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December 22nd- Yule Be Sorry by Glow and Kath Moonshine
Hutch has been cooling his jets on the sidewalk in front of his building thirty minutes, sitting on top of an old Admiral television set that someone put out with the trash, displaced—no doubt—by the arrival of this season’s latest model, a bit of deduction aided by the presence of an empty General Electric box that proudly proclaims This is a GE Performance Television! It’s Christmas Eve and Starsky is a half an hour late picking up Hutch for dinner at the Dobey house.
“Someone who spends as much money on watches as you should be able to tell time better,” Hutch complains as he gets into the car.
“Relax, Scrooge.” Starsky shifts the car into gear and peels out. “I was talking to my mother. You know it’s three hours later there. By the time I get home, she’ll be in bed.”
Even though they are Jewish, Starsky’s family always manages to celebrate Christmas in their own way, and he knows they are missing each other tonight. “How is she?”
“We didn’t get to talk too much. Ma didn’t want to miss the log. Can you believe that? My own mother cut me off to go watch The Yule Log.”
“The what?”
“The Yule Log. On the television. Oh, that’s right. Bay City Christmas. Sixty-five degrees, not a snowball in sight, palm trees instead of evergreens, and no Yule Log.”
“So, what is this? A TV show? A Christmas special? About a log?”
“Not a show. I mean, it isn’t Log the Red-Nosed Reindeer. But it is kind of a Christmas special. There’s a real fireplace, you know? The old-fashioned kind—like where you’d hang your stockings for Santa. And the wood is burning and crackling.” A smile curls the corner Starsky’s lip. “It’s like having a fireplace in your living room when the log is burning on the television.”
Sometimes Hutch just doesn’t know how to process some of the stuff that flows from his partner’s lips, and this is one of those times. “You mean to tell me that in New York, people tune in to stare at a fake fireplace—”
“Who said it was fake? It’s a real fireplace! Just not really in your living room. And they play nice Christmas music.”
The more Starsky explains, the less Hutch understands. “Who does?”
“Who does what?”
“Play the Christmas music!”
“I don’t know. The log people.”
“The log people?”
“The ones who make the show.”
“You mean whatever corporation had the brilliant idea to film a fireplace and get people to sit in front of their television sets to stare at it? And I thought television was mindless drivel before.” Hutch makes a dismissive gesture in the direction of the dashboard, as if dispelling a phantom television set.
“You don’t get it, Hutch. It’s a tradition. You put the log on. You hear the music. And then you open presents in front of the fireplace.”
“The televised fireplace.”
Starsky sighs. “If you look at it just right, you can forget, for a minute, it’s the television. Seems kind of real . . . you know?”
Hutch is about to launch into a discourse about how ridiculous the whole concept of staring at a fake log burning on television for hours was when he notices the smile on Starsky’s face has been replaced by hang-dog expression. His partner always gets a little weird around Christmas time, the mood somewhere between childlike exuberance and downhearted nostalgia, as if he had gotten his hopes up and had them dashed all in the same night. Hutch would have preferred to pretend the whole commercialized, over-hyped excuse for a holiday didn’t exist, but that was never an option around Starsky. Still, he hopes that having a big dinner with all the trimmings and watching the kids open presents at the captain’s house is going to be enough candy-cane colored sentiment for one night, but now Starsky is flat out pouting—and over what? A fake log? Of course, the fake log only symbolizes all the things that are wrong with a Bay City Christmas, a list of complaints that seems to get longer each year for Starsky, one which Hutch has listened to the entire month of December.
To his credit, Starsky bucks up and plays the jolly elf at the Dobeys’, complete with goofy red hat trimmed in white fur and a dangling pom-pom. He ate, drank, and was merry, and there wasn’t any way to tell his Christmas Eve was anything but perfect.
Unless you were his partner and read him like a book.
And right now, his partner is a very sad book.
I’ve got to do something to fix this, Hutch thinks. But what . . . ?
The drive back to Venice Place is mostly quiet, only the strains of the local rock station endlessly playing a recorded loop of Jingle Bell Rock filling the space between them. Starsky turns the last corner and announces, “Well, here’s our Christmas miracle on Hutchinson Street,” and smoothly pulls into the sole empty parking spot on the entire block, right in front of Hutch’s building.
Hutch is fumbling for the bag at his feet that holds his gifts from the Dobeys—a bottle of wine and a dozen homemade sugar cookies—when he notices that Starsky hasn’t turned off the Torino. “Kill the ignition, Starsk. What are you waiting for, Christmas?”
“I’m tired,” Starsky mumbles, his eyes taking in the bright lights of the Baptist church’s nativity across the street. “Gonna head back to my place. Call it an early night.”
“Don’t you want to come up? Have a nightcap? Play a few hands of cards?”
“Nah. M’tired.”
“Well, you have to come up long enough to get your Christmas gift,” Hutch says desperately, no closer to figuring out how to cheer Starsky up.
“You got me a present?” If it weren’t for the fact that he really was lying, Hutch would resent his partner’s suspicious tone.
“Sure.”
“A real present? Not a piece of paper that says I saved a dodo-bird or got a star named for me?”
“Nope. And dodos are extinct.”
“Whatever. Not another museum membership?”
“Hey, you liked the George C. Page Museum!”
“I’da liked it better if they had called it the La Brea Tar Pits Museum, cause then I woulda wanted to go instead of being dragged there by you on the last day of my membership.”
“Point,” Hutch says agreeably. “And you did fill out the comment card, so there’s still hope they can get it right for future generations.” Hutch finds himself scrutinized by a pair of the brightest blues eyes he’s ever seen, eyes that routinely inspire hardened criminals to sing like birds, and old ladies to bake him cakes and tamales.
“You really want me to come up?”
“Yeah, Gordo. I really want you to come up.”
For a moment, Hutch thinks that his partner is going to blow him off, but he has his answer when, with a flick of his wrist, Starsky pulls the keys from the ignition.
“I can’t wait to see what you got me,” Starsky says.
Yeah . . . me too.
Hutch believes he should be forgiven for what happens next, because—admittedly—he’d been deep in his head for a good cause, thinking of every possible thing in his apartment that could be repurposed into a gift for his man-child buddy. It’s only the loud crash-tinkle that pulls him from his thoughts.
“What the hell are you doing to my car!”
He looks down just as Starsky races around the front fender, just in time for Hutch to step out of the car and onto the carpet of broken glass—glass which came from the old TV screen he’s just shattered with the Torino’s door.
“You better not have messed with my paint job,” Starsky mutters, hunkering down, careful of the glass, to examine the Torino’s paint job. “Huh. You’re lucky. Don’t see any scratches.”
“Our second Christmas miracle,” Hutch says, a moment before he realizes that he really has experienced a miracle—of inspiration.
“This has got to be the weirdest Christmas present ever,” Starsky announces. His arms are extended protectively in front of his chest, making him look rather like a curly-haired Frankenstein’s monster.
“Why do you say that,” Hutch asks, backing carefully up the stairs, making sure to spot his partner despite his own excruciating pain. Hutch hates to admit it, but thoughts of Frankenstein have put him in mind of who he most resembles and—right now—he looks a lot like Quasimodo. And why is that, questions Hutch’s inner smartass, the part of him that despises commercial Christmas with every fiber of his being. It sure wasn’t from shopping on Rodeo Drive! Hutch snaps back internally.
