December 22nd: Adding Adjectives by SquaresAreNotCircles

“What about cults?” Hutch asks, when Starsky first raises the possibility of a return to Dobey’s cabin. They already have Edith’s blessing, so Dobey won’t be saying no – it’s just Hutch who might throw a spanner in the works.

“No person in their right mind goes camping with a tent this late in the year,” Starsky argues. “Not even cult members.”

He’s not strictly sure that’s true, and it doesn’t entirely account for bears and cows and surprise snakes in fridges either, but a person has to take a little risk in life sometimes to get what they want. Maybe Hutch agrees, because he gives Starsky a sideways look and then shrugs like he didn’t. It’s good enough for Starsky, and Hutch doesn’t raise any further objections while they plan and pack and eventually drive the Torino through a forest that’s much more yellow-orange-red-brown than last time.

When Starsky gets out of the car at the familiar lakeside, every step towards the trunk crunches over fallen leaves. He’s immediately glad he brought his long johns again.

And there’s more that’s different: the people in town are a lot friendlier towards them this time around. Nobody glowers at them, he gets the gas he asks for along with a smile and a chat, and when Hutch returns from the store it’s with free homemade cookies, as a gift to go with a discount on their purchase. All of this may be because he and Hutch saved one of the town’s daughters or simply because nobody is being extorted by Satanists anymore, but either way it sets a much better mood. By the time night falls, Dobey’s cabin door is still wonderfully free of blood and there’s been no movement across the lake, so Starsky officially feels good about the world.

He’s helped along by the sweet and fruity punch Hutch mixed up, but that’s neither here nor there.

They have a late and unhurried dinner. They rinse the dishes, they unpack some stuff, and then they both realize that it’s the time of year when the fireplace has a real, practical use, so they decide to put it to the test. Hutch stacks wood on the grate, Starsky adds the firestarter, and just like that, the cabin is ten times cozier. The fire really gets going and makes cheerful sounds while they busy themselves pulling the coffee table out of the way to push the couch closer.

“I have an idea,” Hutch says, and makes Starsky hold his wine glass full of punch while he zips off to the bedroom.

What they end up with is not quite a blanket fort, but it’s in the extended family. One of the sleeping bags gets zipped open all the way and spread out on the floor in front of the couch, which is relegated to a backrest rather than seating itself. They gather every pillow they can find in the building – which is a not inconsiderable number, because Dobey is a man who appreciates comfort – and spread those out over the area, and then they huddle up together under a single throw blanket.

The blanket soon becomes superfluous, because it turns out that fire is pretty hot actually. They fix this by sticking their socked feet out from the bottom around the time they re-refill their punch glasses, and by letting the blanket pool in their laps altogether a little later. At that point it does little but connect them and add to the atmosphere, but that’s enough.

The whole situation is warm, it’s cozy, it’s the perfect way to spend a few hours on a long dark night.

It’s also very romantic. Starsky is putting his once again empty glass out of reach when he’s hit by the thought that any girl would melt for this, and not just from the heat. He steals a glance at Hutch, who is staring meditatively into the fire and looks very content.

Starsky unfolds his crossed legs, stretching his knees. “You know what would be funny?” he asks, affectionately bumping sideways into Hutch, causing Hutch to sway away and back and then stay close, their shoulders pressed together.

“What?” Hutch asks, with a smile.

It’s the perfect setup. “If we kissed right now.” Starsky had planned to go about this with a bit more subtlety, and to at least try to give Hutch some sort of warning, but maybe subtlety is overrated. Plausible deniability, that’s where it’s at.

The crackle of the fire can’t get louder, so it’s probably the rest of the room that goes a little more quiet. The important thing is that the pressure from Hutch’s shoulder doesn’t change, even when he shakes his head. “Starsky,” Hutch says, very importantly, “you are drunk.”

“So’re you,” Starsky reminds him, just because. Me and thee.

“Why?”

“Because you drank–” He waves his hand at the distant coffee table, and the notable emptiness of the jar that holds the punch. This should speak for itself, really, to any self-respecting detective.

“No.” Hutch leans away to take the black metal poker from the stone frame around the fireplace and prod into the burning wood. It sends up a few sparks. “Why would that be funny?”

“Oh.” Starsky doesn’t need to think about it very much, but he studies Hutch’s profile for a moment anyway. Hutch is pretty in the warm orange glow. “I guess because of how into it I’d be?”

The poker in the fire goes still and Hutch says, “Huh.” And he says, “Yeah.” And finally, he says, “That would be pretty funny.”

Unexpectedly, that last bit stings a little. It’s Starsky’s turn to ask, “Why?”

“Because– Me too.” Hutch drops the poker, sits back, and watches the smoldering embers. “Me too, Starsk.” There’s a half sigh, closing in on wistful. “For such a long time.”

Starsky lets that settle in. It finds a melty little spot in his gut, but it bumps into something in his head along the way, and a thought comes loose. “I’m not sure funny is the word.”

“Probably not,” Hutch agrees, which means the thought made sense.

For the first time since they arrived Starsky has to second-guess dragging Hutch all the way out here, to this place that seemed cursed with bad luck last time. “What’s the word, Hutch?”

He’s worried Hutch might turn this into a tragedy. A missed connection. Instead, Hutch finally turns to him, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and says, “Nice.”

“Nice,” Starsky repeats, tasting the sound. It’s even better than the punch.

Hutch looks at him, all of him, his whole face and everything that’s under it. Hutch looks at his nose and Starsky wouldn’t be surprised if Hutch could see his beating heart. There’s something magical about this night, in a way far divorced from satanic rituals.

“You know what would be nice?” Hutch asks, words laid quietly into air thick with promise.

For an answer, Starsky kisses him.

The next morning, Starsky is pretty sure that what wakes him is not the light filtering through the thin curtains or the sizzling on the stove, but the powerful smell of bacon and eggs. His stomach growls. He’s still on the floor in front of the now dark fireplace, but the open spot next to him and the way he’s been tucked into the blanket both suggest he didn’t sleep alone.

He gets up, wraps the blanket around his shoulders, and makes it all the way to the entrance of the open kitchen before Hutch hears him. Hutch is standing at the stove – causing those amazing noises and smells – but turns around to look at him, and Starsky is abruptly hit over the head with memories from the night before as he looks back. He doesn’t seem to be the only one.

He draws his blanket cape closer and leans a shoulder against the fridge. “Funny or nice?” he asks, after a long moment of breathless silence.

And just like that, the slight tension evaporates, like a harmless puff of steam. Time continues on the way it always has. “How about both?” Hutch asks, and keeps looking for just long enough that he probably catches the beginning of how that makes Starsky smile, before he hides his own soft eyes by turning off the stove, divvying up the food over two waiting plates, and asking, “Hungry?”

“Yeah,” Starsky admits, because he is, for so many things. He pushes off from the fridge that holds no snakes towards Hutch, who holds two plates, two forks, and Starsky’s heart.

It’s funny and it’s nice, and he can’t wait to see what other adjectives they can rustle up together.

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