The first thing that popped into my head, and my first idea for the Friday prompt for our Starsky and Hutch Fans and Fanfiction group. Made my heart happy. The prompt was:

In the series, Hutch famously makes the Paul Muni Special for Starsky and we see him preparing a meal for his lady in Survival and pottering about in his kitchen (even if it's only making one of his health shakes). However Starsky *never* cooks for Hutch.
Please can you write a story of Starsky cooking for Hutch? What does he make and why?.

Hutch remembered being awakened at 3 am. There had been the knock of a pot or a platter or something falling from a shelf in his living room and a whispered, "ouch!" in response.

Since that long night in the family owned Italian restaurant, and even longer nights that followed in the hospital, and yet longer days on duty by himself, he'd been gradually getting more and more delirious with the lack of sleep and the compounded worry.

The first night they moved Starsky out of the observation room and Hutch had been there to settle him into his private room at the hospital, had been the first night Hutch even considered returning to his own apartment and sleeping a full eight hours or more. He'd even given Starsky a present to keep him occupied. A joke book, full of eyebrow knitting, hard groaning, absolutely horrible jokes and one liners. Just the sort of literature he knew his partner would especially appreciate.

It should have kept Starsky entertained for the brief waking hours, and the long sleeping hours, that Hutch planned to spend in a mini-coma in his own bed.

He'd gone to bed at 8pm. A shockingly early hour that made him feel three times his age.

But right at three...he remembered hearing the knocking, the whispering voice.

He'd lurched to his feet, he was sure, and made it most of the way out of his bedroom, prepared to investigate and kill the disturbance. But the instant recognition of his partner's profile against the light from the front door, and the soft voice telling him to go back to sleep, had transformed him from graceless neanderthal to dreamland-bound human being.

That three am wake up call, and the remarkable calming effect of his partner's voice, were playing like a dream loop over and over again in his mind when the smoke got him up again around 8.

A.M.

12 hours after he'd first fallen asleep.

The smoke wasn't thick but it could be effectively called acrid. It stung at Hutch's nostrils, reminding him of his mother's failed attempts at baking, the first time he tried to cook pizza in the oven without anything under it, and that one science experiment that involved turning the toaster up and burning bread for three hours.

There might have been the faint, delicate aroma of weak coffee under the smoke, and even the crackle of bacon. But the bacon wasn't making a healthy sizzling sound. It was more like a forest fire out of control, complete with loud pops that were followed by gasps, or shouts of pain.

A deductive mind like Hutch's might have concluded reasonably that someone was burning his apartment down, starting with the kitchen, and had decided to keep that information to themselves.

The still-sleeping part of Hutch's mind thought it was admirably kind of the person, keeping their alarm at burning alive to a dull roar.

Then his little loop dream came back to him and Hutch launched upright in his bed so quickly that he, the blankets, and the PJs he was most of the way out of, ended up on the floor with the mattress somehow flipped over on top.

Hutch crawled out from under the mattress, made sure his PJ bottoms were still with him and stormed into his kitchen to see a one-winged egret fighting a pan of bacon grease with a paper towel shield and a plastic spatula.

That, or else Starsky was cooking breakfast.

"Starsky!?"

Starsky let out a yelp of surprise, yanked the cast iron pan from the stove and spilled boiling hot bacon grease across at least two appliances capable of creating fire. One of them obliged and while Hutch scrambled for the fire extinguisher he had always known would be worth the expense, Starsky dumped the pan in the sink and darted his free hand in and out of the flame, finally getting the running tap going.

The lack of grease remaining in the pan made the gush of water less deadly than it could have been and in minutes Hutch had worked the extinguisher, pointed the cone shaped nozzle and doused most of his kitchen in white, Halon foam.

Both men stood panting either side of the river of white for a second, stepping away from the slow seepage of snow like slush.

"You okay?" Hutch asked, eyeing the bright red splotches decorating Starsky's bare arm, the singe marks on his sling, the one tuft of hair in the front that hadn't escaped flame.

"Yeah." Starsky managed, then quietly reached for the tap and shut it off.

"What….what are you doin', Starsky!? Why are you outta the hospital? How did you even get over here?"

Hutch watched his partner's face change. From the shock and relief of not being on fire or trapped in a burning kitchen, Starsky looked over the mess that had been whatever he was cooking and gave a shrug and a half hearted mumble that might have been the start of an explanation. Then he said, "Um.." and adjusted the sling, noticed that it was smoldering a little and leaned back against the dining table, giving Hutch a helpless look.

"Scrambled eggs." He said defeated. "Cause I...it was my fault that we went to that restaurant and...we've been so screwed up the past couple a weeks cause I'm in the hospital, and I wanted to do somethin' nice so I got Huggy to take me to the store and I got you some eggs and I was gonna make 'em and it was gonna be a surprise and then I…" Starsky cut off for a minute, somewhere between hyperventilation and tears. "...set your house on fire."

Starsky might have started coughing, or it may have been the breakdown Hutch was expecting. Either way he stepped over the sloughing mound of Halon and pulled his brother against his chest, carefully wrapping his arms around the brunet.

The wet, coughing fit didn't last long, but Hutch felt Starsky willingly leaning into him and rubbed his back until his lungs eased.

"Hey...listen, Starsk. I'd love to have you cook breakfast...it's a great idea, but not a day after they move you out of isolation."

Blue eyes were peering around his shoulder at the mess that had been made of the kitchen and Hutch drew back, finding himself overjoyed in that moment that he still got to see those bright blues. Starsky gave him a belated sniffle and a look of mild embarrassment that told Hutch that at least some, if not all, of Starsky's decisions could be blamed on pain killers and powerful antibiotics.

This might turn into a fun, drug induced memory for his partner, and not a painful one...once the burns healed, the hair grew back. And Hutch got his oven replaced. And some of the tile. And part of the counter. And his cast iron pan.

"M'sorry, Hutch."

"It's alright."

"Nah, I made a huge mess. It was stupid."

"It was...it was early. But it was a great idea, Starsk, really! Besides…" Hutch said with a smirk. "The coffee made it."

The brilliant, proud beam he got out of his partner made the whole ordeal 100% worth it for Hutch and he returned the grin, feeling a peace in his chest that he hadn't felt in weeks.

Then he burned his hand on the coffee pot.