The Gift

“Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.”

Written for the Starsky & Hutch 2009 Advent Calendar. The challenge was “Christmas Song Titles”–how many can you spot? (answers at the end)

Beta’d by the remarkable Verlaine and the valiant Equusentric, all remaining errors are my own. A special shout-out to Enednoviel for hosting the Calendar and to Dipslikeramon for the challenge.

“Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.”—Jean Anouilh

December 1967

David Starsky whistled idly as he packed his old army duffel bag. It was quiet in the dorm, as the other cadets had already left for the holiday break. He finished with his clothes, then looked at the textbooks stacked on his desk. Grimacing, he shoved those into the kit as well, and cinched it up.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked down the hallway. When he got to the lounge, he saw Ken Hutchinson sitting alone, a suitcase at his feet. He was reading one of the hated textbooks, looking for all the world as though he was actually enjoying it, like it was the latest Mike Hammer or something.

“Don’t tell me you do that for fun, Hutch,” said Starsky, dropping the duffel on a nearby chair. Hutch glanced up.

“Huh? Oh, this?” He shook his head. “No, just figured I’d try to get ahead of the curve. I’ve got some time to kill, anyway. Nancy is coming to pick me up, but she’s going to be late.”

Ah, yes, the lovely Mrs. Hutchinson. Most of the other cadets openly envied Hutch his gorgeous wife, but Starsky wasn’t quite as taken with her. Granted, he’d only met her twice, but both times, she’d radiated an air of cool indifference towards Starsky and anything he had to say. He’d shrugged it off, not really giving a damn what she thought of him, but Hutch had looked upset. Lately, she hadn’t shown up around the Academy at all.

“Ahead of the curve, huh? Well, don’t get too far ahead, hotshot. Some of us—namely, me—are struggling just to keep up.” Starsky intended it as a joke, but Hutch cocked his head and looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

“You know,” Hutch said hesitantly, “maybe we could study together during the break. We could drill each other, it would be a good chance for us to really get the codes and procedures down pat.”

Who’re you trying to kid, huh? You’ve already got this stuff down pat, and we both know it. Starsky flushed a little, and was about to blow off the offer, but the hopeful look on Hutch’s face stopped him. Still, he hedged, “Aw, I was looking forward to some R&R. After all, it’s Christmas!”

Hutch shrugged. “So?”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s the most wonderful time of the year! If every day was like Christmas, just think of how great it would be!”

“If every day were Christmas, Nancy would be in heaven and I’d be broke,” Hutch replied sarcastically, then his face reddened. He went on quickly, “That’s okay, about the studying, I mean. I just thought, it’s better when you’ve got someone else…” He trailed off, and Starsky thought he saw disappointment in Hutch’s eyes before they dropped back down into the book.

“Hey, it’s not such a bad idea, at that,” Starsky admitted, and Hutch looked up again, surprised. “Yeah, I guess we could hook up, hit the books. What say I call you, after Christmas, we’ll get together, okay?”

“You’re on,” Hutch answered, grinning. Starsky found himself grinning back. With a nod, he stood and picked up his bag.

“Merry Christmas, Hutch.”

“You too, Starsky.”

November 1971

“So, did you tell her?” Starsky asked as Hutch got into the car.

“Yeah.” Hutch said tightly. “She wasn’t too thrilled about it.”

“Well, what did she expect? We’re still pretty low on the pecking order.”

Hutch nodded curtly, then stared out the window in silence.

Damn it, thought Starsky, as he drove towards the station. Damn her. She knows perfectly well that we’ve got no seniority, no way we were gonna get the week off between Christmas and New Year’s. She just wanted another excuse to pick a fight with Hutch. He took a quick glance at Hutch’s stony profile. Betcha she made him sleep on the couch these past two nights.

They were busy all day, but nothing heavy went down on their beat. For once, Starsky was grateful for the penny-ante stuff, since it kept his partner from brooding—much, anyway. Hutch was curt and snappish at the start of their shift, but as they patrolled the streets, he gradually relaxed and they settled into their usual small talk.

It was only when they were having their after-work beer that Hutch said, “Nancy said she wanted to go home for the holidays.”

“Back to Minnesota? In the dead of winter?” Starsky exclaimed in mock horror, shuddering. “You got to be kidding.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Hutch protested. “It gets pretty cold in New York too, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know, pal, I think there’s a difference between regular cold and freezing-your-nuts-off cold.” Starsky smiled as Hutch snorted. “But, yeah, I remember the snow. Not exactly one of my favorite things, but I have to say, there’s nothing like a white Christmas. Makes it kind of special, you know?”

