Title: Prophecy

Author: Kaye Austen Michaels

First Posted: November 22, 2001 at Love of Me and Thee

Summary: Ken Hutchinson has some life-lessons to learn that will greatly impact his future with a certain dark curly-haired cop.

Notes: Thanks as always to Karen-Leigh, yep, she's a beta-editor deluxe!
Special thanks: There are specific souls in this fandom who have been enormously supportive of both my work and me. You know who you are. You have smoothed my path, warmed my heart, held my hand, and helped me climb the mountains in front of me. I love you all and this story is for you. Monumental thanks to a dear friend who figured out just how to wrangle those pesky umlauts for me!! You are an angel, girl!!

Prophecy


November 1966

Twenty-two year old Ken Hutchinson threw his head back and yelled, long and loud, waving his arms frantically for the crowd of laughing spectators to part like the Red Sea in the face of his volcanic energy. Young men and women bundled against the developing chill in the Minnesota air jumped to the side and started a chant of "Goldilocks" as the blond flung several massive textbooks, the cost of which was proportional to their weight, to the ground and broke into a dead run down the center of the path provided for him. He kept his eyes riveted on the end of the friendly gauntlet with the concentration of an Olympian athlete nearing the finish line rather than an exuberant medical student bound for the edge of a hill beneath which waited a towering mound of multicolored leaves.

"Pick up the pace, Goldie!" screamed one masculine voice above the others as Ken neared his section of the onlookers. Ken allowed his gaze to stray from the destination long enough to grab the male "cheerleader" by the sleeve of his sweatshirt and pull him along with the momentum.

"Hey!" Rick Wheaton yelled, indignant but not possessing the strength necessary to break his friend's hold or halt their progress.

"If I'm jumping, you're going with me," Ken panted and the sweat suit-clad redhead had only a few seconds to utter a string of curses before they went airborne and plummeted into the fallen, raked foliage.

Cheers followed them down and then the edge of the hill filled with both the curious and concerned who weren't sure how much padding the leaves offered.

Ken emerged first, mouth open in the scream of a Viking fresh on the shores of a conquered land. "I am Ken Hutchinson. I have come to the very gates of Hell and I have walked away unscathed."

"Are you this much of a drama queen after every exam?" Wheaton asked, picking leaves out of his long, wavy hair and glaring at his fellow leaf-jumper.

Ken pounded his chest and completed the impression of victorious Nordic hero. "Not just an exam, my friend. First semester med school midterms!! I kicked ass!"

"You are an ass."

"And you are a stuffed shirt, uptight prig," Ken accused.

"Stuffed shirt? I'm the one wearing five-year old sweats, Mr. Dunbarton and Hampton's Haberdashery."

Ken ignored the sneering commentary on his clothing and laughed with childish joy, "And now that I know I can hack this scene, I'm going back to my apartment and show Rebecca how the study of Gross Anatomy can actually enhance a couple's love life."

"You are one sick puppy, Hutchinson." Rick finished dusting himself off and grudgingly extended a hand to the seated blond, who declined the offer and chose to roll in the leaves. "Wait a minute," Rick said, when the crowd at the top of the hill dispersed, bored with the aftermath of the grand event. "Tonight's the night, right? I forgot about that. No wonder you're acting like a three-year old gorged on jelly beans."

Ken grinned and spread his arms wide, embracing the leaves, Rick, the hill, and the whole university. "Yep. Tomorrow morning I may, if the courtship gods are with me, be an engaged man. Off the market. Sold."

"Chained to a life of slavery, if you ask me, but-"

"Nobody's asking," Ken harrumphed, finally rising to his feet without bothering to shed the leaves.

"Well, you know where to find me if you need to get drunk."

"Why the hell would I need to get drunk?" Ken demanded, eyes suddenly wide as he patted the front left pocket of his khaki slacks.

"When she tells you her mama didn't raise no fool...Ken, tell me you didn't...."

"Oh, sh-" Ken bit off the end of the slang as his hand connected with a priceless lump.

Rick sighed. "If I were you, I'd cart that hunk of fancified carbon over to your place and get this over with before you really do lose the damn thing."

"Yeah," Ken agreed softly, brushing a hand over his forehead and back through his hair. "I thought--Oh, man."

"So she doesn't have a clue that this is going down?"

"Nope. I've been careful to hide even a hint. Rick, you didn't open your notoriously generous mouth and tip her off--?"

Rick threw up his hands in both surrender and denial. "‘Course not. I didn't want to give her a head start."

"Head start?" Ken asked, mind elsewhere and not following his friend's pattern of humor.

"Running," Rick replied in all seriousness that faded into snorts and snickers. Ken gave him a hearty shove and brushed past toward the hill they would have to climb.

>>>>>>>>

"Becky?" Ken paused in the two square foot foyer of their oversized studio apartment and the books fell from his grasp once more, only this time not in the heady rush of post-exam euphoria. Boxes greeted him and there was no Becky in sight.

A gasp and a murmured curse behind him. "Ken? Oh...Thought you'd--I mean...."

"Becky?" Ken turned around, panicked eyes scanning the porcelain face that perfectly matched the crystal voice. He'd called her his China doll more than once. Milk white skin, crimson lips, silken straight raven hair, and a habit of drawing her eyeliner with an Oriental touch.

"Thought you'd hang out with Rick awhile. I wanted--"

"You wanted to be gone when I got home," Ken said and Becky flinched against the verbal needles.

"Ken, let me inside. We don't want to do this half-in and half-out of the apartment."

"Oh, why worry about where we do it? You weren't planning on doing it in the first place. What, were you going to send me a postcard? Publish it in the university newspaper--"

"Can the sarcasm, Ken!" Rebecca shoved her way around the blond statue and dropped her purse on the high, bar-style kitchen counter that served as their dining room table. "This isn't easy for me either."

"Well, that just makes all the difference, doesn't it?" The words emerged as whispers but carried the impact of gunshots. Becky gripped the counter, probably as much for moral support, as to steady herself physically.

"Ken--"

"Why? For God's sake, why, Rebecca?"

Becky smiled. "Ken, you've been so obvious the last couple weeks. I'm just not ready for the big leagues. Especially with someone who's plunging headlong toward the aisle for the wrong reasons."

"Wow. Lots of innuendo and not a damn straight answer in the bunch. I'm feeling better and better." Ken still had not budged from his stance in the foyer.

"Come on, Ken. You've been stroking my left ringer finger subconsciously so many times I have a rash. I don't want that kind of commitment in my life right now and...and it's not fair to be with you when I know you're not really wanting that either."

"But I--What the hell do you mean?"

"I'm the wrong damn gender, Ken!" Rebecca screamed.

