December 11th- You Gotta Believe, Babe by PFL

“This is all your fault, you know.” Starsky broke the silence in the car.

“What’s that?” Hutch surreptitiously tried to ease the cramp in his leg. His car seat was jammed, so he couldn’t move it back any further, but he knew better than to complain about it to Starsky.

“That we’re on a stakeout. On Christmas Eve.”

“Starsky, you don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“That’s exactly my point! If I was partners with any other guy, I’d get Christmas Eve off. But no, they know that I don’t celebrate and you’re an old Scrooge.”

“I am not a Scrooge. I just think Christmas has gotten so commercialized it’s lost all meaning. What’s the point? We might as well be working.”

“See?” Starsky waved his hand. “That’s what I’m talking about. Scrooge.”

Hutch smiled a little and shook his head. “That’s as may be, but it’s not my fault we’re on a stakeout. That’s all down to you.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I wasn’t the one complaining to everyone at headquarters. They couldn’t get rid of us fast enough.” Hutch gestured towards the house about a half block away. “How likely is it that Martinelli is going to make a beeline for his girlfriend after jumping bail? He’s long gone by now. But we’re stuck here waiting for him because of you.”

“Well, he might show.” Starsky sounded subdued.

Hutch stretched. “Anyway, it’s not so bad, is it? Nice and peaceful out.” He winced a little as his leg cramped again.

“If you don’t mind being a sardine. We’d be a lot more comfortable in my car.”

“Martinelli knows your car. He’d see it and be out of here before—”

“You just said he’s long gone.”

“Well—ow—if he is idiotic enough to show up tonight, I don’t want to miss him.”

“Me neither. But I’d rather be at home eating and drinking… What do you drink on Christmas Eve?”

“Eggnog.” Hutch glanced at Starsky and was rewarded with a grimace and a shudder. “It helps if there’s a high alcohol content.”

“People get plastered on Christmas Eve?”

Hutch widened his eyes and nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Huh. Well, okay then, what do you eat?

“Starsk—”

“Go on, tell me about a traditional Hutchinson Christmas Eve.”

“Which part? The arguments? The gifts nobody wanted? The silent dinners?” Hutch looked out the windshield, well aware of Starsky’s quiet presence beside him. He sighed and gave in. “It wasn’t always bad. The last years…well, I think they were just worn out pretending they were living the American dream.”

“In Florida?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Duluth?”

“That was where all the arguments started.” But Hutch found himself smiling a little as he thought back. “It wasn’t so bad when I was a kid, though. We’d have a tree and there was always snow.”

“I thought you didn’t like snow.”

“I do at Christmas. Who doesn’t like snow at Christmas?”

“It makes it easier for the sleigh and reindeer, huh?”

Hutch laughed. “My grandfather used to make tracks in the snow—he’d show them to me on Christmas day. ‘You’ve got to believe, Kenny,’ he’d say.”

“Sounds like a great guy.”

“Yeah.” Hutch looked away, out the side window. It still hurt to think about him, even after all these years.

“So, you’d spend Christmas Eve waiting on Santa?”

He glanced again at Starsky, and couldn’t help but smile at his evident enthusiasm. Starsky always did like to hear stories about Hutch’s childhood. Hutch couldn’t really imagine why. “Uh…no. My mother’s family was German, so we celebrated on Christmas Eve. We’d eat dinner, then open all the presents.” Hutch shifted in his seat. “That was one of the few things Van liked about my family. She liked to sleep in on Christmas morning.”

“Hmm. Must’ve been hard to go to sleep after all that, though, when you were a kid.”

Hutch shrugged. “I don’t suppose it was any different for kids waiting for Christmas morning. Worse, probably.”

“I kind of like anticipation.”

“You would’ve been up every five minutes asking if Santa had come.”

“So, what were the tracks for, then, If Santa didn’t come overnight?”

“Well, you see, Grandpa would take me out for a drive to look at the Christmas lights. And, miraculously, Santa would arrive while we were out. The tracks were there the next morning to prove it. Even when I knew it was my folks putting the presents out, I liked going out for the drive with Grandpa. We’d bundle up against the cold and drive through the neighborhoods. It was quiet on the streets and the Christmas lights would be on and you could see people gathering in their homes. You could believe in the magic, you know? Even when I said I didn’t anymore. And anyway—” He broke off, looked down.

