The Only Gift

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Hutch wants to give Starsky a Christmas filled with presents. Fate has other ideas. Sometimes clouds really do have silver linings.

This story was originally posted at the Love of Me and Thee list in December 2006 as part of the Secret Santa program.

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“Hutch!”

Seven months and nine days after Hutch’s world had threatened to shatter at the sound of bullet-cracked glass, he still felt a tingle along every nerve ending when that voice called his name. Hurrying down the half-staircase to their home’s middle level, he found his best friend in the kitchen. Starsky held a ratty brown bag by one corner like forensic evidence.

“Yeah?”

Starsky jumped and swiveled from the counter, but he didn’t drop the bag. “Jesus. Didn’t mean you had to teleport yourself. You could’ve finished brushing your teeth.”

Hutch looked down at the toothbrush he clutched. Moisture dripped from the bristles, a glop of toothpaste just seconds from falling to the top of his right boot. He shoved the brush in the corner of his mouth and talked out the other side. “What you need?”

“What’s this?” Starsky dangled the bag.

Enjoying Starsky’s Christmas splendor, Hutch had no eyes for a bag. Dark jeans and red cable sweater hugged Starsky’s toned physique, and the Santa hat smushed down over his hair accentuated his youthful cheer, warming Hutch’s heart all the way across the room.

“Hutch?” Starsky raised the bag to Hutch’s eye level and wagged it up and down.

“Oh. That’s my lunch bag.”

“Disposable lunch bag, right? How many times have you used this bag?”

Hutch crossed the room and seized the damning evidence from Starsky’s fingers. “Several. What of it?”

“More than several, I think. That bag looks like the one Hoffa carried his last sandwich in, partner. Yesterday morning I caught you trying to recycle coffee grounds. I once knew a girl who reused tea bags, but I draw the line at coffee grounds.”

“What’s wrong with a little conservation?”

“Oh, nothing,” Starsky said with a little smile that verged on mocking. “I mean, South America being so close to runnin’ out of coffee beans and all.”

“Well, trees aren’t an unlimited natural resource,” Hutch argued. He opened the cabinet where he kept his nonperishable lunch items and shoved the bag into the farthest recess. “You know how I feel about the environment.”

“Sure. But I don’t buy that excuse when you drive a clunker that gets worse gas mileage than a RV with a hole in the tank.”

“Starsky, don’t start on that this morning.”

“Hey, easy.” The tender voice preceded Starsky’s warm hands on Hutch’s shoulders. In that light but electric grasp, Hutch pivoted to face a softly laughing and shamelessly gorgeous man. “I know we’ve been tightening our belts to make ends meet, and we sunk our savings accounts in getting this place, but if we’re so hard up you gotta use a lunch bag fifty times, I need to talk with Dobey about joining you on desk patrol for the rest of my leave to bring in more green.”

“And give up your volunteer work at the Mission? We balance the books together, Starsk, so you know we’re all right. Not comfortable, and maybe there’s a little more red than black on the ledger, but we’ll be fine until your reinstatement date in February.”

“You’re tellin’ me you just fell in love with that bag and can’t dump it?”

Hutch groaned, nearly gagging on the toothbrush still jammed in his mouth. He yanked open the cabinet. Retrieving the brown paper culprit, he ripped it in two and tossed the pieces over his shoulder. “There. Enough about the bag. I have to finish getting ready.” He almost sucked the toothbrush down his throat when Starsky gently swiped a forefinger at the other corner of his mouth and held up a toothpaste-soiled finger pad.

“Lookin’ all Christmassy, Hutch.”

A green sweater over a navy button-up with his old tan cords did not signify holiday attire to Hutch, but he didn’t argue. “If I have to hold down a desk at Metro on Christmas Eve, I might as well decorate it.”

Starsky gave him a tilted-head grin, too kissable for Hutch to focus on for more than a few seconds. “Gonna swallow all that toothpaste?”

“What?”

“Holding the toothbrush in your mouth like that. Surprised you’re not drooling.”

“I’m orally talented.” Unable to herd the words back inside his mouth like runaway sheep, Hutch turned and dashed out of the kitchen, followed up the stairs by loud laughter.

