December 11th The ChrisYearValenRickBirthday Sweater by babs

August

Starsky stared in dismay at the Hawaiian Punch now staining Hutch’s white cable knit sweater. “Damn it.”

“Hey. It was an accident,” Hutch said. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed ineffectually at the blotch of reddish pink.

“Stupid arm.” He looked at his trembling left hand with disgust. “Some birthday, huh?”

Hutch tossed the napkin onto the picnic table and took Starsky’s hand in his. “It’s the best birthday, Starsk. You’re here to celebrate it with me.” He cleared his throat and blinked, looked up at the twilight sky.

Rosey Dobey came running full tilt towards them. Starsky braced himself for impact but there was no need. Hutch stepped in front of him, on high alert, still unable, Starsky knew, to let go of the need to protect. He intercepted her before she could careen into Starsky.

“Your cake, Uncle Ken. Mom’s lighting the candles. Hurry.” She peeked around Hutch, took Starsky’s hand. “C’mon, Uncle Dave. You’re gonna sit with me.”

Starsky pasted one of his ‘no, no, I’m getting better all the time’ smiles on and followed. Hutch isn’t angry, he reminded himself. But even the chocolate cake couldn’t quite take away the feeling that he was more than useless.

September

“What are you making?” Starsky watched as the woman’s fingers wrapped yarn and slipped stitches from knitting needle to knitting needle. “What’s that called?” He looked at the smaller needle she was using to hold a few stitches in front of the others.

She smiled at him. “I’m knitting a sweater for my husband. He’s here for therapy.” She knit a few more stitches on her needles before knitting the ones from the small J-shaped needle before she held it up. “Cable needle.” She turned the sweater towards him. “See?” She ran a finger over the twisted stitches.

“So that’s how you make them,” Starsky said. “My friend had a sweater like that. But it got ruined.”

“Gloria,” the woman said and held out her hand for him to shake. “My husband is Tom. He outgrew his.”

“Dave.” Starsky shook her hand. “You’re so quick. My ma used to knit when I was kid. My partn… friend, partner, Hutch, his grandma made his for him.”

They fell quiet.  Starsky tried to focus on the magazine he was reading but found his attention drawn again to Gloria as a glimmer of an idea took hold.

“Gloria?”

She looked up at him, still knitting. “Hmm?”

“How hard is it to learn to knit?”

“I don’t understand how I keep getting more stitches. I had forty but now I have forty three.” Starsky felt like throwing the needles and ball of yarn across the waiting room.

“That happens to everyone, Dave. You’re learning. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Look at what you’ve done. See if you can find where you’ve added them. Remember what I told you about reading your knitting?”

Starsky bent to look at the stitches more closely. “Oh. I split this one in two.”

“Have you thought about what you want to make for your first project?” Gloria asked.

Starsky grinned and pulled Hutch’s punch-stained sweater out of the gym bag he brought to his therapy sessions. “This. Or as close to it as I can get.”

Gloria gave a small whistle. “Well. You certainly are an ambitious young man.”

“You think I can do it?”

“Do you want to?”

Starsky thought of Hutch. Hutch never said one word of censure to him for ruining his sweater and had been there through the thick and thin of his recovery. Hutch celebrated every victory on Starsky’s road to back to health no matter how small. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then you will.”

October

Starsky examined the notepad where he’d done his calculations. Christmas was twelve weeks away. The lady at the yarn shop where Gloria sent him to buy needles and yarn had loaded him with everything he needed to make Hutch a sweater. She’d even persuaded him to buy a couple of books—Knitting without Tears and what the woman had called a stitch dictionary when he couldn’t find a pattern that was close to Hutch’s sweater. He kept them hidden in a bag on the floor on his side of the closet and prayed Hutch wouldn’t find it. He’d read Knitting without Tears twice through already and had marked the cables he wanted to use in the other.

Twelve weeks. Surely he could finish the sweater in twelve weeks. Knitting in the round meant he wouldn’t need to sew up the pieces, and Gloria told him he was a natural at it. Although now that Tom wasn’t going to therapy, Starsky didn’t have Gloria’s expertise to rely on. Still, he was managing.

The small notebook he kept with the two books were filled with his calculations. Once he realized it was only math, he felt a bit more confident. Now he needed to figure out where to keep the knitting hidden and how many hours a day he could work on it without Hutch finding out.

November

“You’re awfully quiet, Starsk,” Hutch said. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” Starsky took a bite of his burger. “Just thinking.”

“Don’t do it too hard. Wouldn’t want to start a fire.” Hutch nudged Starsky’s knee with his.

