Eureka, What an Epiphany

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Starsky and Hutch give each other gifts for the twelve days of Christmas.

 

Written for the 2012 Starsky and Hutch Advent Calendar. The story, with illustrations, can be seen here.

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December 24th, 1983

“Hey.”

Starsky rustled the magazine he’d been reading, jolting Hutch out of his dogged surveillance of the warehouse down the street. He looked up at Starsky without saying anything, fully aware that Starsky would fill him in on whatever had suddenly struck his fancy at the current moment. It was bound to be far more interesting than the dull stake-out on Yaretzi Transport. Not that he was hoping for another shipment of heroin-Mexican brown or China white-just that any action would be better than sitting on his ass in a car for twelve hours straight.

“This article says that the twelve days of Christmas start on Christmas day.” Starsky poked a finger suspiciously at the page. “What kinda sense does that make? Isn’t Christmas done on the twenty-sixth of December?”

“The twelve days of Christmas mark the time between Christ’s birth and the season of Epiphany in the church calendar,” Hutch said, keeping one eye on the big concrete building at the end of the street.

“How do you know this stuff?” Starsky sat up straighter, his blue eyes alight with interest.

He reminded Hutch of a perky little puppy waiting for a treat, which made Hutch think of all sorts of other fun things he could give Starsky-like a kiss. Or something even more intimate…he shook his head to eliminate those thoughts when there was no possibility of following up on them.

“My grandfather was a pastor. The liturgical calendar is split up into seasons. Christmas is the second, with Advent before it and Epiphany afterward.”

“Epiphany, like…” Starsky assumed a radio announcer type voice. “Ah, ha, Newton had an epiphany and discovered gravity when an apple fell on his head.”

Hutch snorted a laugh. “Not really, Epiphany is when the three wise men came to see the Christ child. Twelve days after he was born.”

“Those wise guys took twelve days to get there?” Starsky put a finger to the side of his nose with a New Jersey accent. “Didn’t Vinnie the Geek and Sal drive ’em in their cah?”

“Wise guy,” Hutch said affectionately. “The three wise men came from far away to Bethlehem. Asia, India, places like that. It would have taken at least twelve days to get there riding on a camel.”

“Egypt,” Starsky said sagely. “That’s where they ride camels.”

“There must be camel riding in some of those other desert like countries, surely?” Hutch squinted, glad there was no movement at Yaretzi. “Uh-Tunisia?”

“Where Lucas filmed Star Wars.” Starsky brightened.

“I know the Wise men didn’t come from Tattooine!” Hutch chuckled, the absurd image of C3PO, R2D2 and Chewbacca carrying gifts across the sand dunes under the double moon of Luke Skywalker’s home world popping into his brain. “They came bearing gold, frankincense and myrrh for baby Jesus, and arrived twelve days after Christmas. My grandmother would make a special cake with a little trinket on it and we’d eat the cake after my grandfather got back from church.”

Starsky rolled up the magazine, his restless nature always in motion, and tapped the glossy paper tube on his knee. “Fun times up in the Great Lakes,” he said with exactly the right measure of sarcasm and fond amusement.

“Hey!” Hutch grabbed the rolled magazine and bopped Starsky on the head. “We thought it was fun! When I was really small, Grandmother would give me a little crown and I was king for a day.”

“Sadist!” Starsky made a grab for the now fluttering pages of People and his hand landed smack in Hutch’s lap. “I’d crown you any ol’ day.” He backhanded the magazine away, and took a good handful of Hutchinson.

Damn that felt good! Hutch gasped, squirming under the assault, his cock filling instantly. What if someone walked by the car and saw them? “Starsky, not here!”

“Where, then?” Starsky challenged with a naughty gleam in his eye. “And when?”

Hutch considered the question, idly watching the imposing structure across the street. Nothing happened over there. Starsky bounced his knee restlessly, humming some vaguely Christmas tune.

“Tomorrow,” Hutch told him.

“Tomorrow-but that’s twenty-four hours from now!” Starsky groaned, his dark blue eyes wide.

“If you want to wait that long…” Hutch shrugged as if it made no difference to him. Starsky was so easy to play. “However, it is nearly dark already, and tomorrow is…”

“One minute after twelve, it’s December twenty-fifth.” Starsky grinned, poking Hutch on the chest with his forefinger. “Right after we get off from work.”

“What do you have in mind?” Hutch asked, making an obvious show of adjusting his crotch.

Starsky watched with the avid interest of a bird of prey, even smacking his lips when Hutch sat up straighter. “I think you get the basic premise,” he said. “But I got…conditions here to make things interesting.”

“What?” Hutch asked, suddenly wary. Between the two of them, they’d come up with a few dares that had gotten overly competitive, even dangerous on occasion.

“Nothing that will have you dressed up like an old geezer selling pencils,” Starsky smirked. “Just that there are twelve days of Christmas, huh? Starting tomorrow and ending…?” He waggled his fingers as if counting silently.

“January fifth,” Hutch supplied.

“So, we each take six days. I’ll start.” Starsky hummed a much more recognizable tune this time, launching into the words, “A partridge in a pear tree!”

“You want me-both of us to act out the words of the song?” Hutch asked in astonishment.

“My true love gave to me…” Starsky rolled his hand, indicating the rest of the verse.

“Starsk.” Hutch belatedly remembered he was supposed to be watching Yaretzi Transport, and turned to stare at the building. “You’re crazy.”

 

December 24-25, 1983

Starsky beat Hutch back to the house, glad they’d taken two cars that night since Hutch didn’t approve of using the Torino as a stake-out vehicle. He dashed into their condo, going straight for his record collection. It was five minutes to midnight. Ever since he’d proposed they bring the Twelve Days of Christmas song to life, he’d been wracking his brain for ideas. He had days one, three, five, seven, nine and eleven. He’d always relished challenges, and this one was a doozy.

He grinned in triumph, finding the record that Molly had left in October when she came over to watch the World Series with him. He placed the licorice disc on the turntable and scurried into the kitchen to find what he needed.

Hearing Hutch coming up the stairs, Starsky raced back to the turntable, tucking the fruit he’d grabbed into the branches of the Ficus. As Hutch came through the door, Starsky placed the needle on the correct groove.

“I think I love you!” Keith Partridge warbled.

