December 7th- What’s in a Name? by Dawnwind

The ringing phone was audible from the front steps. Starsky cleared them in one leap, jamming the key into the door lock before sprinting inside to answer.

Burdened with the take-out and mail, Hutch paused a moment to admire Starsky’s athletic prowess. Impressive strength and ability one and a half years after he’d survived three bullets in the back. He’d returned to the force, proving to all naysayers, and particularly to himself, that he could withstand the rigors of police work.

Inside the house, Hutch shut the door carefully, listening to Starsky’s one-sided conversation.

“That’s great. Thanks, Ma!” Starsky pumped a fist in the air. “First grandchild.”

And probably the only, Hutch thought privately, unless Nick Starsky’s girlfriend got knocked up again.

“Did you get to hold him?” Starsky asked his mother, grinning at Hutch, miming rocking an infant.

How did that irrepressible man continue to seduce him so easily? Hutch grinned back. “Congratulations to Nick and Sarah,” he called, setting the Chinese take-out containers on the table.

“Hutch says congrats,” Starsky relayed with a nod. “Send a picture when you can, Ma.” He hung up and snatched a spring roll from the Mandarin Palace sack.

Hutch collected forks and plates from the kitchen, surprised at how happy he felt. A baby was such a joyful proof of life, of love, and the future. His own future was about to change soon — and while he was resolute that it had to be, he had been stressing on what would come. Life would be different, but that in no way meant bad.

“Nicholas Marvin Starsky Junior was born December 15th at 5:30 am, New York time.” Starsky turned a ladder back chair around to straddle it backwards, eating his snack the entire time. “Our family’s never had a junior before. Seems kind of…”

“Remember to swallow or you’ll choke,” Hutch teased, spooning rice and walnut prawns onto a plate.

“Lazy,” Starsky concluded after a moment.

“Harsh, considering how many juniors, not to mention thirds and fourths, there are in the world,” Hutch said. He’d been christened with a grandfather’s first name, and his dad’s for the middle name, so not technically a junior, but close. “They’re honoring family, the past.”

“I know. Thing is, Nick never liked the name Marvin, and he still gives it to his kid?” Starsky helped himself to orange chicken and rice, plus another spring roll. “So I guess we’ll have to call his son Junior.”

“Maybe NM?” Hutch suggested. He toed out of his sneakers, letting some of the fine meal digest while looking around the room. He and Starsky had moved in exactly two months earlier, combining their eclectic collection of furniture and decorations. Starsky’s Mexican blanket was draped over his own couch, and his mismatched chairs were clustered around Starsky’s dinner table. Slowly but steadily, it was becoming their home, a mixture of both of them.

“Nick isn’t in any hurry to marry Sarah, and I kinda suspect they might not last the year from what Ma says.” Starsky forked up rice and chicken with a frown. “Think we ought to tell her about us? That there ain’t going to be any Starsky kids from me?”

“We’re living together.” Hutch waved a hand at the still unpacked boxes in one corner. “About time. Then we’ll tackle my folks.”

“Your sister knows.” Starsky chuckled, any hint of melancholia gone.

“She guessed.” Hutch ate more of his dinner, content to be next to his partner, facing their next goals together. “It’s a Jewish thing, right? You don’t name a child after a living relative?”

“Don’t think Nick’s been inside a synagogue since his Bar Mitzvah,” Starsky said with a shrug. “Not like I’m much different. More customary to name your kid after a family member who died.”

“If you had the opportunity, would you name a son after your dad?” Hutch asked.

Starsky barked a surprised laugh. “Schlomo? No way.” He got up to grab two beers from the fridge with a thoughtful expression and handed a bottle to Hutch. “Maybe Grandfather Polansky, th’only one with a name I liked. Avreham, or Abraham.” He took a long pull on the beer, nodding. “Abe. What about you?”

“Same. My grandfather Mattiessen. His name was Sven.”

“You’d name a twentieth century kid from Bay City Sven?” Starsky poked him affectionately. “Sounds like he’s a pirate. Arrgg.”

“Or a Viking,” Hutch countered. “What if you had a daughter?” He could almost see little, tow-headed Sven brandishing a plastic sword, running around the yard with a small, curly-haired boy named Abe. And was suddenly overwhelmed by an odd sadness that those boys would never be.

“Carmen. After Carmen Miranda,” Starsky admitted, grabbing a banana from the bowl on the table to balance playfully on his head. “I was in love with her in some Busby Berkeley flick I saw when I was around ten.”

