Starsky knew he was running out of time. He could sense it in the rhythm of Hutch's breathing, feel it in the impatient rumble that Hutch used to clear his throat every time the nurse called someone else's name. The lean body beside him was tense, chin tucked to the broad chest and long legs thrust into the narrow spaces between the rows of plastic chairs. Every few minutes, Hutch would lean forward, the sleeve of his shirt pulling away to reveal the blood-soaked cotton handkerchief that Starsky had tied to the cut on his arm—tied crookedly, because he'd been in a rush to stop the flow of blood even as he'd struggled to convince Hutch that he needed to see a doctor.
He'd won that battle but now he was afraid he was losing the war. Every time the nurse appeared to announce another name, Starsky held his breath, praying it was Hutch's turn and cursing silently when it wasn't. They'd been there almost two hours, watching the ebb and flow of coughing toddlers and wheezing old men, and not even the application of Starsky's considerable charm on the admittance nurse had helped to speed things along.
It hadn't been Starsky's fault, but he felt guilty just the same. He'd been craving tacos from a specific street vendor and had coaxed Hutch to agree to going out of their way to find him before he closed for Christmas Eve. He'd promised him all kinds of cockamamie rewards until Hutch, cheeks tinged pink and the lines around his eyes crinkled with laughter, had given in after making Starsky swear on the head of his mother that he'd follow through on his vow to change the oil in Hutch's current sorry excuse for a car.
They'd found the vendor but instead of handing out tacos, he was in the middle of being shaken down by a couple of street thugs. Things had escalated immediately into a street fight like any of a hundred they'd been involved in over the years, brief, swiftly moving, and violent. In fact, events had moved so quickly that it wasn't until after Starsky handed off his perp to a uniform that he managed to spare a glance for his partner, who was in the midst of tucking a blood-stained handkerchief inside the rolled-up sleeve of his plaid shirt.
"What happened?" Starsky had sauntered over to him, his mind dwelling with regret on the tacos he was going to miss, since the vendor had taken the robbery as a sign to close down for the day. He wasn't too concerned about Hutch's injury—cuts and bruises were part of the job and he figured a Band-aid from the first aid kit in the uniform's black and white would cover the situation. "Lemme see it."
"It's a scratch, Starsk." Hutch had angled his body away from Starsky as he tried to tug his sleeve down over the wad of bulky cotton.
"C'mon, lemme see it."
"Starsky," Hutch sighed, but apparently knowing his partner wasn't going to take no for an answer, he'd peeled away the sleeve and removed the handkerchief, revealing a long, savage-looking cut that was welling with blood even as Starsky watched.
"That ain't no scratch," Starsky breathed. "You're gonna need stitches for sure."
"It's Christmas Eve," Hutch pointed out. He tried rolling down his sleeve but Starsky was already rewrapping the handkerchief around it. "I don't want to spend Christmas Eve in the emergency room."
"Yeah, me neither," Starsky muttered, "but I don't see any choice. Maybe it won't be busy."
It was a futile wish.
The waiting room was finally beginning to empty when Hutch's name was called. Shooting a rueful grin at his partner, Hutch stood up and stretched before following her into the bowels of the emergency department, leaving Starsky with a choice to either stare at the walls or read out-of-date magazines. It was a role he was used to, waiting for Hutch to get patched up, but he was just as familiar with the reverse, so he was thankful that only a few stitches stood between him and the real beginning of the holiday season.
It'd been a rough year, these long months since he'd almost lost his life in the line of duty. Weeks of rehabilitation, the sometimes agonizing struggle to reclaim any passion for his job, the debilitating fear that every day he was somehow, some way, letting Hutch down—it had all taken its toll to the point where some days Starsky had wanted to run as far away from Bay City as he could. And on those days, when the fear was the strongest and the temptation to give up was almost too hard to deny, the only thing that had saved his sanity and renewed his spirit was the unspoken yet never-wavering devotion of his partner.
Starsky knew that Hutch had suffered through the dark times almost as much as he had. He knew what it felt like to be on the other side of that hospital glass, helpless to prevent the one loss that would take everything with it. He understood the worry and fear in Hutch's eyes as he'd watched over Starsky during the bleak days and fear-ravaged nights of recovery, because he'd seen that same expression on his own face too many times to count.