Hutch didn’t respond. He drained the bottle and waved at the bartender for a refill. He began picking at the label on the empty.

Starsky went on, “If there was enough of it, Nicky and me, we’d have snowball fights. I always had to give him a head start in making snowballs. Then, we’d go home, all wet and cold, and Ma would make us hot cocoa with marshmallows.” He smiled at the memory. “Since we lived in the city, that was about all we could do. But I bet you did all the winter stuff, huh? Skiing, sledding, ice skating, stuff like that?” The next round arrived, and Hutch took a drink from his second beer, stared down into its depths. “Hutch?”

“I proposed to Nancy on a sleigh ride. I ever tell you that?” He paused for another swallow. “It was Christmas Eve, and everything was perfect. She was so beautiful, Starsk. I almost couldn’t believe it when she said yes. I didn’t think anyone could be happier than we were. But now… Now, it seems like everything I do makes her unhappy. All we do is fight. She wants me to quit the force, the one thing I won’t do. I don’t know how to fix this…” He gulped down the rest of his drink.

Starsky felt his heart wrench in sympathy at the despair in Hutch’s voice. He put his hand on Hutch’s arm and squeezed, as he tried to think of something to say. He’d seen Hutch in a funk before; it had been happening a lot lately, in fact, as the marriage had grown more rocky and strained. Usually though, after a big blowup, Hutch would calm down and start feeling guilty, and he and Nancy would kiss and make up. Things would be okay for a while—well, as okay as they ever got, anyway—at least until the next round of bickering started. But this time, Starsky sensed something different. Hutch didn’t sound pissed, or even hurt. He sounded… defeated. Empty.

“Hey, you know, maybe I can talk Gilroy into switching vacation days with you,” Starsky said. “I know he said no the first time we asked, but I think he’ll go for it if I throw in a couple of extra days to sweeten the deal. Then you and Nance can go back home, take another sleigh ride, patch things up. That’ll give you guys some time to…” he trailed off as Hutch shook his head.

“When I told her I couldn’t get the time off, she said she wasn’t going to let being a cop’s wife smother her. That if I wasn’t willing to make time for her, then she was going to make time for herself. Then she threw this at me.” Hutch pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Starsky. He picked up Starsky’s beer and drank from it as Starsky smoothed out the sheet.

It was a flyer, with the words, “Glamour Girl Modeling School & Agency” printed on the front. Starsky unfolded it and saw pictures of beautifully made-up women in various poses and outfits. On the bottom was an application form. Starsky read the name and looked up, puzzled.

Hutch barked out a humorless laugh. “My wife. She wants to be a cover girl, travel the world, live the good life, and apparently, she can’t do that if she’s just plain old Nancy. She wants a new name to go with her new life. So from now on, everyone’s supposed to call her ‘Vanessa.’ Shit, I don’t know who she is anymore.”

“Well, okay, so she wants to be a model,” Starsky said, taking back his drink. “That isn’t so bad, is it?” Then a thought occurred to him. “I mean, she’s not… she didn’t say…”

“No, she didn’t ask me for a divorce.” The words, not yet, hung unsaid between them. Hutch began gathering bottle caps together and stacking them in a precarious tower.

“So maybe it’s a good thing, Hutch.”

Hutch shrugged tiredly. “Yeah, maybe. Probably. It’s not that I mind her working, I just hoped she’d be ready to start a family by now.” He sighed. “I guess not. She’s using all of our savings to pay for these modeling classes, and she sure isn’t going to want to be pregnant while she’s taking them.” His voice hardened. “She’d meant to do this all along. She didn’t really want the trip, she just wanted to justify her actions.”

Ah, buddy. Starsky watched as the bottle caps teetered and fell, scattering all over the bar top.

“But thanks anyway, Starsky, for offering your vacation.” Hutch smiled a little, and patted Starsky on the shoulder.

Starsky leaned in and dug an elbow into Hutch’s side. “Hey, what are partners for?” Hutch nudged him back.

“Guess we’ll be working the holidays together, Starsky.” This time, the smile reached his eyes, and Starsky returned it in kind.

“No place else I’d rather be, babe.”