“Funny thing you ask. First, my partner takes me into his apartment, then he pushes me down on the couch, and tells me to tie a bandanna around my eyes so I can’t see nothing. Then said partner proceeds to bang up and down the stairs, grunting like a pig the whole time, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders—”
Not the world. Just a fucking heavy TV that blew out my back!
“Then there’s more rattling around, and doors slamming, and then it sounds like Quick Draw McGraw’s El Kabong lands in the apartment—”
That would be me dropping my guitar halfway down the rooftop steps when my back spasmed.
“And now said partner is leading me,” Starsky pauses for a moment to savor the warm breeze wafting across Venice Place’s rooftop, “up onto his roof. Hey, you’re not planning on pushing me off, are you?” The last is followed by a laugh, but it’s not a hearty one.
How much easier my life would be if only. . . .
“No, Starsk. I just want you to take a few steps to the left and, yeah—right there—is a lawn chair. Now sit down and give me a minute—”
“It’s gonna be New Year’s before I get my Christmas present.”
“Just stuff a sock in it!”
“All right, all right! I’m sitting.”
For all of the ability Hutch has to straighten up, his forearms might as well be super-glued to his shins. Nevertheless, he shuffles over to his pièce de résistance, and perches on the lawn chair he’s set up for himself. Giving only a small groan, Hutch pulls his guitar into his lap, and settles the strap around his neck.
Now only one more detail.
Hutch picks up a matchbook blazoned with Huggy’s moniker, THE PITS, strikes one, and flicks the tiny, fiery brand into the center of his vodka-soaked masterpiece. A minor whoosh signals that it’s time to let Starsky see his present.
“You can remove your blindfold, Starsk.”
The fire of rolled-up newspaper logs starts to catch in the base of the old TV. Smoke boils out of the glassless area that used to be the television screen, and the flames, initially blue-white, quickly changeover to red as the vodka is consumed and the fire begins to eat away at the Bay City Times. Hutch drinks in his partner’s craggy, beloved face, illumed by his labor of love, and he begins to sing:
Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Prospero año y Felicidad.
Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Prospero año y Felicidad.
I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!
I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas!
I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas,
From the bottom of my heart.
Starsky lights up from within, and Hutch can almost imagine what the Grinch must have felt when his heart grew three sizes (yes, Starsky makes him watch the damned thing every year).
“You made me The Yule Log!”
Hutch can feel his own face split by a wide grin, as he continues to strum his guitar, almost idly running through his repertoire of holiday tunes, a medley of White Christmas, Marshmallow World, and a funked-out guitar version of Little Drummer Boy.
“This is the best Christmas gift ever!” And there it is, what Hutch had been hoping to see, that inner three-year-old part of his partner, that little piece of Brooklyn that still believes in flying reindeer and that good boys get toys.
They sit companionably, watching the fire burn and the TV melt into the metal wastepaper basket that Hutch had placed under it, and Hutch is grateful the wind is to their backs, because he’s sure the fumes coming off the TV are carcinogenic, but Starsky just stares and stares until his eyes begin to water and his face to crumple. Fearing a soapy scene, Hutch switches to a snappier tune—Jingle Bells—in an effort to distract Starsky from his melancholy.
“Hey, buddy,” Hutch calls gently when Starsky’s shoulders start to shake, and his chin drops to his chest. “Don’t cry. It’s just a fire in a TV.”
Starsky looks up, and Hutch can immediately tell that he’s read the scene wrong. “I’m not crying, Hutch. I’m laughing.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Hutch answers, pissed. “Why?”
“Do you hear that?”
Hutch’s fingers fall nerveless from the strings, and he hears what sounds like two black and whites and at least three fire engines, lights and sirens blasting, pulling onto his block.
“I’m gonna guess that the troops are here for a suspected 10-52,” Starsky adds sheepishly. “And I figure whoever started this suspected arson incident on Christmas is gonna get a whole stack of citations from the fire marshal, ‘cause we all know how much the fire department loves the police department, right?”
“Riiiight,” Hutch growls. “So what are you finding so funny, Gordo?”
“All these sirens make me feel like I’m back home—a real Brooklyn Christmas!”
Posted in fic, gen
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December 22nd- Modern Family by Kerrys2Boys
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By the time Starsky took his place at the window, at two in the morning on New Year’s Day, there was nothing but rain and grime and endless emptiness to see. If there had been anything to see on the streets, it was long gone for now. The sickly yellow of the neon lights across the street were weak and dull, but cast enough light to show up the years of encrusted dirt on the window and its weathered surrounds. Mold-speckled curtains, brittle and yellow with age, framed the whole ugly picture of the world outside. From inside, where he sat, it was even worse. Even bleaker than the dark sheeting rain that cut through the miserable night outside.
Hutch was damn well right. Everything about this festering hole was ugly.
The early first hours of the brand new year found them stuck inside a grimy, flea-bitten hotel room that served as a strategic vantage point to survey the streetscape below and beyond. If the shabby, depressing décor wasn’t bad enough, years of food smells, smoke, and stale odors of bodily excrement seemed to have seeped into the mildewed plasterboard and caught in the uneven floorboards, creating a layered sour stench.
And it was friggin’ cold, too. Cold and damp inside the worn room and colder outside than it should be for an LA winter night. This small pocket of hell tucked into the dangerous streets of south LA had to be up there with the worst of the job sites he’d been stuck in. Still, if he could be bothered to put some effort into it, he’d probably recall worse.
Surveillance jobs encompassed just about everything that Starsky hated most about the downside of a cop’s job—long hours of tedium and mind-numbing boredom and nothing whatsoever in the line of physical action—for the most part anyway. There wasn’t a soul on the street and the side streets he was watching. Not even a stray, drunken New Years party reveler who might have inadvertently wandered into this shady danger zone. Those who might have braved the wet, dark, rainy night in search of further celebration would hardly be doing so in the area he and Hutch were staking out. Starsky was beginning to wonder if even hardened criminals would bother to choose this sort of night to do a deal.
In a perverse way he was beginning to hope for a little heart-stopping adrenaline rush—just a hint of some action going down to move the case forward and save him from sliding into total self absorption. How could he take three more hours of this? His eyes were already burning from the constant focusing of the street below, and his neck felt stiff from sustaining a forward-leaning straddle across a turned hard-backed chair. He could deal with the physical discomfort—as a seasoned cop he was well used to that. But, the long quiet hours that lay ahead were going to leave him defenseless against his inner voice. The one that wouldn’t let up telling him that something was going on with Hutch.
It was more than just that Hutch wasn’t happy about where they were and what they were doing. Hell, even an eternal optimist would be hard pressed to find something positive about the situation. It was a bummer that they were stuck here and a double bummer given that it was one of the year’s biggest party nights. They’d really gone and pulled the short straw with this year’s “holiday” assignment.
Sure, it was only reasonable that holiday shifts had to be shared around. Sometimes though, it felt as though they did a little more than other officers. More than those officers with wives and kids and pressing responsibilities. Not like him and Hutch. Everyone knew that they had no such responsibilities. No wives, kids, or family ties. And so, as much as Starsky was a sucker for holidays like Christmas and New Year, he accepted that they were meant to be shared with families. He would have thought that Hutch, who really didn’t seem to care much for festive sentiment, would be even less concerned about working the shifts. On the contrary, this time Hutch seemed mightily pissed off about it all.
He could sense Hutch behind him, still awake even though it was his turn to bunk out on the stained and threadbare excuse for a mattress, his duffle bag and jacket bundled up beneath his head as a pillow. Starsky could see the reflection of his reclining blond partner, or at least fragmented parts of him, in the filthy, wet window.