Hutch looked half startled, half delighted, his eyes going from the pear in the tree to Starsky.

“Do you think you love me? I think I love you…!” Partridge sang along with his faux family.

Hutch grabbed Starsky around the waist, kissing him with joy. “I’ll even listen to the rest of that fucking album to get you into bed right now.”

Starsky laughed, pulling Hutch into the next room. Their clothes littered the floor from the record player to the mattress.

“Can you top that?” Starsky whispered, rocking his pelvis, and thick erection, up against Hutch’s equally swollen cock.

“Doesn’t matter at this moment,” Hutch said, cupping Starsky’s ass. He rubbed hard, increasing the friction with finesse.

Starsky gasped, his whole body tingling, his balls tightening in anticipation of the climax. To the Partridges’ harmonics, he and Hutch orgasmed as one.

 

December 25-26, 1983

Because Starsky presented his gift in the first moments of December twenty-fifth, Hutch had the whole night and day to think up how to give two turtle doves. Between getting up late after an athletic night, lazing around all day opening the few presents under their tree, dinner with the Dobeys and then drinks at the Pits with Huggy at nine p.m., Hutch realized he knew exactly what to do.

“When do I get my present tomorrow?” Starsky asked when they were driving home from the Pits, both just a little tipsy from Huggy’s homemade holiday cheer, a mulled wine with lots of spices.

“Oh, you think I already have something?” Hutch smiled slyly. “When did I possibly have time to go shopping on Christmas day? You were with me every moment.”

“Because you have that look in those pretty blue eyes,” Starsky said laughing, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“After lunch, then,” Hutch told him, wishing he could return the kiss-but that would have to wait until they got home.

They had to be at Metro by seven a.m., and found out that the bust on Yaretzi Transport had occurred on Christmas day: the drug dealers apparently assuming that there would be no police presence on the holiday. Hutch grinned when Dobey announced the arrest. He and Starsky wouldn’t have to sit unmoving all day in the car.

~*~

After an uneventful morning cruising their beat, Hutch drove to a little shopping area for their noonday meal. In the middle of the block was a very pricey bakery. Under normal circumstances, Hutch would never have gone into the place-twenty bucks for a cake always seemed highly extravagant to him. But for his true love…

“Turtledove’s!” Starsky pointed to the sign with a huge grin. “I’ve heard their cookies are fantastic!”

“According to the song, I’m giving you two,” Hutch said with a wink.

He followed Starsky into the bakery, inhaling the enticing scent of baked goods. Hell, he might just indulge in a few Christmas confections himself. “What do you want?”

“Saw them first off,” Starsky said, leaning in to whisper, “true love,” in Hutch’s ear. He pointed to a plate of ball shaped cookies dusted with powdered sugar. “Two Mexican Wedding Cakes-one for me and one for you.”

“This is turning out to be more fun that I expected,” Hutch said as the salesgirl handed over the sweets. Well aware that he hadn’t always gotten his partner a gift that Starsky really wanted, Hutch was thrilled at how successful he’d been on the first try.

 

December 27, 1983

Starsky woke up before Hutch on the twenty-seventh and lay watching his lover sleep. It was barely past dawn, long golden streaks of early sun piercing the gap in the curtains to play with the blond strands of Hutch’s hair.

He still had to figure out how to arrange for three French hens. While Hutch would probably adore owning laying chickens–fresh eggs every morning–Starsky doubted that would be practical when they were living in a second floor condo. Had to be something that didn’t need tending or feeding.

“Morning,” Hutch muttered, scrubbing his face to wake up. He smiled, looking straight down at Starsky’s groin. “What do we have here?”

“You want to open something now?” Starsky turned onto his side, displaying his prominent morning woody which was topped by the bow that held his pajama bottoms in place. He liked to sleep in as little as possible, but in December, it was cold enough at night that he gave in to the warmth of flannel pajamas.

“I can’t imagine you are hiding any chickens in here, French or otherwise.” Hutch tugged at the knot.

“I always knew that college degree was going to pay off someday.” Starsky winked, arching his pelvis forward when Hutch wrapped one hand around his cock. Reaching forward, Starsky blindly slipped his fingers into the slit of Hutch’s flannel pants and pulled out Hutch’s cock. It felt so warm, solid and yet sweetly soft, pulsing against his palm.

Hutch pumped Starsky hard, just the way he liked it, the friction igniting his nerves, sending arousal through his skin.

They stroked in unison, Starsky sensing Hutch’s needs through the pads of his fingers. He played his partner’s length like a musical instrument until Hutch sucked in air, shuddering his release.

Laughing with delight, Starsky tumbled over into his own orgasm.

They were slightly late getting to Metro, but neither of them cared.

Starsky was leafing through the phone book to look up a listing for Poole’s Pool Service, a business the BCPD suspected of being a front for male prostitution when he saw the words Poulet Français. Starsky’s French was non-existent but he recognized the restaurant name. He and Hutch had driven by many a time without ever going in.

There were three little chickens painted on the sign over the front door. Chickens wearing French berets on their white heads.

Perfect!

When he escorted Hutch to the restaurant that evening, Hutch laughed at the cute French hens and kissed Starsky hard. Right there in front of the restaurant. Starsky didn’t care how much the bill would cost-that public declaration of love meant more to him than a fifty dollar bottle of Napa Valley wine and two servings of Coq au vin.

 

December 28, 1983

Hutch didn’t have to think very long to come up with four calling birds-the gift was obvious. When Starsky had moved to Bay City at the age of thirteen to live with Uncle Al and Aunt Rose, he’d entered a houseful of girl cousins. They’d eagerly welcomed a boy into the nest without reservations, surrounding him with love. It was the work of a few minutes to get in touch with the oldest cousin and arrange everything.

The phone rang as Hutch was unlocking the front door after a day sitting in court to testify against a drug dealer he and Starsky had arrested earlier in the month. “Starsk!” Hutch said urgently. “Answer the phone while I warm up the Chinese food.”

“Why me?” Starsky asked testily. He’d been out of sorts all day, but the annoyance on his face transformed to happiness the minute he heard the voice on the other end of the line. “Robin! What a terrific surprise! Aunt Rose said you and Mike wouldn’t call until you got moved into your new place in Tokyo…”

Hutch hung back, watching Starsky chat with the cousin closest to his own age. The silly dare to act out the words of the twelve days of Christmas song was turning into something very meaningful and strong. There was nothing he wanted more than to be with his love, and make him happy.