Ken fell back against the still open door and it gave way behind him, swinging shut. "I'm not...I've never...I haven't ever even th-thought about....That's the most ludicrous pile of horseshit I've ever heard."

Becky sighed and rested her face between her two palms, elbows on the counter. "Ken, I'm sorry. I think--I think somewhere down deep you're on a race to take vows just to protect yourself. I can't be a part of that."

Ken swallowed hard and reached into his pants pocket. "I-I love you. That's why I was in a race to take vows. Except for the gay part, you had me pegged perfectly, Rebecca. Too bad I'm not nearly as good a judge of character." He flung the tiny velvet box in the vicinity of the kitchen counter and slammed out of the apartment.

>>>>>>>

Ken banged on Rick's door until his knuckles throbbed and one cracked open, smearing a tiny trail of blood on the next knock. The door opened and a sleep-tousled Rick wearing only boxers and a smile gaped at his friend. "Uh? You don't look so hot."

"I'm al- already th-three sheets to the wind...deshished, I mean, dezyded, I mean, decided to sshtart without you." Ken swayed on his feet to some internal rhythm and the pain in his voice was harshly incongruous with the sappy alcohol-induced smile on his lips.

"Come in, Ken, damn! You know, I was joking earlier when I suggested you get drunk."

"Yeah, but y-you had the head shtart part right though, m'buddy."

"Oh, God. Turned you down?"

"B-bingo! Had her shtuff all packed...think she was gonna write me a Dear John letter on the b-bathroom mirror in shticklips...um...lipcicks...lipstick or somethin'."

Rick seized Ken's wrist and pulled him into his graduate dorm room. He pushed Ken into a sitting position on his bed and Ken bounded back up again. "No, no you gotta get dressed...we need to h-hit the town."

"You're going to hit the floor on your face if you don't sit back down. Ken, I'm sorry. Really sorry, man. Um...you want me to hear the gruesome details so I can commiserate?"

Ken rocked back and forth, laughing until tears streaked down his boyish face, oddly accenting the nose that Rebecca had said was his best feature, "You're not gonna be-believe it, Rick. I think she must have dropped acid before she got home...s-said
she-- oh, hell, long and short of it is, she didn't wanna go running down the aisle with a man who isn't really into women."

Rick dropped the hot plate and the coffee mug full of water on the floor and didn't move when the mug shattered in bits on the hardwood. Ken laughed harder. "Yep; that's about how I took it. Don't get me wrong: I got nothin' ‘gainst gays. That's how they wanna get their kicks, who'm I to make a big deal of it? But I've been straight since I knew what to do with my damn--"

"Ken," Rick interrupted in the tone of someone wanting to clarify a vital piece of information. "Are you saying--are you saying, she thinks you're gay?"

"You're really quick tonight, pal. Must be leftover brains from your mid-point paper. Tell me again why you get so revved up over Kafka?"

Rick's next move snapped Ken out of his laughter and drunken teasing. The half-naked redhead dropped down on his knees and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, damn. Oh, God. I'm sorry--I'm so, so sorry."

Ken frowned. "Um, Rick, hate to break it to you, p-pal, but I'm the one who lost his girl today. Wanna pick yourself off the floor now? Shympathy's one thing, but jeezus...."

"It's my fault!" Rick shouted through his splayed fingers. "My fault! I--she--when she said...."

"Rick, I'm drunk, but I can still tell when you're incoherent. You're an English grad student for crying out to God. What the hell are you trying to say?"

Rick lifted an ashen face on which his freckles now resembled painted brown dots. "She came over here yesterday. Confronted me about us. She'd gotten it into her head that we--that you and I were...."

Ken burst out laughing again. "I wonder if she isn't on some weird diet that's causing anoxia. You told her she was being shtupid, right? Pushed her out the door. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Ken, listen to me." Rick edged closer to the bed, still on his knees, "She saw straight through me. She could tell--my denials weren't the least bit convincing. Finally, I knew I had to tell her the truth. I thought that by telling her the truth, she'd believe that you hadn't--that you weren't--I...I told her that I was in love with you but had never said a word to you, and you had never, ever given me any indication that you wouldn't run like hell if I ever did."

But Ken didn't run. He stared, numbly, lips moving, eyes blinking rapidly at his friend, who ventured a hand toward the stunned man's knee. "Ken...Ken, have y-you ever given any th-thought to...I should say...do you think perhaps she has a point?"

The shock suddenly took the backseat to fury. Ken sprang from the dorm bed and backed across the room, hands out in front of him in a warding gesture. Rick dropped his head. "You--you told her...she thinks—she thinks I'm g-gay because you told her you're.... What the hell kind of friend are you?"

Rick exerted every last drop of muscular strength to stand at his full height, hazel eyes blazing golden fire. "You think it was easy for me to admit that to her? That I've wanted you, craved you from the moment we met but I've had to keep every beautiful feeling and loving thought battened down against the hurricane of your perfect heterosexuality? I was trying to save your reputation with your girlfriend, you ungrateful twerp!"

"Sh-have my reputation!" Ken screamed, forgetting that they were in a residence hall with nearly paper-thin walls. "Wh-what damn reputation? I've never claimed to be anything but what I really am. A guy who likes the pieces to fit together right in bed."

Rick stalked toward Ken despite the once more protectively lifted hands and forbidding scowl on the blond's face. "Nice. You're crude when you're plastered, you know that, Hutchinson? You think that's what it's all about? It'll just work if the pieces fit? If you keep that attitude, you just might get your marriage, and let me tell you something, lover boy, it'll be the marriage from hell because you're not going to snag a quality mate with that as your predominant criterion."

"Doesn't mean I should start screwing men just to cover all the bases!"

"No, but I don't see why you shouldn't admit that what we've had together is a hell of a lot more special than friendship-- and start screwing me!" Rick covered his mouth the minute the words escaped and turned his face. "Ken, I'm sorry. That's not what you want to hear after--after just losing Rebecca."

"Damn right it isn't," Ken said, and ice covered every surface in the room. Rick felt if he exhaled, he'd see his breath in a puff. "I--don't--ever want to see you again. Y-you stay away from me."

"Y-you don't mean that. K-Ken." Rick made the mistake of inching closer. Ken trembled from head to toe but his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"If you t-take one step closer, I'll d-deck you, I schwear...."

Rick caught his breath in a mixture of gasp and sob and turned his back on Ken, arms slightly out to the side, head bowed; the tragic condemned awaiting crucifixion. "I'm-I'm sorry, Ken. And I'm sorry for you. It's there...it's there in you. I know you. And you're--you're going to be miserable until you can accept that part of you. I h-hope whoever h-he is eventually will be as good to you, as devoted to you, as I-I would have been...am."