They left the house together each morning, a new tradition unbroken in the face of temporarily separate destinations. Another new tradition initiated by Starsky meant even more to Hutch. Before they descended into their respective cars, Starsky hooked his strong left arm over Hutch’s right shoulder, drawing him in tight. Hutch occasionally dared to cover the back of the curly head with his palm. They didn’t discuss the habit or what it might convey to any onlooker. Onlookers were few and far between on the outskirts of the Bay City agricultural belt, but Hutch had a feeling Starsky wouldn’t care if the embrace took place in the middle of a crowded department store.

“See you at the Pits for lunch,” Starsky said, pulling out of the morning hug.

“Where’s Huggy’s gift?”

“Already in my car.”

Hutch watched Starsky slide into the driver seat and listened for the crank and grumble of engine. After the Torino reached the end of their drive and then turned on to the main road, Hutch opened his trunk for a peek at the real reason he had cut corners over the last several weeks. Every nickel and dime saved had gone into a shopping bag full of brightly gift-wrapped boxes ranging from small and thin to large and bulky. Having once underestimated Starsky’s need for tangible holiday cheer, Hutch had made up for lost time and opportunities on this most special of years. With a final pat to the topmost present in the bag, he slammed the trunk shut and stood back in admiration of the vehicle. Even its purchase had contributed to the tiny surplus of funds Hutch set aside for the “Make Starsky’s Christmas Bright” project. He could still remember Starsky’s astonishment when he arrived home one autumn evening in the ancient Ford.

******

“What is that?”

“That’s my new car. Huggy set me up with a seller. I can’t keep driving borrowed Huggy hand-me-downs and I can’t possibly afford a new car right now.”

“Hutch, it’s split-pea-puke color, and it’s thirteen years old if a day.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a ’66.”

“It’s a mistreated ’66 Custom 500, is what it is. Back in the day 500s rocked the roadways, but some uncouth so-and-so reduced this one to a granny car. Granted, it’s a step up from a toy-kit convertible with an umbrella for a roof. Do I even want to know the mileage on her?”

“Nope.”

“Do you even know how many previous owners she’s had?”

“No, but unlike a certain watch Huggy sold you, this little baby is as cool as a Minnesota breeze. And I got her for what some kids spend on a designer lunchbox.”

“Hutch, what you know about cars could fit in a lunchbox. If this chariot has more than 40K on her, she probably guzzles gas.”

“Okay, Starsky, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll admit I’m no automotive genius. I prefer horses to cars. I wouldn’t have minded being a lawman back when they rode pintos that weren’t manufactured by Ford.”

“Well, Marshall Hutchinson, one thing I’ll say for this relic. You could leave it unlocked in a back alley off Sixth Street overnight and it’d still be there the next morning, ’cause no respectable car thief would be caught dead in it.”

******

Starsky had been right about the gas, but unexpectedly low maintenance had balanced the scales, and the car’s trunk was the one place Hutch could safely hide Starsky’s holiday mother lode without his favorite curious detective nosing around for some gift-rattling. And when Starsky woke Christmas morning to a sizable pile of goodies under their den’s lavishly decorated fir, he wouldn’t say another word about overused lunch bags, recycled coffee grounds, or split-pea-puke-colored cars.

******

“I’m stuffed.” Starsky smothered a burp in his napkin.

Huggy inspected his new leather-banded fedora. “Thanks, gents. Your enjoyment of my cuisine and this vintage addition to my wardrobe remind me of the reason for the season.”

“Which would be?” Hutch asked, curious to hear Huggy’s spin on the traditional answer.

“Among other things, keeping tight with the folks you tight with.”

Huggy’s reason for the season had his lunch guests sharing a look filled with relief that their bond with the Bear had survived Lionel’s death and promised to make a full recovery. Hutch held up his gag gift: a curved Victorian pipe. “Huggy, I don’t smoke.”

Starsky had exchanged his Santa hat for the authentic houndstooth cap he’d pulled out of his gift bag. “Nice fit, don’t you think?”

