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Hazy Shade Of Winter

By

Paula Wilshe

January 10, 1984

   Ken Hutchinson hunched his shoulders and breathed deeply of the brisk, salty air blowing in from the ocean. It was colder than he’d expected it to be, but it felt good. The breeze was sharp and clean, and he could almost imagine the musty cobwebs in his brain begin to dissipate as he sat on the deserted winter beach. He’d come down here about an hour ago, having awakened from an unaccustomed mid-afternoon nap. He’d sat up, found Starsky still sacked out and buried beneath the covers, and opted to slip quietly from the apartment hoping that a walk would clear his head.

   Both detectives had taken a sick day from work, with January colds that had begun to develop the afternoon before. Not enough to incapacitate, but both were sluggish and uncomfortable, and when they’d risen that morning, Hutch had made an executive decision and called their captain. Dobey had predictably groused and complained about the lack of work ethic and dedication of the officers in his employ. Before he’d hung up, of course, his tone had softened, and after offering to send Edith by with homemade soup, he’d ended the conversation with a gruff, "Get some rest, son."

   Hutch smiled, remembering, and feeling comfortable in the fact that ten years ago—hell, five years ago, the pair would have dragged themselves to work wearing illnesses much more significant than this. They’d had a reputation to uphold in those days, stopped by nothing, in their quest for truth and justice, or maybe it was that they feared wasting a day, missing a beat, as though the city might be lost without them. They were much more realistic now, at forty, with half a life’s experiences behind them. They were more careful to look after their own.

   For a fleeting moment, watching the seagulls dip and glide over the breakers further out, Hutch puzzled aimlessly which of the partners had given the virus to the other. It didn’t matter, especially, and was inevitable in the long run. Starsky shared his coffee cup, his desk, his telephone, his life.

   "Hey," came a hoarse voice from behind him. "Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’re supposed to bundle up when you’re sick?"

   Hutch turned slowly, to see Starsky wrapped his beloved old chunky cardigan sweater. A staple of his fashion diet during the flamboyant seventies, now Starsky only wore it from time to time, and mostly as a comfort measure if he was tired or under the weather. The blond man smiled fondly at him. "Feelin’ that bad, huh?" he asked. "Had to bring out the sweater?"

   "Hutch," Starsky answered plaintively. "I had chills." He held out Hutch’s baseball jacket. "Put this on," he said firmly. "Don’t you have any sense?"

   "Starsk, it’s not that cold out," Hutch protested, then, seeing the quick look of disappointment on his partner’s face, reached for the jacket and shrugged into it quickly. "Thanks," he added, "that feels good." And he was surprised to find that he was speaking the truth.

   "So what are you doin’ out here, besides tryin’ to catch pneumonia?" Starsky sat down on the sand next to his partner, not quite touching, but close enough that each was warmed by the proximity of heat from the other’s body. He bumped his shoulder gently against Hutch’s. "Huh? You okay?"

   "I’m fine," Hutch answered quietly. "I’m just…" He shrugged. "Just thinking."

   "Something bothering you?" Starsky cocked his head to the side, taking in the tired dark circles under Hutch’s eyes, puffy from not sleeping, and from the pressure of aggravated sinuses. "Other than the obvious, I mean." He reached out and tugged at a blond tendril, curling in the damp ocean air. He leaned away and coughed briefly, then fished in his pocket for a lozenge, which he popped into his mouth. He held the box out to Hutch. "Wanna share?"

   "Yeah, sure," Hutch smiled, holding out a hand. "What kind are these?"

   "The herbal ones you bought," Starsky told him. "Even though I wanted cherry."

   Hutch rolled his eyes and pushed the cough drop to the side of his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully.

   "So what’s bugging you, Blondie?"

   "It’s nothing," Hutch assured him. "Honest. Sometimes, you know, I just…I feel restless, and if I come down here…"

   Starsky nodded. The wind off the ocean blew sharp and chill, and Hutch unconsciously edged closer to him, seeking the warmth of his body, his mind, and his acceptance, each of which had long since been given freely.

   "It’ll be five years this May," Starsky observed.

   "Yeah." Hutch nodded without looking over.

   "That what you were thinkin’ about?"

   Hutch ducked his head down, running a finger back and forth through the sand. "That’s part of it," he admitted. And it was. Five years since Starsky had nearly been killed, an event that had changed their lives forever, although the progressions were so gradual they hadn’t completely realized the impact until much later. They’d spent nearly a year and two lifetimes getting Starsky back in physical fighting form, and pulling Hutch back from the edge of burnout. They had realigned their priorities, and discovered some new ones along the way.

   Completely dependent upon one another, it had taken nearly another year for them to realize that the changes in their relationship had actually become their priorities, which had taken some getting used to. On the other hand, it had happened so gradually and naturally that now, years later, Hutch was not even sure who had made the first overture, the symbiosis had evolved to such and extent that it had felt like a shared journey.

   Hutch reached out and smoothed Starsky’s cheek with a knuckle. "You’re lookin’ rough, Starsk."

   Starsky shrugged. "It’ll pass."

   "I know." Hutch sighed, sniffled, and ran a hand down his face tiredly. "But I wish it would hurry up."

   "Hey, you want a drink?" Starsky asked. He pointed to the thermos he’d placed on the sand behind them.

   "A drink?"

   "Yeah."

   "Are you nuts? All the cold medicine we took this morning?" Hutch asked, incredulous.    

   "I know," Starsky agreed, unscrewing the cap on the thermos. "We could end up vegetarians or something Oh wait," he grinned, "You already are."