The last sentence fell against the slam of a door.

>>>>>>>

He had the first dream that night. Sprawled on the now huge and empty-feeling bed in a much more Spartan apartment minus the feminine touch, he tossed and turned in the deep but uneasy sleep prompted by excess chemicals. He couldn't see faces or even bodies; it was as if he were privy to a very private conversation. No, not a conversation. Or not just a conversation.

"Oh, Hutch...yes, yes...oh, babe, you feel so good." Moaning, panting, whispers.

"Starsky! I'm not a damn Faberge egg! Let me feel all of you...."

"W-want...oh, man...want it to last forever, lover. You're so fine, feel so sweet."

"And I want to sit on cushions for two weeks. Now, harder, more, now!"

"Hutch, don't. I'll l-lose control...."

"Yes--you're getting with the program now."

"Oh--want you, H-Hutch!"

"That's--that's it! Oh, man, you're incredible, Starsk... please...please...." whimpers.

"Every time just gets better...and better...oh, Hutch, I'm there--I'm there, baby!"

"Starsky! Starrrsky! David!"

>>>>>>>>

The dream vanished with the mists of a late autumn morning and Ken showered in perfect misery from a hangover but not from memories of an intimate encounter that had never taken place. He knew he couldn't manage to make class that morning. He'd lost both a lover and best friend in one night and the world seemed at once insurmountable. Med school could just jump into the nearest pit of primordial ooze for all Ken cared. He longed for answers as much as for his anti-hangover concoction to take effect. He wanted to understand. He had a bone to pick with life in general and he needed someone to make sense of it all.

For once Ken didn't reach for slacks, button-down shirt, and sweater. He grabbed a pair of jeans, hunted around for a sweatshirt, and hauled out his undergraduate letter jacket. He could not believe that he'd talked himself into going...into visiting this person after years and years of ignoring his grandmother's pleas and kissing her sweetly on the cheek to silence her on the subject.

The drive deep into the countryside should have been pleasant. Ken enjoyed the outdoors and had long thought he'd like to establish a country family practice when he completed his residency one day. His father preached neurosurgery and his uncle demanded cardiology, but Ken felt the greatest thrill in solving the everyday problems of everyday people. He had not lied to Rick when he said he liked for "things to fit"...and to make things work.

No, not make things work. That sounded too much like what Rick had offered him: something not perfect and flawless but beautiful for the effort involved in making it work. No, things should just work.

So, Ken ignored the scenery and took no pleasure in the beautiful mid-November day. He had the roads to himself but he disliked being alone with himself and chose to drown his solitude in loud music, conspicuously avoiding both Becky's and Rick's favorite stations.

Snow. Snow would have been nice, Ken decided. Glistening white coating the world and numbing him to harsh realities. Snow could be so soothing. Any other year they would already have had a downy blanket of the stuff. Not this damn year. Ken slammed a fist against the steering wheel and contemplated a cigarette. He knew he had an old pack left somewhere in the car. No. Another fist against the steering wheel. He'd given up that habit in favor of clean living. His pounding headache berated him for not giving up alcohol in the same set of resolutions involving cigarettes, fried food, and all-nighter study binges. The foremost part of Ken's brain wasn't interested in an attack of the guilts. He muttered to himself that he'd only been drunk twice in the last year...and for a good reason each time: fielding news of the car accident that claimed both of his paternal grandparents, and Rebecca's bailout.

He reached his destination earlier than he imagined. This wasn't the sort of place one made appointments and adhered to schedules. Tucked back in the woods in a preternaturally quiet clearing, reminiscent of Grimm's Fairy Tales, a tiny stone chapel had been converted into a makeshift cottage. Smoke billowed from an added-on chimney and the lilting, otherworldly notes of a panpipe filled the clearing with a melody that matched the birdsong of the feathered friends brave enough to weather Minnesota winters. Ken had parked the car back off the road and walked through the woods, following a path he'd never before tread but which was etched in his memory thanks to countless stories enjoyed at the knee of his grandmother.

What was the man called? Some German word...oh. "Opa?" Ken called, cupping his mouth to affect the natural bullhorn.

Nothing. The birdsong stilled and a breeze ruffled through the evergreens, whistling through the bare deciduous, but the panpipe continued. "OPA?"

The panpipe quieted. Sensing a momentous event, Ken straightened his jacket, brushed a hand over his hair, and shifted his feet restlessly. The rickety wooden door opened and a short, plump man with shoulder length white hair and violet-blue eyes peered out.

"Kenny? ‘Bout time you brought your fool self to see me. Get in, youngster, ‘fore you catch your death."

Ken panicked for a second that he'd choked on his tongue. He couldn't locate it within his mouth to formulate speech. After a startled minute, he squawked, "H-how do you know who I am?"

"Don't waste your time on insignificant questions, young one. You've got more important matters to discuss or you wouldn't be here. Now get your carcass in the chap--er, cottage."

Ken frowned, already feeling an unpleasantly weird sensation in the pit of his gut, but he followed orders. The interior of the chapel/cottage embraced him with warmth, scents, and sounds that reminded him of his grandmother, and he closed his eyes against the rush of sentimentality. Crackling logs in a fire, bed in the corner with a handmade quilt, hand-hewn furniture, and a spice of pumpkin and cinnamon commingled.

"I've made cinnamon-pumpkin bread," Opa informed his visitor, bustling over to the jury-rigged kitchen and the old-fashioned stove.

Ken's eyes bulged. "Are you--?"

"If you say psychic, I'll lop you upside the head. ‘Course I'm not psychic. You were standing there sniffing like a bloodhound on the trail of a child-rustler. Now sit down at the table, Bübchen. I s'pose you're not on one of these silly fad diets that deny you sweets?"

"I'm not denying myself anything today," Ken asserted firmly as much to reassure himself as his host. He pulled out an intricately hand-carved chair the back of which depicted a scene from the New Testament and sat down at the table. Opa whisked around the small kitchen corner and finally approached the table laden with a pewter plate, goblets, and a pan of intoxicatingly aromatic bread.

"Believe it or not, I drink mead, Bübchen, and you're gonna drink it with me. Actually, my mead's harmless. Not enough kick to it to get a frog drunk, but it goes down sweet and perfect with the cinnamon-pumpkin bread." Opa deposited a hearty slice of said bread on the pewter plate and hustled back to the kitchen ostensibly for the mead. He returned with a large candle in tow. "Some conversations you just don't have without a candle," he said. "You like candles?"

Ken choked. Candles lit all over the studio apartment. Rebecca hanging breathlessly over him, porcelain-doll face flushed with bliss.... "No. Well, I did...yes, I--I do."