Starsky hung up the phone with a grin, but it rang again before he could even move his hand away. “Grand central station here tonight.” He laughed, grabbing one of the egg rolls Hutch brought in before picking up the receiver again.

Hutch munched his own egg roll, glancing over at the photograph on the wall that had inspired him: David Starsky surrounded by the four Starsky sisters, Robin, Lark, Wren and Paloma-all as curly haired as he was.

Hutch knew the twins, Lark and Wren, wouldn’t talk long because they had to hurry off to their winter job as dancers with the Rockettes.

“That was…” Starsky pointed at Hutch, obviously realizing that Hutch had conspired with the girls to have them all call on the same night. The phone rang once more. “I’m never going to get any cashew chicken, am I?” Starsky asked rhetorically, saying, “Hey, Paloma,” before she even got in a hello.

Hutch heaped Chinese food on a plate for Starsky, listening in on Starsky’s questions about Paloma’s grad school thesis on children with cerebral palsy, and her love of Harvard medical school. It occurred to him that he’d never cared whether his ex-wife was simply happy with life. Probably because little had ever satisfied Van, certainly not their marriage. But he wanted Starsky to be happy-independent of their bliss with one another, because it gave him enormous pleasure to see Starsky smile.

“We’re all so far flung, especially since Robin moved to Japan,” Starsky said softly, hanging up the phone for the third time. “Never expected that, but I’m really glad you got us to reconnect, especially with my ma dead, their parents gone, and Nick…”

“Can’t change Nick.”

“No.” Starsky shrugged, the melancholia only slightly modifying his smile. “Thanks, Hutch. That was a real treat.” He chuckled, “And I never saw it coming. Four calling birds…”

“Do I get five golden rings next?” Hutch asked, wiggling his fingers under Starsky’s nose.

 

December 29, 1983

The Olympics was coming to Los Angeles in July. Ever person in the entire LA basin-not to mention, the world– must be aware of the fact. There were billboards up all over the area and merchandise festooned with the new logo; speedy looking red, white and blue stars above the more traditional Olympics symbol.

Starsky had bought a T-shirt and cap the first time he’d seen the souvenir clothing, even though the games were six months away. He’d planned to surprise Hutch when the tickets went on sale and include the clothing to make a day of watching the bike races or swimming complete.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t give some of that a little early. He wrapped the shirt emblazoned with 1984 Summer Olympics in a box, adding an IOU for tickets to the event of Hutch’s choice, and tucked it under the seat of the Torino before they left for work.

He and Hutch were called to a liquor store by a shotgun wielding owner holding two stupid-ass boys at bay. The would-be robbers had tried to grab what was in the till but were clearly too stoned to recognize a bad plan when they saw one.

“You have the right to remain silent…” Starsky started and burst into laughter when he realized he was speaking in time to the tune playing over the liquor store speakers: Twelve days of Christmas.

The puckered faced store owner gave him a sour look and Hutch took over the recitation of the Miranda rights so smoothly there wasn’t more than a pause in the flow.

“Thanks, Mr. Lee,” Starsky said after he’d composed himself. “Might change your playlist, it’s almost the new year.”

“New year not until end of January,” Lee snarled as Hutch led the recalcitrant thieves out the door. “Year of the Rat can’t come soon enough.”

“Auld lang syne to you, too,” Starsky muttered.

He waited until they’d booked Huey and Dewey and were back in the Torino again. “On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…” Starsky warbled, looking straight into Hutch’s bright blue eyes. “Look under your seat right now.”

“I thought I felt something bumping the back of my ankle.” Hutch bent over and pulled the box out. He examined the t-shirt sized parcel, raising his eyebrows. “Far too big to be a jeweler’s box.” He carefully peeled the tape up, folding back the edges of the wrapping paper.

“Do you do that to torture me?” Starsky moaned. “Rip it off!”

“You do it your way, I do it mine.” Hutch had already lifted off the lid and was smiling at the contents. “Perfect, Starsk, really perfect. These are exactly the five rings I would wear.”

 

December 30, 1983

Hutch was beginning to feel the pressure-they’d both given each other really wonderful, heartfelt gifts-and played fast and loose with the words to the song. But how was he supposed to present Starsky with six geese a-laying?

He thought about searching a gourmet shop for goose eggs, but once cooked, how different would they be from regular chicken eggs? What else did goose egg bring to mind?

A bump on the back on the head, but Hutch wasn’t about to wallop his true love with a baseball bat for lyric verisimilitude, no matter how annoying Starsky could be once in a while. While he wanted to keep the spirit of competition alive, he didn’t want to make this a game of one-upmanship. He and Starsky had gotten past that in their relationship.

All through the morning he kept flashing on an image of a flock of geese perched on nests-where? It was an infuriating half-memory, illusive and confusing. Was he just fixated on geese in general?

“Hutch,” Starsky said loudly. From the tone of his voice, it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get Hutch’s attention.

“Huh?” Hutch shook himself out of his daze.

“You need some black staff molasses or vitamin E?” Starsky turned the steering wheel of the Torino in a lazy arc, going left onto Broadway to complete the sweep of their patrol area. “You’ve been zoning out all day.”

“Black strap…” Hutch corrected, surveying his side of the street like a good detective, which he hadn’t been when he was daydreaming. “It’s full of minerals like iron, potassium and…the liquor store!” he yelled so loudly that Starsky stomped on the brakes.

“What the hell?” Starsky cried, the cars behind him all honking their horns. “We’ve got beer-and several bottles of wine at home.”

“Uh, no-” Hutch scrambled mentally to come up with a reasonable motive for shouting. Passing Lee’s Liquors for the second time in two days had cleared his memory. Goose Egg was the name of a local brewery. They’d put out a holiday ale, which had been featured next to the cash register when he and Starsky arrested Huey and Dewey. “I was just wondering how Mr. Lee was doing after the robbery.”

“Just like you to check up on the victim,” Starsky said indulgently, nosing the Torino into a parking place a few yards away. “You gonna slip him a twenty?”

“I need to buy something,” Hutch explained, trying to go for huffy so Starsky wouldn’t guess why he needed to go to a liquor store in the middle of the day. “Never you mind!”

