butt,” Starsky called from the kitchen.  “There were two guys and one had the drop on me.  Hutch took him out but kinda left himself open at the same time.  The guy knocked him cold before I had a chance to wing him.”

 

Hutch lowered his eyes, instinctively knowing his friend probably harbored some buried guilt over the incident.  It was just the way they were with one another - - overly sensitive whenever the other was involved, especially if one of them ended up hurt.  It was one of the reasons several of their associates continued to dissect their exceedingly close relationship under a microscope.   We’re always good for some off-color gossip around the precinct.

 

“It was no biggie, partner,” Hutch mumbled again, hoping to put his friend at ease.

 

“Sure it was.”  Starsky sat on the couch beside him, shoving a plate of cheesecake into his lap.  “If you hadn’t dropped that guy, I woulda been out for a lot more than forty minutes - - like permanently.”

 

“You’ve done the same for me plenty of times,” Hutch said moodily.  He suddenly didn’t like the conversation.  Across from him, he realized Grant wasn’t eating and had set his dessert plate on the coffee table.  Hutch did the same, abruptly tired.  Yawning, he stretched out on the couch, layering his legs over Starsky’s lap.  “I don’t wanna talk about work,” he slurred slightly.  “I’ve had enough of it over the last sixteen hours.”

 

“Don’t get comfortable,” Starsky warned, eyeing the way Hutch shoved a pillow behind his back.  He swallowed a forkful of cheesecake, turning a cursory glance on his watch.  “You still got ten hours, eighteen minutes and - -”

 

“Starsky,” Hutch interrupted.  “Shut up.”

 

Grant chuckled.  “He’s right, Ken.  You need to keep yourself occupied.  How about a game of cards?”  Sitting up straighter, he did a quick glance around the apartment.  “You’ve got to have a deck around here somewhere.”

 

“In the drawer to the left of the sink,” Starsky supplied for his friend.

 

“Great.”  Grant stood, closing up his medical bag.  “I haven’t played poker since Bentley’s retreat.  And come to think of it, I didn’t play much there, too worried about my moody, sulking son.”  He grinned.

 

“Dad - -”

 

“Hey, what’s this?”  Grant lifted a shoebox from the coffee table beside his bag.  It had been neatly papered in bright blue gift-wrap with amethyst swirls and stars. The lid was wrapped separately, fitting neatly on top of the box, allowing it to be easily removed.  A sizable hole was cut in the center of the lid, large enough for someone to fit a hand through.  Turning it over, Grant gave it a curious glance.

 

“It’s a party game . . . or it’s supposed to be,” Hutch said with a shake of his head.  “We never actually played it.”

 

A single black brow climbed into Grant’s raven hair much the way Hutch’s did.  “We?”

 

“Starsky’s girlfriend made it up,” Hutch explained. “We were supposed to have a party here last night, but Starsk and I got stuck working a double shift so the whole thing fizzled.”

 

“June made up a bunch of questions and threw ‘em into a box,” Starsky continued, picking up where his partner left off.  He waved his fork in the air to elaborate.  “You know - - stupid things like ‘What three books would you want if you were stuck on a deserted island for a year?’  The idea is everyone gets to know one another, relaxes and has a good time.”

 

“Sounds like fun,” Grant cleared the coffee table of everything but the box.  “Let’s skip the poker and do this instead.”  He set his cheesecake aside on an end table and moved his medical bag to the floor.

 

Hutch blinked, certain he’d heard wrong.  Surely his private, introspective father wasn’t suggesting they play a game that involved divulging personal likes and dislikes? “You want to play June’s party game?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Sure, why not?” Grant headed for the kitchen, retrieving a glass from the cupboard.  “It’ll give me a chance to get to know David better.”  He paused, casting Hutch a direct glance.  “And you, for that matter.  Do you realize I don’t even know what your favorite color is, Ken?  Or your favorite food?”

 

Hutch sat up straighter, his heart pounding much too fast.  He didn’t want to play the game with his father though he couldn’t accurately pinpoint why.  “It’s green,” he sputtered, strangely unnerved. Desperate, he racked his brain for Grant’s favorite color and came up glaringly empty.  Why don’t I know that?  “And I don’t really have a favorite food.”

 

“Everyone has a favorite food, Ken,” Grant countered, returning with a glass of water, making himself comfortable in the easy chair.

 

“Yeah, like burritos,” Starsky said, springing to his feet and carrying his empty dessert plate to the kitchen.  Halfway there, he returned to take Hutch’s, fully aware his partner wasn’t likely to touch it.  “June went to a lotta work to make up that game.  She’d probably get a kick out of us actually playin’ it.”

 

“Okay,” Grant called, obviously into the spirit of the moment.  “How about that book question, David?  What three books would you want if you were stuck on a deserted island for a year?”

 

“Hmmm . . .”  Starsky paused to open the refrigerator and rummage around inside.  His head disappeared.  “I’m not sure.  Give me a minute.”  A second later he reemerged with a can of soda and a V-8.  “Probably something fun to take my mind off the whole deserted island thing.  Maybe even a comic book.  No Playboys though - - that’d just make me realize what I was missin’.”  He headed back toward the sofa, setting the V-8 by Hutch, popping the can of cola for himself.  “What about you, Doc?  What three books would you take?”

 

“Let’s see . . .”  Grant looked thoughtful, approaching the problem methodically.  “First a survival guide, so I’d last the year.  If I weren’t a doctor, a first-aid book would be practical, but since I already know the basics, I’d probably want something stimulating to read as my second choice.  Maybe one of the literary classics or just some trite novel to pass the time.”

 

Hutch laughed.  “You - - a trite novel?”

 

“I have been known to read King on occasion, Kenneth,” Grant countered with mock stiffness, “And lately I’ve been experimenting with Wambaugh.”

 

“Cop stuff?”  Starsky grinned.  “Hey, that’s cool.” 

 

Hutch had pulled his legs back, bent at the knees so that only his feet were pressed up against Starsky’s demin-clad thigh.  Caught up in the spirit of the game, Starsky nudged his foot.  “Your dad’s readin’ cop books.  Ain’t that cool, Hutch?”

 

He wasn’t quite sure that it was and decided not to comment.  Part of him was disquieted to think his father might be reading things like The Onion Field and equating his son with the unfortunate officers in the story. 

 

Unmindful of his hesitation, Starsky bounded ahead with the next question.  “Okay, Doc, what about the third book?  So far you’ve got the survival guide and maybe Melville or Wambaugh.  What’s the third one?”

 

Grant tilted his head to the side, thinking for a moment.  “A photo album,” he decided after only the slightest pause.  “With pictures of my family.”

 

“Wow.”  Starsky looked stunned.

 

Hutch felt his heart pound faster.  He didn’t know why the answer rattled him.  “That’s not a book,” he blurted.  His head was hurting again, the pain sinking spiny roots into his neck.

 

“The question didn’t specify,” Grant answered.  “And you’re the only one who hasn’t taken a turn.”

