December 12th: Because I Knew You by Dawnwind

I’ve heard it said,
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn.

And we are led to those
Who help us most to grow if we let them.
And we help them in return.

Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you.

                          Stephan Schwartz

Grabbing the last two grocery bags, Hutch mounted the steps to Starsky’s apartment. As always, he imagined he was a mountain climber on a trek up Everest, hiking past the tree growing through the deck and into the open front door.

Starsky had left his bags on the floor near the kitchen without unpacking them. He was hunched in abject despair at the dining room table, staring down at a letter. A rectangular piece of paper dangled from his left hand as if he wasn’t sure it was real or not.

Hutch deposited his load on the kitchen counter before brushing a consoling palm over Starsky’s slumped shoulders. “What did you find in the mail?”

Offering up the check, Starsky inhaled, tears glinting in his eyes. “From Terri’s family.”

“Twenty-four thousand dollars?” Hutch read the amount on the check, totally understanding Starsky’s stunned expression. “What is this for?”

“Y’remember how Terri used to buy a quart a milk every day?” Starsky’s voice was lanced through with jagged pain.

Impossible to forget. Her murderer, Prudholm, had vowed to hurt Starsky for the arrest and subsequent death of his drug-addicted son years earlier. Starsky’s girlfriend, Terri Roberts, would purchase milk at the local market at same time each evening. Prudholm had followed her to the grocery to gun her down in cold blood. A single shot to the head. She’d lived for a few days more, going blind before dying.

“Yeah.” Hutch pushed another chair closer to Starsky, taking his friend’s hand as he sat, trying not to obsess on the melting mint chip ice cream in the brown bag on the counter. This was far more important. “Seemed like a lot of milk for one very slender, lovely lady.”

“She’d laugh and toast me with a glassful. Called it moo juice.” Starsky squeezed Hutch’s hand in mutual comfort, pinching the bridge of his nose to stall the tears. “But in reality, she didn’t drink it all herself.”

“You poured chocolate into the blender and made milkshakes for the both of you?” Hutch laughed past the rock in his throat. Terri had been one in a million. A smart, funny, incredibly empathetic woman who would give her heart for her friends and the kids she taught. She should never have been murdered. Whether she and Starsky would have remained a couple was the question that could never be resolved. So many circumstances had changed since then.

“Marshall School runs on a shoestring budget.”

Could have been a complete non-sequitur but Hutch waited him out, well aware of Starsky’s tendency to meander around a subject.

“Terri—” Starsky shrugged.

His crooked smile broke Hutch’s heart and shored up something vital inside him, all at the same time. He would always love Terri Roberts. They both would.

“Terri would bring snacks for the entire class, and lunch for about half of them,” Starsky said softly. “She didn’t want anyone to know that a lot of those kids didn’t get enough to eat.”

“Damn.” Hutch decided to rescue the mint chip before it turned into a liquid. Starsky needed the pick-me-up of something sweet.

“She’d buy day-old bread at the bakery and grew some veggies in a tiny plot behind her building, all for their lunches,” Starsky continued. “I—” He visually tracked Hutch going into the kitchen and pull bowls from the cupboard.

“Ice cream?” Hutch held out the carton with a giant green mint leaf freckled with chocolate chips on the front.

“Always knew the way to a guy’s heart,” Starsky said fondly, his grief obviously folded back into the little drawer he kept it in most of the time.

“I know you.” Hutch scooped up the soft treat, adding a dollop of chocolate sauce to Starsky’s. That was de rigueur.

“If nothing else, Terri’s generosity to these kids who had so little was what grabbed me.” Starsky dug his spoon into the sundae while Hutch stowed all the frozen goods they had bought into the freezer. “When my pop died…” he continued, licking his lips after a large bite.

Hutch turned to watch him. Starsky had chocolate on his lower lip. A huge part of him wanted to lean over and tongue his mouth clean, but Hutch contented himself with eating his own ice cream.