"Durn it, if you're that indecisive about whether or not you like a piece of wax with a flame at the end of it, we're going to have serious trouble solving your life problems."

Ken laughed. "You get right to the point."

"Yes, indeedy. Uh, you should eat the bread while it's hot, youngster." Opa poured a decent quantity of the thick mead into the pewter goblet beside Ken's plate.

"I--I was waiting for you," Ken explained, wondering why he felt the need to explain. Opa cackled.

"Me? Oh, no. Never touch the stuff."

Ken paused in mid-bite, "But why did you bake--you live alone, don't you?"

"I baked the bread because you were coming, of course," said Opa with relaxed naturalness that was more shocking than the content of the sentence.

Ken gulped, "I thought you said you weren't a--"

"I'm not a psychic. For the last time. There will be no more discussion of psychics. Durn it, fifty years ago when people came to see me, I never had to worry about being accused of psychic powers. All this groovy, new Age of Aquarius stuff crawls on my most sensitive nerve; let me tell you."

Ken waved a placatory hand while chewing a large mouthful of the bread. He swallowed and smiled, "Delicious bread, Opa."

"Thank you," Opa beamed. "Now, let's get down to business. Why are you here?"

Ken sighed. "Why don't you tell me?"

Opa grinned and the pearly whites revealed by the smile outshone the candle. "Nope. I could, but that would totally intimidate you. Plus, I don't want you running away before we get to the good part."

"My grandmother spoke highly of you. She told me over and over again when I was a teenager that I should look you up when I wanted to make decisions about where to go in life. I--I never listened to her."

"More's the pity. Else you wouldn't be in medical school wasting your brains on something that won't ever make you happy."

Ken pushed back in the chair and nearly tipped over. Opa grabbed the chair back and steadied the young man. "Do--do you have any idea what my father would say if he heard you?"

Opa frowned. "I don't give a tootin' froot about your father. Neither do you for that matter. Not saying that's altogether a good thing, but letting him run your life certainly isn't. Now, that said...why are you really here?"

"What do you think I should do if I don't pursue medicine?" Ken asked solemnly.

Opa drew the candle close to Ken's plate, clasped the blond by the scruff of the neck, and bent him over until his face nearly touched the lively flame. "What do you see?"

Ken breathed through his nostrils, "Um...I see one hell of a burn coming if you let me go."

"Not lettin' you go, Bübchen. Tell me what you see. Concentrate."

Ken squinted and tried to tell himself that it was perfectly normal to stare down into a candle flame and expect to see...wait a minute..."Looks like a gun. A gun! No way. I don't do guns."

"What else, lad?"

"Um--some sort of badge...handcuffs. What, am I a damn security guard? Oh, that would make my parents really happy."

Opa pulled the candle back, muttering under his breath. "No, you're not a security guard, Simpel. Although your partner sometimes teases you about acting like one when you goof up. Not that you goof up much. Not professionally, at least."

"Partner?" Ken pushed the half-eaten piece of bread around the plate.

"Getting ahead of myself. I repeat, why are you really here?"

"My--the girl I thought I'd marry left me yesterday and then last night I lost my best friend and I--I don't know what's real any more. I don't know what love is. I don't know what I need. I don't know what will ever complete me. I don't--Oh, God." Ken shoved the plate out of the way and plunked his head and arms down on the table. Opa rubbed his back soothingly.

"Shh, young one. Thought I'd have to pull your teeth or something to get it out. Glad we didn't have to resort to that. You'd look mighty silly with two or three teeth missing. Now that we've come down to brass tacks, I may actually be able to help you. First off, what's real...really real...are the seven virtues."

Ken raised one skeptical, insolent eye and said haughtily, "I didn't come here for a Sunday School lesson, Opa." He vacated the chair and started toward the door.

"Sit down, whippersnapper!" Opa roared and froze Ken in his tracks. "Crusty old man like me ain't never taught a day of Sunday School in his life. I wear my hair too long, overindulge in mead, and go skinny-dipping in the pond couple acres over. Heck-and-blast, half the churches in this area would kick me out on those principles alone. So, sit your tiresome carcass down here and let's try to get to the bottom of your predicament."

Ken brought his tiresome carcass back over to the table and sank into the chair with a deep groan that originated somewhere between his big toe and his soul.

"Okay. So where do we start? Prudence, fortitude, temperance, justice, faith, charity, and hope. I can say ‘em three times fast, too. Wanna hear it?"

Ken laughed. "I think I'll pass on that, Opa."

"Fine," Opa grinned, a funny crooked smile that inexplicably coated Ken's heart with healing balm. "Right. Prudence. Now, you think prudence means wisdom. Sure, it does. But not book learning. So don't think you've mastered the art, genius. I don't care what you scored on the MCAT. Prudence means a good, down-in-your heart wisdom about every day stuff...and also knowledge about when to do the right thing even if it's the hardest thing to do. Ready for another nostril-baking?"

"Huh?" Ken said, prior to having his head jerked back down over the candle flame.

"What do you see?"

"Um...a man with dark, curly hair wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. A woman. Man, isn't she something! Edible, that one is. Uh, sorry, Opa. She's sitting; he's pacing. She looks scared; he looks uncomfortable. Opa, what the hell does this have to do with me?"

"What's he saying?"

"He's...wait a minute. If I get the gist, he's asking her to leave town. No, wait, he's offering to pay her to leave town. Woman says she loves him. Him...the guy in the jacket. If she loves him, why is he asking her to leave?"

"No, she loves a different ‘him'. She loves a ‘him' the guy in the leather jacket happens to think the world about."

Ken pushed away violently. "Oh, this is just great. Déjà vu all over again. Thinks the world about the guy, but he'll help screw things up with the guy's lady. Oh, yeah, Rick would know all about this."

"Tuck that smart mouth back in your pants, young one. This woman is a kind soul but she's all kinds of wrong for the guy she loves. She's a good woman in so many ways, but she's not meant for him. And leather-jacket guy knows it. He knows his friend would be better off headed in another direction, but he also wants to make sure he helps this lady as much as he can because he cares about her for his friend's sake." Opa tilted the candle even closer. "What's going down now?"

Ken snorted and coughed from the wisp of smoke assaulting his nose. "He's getting ready to leave apparently. She says something about ‘nice to be Hutch and have two people love him...' Who's Hutch?"

Opa sighed. "Bübchen, you ask the dumbest questions. Moving right along. What's next?"

Ken blinked at him.

"Next on the virtue list, knot-on-a-log! How did you ever get this far in school if you don't pay attention no better than this?"

"Fortitude," Ken snapped and snagged the goblet of mead.