 

Hutch fingered his temple, trying to massage away the pain.  “It wasn’t a real question.  You didn’t draw from the box.”  He could feel himself growing tenser but still couldn’t pinpoint why the silly game had him on edge.  When June had first suggested it for the party, he’d thought it sounded like a fun idea. He’d envisioned it being played with a group of his friends, maybe several party guests he didn’t know all that well.  He’d seen himself ragging Starsky about his answers, even knowing many of his partner’s answers before Starsky did.  Second-guessing his best friend had been what appealed to him the most about June’s homemade game.  He certainly had not imagined playing it with his father - - a man he loved but when it came right down to it, barely knew.  And if he was truthful, Grant didn’t really know him.  They’d spent too many years at odds, making sweeping judgements about the other instead of taking the time to really learn what made each other tick.  Hutch once thought he’d had his father figured out, but over the last year had come to the shocking conclusion he didn’t know Grant at all.  At the very least, the man he’d once deemed motivated only by prestige and wealth, continued to surprise him.

 

A photo album.

 

He hadn’t seen that coming.  A year ago it might not have even crossed Grant’s mind, but clearly he’d meant it. 

 

Hutch was suddenly aware of Starsky’s palm cupping the back of his leg.  They’d always been astute enough to know what the other was feeling. He knew Starsky had correctly read his flagrant unease and was attempting to offset it with the assurance of touch. While grateful for the connection, Hutch felt bad his friend was the one routinely forced to bring stability to his relationship with Grant. I can never think straight enough to do it myself.

 

“I’ll draw a new question,” he said hastily, hoping for something easy.  There was no way he could follow up his father’s answer after Grant had tossed photo album into the pot.  It left his head reeling, his feelings teetering between confusion and heartfelt warmth.  He knew his father had changed, but sometimes it was hard adapting to the blinding shock of those changes.  It left him awkward, uncertain how to respond, age-old insecurities whispering he’d just muck it up if he tried.  So instead he leaned forward and fished in the box for a new question.  Unraveling a small strip of paper, Hutch read the typewritten message aloud:  “If you had to own a pet, what kind would you choose and why?”

 

“That’s easy.”  Breathing a mental sigh of relief, Hutch tossed the used question onto the coffee table.  Allowing himself to relax, he leaned back into the couch.  “Some kind of bird, like a parakeet.  They’re low-maintenance.”

 

“I got that beat,” Starsky said.  “I’d have fish . . . a tropical aquarium.  They take even less care, you get more of ‘em, and they’re prettier.”

 

Hutch raised a brow.  As overly exuberant as his partner was, Hutch thought he would have gone with the obvious and picked a dog.  He could see Starsky wanting a bouncy mutt to greet him at the door when he came home or chase after Frisbees in the park. “Prettier?” he echoed.  Getting comfortable, he stretched his legs over his partner’s lap, more than a little appreciative when Starsky absently massaged his calf.  “Fresh water or salt water?” he challenged.

 

“Huh?”  Starsky stared at him blankly.

 

“Fresh water or salt water,” Hutch repeated.  “Salt water takes a lot of care.  Even with fresh water you’ve got to have the right PH balance - - not too alkaline or acidic, add chemicals, maintain the temperature around 72, filtrate the water - -”

 

“All right, all right!” Starsky said loudly, pressing down on Hutch’s leg to shut him up.  “I’ll get a freakin’ parakeet.  They sound like a lot less work.”

 

Hutch grinned.  Maybe June’s game wasn’t so bad after all.  This is what he’d been looking forward to when he’d originally envisioned playing it - - rattling his impressionable partner for the sheer fun of it. 

 

“I’d have a dog,” he heard his father announce neutrally.

 

“A dog?”  Hutch did a double take.  Dogs were messy.  They required attention, shed their fur, had to be put outside several times a day, and occasionally even did wretchedly unforgivable things like throwing up on the carpet.  Isn’t that what Grant had told him when he’d asked for a dog as a kid?

 

Grant took a sip of his water then returned his glass to the coffee table.  “My dad got me a dog when I was six,” he explained.  “Just some stray mutt who wandered onto our farm, but I loved that animal.  I named him Rex after the Tyrannosaurus Rex because he was so big.  I had him for about eight years before we had to put him down because of illness.”

 

“But . . .”  Hutch tried to make sense of the story.  He’d never known his father had had a dog.  Part of him couldn’t even imagine his father as a kid on Kael Richard Hutchinson’s farm.  The grandfather Hutch had loved never talked much about his son, making Hutch realize Grant probably never had a strong relationship with his own father. Kael had wanted his son to continue the tradition of farming, but Grant’s heart had always been in medicine. Just as Hutch’s had been in police work. “I asked you for a dog when I was a kid,” he protested, half wounded, half confused. “You told me they were messy.”

 

“Well . . .”  Looking uncomfortable, Grant bit his lip. He fidgeted in his chair, trying to fluff off the question.  “You know how it is - -”

 

“No.  I don’t.”  Hutch chose that moment to become difficult.  He was tired, his head hurt, and he’d been coerced into playing a game he had mixed feelings about.  He suddenly wanted someone else to be as miserable as he was - - or at the very least marginally uncomfortable.  His irritability kicked up a notch as he forced the issue.  “Why wouldn’t you let me have a dog?”

 

“Hutch.”  Starsky squeezed his leg, hearing the strain in his voice.

 

Ignoring him, Hutch stared at his father expectantly.  “Well?”

 

“Well  . . .”  Grant cleared his throat and shifted again.  He chuckled nervously.  “How truthful do we have to be about these questions?”

 

“Completely,” Hutch said flatly.

 

“Don’t you think that’s bein’ a little rigid?”  Starsky attempted.

 

“No . . . it’s all right, David.” Grant shifted again, this time striving for comfort.  He hooked his right ankle over his left knee, sitting up straighter.  “It was a long time ago anyway.”  He directed his next statement to Hutch.  “The truth is I wanted you to have a dog, but your mother just had new carpeting installed in the living room around the time you asked.  White, remember?  We had to remove our shoes anytime we stepped into that room.  Drove me nuts.  She was afraid of what a dog or a puppy would do to it.”  Grant shrugged.  “We argued and she won.”

 

Hutch stared numbly, shocked by what he heard.  “But you let me think you were the reason.”

 

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to have you mad at your mother.  It was just easier to let you think I was the one against it.  Your opinion of me wasn’t going to sink much lower than it already was.”

 

“Dad - -”  Mortified, Hutch dragged a hand over his face.  He didn’t like remembering the childhood animosity and fear he’d harbored for Grant, always caught up in trying to please, continually resentful when he failed.  He recalled the hurt he’d felt when Grant had told him he couldn’t have a dog, how unfair he’d thought his father was being.  He’d been secretly bitter about it for weeks, adding yet another strike against his rigidly detached father.

 

And it wasn’t even his doing.  Mom was the one who didn’t want me to have a dog.  He even argued with her about it.

 

“Next question,” Starsky said loudly, sensing his inner turmoil. The dark-haired detective hooked an arm over Hutch’s legs, holding them in place on his lap while he leaned forward to pull a slip of paper from the box.  “What is your favorite movie of all time?” he read aloud, hastening the play along.