   "Ha ha." Hutch rolled his eyes. "Seriously…."

   Starsky filled the red cap of the thermos and moved it enticingly back and forth under Hutch's nose. "Hot chocolate, dummy," he announced. "My mom always used to call it ‘a hug in a mug.’"

   "Hug in a mug, huh?" Hutch flashed him a grin and reached out for the cup. "Thanks." He wrapped his fingers around its warmth, letting the thick steam rise up against his face. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. "Oh man, that feels good," he murmured. He raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip. Looking over at Starsky, he smiled sheepishly. "Cold's really got me."

   "I know. Me too. Where'd we get this from anyway?"

   Hutch took another sip of cocoa and passed the cup back to Starsky. "I don’t know where you got it," he said, "but I got it from you."

   "I don't think so," Starsky answered, taking a gulp himself. "I'm pretty sure I got it from you."

   "No, no, no," Hutch fished in his pocket for a tissue. "You definitely had it first."

   "Yeah, by five minutes," Starsky argued agreeably, as Hutch reached up and squeezed the back of his neck. "Dummy," he added, closing his eyes blissfully as Hutch soothed aching muscles.

   "Mushbrain." Hutch slid his hand up and batted the dark curls playfully.

   The two grew silent then, their smiles keeping them warm as the salty air enveloped them, thoughts passing comfortably back and forth between them along with the warm drink they shared.

   After a time, Hutch looked over at Starsky, a fond smile soothing his features as he gazed at his partner’s wind-raked curls and sleepy eyes. Warmed by the hot chocolate and the presence of his other half, he felt a peace begin to steal over him, chasing away his restless, unsettled mood as surely as grains of sand pulled back by the undertow. "You want to go back?" he asked.

   "Um…" Starsky bit his lip. "To the apartment?" he asked, knowing full well that was not what was meant.

   Hutch looked at him, saying nothing.

   Starsky nodded slightly, and wrapped his arms around upraised knees, giving the question all the time he felt was needed. "No," he said finally. "I think I’m ready."

   "I want you to be sure," Hutch offered quietly. "Before we—"

   "I’m sure," Starsky said, his voice stronger. "We’ve got nothin’ left to prove. We’ve put in our time, we came back after—"

   "We triumphed after," Hutch said proudly. "When everyone thought we—"

   "But we did," Starsky finished. "And I think…" he shrugged his shoulders. "I think it’s time to move on."

   Hutch stretched cramped legs out in front of him and arched his back slightly to ease the ache of the cold that had settled there. "Move on to what?" he asked.

   "We’ll figure it out," Starsky answered, and Hutch nodded, content for the moment to have his future right here, right now.

   "I thought…" the blond laughed slightly. "I thought when we finally reached this point there’d be more…more…"

   "Fanfare?"

   "Maybe."

   "What," Starsky asked, "you want hearts and flowers?"

   Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. "Please, Starsk," he begged, "if you wake up my allergy today, I'll be—"

   "Sorry." Starsky apologized, although clearly he was anything but. "And we’ve got heart," he pointed out. "We’ve always had that. Even before we were—we." He reached out and squeezed Hutch’s shoulder. "You’re shivering, Hutch, we should go back."

   "In a minute," Hutch said, leaning his cheek against Starsky’s hand briefly. "If we’re not going to have fanfare, at least let me savor the moment."

   Starsky gave Hutch’s shoulder another squeeze, then pulled his own sweater tighter around him as the wind picked up once more. "Last time we did this," he mused, "we were on the beach too."

   "That’s right, we were," Hutch remembered. "Threw our badges into the ocean and everything." He grinned. "I guess that was during our younger, more dramatic days, huh?"

   "I guess," Starsky chuckled. "Although we certainly do still have flair. What do you think Dobey will say?" he asked.

   "I think he knows," Hutch mused. "When I called this morning, there was something…"

   Starsky leaned away and coughed, then cleared his throat as he moved closer again. "He probably knew before we did," he allowed. "What?" he asked as Hutch stood slowly, extending a hand to help him to his feet.

   "Time to go back," Hutch told him.

   "You sure?" Starsky allowed himself to be pulled to a standing position. "You’re done savoring?"

   "Mm hm." Hutch sniffled and cleared his throat. "All done."

   "That was quick," Starsky brushed the sand off his pants. "It used to take you a lot longer to process through things. I’m really impressed. I mean…" he allowed himself to be tugged up the beach as the two began trudging along the sand toward home. "In the old days you would’ve been brooding and cranky, and gotten real quiet…"

   "Uh huh," Hutch rubbed his nose. "C’mon, Starsk, walk a little quicker, will you? I’m cold."

   "…and you woulda been making lists of pros and cons and things we could do to make money if we really quit…" He stopped and pulled on the sleeve of Hutch’s jacket. "I’ve got to tell you, partner, I’m really impressed. Really. We’d’ve been on this beach for days while you figured stuff out. You think this is because of us?" he waggled his hand back and forth between himself and the blond. "Because we’re all settled and stuff?"

   "That’s one reason," Hutch nodded.

   "There’s another?"

   "Mm hm." Hutch began walking again.

   "Well?"

   Hutch turned around to see Starsky still planted firmly, an expectant look on his face. "Well what?"

   "What’s the other reason?"

   Hutch shrugged. "I’m out of Kleenex," he said simply, and turned toward home.

   Starsky shook his head with a grin, and started up the beach, eyes contentedly fixed on his future.

THE END