Their last exchange had been nearly an hour earlier when they’d swapped stations. It had been a terse bit of conversation—not even conversation—just more of Hutch’s griping. Hutch had shaken Starsky awake to relieve him on surveillance after which he’d wasted no time in crashing on the creaking, rusted bed. Behind him, Hutch tossed and squirmed on the mattress, kicking out savagely at the bed end that was too close to his feet for his long body to stretch out comfortably, punctuating each kick with a hissed obscenity.
“What a piece of shit. They expect us to get some rest on this rust bucket of a cot?” Starsky heard the corroded iron of the bed screech as Hutch’s boot slammed into it, but he didn’t turn around. “What a fuckin’ lousy way to spend to spend New Year’s. Look at this crumby shitbox, will you, Starsky? Just look at it! Look at us while you’re doing it. Jesus, what a shitty, pathetic life we lead. Are we totally fucked in the head or what? Who else would be doing this sort of crap on New Year’s Eve?”
He’d probably said more but Starsky had cued himself out after the first few lines. It was all so reminiscent of others Hutch had used several times already that evening and in the last few days. A variation of the same bitching resentment.
Starsky wondered if Hutch even heard the stuff he was saying? His ranting about the shitty life that “we lead” or “our fucking lives” or some such thing, rating the quality of the life that the two of them woke up to each morning, whether Starsky had a say in the evaluation or not. And, by Hutch’s measure, their lives were coming way short of his expectations. Which was news to Starsky, because from his perspective nothing was different about their day-to-day existence. Had Hutch’s expectations for life changed somehow while Starsky hadn’t been watching?
With all that over-supply of misery and venting, it was surprising that Hutch wasn’t asleep. He should be out for the count, not lying there as he was, staring open-eyed at the ceiling above the bed.
Starsky leaned into the window, staring out into the night. Not a thing. Not a goddamn solitary thing to be seen or even heard. Except Hutch’s fidgeting restlessness behind him.
Starsky focused on the gloomy street beyond the room. When he finally said it, he wondered if it probably wasn’t the best time to bring it up. In fact, he wasn’t even sure why he did, but it was in his nature to be impetuous, especially when he was uncertain or cornered. He’d been feeling both of those things since an irritated Hutch had kicked the door closed behind them hours earlier.
“If you could have a child, would you?” He threw the question over his shoulder.
Starsky knew what Hutch would be thinking, that the obscure question was just another example of Starsky’s rampant musings. He couldn’t blame Hutch for that. He was well aware of his own tendency to fall back on spontaneous glib repertoire whenever he was bored or was feeling like some caged beast. But this question wasn’t part of that.
Its origins were deep inside of him, rising up from some troubled dark center, working its way to the tip of his tongue all evening, as though it had to be let out, squirming and impatient to be released. It was out now, even if the timing of it might not be the best. Because, the worst of it was, he could hardly walk out of the room and leave his duty post if he didn’t like the outcome.
Starsky waited. He put his chin down on his forearms pressing himself firmly against the hard surface of the wooden chair and looked out into the night while his thumb absently worked at the chipping veneer of the chair back. He could wait. Patience was something he’d learned to develop with Hutch.
“Starsky?”
“Yep?”
“What the hell sort of question is that?”
There it was. The bristling agitation. Hutch didn’t like the question.
“One I’ve been wantin’ to ask you for about a week or more now,” Starsky answered truthfully. He didn’t look back to see what Hutch was doing. “One that I’ve been wonderin’ about since you said what you did to Molly just before Christmas.”
“I said lots of things to Molly around Christmas,” Hutch said distantly.
“I’m talking about that day last week when we drove her to that foster family, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” And Starsky could hear in his voice that he clearly did and that he didn’t like the memory.
“…And she wanted nothin’ more than to get back in the car and drive home with us to your place—to stay with you—probably forever, if she could.”
“I had to let her down,” Hutch said flatly.
Starsky let that go. Even though he knew it was important to Hutch, Starsky wasn’t thinking about Molly. Selfish perhaps, but then he had his own needs, too. He had a need to understand something that had been stuck in his head for days. Something was eating away at Hutch and was therefore eating away at him, too. Starsky traced its beginning back to Molly.
That was when something seemed to have shifted inside of Hutch.
“When she asked you to take her back again, perhaps for good, you said you couldn’t have a kid—not with your hours, your job.” Starsky paused, pressed his chin even harder into his arms as he said it. Not with our shitty, pathetic lives. “Not—well, being a bachelor and all. At least I think that was what ya’ said.” He remembered clearly what Hutch had said and how he’d said it.
“She needed to know the score. The truth. Better than hurting her more by lying or pretending. It was tough on her, poor kid,” Hutch said, a hollowness in his voice.
“Seemed tough on you, too, Hutch. I saw your face. Saw it other times too, when you had her at your place. She—it—the whole thing cut you up. Did you think that I never even noticed that?”
That got his attention. Starsky could hear the drag of Hutch’s long legs as he pulled himself upright on the sagging mattress, drawing his body up ’til he was sitting against the corroded bedhead.
“You’re a little tougher than me in that department, Starsky.” He hesitated, shifted on the bed, the ironwork creaking beneath him. “I’ve always been in awe of you in that way. You’ve had your own share of hurt and loss when you most needed it—losing your father at such a young age and being shipped across the country—and you were strong enough to survive it. I’m not so good at looking at that sort of stuff—facing it head on like that.” Starsky stole a glance at the reflection and saw Hutch looking at his hands. “I didn’t like doing that to Molly. Leaving her like that. Didn’t like to see her disappointment when I told her. All she wanted was to be with someone over Christmas,” Hutch said softly. “Kids—hell, people in general, shouldn’t have to be alone at Christmas time.”
“What about you, Hutch? You think you can go through life being alone for all the Christmases that lie ahead?”
“That’s a dumb question, Starsk. I’m not alone. I’ve got my own family. Not like Molly.”
“Hutch, you barely talk to your own family, let alone see them at Christmas. I don’t even think you spoke to your dad at all this Christmas.”
“He wasn’t inside the house when I called and spoke to Mother. Besides—“
“Besides, you’re not really a Christmas enthusiast. I know,” Starsky filled in.
“No—I was going to say…” Hutch paused, shifted again, “something else….” But he didn’t. He stopped at that and Starsky caught the frustration in his sigh, like he was disappointed he hadn’t said it after all.
It was enough to have Starsky turning in his seat, away from the window and the surveillance just for a quick moment. He needed to look at Hutch for real and not just in a reflection when he said the rest. “But the bit about being alone in the future, say, if you don’t have your own kid or kids. Don’t settle down? Don’t have a wife. What then? What if you end up like Molly one day? All alone on Christmas Eve?”
Hutch swung his legs over the mattress and stood up. With a sigh and a stretch, he walked over to where Starsky sat and took his place beside him, standing and staring out the window, almost unconsciously picking up the slack, maintaining the watch while Starsky was not. Getting the job done, keeping up the surveillance despite the distraction of the conversation. Despite his bitching and groaning about a cop’s life Hutch would never fail to give his all to the job. Not even for a moment did Starsky doubt that—even though it might have been convenient that Hutch would use the task of surveillance to distract him from the conversation. Conviction. It’s what made Hutch such a great cop and an even better human being.
“What’s brought all this on, Starsk? Post Christmas melancholia? New Year’s Eve blues? Simple boredom?” Hutch asked him softly, any irritation replaced by the warm modulated voice that could so easily make Starsky forget his purpose—hell—could almost make him forget to take his next breath. Still, he wasn’t about to let Hutch deflect him with that buttery voice. God, how he loved that voice, and oh how he loved to be deflected by it—but not now.