“What?”

It was our time together, he was going to say, which was true enough. But there in the dark car on Christmas Eve, with Starsky’s warm presence next to him, he found himself telling the whole truth: “There was magic. Because every Christmas morning I’d wake up, and there’d be a present on the end of the bed. It was always the best present, too—Captain America, maybe, or Cracker Jacks and a Baby Ruth bar, or, one year, a Cubs baseball hat.”

“Your grandpa?” Starsky’s voice was quiet.

Hutch nodded. “Yeah. I never caught him, though.” He glanced at Starsky. “He’d always look at me on Christmas morning as if to say: ‘See? You’ve gotta believe’.” He looked down again at his hands.

“What happened?”

Trust Starsky to guess it wasn’t all a happy memory. “He had a stroke just before Christmas when I was thirteen. In those days they restricted visitors, you know, especially kids. But I got to see him on Christmas Eve morning. He was in bad shape—I don’t know if he even knew we were there.”

“I bet he knew.”

“Maybe. He died two days later.” Hutch drew in a breath. “After that, Christmas was just…” He shrugged.

“I’m glad you had him for a time then, at least.” Hutch felt Starsky’s hand on his thigh as he rubbed and patted it gently.

“Yeah, well, we all grow up, right?” Hutch smiled at Starsky, then turned his head quickly to look out the window. He’d never told anyone about his grandfather, or his Christmas morning gifts, not even his parents. Most especially not his parents. Suddenly, Hutch frowned as he caught movement near Mary Franklin’s dark house. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?” Starsky’s tone of voice told Hutch he’d snapped into working mode.

“By the tree there—see that shadow?”

“Martinelli?” Starsky was already reaching for the door.

“How stupid can he—? Come on.” They climbed out of the car. Starsky moved swiftly forward on their side of the street. Hutch circled around the car to give Starsky time to get into position. He crossed the street, his eyes on Martinelli who was at the house now, hunched over the front door knob. Was he picking the lock? Hutch frowned, hurrying forward. “Martinelli!”

Martinelli straightened and turned at the same time. Hutch caught a gleam of light on metal in Martinelli’s hand, then heard Starsky’s shout: “Hutch! Gun!” He dropped to the ground and rolled just as he heard a gun shot. He looked up in time to see Starsky barreling into Martinelli, taking him to the ground in a bear hug.

“Starsky!” Hutch lunged to his feet. He heard a muffled gun shot and for a moment he froze, as if ice had suddenly solidified within his veins, then he ran towards the two men on the ground. They moved as he reached them, separating a little. Hutch got a hand on Starsky’s upper arm and hauled him to his feet. “Are you okay? Starsk?”

“Don’t let him—” Starsky had a similar hold on Martinelli’s arm as he got to his feet. “Grab him!”

Hutch automatically obeyed, but his kept his hold on Starsky as well. “Are you hurt?” Martinelli seemed dazed as he stood beside them.

“No.” Starsky swayed a little and Hutch tightened his grip. “Just hit my head. The shot—” He broke off, looked around, then at Martinelli. “Missed us both, I guess. Huh.”

“You idiot! Why the hell—” But he was interrupted as the porch light came on and the front door opened to reveal an irate Mary Franklin.

“What is all this? Why are you—” She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Martinelli. “Vinnie!”

“Mary!” Martinelli started forward, but Hutch and Starsky both halted him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you. I had to see—” He stopped speaking as a man appeared behind Mary and put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s true. You…bitch!” Martinelli lunged towards the couple, pulling Hutch and Starsky with him, but they hauled him back.

“I told you I was through with you, Vinnie, if you got in trouble one more time!”

“I’m going to kill you, I’m going to kill you both!” Martinelli struggled against their holds on him.

“Settle down, Martinelli!” Hutch maneuvered Martinelli into the side of house. “Starsk, you got cuffs?”

