T’was the Night

Home with the flu and an overactive imagination, Hutch waits for his partner on Christmas Eve.

Written for the 2012 Starsky and Hutch Advent Calendar.

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, as stormy as Southern California gets in December. It was December 24th to be exact, and while the weather outside wasn’t exactly frightful, it was rather nippy with a slight breeze off the nearby Pacific.

On the street outside of Venice Place, the last of the Christmas Eve party-goers were heading home and calling out overused holiday greetings to each other. In a few minutes, the doors to Chez Helene would lock for the night and blessed silence would fall over the building. At least, that’s what the lone remaining occupant of the building sincerely hoped. Up in the apartment over the restaurant, that occupant was currently curled up in a ball on his bed, practically every blanket in the house covering him, and he was still cold.

Poking his head out from under the layers of covers, Hutch squinted to bring the bedside clock into focus. Upon seeing it was just after eleven, he relaxed a little. His partner should be arriving soon to fuss over him as he’d been doing every night for the past three days. This was the fourth and hopefully last day of having what Hutch had been referring to as the never-ending flu.

“Twenty-four hours my ass,” he muttered irritably. “Whoever named it that needs to stop by so I can give them a little present.”

Hutch groaned and pulled the blankets over his head again. Damn. It was the night before Christmas and while he had a decorated tree, courtesy of his Jewish, Christmas loving partner, it was completely bare underneath. He’d fully intended to do actual shopping this year, but case after case had left him with no time to go off on his own to do so.

When they finally had gotten a day off, Hutch had begun that morning feeling like he’d died and forgotten to be buried and it went downhill from there. He stayed in bed most of that day, wishing his partner would show up, but steadfastly refused to call him to make the request. After all, he was a grown man, a tough cop, and someone who did not need to be fussed over while sick. So, after a day of trying and failing to keep down water, and not even thinking about food, Hutch had resigned himself to riding it out on his own.

What he hadn’t realized was that while he was sleeping with his head buried under the blankets, Starsky had tried calling multiple times throughout the day to see if Hutch wanted to double date that night. After all of the calls went unanswered, an uneasy feeling had begun to take hold, blossoming into a full-blown panic around sundown. Shortly thereafter, Hutch had been pulled from his cocoon, changed into clean sleepwear, dosed with Tylenol and tucked back into a freshly made bed. Still feeling like crap, he’d drifted off to sleep with a content smile and the warm feeling of being fussed over.

A creaking sound and soft footfalls dragged Hutch from his memories and he glanced at the bedside clock again. Starsky was a little early. While Hutch was out sick, Dobey had assigned the leftover partner a three to eleven shift, telling him the later hours would ensure the quiet Starsky needed to catch up on all of the reports the duo had generated over the previous week. They both suspected ulterior motives behind that as it left Starsky with all of the morning and most of the afternoon to be with his friend and still got him back to Venice in time for a full night’s sleep.

Hutch waited for a few minutes and Starsky didn’t appear. Maybe he hadn’t heard his partner after all. He’d no sooner had the thought when there was another creak from the loose floorboard by the living room window and a soft rustle of paper. Ah, so that was it. Detective Sneaky Starsky was messing around by the Christmas tree. Very quietly, Hutch pushed off the blankets and dragged his aching body from the warm bed. His socked feet made no noise as he carefully crept from the sleeping alcove and peeked around the privacy screen to spy on his friend. Strings of multicolored tree lights cast the room in shadow and it took a moment for Hutch to locate the lone figure that was busily stuffing items into the stockings that had been tacked up on the wall.

Hutch stepped out from behind the screen and crossed over a few steps to stand behind the sofa. “Ha, caught ya,” he laughed, startling his partner into dropping a handful of candy.

As a few jawbreakers bounced across the hardwood floor, the figure turned and Hutch’s eyes went wide. With a speed far exceeding his current physical condition, he spun around and dove for his holster which was hanging from the back of a nearby chair. Rolling to a crouched position, the Magnum securely in his hand, Hutch yelled, “Freeze, Police!” and trained the weapon where the strange man, and not his partner, had been standing just moments before.