Now Hutch was hurt, a minor, almost negligible wound that would leave another scar they'd never talk about. As Starsky slowly got to his feet, absently favoring his right side and hip, he was once again faced with the reality that there were words between them that had never been said, feelings that had never been expressed, truths that had never been spoken.
Stretching his legs, Starsky strolled around the now sparsely populated waiting room, his gaze drifting restlessly over faces and surfaces without really seeing any of them. He was tired and a little sore from the street fight, but his body was thrumming with the pent-up energy of near exhaustion. He and Hutch had worked almost every night of December, including all of Hanukkah, just to earn the next three days off. They'd made their usual plans, both of them knowing but not admitting that there was no place else they'd rather be than with each other, but pretending to clear already uncluttered schedules. It was all part of the gentle farce they'd been playing since Starsky had returned to the job, a subtle dance that had them circling each other and yet staying out of arm's reach.
Starsky knew when it had started. Always physically affectionate with each other, it had taken them a long time to recapture that easiness in the wake of Starsky's devastating injuries. There were clinical touches, helpful touches, but touches that lacked the spontaneity of their long-standing friendship had disappeared in the face of Hutch's reluctance to cause Starsky even the slightest pain. He handled Starsky like he was fine porcelain, keeping his distance when a strong arm or a steadying hand wasn't needed, leaving Starsky feeling stranded and lonely.
After a while, Starsky had found himself longing for that touch like a parched man yearns for cool water, but he soon realized that he'd have to initiate that first contact, the one that didn't need an explanation, only a bad joke or a silly word or winless argument. He'd waited for his opportunity, hoping that when it came, he'd feel that same sense of mutual ownership that had always been a part of their friendship. Lovers came and went, but no one touched Hutch the way Starsky did, and no one was allowed the degree of freedom that Starsky had when it came to touching Hutch.
It'd been a small thing, the lightest stroke of Starsky's hand across Hutch's lower back—a casual but unmistakable caress that, a year ago, would have been accepted without thought—that had electrified the air between them. Hutch's head had whipped around, his blue eyes, so often a reflection of emotions he tried to hide, brightening with a welcoming gleam that had made Starsky realize that he, too, had missed the comfort of his partner's touch. From then it had been easier, the touches less tentative and thought-out and more of the moment, but somehow infused with a new meaning that Starsky couldn't define, but was soon coming to understand would need more than the air that he breathed.
But pushes, pulls, yanks, hair ruffling, collar-straightening—a thousand and one small and not so small gestures—were no longer going to be enough. Seeing the blood-soaked sleeve of Hutch's shirt had changed things for Starsky, changed them enough that he knew he couldn't face another day without Hutch understanding exactly where Starsky was coming from. He knew that kind of confession could very well mean that this would be the last holiday they'd ever spend together, but Starsky was willing to risk that and so much more, just so he could look himself in the eye every morning and know he'd been as honest with Hutch as he now was with himself.
A jostle to his elbow startled him out of his thoughts. A man dressed in a jumpsuit bearing the badge of the gas company muttered an apology as he lead a child carrying a box to an empty area near the front desk. Starsky moved out of the way, his gaze scanning the headlines of a newspaper someone had left on another chair. He half-listened as the man settled the kid into a seat with an admonition to stay put. There was a brief conversation with one of the nurses and then the man was gone, leaving the boy alone with the box he'd carried in.
Starsky left the paper where it was, his attention already drifting. He turned toward the corridor that led to the exam rooms, vainly searching for a sign of his partner, hoping that he'd see that lanky form coming his way so they could get out of there.
Feeling a tug on his belt, he looked down at the kid that had been left behind. He was seven or eight, with dull brown hair that could use a cut, clothes that didn't quite fit, and a shy smile missing two front teeth. He wasn't the cutest kid Starsky had ever met, but there was a disarming openness to his pale blue eyes, and Starsky found himself smiling back.
"Hey, mister, wanna buy some mistletoes?"
"Mistletoe?" Starsky glanced at the box next to the kid and saw that it held a dozen or so packets of cellophane containing dusty-looking sprigs of greenery dotted with tiny white berries. They were closed with pieces of red ribbon tied in crooked bows, each one labeled with a white sticker with 25¢ written on them in smudged ink. "You sellin' this stuff?"
