Matches

Starsky finds that there was more to Hutch’s present than it first appeared – an extended episode tag for Little Girl Lost.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2022 zine.

This contains passing references to characters and/or events from the pilot episode, Lady Blue, The Las Vegas Strangler, Gillian, The Specialist, Tap Dancing…, Vendetta, Iron Mike, Death in a Different Place.

“A tree, huh?”

Starsky turned the gift card over in his hand just in case a different message had appeared by magic on the other side. Nope. No joy. He rustled the tissue paper in the box once more for good measure, his arm jostling against Hutch who was still sitting close enough on Kiko’s mom’s couch that he got a crick in his neck just looking at him.

“Yeah, Starsk, a tree has been planted in your name. Stars-tree-ky. Nice, huh?”

Starsky reminded himself that he was a responsible adult in polite company (or at least the partner of an adult who had been foolishly judged responsible enough to be a Big Brother) and bit back his preferred reply of “Ha fuckin’ ha.”

Instead he sat there in his funky new top — at least Huggy still had good taste in Christmas gifts — with a cushion held tight against his belly to quell the ache of disappointment that had followed in the wake of the brief heady rush of delight that Hutch had a gift for him after all. Tripped up again by his stupid heart’s unquenchable optimism that Hutch could be persuaded to share in the many small joys the universe had to offer, from coffee-and-a-Danish to oh, other things.

“Have I ever?” “No, but I keep hopin’!”

Turning away from Hutch and his teasing smugness, Starsky squirmed as he saw the amused faces of Kiko, Mrs. Ramos, and officially-responsible-adult, social worker and occasional date, Wendy Perkowitz — all of whom, judging by their expressions, had been in on Hutch’s choice of gift and were highly entertained by Starsky’s reaction.

“Star-tree!” chimed Kiko, who sat sprawled on the floor by the coffee table, leaving the couch and chairs to the guests like the good kid he was.

Starsky scowled. “You two are a laugh a minute, aintcha?”

Kiko grinned, probably figuring it was all fair game since he and Starsky had coordinated their gifts for Hutch into a one-two punch of ant farm and Venus flytrap. Now Hutch, ant farm in hand, was happily tutoring Kiko in the fine arts of Starsky-baiting and very lame jokes.

Mrs. Ramos laughed and headed for the kitchen, dismissing their nonsense with a wave of her hand. “Let’s fix some drinks, Ms. Perkowitz. We can talk some more about the forms for Pete— ah, Molly, no?”

Pete would surely have had a wise-cracking response when Starsky unwrapped the tree-planted-in-your-name, but Starsky had been spared that indignity since Pete was still in the bathroom trying on her new dress, another left-field choice of gift. When he and Hutch had taken Pete dress shopping they’d wound up in the Army Surplus store, so Starsky guessed this dress would probably put her about as far off-center as he felt right now. But hey, they could play along. Christmas could be pretty weird sometimes.

It had been a weird few days all around since he and Hutch had somehow ended up as temporary foster parents to this fierce, shoplifting nearly-teenager who, thanks to them, was now the proud owner of diminutive army fatigues to go with her no-longer-diamond-filled baseball glove. It gave Starsky a warm feeling that Hutch had stood up when Kiko needed another adult in his corner and now, if the all-powerful They approved, Mrs. Ramos and Kiko hoped to be a foster family to Pete here in this festive, welcoming little house where they’d won her trust by using her chosen name, hemming her chosen clothes, and feeding her homemade tortillas after her father’s sudden death.

It made Starsky think of the people who’d stepped up for him all those years ago — Aunt Rosie, Uncle Al, John Blaine. All still in his life today. He knew first-hand the difference it would make to Pete if the arrangement worked out. It would give Hutch and Starsky a place in her life too, with their plans for trips to the zoo and the movies — or the fights, as Hutch had wryly suggested.

Starsky sneaked a glance across at Hutch, who had moved on to cheerfully threatening Kiko with the Venus flytrap plant. The discovery during these chaotic few days with Pete that he and Hutch tag-teamed as easily in parenting as in everything else had a buzz to it that Starsky was choosing not to examine too closely. Never mind that Hutch’s “we can’t keep her with us all the time” and “I’m hardly ever there” had set off potentially-significant-in-future signals in Starsky’s brain that he wasn’t prepared to think about for years yet, if at all. Maybe it had to do with getting a dog one day or something.