"All right. Fortitude. Now, one of them newfangled dictionaries would say fortitude means ‘mental and emotional strength in facing danger, adversity, or temptation courageously.' And that's true. Well and good. I'll go you one farther. Self-sacrifice is the ultimate in fortitude: the ability to face one's own death--the end-all be-all of danger and adversity--for the sake of another human being. Got any nose hairs left?"

Ken held up a hand, "Don't jerk my neck. I know what's coming. Just slide the candle over and I'll bend my own head down to it, thank you."

Opa laughed. "You learn fast, whippersnapper. What do you see?"

Ken squinted and rubbed his eyebrows. "Dark...looks like a roof...wait a minute. That looks like me. Well, sort of like me. Creeping along. I'm carrying a gun! Why are you determined to put a damn gun in my hands? I want to heal people not shoot ‘em to bits. Whoa...wait a minute. Another guy up there has a gun too. Okay, I'm feeling better about having the gun. He's firing at me. Well, why don't I shoot back, wing him, something?"

"Good question, youngster. That doomsday weapon you carry around packs a lethal wallop, and you can't risk killing the guy because, if you do, you sign the death warrant for the man over there in the doorway. See him?"

"Uh...hey! That's leather-jacket guy again."

"Keen observation skills, Blondie."

Ken's head snapped up at the sudden change in Opa's accent. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"It's too close to ‘Goldie' and I don't want that nickname."

"Oh, you won't mind. Trust me. There'll come a time when you'd let someone attach ten thousand carnivorous leeches to your body for a chance to hear that voice say ‘Blondie.' But back to the movie. What's happening?"

"Leather-jacket guy is acting fairly odd. Seems disoriented, hazy, sweating...Oh, boy, he's aiming the gun. Hey, I thought you said if the other guy died, he'd be history too. Food for worms."

"Right, buddy-boy," again that faint hint of Brooklyn. Ken frowned.

"When you talk like that I feel jittery."

"You'll get used to it. Tuck that face down over the candle, young one. What's the scene?"

"He's...he shot him. Not once, not twice. Damn, he really wanted to make sure that guy went down for the count never to recover. He--he did that--for me?"

"Somebody is starting to grow a brain!" Opa proclaimed proudly. "Moving right along--"

"Wait a minute! I don't understand. Why would leather-jacket guy die if...." Ken trailed off as Opa shook his head.

"He survived after all, young one, but he had no way of knowing that when he shot Mr. Nasty to save your hide. Why he would have died is extraneous information. You don't need the whole story. You won't remember any of this anyway after you stop coming to see me."

"Wh-what!? What's the good in showing it to me, then?"

"I'll explain that later," Opa smiled. "Next on the agenda we have temperance. Otherwise known as self-restraint. Self-control. A lot of people associate temperance with not eating, drinking, or partying too much. Hah! That's child's play temperance. The real hardcore temperance is self-restraint against righteous anger. Not many people manage that one, youngster."

Ken noticed that Opa's gaze shifted to the candle and Ken grabbed the candleholder, pulling it close and muttering, "Yeah, yeah, I know. What do I see?" He peered down into the flame. "Me again. I'm running down some kind of road. Old guy down on the pavement. He's wounded. Curly-hair has a gun leveled on him--Look, if I'm going to be seeing this guy constantly, don't I at least deserve to know his name?"

Opa laughed. "Just call him partner for now."

"Partner...everyday clothes, guns, badges, handcuffs...holy sh-" Ken bit down hard on his lip as Opa's hand covered his mouth. When the hand dropped, Ken flushed. "We're plainclothes cops, right? Detectives."

"Yup. You just might make it after all, Blintz."

"What the--"

"Just tell me what you see, Bübchen."

"Well, my partner is staring the wounded guy down and looking decidedly agitated. Personally, I wouldn't give a nickel for this old guy's life right now. What's he done?"

"Oh, just killed several innocent police officers and blamed it all on leather-ja--er, in this case, windbreaker guy. Your partner was willing to give up his badge to stop the killings, but you and your captain talked him out of it. Now he has the chance to exact some eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth. So, what do you see?"

"My partner lowers his gun. Turns away. Man." Ken's voice held more than a whisper of respect and admiration.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, genius. Your partner will pay--and I mean dearly!--for choosing the path of temperance. Self-restraint in the face of righteous anger. Sometimes good still gets kicked in the backflap for doing the right thing. Just the way the world's laid to run. Tell you what...I think you've had enough for one day."

"Uh uh, I'm having a great time," Ken grinned, meaning every word and the light in his baby blue eyes confirming the smile. Opa shook his head.

"Well, I've had enough for one day. If I get tired, the pictures get fuzzy anyway. I'm an old man. Have a heart. Come tomorrow?"

"I can't continue to miss classes," Ken reasoned, starting to rise.

Opa clasped his shoulder. "Son, medical school is a damn gnat in the overall scheme of things compared to what you're learning here. Get your priorities in order."

So Ken departed with promises to return the following day at the same time if possible. Ken already knew he'd make sure it was possible.

>>>>>>

The second dream included bodies and faces, though through a filmy veil that lent the participants an almost surreal appearance.

"Yes, Hutch...touch me."

"Where, Starsky?" Hutch smiled, staring with adoration at the expanse of chest available to him.

"You know," Starsky breathed. "Do that thing...that humming thing."

So Hutch traced both his index fingers with feather softness over a veritable map of scars, following surgical lines, humming softly as his hands caressed the damaged skin.

Starsky sighed repeatedly and lifted his chest to increase the contact. "God, I love how you do that. Makes me feel like a work of art instead of a freak-show."

"Actually the Metropolitan Museum called yesterday and wanted me to ship you out for an exhibit, but I told them you're my sex-slave and I can't possibly do without you."

"That all I am to you, Blondie?" the voice was joking but the sapphire eyes were not. Muscular arms reached out and pulled the blond down onto his chest, stroking the smooth, perspiring back.

"You're everything I ever want to be," Hutch whispered, moving his face to kiss Starsky's shoulder blade.

>>>>>>>>

Ken woke with the strange sensation of having traveled through time. Remnants of the dream clung to his subconscious and contributed to an unusually strong morning arousal, as well as an uneasy itch in the back of his mind. He showered hurriedly, flung on the most easily accessible clean clothes, wolfed down a bowl of cereal with sour milk, not even noticing the sour taste, and dashed out of the apartment.

He whistled most of the drive to Opa's. Paused briefly when he realized he was whistling a Fats Domino song. The uneasy itchy feeling slowly verged on burning. He turned on the radio and flicked the tuner until he came to an all-talk radio program.

Opa waited for him outside the chapel/cottage. The little man was thoroughly occupied with completing a set of jumping jacks. Ken just stopped and stared at the plump figure in overalls and flannel, white hair flapping in the wind, bouncing up and down and counting loudly in German. Finally at fifty even, Opa sank down on the grass and sprawled without a bit of grace, gesturing for Ken to join him. Ken sat down cross-legged beside the huffing and puffing older man.