The kid nodded vigorously. "Yup. Leastways I was supposed to." His face fell and he lowered his eyes to the knotted laces of his shoes. "See, my dad was gonna go with me to the Park N' Shop and we were gonna sit outside and sell the mistletoes but his boss called up and said he had to work."
Starsky picked up the box and set it on the floor, taking the seat beside the kid. "So how'd you end up here?"
The kid pointed toward a harried-looking nurse currently arguing with someone on the phone. "That's my mom. She gets off at ten, so Dad dropped me off here."
"What's with the mistletoe?"
The kid pulled at the bottom of his striped cotton shirt, wiggling a finger through a small hole in the hem. "We're selling 'em to raise money for our club."
"Yeah? Which club is that?"
"The Woodville boys and girls rec club."
"The one over on Ninth?"
"Uh, huh."
Starsky knew the place. It was a rough and tumble refuge for kids of lower income families, constantly short of money and struggling to stay afloat. He and Hutch had helped out there occasionally over the past few summers, playing basketball and counseling some of the older kids.
"I know that place. It's a good club."
"Yeah. We're tryin' to raise money for a new basketball hoop, so we decided to sell mistletoes. 'Cept I couldn't sell mine 'cause mom and dad had to work so much."
"Ah, I get it. Sounds like a raw deal. How many of these things you sold so far?"
"Four. Three to my grandma and one to my teacher."
Starsky looked at the box, then at his watch. It was eight-thirty on Christmas Eve and there was no way this kid was going to sell a thing. He looked around the waiting room, seeing all the tired, worried faces, and had an idea.
He dug his wallet out of his back pocket. "What's your name, kid?"
The boy glanced nervously over at his mom, belatedly realizing he was doing something he'd been warned not to do. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," he muttered. "Mom told me."
"Good for her, she's absolutely right. Did she tell you it was okay to talk to police officers?"
"Uh, yeah." Starsky opened his wallet and held it out so his badge was clearly visible. The kid's eyes widened and he flashed Starsky a gap-toothed grin."Is that real?"
"Course it's real. Here, take my card. See? Says Detective David Starsky, right there."
"Cool!"
"So, you gonna tell me your name?"
"Brian Donald Britowsky. I live at 423 Elm—"
"Okay, okay, Brian Donald Britowsky, listen up, here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna buy every one of your little things of mistletoe there, and then you're gonna give them away."
Brian squinted up at him. "Huh?"
Grinning, Starsky slipped two five dollar bills out of his wallet. "See, you get contribute to your new basketball hoop and you get to do something nice for other people, too."
"But who can I give 'em to?"
"Look around. See all these people in here? They all look like they could use a little mistletoe, you know what I'm sayin'?"
"Brian, stop bothering this nice man!"
Starsky looked up to see Brian's mom bearing down on them. Before she could scold Brian any further, he stood up and showed her his badge. "It's okay, ma'am. I'm a police officer, name's Dave Starsky. You got my partner back there getting stitched up, so Brian and I here were working out a little business transaction."
She eyed him warily. "What kind of business transaction?"
"Mom, he just bought all the mistletoes!"
"He did?" She started to look flustered and Starsky hastened to reassure her.
"Listen, it's all legit, I know he was raising money for the club house. Figured it'd be a nice way for me to lend a hand, you know?"
"That's—that's awfully nice of you, Officer. His dad and me, we tried to help out, but with our schedules—"
"Sure, I understand. It's tough sometimes. But now Brian here can donate to the cause, right? That's the important part." A movement from the hallway caught his eye. "Hey, it look likes my partner's finally getting cut loose." He bent down on one knee and handed the two fives to Brian. "So here's the deal. I gotta go, but you be sure and give away all those mistletoes, okay?"
Brian clutched the money in his hand. "Can I keep your card, too?"
"Sure you can, but you can only call me if you have an emergency, got it?"
Eyes shining, Brian nodded, shaggy bangs bouncing into his eyes. "Got it."
"Good." Starsky got to his feet and held out his hand to Brian's mom, giving it a brief squeeze even as his attention was already focusing on his partner. Hutch had lost his blood-stained shirt and was now clad only in t-shirt, blue jeans, and his shoulder holster, a white bandage wrapped around his forearm. He watched Hutch sign out at the desk and give the nurse a smile and a wink before he turned away, wincing as he bumped his arm against the counter. Joining his partner, Starsky looked him over with a critical eye. Hutch looked tired but otherwise in good spirits, and Starsky relaxed, relieved that he wasn't going to have to coax Hutch back into a holiday mood.