Then there was the added weirdness of Hutch’s newfound conviction that the entire Christmas season was a conspiracy dreamed up by the Better Business Bureau. Starsky could kinda understand Hutch’s new distrust of the festive powers-that-be, under the circumstances. They’d had a seriously rough few months as one person or institution after another had been revealed to be not what they seemed. Certainties demolished, safe havens breached. Blackmail, underhand deals, corrupt authority figures, a vendetta that had left Hutch and his longtime lady injured, the final straw that had caused her to leave him and Bay City both. Once you factored in the deaths of Hutch’s closest boyhood friend and the woman he loved, Hutch’s bitter disenchantment with the world wasn’t so hard to comprehend.

Still, Starsky worried that by rejecting what he saw as empty, hypocritical Christmas traditions, Hutch was also casting out joy, throwing away the proverbial baby with the bathwater. At least he’d grudgingly put up Christmas cards on his piano, after Starsky had opened them on the grounds that half of them included him anyway.

Thing was, right from the early days of their partnership they’d always had some kind of thrown-together Christmas celebration. Gag gifts to begin with from their junk-shop trawls — Starsky was especially proud of the kissing-cherubs statue that now graced Hutch’s coffee table — until eventually Hutch had developed a good eye for Starsky-friendly sweaters and Starsky a good ear for Hutch-friendly LPs.

Starsky’s ostentatious love of all things Christmas had been nourished by their scrappy mutual traditions — trashy holiday specials and old movies on TV accompanied by junk food at first, and then more nutritious Christmas feasts in later years as Hutch seized the rare opportunity to get Starsky to eat vegetables without complaining, while Starsky lobbied in vain for the simple fix of putting marshmallows on vegetable dishes all year round.

Now apparently Hutch’s wheatgerm-and-desiccated-liver philosophy had boiled over into Christmas too, ushering in a new era of gifts that fit Hutch’s good-for-you-and-the-planet-and-in-no-way-benefiting-big-business doctrine.

Which brought Starsky right back to the gift box in his lap filled with nothing but tissue paper. Looking up, he caught a sparkle in Hutch’s eye that suggested he’d missed a vital clue, even if it didn’t provide the location of the new caboose for his train set.

He shook the box. It rattled. Hutch’s eyebrow quirked. Starsky shook it again, scrabbled around beneath the paper, and his fingers closed around a small square of card.

Lifting it up he found he was holding a bright red matchbook. Candy-apple red, even. It looked like the kind they gave away free in bars. Hutch, a man who never threw away anything useful, had quite a collection of them in his kitchen drawer and used them to light the stove, and the oven, and candles when he had them on the table, like that time he’d cooked the Paul Muni Special…

Starsky turned the matchbook over thoughtfully, then looked up to find the mischief in Hutch’s eyes shading over into bravado as he asked, “Well, do you like it?”

Starsky shook the shiny red square in front of his nose. “You’re weird, you know that?”

Hutch was tapping out an anxious rhythm on the arm of the couch. “Go on Starsk, open it.”

“Getting weirder by the minute, Blintz.”

The bathroom door banged and a sarcastic voice declared, “So what’s new? I already told ya that you’re weird, Hutch.”

Pete was back. Still in her fatigues, Starsky noticed. Hutch reached over and pulled her cap down over her eyes, getting a reluctant grin for his troubles.

Kiko jumped up. “How was the dress, Pete?”

Pete shrugged. “OK I guess. Maybe I’ll wear it sometime. What’d I miss?”

She looked pointedly between the box in Starsky’s lap and Hutch’s too-bright eyes.

Kiko gestured to the two of them. “Hutch gave Starsky a tree in a park and a book of matches.”

Pete shrugged. “Last of the big spenders, huh?”

“Hutch wants him to open up the matchbook. Go on, Starsky. Maybe there’s a golden ticket.”

Faced with three pairs of expectant eyes, Starsky took a deep breath and opened the matchbook slowly, expecting it to explode or snakes to leap out or something. When nothing happened, he clutched a hand to his chest in relief and slumped against Hutch, who pushed him back upright while the kids cackled.

