Hutch was drifting in and out of a comfortable sleep. Sitting on his couch, half-watching one of those Horror B movies that Starsky loved so much, a beer in his hand, and his partner sprawled out next to him, Ken Hutchinson felt more at ease and more at home than he could ever have imagined possible as a child back in Duluth. He breathed deeply and gave in to the cocoon of complete contentment that wrapped itself around him.

Starsky had decided the arm of the couch was an unacceptable headrest about 10 minutes into the film. Not the right angle, he said. After failing to fix a cushion out of Hutch's jacket, he had decided that Hutch's legs were the most adequate pillow substitute currently available. Hutch didn't mind. He'd rather not have a creased, drooled over coat. And anyway, his partner was warm and sleepy and relaxed, making Hutch himself warmer and sleepier in turn. Before he knew it, the movie was over. He must have missed at least half of it, dozing as he was. Not that it mattered.

Hutch sighed, and shifted slightly, reluctant to get up, but aware that they had left midnight behind them before the monster had even eaten the first girl. Starsky breathed deeply and stirred, woken by the small movements of Hutch's legs beneath his neck. Rolling onto his back, Starsky blinked up at Hutch like a sleepy puppy. His black curls, falling like a scruffy halo around his sleep-softened face, were more unkempt and frizzy than usual.

Hutch smiled as he realised that this was probably because he'd found his hands running through his friend's hair throughout the movie, scruffing and stroking in much the same manner as he had petted his grandfather's dog as a child. Hutch had always found so much comfort in cuddling up with that old dog. A rare source of affection in a childhood otherwise bereft. He laughed silently to himself, suddenly seeing the similarities between the boisterous, curly-headed, black dog who had bounded into his 5-year-old world after his grandfather had rescued her, and the boisterous, curly-headed Starsky, who had similarly careened in some decade-and-a-handful years later, and who had rescued Hutch more times and in more ways than he could count.

"Alright Fido," Hutch smiled, running his fingers through the black mop once more, "Your 'Play Dead' is excellent. How are you at 'Sit Up'?"

Instinctually pushing his head closer into Hutch's gentle hands, Starsky yawned, and mumbled something about being too tired, and couldn't he just sleep five more minutes? He rolled onto his side again, this time facing Hutch instead of the TV. Snuggling closer, he buried his face into the warmth of Hutch's shirt.

Suddenly Hutch yelped loudly and sharply wriggled out of his friend's grasp with a shove. Jolted abruptly out of his half-asleep reverie, Starsky tumbled off of the sofa and landed in a heap on the floor.

"Ouch…" Propping himself up on one hand and rubbing his head with the other, Starsky glanced around himself in a sleep-confused daze.

"Whuh? S'floor…?" His eyebrows drew together in hurt consternation. "Hey… You pushed me..."

His partner's sleepy bewilderment was too much for Hutch, who descended into a fit of affectionate laughter.

"I'm sorry, babe," Hutch grinned, offering his hand and helping Starsky pull himself back up onto the couch. "Didn't mean to throw you on the floor." When Starsky's expression didn't brighten, Hutch added, sheepishly, "Instinctual reaction, you see. Can't control it. Nearly broke my sister's nose once when she caught me off guard. Kicked her in the face. Had to give her half of my Christmas candy stash to stop her from telling dad."

"You kicked your…?" Starsky frowned and shook his head in abject confusion. "I don't geddit. What'd I do?"

The corners of Hutch's mouth pulled downwards in an upside-down smile as he tried to choke back his laughter and love in the face of his dejected, disoriented partner. Starsky glowered back at him, looking for all the world like a puppy who's had his favourite ball taken away and doesn't know why.

"I'm ticklish, dummy!"

"Oh", Starsky replied. He lazily scrubbed at his tired eyes with a balled fist. "I thought you was mad at me f'r gettin' too cuddly or somethin'."

Hutch's laughter cracked, as his heart buckled beneath the insuppressible affection his partner's nonchalant, soul-crushing reply had triggered in him. He reached out and pulled Starsky into his arms, burying his face into the black curls he loved so much. Hutch breathed in his partner, suddenly resenting the physical boundaries that prevented him from squishing their very souls together in some kind of metaphysical bear hug. Against his shoulder, he felt Starsky's face break into a lopsided grin. In a rare moment of impulsivity, emboldened by alcohol, and by tiredness, and by the sensation of his partner's smile blazing against him, Hutch planted a kiss on the side of Starsky's head.

"I love you for all that you are, do you know that?" he murmured, words half lost in the tangled curls.

Starsky squeezed Hutch back, nuzzling his nose into his neck, still beaming irrepressibly.

"You goin' soft on me, Blintz?"

Starsky leaned back. He bumped his shoulder into Hutch's, and scoffed affectionately.

"Now get lost. It's 2am, I'm tired, and I ain't going back to my place tonight. And in case you hadn't noticed, you're takin' up all the room on the couch, you big blonde lummox."

Hutch grinned.

After throwing Starsky a blanket from the cupboard, Hutch took himself to bed, too. As his head hit the inviting comfort of his pillow, he heard Starksy yell out from the living room.

"G'night, Hutch."

"Yeah, goodnight, Starss."

"Sweet dreams."

"And you."

"… Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Yep. Same."

"Be couch bugs though, for me, right?"

"Goodnight, Starsky…"

Hutch waited a few moments, then, satisfied that his chatterbox partner had finally called it a night, he rolled over and gave in to the soft, cool comfort of his bed.

"…Hey, Hutch?"

Hutch put hand over his eyes and sighed.

"What now, Starsky?"

"Love you, too."