“I’m not the one who’s been down in the dumps since Christmas, pal. I’m not the one who’s retreated into the famous Hutchinson silence for the last week and who’s been huffin’ and puffin’ over there on that bed for the past hour. I’m just tryin’ to figure out if this look-at-this-shitty-life-we-lead stuff is all about resentin’ that you haven’t got that Golden Book family yet. That you might not ever get it while we lead this life—together.”
Hutch looked sideways at him from the window, his concentration divided between his partner and the view outside. To balance it, to balance them. Starsky turned to resume his own studied vigil of the street outside. He might have been hoping before for some definitive action to unravel, but now he wanted the quiet street to stay quiet. If anything did go down and they missed it, Dobey would skin them alive and they would never forgive themselves either. This stakeout, this case was important to the Department.
But then what was happening between the two of them now was also important—to both of them. It was like a case all their own. The case between the two of them.
“A what? What did you call it? A ‘Golden Book Family’? Jesus, Starsky what is going on in your head?”
“My head? I’m more interested in what’s goin’ on in yours, partner.”
“You think I want a child? Is that what this is about, Starsk?” He sounded almost pained.
“Perhaps…. Why not? A Molly maybe, or a Pete even.” Starsky tried for a lopsided grin but it was a strain to pull off. “A Kiko of your own. A wife to go home to at night and to kiss goodbye in the mornings. The chance to make a family like the one you might always have wanted, like the one you never got to experience when you were a kid yourself. A family for all the Christmases ahead that you might actually begin to enjoy when you have loved ones to share them with,” he finished, almost lamely, he thought, and then looked away, back to the dark gloom of outside. It seemed easier to look outside than to find what effect his words might have had on Hutch. He was almost fearful of what he might see reflected in the face of the only bright thing in the dismally dirty room.
The quiet room got quieter, no voices to fill it, just the sounds of gusty rain hitting the window at a sharp angle. There was the rustle of Hutch’s shirt as he moved and the even measure of his breathing. Then came that deep Hutch sigh that meant Starsky had yet again given him cause for displeasure or irritation. And yet, the firm grip that came and settled on his shoulder, made by Hutch’s big rough hand, warm despite the coldness around them, didn’t feel like an irritated gesture.
“You know, Starsky, I think people have largely got us figured all wrong.”
Starsky looked up sharply, confused by the statement. Even a little worried. “In what way?”
“Everyone says that you and I have this silent communication thing going on between us,” Hutch started to expand.
“Yeah?”
“—and I’m sure that a lot of the time, we do. But—“
“But? There’s a ‘but’?” Starsky was getting more worried.
“I think that for the big stuff, the really important stuff, we seem to often mess it up. The communication side of things,” Hutch said. “Or at least I do. I know I do. You’ve just proved it to me again.”
“I have?”
“Starsk, listen to what you’ve just asked me, for God’s sake. You’ve been walking around since Molly thinking that—that I somehow want a kid of my own, a… a…” he sucked in a little breath and blew it out as though it took effort to say it, “…a wife? A whole family that will what? Somehow give me a sense of belonging?”
“Well, ya’ did say you couldn’t have a kid with the life you lead.”
“And I can’t. And I wouldn’t. Not with our jobs, not with the lifestyle that goes with it.”
“So are you wishing that you had a different job?” Starsky asked. “Not just a different job—but a different lifestyle? You really seem to have been seriously pissed off with things in the past week.”
“I suppose I have. This job makes it hard to remain starry-eyed about life for very long. Molly and her terrible circumstances just brought that all home to me again.” His voice trailed off. “And—at the worst time of the year—Christmas.”
“Hutch. Listen. I’m not just talking about Molly here, even though I know that what went down with her rocked you hard. It’s more than that.” Starsky stopped for a moment, not sure whether he should push his concerns any further with Hutch being as closed off as he had been—as he still seemed to be.
“Then tell me,” Hutch said simply and patiently enough that Starsky felt he could.
“I guess I was scared that you were feelin’ like you wanted more than what you and I can have together. With what we’ve got together, just the two of us. No kids, no happy families sharing in our relationship. I was frightened that when you spent time with Molly—saw her with Kiko and his family—that it made you aware of what you secretly wanted to have, too.” It was a lot to say, a lot for Starsky to choke out, around a throat constricted with emotion. Until he had put it all out in front of him, he really didn’t appreciate how worried he’d been that he might be holding onto Hutch too hard. Holding on to a partner that wanted something more in life than he could give him.
Hutch nodded his head slowly in understanding. “I see.”
Starsky didn’t think he did.
“Hutch.” Starsky stood up and faced him. “If you’re unhappy with all of this,” he nodded his chin toward the window to encompass the sordid desolate street beyond where they stood, “this ‘shitty’ job and our life, then maybe we should talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
Okay, so Hutch wasn’t going to make this any easier for him.
“Your unhappiness, Hutch. Your God-awful misery of the last week—that’s what.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been bringing you down with my pessimism. Being here tonight,” Hutch waved his hand about, “hasn’t helped my bad mood. I should’ve realized my funk wasn’t fair to you. I know how festive times, like Christmas, mean so much to you—”
“Hutch, I don’t need you to treat me like some kid because it’s Christmas or—“ he frowned, frustrated that Hutch was missing his point.
“No, you’re right. You don’t. You need to be treated like who you are.” Hutch smiled softly.
“Huh?” Starsky pulled back his head a little in surprise, uncertain of where Hutch was heading.
“I mean, that I need to be more mindful about remembering that I should be grateful for the family that I do have,” Hutch said cryptically. At least it seemed cryptic to Starsky who had no idea of what he was talking about.
“You’ve lost me, Hutch. I’m still back tryin’ to figure out the bit about not being treated like a kid who loves Christmas too much for my own good.” Starsky smiled a little sheepishly and then cocked his head in question. “What’s this got to do with you being grateful to your family? I thought you and your family weren’t close.”
That was the point when Hutch stepped forward even closer, the hand on Starsky’s shoulder moving up to his hair, his thumb to his cheek, his face dangerously close to Starsky’s—not too close for Starsky’s comfort, but for two male cops in the middle of a surveillance job. Two cops who were standing at a hotel window with nothing but a gaudy curtain to shield them from the street below.
“I’m only realizing that I’ve never really talked openly enough about my family to you,” Hutch admitted wistfully.
“Hutch, I’m not asking you to explore all of your relationships here. Your family is your own business, but anytime you want to talk about them to me, you know you can. But what I’ve been tryin’ to say here tonight is—“ Starsky knew he was going to have to say it now, before he lost the nerve. Straight to the point and clean cut. He put his hand up to his own chest emphasizing his role in what he was saying. “Hutch, if you’ve come to realize that you’re not happy—if you’re no longer happy with us, with me,” and God that hurt him a lot to say, “well—ya’ only have to tell me.”
There. He’d said it.
“No longer happy with you?” Hutch said it in the strangest way, like it was a bunch of foreign words he was practicing for the first time.
“Yeah—like—if you’ve decided that it’s time for you to have a family. A family of your own.”
“A family of my own?” Hutch repeated like Starsky was talking Russian or something.
Starsky felt his brow tightening in frustration. Why did it feel like he had to help Hutch understand him? Could he make it any clearer? He wasn’t sure he could take the pain of saying it again. “Yes—a proper family,” he repeated and hoped not to hear it echoed back to him yet again.
