December 14th- A Spotty Christmas by Curlew

One look at Hutch as he came through the door and Starsky rapidly rewrote his plans for the evening.

“Oh babe — did he walk?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’ll run you a bath. Do you want tea or wine?”

“It’s OK– I’ll just have a quick shower.”

Starsky put his arms around Hutch’s neck and gently pulled the blond head down so that he could kiss the furrow between the brows. “Bath. No arguments. Tea, beer, or wine?”

“Tea, then wine?”

“You got it. Go get undressed.”

Hutch was soon stretched out in herb scented water that was slightly too hot, the way he liked it, a mug of tea at hand, Gordon Lightfoot singing quietly in the background. Starsky took a moment to appreciate the parts of the beloved body tantalizingly revealed by the bubbles, then left his lover alone. Fifteen minutes, he judged, for him to decompress on his own, then a little wine, a little talk, a little food, and the evening might get back on track. He glanced quickly round the room for anything that could possibly trigger angst, shut the greenhouse door, pushed the big cardboard box out of sight, turned the dimmed lights back up and propped the guitar against the sofa just in case. Then he went to Hutch’s closet and hauled out a new white tee and old navy velour jogging pants. They were soft and comfortable. And, Starsky thought with a grin, Hutch looked super hot in a plain white tee.

By the time Hutch emerged, rubbing his hair with a towel, Starsky had opened a bottle of the golden Sauternes Hutch loved, and made a tray of tiny snacks — crackers with feta, blinis with sour cream and crab, avocado on rye, cubes of peach and watermelon. All things that might catch an exhausted, fraught Hutch’s appetite or that he might eat without noticing.

“‘M not hungry.”

“I know. But I will be soon. Now nobody has to get up.”

Hutch looked at him sideways — the day Starsky regarded a plate of hors d’oeuvres as an acceptable dinner had never dawned — but decided to let it pass.

Starsky caught the look, and ate a cracker and a piece of watermelon to prove a point.

“Ready to talk about it?”

Hutch sipped his wine.

Starsky assessed the situation. Too soon to offer a cuddle but maybe a casual hand on a shoulder… no, too soon for that too. He settled for sitting cross-legged against the arm of the big grey sofa so he could listen properly as soon as there was anything to listen to.

“I screwed up. And Harrison walked.”

“And the rest of the justice system? What was it doing while Sargent Hutchinson was single handedly releasing a perp onto the street?”

Hutch’s head went up angrily. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not laughing at you, babe — you know I’m not.”

“Then…”

Starsky leaned over and popped a blini into Hutch’s mouth before he could close it, then topped off their glasses. “Eat that while I tell you how it went down. You were giving your evidence, and Harrison’s attorney picked up on something minor — the color of a car or something like that. You lost your thread for a moment and he did the ‘no further questions’ routine before you could pick it up again. And, because Underhill is the shittiest DA ever to graduate from a bargain basement correspondence course, he didn’t call you again for clarification. Harrison’s guy claimed reasonable doubt, and the judge agreed. Am I right?”

Hutch slumped back. “Yeah — something like that.”

“So it’s not your fault. The case you put up was solid. I know — I read it. It’s not your job to sell it. That’s the DA’s job, and if he’s shit, then….”

“But I….”

“I know. But you’re a cop, not an actor. Win some, lose some. We’ll get him for something else after Christmas. And talking of Christmas….”

“Oh, Starsk, I’m sorry. You wanted to go get a tree today! Our first tree together….”

Starsky grinned. “Why d’you think I clocked off early? It’s in the greenhouse. It’s OK — we’ve got plenty of time. Still need to untangle you a bit.”

“Sometimes I feel I’m being managed.”

“You are being managed. Grab that snack plate, then come put your head here.” He patted his shoulder invitingly.

