December 10th- Giftwrapped by hatstand

Their first Christmas in the new place — their place — and of course Hutch had to be the one to screw it up. He’d have thrown his hands up in regretful supplication if his arms hadn’t been pinned to the hospital bed by pain and plaster.

“I’m sorry, Starsk.”

“For what, giving me a heart attack?”

Starsky crossed the floor in two strides and leaned over him, forehead lined with worry, hands reaching out to touch and not knowing where to land. The left settled on his cheek, one thumb stroking under his eye, fingertips ghosting behind his ear. The briefest touch; mindful of the setting but still needed. By both of them, Hutch figured, from the faint tremble in the fingertips before they withdrew.

“I ruined Christmas,” he said simply.

Starsky’s eyebrows jumped in recognition, before softening to fond amusement as he dropped into the nearby chair.

“You’re kidding? You in one piece is the only Christmas gift I need, Blondie.”

“That’s a pity, because apparently my left arm’s in a couple more than standard.”

Yesterday they’d strolled into Eddie Fuller’s warehouse on the docks to follow up on a missing girl, and found what looked like a second office with its own books, its own safe, and a thriving trade in something other than Eddie’s usual line in machine parts — along with a lawyer who kicked them out on their asses. Today they were back with a warrant. No Eddie. No books. And now, no warehouse. The bomb was rigged to the stockroom door and it was sheer chance that it was Hutch taking the front this go around and finding six feet of steel flying towards him.

He remembered hitting it — or it hitting him, hard to say — and feeling bone break. His left arm now sat in a heavy white cast from palm to elbow, propped on a pillow. His right had escaped the plaster but was firmly strapped into a sling across his chest: an elbow break, less dramatic but equally annoying and painful. There were cuts and bruises to his hands, his face, plus a tender spot on the back of his head.

You were very fortunate, the emergency room doctor had told him.

Tell that to my partner, Hutch had thought uncharitably.

Starsky, to give him his due, looked more than happy with a real live not-dead Hutch.

“Doc said they want you overnight, just for the knock on the head,” Starsky said, knotting fingers into the bedlinen in an effort to stop himself trying to hold Hutch’s hand. “But tomorrow, I’ll take you home. We still get Christmas Eve together. You get to wake up on Christmas morning with this handsome devil.” He fixed Hutch’s gaze with that blue-eyed twinkle, the confident smile beaming out. “And no way Dobey’s going to be on the horn demanding we come in, either. It’s everything we wanted, huh?”

Hutch tried to shift his position, wanting to sit up straighter, but the effort shut his eyes tightly against the pain. It would get worse, too, they both knew it. Couple of days in the swelling would hit; the bruising would come out. Christmas Day would be a lot rougher than this. He’d be either in pain or dopey on painkillers; probably too uncomfortable to want to share a bed; certainly too uncomfortable to enjoy a big dinner and a day of frenetic Starsky at his most excitable. Every year, they worked on Christmas, giving the family cops due time at home. Every year, Hutch gave Starsky shit for being such a little kid about the holidays. Except this year. This year was meant to be different: day shift on the twenty-fourth and nothing but personal time until clocking back at 8pm on the twenty-sixth. Christmas together; really together.

Hutch snapped his eyes open, gearing up to face the facts.

Starsky saw it and pressed one gentle finger briefly to Hutch’s lips. The beaming smile slipped a little, but the look of ardent affection remained.

“It’s everything I want, ok, Hutch? I know I make a big fuss and I know you were trying real hard to go along this year, get a little of that euphoric sentimentalism running through your veins even though you hate it, and I love that you were going to do that for me. But I had a good twenty-five minutes of today thinking what this Christmas was going to look like without you. Trust me. I know what a gift I got. Even if the giftwrap’s a little unusual.”

He gently tapped the white plaster cast, looking up at Hutch with a familiar warmth.

Hutch found his throat too thick to reply. Maybe very fortunate was right after all.