“I have a family, Starsky. A proper family.”
“Sure—but I meant—to make one of your own. The next generation of Hutchinsons.” Wow, did that twist his heart. Burn his brain with the imagery it created.
Christmas card photos, the classic nuclear family. Hutch sitting proud and happy, his arm draped possessively about the shoulders of his pretty stylish wife, her long blond hair a matching halo to Hutch’s, her small hand placed lovingly on his knee, while their two—hell, make that three—flaxen-haired children sat cross-legged at their parents’ feet, secure in the love of their parents, beaming at the camera with big smiles. Picture card perfection.
A sudden jarring horn blow from the street jarred the stillness and the ethereal glow of the image was lost and he was back in the dark, dirty room and the job at hand.
Starsky moved closer to the window, his body tensing as he pulled himself back to the reality of his mission, all the while acutely aware of Hutch watching him intently.
The blaring pierce of the car horn receded into the distance. “Nothin’—just some passing idiot wanting to cause a stir.” He didn’t sit back down again, but stood ramrod straight, his attempt to maintain his vigil back in place. It was suddenly easier than looking at Hutch who was beginning to make him uncomfortable with his steady gaze.
“Starsky?” Hutch asked, his voice so soft that he seemed almost uncertain.
“Can I tell you about the family I do have, Starsky?”
“Sure—if you want to, Hutch, but I don’t think you need—“ Starsky was beginning to feel that he had really screwed up this whole attempt to get to the bottom of what was bugging Hutch. Maybe he should have left the whole discussion ’til they weren’t here. Maybe he shouldn’t have even brought it up. “But look—I shouldn’t have started this discussion. Go back and try to get some sleep. It’s my watch now—I’ve got this covered. I’m sorry I interrupted your rest.”
He wasn’t sure he even wanted to hear what Hutch had to say on the matter anyway. The lousy night and shitty atmosphere was quickly draining him.
“No—I want to. I really feel the need to talk about my family. It seems important right now that you get to hear about them.” The sincerity in Hutch’s voice was almost tremulous. That, and his sudden desire to bring his family up, caught Starsky off guard.
“Okay. I’m listenin’,” Starsky said, a little unsure of Hutch’s shift in mood.
“Well, let me see…. First there’s my father,” Hutch began and Starsky tried to hide the momentary confusion at the uncharacteristic warmth in his partner’s voice. “He can be the wisest man I know when he comes out with things that no one else seems to be able to see or understand. He’s great at giving advice and telling me when I need to pull my head in, and he’s always there to kick my ass just enough when I become too complacent or self-centered. A father that knows how to give me tough love.”
He paused as though sorting his thoughts and Starsky felt himself stiffen with concern. What the hell?
Was this Hutch’s post-Christmas emotional crisis? Hutch and his father had nothing like this sort of relationship to Starsky’s knowledge.
Before he could chew on this any further, Hutch continued. “My mother can be infuriatingly overprotective and likes to smother me with affection when I’m hurt or upset—even though I’m a grown, tough man. She knows me so well, it’s frightening. I couldn’t live without her nurturing and caring, but I don’t often let her know that or I’d be completely mother-henned to death.” He smiled gently and gave Starsky a pointed look.
“Hutch? Ummn?” Starsky’s unease increased. Hutch’s mother saw him but once a year. Was he talking about his childhood memories? No. He’d referred to himself as a grown man. Jesus…. This was not good.
“Then there’s my brother.” The smile as he said it became almost beautiful and if wasn’t for the words that went with it, Starsky might not have been able to resist reaching out to touch the lips that made that smile so breathtaking.
His brother? Oh God, should he stop this right now? Was Hutch losing it completely?
“My brother is my soul mate, my closest kin. He looks out for me, protects me, and walks beside me. I couldn’t love him anymore than I do. I think you know how that feels, Starsky,” he said.
“Yeah—well—Nicky and I ain’t all that close these days but—“ Starsky heard his worry as he stumbled on the words. “Hutch—you know you don’t have a brother, don’t you? Not a real brother…”
But Hutch was still smiling, and not the sort of smile that made Starsky think that he was joking or being stupid, or even doing one of his put-one-over-on-Starsky acts. No, it was the sort of smile that meant he seriously believed his own story.
“My sister,“ he was off again, ”isn’t around a lot. My brother and I are just so tight, I guess, it’s hard for her to make a place in my life. Still she makes her presence felt when she thinks I need some bossing about. She understands my fears and insecurities, and she’ll tell me what I need to hear, even if I don’t want to hear it. And lastly there’s—well, I don’t think this member of the family will come as a surprise to you, Starsk.” Hutch laughed lightly.
Starsky wanted to tell him that in fact, everything he’d said in the last few minutes was a surprise—one big overwhelming surprise. But he didn’t. He didn’t because he was starting to understand, finally, that Hutch wasn’t having some sort of New Year’s Eve breakdown, after all.
No—his partner was just being the big, blond, enchantingly lovable man that he could so often be.
Hutch reached up to pull gently on Starsky’s curls, his eyes soft with fondness. “I’m the proud father of a rascally little boy, some hellcat kid with dark curls and an impish grin who keeps me on my toes every day and never lets me get old. Without him there would be no one to remind me that I’m never too old to find the magic in life. Magic that’s always there, just waiting for me. I get to see life all over again through his young, idealistic eyes, and it’s like I’m getting another chance to be a kid myself. He gives me a second chance at experiencing all the things I missed out on when I was a kid myself. With him in my life, I get to explore parts of me I didn’t know existed—silly, inane, joyous parts.”
“Oh, Hutch. Oh, babe…” Starsky murmured, as not just comprehension, but the full emotion of what Hutch was saying, hit him hard.
“This kid of mine is particularly impish at Christmas, when he never gives up on trying to make me understand the simple pleasures of giving to others. If I didn’t have the kid in you, Starsky, I might have given up long ago on humanity.” Hutch sucked in a huge breath then, his intake shaky with the intensity of what he had said. It was as though it had all come out in a big rush, like some massive purging of his heart and feelings. He took a moment to look closely at Starsky, and Starsky stood still beneath his heavy gaze, knowing that his face would be showing every feeling that Hutch’s words had put there.
“I didn’t think—didn’t know there was a family like that for you, Hutch.” Starsky could barely breathe himself, let alone speak, but he somehow choked it out. “I—I’m really pleased to hear you say you’ve got all that in your life.”
“I do, and I’m grateful for it every day, but never say it or make it nearly clear enough, and I’m so sorry for that….” Hutch closed his eyes tight, fighting to get the next words out. “Oh, Starsk? Don’t you see?”
And when Hutch said his name like that, as though it was some delicate beautiful artifact he was holding in his trembling hands, his eyes and face alive with sheer wonderment at the object, Starsky knew how deeply Hutch was feeling and how intensely he wanted to convey it.
“You’re my family,” Hutch said. “You’re the most important person in my life, and the only person I will ever need or want to come home to every day of that life—and even more so on special days like Christmas. You’re my parents, my siblings, my child, and my partner—and you couldn’t make me feel anymore loved than you already do.”