 

And so it went for a few hours, the questions not overly personal so much as fun.  Hutch admitted it would have been a good party game after all and decided he’d have to make sure June brought it for the next bash he had.  Once or twice he got up and stretched when fatigue caught up with him and he grew in danger of drifting off.  Somewhere after two a.m. they took a break from the game and switched to poker at the kitchen table for a few hours.  By that time it was all Hutch could do to keep his head up, his irritability growing along with his exhaustion.  Starsky decided a walk on the beach would help, so the three of them traipsed outside, Hutch plodding up and down the sand with Grant and Starsky flanking him.

 

The cold air went a long way in waking him up, but it left him shivering, his head pounding fiercely.  His teeth were chattering by the time he was finally back indoors.  Starsky actually took pity on him and rounded up a spare blanket from the closet.  Wrapped in the downy warmth, Hutch tried to curl onto the couch but was immediately dragged upright by his partner.

 

He groaned.

 

“Come on, Blondie,” Starsky coaxed. “You’ve only got a little over an hour to go.”

 

“I’m tired now,” Hutch complained.  “Just let me go to sleep.  I’m not gonna fall into a coma.”

 

“Probably not,” Grant agreed, standing behind the sofa, adjusting a pillow at his back.  “But it’s better to err on the part of safety. We’ll play a little more of June’s game and the time will pass before you know it.”

 

“I don’ wanna,” Hutch slurred.  “How many frigging questions did she write anyway?”  He knew his irritability bulldozed through but couldn’t silence his bad temper.  All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes.  He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to talk, and most especially didn’t want to play June’s damn party game. 

 

In direct mockery of his wishes, Starsky plopped down beside him, sitting just off center of the couch, making it impossible for him to stretch out.  With a defeated sigh, Hutch folded against his partner, resting his head on Starsky’s shoulder.  “Whas the question?” he asked wearily.

 

“I’ll pick one.”  Grant reached into the box, sitting down in the adjacent chair.  He unfurled the strip of paper, frowning slightly before he actually read the words aloud.  “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”

 

Hutch felt his partner tense.  He immediately knew Starsky’s answer without his friend uttering a word.  He also knew the question itself had to be painful for a man who’d lost his father when he was only ten.  Instantly, his irritability crumbled at his feet, replaced by concern.  “Bad question, Dad,” he said, drawing back and sitting straighter.  “Pick another one.”

 

“No,” Starsky countered quickly.  “It’s okay.”  He shot his friend a guarded glance.  “It’s not what you think, babe,” he said quietly.

 

There was something in his voice that made Hutch abruptly attentive. It was Grant’s question yet Starsky had chosen to answer.  They’d been doing that all through the game, making the rules up as they went, each spontaneously answering as the mood struck them.  Suddenly Hutch wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear his friend respond to this particular question.

 

“If there were any way to have my dad back, I would,” Starsky said softly. 

 

It was what Hutch expected him to say.  Wasn’t the answer obvious?  He thought that would be the end of it, but Starsky surprised him by plowing ahead and veering in another direction.

 

“God took him for a reason, Hutch.  I mean think about it - - if he hadn’t died, my life mighta been entirely different.  Who knows if I woulda even become a cop.  I sure as hell wouldn’t have come to Bay City and I never woulda met you.  All the years we’ve spent as friends and partners just wouldn’t have been. I like to think in some indirect way my dad was responsible for a small piece of that . . . like he was watchin’ over me, guidin’ me along, makin’ sure I ended up where I was supposed to be.”  Starsky chuckled abruptly, trying to lighten the mood though it was clear from his expression the thought sobered him.  “I mean, hell, pal - - you coulda been stuck with Baker or Sullivan as a partner.”

 

“Spare me,” Hutch said, playing along, but the joking words didn’t match his tone.  His throat was abruptly tight and dry.  He had a feeling where Starsky was headed and suddenly had to know for sure.  “If not your dad, then what would you change about your life?” he asked quietly, his gaze riveted to the dark blue irises he knew so well.  Don’t say it.  God, Starsk, don’t say it.  It’s over, and I’m not worth that kind of wish. 

Starsky slid a hand over his knee.  “I woulda found you before Monk touched you.  I woulda made sure Forest never took you on that trip.”

 

“Shit, buddy.”  Shaken, Hutch crumbled back against the sofa.  He’d known it was coming, but to think of all the things Starsky could have changed in his life . . . wished differently . . . it unnerved him to know his friend placed him first.  They were supposed to be playing a simple party game about favorite colors, foods and movies - - not highly personal earth-shattering revelations like this. He felt himself shaking, his heart escalating into a rapid, fluttery cadence.  “Terri,” he said miserably, unable to finish the thought.

 

“I’m gonna see her again, Hutch.  She’s waitin’ for me.  I wish I could change that too, but Terri didn’t suffer.  You did.  More than any person should have to endure.  Even now, you’re still affected by the whole shitty ordeal.  Like tonight, and the way you hesitated taking those pills.”

 

Hutch tensed, knowing he couldn’t deny the observation.  In the end, it was simply too hard thinking. His head throbbed mercilessly, swelling the blood vessels behind his eyes. He rubbed his chest hoping to slow the fast-forward thump of his heart, fully aware Starsky could feel his trembling.  “I give you Terri back,” he said emphatically.  “If I could change something, I’d take out Prudholm before he had a chance to hurt her. Do you know how many times I’ve second-guessed when we had him at the zoo?  I talked you out of - -”  He shook his head, unable to finish the thought.  “I shouldn’t have been so quick to put him through the system,” he finished miserably.  I didn’t want you to kill him.  Ultimately that would’ve destroyed you, but - -

 

“That was my call, Hutch, not yours.”

 

Somehow the words didn’t help.  Hutch had secretly carried hidden guilt over Terri’s death ever since the tragedy occurred.  He knew he couldn’t have stood by and watched Starsky kill Prudholm, yet if they’d ended it at the zoo, Terri would still be alive. 

 

But Starsky would be different, he realized.  All his enthusiasm and innocence destroyed with a single pull of the trigger. 

 

He’d done the right thing, he knew that, but it didn’t make the reality any easier to bear.  They’d never talked about it, but he guessed Starsky carried the same doubts, secretly torn up inside for allowing Prudholm to live.  Hutch often wondered how different their lives might have been if Terri had survived.  She and Starsky would probably be married by now, possibly expecting their first child.  Hutch had no doubt his friend would make an exceptional husband and father.  He still hoped to see the realization of that vision in Starsky’s future as well as his own. 

 

“Starsk - -”

 

“Forget it.”  Starsky cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.  He grinned as if realizing the conversation grew entirely too somber.  “Let’s lighten this up, huh?  Your dad ain’t answered yet.”  Unobtrusively, Starsky rubbed his hand over Hutch’s knee, soothing his reactionary trembling.  “How about it, Doc?  What one thing would you change about your life?”

 

Engrossed by what he’d been hearing, Grant blinked as if only then realizing he’d been addressed.  He cleared his throat and shoved the question onto the coffee table.  “That one’s a bit too philosophical for me.  I think we should try something lighter.”  Reaching into the box, he drew another question, hastily reading it aloud:  “Name the teacher who had the most impact on your life and explain why.  That’s an easy one.”  Grinning, he tossed the slip of paper beside the box.  “The teacher who had the most impact on my life is my son, and I think the reason is obvious.”