"How's the arm?"
Hutch scowled down at the bandage covering his arm from his elbow to the top of his wrist bone. "It's fine."
"Yeah? How many stitches?"
"Fourteen." Starsky glared at him and Hutch hung his head. "Fourteen on the worst part. Twenty-four total. But it's not as bad as it looks, they always put on too many bandages."
"Uh, huh," Starsky grunted. He took Hutch's hand in his and pretended to inspect the doctor's handiwork. "Looks like you're outta commission for a few days."
Surprisingly, Hutch gave him a sweet, almost mischievous smile. "Good thing we've got the next couple of days off, partner."
Starsky grinned back. "Yeah, well, don't expect me to be waiting on you hand and foot just 'cause you got a little scratch."
Predictably, Hutch did a complete about-face, pulling his hand out of Starsky's grip. "A little scratch? You call twenty-four stitches a little scratch?"
Starsky shook his head and grabbed Hutch's uninjured elbow, guiding him toward the front door. Glancing back, he caught a glimpse of Brian handing over a package of mistletoe to a bemused doctor. "C'mon. In case you hadn't noticed, we missed lunch and dinner, so how about we find the last open restaurant in Bay City and see if they'll feed us?"
They stepped out together into the frigid night, Starsky's hands going immediately to the scarf around his neck to wrap it more tightly beneath the collar of his leather jacket.
"Now, let's see, where did I park the car?"
"Does it matter? Just look for the big glowing red spot in the parking lot."
"Hah, you're a funny guy."
"Yeah, and I'm also a freezing guy." Hutch turned back toward the emergency room entrance. "I'm gonna go get my shirt."
"What? It's covered with blood, you can't wear that."
Hutch's mouth thinned into a determined line. "I can until we stop by the precinct so I can get my jacket. Besides, blood comes out of flannel, you know that. Just gotta wash it a few times."
Hutch's offhand advice hit Starsky like a slap. Bloodstained clothing wasn't something he wanted to contemplate on this icy Christmas Eve, but before he could say anything, Hutch patted his shoulder and disappeared inside the waiting room.
Tossing his keys, Starsky looked around and finally spotted the Torino. He jogged over to it and quickly got inside, hoping to have at least some warmth blowing out of the vents by the time Hutch was finished. He eased the car out of its parking space and drove to the entrance, idling in front as he tried to think of a restaurant that would still be open. He had a sinking feeling he wouldn't find one; even Huggy Bear's place had closed early, since its proprietor had plans to spend the next four days with a friend in Tijuana. Starsky had known better than to ask for details.
Maybe they should just go home, he thought. They'd end up at his apartment eventually, and he'd already stocked up plenty of food and beer for the holidays. He'd invited Hutch to spend the night so they'd have Christmas morning together and Hutch had agreed, his overnight bag already sitting on the Torino's back seat.
But going home meant facing up to the same dreams and questions that had haunted Starsky for weeks. Would it ever be enough to have Hutch remain in the same place in his life? Did he have the guts to go through with his plan to share his heart with Hutch or would he back off, too afraid to risk what was already too special to lose?
His thoughts scattered as the passenger door opened and Hutch climbed inside on a wave of frosty air. Starsky was grateful to see that although Hutch was wearing the unbuttoned flannel shirt , the bloodstained sleeve had been cut away, leaving only a few dark smears beneath the shirt's pockets as a reminder of what had happened.
"Starsky," Hutch began.
"Hey, Hutch," Starsky interrupted.
They both chuckled, then Starsky waved his hand, indicating that Hutch should go first.
"You mind if we just head back to your place?" Hutch held up his bandaged arm. "This is starting to sting."
"You bet. How do you feel about a cheese omelet and a cold beer?"
Hutch leaned back and closed his eyes, a smile dancing around his mouth. "Sounds perfect."
There was an odd tone to Hutch's voice that Starsky couldn't identify, so he put it down to the events of the day and drove out of the parking lot, a pit filled with nervous butterflies opening up in his stomach.
By the time he unlocked the door of his apartment, Starsky had decided to put off any kind of discussion indefinitely. The ride home had been silent, Hutch slouched and boneless beside him with his injured arm cradled to his chest. There was a lot of trust in those long limbs so carelessly folded into the passenger seat and Starsky found himself a willing caretaker of that silent faith.