Hutch swung his head around, the gun following his movements, as he quickly searched for the intruder. The man was still in the apartment since he hadn’t gone past Hutch to get out the front door and only exit, so where was he? From his vantage point, Hutch could see the whole of his apartment. He turned his head and eyed the greenhouse. Of course. Anyone who came by assumed that was an exit to the rear, but Hutch had blocked that off long ago to make room for more plants. With a feral grin, Hutch came out of his crouch and started to stand, only to duck back down when the doorknob behind him started to turn and the front door opened.

There could have been a lot of things Starsky expected to see when he entered his partner’s home that night, but being met with said partners Magnum pointed at his head was not one of them.

“Shit, Hutch, it’s me!” Starsky called out as he dove to the left and hid behind an end table.
Hutch instantly flicked his wrist so the weapon pointed to the ceiling and took his finger off of the trigger in the same movement.

“Damn it, Starsky,” Hutch hissed, his raw throat making the expletive even more gritty than normal. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Hutch lowered the gun as Starsky emerged from his hiding place and stood up, reaching for the lamp beside him. A moment later they were both squinting as bright light flooded the room.

“How did you get back out there?” Hutch demanded, still a bit suspicious that it had been Starsky by the tree.

Starsky looked at the disheveled blond and took a moment to catch his breath. “What do you mean, ‘back out there’?” He asked as his heart resumed a steady rhythm. “I just got here.”

Hutch stared at him, seeing clear confusion and a little bit of concern. “You weren’t just in here fooling around by the Christmas tree?”

Starsky was instantly on alert, his left hand automatically drawing his Beretta as Hutch reasserted his grip on the Magnum. “There was somebody in here?” Starsky lowered his voice as he looked around the room.

Both men looked at the greenhouse then at each other before moving as one toward it. As they got closer, Starsky asked in a hushed whisper if Hutch recognized the man.

“Big guy,” Hutch whispered back as the pair crept closer to the back door. “Red pants, red jacket, red hat.”

Starsky stopped dead in his tracks and straightened up, his gun hand dropping to his side. “What?” He demanded in a loud voice, hoping he’d misheard.

“Shhh!” Hutch hissed, grabbing Starsky’s arm and trying to pull him back down into a smaller target. “We need to get the jump on him.”

Starsky pulled his arm free, jammed the Beretta back in its holster, then grabbed Hutch by the shoulders. “Look at me,” Starsky demanded when Hutch wouldn’t take his eyes off the greenhouse. Two pair of blue eyes met, one full of concern, the other fever-bright and intense. “Tell me again who you saw.”

Hutch hesitated, his brain finally catching up to what he’d said. “Um…big guy with a red hat, jacket, and pants.” He ducked his head and looked down at his weapon.

Starsky let out a huge sigh, somewhere between relief and irritation. “Did this guy have a white beard and a big belly that jiggled like a bowl full of jelly?”

Hutch’s flushed cheeked burned brighter and he refused to look up. “I guess he might have,” Hutch mumbled. “I only saw him for a second.”

Starsky bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the laugh that was trying to force its way out. The urge to mercilessly tease his normally level-headed partner was strong, but his protective nature was stronger. He stood, pulling his partner up with him and getting his first really good look at the man.

“You look terrible,” Starsky announced.

Pale, sweaty, and a little unstable on his feet, Hutch felt what little energy he’d had from the adrenalin rush start to fade. He didn’t resist when he was relieved of his weapon, watching as it was returned to the holster on the chair. Knowing it was a long shot, but unwilling to completely admit he was wrong yet, Hutch made a hesitant request.

“Check the greenhouse, okay, Starsk?”

Starsky turned from restoring the weapon to its home and studied his partner. Dressed in his dark blue BCP Academy sweats and white socks, his sick friend looked like a little boy who had just been told Santa didn’t exist.

With an exaggerated sigh, Starsky once again drew his gun and headed for the greenhouse, stopping Hutch in his tracks with one look as the aforementioned sick man tried to follow. “I’ll check, you stay.”