"Should you be--I mean, I know exercise is good for the heart, but at your age--"

"You just keep your wide trap shut about my age, infant. You don't have a clue how old I am and if I told you, I'd have to kill you." Opa drank in the fresh Minnesota air and said softly, reverently, "Reckon we'll do this outside today."

Ken snorted. "Bring the candle out here? Isn't that risking a forest fire, Opa?"

"You think you're so smart, brainy butt. Who says we need the candle? Just look at them gorgeous clouds up there. Perfect canvass, don't you think?"

Ken nodded. "Guess so."

"Now, I won't elbow you in the ribs if you can tell me what's next on our list."

Ken assumed a thoroughly pleased and proud expression. "Justice."

Opa whistled. "Two points, baby blue. I am im--pressed. Right. Justice. Ooh, goody. You get a double-shot with this one. Justice. Sounds pretty self-explanatory. What's right is right. Right? Wrong. Not always. See, sometimes what the world sees as justice and what is ‘cosmically just' don't go hand in hand. A person really in tune will be able to see the cosmic justice nine times out of ten. A truly gifted person will know when to bend the rules of the world to achieve the cosmic result. Now, cast those sparklers of yours up there at the sky and tell me what you see in that puffy cloud yonder."

Ken lay back on the grass and clasped the back of his head with his hands. "Man, I look pretty rough. Stumbling around, nasty, filthy, hunched over... whoa, hold on! I've seen someone like that before. Don't tell me... don't..."

"Concentrate, Bübchen. What's going down?"

"In an alley. I'm really about to lose it. Wait, there's my partner. God, does he look panicked."

"Yeah, want some irony? You of the ‘I don't do guns' direct quote owe his looking for you to the fact that he knows you'd never even visit your mother without your gun, which is left behind in your apartment when you're abducted by some fairly nasty specimens. Laugh that one up, know-it-all."

"You're really getting a kick out of this, aren't you, Opa?"

"Beats the heck out of squirrel hunting. Now what's happening?"

"Cop in uniform...My partner's pulling on my sleeve. Oh, God. Oh, no. I knew it. This can't be happening. I'd die before I'd--"

"Hey, easy, easy, youngster. Remember what we're talking about here. Earthly justice vs. cosmic justice. What's being said?"

"Um...cop wants to make a report. My partner isn't having any of that. He's going to hide me away somewhere, isn't he? Help me kick it."

"Hanging around me is making you smarter. Right-o. Risking his career in the process. See, you were kidnapped, as I said, and shot full of that nastiness against your will. Only, the system just sees a cop with a drug running through his veins. But your partner sees a damn good cop--and a damn good friend--who absolutely has to be salvaged no matter what the cost. Cosmic justice must be done, and he's willing to put his badge on the line to do it, too. So, you think that's big, huh? Wanna know something that'll tie your boxers in a wad? The man would be willing to go to jail with you, too."

"Jail?!" Ken screeched.

"Oh, yeah. Jail. The slammer. The hoosegow. The joint. All of the above. What do you see?"

Ken shaded his eyes as the sun danced out of the cloud's shelter. "Me...again. Longer hair. Older? Sitting at a table. Why do I always look so torn to pieces in a lot of these, Opa?"

"Never said your life would be easy, youngster. Keep talkin'."

"Oh, Jesus. That's--that's a dead body on the floor."

"Kind of important for a homicide detective to recognize things like that," Opa said wryly.

"Who--who is she?"

"She's your biggest mistake, son. You're gonna get that marriage you're so all-fired sure you want. But you're not gonna have your eyes open when she comes down the aisle or you'd see in a heartbeat that she's got a big gaping hole where her heart oughta be. Oh, you'll wake up eventually, but she'll be the one who tosses you out on your ear and leaves your partner to pick up the pieces. By the time she ends up in this state, she's the ex-Mrs. Hutchinson. The ex-Mrs. Hutchinson dead on your living room floor and killed with your gun. Hmm...maybe there is something to your dislike for guns after all."

"It's got to be a...tell me it's a frame job."

"Oh, yeah. Nearly foolproof, too. But your partner sees through it like freshly cleaned glass. Pursuing cosmic justice could mean his spending the rest of his life behind bars with you, but that doesn't stop him from defying the whole department--including your captain--and going on the run with you until the two of you can straighten the mess out."

"C-can we go onto the next one now," Ken said, voice vibrating with ill-concealed distress. Opa flung an arm out and nudged him in the ribs.

"You okay over there, junior?"

"Fine," Ken snapped.

"Good, ‘cause we're coming to a biggie. Faith. Now, don't get up and run, Mr. Sunday School Phobic. I'm not trying to yank your soul out of your body and twist it to my own liking. That's your business. But Faith is Faith. And the human spirit depends on it.

Want an example of a human spirit absolutely overflowing with faith--even if he might not call it that himself. He was raised with faith, your partner. He's Jewish. Raised to believe in the faith of men like Abraham, Jacob, Isaac, and Moses. Got a lot of that ingrained in the fibers of his being. Comes out in crucial periods when he needs it most. What do you see?"

Ken stared into the cloud. "We're sitting on the floor...board game between us. I'm about to bawl my eyes out, from the look of things. Wonderful. I'm a crybaby. That's just fabulous."

"Oh, put a cork in it, dummy. You have good reason to be crying. Your partner over there has just lost a one-of-a-kind lady. A life cut way too short. Remember how I said yesterday your partner would pay for his temperance? He paid with her life, buddy-boy. His wife-to-be. That twin of Satan got himself out of jail and went after her on purpose. Just to get at your partner. Now, how's that for something that would rattle the faith of most men? But your partner? Oh, no. Nope. Pulls himself together--with a lot of help from you, I might add to be extra generous--and has some extra words etched on her tombstone: ‘In His arms she rests.'"

Ken swallowed hard and closed his eyes against the suddenly too bright glare of the sun. Opa assaulted his shin with a nudging foot. "Keep on truckin', boy. What's next?"

"Charity," Ken replied, still choked up.

"Charity begins at home, right? Well, your partner's pretty dang generous when it comes to you, Bübchen. In all kinds of ways. But he tends to carry that charity around in his back pocket too, just waiting for the opportunity to spread it around. What do you see?"

"Um...looks like the front lawn of a house. Beautiful woman...little girl. What, is that a brace on her leg? They seem ecstatic...wait a minute. That's money. Quite a good bit."