“Christ, stop it, Hutch, please. You’re goin’ to have me in tears…and I can hardly be doin’ that when we’re s’posed to be here workin’…s’posed to be watchin’ the street…”
Truth was of course, it was already too late for that. Starsky could barely see Hutch’s beloved face for the watery film across his eyes. He felt the physical evidence threatening to spill down his cheeks. “It’s too much damn emotion to take in one go while we’re here and can’t—“
Hutch had moved in closer. His hands were no longer playing in Starsky’s curls, but had moved to the back of his neck, pressing firmly, insistently to pull his head forward, not near enough that their mouths were touching, but near enough for Starsky to feel Hutch’s breath, see the contours of his upper lip, smell his skin. Closer than Starsky could bear to have him without doing something about it—something that would be ill-advised while they were on duty.
“I know,” Hutch said. “And you’re right. We need to get this shift behind us. But in less than four hours we’re finished here for two whole days straight. Two days, Starsk. Imagine that.” Hutch tipped his head to whisper the suggestive notion into Starsky’s ear, the baby soft ends of Hutch’s bright hair brushing over Starsky’s upper cheek.
Starsky smiled provocatively, but it was more for show than anything. What he was really feeling was flooding relief and sheer emotional joy. Hutch had dispelled his greatest fears. He’d made it clear that he was more than enough for him, all that he wanted. That was as much as anybody could ask for from someone they loved. He was the center of Hutch’s world and nothing could surpass that feeling.
“Forty-eight hours all to ourselves,” Starsky said, echoing Hutch’s sentiment.
“How will we possibly fill those hours?” Hutch said, putting the icing on his speech of his love for Starsky with a reminder of what they shared on other more intimate levels.
Starsky could barely resist the game. “What do ya’ want to do with them, babe? I’d rather you tell me than imagine it myself. Tell me….” Starsky purred back at him.
“Well—I’m thinking that when we get this job behind us,” Hutch suggested softly, keeping one hand on Starsky as he cast his gaze up and down the street below, “that I’d like to be spend some quality time—totally private time, with my very favorite family member. I mean—no parents, no siblings—and definitely NO kids. ” Hutch pressed his lips into a firm line as though he was trying to hold back a laugh.
Starsky pulled back. His eyes narrowed. “Hutch,” he warned, “I can be your dad, your brother, I guess your mother-hen mom, too. And, you know, the kid bit comes easy for me when I’m in that sorta’ mood. I’m even prepared, if I had to, I suppose—on a really bad day—to be your damn sister. Christ, I can’t believe I said that.” He held up his hand as though warning Hutch not to push him any further. “But I’m tellin’ ya, Hutch, there ain’t NO WAY, no way in hell, that you’re goin’ to paint me as your wife!”
“Did I say wife?” Hutch asked, all innocence and blinking eyes.
“No, but…”
“If I did—say wife,“ Hutch smiled in teasing merriment, “I’d paint you as a super sexy, mind-blowing hot wife.”
“You say it and see what—” Starsky growled.
“But I didn’t say wife. I don’t have a wife. I know that sounds a little amoral when I’ve got a kid in the house, too—but then, we live in progressive times, Starsk.” He grinned. “We’re a modern family.”
“A modern family, hey?” Starsky cocked his eyebrow and grinned.
“One that I think works—at least for us.” Hutch smiled.
“So, this modern family doesn’t have a wife—and thank God for that. So—then? Spill it. Who is this favorite family member you’re wanting to spend the next two days with then?”
“You need me to tell you?” Hutch seemed surprised. “I thought it’d be obvious, Starsk, “ Hutch murmured thickly as he lifted Starsky’s hand up to his chest. Hutch pressed Starsky’s hand over his skin so that Starsky could feel his heartbeat. “I’d be one very lonely man if it wasn’t for my favorite person. The one that makes me feel as though I truly belong, truly matter. The person who has this part of me, right here,” Hutch pressed Starsky’s fingers firmly against his chest, “the person who is my heart, my soul, my equal. My beautiful free-spirited lover. You. Only you, Starsky.”
After that, Starsky found, and knew Hutch did, too, that the dirtiness of the small room receded, and the monotony of the surveillance job seem less boring. After that, the early hours of the first day of the New Year gave promise that Hutch might well be right.
Modern families worked.
Sometimes, if people were really lucky, modern families worked beautifully.
Posted in fic, slash
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December 21st- Hum Bug by Duluth
Seven months. It had been seven months since Starsky’s shooting and Hutch had given every ounce of himself to his partner’s recovery. They were in an infinite tunnel, a continuous blind walk, hoping the trudge would eventually get them somewhere. Anywhere…out of the dark.
Hutch had tried to look for the light at the end, the light that said Starsky would be okay, but mostly all Starsky did was sleep. The more he worked his body, the more obvious it was that the specimen had been damaged. His once strong chest, now dipped and marred with fading wounds, couldn’t support a fraction of the weight it had before three devastating bullets. It seemed even the heaviness of Starsky’s heart was at times too big to carry.
So Hutch stopped watching for that light. There was the looming possibility that Starsky would never again be whole, but whatever he was in the end was better than the alternative, which was nothing at all. Hutch missed his spirited partner, but he still needed his friend. He’d accepted that life had tested him for a reason, and what better reason could he have than Starsky?
Besides, Starsky had made progress. Through tears and hope, setbacks and relief, Hutch had finally been allowed to bring him home. In fact, Starsky was doing almost everything for himself again, with Hutch’s support. He had started to spend the night alone, giving Hutch more time to sleep. He could also cook easy meals, even if half the ingredients came from a can. Small victories were victories all the same, and they celebrated each and every one.
So maybe the light was there after all, in spite of the bleakness, only coming into view so slowly they’d gotten used to it. Starsky smiled once in a while. That had to mean something. And his sense of humor returned in spurts. The pretty physical therapy assistant that Starsky called his drill sergeant had already met Bogie, unfortunately for her. More importantly, by Christmastime, Starsky was strong enough to start in with his usual yuletide crap.
“I want a train,” Starsky would say.
Hutch tried to ignore him, but it was impossible. Over the course of Starsky’s rehabilitation, Hutch had listened to him crying out in agony as he pushed through excruciating exercises. The sharp whimpers had been nearly too much for Hutch to bear, but he faced it together with Starsky. He had to. It was Starsky’s reality, and Hutch suffered every wrench of pain that his partner endured.
It was that same dutiful act of listening that worked like a corkscrew drilling into Hutch’s head, proving that way down deep, Starsky was still the same gluttonous child he’d always been. He couldn’t help but pay attention to the constant barrage of begging. The pleas for holiday spending. The cries that had turned to whining.
“I’ve gotten thin. I can’t wear this,” Starsky protested one day, holding out his favorite pullover. Months of being bed ridden had indeed wilted Starsky somewhat, but his mouth had grown in size. “I need a new sweater. A blue one. With pockets.”
“How about you put on some fat instead,” Hutch replied, impatiently.
And so it went on, like an Advent calendar, twenty-four days of hinting, reminding Hutch how hard he had had it. A Sears Christmas catalog set on the kitchen table, opened to the automotive section. Little notes left in his pocket saying Starsky’d lifted a whole freakin’ eight pounds at therapy and how a new model ship might help give him something better to think about. A visitor’s guide to Vegas on the back of his john, a conveniently placed poster for the upcoming Grand Funk Railroad concert taped outside Venice Place. It made Hutch sick.
He had principles. Just because Starsky had been shot didn’t mean Hutch needed to cave to society’s greed. The tree he’d planted in Starsky’s name a couple years back had been chewed up by a beaver, so for posterity’s sake, he’d considered planting another. He knew how well that would go over, however. Therefore, he decided not to revisit the idea until the next time Starsky pissed him off. Which was inevitably going to happen, even though he now cherished those moments because it meant Starsky was alive.
