Stakeout
in the City of Black-Winged Angels
by
Ashkevran-Angel
For Regina –
who believes in angels
Thanks to
Dawnwind for reading first and editing
Nighttime
– Christmas Eve, 1974
Chapter
1: Staking Out
“Gotta love a stakeout,” Hutch said.
“It’s a good reminder of why I joined the force in
the first place.” He and his sarcasm leaned back
into the black leather seat of the Torino. He felt
like he disappeared into a pool of darkness -- black
leather, black shadows, his black sweater.
“A Christmas Eve
stakeout.” Starsky picked up the glum tone and
batted it back to his partner. The cheerful colors
of his blue sweater over a red shirt were washed out
by the sad cast of the dim streetlight.
“How long
we been here?” Hutch asked.
“What
time is it now?” Starsky fiddled with the steering
wheel.
The
leather creaked as Hutch shifted, pulling out his
pocket watch and squinting. “It’s just past ten.”
“What
time did we get here?” Starsky tipped his head and
looked at Hutch’s watch sideways.
“We got
here at noon.” Hutch clicked the watch case closed
and tucked it back, safe.
“So how
long we been here?” Starsky’s grin flashed white in
the layers of black and gray. “And no fair counting
on your fingers.”
“Looks
like ten hours.” Hutch paused, tilting his head. He
snorted. “You did it again, Starsk.”
“Did
what?”
“You
tricked me into answering my own question.” Hutch
batted at his partner’s thick curls, hard enough to
make his point and gentle enough to inflict no pain.
“I hate when you do that. It isn’t funny.”
Starsky
laughed. “It’s funny to me.” He poked Hutch’s
‘no-touch zone’ -- the ticklish two inches under his
right ribcage. He laughed a bit louder when Hutch
yelped a protest.
“When can
we call it a night?” Hutch asked, resigned to the
inevitable.
“I’m
guessing midnight,” Starsky said. He did a
tap-tap-tap dance on the steering wheel with thumbs
and forefingers.
Hutch
frowned and settled back down in his seat.
The wind
curled around the corner and brushed the
undercarriage of the Torino. Bells tolled from a
distant location, flinging tones and octaves into
the balmy air. A tattered Christmas tree in the yard
next to the stakeout house blinked an erratic and
dreary light show -- flash of green, flash of red,
flash of nothing. Tired desperation seemed to drift
down the street, chanting in the shadows.
The
stakeout house was as quiet as the Christmas mouse.
“Hey,
Hutch?” Starsky’s words tangled around a yawn.
“Hmmmm?”
Hutch abandoned his quest to rethread a loose piece
of leather into the seam where door met window.
“If you
were gonna give me Christmas presents -- not that you
would -- what would you give me?” Starsky slouched
lower in his seat.
“Huh?”
Hutch tucked in his lower lip, half between worry
and confusion. Starsky’s annual delight in all
things Christmas was back in full force, and Hutch
never quite knew how to respond. Particularly since
his own lack of delight in all things Christmas ran
so contrary to Starsky’s joy.
“If you
were Santa, and you were making my list -- what
would you give me?” Starsky was that bored.
“Don’t
want to play.” Hutch deepened his frown. Starsky
wasn’t going to leave him alone for a second and
once more, Hutch was torn between wanting to please
his fun-loving partner and his own more sober
thoughts.
“Play
anyway.” Starsky met Hutch’s stubborn frown with a
determined grin.
Hutch
caved. “Okay, okay, okay. Lemme think.” He crossed
his arms and put on his thinking cap.
Chapter
2: Starsky’s List
Hutch
spared one last look at the desolately silent house
-- the time sucking, time wasting stakeout house --
before turning his full attention to Starsky’s
question. As he pondered, he glanced back to his
partner. Starsky was on his best stakeout behavior,
sitting as quietly as he could. But nothing could
contain that animated quicksilver energy for long.
It bled from Starsky’s frame -- almost like an aura.
Hutch took a moment to appreciate the sight of his
partner --
the raw power, the well-proportioned frame, the
crisp line of jaw, the mood-shifting blue eyes.
“What
would I put on your Christmas list?” Hutch mulled
over the question for a moment.
Starsky’s
excited grin warmed Hutch in places he didn’t know
he had.
“Let’s
see. I’d start with a whole year of wash and wax
jobs for your beloved striped tomato.”
I would
give you safety -- I would give you a shield to
keep you from harm.
“Then I’d
give you a big box of expensive photography film so
you could run around taking pictures of your own
thumb print.”
I would
give you the wind and the sky and the trust to
cradle your dreams -- dreams that always come
true.
“And
let’s not forget a couple rolls of duct tape so you
can secure that damn mirror on your ceiling. It’s
gonna crash down someday, Starsk, and it’s gonna
kill you dead. And I sure don’t want to be the one
to find your splintered body.”
I would
give you my strength to protect your heart -- that
heart of yours -- brave enough to go the distance.
“Last but
not least, I’d give you a month of coupons for all
the pizza, burritos, and potato chips your cast iron
stomach can swallow. Without the lecture of how it’s
gonna kill you someday -- seeing as this is a
Christmas list and all.”
I would
give you my
heart and all that you ask of me.
Hutch
traced a line from Starsky’s shoulder to his elbow,
feeling just the slightest bit shy.
“There,
Starsk. That’s your list.” He winked.
Starsky
smiled back at him, a champion from the shadows, a
force of good in a city beaten by the black wings of
devils and angels. “Thanks, Hutch,” he said quietly.
“I can’t think of a better list of stuff I’ll never
get from you.”
Somewhere
overhead, light from the Christmas star battled
though haze and smog.