He managed a nod, and Starsky hopped up, producing — not for the first time — a plastic sprig of mistletoe from his back pocket. He dangled it flirtily above Hutch’s head and dipped in for the kind of close-mouthed kiss on the lips that lingered long enough to matter.

“Merry Almost Christmas, babe,” Starsky said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Got some shopping to do.”

With a wink and a tap of his nose, he twirled out of the room, humming Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.

Hutch looked down at his two useless hands.

Five dollars. That’s what they’d agreed: no flash, not when the new place needed a ton of work. A five-dollar Christmas gift. All of which he’d planned to do tomorrow, after work, in some grand sweet romantic gesture.

So he’d screwed that up, too.

Their home of the last three months was a fixer-upper in the same district as Hutch’s old riverside cottage, with all the attendant charms and woes. The wood creaked; the window frames decided to open or close at a whim; if the wind picked up, it felt like the house was going with it. But it was theirs, and Starsky never failed to get a thrill at driving up outside and seeing the evidence of those four walls they’d chosen.

It was dark inside and he hesitated before going through the routine of the last few weeks: flipping on outlets to light up the tree, and the second tree, and the lights in the kitchen, and the ones above the bed, before putting on a Bing Crosby album or carols or whatever he figured Hutch would tolerate for a side.

He’d pictured this, in the waiting room. Seen himself come home alone to face that being how it would be from now on: empty, quiet, no place for any of it. He tapped a dangling golden bell hanging from the tree in the living room, its soft jingle reminding him of Jimmy Stewart and angel’s wings.

“He’s ok,” Starsky said, out loud, as if the house needed to have it confirmed. “He’s coming home tomorrow.”

The lights circling the tree seemed to glow in happy agreement, and he let it go, all of it. Hutch was going to be fine, and they were going to have Christmas like he’d always wanted.

The rest of the day was spent getting dragged back to the precinct to write up a report for four hours, then touring the city for certain key items required for the perfect Hutch Christmas gift. The gift itself was coming free, but it needed some accessories. Then groceries, a beer run, plus a trip to pick up meds and a few spare slings.

Christmas Eve meant clocking in for a 7am day shift, which meant swinging by Memorial at 6.15 to try and fail to wheedle his way into Hutch’s room — despite wearing a Santa hat and his most plaintive partner expression.

It didn’t work on Dobey either, who was furious about Fuller’s warehouse, Starsky’s typo-strewn report, Hutch being out of action and his in-laws staying for Christmas, not necessarily in that order.

“You gotta let the Christmas spirit in, Cap,” Starsky pleaded, watching the clock as it ticked past four that afternoon. “Season of goodwill to all men… A time to give to others…”

Dobey glowered. “I want you at that desk and working like any other day till 6pm sharp. And after that — I don’t want to see your hide till the twenty-seventh. You got a partner to take care of.”

A full extra day at the toughest time to get a full roster: Starsky understood a Christmas gift when he got one. Understood from Dobey’s face what it meant too. You’re still my boys.

“Edith says if you’re not ready to cook up a dinner, the invite’s still good — even if you have to cut Hutch’s meat for him. I’d be happy to have the company, I won’t lie.”

Starsky grinned.

“Thanks, Cap. For all of that. I think we want to keep this one low key this year; better for Hutch to be home where he can rest up. But tell Edith to expect a call when I’ve burned everything and need some emergency kitchen witchin’? My mom’s not exactly over me wanting to celebrate, and Hutch ordered us a fresh turkey — it’s healthy, he says, like that’s what Christmas is for — and I got a feeling it’s gonna come with all its feathers.”

“I’ll tell her to expect an SOS.”

Starsky went back to his typewriter, feeling warmed. I’d have had a place to go, if I needed it, tomorrow. Not anything he’d have chosen, or even been able to accept. But if it was the other way about, Hutch on his lonesome: it was a comfort.