December 1975

Starsky stared glumly out of the window. From his fifth-floor vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of the visitors’ parking lot, which was crawling with cars earlier, but now was nearly deserted. The glow from the sodium lights cast a sickly yellow pallor over everything, making it damn-near impossible to distinguish one shit-brown vehicle from another. Not that he was expecting to see a particular shit-brown car. Not tonight. He turned away from the window and gingerly got back into bed.

He thought for sure he would have been discharged by now. The doctor had assured him that the gunshot wound in his shoulder wouldn’t cause any permanent damage, and that he was going to make a full recovery once he did all the rehab. Everything seemed to be going well, until the wound started suppurating. It was a minor infection, one which a stronger antibiotic was making swift work of, but it had set him back at least a couple of days. So instead of spending Christmas Eve at home, he was stuck at Memorial General, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” for the umpteenth time on a crappy TV.

The hallway was quiet, now that visiting hours were over and the shift change was done. His roommate, an acerbic 70-year old in for gallbladder surgery, had been discharged that morning, and no one had been brought in to fill the other bed yet. Thank goodness. Maybe without anyone snoring, I’ll get some decent shuteye, he thought.

It was a futile hope, Starsky knew. Between the lingering pain and the nurses’ rounds, he’d be lucky if he got more than an hour or two of uninterrupted sleep anyway. Besides, he was hungry. Dinner had been something masquerading as meatloaf—no doubt nutritious, but utterly tasteless and rather skimpy, besides. Just thinking about it made his stomach growl, and Starsky made a face at the noisy complaint. “Grumble all you want, you ain’t getting fed again ’til breakfast,” he said to it sourly.

“Jeez, Starsk, will you tell that stomach of yours to keep it down? Another rumble like that, and we’ll have all the nurses in here, wondering why there’s an earthquake in Room 507,” a familiar voice said softly.

Starsky looked up. “Hutch!”

“Shh! You want to get me kicked out?” Hutch stage-whispered as he sidled into the room and carefully closed the door behind him. He had his leather jacket draped awkwardly over his hand, which he set down on the empty bed before pulling up a chair and sitting next to Starsky.

Starsky turned up the sound on the TV a little. “There. Now they won’t hear us talking.” Hutch looked at the set.

“‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ again, huh? Did Clarence get his wings yet?” he asked.

“No, but it’s almost at the end, now,” Starsky replied. On the screen, Clarence was saying to George, “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”

“So, what are you doing here, anyway? What happened to the girls?” Starsky asked. Hutch was watching the movie and didn’t answer.

Michelle and Hannah, two pretty secretaries they had been seeing off and on over the past few months, were their dates for the Christmas Eve bash over at The Pits. That is, they were supposed to double-date, but with Starsky out of commission, it had fallen on Hutch to escort both women. Hutch had brought them to the hospital earlier, where they showed off their “Santa’s Little Helper” costumes and sympathized over Starsky’s injuries.

The whole time the women fussed over Starsky, Hutch had stood back quietly, leaning against the wall with a bemused look on his face. The attention had been nice, and Starsky flirted as best he could, but he’d been tired, sore, and a little uncomfortable with the way the ladies were praising his “heroic” actions under fire. Normally, he’d lap that kind of thing up, but, truth was, he hadn’t felt particularly heroic that night. Shot and bleeding, he hadn’t been the protector, he’d been one of the protected. Protected, along with everyone else in that restaurant, by his partner.

It was only when Starsky tried to point out to them that, in fact, Hutch deserved the credit for bringing down the two hit men, that Hutch muttered something about how late it was and hastily ushered the ladies away. They called out their good-byes and Merry Christmases as they left, not more than two hours ago.

Starsky finally snapped his fingers in front of Hutch’s face. Hutch blinked. “What was that, Starsk?”

“I asked you what you’re doing back here,” Starsky repeated, “and where’s Michelle and Hannah?”

“Mistletoe and Holly, as they wished to be called tonight, are tripping the light fantastic down at Huggy’s,” Hutch replied, his eyes still on the TV.

“So how come you’re not there, tripping with them? Did you forget something?” Starsky glanced around, but besides the flowers and get-well-soon cards sitting on the little table, there was nothing to see. “You know, those foxes must’ve been snatched up as soon as your back was turned.”

Hutch shrugged. “They already were, even before I left.”

“So, why’d you leave, then? Were the two of them together a little too much for you? It’s not like you haven’t been, uh, up for a challenge before.”

That caught Hutch’s attention, and he turned to frown at Starsky. “That’s not funny, Starsky.”