“I like Anna,” Hutch said softly, his own youth fresh on his mind. “Quiet and sweet.”

“Your grandmother’s name!” Starsky crowed. “I met her that time we went to Duluth together.”

A memory Hutch would always hold dear; Starsky and his mormor, the Danish word for grandmother, cracking each other up with goofy jokes and trivia. “So I’m traditional.”

“Tradition…” Starsky warbled the song from Fiddler on the Roof. “Does that mean we can get a Christmas tree this year? A live tree with red and green balls, and a popcorn chain, in our own place?”

“You’re relentless.” Hutch snorted, remembering Starsky parading into his Venice Place apartment with a little fake tree in hand. “First you wanted a pumpkin by the door when we hadn’t even unpacked–”

“Still haven’t.” Starsky rolled his eyes.

“And candy for the trick or treaters.”

“Had to introduce ourselves to the neighborhood.”

“Next you’ll want lights around the edge of the roof and Santa in his sleigh perched on the chimney.”

Starsky sat up with excitement until Hutch leveled his forefinger at him. “Only push me so far,” Hutch warned with fake sternness. He had a strong feeling there would be a plastic Rudolph with a light up red nose on their miniscule front lawn in a day or so.

“What about…” Starsk stood, collecting the Chinese food cartons. “Cats?” he paused, then added, “or dogs.”

“We’ve discussed this, babe. We’re not home often enough.”

“Got our walking plans,” Starsky reminded. “By the new year, it’s the corporate world, nine to five, like a regular Joe.”

“Phoenix Foundation,” Hutch said, thinking about the meetings they’d had with the head brass. A long way from street cop/detective, but seemed interesting, and a trifle mysterious. “What brought up cats?”

“Uh…” Starsky hedged, chewing on his bottom lip. He cracked a fortune cookie as if it were the most important thing on Earth and smiled, long and sweet. “Don’t forget to say I love you,” he read. “And I did.” Starsky took a step closer, pressed up against Hutch, his hips butting Hutch’s upper arm.

Suspicious of the sudden change, Hutch regarded him closely as Starsky leaned in for a smooch on the lips. That, Hutch would never refuse, no matter how certain he was that Starsky had an ulterior motive. It was a very good kiss, long and sustaining, a warm flush running through Hutch’s body.

“Love you, blintz,” Starsky murmured against his mouth, pushing his tongue between Hutch’s lips.

Hutch latched on, sucking, breathing Starsky in as if they’d somehow merged bodies. With Starsky awkwardly bent almost in half, clutching Hutch with both hands, and the crumbs of the broken fortune cookie fluttering down like snow, this demanded a change of venue.

“Bed?” Hutch managed, his cock pulsing with immediate need.

“Yeah.” Starsky broke the suction, grabbing Hutch’s hand to haul him toward their bedroom. He nearly tripped over the door jam, trying to walk and pull down his fly at the same time.

“You’ll kill yourself,” Hutch said affectionately. He was the one who usually succumbed to some clumsy maneuver. Starsky’s tight jeans required a steady and determined hand. Both which Hutch currently possessed. He tipped Starsky toward the bed, admiring the way his lithe body arched and twisted to land on his back, knees bent and spread.

“Limber is my middle name,” Starsky taunted, waggling his fingers for Hutch to come nearer.

“It is, indeed.” Hutch situated himself between those knees, pulling Starsky’s zipper in one go and sliding the denim down his hips. Starsky braced his feet on the end of the bed, raising his butt off the mattress to facilitate Hutch’s activity. Hutch pretended he wasn’t just a little bit jealous of Starsky’s effortless moves — a perfect Setu Bandha Sarvangasana or Bridge pose — when Hutch was the one who’d been taking yoga for years.

Starsky helped out by tossing his briefs in the same direction the jeans went and then sat up to attack Hutch’s fly. The black jeans he’d been wearing puddled on the floor, his boxers following suit.

“That’s what I like to see,” Starsky said enthusiastically when Hutch slicked his turtleneck over his head to stand naked in the middle of the room. “Beee-u-tiful.”

“You’ve seen it before,” Hutch said with false modesty, preening for those bright blue eyes watching him hungrily.

“Not at–” Starsky glanced over his shoulder to the bedside clock. “Six forty-five after a slog all day where we had to practice our damned depositions twelve thousand times for the DA.”

“You exaggerate.” Hutch got onto the bed, crawling the length of Starsky’s now naked body.

“Not about this.” Starsky touched Hutch’s cheek, running a thumb along his lower lip before kissing him again.