 

Hutch stared openly, too tired to be subtle.  Still reeling from his discussion with Starsky, he was unprepared for Grant’s startling announcement.  “Um . . .”  Hutch wet his lips.  “I think it means a teacher from school or college.”

 

Starsky snorted.  “I don’t think so, Blondie.  Take the compliment and be glad.  Your old man’s come a long way in the last year.  Besides - - ”  He grinned toothily.  “Anyone who agrees with me that you need to ditch that hunk-a-junk heap you call a car and buy something halfway respectable can’t be all that bad.”

 

Grant favored him with an amused glance.  “Thank you, David.”

 

“Always a pleasure, Doc.  As for me, I’d have to go with Miss Bailey - - my eighth grade English teacher.”

 

Sensing the game was returning to a more even keel, Hutch turned his shoulder into the corner of the couch, getting comfortable.  Yawning, he rested his head on the back. “I’m afraid to ask,” he mumbled, taking the bait.

 

Starsky waggled his eyebrows.  “She always wore tight skirts and heels with flowered bras under light-colored blouses.  That was heady stuff for a thirteen-year-old kid.  Me and Stu Gaither were always the first in class and the last to leave.  She couldn’t understand how we eked by on a C average when we were glued to her every word.”

 

Hutch parted with a lazy smile.  “You haven’t changed much, partner.  Didn’t I see you eyeing up the new clerk in Records?  The one who looks like a librarian?”

 

“That’s only ‘cuz I heard she’s far from stuffy when she clocks out.  The hair comes down and the glasses come off, if you know what I mean.”

 

Hutch chuckled.  It was growing increasingly hard keeping his eyes open.  As Grant picked up the thread of conversation, he gave into the pressing desire to sleep.  Unconsciously, he scrunched deeper into the corner, trying to tuck his long body into the cramped space.  Within seconds he felt a light pressure on his arm, guiding him to lie down. “Come on, babe.  You’ve only got forty more minutes.  Lie down here, but don’t go to sleep, okay?”

 

“Okay.”  He would have said anything at that point simply because it felt so good to be able to recline.  Starsky moved to the far corner of the sofa and Hutch stretched across the length, pillowing his head in his friend’s lap.  He gave an appreciate groan at the familiar contact and felt Starsky’s fingers feather lightly through his hair.  The touch was blissfully soothing, bringing a rapid infusion of warmth.

 

“How’s your head?” his partner asked.

 

He grunted something inarticulate, hoping it passed for an answer.  The fingertips in his hair moved to the rear of his scalp, maintaining a slow massage.  Already drowsy, he felt himself slipping under the radar of sleep. 

 

“Hey, Hutch,” he heard his partner call.  “You ain’t answered the question.  Who was your favorite teacher?”

 

“Mmm . . .gotta think ‘bout that one,” he slurred, too tired to crack his eyelids.  “Give me some time . . .” He yawned widely.  “ . . .‘bout forty minutes.”

 

It was the last thing he remembered saying until Grant woke him a short time later and helped him shuffle sleepily back to bed.

 

+++++

Hutch had absolutely no sense of time when he woke.  He stretched lazily in bed, only vaguely concerned if it was morning or evening.  His head still ached, but the pain had withered to a low-level murmur floating in the background.  Rolling onto his side, he blinked groggily at the bedside clock, noting the hour was just past 5PM.  He was still fully dressed, having crashed in his clothing last night, something he barely remembered.

 

Dragging himself from bed, he headed to the bathroom to freshen up.  Neither his father nor Starsky were anywhere in sight, but Grant’s suitcase was still in the living room.  After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Hutch felt halfway human again.  When he eventually returned to the living room, he found his father just entering through the front door, a bag of groceries tucked under his arm.

 

“Ken.”  Grant flashed an easy grin, moving to the kitchen where he shoved the bag onto the counter.  “I just picked up a few things for dinner, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be up.  How are you feeling?”

 

“Better.”  Hutch’s answering grin came just as easily as his father’s—surprising, since there’d once been a time when he wouldn’t have been able to summon courtesy at all.  He poked his head into the bag, noting a package of beef cubes and various fresh vegetables.  Casting the older man a sideways glance, he arched a single brow.  “You’re cooking?”

 

“Beef stew,” Grant confirmed.  “About the only thing I know how to make.”     

 

“I remember.”  Hutch sat down at the kitchen table.  During his childhood, Hutch’s mother had handled all the menus at the Hutchinson household except for those rare times when Grant had decided to putter around and cook his famous beef stew.  Later, as his parents’ social commitments grew more time consuming, there’d been an actual dinner service to ensure a hot meal was on the table every night. It felt a little strange to think his father was actually going to be concocting something in Hutch’s tiny kitchen.  “What can I do to help?” he asked.

 

“Nothing,” Grant said.  “Sit there and relax.  Just because you’ve had some sleep doesn’t mean you’re completely up to par.  David said you’re both off for the next two days, so I suggest you take it easy.”

 

“Hmm . . . speaking of ‘David’ . . .”  Hutch reclined sideways in the chair, stretching his legs out and hooking an arm over the back.  “I don’t remember Starsk leaving last night.”

 

“You fell asleep a little sooner than you should have,” Grant explained, in the process of transferring the beef cubes and a bag of carrots to the refrigerator.  “Actually, you were out within a few minutes of lying down on the couch.  David left shortly after I got you settled into bed.  I think he was feeling pretty tired too after your double shift and just didn’t want to admit it.”  He paused, standing in the gap made by the open refrigerator and the door.  “He takes very good care of you, Kenneth.  I like that about him.  About both of you.”

 

Strangely self-conscious, Hutch flushed and averted his eyes.  His father’s new candor still frequently caught him off guard.  And if he remembered correctly, he’d fallen asleep with his head pillowed in Starsky’s lap.  He had a vague recollection of firm fingertips massaging his scalp, gently ushering him over the threshold of sleep. 

 

A year ago he wouldn’t have thought his father capable of accepting his unique relationship with Starsky, but Grant clearly took it at face value. There was no questioning or dissecting - - subtle or otherwise - - of their extreme closeness.  The older man didn’t even attempt to put labels on it - - he simply accepted their rare friendship for what it was.

 

Like he’s accepted me.

 

Unexpected warmth flooded him.  How many times in the past had they tried to talk and ended up in bitter arguments?  How many times had they tried to change the other instead of simply acknowledging and embracing their differences?  “Yeah,” he agreed.  He wet his lips, shooting a shy glance from the corner of his eye.  “Starsk is a good friend.”  It didn’t come remotely close to covering his relationship with Starsky, yet said it all in a single breath. 

 

He was silent a moment, watching as his father unbagged the rest of the groceries then set about digging pots and pans from the cupboards.  Hutch had to point out the location of a few, but Grant was adamant he not lend a hand.  “I never let your mother help me when I made this.  I’m not about to let you help either.”