Two minutes to six, the squad room door swung half-open and Minnie’s cheeky face peeked in.

“Got a parcel for one Detective David Starsky right here,” she said, producing a cardboard box the size you might use for a hat, or a maybe a desk lamp.

“You’re a peach, Min,” he said, jumping to take it from her hands and placing it delicately on the desk. He peeped inside, and felt his heart expand. It was perfect. Best gift he was ever going to give.

“I know it,” she said, tapping her cheek impatiently till he planted one on her. “Now get out of here, and give that handsome boy of yours a kiss from me too.”

“We’re kind of meant to be a secret round these parts, Minnie,” Starsky whispered.

Minnie smirked as she poked him in the chest. “Honey, you two weren’t a secret around these parts before there was even a secret to keep. Now scat. And happy holidays, beautiful.”

This time she kissed him on the cheek, then giggled to herself and hurried back out to the corridor.

The boxed gift meant a detour home first, plus a little preparation in the guest room that was technically Starsky’s, if anyone visited. Then Memorial, with the kind of giddy feeling he always got before Uncle Al let him hang up a stocking with his name on it.

Christmas magic. It was just in the air, no matter what went on. It found you, and lit you up from the inside out.

If Hutch found Christmas around Starsky a little overenthusiastic, being stuck in hospital had to be his worst nightmare.

Since breakfast he’d been assailed by nursing staff wearing bauble earrings and tinsel round their clipboards, as nauseating popular tunes were piped in on a speaker that he, apparently, could not turn off. He tried over lunch — ham, inevitably — to protest against this imposition of a non-indigenous holiday without his consent. He was hopefully shown the Kinara ready for lighting, and the electric Menorah. After confirming he was not a Jehovah’s Witness, merely a concerned citizen, the nursing staff smiled politely and left him to default cheer.

It wasn’t just Grinch behavior. He was tired; scratchy. He wanted rest and quiet, before going home to anything but. His whole body hurt. Lying flat hurt from head through shoulders and all down his spine. Lying on either side was out. Hutch’s Christmas Eve was spent complaining and sighing at the various nurses who offered, with diminishing enthusiasm, to offer pillows, coffee, even earplugs.

To be honest, he was a little sick of himself by the time he was due to be discharged.

“Ho-ho-ho, did someone call for their sleigh ride out of here?”

Starsky’s beaming face appeared above a wheelchair, pulling up alongside his now over-pillowed bed, and all Hutch could do was shut his eyes and try not to cry.

“Hey. Shh. Sorry, I’ll dial it down,” came the voice he’d needed to hear all day, evidently. There was a hand in his hair; lips on his cheek. “I’m just going to take you home, babe, then you can sleep. No fuss, just meds when you need ’em, and rest. That sound ok?”

Hutch wanted to protest; it hardly sounded like a Starsky Christmas. But he nodded, and with the help of an extra shot before they got started and a few of the staff he’d chewed out earlier, he was settled into first the chair, then the Torino.

The next time he opened his eyes he was in their bed, at home. The twinkling lights Starsky had strung along the frame above their heads were out. There was no chirpy festive music in the background. He could hear nothing but the wind, and the flip of paper as Starsky read quietly in the chair at his bedside.

Hutch slept, for what seemed the first time in days.

Starsky woke stiff-necked in an armchair to the sound of his book falling to the floor.

It took a moment to adjust to the darkness before he could feel sure Hutch had slept through it; a moment more to confirm it was 4.30 am on Christmas morning.

He grinned, his brain automatically wondering if there might still be time to catch Santa in the act; whether he could open all his gifts under the tree before anyone was up. Twelve-year-old Davey Starsky’s first Christmas had stayed with him for life. Al and Rosie had been determined to make him as happy at home as a bereaved kid on the other side of the continent from his mom and his brother and everything he knew was ever going to be. He’d repaid them by tearing into his stash before anyone was up and only discovering from the crestfallen look on their faces that in this house, tradition said you waited for family and opening gifts together was something everyone enjoyed. Thirteen-year-old Davey had got it right, felt better about it, but he still remembered the headrush of being there that first time in cousin Eric’s hand-me-down pajamas in the glowy-lit dark beneath the smell of a pine tree, tearing paper like he’d won the lottery.

