With many thanks for sharing their ideas with me to nickygabriel, provencepuss, barancoire! This story wouldn't be the same without you. :D
Fandom: Starsky and Hutch
Length: 6,000 words
Rating: G
Characters: Starsky, Hutch
Pairings: None
Warnings: None
Summary:
Christmas is a bad time for Hutch. Starsky tries to make it better. They pick out a tree and decorate for the precinct Christmas party. Each tries to find the perfect present for the other. Sometimes the best Christmases aren't the ones that are perfect.
Christmas Trees
by Allie
"Celebrate Christmas, kill a tree," muttered Hutch, scowling.
Starsky gave him a look. "Hutch, ya gotta know how ridiculous that sounds," he said, giving his partner a little nudge with an elbow. "They grow these trees specially for Christmas. They're—they're Christmas trees! They wouldn't grow at all, if not for Christmas. As it is, they get ten good years—or something like that, don't interrupt me—and then they get to be a Christmas tree. Bet they look forward to it all their lives!"
Hutch rolled his eyes. "And I bet you still watch Christmas cartoons every year."
Starsky reached over and swatted him. "Like you don't! C'mon, put those lumberjack skills to use. You feel right at home around pine trees, don'tcha, Hutch?" He grinned, and puffed his chest out with a big breath of the Christmas tree farm's air. "Smell that! Like it's Christmas already!"
Hutch rolled his eyes again, but shouldered the ax and followed his partner.
"Now, the question is, do we pick a big, beautiful tree—" He spread his hands wide, smiling towards the sky as he indicated a sizeable, shapely tree. "Or do we get a Christmas tree that needs a little love, a Charlie Brown Christmas tree?" He indicated a smaller, less perfect tree with his hand signals.
"I knew it, you do watch Christmas cartoons!"
"Of course I do, Hutch! What's Christmas for if not stuff like that? Now come on. You're obviously not going to help, so I'll have to pick it myself."
They trudged. Well—Hutch trudged, Starsky strode buoyantly. "Smell that fresh air! Doesn't it smell like Christmas? You're the one that likes the great outdoors—fill your lungs with that, Hutch! Mmm! Ahh!" He held a hand to his chest and mimed breathing deeply, in and out. "Get that city dust out of your—your—what did you call 'em? Avioli?"
"Something like that," muttered Hutch.
Starsky glanced back at him. "Too depressed to even have a nice word argument with me?" He shook his head. "Man, Hutch, you really do hate Christmas. I wish you'd tell me why."
"I told you, I don't like the commercialism!" snapped Hutch.
"Okay, you don't like commercialism. Don't see you boycotting Valentine's Day, though," he muttered. "You're always loading up sheepishly on those stupid cards and candies, for whatever girl you're dating, even if you've only known her a few days!"
"That's different. If you don't celebrate Valentine's Day—"
"Yeah, yeah. Well, I'm your partner, and I won't be a happy camper either if you don't celebrate Christmas."
"Yes you will. You're nothing but good cheer this time of year," argued Hutch.
Starsky had slowed his steps and waited for Hutch to catch up with him. Now they were walking together, side by side, rather slowly through the widely-spaced trees. Starsky reached over and took his arm. "That's why you need me around more than ever this time of year. Now come on, be good and help me pick a good tree for the Christmas party!"
"I still say you're taking this far too seriously," said Hutch, but he followed his partner's lead, and didn't try to shake off Starsky's arm.
They continued to walk through the stair-stepped sized trees, looking for one of just the right height. They stopped in a grove where the trees were as tall as the men. Starsky placed his hands on his hips, swiveling to look around at the greenery. He took a deep, satisfied breath and let it out again. "Now this is more like it. If we're spendin' all this money for a tree, it might as well be a good one! Dobey's gonna be so impressed."
Hutch snorted. "Impressed? He'll regret ever agreeing to this party—or to letting you organize it!"
Starsky winked at him. "You AND me, remember?"
Hutch grimaced. "Don't remind me! How you got me to volunteer…"
"Must be my charming personality. Or the fact that you want to run everything."