 

Hutch grinned lazily.  His mother might never have helped, but she’d always inherited the mess afterward.  During his early kitchen forays, Grant hadn’t seemed to grasp the fact clean-up went hand-in-hand with cooking.  Hutch recalled it had taken his mother several verbal explosions before her point finally sank home and Grant left everything as spotless as he found it.  Slight of stature and normally soft-spoken, Adele Hutchinson grew as volatile as nitroglycerin when provoked.

 

“So when did you learn to make beef stew?” Hutch asked. Standing, he switched on the overhead light, drenching the room in a butterscotch veil. It was starting to get dark outside, the days growing shorter as the fading light of afternoon receded before the murky pewter of twilight. Through the window, he could hear the hum of passing traffic and an occasional horn as rush hour wound down. Opening the refrigerator, he glanced inside, finally settling on a can of Ginger Ale.

 

“College,” Grant supplied over his shoulder, already busy chopping celery and onion.  “After a while, you get sick of living on deli sandwiches and pizza.  I remember the first time I came home on break and made it for my dad, his jaw dropped.”  He chuckled, shaking his head.  “Sometimes I think he thought the only thing I knew how to do was read books and shovel hay.  He wanted me to be a farmer.  Did you know that?”

 

“Yeah.”  Intrigued Hutch returned to the table, sitting at the far end so he could talk more easily facing his father.  “He wanted someone in the family to take over the farm.  I think for awhile he even hoped I’d develop an interest in it.”  He hesitated, feeling the cool press of the soda can against his hand.  “Dad, did he . . . was he, um  . . .”  Uncomfortable, he hedged, uncertain how to complete the thought.  “ . . .was he upset with you for becoming a doctor?”

 

Grant went right to the heart of the matter.  “You mean like I was with you for becoming a cop?”

 

Hutch felt his face burn. It was what he wanted to know, but he hadn’t known how to ask.  His grandfather had always been open and supportive with him, encouraging him to follow his dreams even when they weren’t in line with his own.  He’d respected and loved Kael Hutchinson.  He’d loved his father too, but for many years that love had been tangled up with fear, bitterness and anger.  “Okay . . . yeah,” he admitted.  “It’s what I want to know.  Did you have the same arguments with him that I had with you?”

 

“Hardly.”  Grant laughed.  “I wouldn’t have dreamed of using profanity with my father.  He probably would have decked me if I did.”  He winked, noting the self-conscious downward sweep of Hutch’s eyes.  “Then again, he and I never went at it the way you and I did.  Don’t get me wrong - - we had our disagreements, and for a time he was disappointed to think the farm would be sold off someday, but he also thought medicine was a noble profession.”

 

“So why . . .”  Hutch fumbled words, awkwardness tumbling over him again.  “ . . . if he could accept what you wanted to do . . .”  His hand tightened around the soda can as something unsettled wormed into his stomach.  It was lunacy to bring the matter up, yet part of him needed an answer.  “ . . .why couldn’t you - -”

 

“ - - accept that you wanted to be a cop?”  Grant finished for him.  Done with the celery and onions, he made a quick trip to the refrigerator to retrieve the carrots.  “Because somewhere along the way, I got caught up in the prestige of my profession and the social status that went with it.  You have to remember I grew up the son of a farmer.  We were well off, but medicine opened an entirely different door for me - - highly competitive and socially exclusive.  I’m not proud of that, Ken - - or that my ambitions got transferred onto you.”  Locating a peeler in the top drawer, he set to work shaving strips of carrot skin into the sink. “I had plenty of preening friends with sons who were going to be doctors and you were so much brighter than any of them.  It galled me to think you were throwing away your potential.  And if I have to be honest about it, I guess I wanted to preen too.  I wanted to show you off to my colleagues.  You’re intelligent, gifted, good-looking, a natural leader.  After awhile I stopped seeing you, and just saw the attributes that would impress my peers.”  He shook his head sheepishly. “Stupid, I know.  Now I realize this is your potential - - being a cop.  You excel at it because you enjoy it.”

 

Tentatively, Hutch fingered the bandage under his scalp.  “Some days more than others,” he commented dryly, feeling the need to lighten the mood.  It still amazed him his father had developed a capacity to talk so openly.  In some matters, Grant was still staunchly and stubbornly Grant, but in others he’d clearly undergone a startling transformation.  Just a year ago they would have been bickering by now, one or both of them storming from the room in anger.

 

I like this side of us so much better, Hutch thought appreciatively.  Changing the subject, he steered his father into a discussion on more common place matters.  He soon learned his sister Kelly - - who had married a doctor, much to Grant’s delight - - had bought a rambling new home in Seattle.  She and her husband, Vincent, were hoping to start a family within the year and make Grant and Adele grandparents.

 

The mention of children quickly morphed into an observation that Hutch had yet to find a steady girlfriend and wasn’t it about time he started thinking of marriage again?  That inevitably led into mention of Vanessa and before Hutch realized it, he found himself talking about Abby and Gillian. 

 

His parents had known about Abby, but he’d never told them why or how the relationship had soured. He’d just always assumed they’d chalked it up to another woman who couldn’t navigate the hurdles of being involved with a cop - - and they were partially right.  Watching his father skin and chop potatoes, Hutch found himself telling Grant about Artie Solkin, . . . the dead rat in his refrigerator, the bomb in his trunk, even the violent psychotic who’d hurt Abby.

 

And if that wasn’t revealing enough about his personal life, he finished by telling Grant about Gillian. 

 

Stunned, his father abandoned the stew and took a seat across from him at the table.  Hutch told him everything after that - - how she’d been a prostitute, how he’d loved her, how Starsky had tried to protect him and how she’d ultimately been murdered by Grossman. 

 

It was a sobering discussion.  He could tell it left his father off balance as Grant considered yet another part of his son’s life that had been corrupted and invaded by violence. Grant had come to accept the fact he was a cop, but that didn’t mean he had to tolerate the vicious ugliness that went with it. Before Hutch knew it, minutes turned into hours as their conversation lengthened and grew and the stew remained unfinished.

 

Somewhere around eight o’clock they finally browned the beef cubes, threw everything into a pot and ended up eating sandwiches while it cooked.  Afterward, Hutch phoned Starsky to see how his friend was feeling. Grant had already decided to stay another day and Hutch made arrangements with his partner for the three of them to have dinner at his favorite seafood restaurant.  He wanted to treat his father while Grant was in Bay City, but knew it was likely the older man would insist on picking up the check anyway. 

 

In many ways Grant Kael Hutchinson was still Grant Kael Hutchinson.

 

Eventually Hutch put a few albums on the turntable for background music, careful to choose mellow instrumentals his father would enjoy.  June’s homemade game was still on the coffee table, and as he sat on the couch, he plucked a single strip of folded paper from beside the box. 

 

“Hey, you never did answer this question,” he said to his father, reading off the paper: “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”

 

Grant sat at the opposite end of the sofa, leaving the middle cushion vacant between them.  “I thought the answer to that would be obvious, Ken.”  Angling his back into the corner, he faced his son.  “It was just too much to address last night after hearing you and David talk the way you did - - each of you so self-sacrificing toward the other.  Every time I’m around the two of you, I walk away with a new appreciation of a friendship that defies all boundaries.”