Hutch hesitated, then, the final knots beginning to loosen, he slid along the sofa, depositing the plate on Starsky’s chest. “Oh boy, I love you in this top. The color does something to your eyes and it’s so soft to lie on. Kinda like a kitten….”

“A kitten, huh? You wait ’til after we get the tree done — I’ll show you how much of a kitten I am.”

Hutch lifted his face to be kissed, then settled back against the blue velour, snagging a piece of rye bread as he did. “There are tiger kittens… wait, have we got decorations?”

“Is the Chief Rabbi Jewish? Of course we got decorations!”

Hutch laughed, and Starsky smiled a secret, satisfied smile at the sound of the very last knot giving way.

“Mind you, there are a few we’ll have to take down before my mom comes. Hutch, remember last year you said you weren’t allowed to decorate the tree when you were a kid?”

Hutch nodded “My mother did it by herself. She said we might do it wrong.”

“Thing you gotta understand, babe, is that you can’t decorate a Christmas tree wrong. When I was a kid, it was like a free for all, and it always looked fantastic.”

Hutch grinned. “I love thinking about you and Nicky, all curls and yarmulke — with your menorah and your Christmas tree….”

“Eating sufganiyot and gingerbread men, turkey and cranberry sandwiches made with challah. Hutch, if my mom had known about Diwali and if Kwanzaa had been invented, we woulda celebrated them too.”

“I don’t think my mom knew how to celebrate.” A shadow passed over his face, and Starsky kissed him again.

“Gotta lot of years to make up, Blondie. Starting tonight.” He reached over the back of the sofa, and retrieved a small gift bag. “Remember in the summer when we went to interview that whackjob soup maker in the cult camp near Anaheim?”

“The qualified herbalist with a practice in the cooperative artisan center near Anaheim? Yes, I remember.”

“Yeah, whatever. Well, when I decided you could manage without my help….”

“You mean when I maneuvered you out before you asked him if he used frogs’ eyes in his remedies?”

“Yeah, whatever. I went for a look round and found a glassmaker. She was real pretty, so I went to talk to her — and her stuff was beautiful. I asked if she could make… well, anyway, this is for you. Your first decoration.”

He handed Hutch the bag — smiling at his characteristic discomfiture at being given a present.

“Oh, Starsk, you shouldn’t have. Shall I open it?”

“Yes, I should have and of course — what else would you do with it?”

Hutch peered into the bag, then smiled in delight as he pulled out the decoration and put it on his palm. It was a white dog with black spots, beautifully made in glass, one ear cocked and head tilted as if waiting for a human finger to scratch under his chin.

“Starsk — it’s my dog!”

“One day, when we get our picket fence, I’ll buy you a real one, but until then….”

“Come on.” Hutch scrambled up. “Let’s get busy. I want to see him on the tree. Go get it — I’ll open more wine.”

Hutch finally vetoed the last strand of silver tinsel, overcoming Starsky’s objections by pointing out that it would obscure the other decorations. He reluctantly agreed, and instead wrapped it round Hutch’s neck like a scarf — then caught his breath as the light reflected up onto Hutch’s face, mirroring the glint in his hair.

“Oh, boy,” he breathed. “You look… like some kind of angel. So beautiful. So….”

Hutch held out his arms. “So yours.”

Later, they sprawled, sated and happy, on the big sofa, Starsky’s bare feet in Hutch’s lap, one ankle lovingly held in a big, golden hand.

“Wanna cushion, babe?”

“You kidding? I’m never going to put my head on those.”

“We agreed. You choose the sofa. I choose the cushions.”

Hutch opened sleepy blue eyes.

“You have to agree, I made a great choice. Why are you wearing a Father Christmas hat?”

Before Starsky could think of a credible answer, Hutch was asleep. Starsky adjusted the zebra print cushion under his head, took a last look at his tinseled lover glowing under the Christmas tree lights, and at the tiny spotty dog guarding him. Smiling, knowing himself to be the luckiest, happiest man in America, he fell asleep too.