Starsky & Hutch Advent Calendar 2015

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October, 1979. Baymont Center for Physical Therapy

“Your friend isn’t staying today?” asked Kevin, Starsky’s physical therapist, while escorting Starsky to the therapy room.

Hutch had to go to work early this morning. Huggy had taken over the after-session driving duties. “My friend?”

“Yes. The tall blond one,” Kevin said closing the door behind him.

Starsky unbuttoned his shirt. He liked the peaceful white marble-like texture of the rooms in the Center. It calmed his nerves and gave him a sense of familiarity. He had been to a place like this, he was sure, but had no recollection where. “Nah. He’s not my friend,” Starsky said, lying down on the crisp clean sheets of the massage table.

Kevin looked surprised “No?”

“No.” Starsky grinned. “He’s the rest of me. The better half, but don’t tell Hutch that.”

Kevin laughed. “I don’t know about the better part, but he watches over you like a hawk. I can remember when you were first brought to this place. He questioned–”

“I think the word you are looking for is interrogated, ” said Starsky, remembering Hutch’s grueling questions directed towards the therapists and doctors in charge of Starsky’s rehabilitation. He wanted to know each and every detail of various therapies, exercises, and massages that had been prescribed for Starsky.

“He cares about you a lot. Doesn’t he?”

“We’ve known each other a long time. Been through some rough times together.” Starsky swallowed hard, thinking of the close calls they’d had, remembering how Hutch always came through whenever Starsky was in trouble. “I’m lucky to have him.” He choked up on his words.

“He said the same about you.” Kevin placed the heated pads on Starsky’s chest. “Said you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“He’s a big softie.” Starsky smiled.

“I don’t think anyone around here would agree with you.” Kevin laughed. “And I’m glad he didn’t stay around for today’s session.”

“Why’s that?” asked Starsky.

“We’re starting a new therapy today. A neuro-fascial massage. This will remove adhesions and tension within your muscles. You’ll move better after this because right now your motions are restricted by some of the scar tissue,” Kevin explained.

“So… this will break up the scar tissue?”

“No. Not really. But it’d help a lot. And we’ll get into ART later, to break up those scars.”

“ART?”

“Active Release Treatment. I’ll explain later, but for the next three weeks, we’ll concentrate on this deep tissue massage.”

“Sounds good to me. So why didn’t you want Hutch around?”

“Even though I’m your therapist, he would want to kill me for hurting you,” said Kevin. “And don’t take this lightly, David. This will hurt, a lot more than other days.”

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The 1990 short film, “12:01,” spawned numerous variations on the theme: being caught in a time loop. “Groundhog Day” is probably the best known example, but there were episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, The X-Files, a segment of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, and a Stargate SG-1. There may have been others, but those are the ones I saw. Anachronistically, I wondered how Starsky and Hutch would react to being caught in a similar situation.

FIRST LOOP — Hutch

The mall was a zoo! Why did Starsky and I leave things so late? We’d never find anything now, it was only two days until Christmas. But we hadn’t had a day off in weeks, what with court appearances and stakeouts and hours and hours of paperwork. Not to mention last week’s major bust of the Donelli Family’s operation. Dobey finally took pity on us and gave us tonight. Of course, it helped that we said we’d do our best to find the two items he had yet to get for Cal and Rosie: a Light It Up light saber and a walking, talking Princess Leia doll, improved 1980 version. Where in this mess we were going to find them though was anybody’s guess.

Starsky was in his element. His eyes sparkled and he bounced on the balls of his feet. If only I could bottle his energy at this time of year, the world could live off it the other three hundred sixty four days.

“Hey, hey, Hutch! Look at this, will ya?” My late-thirties-going-on-twelve partner was staring into the toy store window. Inside, several model trains were running, simultaneously, around a complicated track, weaving onto and off of each other’s rails, over bridges and through tunnels. Engines sometimes missed cabooses by mere inches. It appeared to be the proverbial wreck waiting to happen, but the circuits continued without mishap.

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May, 1979, Police garage parking lot: Starsky

Damn! Someone’s frying their tires. A wheel alignment job’s coming right up.

“Starsky, get down.”

What?

