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He let out his breath in a long sigh as he locked the door behind him. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before his partner noticed he’d left the party and followed him home, so he needed to work fast.
He flicked on the lights on the small Christmas tree and hastily arranged the presents he had hidden in the trunk of his car around the base.
He undressed as quickly as his fumbling fingers allowed, feeling a little nervous. He’d planned this gift for his partner some time ago but now it came down to it he was concerned whether it was a good idea or not. He decided it was too late now to back out. His friend was difficult to buy for and this seemed a perfect present for him.
Hitching a calming breath, he emptied the bag he was carrying onto the bed then turned to light the candles on the dresser. Returning to the bed he sorted through the tangle of objects he’d deposited there.
A bottle of scented oil and a blindfold were placed on his partner’s pillow and a sprig of mistletoe suspended above.
He picked up a red ribbon and ran it through his fingers, enjoying the feel of the smooth satin on his skin. He carefully wound it around his semi-erect penis and secured the end with a small piece of tape. A white ribbon, complete with gift tag, he tied in a bow around his balls and the base of his penis, completing the ensemble.
He sat on the bed and attached soft, fur-lined restraints to the frame before carefully securing them around his ankles.
Shuffling awkwardly on his bottom he centered himself on the bed. Then he put on the new red handcuffs and lay down, twisting his torso to fasten one of them to the frame above his head; he had to leave the other free but hoped it wouldn’t be free for long.
He began to relax now that he had completed his mission before his partner’s arrival. Although that gave him time to think and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing when he had put himself in this vulnerable position.
He and his partner had only become lovers a few months ago and bondage was something they had only recently begun to explore.
Occasionally they swapped positions but this was the way it seemed to work best for both of them. It was obvious from his response that his partner enjoyed pleasuring him as much as he enjoyed being pleasured.
And his partner certainly knew how to please him…although sometimes it was exquisite torture! He would bring him close to orgasm, then stop him, before bringing him to the edge again…and again and… Sometimes he had to beg for release, but when it came it was the most mind-blowing sensation he had ever experienced. And each time was more amazing than the previous one.
His beribboned penis twitched in anticipation.
Then he heard his partner’s key in the lock and his heart began to race. This was such a stupid idea and now he had no time to escape. In his mind’s eye he could see his partner shedding his jacket as he crossed the room.
“You okay?” came a quiet voice from behind the door. “You got a heada…?”
The voice cut off abruptly as the speaker took in the scene before him.
The man on the bed watched his lover slowly approach the bed, seeing a predatory look come over his face.
A frisson of excitement shot through him and his penis responded within the confining ribbons.
Both were silent for several seconds, then his partner whispered in a voice filled with awe, “Beautiful…you’re beautiful, you know that?”
A hand skimmed his chest and stomach then homed in on the gift tag.
“Not to be opened until Christmas Day.”
A glance toward the clock revealed it to be 11:35.
“Perfect.”
The End
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“Hey, you wanna do this?” Starsky stepped back, admiring the tree. He held out the angel to Hutch.
Starsky glanced at Hutch who sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch. The blond studied the sparkly lights and old fashioned decorations. He’d unearthed the silver horns, glittery tinsel and hand carved red birds that his grandparents had entrusted to him. It was the first Christmas in a long time that he felt like celebrating.
Hutch picked up the open bottle of beer beside him. He took a long pull of the amber liquid then offered it to Starsky, who accepted it but set it back on the table without taking a drink. Still watching Hutch, Starsky waited for an answer.
“No, go ahead, Starsk, you do the honors.”
“But it’s from your family, from your grandmother,” Starsky reminded his friend as he continued to monitor Hutch’s face.
It was only a little over a month since Hutch’s hand had been burned due to Artie Sokin’s terrible act of vengeance. He was still in pain and wasn’t able to grip his gun or shoot so they both had opted to do desk duty rather than work alone. This was the last long weekend before Christmas and Starsky had decided to take full advantage of the time off. The best thing was when he’d mentioned a Christmas tree, Hutch readily agreed. Together they’d unpacked a dusty box of ornaments. While Hutch unwrapped and explained about each decoration, Starsky had set up the small, live tree.