Starsky smiled as Hutch put his hand on his thigh and squeezed. He’d ripped out two weeks’ worth of work today when he realized the sweater was going to be way too big. Gauge it was called — and he hadn’t calculated it correctly. The countdown was on, and last night he dreamed of being surrounded by sheep all baa-ing at him that he was wasting their wool.

“You sure you’re okay, babe?” Hutch asked. “You didn’t have bad news at the doctor?”

Starsky mentally shook off thoughts of two by two right cross cables and looked at Hutch. He wanted to erase all the worry he could see in Hutch’s eyes. For the first time in months, he could feel the faintest stirring of desire. “Let’s go home. I can show you how okay I am.”

Hutch’s answering smile was enough to make him forget all about gauge and cables and Christmas deadlines. Hutch’s breath was warm on his ear as he leaned in to whisper. “I can hardly wait.”

Starsky kissed Hutch’s forehead as he put the plate of eggs in front of him — his sneaky way of checking Hutch’s temperature. He was way too warm in Starsky’s opinion.

Hutch smothered his cough behind a fist.

“You need to go to the doctor, Hutch,” Starsky said. “I think you’ve got more than just a bad cold.”

“I’ve got too much work to do,” Hutch muttered. “Dobey has me working on that backlog from before you…”

Starsky rested his chin on his fist and did his best ‘don’t bullshit me’ expression. “And how great are you gonna be when you’re sneezing and hacking up a lung every other minute? Your eyes are all bleary and you look like shit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hutch said. He took a sip of orange juice and sneezed.

“You know I’m right,” Starsky said as Hutch began to cough again.

Hutch gave him a baleful glare and sighed when Starsky got up to call the doctor.

A few hours later, they were home with Hutch ensconced on the living room sofa.

“When are you gonna say I told you so?” Hutch wrapped his hands around the mug of tea Starsky had given him.

“Don’t need to.” Starsky sat down beside him, gently massaging Hutch’s hunched shoulder. “I figured the doctor giving you a lecture was punishment enough.”

“Huh. Some Thanksgiving this is going to be.” Hutch’s voice was even more hoarse than it had been just a few hours earlier.

Starsky patted his knee and got up. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? You want the TV on?”

Hutch stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.

Starsky waited until he was sure Hutch was asleep and went to the bedroom. He pulled out the sweater. Just a little over a month until Christmas and he wasn’t even halfway done. He measured his progress against the stained old sweater. His stitches were more uneven than Hutch’s grandma’s and his cables a bit looser. Still, it didn’t look that bad.

He figured he could at least get a few rounds in until Hutch woke up from his nap. For the next few days, Hutch’s being home was going to limit his knitting time. But nearly five weeks to go — he should be able to get it done.

December

Starsky woke up to find Hutch tightly clutching his hand. He was familiar with the expression on Hutch’s face — he’d seen it often enough over the years and especially during his recovery from Gunther.

“Hutch?” His voice sounded weaker than he thought it should.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Hutch wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “You’re gonna be okay. But you… damn it, Starsk, you gave me a scare.”

“Ah, babe,” Starsky said. He remembered being sure he could handle hanging up the Christmas lights. Climbing the ladder when he was home alone and tired from a night of pain probably wasn’t the best idea. He looked down at his wrapped right wrist.

“Sprained, not broken,” Hutch said. His fingers hovered over the Ace bandage. “No concussion, thank God. But you’ve got some nice bruises.”

Starsky resisted the urge to pull away the hospital gown to look. Hutch needed him more at the moment.

“They said you can go home in a few hours.” Hutch arched his back.

“I know. No concussion, remember.” Starsky studied Hutch who was obviously in pain from sitting in a hospital chair for god knew how long. Starsky had lost track of time as he’d drifted in and out of pain relief. “Why don’t you get up and stretch your legs for a bit? Go get some coffee or something to eat?”

Hutch nodded and stood with a groan. “I’ll be back soon.”

Starsky lifted his right arm and wiggled his fingers slightly. Damn it. There was no way he was going to get the sweater done for Christmas now. He sighed. Maybe New Year’s Day?

January/February

New Year’s Day came and went and Starsky was back at work with Hutch. Knitting time was severely curtailed. Now that they were together at work and together at home, Starsky couldn’t seem to find the time to knit in secret.

He pulled out the sweater as Hutch puttered around with his plants. About a quarter to go on the body and on to the sleeves. He ran a finger over the cables — the two lines of x’s and o’s — hugs and kisses, the little two by two right crosses marching up near the center, the waves and footprints and Aran braids on the back, and finally, the center panel on the front, a nautical twisted rope. He knew he’d messed some of the cables up — he could pick out every place a cable should have crossed right and he’d done it left instead.

