The Zen of Turkey Day

Written for a twenty minute challenge with the prompt words Turkey and roll. Which I used in the first sentence, so nineteen and a half minutes to write Starsky appreciating his life.

“Get up, turkey, let’s roll,” Hutch called.

“You’ve been waiting weeks to say that,” Starsky accused, grinning, one eye still on the Macy’s parade on the TV screen. Mickey Mouse was floating above Central Park West like a mouse shaped zeppelin, to the awe of New York children.

“For just the right day.” Hutch nodded, adding the last of his contributions to the Thanksgiving feast at the Dobey’s into a sack.

“I’m up, but rolling takes longer these days.” Starsky pushed himself carefully to the edge of the couch and slowly got to a stand. That took most of his breath, so he stood on both feet, waiting for the airless sensation to pass.

He was getting used to the idea that he’d never bound to a stand, dash down the street after a criminal and tackle the suspect to the ground. He’d lost too much lung when an assassin’s bullet punched through his back into his chest cavity. There was only one lobe remaining, instead of the usual three on the left. Getting shot had taught him more about anatomy than the long ago science classes at Bay City High. He’d also lost a foot of intestine and his spleen. Not that he was still sure what a spleen actually did.

Despite a couple months where he’d let depression weigh him down, he had much to be grateful for. Thanks was an amazing gift. It had brought him back from the edge, turned his head around, and pointed him straight at the one person he was most thankful for. Hutch had saved his life in so many ways–from simply being there, reliable and kind, with a helping of drill sergeant on the days when Starsky was in his darkest place. Hutch had teased him, cajoled him, bought him frijoles and burritos to coax him to eat, and when all else failed, opened Starsky’s eyes to undying love.

Love. A year ago, Starsky would have said he loved Hutch, and meant it. In that band of brothers sort of way guys bonded in the Army. But deep in his heart, even then, he would have known that wasn’t completely true. He’d loved Hutch far more than just best friend probably since the day they met. Certainly, Hutch had always been more for him than a partner.

Hutch embodied love. Unconditional, supportive, breath of life sort of love–the kind that took up most of the space in Starsky’s heart.

When he’d looked up one day in mid-September, he’d realized he could not go on being angry at Gunther and his goons, at the doctors who pronounced him unfit, at the world for allowing this to happen. He had to take in what he had and accept that there were certain fights he could not win.

He still had Hutch, and was ready–if a bit desperate–to declare his love to that irascible blond. Hutch had smiled, a gorgeous thing like the sun emerging from storm clouds, and kissed Starsky. No words, no startled protestations. He’d just kissed Starsky.

Starsky had kissed him back.

That had been the beginning. The attempted assassination had not ended Starsky’s life, no matter what he’d thought when he’d emerged from the week-long coma. It had forced him to turn a corner, consider other options, and find his way to Hutch.

There were still so many, many things to consider about the future. What he could do–a guy with one lobe of his left lung–but he’d never, ever have to do it alone.

“Let’s go,” Starsky declared, grabbing up his patched leather jacket. The one that had tried so hard to protect him, just as Hutch had done. “I’m ready for pumpkin pie–and pecan with whipped cream.”

“What about turkey?” Hutch snorted fondly.

“I got that right here.” Starsky yanked Hutch closer and kissed him, grateful for life.

FIN