“We didn’t have much.” Starsky waggled his hand. “Ma got a job, working as a secretary for—”

“Durniak.” Hutch had heard part of the story when they’d gone undercover as truck drivers to escort the mobster to testify in a court case, only to have Durniak fatally shot before the trial.

Starsky nodded ruefully. “It didn’t pay much, not what pop had earned as an accountant.”

An accountant who’d purposefully overlooked inaccuracies in Durniak’s finances until he couldn’t hide the truth any longer. Which had gotten him murdered.

So many deaths in Starsky’s life, so many people he loved gunned down right in front of him.

“Ma didn’t tell anybody that we couldn’t get by.” Starsky stirred the soupy green and brown mixture in his bowl. “She wasn’t going to owe Joe for more than the funeral, so Nicky and me went to school without lunch. Sometimes not much breakfast or dinner.”

Hutch’s heart clenched. No wonder Starsky always wanted to eat. Hutch had been raised in, if not abundant wealth, at least ample plenty. There had always been food for each meal, plus frequent parties to wine and dine his father’s constituents. He and Karen had never known such struggle.

“And then I got into some stuff.” Starsky raised an eloquent eyebrow, clearly inferring what the unnamed stuff might have been. “So Ma put her foot down, called her sister in California and shipped me out so fast I didn’t have time to wave good-bye to anyone.”

“Which kept you safe from the gangs,” Hutch concluded, reaching out to touch Starsky’s sleeve. He’d never taken off the leather jacket he’d worn against the early December weather. The brown cowhide was smooth as silk under Hutch’s fingers.

“And one less mouth to feed on her salary.” Starsky sighed. “I was so fucking angry for being sent away that I didn’t consider what it did to her—to Nicky. John Blaine helped turn me around about a year later. He was a friend of my uncle’s, and coached a baseball team in the summer.”

“Blaine’s a good man.”

“T’make a long story shorter—”

Hutch hadn’t minded a bit. He loved learning more about Starsky’s past, painful or not.

“When Terri’s brother contacted me a couple months ago, after they’d flown her body back to the family burial plot,” he grimaced as if talking about the subject was like walking through a minefield. “He asked me what kinda contribution he could make in her name.”

“Twenty-four thousand dollars,” Hutch marveled. “That will feed the kids for a year, maybe more if they get decent prices for the food.”

“The Terri Roberts Free Meal Fund.” Starsky tapped the check reverently. “I already talked to Marshall School, and so did Bob Roberts—”

“His name was Robert Roberts?” Hutch snickered.

“The third.” Starsky pointed at the elegant Roman numeral after Roberts’ flourish on the check’s signature line. “Robert, Suzanna, and Theresa. Terri was the youngest. Said her mother liked the alphabetical thing, R, S, T.”

“I’m sure the school is ecstatic to have that endowment.”

“I figure that if they do some fundraisin’,” Starsky said, taking his bowl to the sink to rinse it out. He poked at the other bags, unpacking white beans, onions, and a big bag of crunchy Bugles. “Like sell See’s candy or, I don’t know, what do kids sell? Not Girl Scout cookies.”

“Karen’s daughter sold popcorn last year, remember?” Hutch said, joining him. “Do not open those snacks—I was going to make soup.”

“Those beans’ll take hours to soak,” Starsky protested, stashing the Bugles in the cupboard.

“Onion soup, dummy,” Hutch said, joy in his heart. “So start chopping like you’re Julia Child.”

Flipping him the bird with an eloquent eye roll, Starsky hauled out a chopping board and a sharp knife while Hutch found the other two onions in a second bag. Very soon, the pungent, eye watering aroma of cut onions permeated the small room. Hutch blinked, his eyes stinging. Funny, he hadn’t planned on causing them both to tear up, but the fates had paralleled his desire for the quintessential French dish, giving them a reason to cry.

Losing Terri had been a devastating blow for Starsky. His second serious girlfriend to be murdered in fourteen months. That he and Helen hadn’t been together anymore had not made her death any easier to deal with. He and Terri had been a couple for only a few months, meeting while Hutch was on medical leave with a broken femur. Prudholm using Terri as bait to get to Starsky had made the situation even more dire, and stabbed Starsky with guilt.