“You’re missing the symbolism, Hutchinson,” Huggy scolded. “In your famous partnership, there ain’t no Watson, just two halves of a Holmes.”

Starsky moaned and clutched his stomach. “Geez, Hug, give a guy some warning before you let loose with ones like that.”

Hutch stuck the pipe in his mouth and pretended to puff. “I like it.”

Starsky’s ear-to-ear smirk could never have graced the taciturn Holmes. “It’s been great, Huggy, but time for me to split. The next wave of hungry folks will be hitting the Mission and they’ll need all the servers to keep up. Still able to lend a hand, Hutch?”

“You bet. I asked for a half day and Dobey didn’t even grumble. I’m thinking we might actually manage peace on Earth this year, too.”

Rising from his chair, Starsky situated his Santa hat on top of his Sherlock cap. “I’m out front. Meet you at the North Star.”

Engrossed in watching Starsky’s departure, Hutch didn’t realize Huggy was talking to him until lean brown fingers toggled his pipe. “What?”

“I asked if you two turkeys got big plans for tomorrow.”

Hutch set the fedora on Huggy’s head at a jaunty angle. “You could say that. Starsky doesn’t know it yet, but Santa’s been very good to him this year.” He slipped the English sleuth’s pipe into his right pocket and whistled all the way to the back door. His whistle died in the crisp December air.

No car.

He walked the length of the alley in vain. He closed his eyes. He rubbed his forehead like a fleshy Aladdin’s lamp and opened his eyes again.

No car.

The bar’s metal back door slammed against the brickwork. Huggy was waving for him. “Hutch! Dobey’s on the phone for you with a question about some case file.”

“My car’s been stolen!” Hutch yelled, striding over with fists clenched at his side. “My car…has been stolen…from your alley!”

Huggy stared. Then, in some odd display of mourning on behalf of Hutch’s loyalty to ill-fated Fords, he removed his fedora and held it against his chest, bowing his head. “Man, I don’t know what to say. I know you loved that car.”

“It’s not the car I’m worried about. It’s–” No presents. No money to replace them. Starsky’s understanding-but-disappointed face on Christmas morning. Hutch fantasized several horrible fates befalling the Ford rustler who had driven away with Starsky’s holiday happiness. “It’s what’s in the trunk.”

“Hutch, if you tell me there’re fifty sticks of dynamite in that trunk, I’m gonna check us both into the Laughing Academy before you can say ‘Have a holly, jolly Christmas.'”

******

Hutch couldn’t walk into the North Star mission without a painful twinge from the uncomfortable memory of wasted hours in hiding under the guise of a homeless wino. Familiar strains of harmonica lured him to the dining area where a quartet of old men flanked the harmonica player and lifted their voices in a striking rendition of “Deck the Halls.” A scruffy sheep dog lazed at the musician’s feet, the eldest singer’s shoulder provided a perch for an enormous calico cat, and the furry guests were making the event an interspecies sing-along. Amazingly, the hungry patrons bellied up to the tables were more intent on the concert than their trays of holiday fixings.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly!” harmonized the quartet.

“Reowwww!” screeched the cat.

“Fa-la-la-la-la…la-la-la-la!”

“Bowwowooo!” howled the dog.

“‘Tis the season to be jolly!”

“Reowww…Bowowoooo!”

Apparently hating the sound of their voices in unison, the dog barked ominously at his feline rival, prompting the cat to hiss and streak down from its lofty perch. The surprised sheep dog lumbered away too slowly to avoid the cat spitting and swiping right behind him. When the singers stumbled over each other trying to reach the combatants, Hutch had to join in the laughter spreading around the room.

An irate voice boomed from the kitchen doorway, “If you can’t control those animals, get them out of here!”

Hutch assumed the gangly, balding man was the Mission’s director. He docked the man’s Christmas cheer points for not even bothering with fake padding under the traditional Santa suit that hung off his lanky form and made him look like an anorexic St. Nicholas in need of a hair transplant. Another man emerged from the kitchen, and with just a Santa hat askew on his head, he exuded three times the holiday spirit. Jumping into the great animal round-up, Starsky wrestled the massive calico into his arms, obviously preferring a hungry crocodile, but he ducked every slash of the cat’s paw and handed the dangerous armful over to its elderly owner.