 

“Dad - -”

 

“No, hear me out.”  Grant raised his hand to stop the protest.  “You have something special . . . extraordinary with David, but it’s just as much because of you as because of him.  It’s like . . .”  Now it was his turn to grope for words.  “ . . . I’ve learned so much about you because David has opened my eyes to who you really are.  I see sides of you I never imagined existed, all through his eyes.  Like last night - - you were completely at ease to fall asleep with your head in his lap. Like it was entirely natural.  Sorry, Ken - -” He chuckled and shook his head. “ It’s. Just. Not.  I’m in awe of the affection you have for each other, yet at the same time it’s hard for me to understand.  For years all you ever showed me was a distant and rigid personality, and suddenly I discover another side of you.”

 

Hutch flushed, briefly lowering his eyes. “Dad, part of the reason I can be so at ease with Starsky is because he’s so at ease with me.  I . . .”  He hedged, growing increasingly uncomfortable.  “I-I never f-felt that way with you.  B-Before, I mean . . .”

 

“Don’t stutter,” Grant said automatically, but it wasn’t a reprimand so much as concern.  In the past the retort would have been sharp, an obvious put-down, but now it carried warmth.  “I know I wasn’t very open.”  Pulling the strip of paper containing June’s question from Hutch’s grasp, he raised it in the air between the first two fingers of his right hand.  “Why do you think I have so many regrets about this?  All those years wasted.  A relationship is a two-way street, Kenneth.  I never encouraged you to be open with me when you were a child.”

 

That much was true.  If anything he’d been quiet and reserved around Grant, only speaking his mind when he felt strongly about something.  He’d been afraid to speak out otherwise, knowing most anything he said would either disappoint or anger his father. He’d always envied his friend Jack Mitchell and Jack’s completely candid relationship with his parents, especially his father.  “When I was a kid, I was afraid of you,” he admitted.

 

Grant appeared taken aback.  “You’ve told me that once before,” he observed quietly, “But I never hit you, Ken.  I was never physical with discipline.”

 

“No.” Hutch agreed. “You didn’t have to be. I was always afraid of disappointing you, and that was enough.”  Wearily, he rubbed his eyes.  He was starting to grow tired again, fatigue intensifying the ache behind his temple. “I always felt like I was screwing up.  The older I got, I channeled that fear into anger, and then . . .”  He shrugged.  “I don’t know . . . even up until a short while ago, you always managed to intimidate me.  I guess I just never outgrew that part of how I reacted.  It never took much for you to push my buttons.”

 

“Or you mine,” Grant countered smoothly. 

 

Realizing how foolish they’d both been, Hutch gave a tired shake of his head.  “I’m sorry, Dad.  I could have been less belligerent through the years.  Like you said - - you never would have dreamed of using foul language with Grandpa, and I - -”

 

“ - - have an extremely sharp tongue when you choose, Kenneth Richard,” Grant finished with a grin. “And your mother’s temper.  That can be an awfully volatile combination.  If you don’t believe me, ask your partner.”

 

Amused, Hutch cocked his head.  “You and Starsk have been doing an awful lot of talking, haven’t you?”

 

“Why not?”  Grant shrugged.  “He has a unique viewpoint of life in general, not to mention the inside track on you. For instance - - I had no idea you’re such a bad bowler.”

 

“Ha!”  Hutch gave an incredulous bark of laughter.  “He told you that?  He’s yanking your chain, Dad.  I take him down two times out of three.”  He hedged slightly.  “Well . . . most times anyway.  Why, just last week . . .” And so the conversation went, veering through everything from leisure activities and career concerns to health, world politics, music and art.  The beef stew was eventually removed from the heat and left to cool, Hutch’s Ginger Ale replaced by a second can, then a glass of iced water.  Somewhere close to midnight, after a brief off-the-wall foray into the possibility of extraterrestrial life and an even briefer one about the gas crisis, Grant rummaged up a container for the beef stew and transferred it to the refrigerator.

 

Stretching out on the couch, Hutch concluded he should just pack it in and head back to bed.  But there was still literature, the economy, and Starsky’s recent fondness for Necco Wafers to discuss.

 

“How’s your head?” Grant asked, returning to the sofa.

 

“Fine,” Hutch replied, surprised to realize it was the truth.  No throbbing, no ache  - - not even a twinge to report.  He sat up long enough for his father to reclaim his seat, then laid back down without thought, pillowing his head on Grant’s thigh the same way he would have on Starsky’s. Almost immediately he realized what he’d done and instinctively tensed to retreat.  He and his father had grown close, but this contact was a little too candid, much too presumptive. Before he could make a move, he felt Grant’s fingers slip into his hair. Hesitant at first, his father grew bolder and gently stroked the bangs from his forehead.  Comforted and secretly pleased, Hutch relaxed.

 

“You have your grandfather’s hair, Ken,” Grant mused quietly, his touch as blissfully contenting as his voice. “Soft as silk and just as pale.  Kelly used to be jealous of that when she was a child.  She wanted to be the blond in the family.”

 

“Kelly was a little Narcissist,” Hutch said groggily.  His tension had completely melted now, dwarfed into nothingness by the exquisite pressure of his father’s fingertips.  “Thank God she grew out of that phase.  And she never would have had a comeback for all the blonde jokes.”

 

Grant gave a soft chuckle.  “Don’t tell me you get your share of those?”

 

Hutch snorted.  “Dad, I get them from my own partner.  I think I’m gonna grow a mustache just to piss him off.”  He shifted a bit, getting more comfortable, letting the amber warmth of the tableside lamp, his father’s presence, and his father’s touch wash over him.  Like a drug, the combination lulled him closer to sleep.  “I should prob’ly go to bed,” he murmured, his eyes dipping shut.

 

“Probably,” Grant agreed, but his fingertips never stopped their leisurely massage. 
 

Somewhere in the back of Hutch’s mind, he realized he’d crossed another bridge with his father, their constantly evolving relationship finding a new foothold in shared touch.  Just a few short months ago, he would have been a ball of nerves to even consider drifting to sleep with his head in Grant’s lap.  And a year ago - - ha! - - the very notion would have been laughably absurd.  Their preferred interaction had always been verbal potshots, not open affection.

 

“Dad?”

 

“Yes, Ken?”

 

“If I fall asleep, you take the bed, okay?  You’re supposed to be my guest.  I’ll be fine here.”

He heard a soft chuckle, velvety and low in the sleep-fogged haze of his mind.  

 

“Whatever you say.  Now go to sleep.”

 

“But . . .” His voice was whisper-low, slurred by creeping fatigue.  “If I fall asleep, how - -”

 

“Ken,” Grant cut him off, this time in warning.  He was already halfway under when the word penetrated like a slumbering mist.  He made a half-vocal sound, not sure if it was agreement or concession and nestled a bit more snugly like a man preparing for a long rest.

 

It was the last thing he remembered before he woke the next morning still stretched out on the couch, his cheek pressed to his father’s thigh, Grant’s arm draped securely over his chest.  His father had slouched a bit lower into the sofa, legs stretched out for comfort against the floor, head tipped back and mouth slightly parted.  He snored softly, his once pristine black knit shirt wilted and rumpled. It was definitely not the most dignified pose for a renowned surgeon, but to Hutch it made his father all the more human and approachable.  For the first time in his life, he felt like they were on the same level.  More than that, Grant had chosen discomfort rather than disturb him last night. 