Starsky kept a close watch on his partner. He was still concerned that Hutch was doing too much with his injured hand. The skin was still an angry red in places and caused a good deal of pain for the blond. The man could be so stubborn sometimes. Shadows underneath the pale eyes would spread into a charcoal smudge, a sure sign that it was time for pain pills. When Hutch accepted them without complaint, Starsky inwardly winced, realizing just how uncomfortable the normally stoic man was.
However, at the moment, Hutch’s clear blue eyes remained bright and focused, with no deep lines around the mouth. Starsky shut off his pain-seeking radar and continued to enjoy the moment with his friend as he stood, offering the angel to Hutch.
Hutch stretched out on the floor, his back to the couch. He shook his head indicating that Starsky should finish decorating the tree. He absently flexed his wounded hand then picked up the beer to take a long drink.
The dark-haired man finished setting the angel on top of the tree. He quietly watched the blond flexing his fingers. Starsky joined his friend and gently took the big hand in his and began rubbing the fingers himself.
“That feels so good.” Hutch closed his eyes, enjoying the attention from his lover.
Neither man spoke for a few minutes. Starsky continued to massage the palm of Hutch’s hand, feeling the scars and uneven pattern there. But he smiled in spite of the damage. There was feeling in the hand and Hutch was able to move his fingers enough to play his guitar. Certainly, this was reason to celebrate.
Not only was this recommended therapy from the doctor, but both men enjoyed any excuse to touch the other. Their newly confirmed love seemed to have cemented itself since this most recent accident.
“I think this is what Christmas is all about.” Hutch spoke quietly, relishing the continued ministration to his hand.
Starsky’s eyes darkened with emotion. Since accepting their true feelings, the partners could finally settle into a relationship that felt right and brought them both peace.
“You just like the attention, ya big lug.” Kissing the middle of the injured hand, Starsky smiled and finally let go and reached for his bottle of beer.
“I don’t know why it took us so long to see what was right in front of us. Babe, there’s no one else I’d rather spend the day with. Plus, I think I finally can enjoy Christmas without giving in to the commercialism of it all.” Hutch smiled and reached out to his friend. He curled his other hand through the dark hair, as Starsky groaned with pleasure.
Hutch cleared his throat and decided to pick up his guitar that was sitting on the couch.
Starsky couldn’t resist giving him a dark look of concern, but at the same time, he was glad to see that the blond was able to enjoy the guitar. It was still hard for him to do so, but again it was with the doctor’s blessing and to be part of therapy to help in the healing process.
While Hutch played, Starsky got up to examine each Christmas card scattered across the piano. Then, he helped himself to a cookie from the box on the kitchen counter. Minnie had baked an assortment of Christmas goodies and presented the brightly decorated box to her two favorite detectives.
Starsky kept up the pretense of examining the decorations and nibbling at the pie that Mrs. Dobey and Rosie had made. While Hutch continued to play, the dark-haired man studied him, looking for signs of tension, frustration and distress.
Starsky still felt restless so he moved about the apartment but came back to the coffee table. He reached down for the beer, took a swig, and handed it over to Hutch who was in-between songs.
The blond set the guitar aside then reached for the bottle. He raised it as a salute to his friend. In response, Starsky raised the cookie in his hand.
“Never thought you’d be so far along with that hand, buddy. You’ve worked hard.” Starsky spoke, chewing on the cookie. He picked at a crumb that fell on his shirt, popping it into his mouth.
Starsky had no doubt that Hutch would make a complete recovery. Simply put, his friend hated any negativity. He worked through the painful healing process, accepting the procedures and declining any acts of sympathy. Only Starsky knew how concerned the blond really was. He saw it in the way Hutch stared at his hand, holding it, cradling it when he thought he wasn’t being observed. .
“Couldn’t have got this far without ya, buddy.” Hutch nodded his head then suddenly got up, stretching out his back.
He walked forward, touching the spruce tree, inhaling the pine scent. He gazed at the angel, remembering how his Grandmother had fashioned the delicate decoration.
Still rubbing his hand, he glanced again at the angel on the tree. He wasn’t surprised when he felt Starsky’s arm around him. He looked over, sharing what he had been thinking.
“Christmas is all about love and friends. Just look around this place.” Taking in the numerous cards, the array of goodies and the lovingly decorated tree, Hutch bent toward his lover and kissed him lightly.
They moved as one to the couch, falling onto the cushions. Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky, who snuggled closer to the big blond.