The director was still fuming, ordering the men to take the animals outside. Starsky headed him off with a firm grip on both of his shoulders. “Hey, Louis, come on. Calm down, willya? It’s Christmas. These guys’ve got nothing but their friends, and that includes Catzilla over there. This is the North Star, not the Ritz, so give ’em a break?” Starsky addressed the room at large. “Anybody got a problem sharing space with a couple of four-legged friends on Christmas Eve?”

A loud chorus of “No” silenced Louis. The gaunt Santa stalked back to the kitchen, and a round of applause startled both animals, nearly triggering a renewed battle. Starsky waved off the applause with a wag of his Santa hat, and Hutch caught his breath sharply when the animal rights activist turned and spotted him. He felt his inner being clench tightly around the special love within his heart.

Starsky hurried to him with a smile that equaled outstretched arms and left Hutch breathless again. “What took you so long?”

Enjoying the feel of Starsky’s arm around his shoulders, Hutch let himself be guided toward the kitchen. “I had to get a ride over here with Huggy.”

“Don’t tell me your clunker has it in for Christmas and chose to die in Huggy’s alley.”

“No, but I hope she leaves the asshole that took her by the side of the road, or better yet, on the shoulder of the freeway at rush hour!” They cut through the line already forming at the head of the serving tables, and Starsky pulled him into a corner, quieter if by no means private. Starsky’s face was a picture of automotive grief Hutch would not have expected to see short of the Torino’s demise. “Come on, Starsky, no crocodile tears. I’ve caught you giving my car Houdini looks trying to figure out how to make her disappear.”

Starsky didn’t laugh. He frowned instead, and Hutch knew his quirky sense of humor had backfired. “I might not get off on granny cars, but I know you liked the old girl, and whenever you like something, I wanna see you hang on to it as long as possible. Damn sure don’t like the thought of someone stealing it out from under you.”

Hutch reached for Starsky’s hands and gave them a quick squeeze. “Starsk, I’ll get over the car. It’s–”

“It’s what?” Starsky’s gaze drifted slowly from Hutch’s eyes down to his own captured hands and then back up again. “What?”

“Nothing. Let’s put some Merry in Christmas since Louis isn’t up to the challenge.”

“He’s usually a great guy, but–” Starsky glanced at the open kitchen doorway and lowered his voice. “His wife left him this morning. Can you imagine that? On Christmas Eve. Poor guy showed up here without his Santa hat, wig, or beard. I tried to get him to wear my hat, but no dice. This place is full of people who don’t have what they really need in life, y’know? Makes me real glad to be me. Everything I need in life is standing right here with an antique pipe about to fall out of his pocket.”

Hutch could only stare into space with his mouth uselessly open until Starsky rescued the pipe and jammed it between his parted lips.

With his pipe safely tucked away again, Hutch had the privilege of a serving post right beside Starsky, but he worked on autopilot, muttering “Ham or turkey?” to each person that passed.

He was the worst kind of fool.

In years past, Starsky started burning Hutch’s ears off with a wish list recitation as soon as the first day of December dawned, but this year there had been no verbal catalog. Hutch had prided himself on picking out the ideal Starsky treats, stupidly missing the significance of having to come up with his own ideas. This was a man who had cheated death, who worked everyday with people two meals removed from starvation. A fun-loving boy still lived in Starsky’s eyes and generous heart, but the man Starsky had become wouldn’t think Christmas a disaster if no gift boxes appeared under the tree.

The quartet struck up another carol, accompanied by the maestro of the mouth organ. Always sensitive to his partner’s eyes on him, Hutch turned his head to the magic of a Starsky smile he had never seen.

The smile of a man who has everything.

What could Hutch give the man who had everything?

Deeper truth seemed to freeze all action and sound in the room, leaving Hutch acutely aware of his own heartbeat.

Starsky hugged him every morning, as constant as the sun’s eastern rising.

Starsky worried over him having to use a lunch bag too many times.