The daily routine of making Starsky healthy had become a daunting, wearisome task. Hutch was waking up at four am each day, going to work, picking up Starsky for rehab over his break, only to go back to work for the afternoon. After his shift ended in the evening, he headed straight to Starsky’s to help with whatever he needed help with. Hutch wasn’t in bed until midnight. He then had to start it all over again the next morning. He was a thirty-five-year-old wreck running on fumes.
He wasn’t resentful of Starsky. Fate had dealt his partner a shitty hand. But Hutch was wiped. He hadn’t had time to shop for groceries, let alone a stupid Red Rider BB gun.
The weeks had passed irritatingly slow, and one day when he wasn’t looking, Hutch woke with Christmas morning staring him in his face. As far as he was concerned, it was just another West Coast December day. So what? He just wanted it over with. Hutch had to channel his resources into Starsky, and Starsky needed to concentrate on regaining his strength.
Hutch rubbed his eyes, wishing he could stay in bed. But he rose, like he always did, and got dressed. Didn’t bother to comb his hair. It was only going to be him and Starsky, and Hutch didn’t give a crap what Starsky thought about his hair.
When he got to Starsky’s apartment, there was a blinking string of lights around the front door. He knew how much effort that had taken for Starsky to put up, and suddenly he felt bad about holding out. He could have gotten something small for his pal, to celebrate his accomplishments. Just a little trinket of friendship maybe. But it was too late. He was twenty minutes behind schedule as is. He hoped, despairingly, that Starsky hadn’t gone shopping for something more meaningful than an ant farm. He knew how grateful Starsky was for all of his help, and Starsky’s heart was as big as Santa’s belly.
Damn it.
He hadn’t bought Starsky a goddamn fucking thing.
As he lifted his fist to knock, Hutch paused, listening to Starsky sing backup for Gene Autry. Rudolph, Hutch thought. Of course it would be Rudolph. There was nothing in that off-pitch voice but pure joy. Hutch took the time to eavesdrop, picturing his partner swaying his hips like he used to, a long time ago, when moving like the wind didn’t hurt.
Hutch had come so close to losing Starsky that the ‘what if’ hit him square in the gut. For a second, he stayed there on the doorstep wondering if this was all in his imagination, and Starsky, in truth, hadn’t made it. How would Hutch have survived this year if Starsky had not come back to him?
The door swung open and there was Starsky in a red shirt and reindeer antler antennae.
The only thing Hutch saw was a brown leather coat, soaked in red, dripping red blood onto the pavement. Instead of antennae cupping Starsky’s head, it was the wheel well of the Torino, pockmarked with bullet holes. “Starsk,” he whispered.
The apartment walls faded to black and white. Hutch couldn’t breathe. Starsky was a vision, gaunt, almost ghostly, halting time as Hutch stood and stared. Everything rushed back; the smashing squad cars, gunfire, echoing hospital corridors, beeping heart monitors, Dobey’s scared voice over the phone, death.
A haze of shock came over him, a flashback to May, blurring his view of Starsky.
“Merry Christmas, partner,” Starsky sang, seemingly unaware of Hutch’s anguish.
Hutch glanced down at his empty hands. What a sonuvabitch he was.
“Come on in. The eggnog will knock your socks off.” Without even acknowledging Hutch’s lack of gifts, Starsky took Hutch’s arm, kicked the door closed, and dragged him into the kitchen. “Dobey stopped by with some cookies that Edith made. They taste like frosted cardboard.” He stuck a cookie in Hutch’s mouth. “Try one!”
The aroma of cinnamon and pine filled the room like a bakery decked out in boughs of evergreen. A menorah sat in the window next to a festive plastic elf. Hutch spit the cookie into the trash. He only wanted to take in the sight of Starsky, who moved slowly but steadily around the table. The tree they’d put up two weeks ago sparkled with ornaments that hadn’t been there the day before, and the air was so warm Hutch wanted to touch his partner just to reassure himself that this was real.
Starsky there by his side was the best gift of all.
Hutch watched in awe as his friend busied himself with dishes, wiping the counter, sweeping up crumbs. Starsky hadn’t moved this much in a long time and appeared ashen. Hutch got concerned. “Hey,” he said, restraining Starsky by the shoulders. “You need to take it easy. Don’t overdo it.”
“I’m fine,” Starsky said, smiling. He quickly pulled away.
Hutch noticed him flinch, his face awash with fear. That’s when Hutch understood that Starsky was far from fine. Hutch had spent so much time thinking about his own frustrations and doubts that he’d forgotten that this was Starsky’s first Christmas since Gunther, too. “Buddy,” he started to say, angry with himself for being such a jerk. For being selfish, being thoughtless, being tired when all he’d had to do was sit and observe while Starsky labored through his long process of mending. A process he wasn’t done with yet.
“How ‘bout some music?” Starsky said, leaving the kitchen to turn over the record.
A second later, Jingle Bells rang out in direct opposition to Hutch’s melancholy. He winced. When he looked around the corner to see why Starsky hadn’t returned, he found him braced against the back of the couch, his head hanging.
Hutch walked over and put his hand on Starsky’s back, careful to avoid the still tender scars. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I told you,” Starsky snapped. “I’m fine. Just terrific.”
Stroking gently, Hutch insisted, “No. You’re not.”
Having depleted all his energy recuperating, Starsky barely ever had the might to argue anymore. He shook his head, still gazing at the floor.
“Listen, Starsk,” Hutch said, taking a deep breath. “I know what you’re doing.” He glanced at the decorations; the big present under the tree, the cheer, the merriment, all the other shit meant to make the two of them feel better. “I appreciate the effort, truly, but we both know you ain’t ready for the big leagues yet.” He grinned, hoping Starsky could see his admiration.
Because Hutch did admire his partner. There wasn’t any other man who could make the strides Starsky had made and still find it within themselves to be jolly. Starsky’s life had been shot out from under him, but he hadn’t given up. He’d even had courage enough to never, ever ask Hutch to go on without him. Begging for Christmas presents had been Starsky’s way of giving Hutch normalcy in an otherwise debilitating world.
Starsky’s mouth tweaked up to one side. He slumped towards Hutch and Hutch grabbed him.
“C’mere, buddy,” Hutch said, drawing Starsky into an embrace. The bones in Starsky’s shoulders were more apparent than before, and his muscle mass had diminished, but this didn’t bother Hutch. It only meant there was less to get in the way of him feeling Starsky’s heartbeat. That strong rhythm was the same as it had always been, maybe even stronger. He held his friend until he realized he was fully supporting Starsky’s weight. “Let’s sit down,” he said, leading him around to relax on the cushions with a blanket.
As he bent over to adjust a pillow behind Starsky’s arm, Hutch admitted, “I didn’t get you anything.”
“So I noticed,” Starsky grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Guess being blessed by your mere presence is my Christmas miracle. And here I thought I’d been nice.”
“Oh, no,” Hutch said, pointing his finger into Starsky’s face. “You have been exceedingly naughty. Let’s talk about that day the doctor said you weren’t ready to go out but you took your tomato to Merle’s anyway.”
Starsky looked stunned. “She needed medical attention, too, you know, Hutch!”
“And what about when you were supposed to eat your Jell-o and you dumped it in your bed pan. Huh?” Hutch frowned, his stomach roiling with the memory of that hospital food. How many cups of Jell-o had Starsky consumed before finally waging mutiny?
Starsky sighed.
“Don’t forget that night the nurse was trying to check your catheter.”