It really wasn’t. Starsky had meant it as a teasing dig, but it came out wrong, almost bitter, and there was a bit too much truth in it to laugh it off. Ever since his divorce, Hutch had been on a personal crusade to bed every unattached female in Bay City, or so it seemed. It was a huge change from the married man Starsky knew, who’d been as faithful to his wife as the day was long. Now, Hutch was letting his little head lead him around, and it was getting him into all kinds of trouble. Jeannie Walton was still fresh in Starsky’s mind.

Still, it wasn’t as though Starsky could claim any moral superiority over his partner. He’d been cruising the singles scene a lot longer than Hutch, and had more than his share of notches on his bedpost. “Yeah, okay,” he said apologetically. “But why? They aren’t a package deal. Michelle wouldn’t have minded if you and Hannah had gone off for some, ah, alone time.”

Hutch let out an impatient breath. “What? A guy’s gotta have a reason to spend time with his best friend?” He leaned back towards the other bed and reached under his jacket. “Here.” He pushed a foil-wrapped something into Starsky’s hands. A something that smelled wonderful. Starsky began peeling off the cover.

“They’ll probably cook up a special dish for Christmas dinner tomorrow,” Hutch said, ignoring Starsky’s snort of derision, “but I thought you might like—”

“Hey, linguini with clams!” Delighted, he brought the plate of pasta up to his face and inhaled deeply. “Wow, and it’s still warm, too! Where’d you get this?”

“There’s an Italian place right up the block from here.” Hutch helped him raise the head of the bed higher, then handed him a fork, and Starsky dug in. The first mouthful was heaven, and all he could do was make inarticulate noises of appreciation. “It’s that good, huh?” Hutch chuckled.

When he could finally swallow, Starsky said, “It’s great, Hutch. In fact, compared to the stuff they serve here, it’s Cordon Bleu!” He mangled the pronunciation to make Hutch laugh again. As he continued eating, Hutch picked up his jacket and rooted around in the pockets. “Don’t tell me you got a bottle of vino de casa in there, too.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Hutch scolded. “Ah, here it is. No holly, I’m afraid, but—” He held up a slightly battered sprig of mistletoe. “I stole it from Huggy. Figured we need a little Christmas cheer around here, too.” He stood up and leaned over Starsky so he could hook the mistletoe on to the wall fixture overhead.

“Were you planning on getting lucky here, Hutch? ‘Cause your choices are pretty limited, you know,” Starsky quipped.

Hutch looked down. Starsky could see Hutch’s eyes as they moved, and he was startled when they lingered on his mouth. Hutch’s lips curved into a tight, predatory smile, and Starsky felt his face go warm. Then Hutch straightened up and sat back down in the chair. The dangerous look was gone.

“Trust me, buddy, if I kissed you, you’d be the lucky one,” Hutch tossed back, smirking. “Anyway, who’d want to kiss someone with garlic on their breath and tomato sauce all over their mouth?”

“Huh.” Two can play this game, Blondie. “Not my fault. Who’s idea was it to bring me this, anyway?” Starsky grabbed a tissue from a box on the night-stand and wiped off the sauce. “There. Better? Bring those lips over here, you lucky dog, you.” He puckered up and waggled his eyebrows.

Hutch was struggling to keep a straight face. “Nope, not me. You’ve still got garlic breath. Maybe one of your nurses will take pity on you.” Starsky started to make smacking noises and kiss the air, and Hutch burst out laughing. Starsky did too.

It was one of those rare, perfect moments, the kind where you laughed until you cried, and then you laughed and laughed some more. They were trying to keep it quiet, which only made it that much harder to stop. Each time it started to taper off, one of them would smack their lips or say “garlic breath,” and they’d be off again. Finally, they stopped, simply because they ran out of steam. The two of them sat there, wheezing and grinning like idiots.

Eventually, Hutch gasped, “Shit, I can’t believe no one heard that.” He wiped his face with his hands. “You okay?”

“I’m good.” It came out weaker than Starsky expected, and Hutch looked concerned.

“The hell you say. You’re hurting now, aren’t you?”

Starsky was aching and bone-tired, but he didn’t care. “It’s not that bad. When the nurse comes in, I’ll ask her for an aspirin, or something.” He looked down at his half-eaten dinner regretfully. “I think I’m done with this, though. Too bad I can’t save the rest for later. Thanks a lot, Hutch.” Hutch nodded and picked up the plate.