“Oh.” Starsky grinned impishly. “I’ll call us out for lunch and wander over to the diner across the street while you do some shopping?”

Getting out of the car, Hutch laughed in spite of himself. Starsky understood him far too well. “Yes, that would be perfect. Order me a…”

Starsky put his fingers to his forehead as if reading his mind. “Tuna melt on wheat, iced tea and…side salad.”

“Don’t let success go to your head,” Hutch said, pointing a steady finger at him. God, he loved that man.

“See you in five.” Starsky winked rakishly, heading across the street to Broadway Buns.

Hutch was actually glad that Mrs. Lee, who didn’t speak much English, was working the till instead of her husband so he didn’t have to make chit-chat. He was in and out of the liquor store and over to the diner in less than Starsky’s estimated five minutes.

He plunked down next to Starsky in a back booth and placed the six pack of Goose Egg into his lap.

“Hey!” Starsky slid a bottle out of the cardboard carrying pack, examining the label. “Laying in the supplies for New Year’s eve?” His eyes twinkled with merriment, and he pitched his voice below the ambient noise in the diner. “I’d kiss you right now if we were at home.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” Hutch promised.

 

December 31, 1983

Starsky and Hutch lucked out and got New Year’s Eve off. Although the Pits always had a wild bash, complete with streamers, noise makers and kisses at midnight, they decided a night in would be far more cozy. They’d partied with Huggy and the Dobeys on Christmas; this was just for them.

Opening the TV guide to plan his football watching for the next two days, Starsky saw a listing that solved the problem of how to give Hutch seven swans. In fact, chances were, there were actually more than seven swans involved. And it was absolutely free. While he had no qualms about spending a load of cash on his true love, the Poulet Français meal had set him back a pretty penny.

At five-thirty p.m., Hutch stretched after his afternoon nap. “I’ll go pick up the steamed crab and sourdough bread we ordered from Lococco’s for dinner,” he said. “Do you want anything else?”

“Nope.” Starsky glanced up from a recap of the Peach Bowl: Florida State had won against North Carolina. “We got the beer you bought yesterday and the French bubbly your mom sent from her trip to Champagne.”

“Not to mention the chocolate she bought in Belgium.” Hutch chuckled. “I know which one you want more.”

“European chocolate is far superior to the American stuff,” Starsky said loftily, waving his fingers over the top of the couch. “I’ll be waiting for you, sailor!”

When Hutch got back, the scent of sourdough and freshly cooked crab wafted through the house the minute he shut the door. Starsky turned up the sound on the TV; Swan Lake was just starting. As Hutch put the food on the table, Tchaikovsky’s magnificent score began to play.

“Swan Lake?” Hutch turned, looking at the TV as robed trumpeters played a fanfare and a young prince leapt onto the stage, his dancing both powerfully athletic and light as a feather. “Mikhail Baryshnikov,” Hutch identified, joy lighting his face. “Is this the collaboration between the American Ballet Theater and the Moscow Ballet from last summer?”

Hutch’s enthusiasm warmed Starsky down to his toes. “Babe, I know how much you wanted to see Anna Akhanatova dance again–”

“The price of those tickets were way out of our league,” Hutch said, sitting on the couch to stare at the screen as if he was going to forego eating until he got a glimpse of his favorite ballerina. “Not to mention the flight to New York for only a couple days. Starsky, this is fantastic!”

“Do I get any kind of reward?” Starsky asked flirtatiously to distract Hutch away from the dancers.

Hutch hugged Starsky from the side, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Starsky had to tilt his head to get a second one in the correct place, but Hutch’s eyes were riveted to the TV for Akhanatova’s first entrance.

Giving it up as a lost cause, at least until the swans pirouetted out, Starsky cracked the crab. He understood Hutch’s obsession-it wasn’t just his love of ballet, but the memories of his brief affair with the prima ballerina, Anna. They’d both had women throughout their lives that ‘could have been the one.’ Starsky had always suspected that if Hutch and Anna had had more time to get to know each other, there might have been a lasting connection. As it was, the time had been so fleeting that no one would ever know for sure. Starsky held no jealousy to the beautiful ballet dancer, just as he knew Hutch didn’t resent his fond memories of Terry or Rosey.

Those women were their past-but they were forging a future as a couple. Just owning this condo together and sleeping in the same bed every night was special. Even what had started out as a silly competition had turned into an incredibly meaningful way to show his love to his partner.

Starsky blinked away the moisture in his eyes, silently chastising his oversentimentality. He was getting to be an old softy, just like the blond guy mesmerized by the artistry on the television.

Starsky tossed salad and divided it into two bowls, eating a slice of still warm sourdough as he worked. He popped the caps off two Goose Egg ales. Placing a plate of crab on Hutch’s lap, Starsky ruffled his hair affectionately, but Hutch only murmured an absent thanks.

Sitting back to eat his meal, Starsky watched his lover watching ballet. Nothing better.

Swan Lake was over at eight-thirty. Good thing, because Hutch was in a very amorous mood by then. Starsky performed a sexy little dance that had none of the technique of a trained ballet dancer, but got Hutch’s full and undivided attention.

Flipping the Olympics t-shirt he’d given Hutch but had worn all day over his head, Starsky sashayed across the living room to get the champagne. He wiggled his hips, made a little teasing kick with his left leg and danced the bottle back to the coffee table. Hutch had the glasses ready.

Starsky unzipped his jeans, leaving them on but open in an invitation to his lover.

Hutch laughed, unbuttoning his flannel shirt. He was wearing a white t-shirt underneath, but that was simply a challenge to Starsky.

“Ready for some bubbly, Mr. Howell?” Starsky twisted the wire cage off the cork and pushed both thumbs under the bulbous top.

“Starsk…” Hutch stood up warily, staring at the bottle pointing directly at him. “You wouldn’t…”

“Time to get naked, babe!” Starsky warned. “This is gonna blow!” He pushed the cork-just a little-and the warm, carbonated wine burst out, showering Hutch.

“That was low!” Hutch growled, drenched. He threw off his wet clothes.

Exactly what Starsky had wanted all along. Starsky tackled him onto the floor, laughing and trying to get at all the parts of Hutchinson anatomy that had been splashed with sparkling wine.

