(Based on a true story)
“They’re both in the kitchen,” Starsky murmured. “We could make a break for it.” He looked hopefully at his captain.
Dobey raised his eyebrows, bemused by his detective. “You mean, make a dash for the Torino? You could slide across the hood as I leaped gracefully in the passenger seat. Then you’d gun the engine, and we’d peel out with a screech of tires heading for—?”
“Huggy’s,” Starsky said, sotto voce. “He’s got the best spread in the city. Turkey and all the trimmings. Real stuffing. Real gravy. Ham. Ribs. Sweet potato casserole with marshmallows…” Starsky leaned in closer to his boss and whispered, “Green. Bean. Casserole.”
Dobey chuckled throatily. “I can tell you’re not married. I have to live with that woman. I’d have to come home sometime.”
“Hutch and I might as well be married,” Starsky complained in a normal voice. “He bosses me around, criticizes my taste in everything, and now he’s ruining my holidays. He might not have been born into my family, but somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, he put himself in charge of my life.”
“You know, Starsky, we do have a lot to be thankful for,” Dobey reminded him. “Edith and Hutch are just worried about us. That means we have people who love us. Not everybody has that.”
Starsky grunted, unconvinced. “Yeah, well, why couldn’t they love us a little less today and pick it up again tomorrow?”
Dobey laughed again. “You’re just hungry. You need a distraction. Rosie, go get the Scrabble board. Let’s see if we can entertain Uncle Dave until dinner.”
“Hey, babe, you done with that coffee?”
Hutch looked up. His unfinished (fourth) cup of the stuff was all but pulling Starsky’s eyes out of their sockets. “It’s cold by now.”
“It’s still coffee,” said Starsky, eyes glued longingly to the cup.
Hutch waved Starsky at it. “Be my guest.”
“I could kiss you!” Starsky swooped up the cup and put it to his lips.
“You kiss him all the time,” said Rosinski.
“Yeah,” said Jones, “it’s not like we don’t see you guys with your hands all over each other every day.”
Starsky purposefully knocked back the coffee. “And it’s not like we don’t see the same thing with you two,” he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That’s different,” said Jones.
“Damn right,” said Rosinski. “I had to pull him out of a burning building last week!”
“Yeah, and two days ago I had to push him out of the way before he got hit by a car,” said Jones.
“Yeah? Well me and Hutch do that, too. What are you trying to say?”
“Well, you touch each other in here,” said Rosinski. “You know, where there’s no cars.”
“So we’re friends,” said Starsky. “So what?”
“So friends don’t touch each other all the time,” said Jones.
“They don’t share a brain, either,” said Hutch, drily.
“We don’t?” said Starsky.
“God, I really hope not,” said Hutch.
“Yeah, well, just let us know when the wedding is so we can take a vacation that day,” said Jones.
“Yeah, to Outer Mongolia,” said Rosinski.
“There’s not going to be any wedding because you gotta be in love for that, and we’re not,” said Starsky.
Hutch felt his heart sink without warning or expectation and then noticed the awkward silence. “And one of us would have to be a woman. Last I knew, neither of us was named Renée.”
It was very gratifying to see Jones and Rosinski wince and walk as though they’d just been kicked in the balls.
Hutch glanced around the table, settling his gaze on his partner.
Starsky’s love of Christmas had rubbed off on Hutch, gradually, over many years.
Although, despite the many things to be thankful for; good friends, Kiko, Molly, Lisa. There was sadness about the ones that were lost, or who got away.
He didn’t mean the criminals that’d evaded the consequences of their actions, either by flight or the system failing to follow through after their arrests.
He was thinking about Gillian, Terri, Abby, even Van; mourned them for a short time.
Then turned his attention back to his husband, Starsky.
Starsky noticed Hutch watching him intently.
The furrow on Hutch’s brow deepened. That was a sure indication that his lover was thinking far darker thoughts than was acceptable on Christmas.
Starsky knew exactly what those thoughts were. He had the same ones. Fleeting visions of loves lost. Pinging at his heart strings, as they obviously did at Hutch’s. Every so often, on special days, the ‘what ifs’ were stronger. What if they hadn’t died, been cops, managed to stay in relationships, have kids.
Then reality hit, they wouldn’t have found a love that was more than they had ever imagined.
Hutch drove like a man possessed, which is what he was, after all: a man possessed with the need to find his partner.
Hutch simmered with pent-up rage that a sleepless night had done nothing to assuage. Simon Marcus and his fucking mind games.
As he raced towards the old zoo, Hutch tried to ignore the madman’s words echoing in his mind:
I dreamed Starsky’s death and he is already dying….
They’d cracked the code, but Starsky was running out of time. Marcus’ depraved minions were, if nothing else, very good at following orders.
With one last, silent plea—let him be alive, please—Hutch floored the pedal.
The Torino answered with a growl and surged forward.
Starsky drove like a man possessed, which is what he was, after all: a man possessed with the need to find his partner.
Vic Humphries’ sneering face taunted him, goading Starsky into an explosive outburst that he hadn’t regretted in the least. Starsky would do as much and worse, far worse, to anyone who harmed Hutch.
Thank God for Bobby Marsh, and poor old Sonny. But it wasn’t good news. Hutch was trapped somewhere in a canyon, exposed to the elements, and injured. And it had been two days….
With one last, silent plea—let him be alive, please—Starsky floored the pedal.
The Torino answered with a growl and surged forward.