Mary glared at Martinelli. “Don’t you threaten me, you little—”

“When I get out, I’m going—” Martinelli tried to break Hutch’s hold without success.

“You’re not getting out, you stupid jerk, not for years.”

“All right!” Starsky shouted. “Enough out of both of you!” He cuffed Martinelli while Hutch held him still. Starsky looked at Mary. “The sooner you go inside, the sooner we can get him out of here.”

“Good!” Mary turned to go back in her house, but then she discovered the lock pick that Martinelli had apparently dropped. “You were going to sneak up on us while we slept? You bastard! You utter ass—”

“Shut up!” Starsky yelled. “You,” he pointed at Mary, “go inside. You,” he grabbed the cuffed Martinelli, “come with me.” He dragged Martinelli away towards the car.

Hutch retrieved Martinelli’s gun and the lock pick. “Good night,” he said to Mary who was inside the house once again. He glanced at the silent blond man behind her. “Merry Christmas.” He turned and headed for the car.

By the time they drove Martinelli to Metro, booked him, and wrote their report, their shift was over. They walked to the parking lot together, where Starsky had left his car. It was a cloudy night, and smelled like it was going to rain, although none had fallen so far. It reminded him of Christmas in Florida. Perhaps it was the memory of loneliness that prompted it, but he found himself asking what he had decided only yesterday not to ask: “Come on over to my house? I’ll feed you breakfast.”

Starsky stopped walking and looked at him, not hiding either his pleasure or suspicion. “Feed me what for breakfast?”

“Bacon and eggs.”

“Since when do you have bacon?”

“Since I knew we’d be working Christmas Eve.” It was the truth, even if he had changed his mind about inviting Starsky over.

Starsky smiled. “Yeah? All right, then.” His smile dimmed a little as he looked away. “I’ll, um, meet you there, okay?”

Hutch shrugged. “Yeah, good idea.” He thought his voice sounded normal, but his stomach and throat both felt tight. Starsky, he thought, wanted his car at the ready in case it got…awkward. And that was exactly why Hutch had changed his mind, dammit. He got into his car, shut the door, and hit the steering wheel. “Fuck.” He closed his eyes. He had promised nothing would change, and he’d keep that promise. If Starsky didn’t trust him— No, he wouldn’t go down that road. Starsky was coming over, just as he always would have done. Leave it at that. Opening his eyes, he started the car and headed for home. It had been a month—a little over a month, since he’d—they’d—had sex with each other.

It hadn’t happened as he’d wanted or dreamed it would be. He hadn’t taken Starsky to his bed and shown him what love could mean between them. Instead, it had happened in a grimy, abandoned apartment building where he had nearly died, and Starsky had been shaking with adrenaline and fear and need. He’d grabbed Hutch in his arms and they’d held on to each other until Starsky had suddenly tried to pull back.

“Sorry,” Starsky had mumbled.

“No, there’s no need.” He didn’t know why he had lost the control he had maintained for years, why he’d blurted out, finally: “Let me help you.” Maybe it had been because he was still shocked by the way the floor had collapsed on him, his only line to safety the grip Starsky had had on him. It had been some time since he’d feared death, but he had been scared then—scared of pulling Starsky in with him. Whatever the reason, he’d pressed against Starsky, shown him his own arousal and how they might help each other. Starsky had stared at him, his expression shocked, his mouth open, but then he’d taken Hutch’s mouth with his own.

It had been fast, and hard, but he had gloried in it nevertheless. They had kissed voraciously, and he had taken Starsky’s cock into his hands and stroked him to release. He had taken Starsky’s cry into his mouth as well, and then he’d come himself with very little more than pressure. Afterwards, they had clung to each other again, breathing heavily. “Hutch,” Starsky had said, and then nothing more.

Cold reality, finally, had squeezed the bubble of joy that had been rising within him. “It’s okay.” He had gently disengaged from Starsky.

“I can’t,” Starsky had whispered, eyes on the floor.

Oh God, he knows. The pain he’d felt inside had been fierce. He hadn’t expected Starsky to want sex with him, but he had hoped to hide how much it had meant to him. Fool. But he’d smiled because what else could he have done? Maybe he couldn’t hide his need from Starsky, but he could hide his pain. “You know it won’t matter. This was just…special circumstances. Nothing’s changed.”