Chapter 3:
Hutch’s List
Quiet
settled back around Starsky, but the backdrop was
less restless now, soothed by Hutch’s playful words.
Starsky braced his left leg against the floor and
shifted to stretch his back. He studied Hutch’s
profile, enjoying the clean angle of the features.
The ambient backlighting from the streetlight and
porch lights caught the fringe of Hutch’s eyelashes.
Something about the sweep of those pale eyelashes
always fascinated him -- feather-light and so fair
that they were nearly invisible. Hutch’s long
jeans-clad legs were in the customary position,
half-folded, knees poking upward.
“Do you
want a Christmas list too, buddy?” he asked.
Hutch
laughed and nodded. “Why not? What’s in your sack of
loot for me, Santa Starsk?”
Starsky
smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Terrific. The
first thing you get is a jumbo box of guitar picks.
Those glow in the dark kind, with polka dots.”
I would
give you a lifetime of people who never hurt you,
never abuse your trust -- people you can count on.
Like me.
“Then I’d
give you a brand new car -- something black,
low-slung -- a souped-up muscle machine with a red
interior. ‘Cause it would suit you so well.”
I would
give you faith when you are lost and doubting --
faith in the storms and faith through the valley.
“And of
course, you got to have some comic books to replace
all that high falutin' poetry on your bookshelves.”
I would
give you the freedom to fall and a safe place to
land -- a place where you are never abandoned or
alone.
“And
bringing up the rear, I’d give you a month supply of
wheat germ and sprouts and kelp to grind up and
torture.”
I would
give you my love -- an eternity of it -- the most
love…the best love.
Starsky
raised his eyebrows and spread his hands, waiting
for a reaction from his quiet partner.
“Nice
list,” Hutch said softly. “Just what I’ve always
wanted. Thanks, Starsk.”
Pleased
with himself, Starsky slapped Hutch’s shoulder and
flashed a grin, feeling as victorious as any
Christmas elf from a picture book.
The radio
crackled to life. “Zebra-Three, come in.”
Hutch
grabbed the mike. “This is Zebra-Three, over.”
“Zebra-Three,
Captain Dobey is calling it for the night. You’re
off duty.” The dispatcher sounded steady, but tired.
“Oh. Merry Christmas.”
“Zebra-Three,
copy,” Hutch responded. “Merry Christmas back at
you. Over. Out.”
“Game
over.” Starsky yawned.
“Not a
minute too soon.” Hutch scrubbed at his tired eyes
with the back of his hand.
Chapter
4: Angels Drinking Beer on High
High
overhead, at the end of the firmament’s off-ramp,
two guardian angels drained their beer mugs and
unfolded their wings.
“Break’s
over,” said the dark-haired one, looking down at the
land and lights below. “My boy Starsky just got off
duty, so he’ll be cruising like a demon in that red
car of his. It’s time to fly back down there and hop
onto his shoulder.”
The
blond-haired angel tossed a few coins on the bar.
“That means my boy Hutch is in motion, too. Damn --
”
“You
aren’t supposed to say ‘damn’!” The dark-haired
angel shook his translucent finger, chiding.
“Sorry.
I’ve been hanging around our humans too long.”
Angel-blond offered a devilish smile.
Wings
interlaced, they buzzed back to earth, past the
angels shoving crystals spheres around and the
angels dancing on the heads of pins. Riding nearby,
in a beam of golden light, the angelic chorus
skittered between the clouds, clutching their harps
and flutes. Some of the angel musicians looked
stressed -- a combination of running late and
performance anxiety. Christmas was their busiest
time, and the pressure was less than godly.
The
guardian angels saluted them smartly.
“Break a
wing!” Starsky’s angel called out to the group. He
turned to Hutch’s angel as they continued their
leisurely glide back to terra firma. “Did you hear
what my boy’s heart said to your boy’s heart?”
“I sure
did. And I heard what my boy said in return.”
Angel-blondie banked his wings against the buffeting
wind, losing a few white feathers in the process.
“What do
you think about all that stuff -- about hearts and
love and trust and all?” Starsky’s angel landed on
top of the Torino.
“I think
they mean every word of it,” replied Hutch’s angel,
setting down silently by his side.
“Think
they’ll figure it out on their own?”
“Nope.”
“Think we
oughta help them along?” Angel-dark squeezed back
through the open Torino window and took up his post
on Starsky’s shoulder.
“They’ll
never get the show on the road if we don’t.” As
Angel-blond answered, he did a back flip and landed
on Hutch’s shoulder. He clung there, gritting his
teeth as Starsky started the Torino.
The
Torino crept slowly and quietly away from its berth
by the curb and roared to life a few blocks away as
Starsky throttled down.
Chapter
5: To Open Doors…
Starsky
and Hutch, side by side, didn’t feel the sweep of
wings surrounding them, enfolding them. They didn’t
hear the benediction of words, as their guardian
angels called on the power of Christmas dreams and
Christmas wishes. But they felt magic and promise,
flowing across them and around them -- flowing from
fingertip to fingertip…finally igniting a shared and
unspoken spark of love.
A door,
hard-wired to the deepest yearnings of their hearts,
opened.
Hutch
curled his hand around Starsky’s kneecap. In answer,
Starsky brushed his palm over Hutch’s warm, inverted
handshake.
Two pairs
of blue eyes met for a fraction of a second, filled
with wonder and a dawning truth.
Somehow,
a search had ended. And another had begun.
Hutch
squeezed Starsky’s wrist.
Starsky
tenderly trailed his knuckles along the curve of
Hutch’s jaw.
Carols
floated out from open church doors. The sweet notes
mixed with the joyful timpani of the bells ringing
out the message of hope – ringing in the first hour
of Christmas.
~Finis~