Holy shit! Is that an M3? How the heck did cops-

They ain’t cops.

Fuck the protocols.

If Hutch thinks I’m gonna duck and let him take the fall…

You may get me, but you won’t get my partner. Not on my watch. Meet David Michael Starsky, you shit-heads!

Glass!

Christ! Is it the Torino’s?

What am I doing on the ground?

I think I’ve hit my head on the wheel.

I shot back at them. Did I hit the glass, instead?

Jeez, my head aches like a bitch.

Damn! My wheels are covered with rust.

How’s that even possible when I spent half my paycheck for the damn Magnum 500 chrome set. They came with a life-time warranty. I’m gonna get my money back.

How come there’s rust on the ground?

Rust is red but not this red.

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“Merry Christmas, Hutch.”

My lover, my partner, my best friend in the whole world opens his sky blue eyes and looks at me. A smile blossoms on his beautiful face. “Right back atcha, babe.”

I get lost in those eyes, again. I can’t seem to convince myself it’s real, that he’s here, in my apartment, in my bed. In my heart and soul. He’s been my other half for years but now, with the advent of our love, he’s become my life. And I’m so incredibly happy I can’t get over how full and complete I feel all the time. I seem to need feedback though.

“Are you happy, Hutch?”

The gorgeous ocean-deep eyes widen a little. “Don’t I look happy?”

I can’t resist a smirk. “You look sated.”

He playfully punches my arm, then snuggles against my chest. “The credit for that is entirely yours.” He runs his long fingers through my chest hair, an activity he apparently enjoys and which makes me shiver. He knows how much I love it so he slows his ministrations, purring sexily deep in his throat.

“But that’s not what I asked,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice level and my libido unaffected by what he’s doing . “Are you happy?”

Hutch draws back and looks at me, perplexity now in his expression. He sits up and pulls the covers around his shoulders; it’s a little chilly this morning. Even in sunny Southern California, late December can be coolish. “Why so serious, partner?” he asks.

I sit up against the headboard, pulling the Torino Red With Blinding White Border feather-soft afghan he gave me last night around me. I gather him back in my arms and wrap him in the comfort, too. “It’s our first Christmas together and…”

He tilts his head up and kisses me lightly. “You mean together, together.”

I blush. I can’t help it. This phase of our relationship is still so new, and so different, I have a hard time thinking about it, much less talking about it. “Well, yeah,” I admit.

“And it’s got you spooked?” he asks, in all seriousness.

“No!” I say immediately. I can’t let him get the wrong idea. I’m going about this badly, never had a talent with words. Not like Hutch. He can say anything, anytime. Me? I’m always fumble-tongued. “No, Hutch, it’s not that at all.” He waits patiently. I pull him tighter against me and stroke his lean, muscled back. God, I love touching him.

I try to get my thoughts arranged and make another attempt. “It’s just that, after Gunther, I thought I might never be truly happy again. But less than a year later I am so incredibly happy, I need to know you are, too.” I shrug an apology because that was a really silly, stupid thing to say. “Not just goin’ along with this whole lovers thing because it was my idea and you don’t want to hurt my feelings.”

Hutch sits up, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. He stares at me, his expression intense but kind. “As I recall, Mr. Starsky,” he begins, softly, “I was the one who kissed you the first time. It was my idea.”

“Yeah, but…”

He puts the fingers of his right hand over my lips and stops my response. “I kissed you, Starsk.” He smiles beatifically. “Remember?”

I grin under his fingers and draw them into my mouth. He gasps a little but leaves them there. I suck and lave and nibble, watching his eyes go fuzzy and his breathing deepen. Oh, my Hutch, you’re such a joy to love.

I mumble around his long, strong digits. “You only kissed me because I’d been wanting you to. Trying to get you to read my mind.”

Gently, he retrieves his hand, putting the wet fingers in his own mouth and tasting me. Then he moves the hand under the covers and finds my cock. He had to have known I was already hard, even though the covers up around both our shoulders concealed the evidence.

“Starsky,” he says, his voice husky with need, “if I was any happier, neither of us could stand being around me.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then,” I say, my voice matching his desire.

He pulls me to him, smothering my uncertainties with his love.

“Merry Christmas, Starsk.”