The Calendar

A recuperating Starsky plans his next calendar year.

Episode related: Sweet Revenge

It was boring just laying here on the sofa trying to not look bored. Frustrating, boring, humiliating and downright embarrassing to be so dependent.

As Hutch emerged from the bedroom ready for work, he put on his brave I’m O.K. face, and sent him off with a smile and a promise to be good.

Ha! What choice did he have? Barely able to negotiate between rooms in his own apartment, and, with stringent warnings from doctors, nurses, therapists, and Hutch, he didn’t dare try anything.

But he was bored.

He “rested” his eyes for a few minutes and was roused by a wild rhythmic drumming on his door announcing Huggy’s twice weekly visit, bringing an assortment of kooky “let’s keep Starsky from committing mayhem” goodies guaranteed to keep him happy for an hour or two.

Today’s stash included a pellet gun, the targets decorated with photos that would give him great pleasure taking pot shots at; another book of weird and wonderful facts; a really erotic calendar of the kind he used to see in some of the garages in New York when he went with his dad; a new copy of the lost manual for the Torino that Merle had sent; a magic rings-type puzzle, and most importantly, the Starsky special for lunch.

Replete with a great lunch, he thumbed through the book, stopping at a section that detailed the various holidays celebrated throughout the world. Idly he thought that, with a little planning, he and Hutch could probably have most of the year off celebrating holidays.

Intrigued, he settled himself comfortably, and with pen in hand grabbed up the calendar and started filling in the blanks.

He filled in their birthdays, those of their closest friends and family, and then spent an unknown amount of time adding the various international holidays. With lots of blanks left, he began adding ‘special’ holidays, not even registering that he completely ignored the photo contents of the calendar.

He was very pleased with himself, and before drifting gently off to sleep, was scheming on how to get Dobey to agree.

Hutch entered the apartment only an hour later than usual and was pleased to see Starsky propped up on the sofa sound asleep, a book tucked in beside him and his hand drooped down over the side of the sofa, a pen and calendar lying on the floor.

He quietly went about ridding himself of his jacket, holster, and shoes before heading for the kitchen where he retrieved a frozen casserole and popped it in the oven.

Grabbing a beer he returned to the living room, silently assessing his sleeping partner, who rested comfortably without pain or disturbing dreams, his still gaunt face appearing relaxed. Huggy’s lunch special was still decorating the coffee table with only a small amount left, which was another good sign. It appeared that Starsky had kept himself entertained today, which pleased Hutch.

Keeping Starsky from going off the rails was a constant chore, which pained Hutch in a way that surprised and overwhelmed him at times.

The calendar drew his attention. He retrieved it and began flipping through it, giving just a mildly disgusted grunt at its contents, which he then ignored.

However, he noted Starsky’s scribbling and settled himself in a chair to see what had kept his partner entertained. Slowly it began to make sense, as he connected the birthdays carefully noted, to some of the holidays he recognized, and then grinned to himself as he caught Starsky’s intent.

Then he began to note the unscheduled holiday entries: ‘Thank Hutch’; ‘Hutch dinner’; ‘Get Hutch new record’; ‘Hutch Day at beach ‘; ‘Tell Hutch’; ‘Week off for Hutch’; ‘Date Hutch’. All of the ‘Hutch’ days had little hearts.

Very slowly, warmth that ignited his long burning ember of love and desire began to work its way into his heart and soul, and he seemed to form a puddle right where he sat.

“Hey, that’s mine,” said a slightly sleepy voice.

Still warm with hope and new knowledge, Hutch rose slowly, the calendar held securely, and settled a hip on the sofa beside Starsky, a hand reaching out to gently card through the dark curls.

“No partner, it’s mine.”