Hutch kissed him hard on the lips, sucking Starsky’s tongue into his mouth and scraping his teeth against Starsky’s. Arms around each other, they lay in the nest of scattered clothing, engrossed in rediscovering erogenous zones.

Starsky licked the curve of Hutch’s throat, sure he could taste a hint of wine, and latched on, instantly raising a hickey.

“How could you waste champagne my mother sent from…” Hutch murmured into his ear, grinding his erection into Starsky’s groin.

“Was cheap…” Starsky lost all ability to speak for a while as his cock sparked against Hutch’s. Purple and green fireworks exploded on his retinas when he squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t breathe, his whole being trembling.

When Hutch pushed a finger back along Starsky’s perineum and then circled his puckered anus, Starsky climaxed. Panting, he relished the incredible high, very aware that Hutch hadn’t come yet. Fighting fatigue, Starsky turned on his side, scooting down until he was level with his lover’s thick cock.

“The bottle your mother sent is on ice; that was a bottle of plonk.” He looked up into Hutch’s gorgeous blue eyes. “Fooled you though, didn’t I?”

Hutch grabbed a handful of Starsky’s curls, pulling gently. “You wish. I got some in my mouth–and can taste the difference between grapes grown in France and some blend of table grapes grown in Fresno.”

“I’ve got you in my mouth,” Starsky slurped Hutch’s length in, humming Twelve Days of Christmas while he cupped Hutch’s tight scrotum in his left hand.

Hutch came, and came, and came.

January 1, 1984

Nursing a slight hangover from polishing off three ales and two glasses of imported champagne by the time the clock struck twelve to usher in 1984, Hutch watched the Rosebowl parade with his feet cushioned on the Bay City Times. Starsky curled at his side, finishing the last of his cheese omelet.

Hutch had always intended to get over to Pasadena, a barely thirty minute drive away, some year to see the parade in person. Except that half the population of Southern California seemed to be camped out from the middle of the night to get a good place on the main parade route. That was not how Hutch ever wanted to spend his New Year’s Eve.

“I’m always amazed they can make those floats completely out of flowers,” Starsky said. “Look at that one about Africa-the apes are made from coconut hair.”

“I know.” Hutch pointed at the TV. “That’s what the commentator just said.” Slightly irritated that Starsky was repeating what he could hear for himself, Hutch reached for the phone on the side table just as it rang.

“Happy New Year, Edith.” Hutch easily identified her voice despite a throaty rasp. “How are you-”

“Ken, I have a request, and I know it’s a big one but…” Edith sneezed violently three times in a row.

Hutch could hear her blowing her nose before she could speak again. “You sound like you have the same flu the captain had the other day. What can we do for you?”

As Edith related her dilemma, Hutch began to grin, greatly relieved. In one fell swoop, the day had fallen into place-and so had his gift. He promised Edith that he and Starsky would help out and hung up. “Dobey’s still under the weather, Cal is sick, and now Edith’s caught the bug, too.”

Starsky had gotten up during a commercial to go into the bathroom. He came out brushing his teeth. “What about little Rosie? Dobey was hacking and sneezing all over the squadroom,” Starsky mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste. He reversed course to spit into the sink and rinse his mouth out.

“Which is exactly why I gave you the extra vitamin C.” Hutch nodded. “Anyway, since we had nothing planned today until working night shift…”

“I was kinda thinking about making out with my true love and waiting for those maids a-milking,” Starsky said with a pout.

“We can make out another time.” Hutch leveled his forefinger at Starsky’s naked chest, sighing inwardly. The sacrifices he made to complete the holiday dare. He’d have preferred making love all afternoon, too.  “Get dressed. We’re shepherding Rosie’s Camp Fire girls troop to Maiden Fresh dairy.”

“A dairy?” Starsky repeated, pulling the red shawl collared sweater they both shared over his head. “Oh, eight maids a-milking. You’re sneaky, Hutchinson.” He thumped Hutch on the arm, hard enough that it hurt, just a little. “Did you plan this?”

“No, honestly,” Hutch said over his shoulder, going to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. He’d need a lot of caffeine to keep up with Rosie and seven other fourteen year old girls. “I was glad to help Edith, above and beyond the fact that it solved what to get you on the eighth day.”

Starsky put his arms around Hutch from behind and kissed his ear. “You’ll always be the cream in my coffee, milkman.”

 

January 2, 1984

Starsky stared out the window of the Torino, waiting for Hutch to dole out a couple of twenties to the homeless men huddled around a fire in a trashcan under the freeway overpass. He’d had many ways to go with ladies dancing. He’d already used ballet dancers, so that was out. And much as he liked going to a disco, that had seemed a little obvious. Besides, even if he and Hutch phoned every old girlfriend still in their address books after five years, that wouldn’t add up to nine.

In the end, he’d come up with a brilliant gift, if he said so himself. Once again, a little pricey, but Hutch was more than worth it. It wasn’t as if Starsky would hate where they were headed. He was going to love every minute of the show.

“Come on, blondie,” Starsky called as Hutch waved goodbye to a grizzled old guy with a patch over one eye. “Get a move on, we haven’t got all day.”

“Where exactly are we going?” Hutch asked, climbing into the car and laying one of his wind chilled hands on Starsky’s cheek.

“You’re freezing!” Starsky shuddered, driving on to the freeway. “Crank up the heat. We’ve got tickets and we need to get to the court on time.”

“Let’s see-nine ladies dancing,” Hutch trilled in tune. “At a court. Couldn’t be something legal since the courts are closed today because Sunday was a holiday.” He looked speculatively at Starsky and then through the windshield at an enormous structure looming in the distance. “Starsk! You got tickets to a Laker’s game?”

“With nine Laker girls dancing at half time, including that cutie on Huggy’s calendar, Paula Abdul.” Starsky nodded proudly.

The kiss Hutch planted on his cheek heated him up far faster than the old Torino heater.

The Lakers lost to the New York Knicks, but neither Starsky nor Hutch cared a bit. They sat in the bleachers cheering on the home team, and if their hands clasped now and again while everyone else was focused on the game, that was no one’s business but their own.

The half-time show, featuring the fanny wiggling, high stepping cheerleaders decked out in glittery yellow and purple mini-skirts was the highlight of the afternoon. Starsky’s adoration of his blond prince didn’t stop him from admiring the bouncing breasts of a line of gorgeous women dancing to Flashdance.

