Thanksgiving Day

A stormy night, a power outage, and a grateful Hutch.

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, Code 7 #4, in 1987.

Surrounded by a vast assortment of material, Starsky occupied the middle of the kitchen floor. Ribbons, string, cones, glue, and sprays of glossy dark green leaves were spread over a wide area around him.

He held up several loops of strong wire, experimenting with the shapes they formed. Finally satisfied with the elegant oval he had created, he held on tight to the ends of the wire and reached for the ball of twine. At his first touch, it rolled away. On hands and knees, he headed after it, till pursuit ended in the far corner where it had come to rest. Needing both hands, he laid down the wire, which immediately sprang back into its original shallow curve. String and wire retrieved, he returned to the center of operations and started over again, twisted the wire, knotted the string. Success was imminent as he groped for the scissors and encountered only empty space.

“Hutch! Bring those back here—”

Hutch turned around from the mild prunning to which he was treating the windowsill geraniums. “Give me time—this is a job needs delicacy of touch…” He snipped happily.

“Hutch! Come on, will ya…”

Hutch sighed. “Patience,” he recommended as he put the scissors into Starsky’s outstretched hand. “Here—”

Starsky snipped off the ends of the string and after further time spent admiring achievement-to-date, returned to studying the newspaper instructions spread out on the floor beside him. He held up the now slightly lopsided curves of string and wire, inviting Hutch to share their promise as his partner came over from the window. “Terrific, huh?”

“Stage One,” Hutch commented. “Know how long that took you?”

“You timing me? Why—”

“How’re you going to make all those little suckers stay on that wire?” Hutch broke in, indicating the shiny cones.

“Trust me…” Totally absorbed, the dark head was bent again over the instructions printed in last week’s paper.

“We could always…” But Hutch swallowed the suggestion. True, the stores were full of garlands, but they wouldn’t be the same. He watched Starsky now, smiling as he took in the characteristic focus, the complete concentration, that confidence in his ability to reproduce the classy prototype shown in the supplement.

Outside, the November evening was wild and stormy, the wind that all day had tossed the branches of the cedar near gale force now. But the tempest outside seemed to lend a reassuring emphasis to their own new-found security, threatened too often in this past year. Euphoric sentimentalism might not prove an unacceptable proposition this time, Hutch conceded. The months of hospitalization were a thing of the past… well, as good as, he argued in silent propitiation. He didn’t care if Starsky wanted to make a million garlands—even if progress so far seemed to be represented by a few coils of mangled wire. He watched that dogged progress now.

“Didn’t know you read the ‘Happy Home’ pages,” he remarked.

“You know I read the whole damn paper.”

True. Fast and thorough, that’s my partner. Contentedly, Hutch followed the flowering of the current, creative enthusiasm, while Starsky reached for yet more wire to reinforce the garland’s supporting framework.

Starsky glanced up, searching again for elusive scissors, and was still for a moment, faint smile acknowledging Hutch’s watching eyes.

“Here.” With outstretched foot, Hutch nudged the scissors in the artist’s direction.

“Oh. Yeah… hold this for me?”

“You have to ask?” Hutch knelt on the floor. “Table would be a lot better—”

“Who’s doin’ this? Just put your finger here.”

“Like this? Here?”

“Here. Hold the knot wile I cut this string… only have two hands…” The string was successfully snipped and Starsky sat triumphantly back on his heels. “Look at that!”

Hutc looked. ”It’s beautiful, Starsk,” he confirmed as the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. They stared at one another in the quiet shadows cast by the logs burning in the stove.

“Storm winds. Power failure,” Hutch pronounced authoritatively.

“You ever thought of takin’ up detective work as a career?”

“Better check fuses first,” Hutch decided as he located the flashlight and endorsed the first diagnosis.

“Hey—don’t crush my cones,” Starsky cautioned as crunching sounds heralded his partner’s return to the kitchen. “And mind the—” as Hutch rejoined him at the stove— “glue…” he finished resignedly.

“Forget it,” Hutch advised. ”There’s not a lot you can do in the dark…” His voice trailed off as he heard Starsky’s soft laugh.

”Wanna bet?”

Starsky settled himself more comfortably, head resting against Hutch’s. ”It’s not so dark in here… and this is kinda nice.” They watched the tiny flames within the stove, russet, gold, and saffron, listening to the driving wind and rain outside, enjoying the warmth within as minutes passed.

What did a little thing like the power being out matter, Hutch thought. The past months had helped, at least, to put some things in perspective. Even now, he still found it difficult not to watch Starsky, seeking the visible reassurance of his lover’s life and presence.

Thanksgiving… and soon, Christmas. There might have been no need this year to find rationalizations for escaping the seasonal shopping. That knowledge, this year, would make gifts in themselves of the buying and the choosing. There would be no greater gift this time than to choose the gifts he would watch Starsky receive. The shopping would be no unavoidable chore, but something precious.

This Thanksgiving could have been unbearable… What if…? Hutch shook off the profitless speculations—it didn’t happen that way. He had Starsky right here with him now. And soon there would be the enjoyment of watching his partner get presents. He’d never known anyone with the same flair for doing that.

Starsky sighed, easing discomfort from back and shoulders. “Wonder how long this is going to last?”