He looked over Hutch’s sleeping form, the odd bumps of pillows under each arm, his head raised up on extra pillows to try to ease the awkwardness. The soft blond hair falling across that noble face. That body in repose: even injured, so strong, so brave, so beautiful.

Twelve-year-old Davey had no clue how good Christmas morning could be.

Hutch didn’t get it, not yet. Starsky didn’t want to be that kid who couldn’t cram enough candy into his mouth and counted a good year by how many parcels there were to unwrap. He wanted to give. Feel what Al and Rosie felt when they handed over a brightly-wrapped package shyly, and watched the eyes grow big as it was opened. Know a Christmas gift for what it was: a gesture, in physical form, that said I think about you, and the things you want, and things you might love, and I wanted to see if I could give you one of those, today. He wasn’t gonna have any kids, not beyond the ones like Kiko and Pete. But he had Hutch, now, for real. That’s who he wanted to share it with.

Starsky heard a high-pitched giveaway sound and hurried out, cracking the guest room door open with care and flipping on the light.

Apparently the perfect Christmas gift from Minnie’s box had turned into some kind of destructive tornado while he slept, complete with a smell that was nowhere near festive.

It was a going to be a long Christmas morning.

Hutch woke up sore, but blessedly in silence. Their room was dim, and quiet, the armchair now empty.

He could smell the comforting aroma of a roasting bird cooking, and coffee, and —

“Starsk?” he mumbled, alarmed. He looked down at himself, worried he’d started the day with the kind of accident that would seriously dampen their holiday spirit. He couldn’t feel anything unsettling, couldn’t see anything, but —

“No! Ow! Stop that! Lookit, we had a deal, you little… No! Not in — oh crap.”

The bedroom door squeaked open a few inches, followed by a frown-faced Starsky wearing old sweatpants so loose that only the curve of his ass had any hope of holding them up, and nothing else but a towel wrapped tightly around his left forearm.

“Aw, Hutch, I’m sorry. There was meant to be a whole thing with a giftbox, and a pretty collar, and — ”

Hutch stared blankly at his lover; the outfit was more than attractive as it was, but if Starsky had planned to jump out of a box wearing — well, anything — he truly wouldn’t have minded.

Then he heard a little mew from down on the floor, and suddenly on the bed there was a cat.

No, a kitten. Very small, with a pink upturned nose, implausibly big yellow eyes, and fangy teeth in a shiny black coat. The kitten contemplated Hutch for barely a second before climbing up the sheet covering his belly and kneading with its paws, somewhat painfully despite its tiny size.

“Oh,” said Hutch.

Starsky hovered in the doorway as if scared to move, not sure enough what Oh meant.

Hutch didn’t know himself. A kitten? He didn’t want a kitten. He was a cop, not a six-year-old. And sure, the little mewing sound was sweet, and the kneading on his belly was kind of endearing, but…

The kitten yawned. Then it tiptoed up Hutch’s bare chest, gave his scratchy unshaven chin a few sandpapery licks, and curled up in the crook of his neck, fur tickling just a fraction as it settled into a comfy coil. A moment later, his skin prickled all over at the feeling of being human pillow to a very contented and loudly purring little cat.

Hutch opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t dare. Just found himself beaming with immediate, helpless affection.

Starsky’s face looked like it might split in two from the combination of relief and happiness.

“You like her?” he whispered.

Hutch chuckled his answer as gently as he could.

“It’s a her?”