He had done his best since then to prove that, and Starsky had played along. Hutch was a master at pretending—he’d had practice at it for most of his life. It had worked, they were back to normal—until tonight, when they had suddenly both been self-conscious. Dammit. Hutch hit the steering wheel. He should’ve just invited Starsky over in the first place, kept it casual, so Starsky wouldn’t have thought about it. But Christmas always put him on edge. There had been too many disappointments at Christmas time. Well. He had learned to master that pain long ago, he would do it again for Starsky’s sake.

There were Christmas lights strung on many of the houses in Venice, but few lights were showing in the homes. Hutch supposed there were children trying to sleep, and adults snatching what sleep they could before their children would wake. The breeze was cool, and the rain arrived at last as he made his way to his own home. It was nothing like real Christmas, and that somehow cheered him.

“About time you showed up,” Starsky grumbled as Hutch let himself into the apartment.

Hutch shut the door. “Well, we’re not all trying to drive like Mario Andretti.”

“That’s a good thing in your car.” Starsky gestured towards the kitchen. “Come on, I got the bacon out and turned on the stove.”

Hutch followed him into the kitchen. “You didn’t believe I had any, did you?”

“Would I disbelieve you?” Starsky grinned.

“Did you notice it’s fake bacon?”

“Wha—?”

Hutch couldn’t help but laugh at Starsky’s horrified expression. “Would I do that to you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you would.”

“Well, it’s real bacon and eggs tonight.” Hutch separated the bacon strips and put them in the frying pan.

Starsky retrieved two bottles of beer from the fridge. “It’s really more ‘today’.”

Hutch felt the tightness of his own smile. “It’s still dark, so it’s still Christmas Eve in my book.”

“Okay. Christmas Eve it is.” Starsky popped off the bottle caps and handed one of the bottles to Hutch. “Happy Christmas Eve.” He clinked his bottle against Hutch’s.

They ate quickly, then Starsky volunteered to clean up and Hutch left him to it. He wandered into the darkened greenhouse, breathing in the comforting aroma of vegetation. The rain had continued while they ate. He didn’t miss snow, he told himself. It was cold and a pain to deal with. He liked California, where Christmas was like every other day. No buildup, no disappointment. No hope for miracles. The light in the kitchen area switched off and was replaced by the soft glow of a lamp, but Hutch lingered in the eternal summer he’d created in his greenhouse. You’ve got to believe, Kenny. But wishes couldn’t change reality, not even on Christmas.

“Hey.” Starsky’s voice was quiet behind him.

“Finished?” Hutch stood a moment longer, gathering himself before he turned and found Starsky very close. He caught his breath briefly in surprise.

Starsky put his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “You seem…sad.” Starsky’s grip tightened. “That’s not right.”

Hutch wanted to shrug, tell him it had been a long night, make a joke, but there was something in the way Starsky was standing with him that held him still. He was grateful that the shadows in the greenhouse hid his expression. It wasn’t fair to foist his yearning on to Starsky. He knew that. But he loved him so—all the enthusiasm and loyalty and bedrock certainty that was Starsky.

“Ah, Hutch.”

And suddenly, shockingly, he was kissing Starsky. He didn’t know how it had happened—who had made the move—but when he tried to pull back, he felt Starsky resist the move. So Hutch gave in to his need. He cupped Starsky’s head in his hands, kissed him deeply, and felt Starsky’s hands on his back, pulling him even closer. Still, he had to know, had to be certain. He broke the kiss, rested his forehead against Starsky’s, mastered his fear enough to speak. “Is this okay? Is it?” He kept his eyes closed, but he couldn’t help but kiss the skin so close to his mouth.

“Bed.” Starsky’s voice was deep, and a little rough. “Let’s do this properly.”