Wrapped in their love, surrounded by the gifts from friends, the men had all they could ever want or need.
“What are those for?” Starsky asked, as Hutch sorted through a bin of produce.
Hutch was already holding a cluster or bunch or flock or whatever-you-call-it of suspicious-looking bulbous things with pointy bottoms and tree-like tops that Starsky already wanted nothing to do with. Grocery shopping with Hutch–always an exercise in name-that-exotic-inedible-food-item–was worse around the holidays. About two weeks before Thanksgiving, his partner would start to transform.
From the regular guy Starsky knew–a guy who considered food little more than fuel to keep body and soul together, who would protest the fast food they often ate on the fly while downing it with gusto, and who, like Starsky, would consume cold coffee and stale sandwiches on stake-outs that always ran longer than their eight-hour shift–about two weeks before Thanksgiving, Hutch, this regular guy, would start to change. While Hutch had always been an adventurous and creative cook, during the weeks before Thanksgiving, he turned into Julia Child’s favorite student. And Starsky knew from experience that Julia and Hutch had some weird notions about what normal human beings should eat.
Like the stuff Hutch was picking out right now.
Hutch found another bulby-tree-thing
and shook it gently free of its brethren, smiling as if he’d discovered the lost gold of the Incas.
.
“You know what these are,” Hutch said without looking at him. He was still inspecting the pile. “They’re beets. I know you’ve eaten beets before. Your mom told me–“
“Those are beets?” Starsky said dubiously. “What’s all that green stuff hanging onto them?”
“Beet greens!” Hutch said with way too much enthusiasm. “When you see beets with their tops like this, all fresh and green and not wilted, you know they were picked just this morning. You’ll love those greens, Starsk. Sautéed gently with a touch of butter and some raisins and pine nuts, they’re really sweet. I like to roast the beets with a bit of maple syrup to intensify–“
Starsky needed to put a stop to this right now. “If you talked to Mom, then she musta told you that I hate beets. I don’t like ’em as soup. I don’t like ’em boiled. I don’t like ’em pickled. They taste like dirt. And so will all that grass-stuff growing out of ’em. I can think of much better things to do with pine nuts and raisins this time of year–like puttin’ them where they belong–on gingerbread people and in cakes and pies. Not in boiled grass.”
Hutch just chuckled like he always did when Starsky insisted he hated certain foods. Which meant that Starsky would be facing not just a plate of beets in some form or other on Thanksgiving day, but worse yet, their greeny growing things as well.
Starsky groaned. “You know, Hutch, the song don’t go, ‘On the first day of Christmas, my partner gave to me…beets!'”
Hutch finally looked at him as he placed a horrendous mess of the gigantic grassy tubers in his basket. It looked like coming attractions for The Day of the Triffids. *
“Have some faith in me, buddy! After all this time, you should know that you usually love the things I make for Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, the normal stuff. The turkey with the cornbread stuffing, green bean casserole–the only way man was even meant to eat anything green–candied yams with toasted marshmallows, mashed potatoes swimming in butter and gravy–“
“It’s time for us to start eating healthier, Starsk. We’re not getting any younger. This year we’re having lighter fare. Less carbs, lower fat, more natural food. Wild rice with pecans and cranberries, green beans with almonds, butternut squash with cinnamon, sweet potatoes with apples and a light pecan topping, beets roasted with a touch of maple syrup, roasted cauliflower with caramelized onions–“
“Cauliflower!” Starsky yelped. “You’re pulling my leg!”
“Do I have to remind you about your fitness profile and your cholesterol rating? We’ve got to get those numbers down.”
“You’re supposed to change your diet after the New Year, Hutch! Not on Thanksgiving.”
Hutch just patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll thank me after your next checkup.”
Starsky was almost afraid to ask. “What about pie? You’re gonna make your famous pumpkin pie, right?” Starsky waited all year for that pie.
“At almost 600 calories a slice, I should say not. We’ll have a nice fruit salad.”
For half a beat, Starsky thought he might actually cry. “You keep talking crazy like this, and I swear I’ll have Thanksgiving with the Dobeys. You and your beets and your cauliflower can eat by yourselves.”