“Holly,” said Starsky proudly. “Because she’s a Christmas kitty. Though you can change it, for sure, if you want to. She’s yours, Hutch. I know you’d love a pooch but we can’t, not working like we do. And you loved those little guys Larry looked after. Figured Holly could be a good fit.”

“Come here,” Hutch said, feeling the warm little body stir against his neck but keep on loudly purring.

Starsky leaned in, accepting a thank you kiss with a pleased grin.

“She got some claws in you, huh?” Hutch said, nodding at the towel still wound around Starsky’s arm.

“Claws, poop, pee, you name it. Just give me a shout if she starts making a whole racket, because that means she needs to go, and her and the litterbox aren’t pals yet.” Starsky looked fondly at the pair of them, then shook himself. “How you doing, anyway? Pain meds are racked up ready for you, due in ten. Coffee? I can take you to the bathroom, fix you breakfast…?”

“Let me wake up a little,” Hutch lied, bladder full to bursting but reluctant to dislodge his new friend just yet. “Then all of that.”

Starsky grinned, and twirled away to the kitchen.

Starsky only had to call Edith once, which he figured wasn’t so bad for a first timer — especially if turkeys from Hutch’s fancy organic farm butcher were going to come not with feathers but with a bag of whatsits tucked up their you-know-what’s and zero instructions about any of it.

He enjoyed the kitchen hustle, the smells, the many small tasks that had to be kept going like spinning plates. Would’ve enjoyed it more with company, but knowing Hutch was sleeping or resting was more than enough. As it was, a good part of the day was spent cocooning Hutch in a beloved fuzzy blur, as both Starsky and Holly made their affections known: Starsky through solicitously tending to every possible need; Holly through the endlessly watchable adorableness of a small cat. She rolled and played. She hopped and bounced and fell asleep halfway through a step. She got her claws snagged on the blankets and mewled for freedom until Starsky scooped her up with a coo and a kiss, dropped her on the blanket, and had to be summoned an instant later to do exactly the same. She was like medicine; the perfect tiny distraction.

“You’re very similar, you know,” Hutch observed sleepily as she zoomed from one end of the bed to the other, then fell on the floor and squeaked.

“Cute as a button, both of us, huh?” Starsky rescued her yet again and plopped her back onto Hutch’s lap. “You think you can handle some food? I know you don’t want to get fed like in the hospital, but I don’t want you wasting away. And if you think I’m putting my fine turkey dinner into a blender so you can drink it through a straw, forget it.”

Hutch wrinkled his nose, and Starsky felt his chest tighten. He was nervous. Starsky knew he was a decent cook, or thereabouts, but this? He wanted Hutch to enjoy it, with him, like all the rest of it. He wanted to have got it right. Set a new tradition.

“Love to,” said Hutch softly, even if Starsky was pretty sure 90% of the enthusiasm was for show. “But, uh, might not be up to sitting at the table?”

“I figured. Come on, Holly, you lead the way.”

He’d laid the couch like you would lay the table: a bank of bedding and pillows from the other bedroom to support him upright, and a chair for Starsky pulled up alongside so they were eating together. The room was lit by candles, tree lights and a dim glow from a lamp so at least Hutch wouldn’t trip over his own feet.

“Oh wow,” whispered Hutch, spotting the plates already heaped with steaming food — including plenty of vegetables. “This is — Starsk, this is amazing.”

“Edith helped,” Starsky said quickly. “Here, just take it easy, settle in. Legs up, let me get the pillows for your arms. I figure if I get this tray resting here, you can use the arm in the sling, right? Doc said it was ok to keep a little movement in it.”

Starsky toyed with his food as he watched and waited, ready to offer help; aware not to until there wasn’t much option. Hutch’s face was drawn, his hair mussed with sleep and a stiffness in his frame from the inevitable discomfort. But in the lights, he glowed, and his shy smile as he gingerly lifted a forkful of steamed beans and carrots to his lips from the close-propped plate made Starsky glow back.