Starsky tugged at him and Hutch finally opened his eyes. He didn’t want to move, irrationally afraid, somehow, that Starsky would change his mind. But Starsky just smiled and kissed him and moved backwards, pulling Hutch along with him. They made slow progress towards the bed, stopping to kiss and taste each other. He began to believe in the welcome he found in Starsky’s mouth, that they would ‘do this properly,’ as Starsky had said. But there was a small gift of his own he could offer. “Wait here,” he said softly, as he broke free of Starsky’s hold.

“Hutch.”

He brushed a hand over Starsky’s face. “Only a moment.” He walked to the lamp and switched it off, leaving only the city lights outside to illuminate the room. It seemed safer that way, and Starsky didn’t object when he returned to him, just took hold of his hand and pulled him the rest of the way to the bed. Hutch unbuttoned Starsky’s shirt and pulled his t-shirt out of his jeans so he could, at last, touch skin. He heard Starsky’s sharp intake of breath as his stomach muscles quivered under Hutch’s hand. He pulled the t-shirt up and over Starsky’s head, and then swiftly took off his own shirt. They came together, skin against skin, and his hands roamed freely over Starsky’s back as he held him close. He breathed in the scent of Starsky’s skin, and felt the unmistakable evidence of Starsky’s arousal. Delight surged through him. “Starsk,” he whispered, eyes closed. Then he kissed Starsky’s neck, and collar bone, chest, and stomach, as he went down on his knees in front of him.

“God… Hutch.” Starsky gasped. “Oh, don’t stop.”

Hutch grinned. “Gotta get you free, then.” He batted Starsky’s hands away from his belt, and undid it himself. They worked together to get Starsky’s jeans and underwear off. He stroked Starsky’s cock, loving the hiss is elicited from Starsky. “Easy. Want me to suck you off here?”

“Yes. No.” Starsky’s voice was strained.

Hutch grinned again. “Decisive as usual.”

“Shut up.” Starsky gripped Hutch’s shoulder. “I’m not doing this alone.”

“I should hope not.”

“Get your pants off, Hutch.”

“Yes, sir.” Hutch stood, but not before he placed a kiss on Starsky’s cock that elicited a very satisfying moan. He finished undressing, then let Starsky tug him down onto the bed. It was right, so exquisitely right to be lying there with Starsky, free at last to not only touch, as they had always done, but to caress, explore, arouse. He had imagined what it would be like to rub his face against Starsky’s chest, tongue the line of hair that led from chest to groin, but he hadn’t thought of the shudders that went through Starsky’s body, or the way he writhed under Hutch’s hands. And when he finally took Starsky’s heavy cock in his mouth, the ragged sound in Starsky’s voice as he cried out Hutch’s name, was nearly enough to cause him to come then and there.

He got control of himself by concentrating on Starsky’s pleasure. He used his hands and mouth and teeth to drive Starsky right to the brink of orgasm, then held him there while he played with him, just a little, just enough to make Starsky curse and beg. When he let him come, he took all that Starsky had to give into himself. Afterwards, he lay with his cheek on Starsky’s stomach, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“What, you think that was funny?” Starsky still sounded a little breathless.

“Yeah.” Hutch lazily licked around Starsky’s belly button.

Starsky’s hand touched Hutch’s head, stroked his hair. “You like turning me into lasagna?”

“Lasagna?”

“Flat and wiggly and coming apart at the seams.”

Hutch let out his breath in a huff, and smiled. “Oh.” He buried his face against Starsky’s skin.

“Come on.” Starsky’s hand slid to Hutch’s shoulder. “Come up here.”

“Why don’t you come down here?”

“Because I don’t think I can move yet. Come on.”

Hutch felt the smirk on his face as he shifted up, and then Starsky’s mouth was on his, tasting him—tasting himself—and lust drove every other thought out of Hutch’s mind. Before he knew it, he was on his back and Starsky was repeating on him everything he had done to Starsky. “Copy cat,” he gasped out as Starsky moved down his body.

“Always been a fast learner.”