He heard Hutch banging around in the kitchen now and stuffed it back in the bag. His new goal was Valentine’s Day — surely he could finish it by then. He pulled out his book, thumbed to the page he had dog-eared and read Elizabeth Zimmermann’s words.

“Knit on with confidence and hope through all crises.”

He wondered if having a partner-slash-lover who never seemed to want to leave you alone counted as a crisis.

“Starsk! If you want to eat, get your ass to the kitchen. And if you want dessert, your ass can go to the bedroom after,” Hutch yelled from the kitchen.

“See what I mean, Liz?” Starsky whispered. “Maybe I should just show him.” But he wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. This was too special — the one thing he felt he could do for Hutch after all Hutch had done for him.

He crammed the sweater back into the bag and the bag back into the corner of the closet. Thank God, Hutch left most of the keeping things tidy up to him.

“Starsky!”

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Starsky yelled back and laughed because he certainly hoped to be doing that later tonight.

The next weeks flew by and Starsky managed to get one sleeve started before a killer started murdering a woman a day the week leading up to Valentine’s Day. Starsky and Hutch worked double shifts, along with most of the other detectives in their precinct.

They went home, fell asleep in bed with no more than an obligatory good night or good morning kiss, got up, and hit the streets again.

Hutch found the puzzle piece that solved it — a disgruntled florist — one who went after former, not present customers. They spent Valentine’s Day in pursuit of him as he tried to lose them throughout Bay City, and Valentine’s Day night in an interrogation room where he confessed to six murders.

“I can’t wash his stink off me,” Starsky said to Hutch as they stood together in the shower.

“Let me.” Hutch poured shampoo into his hand, massaged it into Starsky’s scalp, and rinsed the lather with a cupped hand.

Eyes closed, Starsky sought Hutch’s mouth. He placed his hands on either side of Hutch’s head, pulled him close, and took delight in the life, the taste, the warmth of Hutch.

Hutch pushed him against the wall of the shower. Starsky grabbed the handrail Hutch had insisted on installing so Starsky wouldn’t fall those first unsteady days out of the hospital.

“Beautiful,” Hutch said against the wet skin of Starsky’s neck. “Beautiful.”

For a brief moment, Starsky was taken back years to Frankie’s Gym and Hutch in the shower while he waited and ate a Danish. All the time trying not to let Hutch know he was watching, not letting Hutch know how much he loved him, wanted him.

“You.” Starsky tilted his head back as Hutch kissed the column of his throat, as he moved his hand down, down, until his fingers encircled Starsky’s now fully erect cock and caressed the skin.

Hutch went to his knees before him, as if Starsky were not a man but a god to be worshipped. His mouth, his tongue were all of Starsky’s world. Starsky braced his back against the wall, curled his toes, and used his left hand to grab hold of Hutch’s hair. He grunted as Hutch worked his magic, sucking, releasing, his tongue seeking and tasting. Starsky came, and Hutch gripped his hips tighter, his fingers digging in so hard, Starsky was sure he’d have perfect finger-shaped bruises on his skin. Hutch sat back on his heels and looked up at Starsky after, the water drops sparkling crystals on his eyelashes, his hair plastered flat against his skull as he brought himself to completion.

“I love you. I love you so damn much,” Starsky said, the feeling rushing over him in waves. He wanted to open all the windows and shout into the dawn. But he didn’t.

They finished the shower, brushed their teeth, and fell into bed, exhausted, sated.

Starsky woke up sometime later, his stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten since a quick taco hours and hours ago. He planted a kiss on Hutch’s head. For his part, Hutch murmured something, turned on his other side and burrowed deeper under the blanket.

He pulled the sweater bag from the closet and snuck into the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge for something to eat before he settled down to finish the last rows of the sweater body.

He heard Hutch stirring and managed to stuff the knitting into the bag and hide it under the couch just in time.

“You awake?”

“Coffee’s on,” Starsky told him. Some days it just didn’t pay to talk to Hutch when he first woke up. He used the time Hutch’s attention was focused on getting his jolt of caffeine to move the bag back into its safer hiding spot. Not that he needed to worry about Hutch finding it under the sofa. It wasn’t like Hutch ever chose to vacuum as his chore.

Two sleeves to go. Maybe, just maybe, he could finish by St. Patrick’s Day. He smiled as he headed back to the kitchen to join Hutch. St. Patrick’s Day with an Irish sweater — maybe even more appropriate a gift than at Christmas.

