Chapter Text
The weather was changing from autumn to winter, and it could not decide which it would be — rain, snow, or the miserable in-between sleet. What had been a chilly but otherwise fine day, perfect for riding out to investigate the possibilities of adding upland grazing to the estate, had become an afternoon threatening a winter storm.
Having grown up running wild in these hills, Kenneth Hutchinson saw the quickly darkening sky and realized too late that he and his riding companion were unlikely to get home before the storm blew in. As a thin and bitter wind was hurling gobbets of icy sleet at them, Hutch pulled his riding plaid cloak up over his head and turned his pony’s back to the gusts.
“We can’t go on in this,” he shouted to his companion. “Have to find shelter.”
“Lead the way,” Starsky said, huddling further into his heavy wool cloak and pulling his slouch hat down.
The ponies' rumps were crusted with sleet, and the hunched riders were in no better shape when a small bothy emerged from the gathering fog. They steered the ponies towards it. As they inspected it, they found armfuls of hay heaped in the loft and a hay net slung underneath, suggesting it served as a shelter for herdsmen during the summer months. Starsky led the ponies inside, unsaddled them, and rubbed them down with handfuls of hay, while Hutch coaxed a spark from flint and steel to ignite the small pile of firewood in the stone-lined hearth place. The fire was beginning to crackle and give off a fugitive warmth when Starsky climbed the ladder to join him and shucked his hat and cloak, dropping the saddlebags.
“The ponies are settled, “ The darker-haired man said, climbing into the loft and sitting tailor-fashion across from Hutch. He grimaced as his shirt clung to wet skin. “They are as glad to be out of the weather as we are, for sure.”
Hutch grunted, unwinding his cloak and struggling out of his boots, then assisted Starsky in doing the same. “I don’t think it’ll be letting up any time soon,” Hutch said, nodding towards the storm. “At least here, we can be warm — the fire and the ponies below mean we’re not going to freeze. And if we strip off, at least some of our clothes will be dry come the morning. Or at least not soaking wet.” Hutch pulled the plaid up to wrap around them both. That was the great thing about the highland wool — even damp, it retained body heat. Sitting so close, Hutch saw that his friend’s hair, in daylight, was dark mahogany. However, in the dimness, it was almost black, as were his eyes, except when a flicker of flame sparked sapphire blue in the depths.
The two men shared the brandy and water from Hutch’s hipflask as the storm continued outside. The drink warmed them, and they had their fill of the remains of the buttered bannocks they had for lunch along with sweet wrinkled store apples for dessert, the extras given to the ponies. Hutch leaned back, hunger somewhat assuaged. Starsky sprawled beside him, indolent, like some antique warrior-god in burnished bronze. The fire was crackling merrily, making the loft space almost cozy.
Precisely what prompted Hutch to do what he did next, he did not know. With some sort of primal desire to express his feelings, to take their friendship a step further, he reached over and touched Starsky's lips with his own. For one frozen moment, nothing happened. Then Starsky’s hands were feather-light on his face, the mouth opening under his, tasting of brandy and apples. He was being drawn down into the embrace he had dreamed of, strong arms bracketing his shoulders, hard male muscle under him instead of feminine softness.
“Hutch…” A whisper, an indrawn breath. “Ah, Hutch…”
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The rattle of driven sleet on the roof was absent when he woke, the ponies shifting restlessly below and the dying embers of the fire crumbling. As Starsky lay in his arms, warm and solid, with their limbs tangled under the plaid cloak, Hutch knew what they shared hadn't been a dream. In that truth, he had found a wonderful sense of completion in their shared love.
“I love you, Starsk,” he said softly. The deep blue eyes opened, sleepy. Then Starsky winced, and Hutch was overcome with guilt. “Oh, God, did I hurt you?”
“Uh…a little. Maybe. But it’s a good pain, szeretett. I didn’t know… could never have imagined….”
“It rather took me by surprise, too. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Love is not for thinking,” Starsky said,” But for doing… you don’t regret—“
“No! Far from it!”
“Then don’t think,” Starsky counseled, nestling closer, “Love me again….”
They had to pad Starsky’s pony’s saddle with Hutch’s folded cloak, and it was not a comfortable ride back to the estate.
“I cannot think I was ever more relieved to be out of that saddle,” Starsky said, dismounting stiffly once they arrived home.
“A hot bath, with Epsom salts, that will help the -er- stiffened muscles,” Hutch said, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.