Starsky lived with him.

Starsky loved him.

He felt an insistent tug on his sweater sleeve. “Zebra Three. Calling Zebra Three.”

Hutch emerged from his trance. The waif pointing frantically at the slices of turkey breast was clearly too shy to question his sanity out loud, but her wide eyes were eloquent on the subject. He forked two generous pieces onto her plate and beamed his best Christmas smile at her. She blushed and lowered her eyes, stammering something in response before moving on to the vegetable selections. Starsky laughed out loud.

Hutch didn’t care if the joke was on him.

He knew what to give Starsky for Christmas.

******

Hutch tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position on his side. Their den suffered from shocking lime shag carpeting that they planned to rip up as soon as they had spare funds, but even thick carpet couldn’t hold off the coming battle between the floor and his protesting back. He felt ridiculous stretched out under their Christmas tree in his orange terry robe, but pride had no place in his plans for Starsky.

Footsteps on the stairs gave him little warning. Starsky appeared in the doorway, stretching his right arm toward the ceiling as he gave a cavernous yawn and scratched at his chest through the opening in his blue robe. Watching his partner struggle for more than basic consciousness, Hutch cursed himself for starting this adventure before he’d plied Starsky with at least two cups of good coffee. He finger-combed and smoothed his hair and scratched worriedly at his mustache. Maybe he should have made this a clean-shaven Christmas morning. Nothing like that strip of hair to throw Starsky right into the deep end of a new reality. Was that a mixed metaphor? Hutch shook his head in silent argument with himself. He was the one in dire need of coffee if he could only think of mustaches and metaphors when Fate waited six feet away, and he had no guarantee he’d get kissed if he dangled a carload of mistletoe over their heads.

With gruff laughter, fate closed the distance, and Starsky was standing over him, hands on his hips, eyes twinkling. “Sleeping under the tree waiting for Santa, roomie?”

“Merry Christmas, Starsk.”

Starsky sat down cross-legged on the floor and squeezed Hutch’s raised shoulder. “Merry Christmas. Since you’re out here so excited’n’all, why don’t you open the first present?”

Excited? Hardly. Suddenly Hutch’s nerves were plotting a tunneled escape through the floor to the Australian Outback, and the arousal fueled by early morning fantasies gave way to embarrassing shrinkage. “You–uh–you want coffee first?”

“Christmas is the one morning I can function without java.”

“Okay. Then I’d like you to have the first present.”

Starsky held out his hand, palm up. “All right, buddy boy, hand it over.”

“What?”

“The certificate telling me a species of rainforest tree frog has been named in my honor.”

Hutch burst out laughing in spite of his nerves. “That’s something I should look into for next year, but nope, you’re not even warm.”

“A certificate of membership at your gym? I need it after all those Hanukkah meals. You realize we need to take out a second mortgage to pay the phone bill.”

For his back’s sake, Hutch sat up to stretch out the kinks. “I only called your mother three times. Pretty amazing considering the learning curve on some of those traditional recipes. I’m a fairly decent cook, but do I look like a sixty-year-old Jewish woman to you?”

Starsky feigned cringing horror. “God, I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

Hutch delivered a light thwack to the back of Starsky’s head. “You’re still off by a mile. Ready to admit you’re stumped?”

Starsky shrugged. “Yeah, where is it, this mystery present?”

“You’re looking at it.”

Starsky’s lips thinned in his closed-mouth seriousness. The few seconds Hutch suffered under the deadly still scrutiny seemed stretched to an hour. Starsky’s eyes zeroed in on Hutch’s mouth but seemed to be concentrating above the lip line. Oh, God. Was the mustache a problem after all?

“Starsk, I should’ve–” He fell silent when a tender fingertip pressed against his lips.

“Shh. Later, Hutch. We can talk about all the ‘could haves’ and ‘should haves’ later.”

“No, I–”

The fingertip pressed harder. “And anything else to do with the real world we gotta live in can wait, too.”

“Yes, fine, but–”

“Hush. You gave me the most important present in the free world, and I wanna open it.”