Had that caused him to turn to Hutch, or would they have come together eventually? That night they’d opened Terri’s gifts, drunk and morose at midnight, playing Monopoly, had ended in mutual comforting. Which led to cuddling and then sex. Hutch hadn’t expected it to go past that. They’d both indulged in the occasional hand-job or frottage to release pent-up adrenaline after a stressful case, but that was… Hutch had never been sure what to call those nights. He’d simply been grateful and cherished their recent time together.

It felt very different since Terri. More like they were in a relationship. He didn’t quite trust this to last forever, although he wanted it to, very much. There was too much at stake. Their careers as cops. To be seen as queer could bring condemnation, at the very least, or even worse: their fellow cops turning their backs when Starsky and Hutch needed assistance. Which could prove fatal.

No, he had to be content with Starsky most of the time, but never quite his lover forever, that was how it had to be.

Starsky sniffed, rubbing his finger under his nose before sneezing. “All chopped,” he said soggily, washing onion oil off his hands. “You gonna make those cheesy croutons?”

“Wouldn’t be onion soup a le Françoise without cheesy croutons,” Hutch scoffed, immensely glad Starsky had moved past his lingering sadness and guilt over Terri’s demise, at least for the evening.

Wielding his knife again, Starsky sliced up a loaf of French bread. Hutch dumped the onions into a frying pan to caramelize the large pile. He passed the Gruyere over to his partner for more cutting.

“How long does this take to cook?” Starsky leaned casually against the sink, munching on a piece of cheese. He still looked shell-shocked and weary, but the tears had dried up.

“An hour.” Hutch poked at the sizzling onions with his spatula, trying not to be completely distracted by Starsky’s long, slender torso and the outline of his cock through his tight jeans. There was many a time when they were investigating crimes that he could ignore Starsky’s allure, but not when they were at Starsky’s house.

“We got some time.” Starsky looked up at him through dark, fringed eyelashes.

So it was going to be that kind of night. Like Pavlov’s dog, that one glance had Hutch’s groin tinglingly immediately. “Bedroom?” he asked breathlessly. “Uh…I have to…”

“Finish caramelizing, add t’onions to the stock and put on a low simmer,” Starsky said mischievously, turning the final word into an inuendo filled tease. “I know. Maybe I’ll pull back the coverlet and get naked.”

“You do that.” Hutch gulped, checking the onions for the perfect brownness. Maybe he wouldn’t pass muster with the famed French Chef Julia, but the sauté looked good enough for him. Rapidly stirring the mess of onions into already warming chicken broth, he added the spices and clanged a lid on the pot.

“Hey,” Starsky murmured, welcoming him into the bedroom. He was sitting on the bed, still wearing socks, but otherwise nude, with his arms clasped around his bent knees.

“Hey.” Hutch kissed him gently on the mouth, sensing Starsky’s banked lust.

Starsky shivered at his touch, angling his head for another kiss.

“Chilly, babe?” Hutch asked, pulling the coverlet up over Starsky’s shoulders. The melancholia had returned in the time it took to finish the soup. “It is December.”

Shaking his head, Starsky leaned into Hutch, stroking the hand lingering on his right arm. “I keep thinking that I asked Terri to marry me.”

Hutch nodded. There was nothing more for him to add from his perspective. It had happened, and passed, like his marriage to Vanessa. Like so many other events in their lives.

“Cause, y’know, she was dying.” Starsky shuddered, his jaw clenched. “And I was…”

“Bereft.” Hutch breathed out, holding onto him tightly.

“So Goddamned afraid to let her go,” Starsky said very softly. “And so angry at Prudholm. I didn’t let any other thoughts interfere until…” He raised both hands as if appealing so some higher power. “She died.”

Nodding, Hutch listened.

“And then you and me got drunk, and played monopoly, and opened her presents.” Starsky gave him a lop-sided smile. “I knew then. I’d loved her, for a minute.”