 

Or maybe, Hutch thought with a faint grin, his father had simply wanted to savor the physical contact between them awhile longer.  Certainly, having his police sergeant son half sprawled across his lap was not something that regularly happened.

 

Careful not to disturb the older man, Hutch sat up, grimacing as he worked the kinks from his back.  He knew his father would likely be sorer still, having spent the night cramped in the corner of the sofa. He gave a soft groan at a particularly stubborn knot in the small of his back and saw Grant crack an eyelid.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Dunno.”  Hutch dragged a hand through his hair, deciding his days of roughing it on anything other than a down mattress were long past.  “We’ve got sunlight if that helps.” He cast a glance at an oblong splotch of yellow on the kitchen floor. “And we’ve got beef stew, wheat germ or granola for breakfast.”

 

Grant made a sound much like Starsky did when lamenting an unfair list of food choices and dragged his abused body upright.  “I’m a traditional breakfast eater, Ken.  I want bacon and eggs.  Hit the shower and I’ll treat.  Maybe by that time we’ll be limber enough that neither of us will regret spending the night on the couch.”

 

Hutch stood with effort, feeling considerably older than his 33 years, thanks to a number of misplaced springs in his aging sofa.  “Sounds good, but just for the record - -” He flashed a grin and offered his hand to Grant, “ - - I don’t regret it at all.”

 

Grant accepted the grasp and allowed himself to be pulled onto his feet.  “Neither do I.”

 

+++++

 

Hutch whistled as he breezed through the doors into the squadroom, tossing off a hello to Sullivan and two uniformed officers before plopping into his desk chair across from Starsky.  His partner was hunched over his typewriter doing an intent two-fingered hunt-and-peck as he banged out what appeared to be an arrest report.  A single key clacked followed by another four seconds later.  Finally a third.

 

“Hey.” Hutch flashed a good-natured grin. “You bust somebody without me?”

 

A flash of electric blue eyes met his across their shared desk space.  “I’m redoin’ the report on that hood with the nunchucks, if you gotta know. Dobey said the hand-written one wasn’t good enough.”

 

Hutch chuckled.  “I told you that when you did it,” he said unsympathetically, leaning back in his chair.  Sparing an offhand glance for the pending casefiles on his desk, he tugged the nearest one into his lap.  “Should have listened to me, Starsk.”

 

Starsky mimicked a nayh-nayh-nayh-nayh-nayh. “Nobody likes a smartass, Hutch.  And in case you forgot, I was preoccupied with gettin’ your doped up, bloodied butt back to your apartment before you keeled over.” A key clacked - - vehemently - - followed by two more in bullet-angry succession.  “Hey - -”  Stopping abruptly, Starsky blinked across the typewriter.  “How come I’m stuck doin’ this anyway?  You’re faster than me, and besides - - you’re the doofus who got whacked with the nunchucks in the first place.”

 

“Saving your butt,” Hutch pointed out.  “The least you can do as way of thanks is type up the report.  I’ve still got two stitches.”  To emphasize the point, he fingered the tender area just beneath his hairline, the small white bandage barely visible under his bangs.  It didn’t bother him anymore but it didn’t hurt playing the injury for a little drama now that he was feeling better.  And watching Starsky wrangle with a manual typewriter was always worth a snicker or two.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky groused, readjusting the paper over the platen. His muttering gave way to the clack of the keys as he picked up speed, adding another two fingers to his jerky technique of stop-and-go typing. 

 

Hutch watched with fond appreciation for his friend, glad to be back on a daylight schedule and normal shift rotation. Though he was over an hour late in arriving, he knew Dobey wouldn’t call him on it after the double shift they’d done and the injury he’d sustained.  He’d needed the extra time to personally see his father to the airport rather than have Grant take a cab.  The drive and their time in the terminal had given them a few extra hours together, something Hutch cherished knowing it would likely be Christmas before he saw his family again.  Even in the few short days Grant had spent in Bay City, Hutch felt they’d grown closer still, a sensation that left him incredibly upbeat.

 

He drummed his fingertips on the desktop.  “What do we have on schedule today, partner?”

 

The lightness in his voice drew Starsky’s head up.  His friend quirked a grin.  “You’re soundin’ awfully energetic for a guy complainin’ about a gash on his forehead.”

 

“Okay,” Hutch admitted, “So it’s fine.  I just don’t want to type your lousy report, especially when I know I’m not gonna be able to make heads or tails of it in the first place.  Finish that thing up and let’s get out of here.”

 

Starsky eyed him suspiciously.  “What’s the hurry?”

 

Leave it to his partner to second-guess his enthusiasm.  A few days off and Hutch was eager for the familiar crackle and adrenaline rush that came with his job - - especially now after realizing how fully his father had come to accept it.  He’s actually proud of me.  Proud of what I do.  It was a heady thought.  One that made him want to get back on the streets and do what he did best.  He felt invigorated and strong, no longer bowed under by a head injury or fatigue. “I just want to get back on the job, buddy.”

 

Starsky gave a soft snort.  “Must be all that fresh air you got on the way to the airport.  I think it short-circuited your brain.”  Pulling the report from the typewriter, he scrawled his name at the bottom.  “Your dad get off okay?” he asked without raising his head.

 

“Yeah.  Said you’re welcome to come home with me anytime for a visit.  He might even want some advice about new chrome wheels for his Mercedes.”

 

“Really?”  Starsky looked like he might preen, immensely pleased by the comment. “See that, Blondie?  Even your dad knows I’m an expert when it comes to vehicles, sport or otherwise.  Maybe now you’ll listen to me and dump that rust-heap you’re drivin’.  It needs put out of its misery - - permanently.”

 

Hutch fluffed off the comment, something he was used to hearing from Starsky.  Like their never-ending debate over health foods vs. anything greasy, fattening or artery clogging, it had become an affectionate way to needle the other. 

 

Well . . . okay, he amended, affectionate and a little irksome. It all amounted to typical banter for two men who were as competitive with one another as they were self-sacrificing in their attachment.  Deciding to change the subject, he honed in on something he’d been thinking about all morning.

 

“Starsk?”

 

The shift in his tone made Starsky look at him levelly. “Yeah, what is it?”

 

Hutch hesitated a second.  “My dad’s really impressed with you.  He respects you.  I mean . . .”  He wet his lips, unsure how to say what he needed to say.  “Hell, Starsk, he just likes you.”

 

“Is that all?”  Starsky backhanded the air. “Can you blame ‘im?  The doc’s obviously got good taste - - in cars and cops.”  He grinned toothily. “I knew it was just a matter of time till he climbed down off that high horse of his, made nice with his stubborn blond kid and realized you’d be lost without me.”  Tucking his chin down, he studied Hutch from under his brows.  “You would be lost without me, you know that don’tcha, Hutchinson?”  