Hutch closed his eyes, savoring the taste. Scooped up more with a little of Starsky’s carefully diced portion of turkey, and went back for more.

“You realize, Starsk,” Hutch said, pausing to accept a sip of wine from a glass raised to his lips, “I might expect you to do this every year.”

They were close, Starsky leaning in to hold the glass, Hutch’s eyes blue and bright above cheeks now with a little color in them. Hutch gazed into his eyes and Starsky caught his breath.

“Deal,” he whispered.

Hutch woke up still propped on the couch. The food had been cleared away, and there was an empty coffee cup on the table.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to sit up and grunting at the ever-growing aching in his limbs.

“Thirty mins to meds,” said Starsky easily, yawning on the other side of the couch. “And after that, we’re both crashing out. Christmas is exhausting.”

Hutch smiled, pleased to see there was something even faintly adult appearing in Starsky’s version of the holidays. Then his face fell.

“Hey! I didn’t get your gift.”

Starsky looked surprised. Then he patted Hutch’s blankets.

“Aw, Hutch. I know you didn’t have time to shop, ok? And I meant what I said, back in the hospital. I got the gift I wanted. I know it sucks that you’re hurting, but we’re here. Together. Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I feel ten kinds of blessed.”

Hutch found himself, bafflingly, overwhelmed with emotion — and discovered that there were more ways to find both hands out of action infuriating.

“I gotcha,” said Starsky softly, holding it for Hutch to blow his nose like a snotty kid. “That sentimentalism really got you this year, huh?”

Sentimentalism, pain, gratitude, guilt — whatever it was, now all Hutch wanted to do was to kiss the man before him. Show him what he was feeling, without trying for words that would trip him up. Body and soul, taking him in his arms —

“I was going to make you a treasure hunt,” he said instead, lamely.

“Oh yeah?”

Starsky’s face lit up, as if the present still existed. Hutch blushed, suddenly shy. His planned gift was certainly not one for a six-year-old.

“Yeah. Well. Like a treasure hunt, with a little strip poker. I was gonna lay out these clues, you know. Puzzles for you to solve, and you’d have to, uh, trade. For each gift.”

“Is that so?” asked Starsky, eyes narrowing as he sucked in his bottom lip contemplatively.

“Mhmm,” said Hutch, the blush spreading. His head was drumming softly with pain, and both arms were acutely present, the resulting stiffness across his shoulders and back a constant nag. But Starsky was impish in the dim lights, a naughty look in his dark eyes, and it pulled Hutch in. “Like, there was going to be clue to get you to look inside one of the tins in the kitchen, but to get me tell you which one, you had to give up, say, your pants.”

Starsky tried and failed to keep a look of delight off his face.

“My pants, huh?”

Within a second he’d unzipped and shimmied out of his special-occasion dress slacks, revealing a very tight pair of red briefs.

“There isn’t a gift, though,” Hutch said sadly. “For you, I mean.”

“You can’t see the look on your face, Blondie.”

Hutch smiled helplessly.

“Starsk. I love you, but — come on, look at me. Whatever plans I had… I can’t even shrug! I’m useless.”

“Nuh-uh. Sure, some parts might not be in full working order. But the eyes that can undress me from a hundred paces? They’re all good.”

Starsky tucked his thumbs under his waistband, and suddenly the briefs were on the floor too. He placed hands on his hips, as if enjoying the breeze, peeking down at his tie and shirttails to see just how much was on display. Then he cocked his head and tiptoed close to Hutch, dipping his head low.

“Babe, I’m flirting, and having fun, but the second you want to stop, just give me that look, will ya? I know you gotta be hurting.”

Hutch turned his head and stole a kiss. “You make a good distraction.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes.

“The next clue,” said Hutch, beginning to enjoy himself, “was gonna be in the bathroom. Trick bowtie as trade for your shirt.”

“You want me butt naked wearing a dickie bow?”