Hutch was picking out apples and pears for his fruit salad, only half-listening to Starsky. “As a matter of fact, you will be having Thanksgiving with the Dobeys. We’re eating with them! Edith and I ran into each other at the bank, and she was dreading having to cook the heavy fare they usually ate on the holiday. You know she’s always worried about the captain’s health. His latest health profile was even worse than yours. We got to talking and decided we’d get a jump on the New Year by making a healthy Thanksgiving. She and I worked out the menu and–“
“It’s a conspiracy?” Starsky was shocked. His partner and his captain’s wife plotting together to destroy Thanksgiving?
Hutch just laughed. “Trust me, Starsk. It’ll all work out just fine.”
“Just tell me there’s gonna be turkey. There will be turkey, won’t there?” If Hutch was going to offer up some kind of fake meat substitute, he was taking a plane home to New York!
“Of course there’ll be turkey! It’s one of the healthiest foods you can have. But Edith isn’t serving the smoked ham she usually provides. Not this year.”
“Does Dobey know that the two of you have decided to ruin his favorite holiday?”
Hutch looked pensive. “I don’t know. He’s usually too busy to worry about the menu. Most years, he’s just hoping he’ll be able to get home for the meal if nothing crazy happens in the city.”
Well, this was just a fine kettle of fish! Starsky’s all time favorite holiday ruined by his partner’s health mania. And Edith Dobey! One of his favorite people. He’d never felt so betrayed.
“Of course, Starsk, since you reminded me of the first day of Christmas song, it occurs to me we could skip the turkey and have a brace of partridges
instead, with a nice pear salad.”
Starsky nearly lost it. “Who eats partridges in this day and age? Who even heard of cooking partridges? Where would you even GET partridges–” He suddenly realized a half dozen people in the supermarket were staring at him. He lowered his voice. “I’ve gotten used to your up-and-down reactions to Christmas, but you never sabotaged Thanksgiving before. Now you’ve gone too far. It’s un-American!”
Hutch just laughed and pushed his cart over to a pile Brussels sprouts.
Starsky’s eyes grew wider. He clamped his mouth shut, realizing his ranting would just encourage Hutch’s wicked streak, and he’d add even more inedibles to what had once been the holiday Starsky looked forward to more than any other. Maybe he should talk to Huggy or Mrs. Walters about joining them for dinner. He had a feeling Captain Dobey would be happy to sneak out with him. As Hutch puttered along, picking up one gross vegetable after another and humming merrily, Starsky’s gaze suddenly landed on a different kind of display.
***
Hutch looked over his selections with anticipation as he started stacking them on the check-out counter. The healthy vegetables were colorful and fresh; he knew they’d be delicious on his and Edith’s Thanksgiving table. Starsky might rant and rave, but once he tasted these minimally processed foods that needed little more than a touch of olive oil or maple syrup or bit of butter to bring out their natural deliciousness, Hutch knew he’d win him over. Just wait ’til Starsky tasted these Brussels sprouts roasted with caramelized onions–
His hand hit something in his cart he didn’t recognize, and he looked down. He was about to pick up a small bag of garden soil
that was leaning against the side of the cart next to a jar of plant food and a bag of decorative stones. He blinked. He didn’t put those–
Standing up straighter, he peered at Starsky. His partner was wearing that patented “innocent” look he’d perfected over the years. Which meant that he was responsible.
“What’s this for?” Hutch asked.
“I wanted to contribute something to the meal,” Starsky said, as if that should be obvious. “It’s healthy! Full of minerals for strong bones and teeth. Low fat. Low calorie. Maybe we can have it for dessert.”
Hutch smiled and stacked the items on the counter along with the rest of the food.
Starsky’s expression changed to one of surprise. “You’re keeping that stuff?”
“Sure,” Hutch said, suppressing a smile. “I can use it to make a Dirt Cake!
Dirt Cake Recipe
(right click and save as)
It’ll be the perfect dessert.”
To be continued…
I woke with a start, not sure what disturbed me. I sat stone-still in the bedside chair and listened. Only night-at-the-hospital-sounds. The random footsteps, the intermittent ‘ping’ of the elevator just before the doors opened. No… nothing odd or threatening… so what then?
My attention was instantly focused on you as you moved slightly, a frown forming when you realized your body wasn’t readily responding to your brain’s command to ‘turn over’!