“A very precious minute,” Hutch amended. Gillian, lost over a year ago, was still safely in his memory. He’d had his own precious minutes and mourned them.

“But there was you.” Starsky spread his fingers, palm to Hutch’s blue sweatered chest, directly over his heart. “You’re my everything, Hutch. I couldn’t go on if you weren’t in my life, with me, in me.”

Hutch blinked, gazing at the man he loved. “We have our minutes, and then there’s us, alone.” He embraced Starsky, squashing Starsky’s hand between them so that it was kind of awkward and very important to his soul.

“I love you always, Captain America,” Starsky whispered into his ear.

“Right back at you.” Hutch chuckled. “Does Captain A have a sidekick?”

“I am not your sidekick!” Starsky retorted, wriggling his hand free to smack Hutch’s upper arm. “I’m Superman—or Batman, can never decide.”

There was a hint of tears glistening on his eyelashes but if he was bantering, he was leveling out.

“Spiderman,” Hutch declared, rapidly depleting his knowledge of superheroes. “You’re limber.”

Starsky scootched his hands under Hutch’s sweater, lifting it over his head.

“And talented,” Hutch continued, wrestling to get the sweater completely off.

Starsky immediately attached like a limpet, molding himself into Hutch, kissing and suckling on warm Hutchinson skin.

Lying back against the pillows, Hutch unzipped his fly, giving his erection freedom. Starsky worked his way up to Hutch’s mouth, breathing in Hutch’s exhalation, kissing him passionately.

Taking task in hand, Hutch paired Starsky’s thick cock with his own. It took very little friction to generate heat through his entire body, ratcheting up his arousal and need. From the way Starsky stiffened, widening his legs to give Hutch more room to speed up the process, Starsky was as close to orgasm as he was.

The resulting orgasm was breathtaking in the most satisfying way. Hutch felt the tingly vibrations extend to his toes, Starsky clinging to him hard enough that his fingers were digging into Hutch’s muscles as he came.

“That was…” Hutch ran out of words to express the wonderfulness of his climax.

“Best of all.” Starsky rolled off him so that they were curled into each other.

Hutch pulled up the covers and they both snoozed. The cooking timer roused him. Starsky was already sitting on the side of the bed, fishing around for some jeans.

“I’ll put cheese on the bread and toast it,” Starsky said. “You want a shower?”

“I want that blasted alarm off.” Hutch had never completely removed his slacks, so it was easy to dash into the kitchen and silence the infernal beeping. Passing the table, he saw the check from the Roberts family on top of the unopened mail.

Partially dressed, Starsky went into to assemble the ingredients for the melted cheese on French bread that was so essential for a spectacular onion soup.

“Starsk,” Hutch said, reducing the heat under the soup. “You remember my grandfather died last year.”

“Yep.” Starsky elbowed him aside to open the hot oven door without burning either one of them.

“My mother called the other day to say the lawyer has finished establishing the trusts for me and my sister.”

“Wow.” Starsky popped the top on a root beer and guzzled some. “You rich now?”

“I guess I kinda have been—we all knew these trusts would eventually be divvied out.” Hutch looked out the window at the tangle of Live Oak trees behind Starsky’s house. His grandfather loved the outdoors, planting and nurturing growth. He would have loved exploring this area of Southern California known as the canyons. “I want to give a donation to the… what’d you call it? The Terry Roberts…”

“Free Meal Fund,” Starsky finished, staring at him with grateful awe. “You’d do that?”

“Of course. For Sally and all those sweet kids Terri loved so much.” Hutch nudged Starsky with his hip, filching the bottle of root beer. “Mostly, because it means so much to you.”

Starsky’s smile could have powered all of Bay City for years to come. “Just think what they could do with forty-eight thousand dollars! They could eat breakfast and dinner.” He leaned into Hutch’s shoulder, putting an arm around his waist. “You’re my hero, Captain America.”

“Love you, Spiderman.”

Because I knew you
I have been changed
For good

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