Unwilling to argue when he was about to get his way, Hutch remained where he was as Starsky quietly made his way to the next room. With a deep breath and one quick look back to make sure Hutch hadn’t followed, Starsky burst through the door of the greenhouse and dropped into a crouch as he quickly looked around. It only took a moment to confirm what he already knew.

“All clear!” He stood and returned his weapon to the holster for what he hoped to be the last time that night.

Hutch came forward and looked in, seeing everything just as he’d left it the last time he was there. Dropping his head down, he stared at his feet for a moment, then gave his friend a sheepish, sidelong look. “Sorry.”

Starsky finally let out the pent up laugh and pulled Hutch into a one-armed hug before leading him back into the apartment.

“Well, you’re a little old to be imagining Santa on Christmas Eve, but I’ll let this go since you are clearly out of your mind or sleepwalking,” Starsky offered. With his right arm still around his best friend, he maneuvered Hutch back to the alcove.

Now that the thrill of the short, almost non-existent chase was over, Hutch was back to freezing and feeling miserable. He stood quietly suppressing a yawn while Starsky yanked the jumbled pile of blankets from the bed and remade it. After making a show of fluffing the pillows, he looked at Hutch and pointed to the bed, the order unmistakable.

As Hutch sank gratefully into the inviting warmth, he opened his mouth to speak, only to have a thermometer shoved into it.

“No talking,” Starsky instructed as he tucked the blankets all around the long body until only a blond head stuck out.

“Um rere ary uh ulled ey un un oo,” Hutch said sincerely around the thermometer.

Starsky stared at him for a moment, his brow knit in concentration as he translated ‘I’m really sorry I pulled my gun on you’.

“Don’t worry about it, Blintz. No way you were gonna shoot me.” Apology offered and accepted.

Starsky waited another minute before removing the glass tube and checking the results. “Temp is down to 100 even. I’ll bet you’re normal tomorrow.” He shook it out and set it on the nightstand. “Well, normal for you, anyway.” When no sarcastic response was forthcoming, he looked down to find Hutch sound asleep. Silently cheering that accomplishment, he tiptoed away from the bed.

Ten minutes later found Starsky fresh from the shower and making up the couch with the one blanket Hutch hadn’t gotten his hands on. He was about to turn off the light and get to sleep when he suddenly remembered something. With a quick glance toward the alcove where Hutch slept, he hurried to the door and carefully opened it. Reaching out one hand, he snagged the handles of a paper shopping bag and pulled it into the apartment, silently closing and locking the door behind him.

Starsky was rather pleased with his shopping results, even if the time to do it had come at the expense of his partner’s health. The way their schedule had been going, if Hutch hadn’t gotten sick there was no way Starsky would have found the time to get everything done.

Hauling his bag over to the tree, he got down on his knees to arrange his gifts for Hutch and was pulled up short when he got a good look underneath. A dozen or so brightly wrapped packages peeked out from under the branches. Puzzled, Starsky pulled one out and looked at the gift tag, his heart swelling with joy when he spotted his name. Resisting the urge to shake it, he put the present back and started poking around at the others. One by one he liberated the gifts from under the tree, checked the tag, and then put them back exactly as they’d been found. There turned out to be fourteen presents with the majority going to Starsky, then one each for their assorted close friends.

“I knew you had it in you, ya big softie,” Starsky mumbled, thinking of his sleeping partner. Now anxious to get to sleep so Christmas morning would come faster, he quickly emptied his own bag of gifts and added them to the pile under the tree.

As he carefully placed the last present he chuckled to himself. The package contained a pocket knife that closely resembled one Hutch had asked for, and was forbidden to have, as a child. In that spirit, Starsky had made the tag out “To: Kenny, From: Santa”.

Pleased with himself, Starsky turned off the lamp beside the couch and settled in to sleep. Thinking about Hutch’s imaginary encounter with Santa, and the gift tag on the pocket knife, Starsky found himself laughing quietly to himself, content in the knowledge that the next morning would bring a big surprise.

As he drifted off to sleep, he missed a chuckle and a soft ‘Ho Ho Ho’ from somewhere outside.

A big surprise indeed.