I was at your bedside before your next breath. I quickly moved the supporting pillows out of the way to allow you to change position. Your hands went automatically to your chest and belly, creating your own support. A small cough caught you by surprise and I quickly placed my hands over yours to splint you in case there was another. You groaned softly and let out the next breath with care. And now just like the million and three times before, I looked down at you and prayed–If only we could change places.
You opened your eyes and squinted a little as if things were somewhat blurry.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
“For what?” I asked.
“Waking ya’ up,” you answered with a wince as you tried to move your hip over those extra inches that would make you more comfortable.
I slipped my hands under your butt and gave you the small boost you needed. “You didn’t wake me; I was up.”
“Liar,” you said around a yawn and a sigh that signaled my boost had done the trick and sleep was fast approaching.
My hands slid slowly free of your hip, when what they really wished more than anything else, was to squeeze that flesh and pull your pelvis close and…
Knock it off or he’ll see something else on you is up!
I smiled and gently patted your thigh.
Before my fingers could slide away from your sleep-warmed skin, you grabbed my hand and pulled it up to you. Then you rested a sweet single kiss on my palm as your eyes closed.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Love you, too!”
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Golden.
That’s what I thought the first time I saw the Blond Blintz standing there on top of a Bay City warehouse: that he was golden.
I didn’t even know what gold looked like back then. Not really. Our kind only see black and white, not color. But I’d heard humans talk about gold and felt the glow of their golden sun and seen the statues they’d covered in the stuff, and one way or another, I knew Hutch must be golden.
Not that I even knew his name back then.
I’d only been in Bay City for a few days, a wandering Watcher looking for home. I’d never gotten used to being called an Angel. I wasn’t the sort of fluffy wings and halos creature the humans seemed to think of when they used the name. I’d been a warrior in the beginning, one of the Chosen fighting the Enemy. My wings were tattered from use, my armor was dented from battle and none of us have halos. But the being I saw on that building as I flew around my new home, he really was an Angel. I was sure of it.
It wasn’t his surroundings that made me think that. The building he was perched on was a decrepit hulk of a place in a neighborhood that ran more to pimps and drug dealers than law-abiding citizens. And his armor was as dented as mine, his wings had as many ragged feathers. But his expression, his attentiveness, the way he held himself showed me a being who still believed in this world, who still believed in the decency of the humanity we had been given watch over.
I slowed my flight and settled onto the roof of a nearby building, a tenement building teeming with human souls whose thoughts nearly deafened me. I shut out the humans and concentrated on the Golden Angel before me. It took a while for him to turn his attention to me, but I didn’t care. Time made no difference to me. He finally registered my presence with a start of surprise and a nod of acknowledgement I returned with a smile. He smiled back, but his attention was soon back on the streets below him and the humans under his care. I watched my Golden Angel for a few minutes more before I took to the air once again, determined to learn my way around this city I was now more determined than ever to call home.
I saw the Golden Angel every few days. Sometimes from a distance, his wings and hair flashing white in the sunlight, sometimes close enough that we’d share a nod of greeting. But we didn’t speak. Not until the night when I finally dared to land beside him on the roof of the same building where I’d first seen him.
“You’re new,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Yeah,” I said. “I got sick of winter in New York. Thought I’d try California.”
“I know what you mean,” he said with a laugh. “I came from Minnesota.” I liked the sound of his laugh as much as I liked his smile. Both were…golden.
“I’m Starsky,” I said, holding out my hand in a gesture humans use to begin a friendship.
“Hutch,” he said, and took my hand, and I knew right then that he was just like me. Because like me, he was a nomad, breaking the unspoken rule that tied us to one place on this little planet. And because like me, he’d taken a human name.
Cassiel. Damiel. Even Lucifer. Those are the names of Watchers. Of Angels. It had been so long since I’d used my Watcher name I couldn’t even remember it. As soon as humans had started naming themselves, I’d started stealing their names for myself. I’d taken the name of a warrior, a fighter, man or woman, great or small. I’d wear the name for a time, then take another, all the while watching the millennia pass.
“Why Hutch?” I asked him a few weeks later as we were patrolling what I now thought of as our city, watching over the prostitutes and bums who seemed invisible to everyone but us.