“You look all in. I’d better go anyway, before they catch me and throw me out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Aw, you don’t have to come by—it’s Christmas,” Starsky said, but there was no conviction in it.

“Where else would I go?” Hutch rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Mushbrain,” he said fondly. He glanced at the TV as he got to his feet, but the movie was over. “Well, I guess the angel got his wings, huh?”

“Yeah, and Jimmy Stewart got his wonderful life. Happens every time.”

“No, not every time, Starsk. Only if you’re very, very lucky.” Hutch bent down and brushed a kiss, quick and light, on Starsky’s forehead. As he stepped back, Starsky held his breath, waited for the punch line.

“Good night, partner. Sleep well.” In the time it took Starsky to blink drowsily, Hutch was gone.

“Whatever you say, partner,” he murmured, and drifted off.

November 1977

“I can’t believe it,” Hutch said, looking around in disgust. “They start putting this crap up earlier and earlier every year.”

“What crap, Hutch?” Starsky asked absently. He was scanning the racks carefully for his favorite brand of windshield wipers, but reached the end of the row without spotting it. Frowning, he walked back up the aisle and started looking again.

“The holiday decorations. They’re up already, and it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. And this is only an auto parts store, for crying out loud. Oh, look, Santa Claus is watching you, buddy.” Hutch flicked a finger against a luridly grinning plastic figure. “If you aren’t a good boy and buy a nice, expensive present for the Tomato, all you’ll get is coal in your stocking.”

Starsky stopped searching and huffed out an irritated sigh. “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch, you know that? Just what is it about Christmas that chafes your ass so much?”

“What are you talking about? What kind of question is that?” Hutch demanded.

“Remember last Christmas? Your big rant about euphoric sentimentalism? Remember the gift you gave me?”

“Of course I do. I had a very nice tree planted in your name.”

“Huh. Some gift, Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“I was not being a Scrooge. I don’t have anything against Christmas. I like Christmas. I do. What I hate is the commercialism, the materialism, the rampant consumerism, the…”

“The euphoric sentim—”

“If you throw that in my face one more time, Starsky, so help me…”

“Get that finger out of my face, Hutch,” Starsky warned, knocking the offending digit away. Hutch crossed his arms and lifted his chin.

“Well, what about your ant farm, pal?” Hutch countered. “I suppose that was the gold standard of presents against which all others should be judged.”

Starsky was stung by the sarcastic jibe. “Hey, at least I gave you something interesting. What the heck am I supposed to do with a tree?”

Hutch glared at him for a few moments. “Nothing, Starsky. Not a damn thing.” He turned. “I’ll be outside,” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked away.

Starsky went back to his search, fuming all the while. What am I supposed to do with a stupid tree, anyway, huh, Blintz?

During the drive back to Starsky’s apartment, neither man said much. Hutch had a broody look on his face, but Starsky was still pissed and didn’t really care. He pulled up next to Hutch’s heap and cut the Torino’s engine. They sat there for a second, not looking at each other.

Finally, Starsky said gruffly, “You still staying, or what?”

Hutch rubbed his face and nodded. “Yeah. I said I would, didn’t I?” There was a hint of apology in his voice, and Starsky grunted, mollified. He didn’t really want them to spend their rare weekend off being mad at each other.

“Okay, then. Let’s see if this other brand of wipers is worth the money I paid for ’em.” He saw Hutch relax a little, and felt better. “Come on,” he urged as they got out of the car, “the sooner we get done changing the wipers and washing the car, the sooner we can relax. Order a pizza, watch a movie or something.”

“Now that sounds more like it,” Hutch said approvingly.

“What, this isn’t fun enough for you? We could always wash your car. That would be good for a few chuckles, especially when it falls apart ’cause the dirt that’s holding it together is gone.”

“Laugh it up, wiseass.” Hutch had a speculative gleam in his eyes as he picked up the sponge and bucket, and Starsky had a sudden feeling of impending doom.

Good thing I’m wearing my old shorts.

#####

The day had passed as countless others they’d shared while off-duty. There hadn’t been anything special or earth-shattering about it—unless you counted getting soaked with a bucketful of soapy water as special—but Starsky relished the very normalcy of it. Hanging with Hutch always meant good times.

“Hutch, about the ant farm…”

Hutch turned away from the television set and blinked at Starsky, clearly confused for a second, until realization dawned.