 

January 3, 1984

Hutch didn’t like Christmas shopping at all. Even after many wonderful holidays celebrated with Starsky, he still would prefer to have his wisdom teeth pulled again rather than wade into the fray of frantic shoppers. On the other hand, a wander through a bookstore in the new year was another thing entirely. Holiday wrapping paper was on sale-which was exactly what Starsky had come into the store to buy-and so were the calendars.

He skipped over glossy calendars featuring adorable kittens, Edward Gorey pen and ink drawings of small children dying in oddly funny ways, photos from Return of the Jedi and Octopussy, looking for a plain day-to-day planner. Didn’t seem like there was anything with a leather cover and large pages like his father used to have. With a sigh, Hutch was about to go ask a Waldenbooks employee when he spotted a calendar with Princess Diana on the cover. He had a secret crush on Prince Charles’ wife, but he didn’t want Starsky to know. He’d never hear the end of it.

Flipping up the cover, Hutch checked out the pictures for each month. The calendar actually featured more than just the popular princess; there were pictures of other royals and aristocracy. He laughed out loud when he saw the image for March-Starsky’s birth month–and bought the calendar immediately.

“What’d you get?” Starsky asked when they arrived home. He opened his shopping bags, unloading his bargain wrapping paper, ribbon and a pair of boxers with Santa on the front.

“You won’t be allowed in bed if you wear those!” Hutch declared, folding the bag around the calendar as impromptu wrapping paper. “It’s for you.”

“Hey.” Starsky grinned, mischievous glee glinting in his eyes. “You’re forgiven for mocking my shorts.” He felt around the edges of the gift. “From the shape, it’s either an LP or a calendar, and probably has something to do with leapin’ lords.”

“Gloriosky, leaping lizards, Little Orphan Annie,” Hutch deadpanned.

Starsky tossed the bag aside, holding up the cover with Diana accepting flowers from a pink cheeked British child. “Dear Ann Landers, on the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave me a picture of his English girlfriend. Should I be worried?”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Hutch grabbed the calendar out of his hands.

“Oh, who insisted we watch the wedding in the middle of the night?” Starsky rolled his eyes, pointing to the picture for February as Hutch flipped the pages. Diana was wearing a diamond and pearl tiara, beaming at the camera. He picked up the new wrapping paper to stow it in the closet.

“We were in the squadroom anyway.” Hutch glared at Starsky, horrified that he’d guessed his secret.

“We don’t usually watch TV while going through arrest warrants.” Starsky laughed. “I’ve seen you reading People magazine with Diana’s pictures in the grocery line. Give me that back. I want to find the…”

“Ten Lords a-Leaping!” Hutch held up the picture of polo team made up of entirely of young British aristocracy jumping into the air after their victory.

“Jolly good show, Sir Kenneth,” Starsky intoned, pretending to knight him with a long roll of red and green holly paper. He leaned in for a kiss, dropping the wrapping paper on the rug.

Hutch let go of the calendar in favor of holding his lover in his arms, curving his hands over Starsky’s round butt. The kiss they shared was long and extremely satisfying.

“Does that mean I have to look at Diana on every other month?” Starsky pointed down at the calendar splayed out on the floor with July face up. Diana was waving from the balcony of Buckingham Palace with Charles on one side and the Queen on the other.

“Cultural détente, Starsk,” Hutch said, capturing his partner’s mouth for another kiss. “After all, you got Paula Abdul’s autograph yesterday.”

 

January 4, 1984

“How many plumbers is this gonna take?” Starsky asked, not expecting an answer. He perched on the bumper of the Torino, watching a squadron of men tromping into Metro.

The temperature had gone below freezing during the night, causing the pipes in the building to burst. The staff on hand had to be evacuated and most of the employees of the police department were standing around in the parking lot with resigned expressions.

“This probably wouldn’t have been so bad in Minnesota,” Hutch commented, chewing on a bagel for his breakfast. “They’re used to freezing weather there.”

“It’s colder’n a witch’s tit out here,” Starsky complained, shoving his gloved hands under his armpits. “And we’ve been out all night long, what’er we gonna do?” He knew bitching about it wasn’t going to help but he was exhausted after a night investigating a fatal shooting between two drunks, and just wanted to file his report and go home to snuggle in bed with Hutch. Under a nice warm duvet.

“Wait until the plumbers give us the all clear.” Hutch shrugged, apparently impervious to the chill.

Dobey hurried over, his breath puffing in white clouds like a steam engine. “That makes eleven pipeworkers inside, to deal with the pipes.”

Had he heard what he thought he heard? Starsky started to giggle and looked over at Hutch. Hutch’s eyebrows were hovering near his bangs and he snorted under his breath as if he was trying not to laugh.

That made Starsky giggle more, much to Dobey’s obvious consternation.

“What are you two laughing about?” he bellowed. “This is serious stuff here, the flood could have damaged important evidence and arrest paperwork, setting back cases already in the courts as a result!” He shook his head at their foolishness and marched off, his breath clouds floating over his head.

“No fair, Starsk,” Hutch said, wiping his eyes from laughing so hard. “You didn’t have to do a thing to get this one.”

“I had to sit out in the cold, freezing my fanny off!” Starsky pointed out. “And only got half a bagel for breakfast because you ate the rest.” Hutch did not look at all guilty about that. “Besides, you didn’t have to think up taking the girls to the dairy.”

“Hey, you liked that place,” Hutch countered. “I saw you guzzle two containers of chocolate milk.”

“Lizzie Diamond was lactose intolerant.” Starsky shrugged. “She couldn’t drink hers.” He hunched his shoulders, shifting his butt on the back of the car. The metal still held enough heat to give him a little warmth. “The girls sure looked adorable milking the cows.”

“You know,” Hutch said, turning his head to watch a pair of cops get into their cruiser to drive out. “When you started this, I thought this was another one of your cockamamie ideas, but this has been really fun.”

“Makes me think about you all the time,” Starsky said softly, his heart full to overflowing. “Not just getting something that is mentioned in the song, but something maybe that’ll be fun to share together or…just that you’d like.”

“We should do this next year.” Hutch patted Starsky’s hand, squeezing just once.