“It belonged to a man I watched grow up in Minnesota.” Hutch looked at the horizon where the sun was setting and taking the light with it. “He was an old soul, for a human. I took it to remember him.” I put my hand on his shoulder for a moment, and I could feel the winter within him.
“Why Starsky?” he asked me.
I took a deep breath before answering that one. Because of all the names I’d taken across history, this was one of the ones that meant the most to me.
“It belonged to a boy. From Warsaw.” I closed my eyes, and I could see men in German uniforms in front of an ugly brick wall that enclosed thousands of men, women and children. “He raised the Resistance flag over the ghetto during the uprising there, during their last world war.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died two days later.” The boy had died in the flames, which had probably been a mercy. There had been so many much worse deaths in that place. I’d taken his name as my own, my memorial to a boy forgotten by human history.
I’d stayed in Poland until the Nazis were driven out and the Soviets rolled in. I’d done my duty; I’d borne witness. And when it was all over, when I’d seen more horrors than even a Watcher could bear, I’d flown west, trading the Old World for the New, and the sounds of Polish and German and Russian for the English of New York City.
Hutch didn’t speak; he simply put his hand on my shoulder and leaned his forehead against mine. I couldn’t feel his thoughts—we can’t hear the thoughts of our own kind—but I felt closer to him in that moment than I have ever felt to another being, Watcher or human.
We were inseparable after that.
We spent our days and nights watching over the forgotten people: the girls who worked the massage parlours, the junkies trying to find enough cash for their next score, and the rummies panhandling for small change to buy a watered-down beer from the dive down the street. We saw small kindnesses and casual cruelties. We witnessed life in all its beauty and ugliness.
And on the days when there were too many cruelties and not enough kindnesses, we would spread our wings and take to the skies. We’d fly west until we were over the ocean, the waves glinting with the light of the sun or the moon. We’d fly low over the water, tracking pods of dolphins or blooms of jellyfish. We’d fly high in the sky, until we felt we could touch the stars before plummeting to earth once again. Whatever we did, our flights would always end on a deserted beach, sitting on sun-warmed sand with our wings lightly touching as they flexed behind us.
In all the eons I’d been on this planet, I couldn’t remember having been more content. But having seen so much, I should have known that nothing remains the same—not even immortals like us.
As the days grew shorter and the end of the human year approached, it seemed that the streets grew meaner. There were more beatings and muggings, and more ocean flights to escape the feelings they brought to us both. On Christmas Eve, three addicts we’d watched over for months overdosed on a bad batch of heroin. That day, not even the ocean felt like it could change our mood. Instead, Hutch grabbed my hand and pulled me into the sky and towards one of the ravines that ran through the city. He guided me through the trees until we settled in the branches of a big camphor tree that sheltered a ramshackle structure of plywood and canvas. That structure—more than a tent and less than a shack—was home to two of our flock. Eddie and Lonely survived on odd jobs and meals from the nearest street mission, but they never complained. They looked out for each other, sharing what little they had. As soon as I realized where Hutch had brought me, I understood. We needed more kindness, and we would find it with these two lost souls.
We sat in the branches of the tree, dangling our legs and leaning against each other as Eddie and Lonely made a campfire to heat up the dented tins of beans they’d managed to scrounge, and exchanged meager Christmas presents: a pair of socks for Eddie and a battered fedora for Lonely. They were never anything but gentle with each other, either in thoughts or words. Which made it all the more jarring when we started hearing a disturbance somewhere beyond the light of their campfire.
The thoughts I heard from the men approaching were jumbled and violent, and made me look nervously to Hutch. Hutch sat up a bit straighter and turned to where the sound was growing louder.
It took seconds for the source of the noise to appear: four young men, drunk and loud and angry at the world. And currently that anger was focused on two old men who would never have hurt anyone.
Eddie and Lonely stumbled to their feet, confused and worried. One of the young men, what passed in their company for a leader, moved forward and started to push Lonely, while another of them picked up a burning branch from the fire as a crude sort of torch and began to move towards Eddie.
“No,” Hutch whispered as the young man with the torch drew closer to Eddie. Then louder. “No!”
Before I could move, Hutch had flown down the short distance to the campfire and was standing between the men and their prey. As I watched, I could see him begin to change. It was as if he began to flicker, to become both less and more substantial. He flexed his wings, beat them once, twice, and then they were gone. As the wings disappeared, the men in front of Hutch pulled back in surprise.