The afternoon had flowed easily into the evening, and now, mellow with pizza and beer, Starsky decided to broach the subject of their earlier argument. “I want to explain—”

“I-I shouldn’t have said what I said, buddy,” Hutch interrupted, shame-faced. “I made a big deal about my principles, saying that it’s the thought that counts, then I turn around and knock your present. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, that’s okay, Hutch. I know you probably thought it was kind of stupid. It’s just… when I saw it, I remember having one as a kid, and how fascinating it was to watch. I figured you didn’t have one, growing up, and I just thought, maybe…” Maybe I could give you some of the childhood you seem to have missed out on. Hutch rarely spoke of it, but Starsky knew Hutch’s early years had been lonely ones.

“No, I never had an ant farm. I think my parents would have been horrified if I’d said I wanted one.” Hutch looked down. “Not that they ever bothered asking me what I wanted.”

“Wait, they didn’t get you presents?” Starsky blurted out. Hutch put his hand on Starsky’s shoulder and gripped it hard.

“Oh, they gave me gifts, for Christmas, my birthday. Lots of gifts, actually. Expensive, fancy stuff, the latest and the greatest, the best that money could buy. That was the point of it. It was all for show, to impress their friends.” He shook his head, his eyes blank and distant. “I know, it sounds ridiculous, I’m complaining because I got nice things. But that’s all it was. Just things. There was no thought put into them. No love.”

Oh, babe. Starsky thought about his own Christmases past. Even when times were tough and money was tight, somehow he always got the one toy he wanted most, every year. His parents made sure of it, and seemed to take as much pleasure in the gift as little Davey did. There may not have been many presents under the tree, but he had never suffered from the lack. Never even felt it.

Then he thought about his tree, the one Hutch had given him. Hutch, who loved plants, loved to grow and nurture them. His Hutch, who saw the beauty and strength in the life of a flourishing tree and wanted to share it with him. Had gifted it to him.

His Hutch.

Starsky put his hand on top of Hutch’s and held on tight. He swallowed a couple of times, waiting until he could speak past the tightness in his throat. Finally he said, “Maybe tomorrow we can go down to Westside Park.”

“Yeah?” Hutch smiled hopefully, the bleak look in his eyes gone, and Starsky’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yeah. Maybe walk over by the horseshoe pitch, or something.” He wrapped his arms around Hutch’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Thank you for my gift, Hutch.”

Hutch hugged him back fiercely. “It’s the thought that counts.”

It’s not about the tree anymore, Starsky realized. He wondered if it ever really was.

December 1979

Br-r-ring, br-r-ring, br-r-ring…

It was the third time he’d tried today, and Starsky was getting pissed off.

Br-r-ring, br-r-ring, br-r-ring…

“C’mon, c’mon, pick up the phone, Blondie.”

Br-r-ring, br-r-ring, br-r-ring… Exasperated, Starsky hung up. He pushed aside the curtain and stared out of the window. The late afternoon sun was trying to pierce through the clouds, but it must have been tired of fighting a losing battle. It matched his mood perfectly.

Where is he? He knew I’d be calling.

Starsky let the curtain drop and went to the kitchen, where his mother was busy cooking.

“Did Nicky leave?” Rachel Starsky asked.

“Yeah, a few minutes ago. Where’d he go, anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “He promised he’d be back in time for dinner.”

Starsky sat and watched her as she moved efficiently from stove to sink to oven to fridge, keeping numerous dishes going and under control. Pinning a smile on his face, he said, “You’ve outdone yourself, Ma. Looks like you’re feeding an army. I thought it was just going to be the three of us tonight.”

“Well, you and Nicky eat like an army all by yourselves,” she laughed. “Anyway, I don’t intend to cook tomorrow, so this is has to last us for two days.”

“Two days? I think we have enough food here for two weeks!”

“Ah, it’s been wonderful to feed both my boys again,” she sighed. “I can’t believe it’s already been a month since you’ve been here.”

“I must’ve gained ten pounds in that time,” he said ruefully.

“You were too skinny anyway, baby. You needed to put a little meat on your bones.”

“If I get too fat, I won’t be able to pass the physical.” As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. Rachel’s face dimmed and her hands faltered. Starsky went to her and gave her a hug. “Aw, don’t look like that. I’m fine now. I don’t want you to worry, Ma.”

Her eyes filled as she patted his face gently. “A mother always worries, Davey. It’s the way of the world. But I know you will do what you must. You are a man who feels things deeply, just like your father. Your work is important, and I would not try to stop you, even if I could. But still, I will worry.”