Getting food on the table was Starsky's first order of business, so he pointed Hutch toward his sofa as he began pulling items out of his refrigerator. He wasn't paying attention to Hutch, assuming that he was crashing on the couch, so when he turned to grab a pan out of a drawer, he let out a little yelp when he saw Hutch standing there, his hips leaning against the counter.
"Geez, scare a guy, why don't ya?" Starsky groused. "Thought I told you to sit down."
Hutch scratched at his cheek, giving Starsky a sidelong glance. He'd lost the mustache during Starsky's recovery, but his hair was as long as ever, curling over the collar of his flannel shirt and drifting over his ears. Starsky had always thought of Hutch as beautiful, but the years had taken their toll and that beauty had been worn down and refined, like streams etching patterns on rock. Starsky knew the story behind every line, every scar, and he had no doubt that he'd give over the rest of his life to guarding those stories and the life that had lived them.
"Funny thing happened when I went back inside the hospital," Hutch said, so casually that Starsky relaxed.
"Yeah?" He stuck his head back in the refrigerator in search of cheese. "Did you get her name?"
He said the words unthinkingly, without any curiosity one way or the other—he'd said much the same thing in a million ways over the course of their years together.
Hutch heaved a sigh of resigned annoyance as Starsky set the block of cheese on the counter. "It wasn't a her, Starsk, it was a kid."
"A kid, right. You want onions in this thing?"
"Yeah, sure,—no, wait, no onion. Anyway, about this kid—"
"Reach into that drawer and get me the flipper thing."
"Spatula, it's called a spatula, not a flipper thing." Hutch did as he was asked, then resumed his position against the counter. "Do you wanna hear about this kid or not?"
"Yeah, 'course I do." Starsky stuck his hands on his hips and surveyed the assembled ingredients. He'd grabbed the eggs and cheese, he had the pan and the flipper thing, but he knew he'd forgotten something. "Does it look like we're missing something here?"
"You have no idea," Hutch muttered. At Starsky's confused look, he hooked his thumb toward the refrigerator. "Butter. You forgot the butter."
Starsky snapped his fingers. "Right! Gotta have butter."
To get to the refrigerator, he had to maneuver around Hutch's outstretched legs. He reached in and pulled out the butter, then dove back inside for a pint of mushrooms he spied in the crisper.
"Hey! Look what I found!" He straightened, one hand cradling the butter dish and the other holding the mushrooms, then promptly froze, his eyes widening in shock.
Hutch's hips were still planted against the counter, his legs crossed at the ankle, the perfect pose of relaxation—except for the bedraggled sprig of mistletoe that he was holding over his head.
"Hutch?"
Hutch's cheeks were pink, his eyes bright with mischief, embarrassment, and something else that sent Starsky's pulse racing.
"That kid gave me some mistletoe," he said on a self-conscious laugh. "He said it was his last one, so I didn't want it to go to waste."
Starsky swallowed, painfully divided between making a joke and taking a chance. Either course was dangerous, but only if he guessed wrong, and judging by the hopeful gleam in Hutch's blue eyes, he wouldn't be so much taking a chance as responding to the miracle that was being handed to him.
"Can't have that," he said. He put aside the butter and mushrooms, then very deliberately placed one foot on either side of Hutch's crossed ankles. When Hutch didn't move, Starsky placed his palms on the counter's edge at that hit right at the level of Hutch's belt, careful to keep Hutch's injured arm from being jostled. The position brought them close together, the buttons of their shirt brushing against each other. Starsky inhaled and closed his eyes for the briefest moment, breathing in the encouragement and acceptance that flowed off of Hutch in gentle waves.
"Know what?" he said, opening his eyes.
Hutch was watching him, a tender, doubtful smile lifting his mouth. "What?"
Starsky reached up and plucked the mistletoe from Hutch's fingers, tossing it over his shoulder.
"We're not gonna need that," he whispered.
Starsky leaned forward and was unsurprised when Hutch did the same. He closed his eyes again, determined to savor every bit of the next few moments, knowing intuitively that all the previous pleasures of his life were being distilled down to this moment, this first touch, and this man.