“Hutch!” I yelled, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.
I had to do it, Starsk. Hutch’s thoughts rang in my head. His human thoughts. I’m sorry.
“No you don’t,” I said, as I tumbled out of the tree and moved towards Hutch. “Not by yourself, you don’t.”
As I ran towards Hutch I could feel myself change, could feel the air spark around me, could feel an unfamiliar weight settling into my bones, could feel the pain of my wings disintegrating. I staggered as the world shifted and changed, and I leaned briefly on Hutch, taking my strength from him. We both had lost our wings, but we still had our armor, battered breastplates under our leather jackets. I blinked as I realized that the torch the man in front of me was waving around wasn’t the blacks and whites I had always known. It was made up of colors. I knew, then, that there was no going back.
Hutch spared a second for me, making sure I could stand on my own, and then placed himself firmly between Eddie and the man with the torch. I put myself between Lonely and his tormentors.
“Stay away from them,” Hutch growled.
“Where the fuck did you two come from?” one of the men asked.
“That don’t matter,” I said, planting my feet firmly on the earth and readying myself for the coming fight. “What does matter is that you get out of here.”
As the men stood and looked at us for the length of several breaths, I wished I could still hear the thoughts of humans. But then they finally looked at each other and charged.
It had been uncounted millennia since I’d fought the Enemy since the beginning of time, but I hadn’t forgotten anything. And this time I wasn’t facing fallen Watchers, but drunk young men who were as clumsy as they were furious. I met the invaders head on, blocking fists and landing punches of my own. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Hutch taking on the man with the torch, and winning.
The attackers were vicious, but they knew when they were beat. It took only minutes before they stopped and ran back the way they’d come, leaving us alone with each other, and with Eddie and Lonely.
“Who are you?” Lonely asked as I helped him to his feet, his expression surprised and grateful and just a bit wary.
“I’m Starsky,” I said, then pointed my thumb back to my partner. “He’s Hutch.”
“Thank you, Starsky.” Lonely reached out and shook my hand, then turned to his friend. “Say thank you to the men, Eddie.”
“Thank you, Starchy. Thank you, Hup.” He directed a shy smile at us both. I didn’t have the heart to correct him, and neither did Hutch.
We stashed our armor and bundled the two of them to the mission where they took their meals. There was a Christmas Eve service about to start, but Hutch talked the pastor who ran the place into taking them in for the night. We didn’t think those idiots would try to hurt two old men a second time, but after listening to human thoughts through the centuries I’ve learned to never underestimate how vicious some of the species can be.
After we had Eddie and Lonely settled in a safe place, we went looking for our own safe place. Hutch had been in the city that much longer than me, and he knew a church that kept its doors open at night and that didn’t have a Christmas service until later the next morning. So we walked there—how I missed my wings—and settled in a corner of the church together. There, wrapped comfortably in each other’s arms, we slept for the first time.
I woke up the next morning alone and confused. I don’t know how humans do it, figure out each morning where the hell they are and how the hell they got there, but somehow I managed it. And then I went looking for Hutch.
I didn’t have far to look. He was at the front of the church by the pulpit, surrounded by the light of the morning sun streaming through the stained glass windows. Standing in the light of all those colors I didn’t have names for yet, for a moment I thought I could see the wings he didn’t have anymore. There he was, my Golden Angel.
“What are you staring at?” he asked, making me realize what an idiot I must look like.
“Nothin’.” And then I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I should have been miserable. I’d given up immortality and my wings to save two people no one else in the world would have missed. But it felt right and it felt perfect because the one thing I hadn’t given up was Hutch. Not that I had a clue about what would come next. “What are we gonna do now?” I asked.
“Well,” Hutch said, returning my grin, “I’ve always wanted to be a cop.”
I thought back to the dawn of time when I’d fought the Enemy, when I’d been able to make a stand with my brother and sister Watchers. I thought about how I hadn’t been able to do the same for so many on this planet, how I hadn’t been able to fight with young Starsky or rescue those junkies yesterday. I thought about how good it had felt to save Eddie and Lonely, to finally make a difference, and especially how good it had felt to fight with Hutch at my side.
“Yeah,” I said, throwing my arm around Hutch’s shoulder. “Being a cop sounds fine to me.”