“I know. I wish I could take that away from you.” Starsky drew out a chair for her to sit.

She dabbed at her eyes and tried to smile. “Now, don’t you worry about me worrying! One worrywart in the family is plenty.”

He squeezed her clasped hands. “I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said earnestly.

“Yes, well, Ken promised me that he will make sure you are careful, and I think he will keep his promise better than you, Davey.”

“He did, huh?” Starsky wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“He loves you, dear.”

Does he? Does he love me the way I love him now?

Before he could think of a response, she took a deep breath and said, “Enough! No sense in borrowing trouble. Right now you’re here, and that’s what matters. Now, get out of my kitchen, I still have a lot to do!” She shooed him away.

Starsky went back to the living room and stared at the phone. He picked up the handset, but put it back down without dialing. It’s too soon to try again, dummy. It’s still early back home. Maybe Hutch is… is…

Thing was, Starsky couldn’t think what Hutch could possibly be doing on Christmas Eve. All he knew for sure, was that Hutch wasn’t working today. He thought about the conversation they’d had a few days ago:

“Hey, get this, Starsk. Dobey’s giving me a week off,” Hutch said.

Oh, shit. “Really? That’s great, Hutch. But—”

Hutch was still talking. “I guess since I’m still on desk duty anyway and the paperwork on Gunther is pretty much wrapped up, he figures he can afford to be magnanimous.”

Damn it, he sounds so happy. “You deserve it, babe,” said Starsky. “All the hours you put in on the case, making it airtight—no one could have worked harder. But, Hutch—”

“Our case, Starsk,” Hutch interjected.

“Right. Ours. But—”

“So anyway, what time is your flight coming in? I wrote it down somewhere, but I can’t seem to find the note. Thought it was here…” Starsky could hear Hutch fumbling through papers.

“Hutch, I’m not coming back tomorrow,” he blurted out. The rustling sound stopped. “It’s Ma. She wants me to spend this Christmas here in New York.”

After a pause, Hutch said, “Oh.”

“I know,” Starsky went on hurriedly, “I’ve been here since Thanksgiving, and I really wasn’t planning on staying this long, but since I’m here already, Ma insisted. I haven’t been here for Christmas since I was a kid, and it’s just an extra week, who kno—”

“I get it, Starsky.” Hutch’s quiet voice in his ear stemmed his rush of words. He waited. The silence stretched for long moments.

Just say it, Hutch. Just say the words, ‘please come home for Christmas,’ and I’ll be there on the next plane.

“Okay.” Said in the same quiet voice. Starsky couldn’t read it.

“Hutch, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” I want to be with you.

“Hey, it’s your mom. And she’s right, what’s another week?”

“It was kind of a last minute thing…”

“Starsk. It’s okay. Any trouble with changing your ticket?”

“Uh, no, no problem.”

“Good. So, is Nick still behaving himself, or has the novelty of having big brother around worn off?”

Starsky had accepted the change of topic without comment and they finished their talk without bringing up the subject again.

On a hunch, Starsky called Dobey. While wishing the man and his family a Merry Christmas, he confirmed his suspicions that Hutch had specifically requested vacation time for when Starsky would be back home. It made him feel awful, but Hutch refused to discuss it.

Starsky looked at the clock. Huggy’s annual party wouldn’t be underway for hours yet. Where the hell is Hutch?

These weeks of separation, the longest in their partnership, had hammered home to Starsky just how much he needed Hutch. He missed his friend with an intensity that astonished him, even as he acknowledged it had become far more than friendship, at least for him.

Starsky was sure that Hutch felt it too. Well, mostly sure. They were so in tune now, closer than they ever were, but there was nothing about the feelings that hadn’t been intrinsic to their relationship since they’d first been partnered. Nothing, that is, except the desire. Yeah, that was new. Desire, and a consuming passion that he’d never felt for anyone else before.

He’d have to come clean to Hutch soon. Starsky wasn’t afraid, he knew Hutch would love him, no matter what. But if he doesn’t want you in the same way, what then?

Starsky shook his head. Like Ma said, no sense in borrowing trouble. They’d talk when he got back home. Then he’d see.

#####

“Look, Davey, it’s snowing!” Rachel exclaimed. Starsky stood next to her and peered out of the window into the darkness. It was little more than a flurry, but it made him smile.