“We’re not even finished, you have one more gift!” Starsky jumped up to get some warmth into his feet. “Thought about how you’ll wrap up twelve drummers?” He played a rat-a-tat-tat on the trunk of the Torino.

“Wait and see,” Hutch promised.

 

January 4-5, 1984

After having to wait two hours until the plumbers fixed the broken pipes in the building, plus a four car pile-up on the freeway when they drove home at ten a.m., Hutch never had time to come up with one last gift. He and Starsky had fallen into bed on January fourth at eleven in the morning and gotten up at nearly nine p.m. in time for the next shift.

Yawning, all Hutch cared about was injecting caffeine straight into his veins, eating something and taking a shower before work. Starsky dragged around the condo, throwing together bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, his eyes at half-mast.

“How come sleeping all day doesn’t make up for being up for more than twenty-four hours before?” he groused, stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.

For once, Hutch didn’t comment on the high fat meal or Starsky’s overuse of sugar. He was exhausted, and they had another all-nighter to put in. “I’ll just be glad when we pull day shift again next week,” Hutch said. “You ready to go?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Starsky buckled his shoulder holster in place.

Hutch watched, feeling just a little of the tiredness drain away. The day he stopped yearning for his partner’s body as he arched his chest to snap the holster straps in place was the day he’d be buried in the ground.

“Come here,” Hutch urged, tugging Starsky’s black turtleneck down more smoothly just so he could feel Starsky up a little.

Starsky kissed him quick, a smile replacing the fatigue. “On January sixth, big boy, ain’t that when I get to king you?”

“What an epiphany!” Hutch chuckled. “He got the concept after all this time.”

Unfortunately, since they were both exhausted, the night never seemed to end. Wednesday barreled into Thursday with what seemed like a mini crime wave. A domestic dispute that led to a fight at a bar with one man shot dead took up most of the wee hours. The sky was lightening in the east when the last of the brawlers had been hauled off to the city jail and the body to the morgue. Both Starsky and Hutch were ready to clock in but a fender-bender not two blocks from Metro brought traffic to a halt. Starsky rolled his eyes and grabbed the mic to call into dispatch when they were hailed first.

“Zebra three, there’s a report of a 211 at 765 Elby Street,” Kevin called.

“Sure thing, with the cars snarled up on Washington, there’s no way we’re getting to Metro anyway,” Starsky replied, bracing himself as Hutch made a sharp right into a less crowded side street and sped away. “That’s the community theater.”

“Victim says the thief was a tall thin man in blue sweat pants and a yellow and purple jacket,” Kevin continued. “Talk to a Thierry Miburu.”

“Some name,” Hutch commented, taking two successive rights to bring them onto Elby, about six blocks east of the theater. The sun wasn’t high enough to brighten the street. Shadows hung from every high building but Hutch could see the neon sign spelling out Tripoli-the T was faulty and occasionally blinked out for a few seconds.

“Hutch!” Starsky called out suddenly, pointing not at the bright red and blue sign, but to the sidewalk opposite the car. “Stop!”

“Wha…?” Hutch didn’t have time to register the command before Starsky shoved the car door open.

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled.

Starsky barreled across the road, diving headlong at a man just passing under a streetlamp.

Hutch braked, sent a hasty call for back-up and went after his partner. Starsky was already cuffing a stringbean of a man wearing a huge parka in Laker’s colors.

“What took you so long?” Starsky asked rhetorically, glancing up at Hutch. He gave the prisoner a little shake and hauled him to his feet. “Saw Ichabod Crane here and knew the description sounded familiar.”

“I didn’t do nuthin’,” Crane said sullenly.

Hutch snorted, unconvinced. Isaiah Crane was well-known for robbing movie theaters, usually when the cash was being taken to the after-hours bank drop. “You find any money on him?”

Starsky pointed to a manila envelope lying under the streetlamp on the sidewalk.

“That’s mine!” Crane protested. “I just got paid!”

“You have a job?” Hutch picked up the envelope, turning it over. On the front was printed Royal Drummers of Burundi, Thierry Miburu, Manager. “I guess you changed your name. I’ll return this if you can spell your new moniker.”

Crane gaped at Hutch, the port wine stain on his right temple suddenly glowing as the sun got high enough to shine down on the street. “I…” He shuffled his feet, apparently ready to flee with his hands cuffed behind him.

Starsky laughed, reciting the Miranda as fast as he could. “And look.” He turned Crane around to see the black and white cruiser pulling up behind Hutch’s Ford. “Here’s your ride to your temporary hotel. Have a nice stay.”

Hutch showed the officers the envelope stuffed with several hundred dollars and had them take photos of the evidence so that he could return the cash to the rightful owner.

Miburu was a small man with powerfully muscled arms and a bald head. He was overcome with thanks when Starsky and Hutch knocked on the door of the Tripoli.

“I was resigned to the fact that this money was gone forever,” he said breathlessly, in heavily accented English. There were tears in his dark brown eyes. “We gave our first performance in your country last night, but the bus has broken down and we did not have enough money to book a hotel-so we slept here. I…”

“You’ll have to come down to the station to sign a formal statement,” Starsky told him. “But we ain’t impounding money that’s obviously yours.”

“It was the ticket sales from the first show,” Miburu explained. “I was told to take it to the bank on the corner. To put it in the night safe.”

“A good plan,” Hutch agreed. “Just don’t do it by yourself, before dawn. Where are you from?” He looked around and saw Starsky’s eyes widen at the shabbiness of the place. The community theatre had fallen on hard times, too. The lobby looked dingy and dark at seven-thirty in the morning. From somewhere deep inside the building, a rhythmic pounding rose, nearly shaking the walls.

“Bujumbura, Burundi in Africa,” Miburu said graciously with a slight bow. “Please, come inside, we have breakfast. Would you share some sweet potato?”

“Thanks, we cannot eat when on duty,” Hutch replied. He couldn’t take food from these people who clearly had very little. Besides, he and Starsky would eat something soon enough at the station. The pounding was getting louder, an almost hypnotic beat that seemed both primitive and alive-something born of the earth.

“What’s that sound?” Starsky said over his shoulder, pushing open the door to the main hall.