Hutch couldn’t help but thrust as Starsky’s hand closed around his cock, it felt so good held in that warm, hard hand. There was a pause and Hutch suddenly realized what Starsky was going to do next. “Starsk, you don’t— Ah! Shit!” Starsky’s mouth engulfed his cock. Hutch tried to hold back, give him time to adjust, but the very idea that he was fucking Starsky’s mouth—that Starsky was the one responsible for that hot pressure moving on his cock, was enough to send him right to the edge, needing completion now. He groaned and pumped, undone by a combination of passion, love and fear. When he came, it seemed to last forever, and yet was over far too soon. He lay gasping until he felt Starsky move. He reached down to him, running a hand over his shoulder to his neck. “You okay?”

He felt as well as heard the rumble of Starsky’s laugh. “Stupid question.” Starsky crawled up the bed towards him, and Hutch wrapped his arms around him. He wanted him close, wanted to hold him for as long as he would allow it. Starsky seemed to understand, because he relaxed against him, face buried in Hutch’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Hutch whispered.

“I love you, Hutch.” Starsky’s voice was soft, as if he was already drifting towards sleep.

Hutch smiled. “Me, too.” He moved just enough to grab the sheet to pull over them before settling next to Starsky again. He knew Starsky loved him. Why else would he have given this gift? He must have seen the yearning Hutch had tried to hide—understood Hutch’s need, as he understood him in everything else. Hutch held on a little tighter, a bittersweet ache growing inside him. Starsky’s gift wasn’t—couldn’t be—permanent, and Hutch would never demand that of him. But, oh, he would savor this one moment. He closed his eyes, breathed in Starsky’s scent, felt the hard muscle of the man who watched his back every day. All he ever wanted was here in his arms. It was enough—more than enough—to have had just this night. In the morning, when the sun brought a new day, he’d set Starsky’s free, with no recriminations. A Christmas day gift.

He didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to absorb every minute that passed. But he felt Starsky relax into sleep, and the steady breathing soothed him like a drug. Safe, here in my arms. He closed his eyes. It was more than he had ever expected, though he knew the boundless generosity that Starsky had within him. Sleep was claiming him, he could feel it pulling him down to dreams that wouldn’t match the pleasure of this fleeting reality. If only it could go on. If only. If… And despite all that life had taught him, he found himself wishing for the impossible. “Believe,” he murmured, as he slipped into sleep.

A shaft of sunlight woke Hutch as he lay on his back. It must be late morning. He felt rested, better than he’d felt in weeks. He wanted to stay in bed, but— Movement next to him suddenly brought memories of the night before flooding into his brain. Starsky! He opened his eyes, turned his head, and there was Starsky still next to him, although further away than when they had fallen asleep. His stomach contracted, feeling a mixture of joy and regret. He smiled, though, as Starsky opened his eyes. “Morning,” he said softly, feeling a faint trace of fear.

“Yeah.” Starsky blinked a few times, then smiled. “Good morning.”

He resisted the urge to touch Starsky, and rested his arm above his own head instead.

Starsky sat up, rubbed his face with his hands. “It’s Christmas morning, huh?”

“Yeah. Well, afternoon, probably.”

“Does that still count?”

Hutch frowned. “For what?”

Starsky looked him, his face serious. Hutch did his best to meet the steady gaze, but finally he lowered his eyes. “Hey.” Starsky turned towards Hutch, propped himself on one elbow as he brought his face close to Hutch’s. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Hutch froze. He stared at Starsky.

“Yeah, thought so.” Starsky brought his other hand up and cupped Hutch’s face. “Not ever. D’you understand?”

“I—” He broke off. It felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Starsky sighed. “I just needed time to think. It’s new to me.” His gaze was steady. “But I figured it out. It’s you, and me. We don’t need no one else. Never have.” His fingers stroked Hutch’s cheek. “Never will. Okay?”

Hutch covered Starsky’s hand with his own. “You already know what I want.”

“Yeah, but do you believe me?”

It was Christmas morning, and the gift most dear to his heart was waiting for him, just as it should be. Astonished joy filled him, chasing away shadows and doubts. “Well, you could always prove it to me by eating properly—you know, raw egg, wheat germ—” He broke off as Starsky slid on top of him.

“Dream on, Hutchinson.” Starsky kissed him.

Hutch gave in to him, reveled in the kiss, entwined his fingers in Starsky’s hair. There was always next year for another Christmas miracle.

END