Surprise, surprise, the matchbook contained matches, black with red tips, standing in a row. On the inside cover above the matches was a tiny form complete with check box options.

He looked back at Hutch, eyebrows raised quizzically. “You got me miniature paperwork for Christmas?”

Hutch nudged his shoulder. “Go on, read it.”

Starsky lifted the matchbook with a flourish and began to declaim: “You Turn…”

“Not out loud!” Hutch hissed.

“What’s with the cloak and dagger, Hutch? What are we, secret agents now?”

Pete snorted. “In a cartoon, maybe.”

Kiko nudged her. “Living in a closet like Hong Kong Phooey.”

Starsky actually liked Hong Kong Phooey — a mutual girlfriend had teased that Starsky was drawn by Hanna-Barbera while Hutch was a Disney Prince — but now was not the time to bring that up. He looked closer at the matchbook.

The printed message read as follows:

YOU TURN ME ON
with your: eyes [ ] style [ ]
hotpants [ ], and I crave: a
kiss [ ] immediate atten-
tion [ ] your money [ ].

Hutch had checked the boxes for ‘eyes,’ ‘hotpants,’ ‘a kiss’ and ‘immediate attention.’ The boxes for ‘style’ and ‘money’ were conspicuously blank.

The ‘ADDITIONAL MESSAGE,’ in Hutch’s handwriting, read: ‘I told you those cut-offs were dangerous.’

Starsky flipped the cover closed and held the matchbook tightly in his fist. Staring down at the gift box resting on his knees he found that he was grinning. Also that he hoped they hadn’t taken a step back into the gag gifts era. Huh. Time to think like a detective, cartoon or otherwise, and work out what the hell Hutch’s motivation was.

So. This was a promotional prop designed to facilitate easy pick-ups in smoky bars. For Hutch to have picked it up, brought it home, kept it safe and presented it to him stone cold sober in broad daylight, a covert message under the eyes of people they knew, were responsible for — and responsible to — was… something. Brave, possibly. Humorous, maybe. Crossing his fingers for luck, Starsky looked up into Hutch’s face, searching for a clue. He could still laugh it off and keep the status quo intact if—

The tiny pilot-light burning in Hutch’s eyes flared up in a way that had Starsky keeping the box held firmly over his lap.

He cleared his throat and took a chance. “No offense to the tree, but I uh, like this better.”

Hutch’s face lit up. “Well you know, I saw it and I thought of you.”

Pete reached for the matchbook in Starsky’s hands. “What does it say? Bet it’s corny.”

Oh Jesus. His heart kicking up about three gears, Starsky leapt to his feet and held the matchbook above his head. Pete and Kiko started jumping for it and Hutch swooped in, wrapping his arms around Starsky’s waist to hoist him higher and evade their grasping hands.

The laughs and shouts ratcheted up until Mrs. Ramos stepped in. “Kiko! Molly!”

“Uh, sorry, Mom.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Ramos.”

As they broke apart, Wendy Perkowitz called from the kitchen area, “Starsky! Hutch! Are you going to let the women do all the work? What kind of example are you setting? Get over here and dish up the vegetables.”

Starsky exchanged embarrassed glances with Hutch, shoved the matchbook in his pocket and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, grateful for the truce while Mrs. Ramos and Perkowitz took over the couch and relaxed, drinks in hand.

Pausing at the record player to put on a Christmas LP, Hutch crossed nonchalantly to the kitchen and then hustled Starsky over to the far corner, out of sight of the couch.

Giving silent thanks for the cover of the background music, Starsky tapped the matchbook in his pocket and whispered, “So, how long have you had this?”

Hutch shrugged, looking away. “Oh, a while. Saving it for a special occasion. Then I was wrapping up your gift card and feeling kinda empty and I thought, maybe it’s time I got around to telling you what I want for Christmas.” He glanced up at Starsky. “So I put it in the box. Thought you might know enough to look for it.”

“Aww, Hutch. Attacked by euphoric—”

“—sentimentalism. I know. Right between the eyes.”