Curling on his side, Hutch coaxed Starsky to mirror him, both catching and giving kisses as often as they could. Little nips on the neck, earlobe, and over the hard jut of the collarbone. Starsky gulped air, clasping their cocks, Hutch’s in his left hand, his own in his right. Hutch wrapped his hands around Starsky’s, pushing their cocks closer together.

When he aligned them flesh to flesh, friction sparked and jumped between them — through them. Hutch stared directly at his lover, swamped by lust and need. His entire body, every single cell, vibrated in concert with Starsky’s. He could feel Starsky’s scrotum tighten against his hand, feel Starsky’s desire as his own.

Starsky moaned, stiffening, coming slightly ahead of Hutch’s petit mort.

Bliss, languor, and luscious relaxation. Hutch spread his arms across the bed, over Starsky’s bare chest on the left. This was the life. Nothing to do but have sex and revel in the wonderful aftermath. Starsky chuckled, his chest rising and falling against Hutch’s arm.

A stray thought kept interrupting his wish to fall into a deep sleep. What the hell?

Starsky tugged the coverlet out from under himself to crawl beneath the sheets, disturbing Hutch’s rest even more so. It was cool, being December. He couldn’t lie there naked and sticky all winter night.

Hutch heaved himself upright, running a hand through his tousled hair. Maybe a shower before sleep?

“Wait…” He turned, staring at Starsky getting cozy under the blue and purple striped duvet. “This was all a distraction.” He leveled his forefinger at the culprit.

“Yeah.” Starsky yawned, unrepentant. “We always have sex before bed — or almost always. Not yesterday, but…”

“You’re trying to obscure the original discussion,” Hutch said.

“About Nicky’s baby?” Starsky went for innocent and wide-eyed.

“Cats.” Hutch stood, crossing his arms in his bad cop pose. Probably would have been more effective if he were wearing pants, but so be it. “You mentioned getting a cat. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Starsky sat up abruptly, the better to defend himself. “You’re an animal lover. Remember those kittens Larry had? Named Starsky and Hutch?”

“That was in 1976, five years ago,” Hutch stated, waiting for the full story.

“You know Cody and Melissa?” Starsky took a different track.

“No.”

“Yes, you do.” He indicated two child-sized people with his hand and joggled his elbow towards the window. “Live next door.”

“I didn’t know their names.” Hutch sat down, well used to Starsky’s long-winded, often circuitous explanations. He covered his legs with the sheets. It was chilly.

“They have a cat.”

Ah, the crux of the matter. “Who had kittens?” Hutch guessed, belatedly remembering seeing a tuxedo cat slinking around the houses.

“Yep. The week after we moved in.” Starsky nodded enthusiastically. “They’re just about eight weeks old, and Betty — Cody and Melissa’s mom — ”

“I’ve met her.” She’d brought over a delicious pumpkin pie as a welcome to the neighborhood gift.

“She told Cody he had to get rid of the kittens before Christmas or…” Starsky made a gruesome face, drawing a stiff finger across his neck.

“That’s not how kittens are euthanized,” Hutch heard himself say, even as his heart was breaking. Damn Starsky, appealing to his gentle nature. “How many did you agree to take?” he asked, caving.

Holding up two fingers, Starsky bounced enthusiastically. “A girl and a boy. Really cute. The girl looks like the mama cat and the boy is like Garfield.”

“Starsky…” Hutch had to put up some token protest.

“We’ll be around more once we start the new jobs…” Starsky wheedled. “The kids call them Two and Five, so we could name them whatever we want…”

And they’d just been discussing names. Hutch scrubbed a palm across his face, letting his fingers brush gently across his throat. This could be the only children he and Starsky ever had. “What did you have in mind?”

“Abe and…Anna?” Starsky said in a squeaky voice, clearly aware he was treading on dangerous ground.

“After our grandparents?” Hutch asked incredulously. Yet, the idea held appeal. And they were alliterative.

“You could pick,” Starsky offered.

“I like Abe and Anna,” Hutch relented, scooting closer to Starsky.

“Me, too.” Starsky kissed him triumphantly. “We’ll have to go to the pet store on Saturday. Get everything — bowls, food, catnip…”

“A cat box,” Hutch said. “Which you’ll clean because I am not having some defenseless kitten doing his business out in the yard with coyotes out in the hills behind the fence.”

“Done.” Starsky grabbed his arm, petting him as if he had fur. “You’ll see, it’ll be terrific.”

Hutch grinned, holding Starsky’s hand, looking into his joyous face. “It already is.”