"Yeah, you tagged along with him in that generous little caper. Could have kept that money, the two of you, and if you'd been creative enough, the department would never have been on your case about it. Managed to come by that dough while undercover in Las Vegas. But your partner befriended that young lady and simply ached for the poor little girl who faced multiple operations and whose mother had to work as a showgirl to support her. Hardly knew her from the side of a barn, but that didn't stop him--or you--from making the next ten years of their lives a lot easier with that little anonymous envelope."

"So at least I'm not a complete screw-up," Ken smiled, the warmth of the little girl's happiness still washing over him. Opa sighed.

"No, you're not. You make some mistakes and dadburn it, when you do, they're dillies! And your partner isn't a walking god either. But we're getting distracted. What's next? I'll go ahead and save you the breath. Hope. Probably the granddaddy of ‘em all. Without this, ain't nothing real. But hope, as a concept, won't do the trick sometimes. Got to have hope in action. What's in the clouds, Hutch?"

Ken bolted upright and stared down at Opa. "You called me--So I am Hutch...but that...that means...."

"Ah ah. Not right now. Not going there right now. That's for tomorrow's session."

"But this is the last of the seven virtues," Ken mumbled, mind full of a scar-laden chest and his own voice humming.

"Oh, believe me, son, you'll be back tomorrow for the post-game wrap up. Now, back to the subject at hand. What's in the clouds?"

"That's..." The remnants of the dream pushed, clawed, and shoved their way to the front of his mind. "That's Starsky standing in front of a room full of guys. One guy looks to be a head honcho of some kind. Judging from the less-than-tasteful but expensive décor I'd say he's a white-collar kingpin?"

"Yeah, you've got a cop's instincts, all right. Your partner's putting his hope into action. See, while he's standing there willing to barter his soul if need be to that mob boss for just one eensy favor--the boss not killing this one particular guy--you're dying in a hospital bed behind glass and quarantine restrictions. Got yourself one mother of a virus, Bübchen. And the only way you're gonna live to see the next week is if your partner can locate a hit man who happens to be carrying the antibodies. Problem is, your walking cure has a contract to fulfill. Yup. The mob boss, you guessed it. So what does your--what does Starsky do? He's got hope. He's got real, down-to-the-nitty-gritty hope for your survival. And he puts it into action risking God knows what besides his own durn skin to get hold of that cure. Does he give up? Not once. Not ever. Carries that hope with him all the way. And you make it too, buddy-boy. Because of that hope."

Ken stood up and paced in a small circle. "I don't understand something. I've come here for guidance about me...about my life...most of what you've shown me has centered on who this--Starsky person is. What--I mean...."

"Kenny, do you remember what you asked me yesterday? When you spit all of it out in a rush. You listed some important things you didn't know...things you wanted, therefore, to know. Think long and hard. Oh, forget it. I'll give you the exact words: ‘I don't know what's real any more. I don't know what love is. I don't know what I need. I don't know what will ever complete me.' Three words answer all those implied questions, Bübchen. David Michael Starsky. If what I've shown you doesn't fit the bill of real, love, fulfillment, and completion, then they don't exist, my blond child."

Ken ceased pacing and grew very still. "What are you trying to say?"

"Said what I have to say for today. Go home. Leave an old man in peace for his mid-morning nap. I take my mid-morning nap naked. You don't want to see that, believe me."

Ken beat a hasty retreat back through the woods to his car.

>>>>>>>

The dream hit him like a river of lava, slowly but overpowering and all-consuming, heated and thick.

Starsky lay beneath him, moving with liquid grace, thrusting up against the weight that caressed him in as many connective points as possible. "Hutch...oh, man. I-I feel like I'm gonna fall off the edge of the world."

"Gonna fall with you, babe," Hutch said, increasing the speed of his own dance and rolling, clasping, pulling them both over so that Starsky regained the dominant position.

"Hutch! Babe!"

"Take control, Starsk. Light me up."

"Yes-!" Starsky's mouth took no prisoners, sweeping over Hutch's chest and arms as Starsky's lower body ensured that they experienced the proper amount of friction. Hutch accepted the onslaught with rapture in his eyes and soft whispers escaping from his lips when his mouth wasn't confiscated by his lover.

"Oh, Hutch, I-I-"

"Yes, Starsky. Please. Let me hear you say it. For once. With us like this."

"Hutch, I-"

Hutch wanted to wait for the words but couldn't restrain the chemical reaction that started in his heart and transported him beyond reason. "Starsky!! Yes, yes, Oh, God, YES!"

"Hutch, I love you!"

>>>>>>>

Ken greeted the morning with the dream fully intact, playing and replaying before his mind's eye like a movie reel. He didn't take the time to shower. Threw the same clothes on he'd worn the previous day and left the apartment without considering breakfast.

Opa greeted him with a swat on the head and a broad smile. "Sleep well last night, youngster?"

Ken flushed to the ends of his hair. Opa laughed out loud.

"Told ya you'd come back for the post-game wrap up. Sit yourself down, young one. I think this is another outdoors one. Hold up a minute, though, and I'll fetch us some of my grog."

Ken was grateful for the few minutes alone to settle his exploding brain and the butterflies that had escaped his stomach and found their way to his heart.

Opa didn't give him long to ponder or build up a defensive shield. Lickety-split he was back with two brimming goblets and plopped down on the grass beside Ken.

Ken drank half the goblet's contents before he took another breath.

"Nothing like Dutch courage, youngster. All right. Ask me what you want to ask me."

"Am I? Do I?--"

"I think someone very wise said it best. You have it in you, Ken. It's there. But you build up one heck of a wall and you never, ever allow yourself to breach it until Starsky comes along. And even then...even then you put yourself--and him--through heck and Hades before you finally admit to yourself what you feel. Not that he's much better. Has his own demons that keep him from giving in to what would be most natural for him when it comes to you. But you don't get a bad deal. The two of you have years to build a strong, honest, real love... friendship... partnership... caring...completion...and when you finally tack on the rest of it, the passion is even more beautiful for you. No, not a bad deal when it's all said and done. Now, Bübchen, don't get all blushing farm boy on me. This is Opa here. You can say anything to me; ask me anything."

"When...?"

"When do you come to your senses? ‘Cause, yes, it's you who finally take the plunge. Believe it or not. Mr. I'm not, I've never, I haven't ever even thought about...."

"Yeah."

"Tilt that sunshine head of yours back and take a gander at the clouds this morning. Mighty fine, aren't they? What do you see?"

"Hospital room. Starsky's in the bed and I'm curled up on the side of the bed. I look like I've been in a rain shower. Just us in the room.... He's asleep. I...lean over and kiss him softly."