 

March

He could have kissed Dobey. Not actually kiss him, of course, but when Dobey decided that Hutch needed to attend a police training in Sacramento for a week without Starsky, he needed to do his very best to hide his secret joy.

“I’ll miss you so much, babe,” Starsky whispered in Hutch’s ear when they said goodbye at the airport. “Do Bay City proud.”

Hutch frowned. “I don’t like this. You’re not gonna have a partner for a week. I don’t know why Dobey decided I needed to be the representative.”

“You’re the best. That’s why.” Starsky handed Hutch his suitcase.

“No. We’re the best.” Hutch hefted his carry-on higher on his shoulder and shifted the suitcase to his other hand. He sighed as he looked down the concourse. “I guess I’d better…” He pointed.

“Dobey has me doing paperwork all week,” Starsky reassured him. “I’ll make sure to call you if I get a papercut.”

“Dummy,” Hutch said, but he gave a faint smile.

“Blintz,” Starsky said and wished he could grab Hutch and kiss him in front of God and all witnesses. They settled for a brushing of hands. Starsky watched until Hutch disappeared into the crowd.

“So this is the big secret?” Huggy sat down across from Starsky in the most secluded booth in The Pits.

Starsky looked up from doing the ribbing on the first sleeve. “I wrecked his other sweater. I was gonna give this to him for Christmas.”

Huggy eyed the pooled sweater on the napkins Starsky had spread out on the table. “Next Christmas?”

“Maybe St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a little late.” Starsky realized he’d messed up the knit two purl two and looked at the cuff in dismay. He put it aside, into the bag to rip it out later. He glanced at the remaining yarn. Two balls left. He remembered the woman at the store talking to him about dye lots and how they had to match. He mentally crossed his fingers that there was enough to finish the second sleeve.

“Hutch is gonna love it,” Huggy said.

Starsky looked into earnest brown eyes. “You think so?”

Huggy shook his head. “I know so. You made it, didn’t you?” He slapped the table with both hands as he stood. “Good thing, Starsky.”

Starsky drank the beer Anita brought and downed a burger before heading home to re-start the cuff.

If only Hutch’s flight would have been delayed or maybe even canceled, Starsky was sure he would have had the sweater done. As it was, he drove to the airport in rush hour traffic to pick Hutch up with just one cuff left to go. Surely he’d be able to find a few hours to work on it with St. Patrick’s Day only two days away.

Not that Starsky believed in evil spirits, but something in the universe was conspiring to keep him from finishing. They spent the next two days on the stakeout from hell.

“You’re quiet,” Hutch said.

“You always complain I talk too much on stakeouts.” Starsky kept his eyes glued on the warehouse, while his mind was filled with thoughts of how many more rows he’d need to do of the ribbing to complete the final cuff and how long it would take to knit them.

Hutch tensed and leaned forward. “You see him?”

“Yep. Looks like Bennie’s gonna make the deal.” He slowly opened the door while Hutch radioed the nearby units.

“Guess the luck of the Irish was with us,” Starsky said as he patted down Bennie while Hutch did the same to one of the dealers. The raid had gone off without a single shot being fired by either side.

“And us not even being Irish.” Hutch gave one of his grim smiles.

“I ain’t Irish,” Bennie said. “Musta ran outta luck.”

“Must have,” Starsky told him as he led him to a black and white.

Alas, Starsky thought the next few days, his luck must have been all used up on the bust. Because no matter how he tried to find time to knit the ten rows he needed to, he couldn’t. Not that he was complaining that Hutch was in a particularly amorous mood or that the overtime they both worked was going to be nice in both their bank accounts.

He resorted to telling Hutch he wanted a raspberry filled lemon cake for his birthday from Melissa’s Bakery simply to get him out of the house for a few hours the Saturday before just so he’d have time to finish it.

He bound off the last stitch, folded it, and placed it in the box he’d gotten for Christmas. There was no way he could find the time to block it — not with Mr. Nosy Hutchinson around. It would just have to do.

March 25, 1980

“Good thing Huggy had a chocolate cake,” Hutch said as he deposited the lemon cake on the kitchen table. “Considering you ate three slices of that and none of this.”

Starsky grinned. “Guess I was hungry for chocolate.”

Hutch eyed him suspiciously. “You’re always hungry for chocolate cake. I’ve never seen you eat raspberry filled lemon cake in your life.” He jabbed his index finger in Starsky’s direction. “You wanted me out of the house, and I don’t know why you just didn’t tell me to get out.”

“I had my reasons.” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s jacket and headed towards the bedroom. “I’ll go hang this up.”