The first brush of their mouths was a little awkward, both of them unaccountably clumsy, given their vast and combined experience. Their noses bumped as Starsky's palm slid off the counter and he had to grab Hutch's belt to steady himself, but all was forgotten when their mouths found the perfect angle, both of them sighing with the glorious imperfection of finally getting it right. Though far from a passionless kiss, it had a breathless innocence to it. Starsky concentrated on the texture of Hutch's mouth, the dips and planes, the soft skin and the prickly edges of a five o'clock shadow. It was all terrifyingly wonderful, the fulfillment of a promise they'd made without ever knowing it.
It all changed when he felt a light pressure and intuitively opened to it, and then tentative curiosity was blown apart, replaced by a craving that reached all the way to Starsky's sneaker-clad toes. He felt Hutch's long fingers scrabbling at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, mindful only of Hutch's injury and not much else, except for the everlasting gift of this first Christmas kiss.
It was Starsky who eventually broke away, only going so far as to lean his head on Hutch's shoulder. He smiled when he felt Hutch's hand on the base of his neck, rubbing lightly before combing his fingers through the hair at Starsky's nape.
"Oh, man," Starsky panted. "That was something."
"Yeah, it was, wasn't it?" Hutch's voice was shaky with laughter. "Crazy."
Starsky lifted his head to gaze into Hutch's eyes, the start of a worried frown creasing his forehead. "Crazy good or crazy let's not do that again?"
"Crazy perfect, you dope." Hutch grinned and touched his nose to Starsky's. "Crazy us."
"Yeah, but I—and you, you're not—"
Hutch laughed outright and slid his good arm around Starsky's waist. "Yeah, we are. And have been for a long time, I think. At least," he added with a quiet sigh, "I am."
Starsky brushed his mouth against Hutch's. "Me, too, partner. Me, too."
The kiss deepened for a moment but both men were too high on adrenaline and relief to make it last. Starsky reluctantly untangled himself from Hutch's embrace, content in the knowledge that he'd found a home there that he could return to again and again.
"Still wanna pass on those onions?" he teased.
Hutch gave him a playful leer. "In about an hour, you're gonna be really glad I did."
"Right." Flustered, Starsky reached for the pan, only to have his wrist taken in a gentle clasp.
"Relax," Hutch murmured. "We got all the time we need to figure this out."
"Forever," Starsky agreed with a grin. "We got forever."
Some time in the middle of the night, Starsky woke up thirsty—and a little sore, but in the very best way. He slipped out from beneath the weight of Hutch's good arm, quietening his sleepy protests with a kiss and a soft word. He headed toward the kitchen, deciding that a glass of juice would go down well, and had just stepped onto the linoleum when his foot slipped on something rough and lumpy. Cursing, he lifted his foot and shook it, feeling the object fly free. Hoping it wasn't a spider, he flipped on the light over the stove and looked around, finally spying something in the middle of the kitchen floor.
It was that sprig of mistletoe, now flattened and limp, its tiny berries crushed and dirtied. Starsky picked it up and cradled it in his palm, surprised at how bereft he felt. It was just a twig, really, nothing more than a bunch of leaves, and yet it had turned out to be so much more. On an impulse, he dug a sandwich baggie out of a drawer and dropped the mistletoe inside. He thought about sticking it in the refrigerator, but instead went into the living room, to the bookcase that covered one wall. Searching for the thickest book he could find, he pulled it out without paying attention to the title and opened it to the middle, where he placed the baggie as close to the spine as he could. Then he closed it replaced it on the shelf, making sure that it was sitting snugly between two other books.
"Starsk?" Hutch's voice was husky with sleep. "You okay?"
Starsky gave the stiff leather cover a stroke with the back of his hand. "Yeah, I'm okay. Be right back."
"'Kay."
Starsky got his drink and rinsed the glass before setting it in the sink. The last thing he did was find a piece of scratch paper and a pencil to make a note to himself. On it, he scrawled the words "Brian Donald Something" and "Woodville Rec," then set the note beside his car keys, before scurrying back to bed and the warmth and comfort that awaited him there.
He had a feeling that he and Hutch were going to be spending a lot of time at that rec center from now on.
This was love at first sight, love everlasting: a feeling unknown, unhoped for, unexpected—in so far as it could be a matter of conscious awareness; it took entire possession of him, and he understood, with joyous amazement, that this was for life.
Feedback: email.