"Right. And let me tell you something. You're so dang glad those lips are warm beneath yours instead of ice cold that you don't think about your masculinity, or what a bunch of narrow-minded idiots might have to say on the subject, or how your parents are going to feel about your change in sexual preference. But that's not the *moment* everything *fits* for the two of you. Oh, yeah, I know about your preference for things that fit, picky. You ready for the grand unveiling?"

"Don't know if I can--can handle it," Ken said in a whisper.

"Don't worry; you're going to walk back through those woods and when you get to your car, all you'll remember of all three of these sessions is an aftertaste of mead. And you'll be able to drive home."

"That's what I don't understand. What good is all this if I can't remember it; if I'm doomed to make my mistakes, stay in the dark about real love for years, et cetera?"

"Because if you take the right step, that's going to be your destiny, boy. You won't remember what I've shown you, but my words will seep into your heart and soul where they count the most and start building you, preparing you. In the next couple of days, you'll have the chance to do one good, pure thing. And if you live up to the challenge, you'll be given this whole beautiful, hard, trying, scary, perfect future. Including your dreams. And my words, burning within you, will help you over time and through all the trials by fire to see what you really have in your partner."

"All right. Fine. Grand unveiling." Ken sat down on the grass and clutched his knees with both hands. "Feel like I'm trapped in a Dickens novel."

"I ain't no Ghost of Christmas Future, infant. Might be as old as the dickens...hee hee...but I'm not ethereal. Now, have a peek at the clouds. What...oh, heck, I'm gonna quit asking you that. By now you know the drill."

Ken focused on the rolling, tumbling, fluffy whiteness. "Large room with mats, equipment, people exercising, some in groups, some alone. Starsky is working with a young woman. Stretching. God, it looks like he's having his heart ripped out through his ear canal. The pain on his face! The woman tells him...tells him he's through for the day. I think he'd like to cry with relief. The doors at the end of the room open...oh, I've arrived. He walks toward me...jerky movements. Oh, God, it's hurting him just to walk. I increase my stride. Meet him halfway. Pull him into my arms. I'm cautious about how I hold him. Oh, don't tell me, I'm ... Yeah, that would be me kissing him within an inch of his life in front of the whole damn...what...physical therapy center? Great. So much for a closet."

Opa cackled. "Truth about you, Blondie? You never do anything halfway. Now, skedaddle. Vamoose. Off with you. You don't need me anymore."

>>>>>>

Three days later Ken left the library at a particularly grievous hour and cursed his timing. He had been attempting to make contact with Rick for the last two days with no luck. He had gaps in his memory beginning with the morning after his break-up with Becky, but the professor of his Infectious Disease class showed him a note from the university infirmary that indicated a severe sinus infection with high fever as the culprit. He remembered the way he left Rick's dorm room, though, and burned with a shame greater than the supposed fever.

On his way over to the dorm for another try, Ken noticed flashing lights and a crowd gathered in an alley between two university buildings. Not normally curious, Ken found himself pulled toward the spectacle. As he neared the scene, he felt his heart sink lower in his body. The night air chilled him through his letter jacket...or was it really the night air that set his teeth chattering and quickened his steps?

On tiptoes, one quick look over the heads of several students and Ken began pushing his way through the crowd, elbowing, jostling, cursing until he broke free and sprinted over to the crumpled figure on the asphalt. "Rick! God, Rick!"

"Who are you?" a uniformed police officer attempted to block his progress. "This is a crime scene."

"Cr-crime scene! What happened?"

"Ken?!" called a weak, gurgling voice.

"He was shot during a botched robbery attempt," the policeman said. "You Ken?"

"Yes...why aren't the paramedics...."

"They're trying, son, but look..." the officer lowered his voice. "He's gonna be DOA. All right. No two ways around it. He's bleeding out over there right now."

"Ken...."

"Better get over there," the burly officer said, stepping aside.

Ken fell onto his knees oblivious to the pool of blood beneath his legs, soaking into his jeans. Rick was ghostly pale, almost translucent, blood trailing down the side of his mouth.

"Rick...buddy, hang on, you're gonna make it. You're going to be fine--" Reassuring words that even Ken's first semester medical knowledge recognized as futile lies.

The paramedic working around Ken's presence shook his head slightly. Rick didn't have to see the head shake to know the truth. "Ken...no.…"

"Rick, I've been trying to get hold of you. I wanted to say I-I'm sorry I-I couldn't be.... Sorry for how I-I treated you."

"No, Ken...don't be sorry. Wasn't meant to be me. Someone...someone else, Ken."

"You're my best friend in the whole world," Ken said. "I don't know that I'll ever know anyone else with your spirit, courage, love for mankind...."

"Yes, you will..." Rick's breath failed him at that point, but he sputtered, choked, and inhaled a rattling breath long enough to say, clearly and succinctly, "I love you, Ken."

Ken lowered his eyes and said, with sincerity, though not the same meaning, "I love you too, Rick."

Rick smiled and his head turned to the side as his eyes closed.

>>>>>>>

Bay City, California August 1969

Ken stood at the tiny dorm-room style window and looked out over the Police Academy grounds. He was here. Actually here. About to embark on the greatest adventure of his life. Ready to fulfill the determination to become a cop that had grown in him from the nurturing of a tiny seed that sprouted watching the lifeblood ebb from a dear friend and wanting justice, resolution, closure.

"Hey, pretty boy, get your stuff off my bunk," said a jovial voice bearing a hint of hot dogs, the subway, and the Empire State building.

Ken swung around. The young man looking at him grinned and stepped forward, holding out a hand. "Just gotta have top bunk, but if your heart's set on it, I'd rather my roomie be happy. Name's Starsky. David Starsky."

Ken smiled and shook the hand warmly. "Nice to meet you. Ken Hutchinson."

THE END

Translations:

Opa-- grandpa (although he isn't Hutch's grandfather, of course)
Bübchen-- little boy
Simpel-- simpleton, dummy

Sooner or later this happens to everyone...
You can live your life lonely,
Heavy as stone.
Live your life learning,
And working alone...
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true
Because when you least expect it,
Waiting round the corner for you
Love comes quickly
Whatever you do,
You can't stop falling...
Love comes quickly
Whatever you do,
You can't stop falling...
You can live a life of luxury
If that's what you want
Taste forbidden pleasures
Whatever you want...
You can fly away to the ends of the world
But where does it get you to...
Because just when you least expect it,
Just what you least expect
Love comes quickly,
Whatever you do,
You can't stop falling...
I know it sounds ridiculous
But speaking from experience
It may seem romantic
But that's no defense
Love will always get to you
Sooner or later
Sooner or later
This happens to everyone
Everyone
You can fly away to the ends of the world,
But where does it get you?
Love comes quickly
Whatever you do,
You can't stop falling....—The Pet Shop Boys, 1986