Grinning, Starsky nodded. “Oh, that’s right.”
Hutch joined Starsky on the soft seat and leaned in close. He needed intimacy, to feel Starsky’s vibrancy next to him, to smell his aftershave, overpowering as it was, and to share the same space. In the whole wide world, this was the only place to be. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
Starsky eyed him suspiciously. “For what?”
Shyness crept in, which made Hutch turn away. He didn’t understand his own hesitation, because this was Starsky…his partner…his best friend…his everything. He remembered that day in the hospital when Starsky first opened his eyes. Those dark lashes nearly swallowing up the blue in a tiny smile so bright it could light their way through any tunnel no matter how dark. Hutch needed to see that brightness in Starsky’s eyes right now. He looked up with only one thing to say. “Thank you for loving me,” he whispered.
Starsky held eye contact tightly, lingering in the moment as long as Hutch required.
“Merry Christmas,” Hutch said quietly. He took Starsky’s hand and patted it. “Blitzkrieg.” Starsky still had on his antlers.
“No, no,” Starsky moaned. “It’s Blitzen, you hum bug.” He carefully pulled his hand away and gave Hutch a little punch in the arm. “Why don’t you bring me some eggnog, since you’re too cheap to buy your invalid partner a present.”
“That’s not being very nice, Starsky.”
“Okay,” Starsky said, rather disheartened. “Well, then I’ll just return the guitar I got you. I’m sure Frank Zappa can cross your name off and write in someone else’s.”
All at once, Hutch was twelve-years-old again, standing with his parents on their driveway in Duluth, snow falling around them, gaping in shock at his brand new dune buggy with a giant green bow. His best Christmas ever.
Until now.
Hutch glanced at that big present under Starsky’s tree, choking back the tears that threatened to unmask his inner hysterical teenage girl. “You got me a Frank Zappa signed guitar?”
“Yeah, but since I’m not being very nice—”
Hutch jumped from the couch. “Would you like some frosted cardboard with that eggnog?”
Starsky chuckled and snuggled under his blanket. “Thanks for loving me, too, Hutch.”
THE END
Posted in fic, gen
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December 21st- In His Father’s Image by Dawnwind
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Looking through the anteroom window, Starsky didn’t have to guess the identity of the man standing in the hospital hallway. He’d seen photos way back when, could have picked the man out of a crowd despite never having met him.
Same blond hair, although streaked with silver and very thin at the crown. Same long legs, broad shoulders, and strong patrician nose.
Gunner Magnus Hutchinson, Hutch’s dad.
Starsky removed his isolation garb more slowly than usual, considering the implications of Hutchinson’s arrival. Did Hutch know? What did this rare visit mean? How had he heard about Hutch’s illness?
Starsky felt all at odds with nothing more specific to do to help Hutch. Callendar’s blood was ready to be synthesized into the serum that should save the lives of all the patients. But, according to Judith, it would take more than twenty-four hours—possibly as much as forty-eight—to make. Thinking back to the urgent, desperate rush to find Callendar, Starsky had assumed that once Callendar was in the hospital and the medical staff siphoned off his blood, Hutch and the other patients would be set.
He’d thought it would be instantaneous. When he’d been told about the delay, the pit of his stomach had dropped into his shoes and still hadn’t climbed back into its normal position. Yet, even without the magic elixir, Hutch seemed to have rallied. Judith and the other CDC guy were optimistic that Hutch might be—in a way—similar to Callendar, with some sort of natural immunity to fight off the virus. Maybe from all that rabbit food and jogging he did, who knows? For now, Hutch was still critically ill, with a high fever and congested lungs. The sound of his coughing was like sandpaper against wood, grating and horrible.
Sitting beside Hutch’s bed, even while he slept, had given Starsky a measure of peace. Hutch hadn’t coughed, and the lines of pain and fatigue on his forehead had smoothed out. Unlike poor Ritchie, Hutch had avoided the ignominy of needing a ventilator to aid his breathing.
Satisfied that Hutch was, if not recovering, at least vaguely within the boundaries of what the medical staff termed “stable,” Starsky had decided to go home for some much needed sleep. He hadn’t been home in days—sleep was a forgotten memory.
Until he’d seen Gunnar Hutchinson. Should he speak to the older man? Introduce himself? Or leave him be?
Starsky was never exactly sure what relationship Hutch had with his father. As far as he knew, there were no regular phone calls or communication. Hutch had told him precious little about his family. Gunnar had cheated—apparently repeatedly—on Hutch’s mother and they’d divorced before Hutch was in high school. The divorce had been difficult for Hutch and his sister Karen to deal with, and a rift had opened between father and son that had never closed.
Starsky thought back on the few conversations he and Hutch had had about their parents. Those early gab fests over a pitcher of beer when they were both in the academy and the late night patrol car cruising when they were still in uniform and didn’t know each other very well. Before they could simply while away an entire night talking about nothing and everything, just content to be together. He recalled Hutch’s reticence to mention his father, his guarded reactions to even the most neutral of questions, such as, had his dad taught him to play baseball?
For Hutch to have called his father today meant that he had enough residual love to go to Gunner in a crisis. He clearly knew the man’s phone number, at the very least.
And birthday cards were sent to and from. Starsky recalled Hutch picking one out last January. Gunner was a New Year’s baby; had apparently been in the newspaper as Duluth’s first birth of the year in 1918. Needless to say, Hutch had mailed the card out late, what with them working both December thirty-first and January first.
But it was the thought that counted, right?
Starsky almost laughed as he stuffed his yellow paper gown and gloves into a trash bin. He could see Hutch’s earnest and slightly worried face as clear as day. They’d gone into the overwhelming Hallmark store, brimming with cards of every sort, to buy a single one. It had taken Hutch half an hour to find the right card. Starsky had held his tongue, curious about why there was suddenly a need to buy the parental unit a birthday card, and yet not willing to poke at Hutch’s fragile link to his father.
The man would have been—Starsky paused at the door of the ante room, watching Hutchinson talk with the doctor assigned to Hutch for the night—sixty at his last birthday. Could it be that Hutch, yearning to live a long and fruitful life, had realized he had less time to make it up with his father now that the man was getting older?
That Starsky could understand. He couldn’t conceive of life without his Ma, although she drove him batty on a regular basis. He’d give almost anything to have had more time with his long-deceased father. Pavel Starsky had been a strict disciplinarian, quick to dole out the strap and a night without dinner. Still, he had been Dad.
Decision made, Starsky washed his hands and walked into the hall. “Mr. Hutchinson?”
Hutchinson turned from the window into Hutch’s room. “Starsky, is it?”
Posted in fic, slash
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December 20th- Out of Ashes by Flamingo and Suzan
The SH gen novel, DECORATED FOR DEATH, written by Beano Smart with art by Frodsham McCloud, published in 1981, was the first Alternate Universe (AU) story in SH fandom. In DFD, post-holocaust LA has been reduced to groups of dangerous communes. Our heroes have become commune enforcers. Starsky & Hutch no longer remember their partnership or pre-war lives. Known as the Champion (Hutch) and the Other (Starsky), how they eventually meet and rediscover the power of their friendship is the heart of the novel. Because Suzan and I have always loved this novel, we finally decided to create a sequel as a graphic novel. Whether you’ve read DFD or not, you can follow the events of the sequel. Click on the comic to see a larger size. If the initial image then appears as a long narrow strip (known as an “infinity canvas”), clicking on it again will expand it to its largest size.
Click on the image to view it larger.
Posted in art, gen
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