Hutch pushed the fingertip away. “I was trying to say, I should’ve shaved. Don’t tell me to hush, motor mouth. I’ve been lying here since the crack of dawn fantasizing things about you that should’ve turned this tree red, and my only concern was whether you could get past my mustache. Do I have to tape mistletoe to my forehead or get you drunk on eggnog that has more nog than egg in it?”

Laughing, Starsky pulled Hutch to his feet and into the warm comfort of their typical morning hug. Hutch gladly encircled Starsky’s shoulders and carded through sleep-tousled hair. The familiar caress triggered a new response in his partner. Starsky leaned back in the embrace and gave Hutch one more serious stare before he closed his eyes, offering a sweet, pursed lip smile and barely perceptible nod. Awkward nose bumping didn’t discourage them. One touch of parted lips, a shared breath, and they were kissing with the passion of lovers fated to permanent separation after one final minute together. With luck and teamwork they navigated the passage between armchair and coffee table to Starsky’s old couch, and collapsed in a tangle of arms, hands, and mouths.

Struggling with the knotted terry belt keeping him from the most intimate delights of Starsky’s body, Hutch sympathized with any fourteenth-century lover confronted by an iron chastity belt. Starsky was ahead in the race, and Hutch wasn’t sure how. He had no memory of lifting his hips to aid Starsky in pulling his robe free, but an orange blur flying through the air over the back of the couch proved his memory faulty or Starsky even more talented at getting romantic partners naked than Hutch imagined. With no warning, some internal Hutchinson emergency braking system kicked into gear.

He was one pesky belt knot away from sex with Starsky.

Overwhelmed, Hutch jumped to his feet and tried to maneuver a few steps away from the couch for the cool-headedness to be found in distance, but with long legs, a raw case of jitters, and tight space all working against him, he promptly tumbled backward over the coffee table, landing flat on his back with his calves still draped over the table’s collection of Sports Illustrated, Popular Photography, and National Geographic.

Starsky left the couch to lean over the coffee table. “You okay?”

Hutch glared up at him. “I’m fine. Humiliated, but fine.”

“Then you wanna tell me what I was doin’ that you disliked enough to throw yourself over our furniture?” Starsky sounded more curious than panicked.

“We got kind of rushed, and–”

“Rushed? Weren’t you the guy threatening to get me drunk if I didn’t kiss you right that second? Hutch, look at me.” Starsky’s expression was incredibly tender, the fruition of all the soft looks he had given his best friend in times of trouble, need, or trust. Hutch’s chest seized, and he wondered if intense masculine beauty could stop the human heart. “I thought your only concern was the mustache? Let me in on what’s really goin’ down?”

“Starsky, one afternoon in June at County Hospital, I looked in the bathroom mirror and for the first time I knew–really knew–the man staring back at me was crazy in love with you. First day in a month of Sundays I smiled at my reflection. Loving you made that man worth smiling at. I’ve been letting my head get in the way of my heart ever since.”

“I know. I’ve been watching you do battle with yourself. Felt so damned helpless.”

“And right now, if you don’t stop me, I’ll let it happen again. Please stop me. I love you, but I need backup here.” He opened his eyes to see how his stark truth was received.

With a blazing smile, Starsky fumbled with his belt knot and wiggled out of the robe, issuing an invitation with his arms and an impressive hard-on flushed with impatient need. “Backup? What are partners for if not backup? Get off the carpet before your allergies crank up, and let’s finish what we started. You’re driving me crazy down there.”

Hutch lifted himself in a sit-up, clasped Starsky’s offered hands; after a tug-of-war with gravity, he ended up on the couch and in his naked partner’s arms. Their kisses grew clumsier, hands suddenly more important than mouths. It was enough for Hutch to stare into Starsky’s eyes between kisses while touched so intimately, and he could tell his novice command of Starsky’s erection was having the same effect. Though little more than glorified petting, the act meant everything adult and significant, sex with the love of his life, his other half, the houndstooth cap to his pipe.