“Hey, what do you know? We’ll have a white Christmas!” He hugged his mother, who giggled like a school-girl.

“I wonder what Santa is bringing for Davey tonight? Something very, very good, I think.” She slipped out of his arms and headed for the kitchen. “Come help me set the table, dear.” Starsky followed.

“I thought Nicky was supposed to be back,” he said, as he doled out the silverware and plates.

“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute now,” Rachel called out.

“He’d better be. If he’s late, after you’ve slaved—” A knock on the front door interrupted him.

“That’s probably him now. Get the door, Davey, please.”

“Why would Nicky be knocking? Don’t tell me he forgot his key,” Starsky groused as he went to the door and opened it.

Nick stood there, grinning at him.

“Nicky, what are you doing out here? Where have you been?”

“Had to pick up a special package, Davey.” Nick looked to his left. Starsky followed his gaze.

Hutch.

Snowflakes dusting his hair, skin flushed pink from the cold, eyes sparkling so blue.

His Hutch.

Starsky was speechless.

“Hi, Starsk.” Hutch was smiling shyly, and Starsky couldn’t remember seeing anything more gorgeous in his life.

“Hutch!” Starsky stepped forward, grabbed him, pulled him into his arms. He felt Hutch hugging him back, squeezing until all the air left his body. Or maybe Hutch just took his breath away.

“Don’t just stand there, baby, it’s cold outside.” He turned to see Rachel beaming at them from the doorway. “Come in. Welcome, Ken.”

The next couple of hours passed in a blur. Looking back, Starsky never could remember exactly what he ate or what was said. But everything tasted delicious, they talked and laughed, Hutch was at his side, and Starsky was happy.

The two of them sat out on the back porch after dinner. Even though the snow had stopped, the clouds were still there, blanking out the stars. All the light they had came from the little fixture overhead, but it was more than enough. Starsky could see everything.

There was no mistaking the love between them, in all its facets. It was like a living, breathing thing, a phoenix that rose from the ashes of his physical near-death and Hutch’s emotional one, transforming their bond, already so strong, into something immutable, unbreakable.

“I couldn’t imagine Christmas without you. I can’t imagine life without you.”

“You won’t ever have to, babe, I promise.”

There was no mistletoe, but neither one noticed.

October 2003

Starsky was putting away the groceries when Hutch walked in from the back yard, his hands covered in dirt.

As he washed up, Hutch asked, “Why the hell are you whistling a Christmas song now?”

Starsky stopped. Little Saint Nick. He’d been whistling Little Saint Nick.

“Ah, shit, they were playing it in the store, and now it’s stuck in my head. I haven’t even bought candy for Halloween yet, and already it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas in the mall. Sheesh,” he said, annoyed.

Hutch snickered. “Be careful, Starsk. You’re beginning to sound like me.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s not surprising, after all these years of living with you.” He blew a kiss to Hutch on his way to the freezer. Hutch grinned and watched him as he distributed items around the kitchen.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, Christmas is coming up. Have you thought about what you want this year?”

“All I want for Christmas is you, babe. Anything else is gravy.” Starsky shut the pantry door and turned, just as Hutch caught him around the waist and pulled him close.

“Easy to please, huh?” Hutch said suggestively, and Starsky snorted.

“Ain’t I just?”

“Well, that takes care of my shopping then, because you’ve got me.”

Starsky circled his arms around his friend, his partner, his lover, his mate. I really do have everything in the palm of my hand, he thought, amazed. Out loud, he said, “Heart and soul, always and forever?”

“Mushbrain,” was all Hutch would say, but he settled into Starsky’s embrace, pressed their bodies together, and let the pulse beating in his chest answer for him.

After a while, Starsky asked, “What about you, Hutch? What do you want for Christmas?”

“I already have it.” Hutch raised their clasped hands to his lips. “Me and thee—the greatest gift of all.”

Chapter End Notes:

Song titles, in order of appearance:

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
If Every Day Was Like Christmas
Home For the Holidays
My Favorite Things
White Christmas
Sleigh Ride
Mistletoe and Holly
Christmas Dinner
We Need a Little Christmas
Santa Claus is Watching You
You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch
Last Christmas
The Gift
This Christmas
Please Come Home for Christmas
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
Christmas Without You
Little Saint Nick (this was used as an actual song title in the story, so technically doesn’t “count” towards the challenge)
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
Christmas is Coming
All I Want for Christmas is You
The Greatest Gift of All