 

“Perfectly.”  Hutch grinned faintly, appreciating Starsky’s humor.  But the levity vanished as quickly as it came.  Abruptly self-conscious, he lowered his eyes, fiddling with the edge of the folder in his lap. "Starsk . . .do you think . . .”  Indecisive, he flicked a glance to the side, trying to gauge whether or not they could be overhead.  Sullivan and one of the uniformed officers had left.  The other was busy talking to a file clerk in the far corner of the room.  By the looks of the subtle flirtation taking place, neither were interested in anything but the other. 

 

Clearing his throat, Hutch tried again.  “Do you think your dad would have liked me?” he blurted softly.  The folder became of immense interest and he felt a warm flush of color on his cheeks.  It was a silly question but it had been eating at him all morning, flitting around in the back of his mind, whispering that if Michael Starsky were alive today he might not think so highly of his son’s friendship with a collegiate, all-American Midwesterner.  Or at least that’s how Hutch believed a man of working class roots would perceive him.  He’d been down that road before.  Even Starsky had thought him annoyingly pampered and rigid the first time they’d met. 

 

Having made peace with his own father, coupled with realizing Grant’s enthusiasm for Starsky was genuine, suddenly made him question whether or not he could have interacted so smoothly with Michael Starsky.  When silence was his only answer, he raised his head.  “Starsk?” he prompted doubtfully.

 

His hesitation earned him a dark glower.  “You’re an idiot, you know that?  What’re we even havin’ this conversation for?”

 

Hutch squirmed, increasingly uncomfortable.  “I don’t know.  I was just thinking - -”

 

“Well, knock it off,” Starsky snapped.  “What kind of asinine question is that in the first place?  Of course my dad woulda liked you.   I mean you’re a good friend, a good cop, a - -”

 

“You’re not sure,” Hutch said quietly with sudden insight. “That’s why you’re upset . . . because when you put the two of us together in your head, there’s still room for doubt and that bothers you.”  It bothered him too.  He swallowed hard, deliberately setting the file on his desk.  He inched his chair closer and grabbed a pencil from the smoked plastic caddy on the corner.  It was better to just forget about it.  Starsky’s protest was answer enough.

 

Refocusing, Hutch slipped the pencil behind his ear and flipped the folder open, pretending to scan the inside flap.  “You’re right - - it was a dumb question.”

 

“So why bring it up?” Starsky challenged.

 

“I don’t know.”  That wasn’t entirely true.  Part of it was the change in his relationship with Grant, even Grant’s friendliness toward Starsky.  But another part . . . “That . . . that thing you s-said the other night,” he stammered.  “About w-what you would have changed if given the chance.”  He looked his friend directly in the eyes.  “I can’t get that out of my head, Starsk.  It makes me wonder if your d-dad would’ve thought I’m w-worth it.”

 

“Hell, Hutch, don’t be a stupid shit.”  Puffing out his cheeks, Starsky exhaled noisily.  He pushed the typewriter aside then hunched closer over the desk.  His eyes snapped to Hutch’s face, direct and intently blue. “Listen to me, babe,” he said in a low voice for his partner’s ears only.  “You and your dad are gettin’ along.  Me and your dad are gettin’ along.  My dad ain’t here, so we’re not gonna worry about ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs.’  But if he were here . . .yeah, you ain’t exactly Brooklyn workin’ class, and at first he might think you’re a little too pretty and too polished to make it on the streets.  Then he’d spend the next five minutes pickin’ himself up off the ground and dodgin’ that foul mouth of yours.  He’d realize you’re as tough as you are sensitive and as dedicated as you are honorable. And if he didn’t, I’d make sure he knew and understood.  Once he got past first impressions, he woulda thought you’re a helluva good cop and a helluva friend.”  Starsky grinned.  “Just like his kid does.”

 

Hutch nodded, offering a contrite curl of his lips.  It was exactly what he’d needed to hear, and as always, his partner knew exactly what to say to put his mind at ease.  “You think I’m being stupid?”

 

“To put it mildly,” Starsky said, “But that ain’t nothing new. You gotta stop thinkin’ so much, Hutch.  Stop bein’ so sensitive.  Like I said the other night . . . I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and I think my dad had a hand in that.  I think he knows about you already.”  The grin came back, quicksilver and shamelessly impish. “He’s probably up there right now shakin’ his head, wonderin’ how I put up with you and why you’re always so damn hard on yourself.  It’s a good thing you got me around to teach you how to lighten up.”  Standing, Starsky snatched his jacket from the back of his chair.  He’d chosen the brown leather one this morning - - a bit battered and worn, but wondrously familiar and wholly comfortable - - just as he was to Hutch.

 

“Let’s get out of here, huh?”  He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

 

“Sounds good.”  The giddy high Hutch had felt earlier returned in a staggering upsurge of warmth.  He followed his partner out into the hall and down into the garage where the Torino waited, parked just inside the entrance.  He was tempted to ask his friend what Michael Starsky would have thought of the car but decided to let it go.  Hopefully, the older man had enjoyed better taste than his hotrod-loving son.

 

In the passenger’s seat, Hutch ran through a quick check of the items in the glovebox then clocked them on the street at 9:48.  “You know,” he said, as they headed down Eighteenth to Lincoln, “We never did have that party.”

 

“True.”  Starsky palmed the wheel, easing past a blue Chrysler and an off-duty taxi. “June never got to use her game either.  I know she was really lookin’ forward to that.  Hey - - how about this Friday?”  He flashed Hutch a quick glance, the gleam of excitement growing in his eyes.  “We basically got everything we need, right?  All we gotta do is make a few phone calls and let everyone know the party’s back on.  Er . . .” he hedged.  “That is, if you’re feelin’ up to it.”

 

“Starsky, I’m fine,” Hutch replied.  “And a party sounds good.”  Friday was just a few days away, plenty of time for him to decide if he wanted to invite Libbie or Gwen.  The downside to not being in a committed relationship was hoping one or the other would be available and hadn’t already bailed on him with another guy. “Um, just one thing,” he said, thinking of the game.  “Maybe we should pull a few of the questions or at least that one.”

 

“You mean ‘What one thing would you change about your life if you could?’”

 

“Yeah, that’s the one.”  Hutch lowered his eyes, his voice soft.  Starsky’s answer remained stuck in his head, resounding with the fierce devotion of their friendship. “I wouldn’t want either one of us to have to answer that in front of other people.”

 

Starsky nodded.  “I hear you, babe.”  Reaching across the seat, he gave Hutch’s knee a brief squeeze.  “We’ll keep that one the way it’s always been - - the only way that matters.”

 

Hutch met his eyes. 

 

“With me and thee,” he affirmed for both of them.

 

+++++  

 

Next up: 

By special request for Brook, Impala (from Illusions and Secrets) returns, and he’s got a score to settle with Starsky.  BTW, if you have a story idea you’d like to see me tackle, feel free to send me a suggestion.  I have several of my own that are pending, but many of the stories I’ve written have been spurred by the suggestions of cyber friends.  I can’t promise if or when it will actually see the light of day, but I’ll gladly entertain all story ideas.  I’m squeamish about torture and graphic violence (among a few other things) meaning I will rarely if ever write it, but otherwise love entertaining plot ideas from my readers and friends!  Happy S&Hing!