Hutch raised one eyebrow, until an eye-rolling Starsky pulled his shirt over his head, leaving his curls ruffled and nothing whatsoever to the imagination.

“Is this the gift?” Starsky asked, rubbing a preening hand down his hairy chest, dipping lower. “Just me in the buff?”

“You are still wearing your socks.”

Starsky hopped and tugged them off with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

“I think I figured you’d be wearing some layers. But, sure, now you were gonna get your gift. Although — I didn’t need to shop for what I had planned.”

Hutch blushed again as he directed Starsky — naked, and gleefully so — to a cigar box tucked into the bookcase amongst the other volumes. As requested, he brought it to the couch and rested it on Hutch’s cushioned lap before lifting the lid.

Inside was an array of ephemera that would mean nothing to anyone else, and everything to someone who knew. A flyer from Vegas; cinema stubs from the old porno house on 76^th; a wrestling promo; parts of a broken watch. There were receipts, and candy bar wrappers; sugar packets from diners and clippings from newspapers. A restaurant menu. A handwritten filing card, with a chemical formula scrawled in an elderly hand. A photograph of a graduating class of policeman, uniformed, and so damn young. A catalogue of a relationship, preserved with care.

“It’s not on the top, you’ve got to hunt through a little — it’s a card, baseball-card size — ”

“Huh?”

Hutch glanced up and realized his mistake in a heartbeat. Starsky was open-mouthed, awestruck. His fingers were walking through the memories not to find a present in a treasure hunt. Just to walk.

“Starsk, I — aw, hell, I just screwed up the most romantic gift I’m ever gonna give.”

Starsky stared at him until Hutch directed him to pick out what he’d chosen as the final prize: a ticket from Coney Island funfair.

One free ride.

Starsky blinked, hesitated, then barked out a laugh that rattle every delicately mending bone in the vicinity.

“Officer Hutchinson, you got a dirty mind.”

“Hey!” Hutch would, once again, raise his hands if he could, though this time in surrender. “I didn’t know how to give you a real gift, ok? Not something that said what I feel. So I — I don’t know. I thought it would maybe be cute. A little sexy. I don’t know how to do a Christmas that means something, Starsk.”

Starsky sighed. “You idiot. You’ve been doing it all day.”

He slid into Hutch’s well-padded lap, warm nakedness infuriatingly close and far away, his weight welcome as he dropped both arms across Hutch’s shoulders onto the back of the couch and set his face close enough for each to feel each other’s breath.

Starsky leaned in for a kiss: one hand on Hutch’s face, another sliding behind his head to tangle on Hutch’s hair, holding him with such intensity yet such care as his lips then tongue slid in synchronicity with Hutch’s own. It was hot, temperature hot, feelings hot: the kind of hot that made him lose his mind a little and try to reach out and touch.

Hutch made a strangled sound as reality hit, and Starsky broke off, his expression at once sad and apologetic.

“What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

There was a stern mew from the floor, as a grumpy kitten expressed her discomfort at being ignored.

“And you,” said Starsky, lifting her in one hand and depositing her on Hutch’s chest between them. “I swear, you two ganging up on me, I don’t know what I was thinking — ”

Hutch felt his heart shift in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said abruptly.

Starsky smiled. “You really like her, huh?”

“I do,” said Hutch, “but that’s not what I meant. Listen. Thank you.”

He waited. Starsky blinked, then his lashes lowered.

“Raincheck on that ride?”

“You betcha.”

“Merry Christmas, Hutch.”

“Merry Christmas, Starsk.”

The next kiss was soft, sweet, and brief; there were meds to take, then a kitten to dislodge from inside the Christmas tree, where she had decided to cling like glue. There was sleep to be had, and careful breakfasts for the injured. Shifts, and doctor’s appointments, and New Year parties. More scrapes and scratches, Holly-related and otherwise. And, a year later, another Christmas, with all its new-made traditions.