Starsky made a pistol with his fingers and touched it to the spot between Hutch’s eyebrows. “Pow.” He smiled as Hutch slumped against the cabinet. “You know the tree’s fine, really. It’s just… what I like about your gifts is that usually they’re something you noticed that I want, ’cause you were paying attention, and that gives me a nice feeling about it. And I never said nothin’ about no tree.”

“Thought I was losing my touch, huh?”

“Well, yeah. Thought you hadn’t been paying attention to what I might be wishing for.”

“Or what I might be wishing for.”

Starsky pulled the matchbook from his pocket and opened it again, running his finger over the message.

Hutch nudged his shoulder. “So, whaddya say, Starsk? You gonna light my fire?”

Starsky looked up, affronted. “You don’t crave my style and my money?”

Hutch sighed. “Starsky, if I loved you for your style and money I’d be on to a losing game. Even if the Better Business Bureau would approve of my motivations.”

“Sticking to your principles, huh? This and the tree. You moving to the barter economy?”

“I’d probably starve. I was spectacularly unsuccessful when I tried to bribe Perkowitz with my masculine wiles to keep Pete out of juvie.”

Starsky smothered a grin. “She gave in, though.”

“Yeah, through her own better nature. No thanks to me stroking her arm.”

Mention of Perkowitz had Starsky starting towards the stove. “We should dish up those vegetables. Perky will suspect…”

Hutch stalled him with a hand on his arm. “No rush, I think she’s on to us already. Pretty sure we should thank her for getting us some privacy in the kitchen in the first place.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I reckon she knows the score. Smart lady. Told ya she wasn’t taken in by my charms. Pretty sure she’d already worked out where my interests lie.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “That’s more than I did.”

“Hence the matchbook.”

Starsky consulted the matchbook in question like a miniature clipboard. “So, you got my immediate attention, you don’t want my money… looks like we skipped a stage.”

“We did, huh?”

“Yeah, wise guy, we did. You should know, you checked the boxes. But I can’t kiss you here, there’s no door. They could see us.”

Hutch opened the refrigerator with a flourish. “Got a door right here.”

Starsky snickered. “You gonna kiss me in the fridge, Hutch?”

“You’re the one who’s been singing all week about a winter wonderland.”

With a surreptitious glance towards the seating area, Hutch crowded Starsky down into the cold air of the refrigerator, shielding him from view behind the door. Hutch leaned in, like he was reaching for a jar or something, and his lips found the junction of Starsky’s neck and shoulder. Starsky shivered, tilting his head back against the shelf with a clunk that made the chilled bottles chime. He closed his eyes and went with it, meeting Hutch’s mouth with his own when kisses trailed up his neck, blurring the last traces of the thin line between them. The heat inside their mouths felt scorching in the frigid atmosphere, their breath making clouds of steam when they came up for air. Grabbing a handful of navy wool sweater, Starsky flashed back to bitter East Coast winters, playing at fire-breathing dragons in the cold. He grinned against Hutch’s mouth.

Perkowitz’s voice, alarmingly close, called out, “You need some help in there, boys? Find what you’re looking for?”

Starsky scrambled upright, face flushed, as Hutch emerged from the refrigerator and pushed the door closed behind them, clutching a pitcher of water as an alibi. Clearing his throat, Hutch leaned back against the counter and called, “No that’s fine, Wendy, we uh, got it under control.”

“Yeah, it’s all in hand.” As Starsky leaned up against him to reach a dish on the top shelf he paused, then gazed pointedly down at Hutch’s jeans. “Hey, what’s this here? This for me?”

Hutch looked sheepish and pulled his sweater further down. “Well, Starsk, would you look at that. A tree has been planted in your name.”

Starsky groaned. “Oh, that is going to get old so quickly.”

“Never. You’re gonna be hearing that every single time.”

“Every time, huh?”

“Yeah. Over, and over, and over…”

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

The dinner was delicious and the company was excellent; and if the vegetables were a little over-done and the men who served them a little giddy — well, that was no big surprise. It wasn’t as if anyone minded.

There was a lot to be said for a weird Christmas.

Chapter End notes:

Beta-read by the fabulous garrideb and edited by the wondrous Flamingo — many thanks!