Speeding his rhythmic stroke-and-pull on Starsky’s cock, Hutch looked down and watched his partner work him with that agile left hand, so assured with Hutch’s flesh. Starsky’s right hand slid up Hutch’s neck and into his hair in a familiar brushing of fingers on the scalp that finished him. Hutch panted through the first warning jerks of orgasm and gave all of himself, shaking, shuddering, watching Starsky watch the bursts of fluid and trembling at Starsky’s erotic groan each time a burst fell to splatter on his hand. Soon after, Starsky tensed in the sheltering circle of Hutch’s left arm, and Hutch loosened his grip to an up-and-down glide, catching skin in a teasing hit-and-miss with each down stroke. Erratic movement shook Starsky from hips to shoulders, and he threw his head back, gasping for air, “Hu-u-u-t-ch!”

Hearing his name in the new tone of Starsky’s voice, Hutch felt his innermost needs and reality slip into proper alignment. Starsky was coming, in Hutch’s hand, under his power, and Starsky’s loving arms wrapped around him. The bells of a local church rang clear, summoning the faithful to special Christmas services, and Hutch thought it appropriate background music to the miracle happening on their couch.

******

“Ready for your presents now?”

Hutch stirred from his half-doze in Starsky’s arms and stretched. They were still wrapped around each other on the couch. He smiled. “Don’t need them. You just took care of Christmas, Valentine’s, and my next birthday.”

Starsky nuzzled the top of his head. “Smooth talkin’ devil like you could get me in serious trouble, mister.”

They shared a lingering first-kiss-after-the-first-time that Hutch ended only because he needed eye contact. “What were you looking for?”

“Hnh?” Starsky blinked at him, adorably sleepy-eyed.

“When I told you I was your present. You stared at me.”

Starsky yawned. “Trying to see if you really wanted this or just offering it ’cause you knew how much I wanted it.”

“What convinced you I wanted it too?”

Starsky laughed then. “You were so nervous your mustache was twitching. You can give me that know-it-all sniff if you want to, but it’s true. When you’re really nervous, your mustache twitches right here.” He scratched lightly in the corners of Hutch’s mouth.

“So that’s why your x-ray peepers were burning a hole in my upper lip.” Hutch rubbed his thumb over the evidence of mustache “burn” around Starsky’s mouth. “Now that you’ve gotten a taste of it, you want me to lose the mustache?”

Starsky answered first by kissing each corner of Hutch’s mouth, soothing an itch left by his fingernail. “Not unless you want to. I’m in love with a man and liking it. Took me a lifetime to get here. Kinda nice having a reminder every time you put your mouth on me. Already been daydreaming how those whiskers might feel on certain other parts of me.”

“Guess I’ll keep the whiskers.” Hutch chuckled. “At least until the novelty wears off.”

“Hutch, maybe I’m talking like a corny fairy tale, but there ain’t a damned thing about loving you that’s gonna lose the novelty for me. Now it’s time for me to play Santa.”

“Before you start doling out gifts, I have a confession to make.”

“Must be huge if you’re hitting me with it after the best orgasm so far in my young life.”

“Really?” Hutch asked, temporarily distracted by the compliment.

Starsky winked at him. “Felt like I was coming all the way from my toes insteada my balls. Hell, you made the bells of that St. Whozit’s church ring three miles away. Trust you to be more creative than just making the earth move.”

“Nice thought, but I didn’t have anything to do with the bells, Starsky.”

“Couldn’t prove it by me. What’s your big confession?”

Hutch told him about the bag of presents in the Ford’s trunk. “If I hadn’t been so focused on correcting my past mistakes, I would’ve realized you’re not the same person you were three years ago. Should’ve seen that you weren’t looking for material gifts this year.”

Starsky petted through Hutch’s hair. “Are you sayin’ if you’d still had those presents to stash under the tree, we wouldn’t be sitting here naked and sticky right now?”

Hutch locked eyes with him. “I don’t know. It was inevitable. If not now, then soon. I was ready. But sometimes even when I’m ready for something, I need one little extra nudge.”

“Then I owe some car thief one big debt of gratitude. I’m thinking Jolly Old St. Nick made off with your car, baby, ’cause I got exactly what I wanted for Christmas.”

Hutch kissed him.