“Starsky! Get back here. You’re up to something and I wanna know what it is,” Hutch yelled after him.

Starsky threw the jacket on the bed and pulled out the Christmas wrapped sweater. He took a deep breath before he headed back to the living room.

“Starsk?”

He wished he had a camera to capture the way Hutch’s expression changed from frustration to confusion as he looked at the box. It really was adorable, Starsky thought. Not that he would ever ever tell Hutch he was adorable. He wasn’t that brave — or stupid.

“You find a Christmas present I missed giving you?” Hutch asked as he sank down on the sofa.

Starsky shook his head and sat down next to him, knee to knee, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder — the way they fit, the way they’d always belonged together. “It’s for you. It’s a little bit late.”

“It’s your birthday, Starsk,” Hutch said as he ran his hand over the wrapping paper. “Why are you giving me a gift now?”

“It was supposed to be your Christmas present but… time kinda got away from me.” Starsky pushed against him. “C’mon. Open it.”

He held his breath while Hutch slowly unwrapped the paper. Starsky resisted the urge to rip it off himself. “We’re not poor, Hutch. We can afford to get new wrapping paper each year.”

Hutch glared at him as he lay the paper aside. He opened the box and said… nothing.

Starsky swallowed hard. It had been a stupid idea. Who was he to think he could ever replace the sweater Hutch had.

Hutch pulled it out, shook it, held it up with two hands. “Starsk.” His voice was hoarse, quiet. “Where did you ever find someone to make it?”

“Right beside you,” Starsky mumbled.

Hutch dropped the sweater to his lap. “You? You made this? Since when do you knit?” The words weren’t accusatory, but rather incredulous.

“When I started physical therapy. I wanted to, I wrecked your other sweater, and the stain wouldn’t come out, and your grandma knit it for you, and…” his words were cut off with a kiss.

“You made this for me,” Hutch repeated. “You did all this for me.”

“You’d better try it on. I’m not sure if it’ll fit,”

Hutch stood and pulled the sweater over his head, smoothed it down his torso.

The left sleeve was at least an inch longer than the right. There were purls where knits should have been in more than one place, and Starsky saw every wrong-crossed cable. They glared at him as if in neon instead of cream colored yarn — imperfections of a gift he wanted to be perfect for Hutch. He shouldn’t have even attempted it.

He looked up at Hutch’s face — at Hutch, smiling the smile that made Starsky’s heart beat faster, his eyes a brighter blue from the moisture gathered there.

“It’s beautiful,” Hutch said. “It’s perfect. You made this for me.” He said the last with wonder as he reached out a hand to pull Starsky up and into a hug.

“There’s a lot of mistakes,” Starsky said against the wool and Hutch’s shoulder.

“It’s perfect,” Hutch whispered in his ear. “You and me together perfect.” Then he cleared his throat. “You know, I haven’t given you your birthday present yet.”

Starsky stepped back. “No. You haven’t. What’d you get me?”

Hutch tugged on his hand. “I figure you can unwrap me in the bedroom.”

“Oh, that kind of present.”

“Yeah. That kind.”

“Best kind.”

“I aim to please,” Hutch said and beckoned Starsky to follow.

They lay in bed, sated, drowsy.

“I have a confession,” Hutch said. He drew little circles on Starsky’s chest.

“Yeah?” Starsky rested his left hand on Hutch’s head, stroking the fine hair.

“The other sweater? The one you thought my grandma knit for me?” Hutch said. “What did I tell you about that?”

Starsky opened his eyes and looked at Hutch. “Your grandma gave it to you when you graduated from the police academy.”

“Which is true,” Hutch said. He leaned up on one elbow. “She did give it to me.” Hutch stared at him, unblinking.

A growing suspicion suddenly burst into full bloom. “She gave it to you.”

“I never said she knit it for me. That was your idea.”

“You never told me she didn’t knit it for you.”

“You never asked, mushbrain,” Hutch pointed out.

“So I just spent seven months knitting you a sweater to replace a sweater your grandma bought for you.” Starsky shook his head.

“No one ever knit me a sweater before,” Hutch said. “That’s what makes it so perfect.”

“You really do love it?” Starsky asked. “Even with all the mistakes?”

“What mistakes?”

Hutch looked at him as though Starsky had done something magical. Every dropped stitch, every hour spent ripping out and reknitting, every time he’d lost one of the cable needles and had to spend precious time finding it, all of it was worth it. He’d created something with love infused into its very core. Hutch was happy, he was happy. He loved Hutch, Hutch loved him — knitted together, imperfections and all.