”You want a beer?”

“Rather have some hot coffee right now.”

“Cold?”

“It’s okay.” He leaned back, head on Hutch’s shoulder.

Right, Hutch thought. Their old formula… be okay. He remembered the initial euphoria of exchanging hospital for home this past summer. And then the discovery of those uncharted hazards as the first optimism had subsided into the new, tentative, precarious pattern… the recurrent fatigue of those early days… experts always counseling a facile patience. He tightened his clasp around Starsky’s hand, resting warmly in his own. This return to the routine of a room littered with the evidence of Starsky’s latest enthusiasm was a kind of bonus, proving something, demonstrating something that had seemed lost. Proof that Gunther had failed… and we won out… Be okay.

Steadily, at times too slowly still, they were regaining the old sureness, losing the fears, finding answers to the new questions. And in this Thanksgiving season, he knew that the exaltation and the glory were back, enriched even, paradoxically, by the past year’s horrors.

Starsky stirred again, the slight, fugitive flame-light from the stove throwing into chiaroscuro the balanced line of brow and jaw, reflected in the brightness of the eyes.

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to finish this tonight?” he asked, indicating the unfinished garland. “An’ I’d just gotten into it—was really coming along.”

“How about you coming along? Not a lot of future sitting here on the floor.”

Starsky got carefully to his feet and extended a hand for Hutch to follow. “Find a warmer place, huh?”

Slowly, they navigated their way through the familiar apartment. Next to the wide bed Hutch set down the flashlight. Beyond its radius, the room was in darkness, contrasting with the small circle of light.

”You could use some help?” Starsky enquired solicitously as his hands found their way up Hutch’s back beneath the sweater. “Mmm… warm up here…”

”You offering?”

“Yeah… well… I do know my way around some places—even in the dark.” He tugged at the shirt, loosening it, and stroked warm, slow circles over Hutch’s back, holding him close before pulling the thick wool folds over the blond head.

”There you go.” He unsnapped and unzipped the jeans. ”You cold now?” he continued. “This’ll help.” The hands, stroking down frail shoulders to waist, pushed inside the denim to rub warmth there, too, before easing off the jeans and helping Hutch to be rid of shoes and socks.

“Oops—forgot your shirt…” The unbuttoning was steadily executed and the cotton slid to the floor. “Right. Now you’re ready for me to generate some of our own heat. Here—” He turned back the covers and settled Hutch comfortably. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So give me a minute.”

“Take all the time you need.” Hutch smiled across at him in the happiness of his lover restored… part of the magic of this special Thanksgiving. He watched as Starsky slowly discarded the shirt, shedding it at last, and sharing with him the wry grin that accompanied the deprecatory shrug.

“Guess I’ll get faster,” Starsky observed lightly.

”You already did,” Hutch encouraged, and didn’t move to offer assistance as Starsky coped with the rest. Peripherally, he registered Starsky’s unconcern over the already-fading scar tissue… one more signpost on their road back? And then Starsky’s arms were around him and he relaxed into the sense of homecoming this moment never failed to bring. In the entwined closeness, they lay listening to the unabating storm.

“Guess we should settle for being here for a while,” Starsky mentioned matter-of-factly.

“Complaining?”

“You kidding? And me with all that time I have to make up? Anyway, I can fix the garland tomorrow.”

“Creative talents on hold, huh?”

Starsky kissed his nose. “That’s dumb. Can be creative in any number of ways. Like me to show you?”

“About time. You know you talk too much?”

Hutch turned his head, accepting, absorbing, the kiss that was confirming the claim. Only a few months back he had been trying, as he knew Starsky had also tried, to come to terms with an alien quality… timidity? A kind of unsureness? …and the desperation with which, at first, they had both struggled to deny its presence. They had found their route through that, too, in the only way they knew—as partners. Me and thee. And the honesty and the courage and the spontaneity were all more gifts at Thanksgiving and at Christmas. And always.

He felt Starsky take charge, knew once more the essential vitality and vigor, responded to them as to the fun and the laughter. And the abiding love. All of them elements in resolving and cancelling the bewildered and angry fear of the recent past.

“Gonna be okay…” Starsky’s words soft against his mouth interrupted briefly the cherishing kiss. Hutch believed it, knowing it truth… gift, at this Thanksgiving, of a relationship restored in richest depths and fullest measure.

Some time later, wrapped still in his lover’s arms, he questioned drowsily, “Did someone mention power cuts? They harness some of the energy you generate… take care of any crisis.”

“I’m one of this country’s greatest natural assets—you should know that…” Starsky’s murmur against his forehead, complacency surfacing above the tide of sleep. “Tired? So rest up, babe… there’s always going to be tomorrow…”

* * *

Thanksgiving Day… storm blown over , clear skies, and sunlight breaking through the crisp air. Glowing with satisfied pride, Starsky took a step back, the better to admire his work. “That should hold it.” Like a bright banner against the paneling, the lustrous green leaves offset the gold of the yellow ribbons that were Hutch’s personal addition to the artist’s work.

“It’s beautiful, Starsk,” he said again. “Welcome back, huh?”

There was a pause in the approving survey as Starsky turned towards him. ”Yes,” he agreed. ”Means I celebrate you.”