The drumming spilled out of the theater, thunder from an ancient world, speaking to Hutch’s blood, his very soul. Starsky immediately began to bob his head to the tempo, watching the brown-skinned men on the stage jump and dance around their three foot tall drums, pounding ceaselessly. One man leapt so high that his knees seemed to touch his forehead and he laughed, his teeth white against his dark skin. The joy in their performance was infectious, and in spite of his fatigue, Hutch grinned.

“This is incredible!” he said, unable to take his eyes off the show.

“We are the Royal Drummers of Burundi,” Miburu said proudly. “Last night was the first show, and although we did not make much money, we hope that we provided happiness to the audience.”

“If they saw what I’m watching,” Starsky waved a hand at a performer carrying a staff and shield, twirling and leaping across the stage to the regular beat of the drums, “the audience couldn’t help but be happy. You guys are great.”

“Thank you.” Miburu clasped his hands in gratitude. “I had been afraid of coming to this country, of encountering dangers. Your swift justice on our behalf has given me new hope that we will be able to support our families back home.”

“We’ll spread the word, get you bigger audiences for the rest of your run,” Hutch promised. “Just make sure you walk in pairs when you take the money to the bank.”

“I’ll give you the name of a good mechanic for your bus, too,” Starsky said, digging into his pocket for a paper and pen to write out Merle’s address.

The booming percussion followed them out of the theater and back to Hutch’s car. Hutch’s ears were ringing from the sound. Even so, he and Starsky would be back to see the entire show before the drummers left town.

“Twelve drummers drumming…” Starsky yodeled.

“We did it,” Hutch said softly. “Finished the final verse.” He smiled, recalling the last twelve days. They’d not only given each other special gifts, but reconnected with family, helped out friends and new acquaintances, and found profound meaning in the interpretation of an ancient song.

Starsky glanced around at the quiet street, grasped Hutch’s hand and kissed his knuckles, quick. Hutch knew there would definitely be more where that came from when they were in the privacy of their own home.

“You got lucky, blintz,” Starsky teased, his eyes bright with love. “That one fell in your lap, like taking Rosie to the dairy, and-”

“As if you planned for the pipes at Metro to break!” Hutch countered. “And not like it was hard to find something with five rings on it with the Olympics coming.”

“You still wore the shirt!” Starsky climbed into the car, sliding his sunglasses on.

Hutch blinked in the bright morning sun and patted his letterman’s jacket for his shades. It promised to be a glorious morning, if still quite chilly for Southern California. “So did you.” He turned over the car engine, sure he could still hear the pounding drums at this distance. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

January 6, 1984

Turtledove’s bakery displayed a Gateau du roi in the front window, complete with a gold paper crown. Starsky thought it looked more like a pie than a cake, with a crust-like top, but it smelled delicious. He could barely keep from opening the pink box and snitching a bit on the way home in the car.

Hutch sliced the first piece, and lucky man that he was, got the trinket on his fork when he bit into the cake. Starsky didn’t care-he was having cake for breakfast-with Hutchinson for dessert afterwards.

“You have to put on the crown,” Starsky said, placing the paper coronet on Hutch’s fair hair. “It must be in the rule books somewhere.”

“You wear it!” Hutch laughed, snatching it off and stuffing it down on Starsky’s curls. “We’ll rule this fair kingdom together.”

“Oh, no, you’re the king. Care for a game of chess? Knight’s pawn to King’s joey?” Starsky asked as if he really didn’t have other plans. He leaned back on the pillows to display his naked chest, savoring the taste of almond paste and crust lingering on his tongue. The crown tumbled off into the bed sheets. “Jousting with lances?”

“Chess, no.” Hutch pushed the Friday morning newspaper off their bed and set the remains of the cake on the floor. “But jousting sounds like fun.”

“It’s all fun and games until someone pokes an eye.” Starsky stretched out, his cock swelling just from the word play.

“I should never have let you talk me into seeing that Christmas Story movie,” Hutch chuckled, removing his only clothes, Starsky’s Santa boxers.

“Can I help it if your publicity sold out the Burundi drummers’ show and we had to buy tickets for another night?” Starsky shrugged, his eyes on Hutch’s display. “I needed some entertainment after working the late shift for the past week. Kiko and Molly both gave the movie two thumbs up.”

“Reminded me of my childhood,” Hutch murmured, gathering Starsky into him. He kissed Starsky reverently.

The kiss melted Starsky’s bones. He flowed into Hutch’s arms, giving and responding to the nuzzles and licks as Hutch covered his upper body with love.

“You ever do that…” Starsky sighed, lapping at Hutch’s warm neck. It was nothing like a frozen pole. “Lick a…”

“I knew better.” Hutch swallowed, his Adam’s apple giving Starsky’s tongue a rollercoaster ride. “But the way you laughed, you must have?” He turned to suck briefly on Starsky’s ear lobe.

Starsky snickered, letting Hutch arrange him against the headboard with the pillows shoved under his butt for leverage, remembering the scene where Ralph triple dog dares his friend to put his tongue on an icy flagpole. “No, Nicky did.”

“Nicky would,” Hutch conceded with a grin. His blond hair fell over his forehead, brushing his eyelashes when he gazed at Starsky. He ran his fingers lightly down the inside of Starsky’s thighs, adding his tongue for effect.

Starsky gasped, arousal swirling like a vortex inside him. “Babe…” He wanted Hutch inside him sooner rather than later. “King for the day-all yours.”

“Gonna claim my prize,” Hutch whispered, positioning himself. He knelt, his thick erection poised at the entrance to Starsky’s body. “I love you.”

“No question.” Starsky arched as Hutch pushed in, the initial burn an erotic cocktail, both painful and amazingly powerful. Once Hutch was fully seated, the pleasure intensified tenfold and Starsky shook with lust. “Love you so much.”

Hutch panted, his chest heaving and he leaned down to Starsky to kiss him hard, all thrusting tongue and clashing teeth. He curled his palm around Starsky’s cock, squeezing hard just as his climax must have hit. His length expanded inside Starsky, pulsing against his interior walls like a second heart.

Starsky orgasmed seconds after Hutch, linking his hands around his lover to keep them close when they tumbled sideways onto the sheets together.

“You’re a better hump than a camel any old day,” Hutch muttered into Starsky’s ear as he fell asleep.

“My true love said to me…” Starsky sang to himself, wrapped in Hutch’s arms.

FIN