"Hmph." Hutch looked around them like a condemned man, his face bleak. "Can't believe I'm helping you kill a tree."
"Happiest day of its life," reminded Starsky. "Now c'mon. What do you say to—this one!" He bounced forward, and pointed at a lovely, long-needled fir tree just slightly taller than he was. "Isn't it so pretty? I could just hug it!"
Hutch snorted in laughter. "Starsky—you've become a tree-hugger… in some bizarre twist of the universe. Yeah, all right, that one looks like it would look good," he admitted when Starsky turned an indignant stare on him. "Though it'll make the rest of the precinct look positively shabby, you mark my words."
"Not," said Starsky, "after I'm done decorating!"
Hutch smirked into his moustache. "Which? The tree? You're going to decorate it horribly on purpose?" He grunted when Starsky's fist found his arm.
"I meant the rest of the precinct! Paper chains, silver paper cranes if you'll help me fold them, lots of tin ornaments and glass bulbs and—and—it's gonna be great, Hutch!" In his eyes shone the enthusiasm of a true believer.
Hutch stared back at into the eyes of his friend, which looked excited and almost plead for understanding. "I'm glad you can see it that way, Starsky." He reached out and patted his friend's side. "Now, you want to start chopping, or should I?"
There was no missing the relief in Starsky's eyes. "So you'll help me with the paper cranes?" Starsky took the ax from him with an appealing look, and headed towards the tree.
"You know I'm all thumbs at those things," said Hutch. Then he rushed forward. "Starsky—Starsk—you've got to hold it right! Not like that…!"
Soon the ringing of wood being chopped filled the air, along with Starsky's voice taking up a cheerful Christmas carol.
Anyone from the precinct would have been quite shocked to also hear Hutch's voice take it up a few moments later, his soft voice blending nicely with Starsky's cheerful, energetic tone.
The two men emerged from the wood quite soon, carrying the tree between them. Starsky had the bushy end and kept batting errant branches out of his face, spitting to get the needles out of his mouth, and complaining.
Hutch didn't say much; but he did smirk. "You picked the tree, Starsk."
#
Hutch sighed heavily. He stood in front of a window display regarding its wares wearily. An electric train made its circuit with an occasional bell or whistle. Its sleek surface gleamed silver and red. But Starsky had a train.
Hutch had been reduced to going to the toy store looking for a present for his partner. Starsky was—well, not hard to pick for, perhaps, but hard for Hutch to pick for. The other year he'd planted a tree in Starsky's name in a park and thought his friend would be pleased. Instead, Starsky had looked as though someone had given him broccoli instead of birthday cake.
He didn't want to make the same mistake this year, but there was nothing that Starsky really needed, and most of the things he wanted he'd already bought for himself. It was like that, thought Hutch sourly. When you could afford to give a decent Christmas present, the person you wanted to buy for could already (and had) bought things for him or herself. When neither of you could afford much at all, then there were plenty of things you'd buy if only you could.
He had let it go till the last minute, kept thinking he'd think of the perfect present: something from a mail-order catalog, perhaps. He'd flipped through several.
But no luck. He wanted something Starsky would LIKE this year, and kept second-guessing his instincts in that direction. They'd certainly proven faulty in the past.
Starsky, on the other hand, seemed full of cheer and was happily talking about gifts. He looked so enthusiastic about it, too. It made Hutch both glad and sad to see his friend so taken with the holiday. He liked anytime Starsky was happy, of course, but it made him depressed that he felt so opposite to the way his partner felt. Usually, they could enjoy many of the same things. But about Christmas, it seemed they would always be diametrically opposed.
He walked through the toy car aisle, frowning at the models. Nothing exactly right. Besides, Starsky didn't even collect toy cars. He collected trains. But Hutch was getting desperate. He stopped and picked a small, red car off the shelf. It looked a lot like Starsky's tomato. It just needed a white stripe painted on the side. He had some paint at home.
Well, it was better than nothing. Perhaps he could give Starsky a certificate with it, something that said he'd wash the car for Starsky a couple of times or something like that. Hutch headed to the checkout, his walk purposeful.
#
Starsky browsed the aisles of the store frowning. He pushed a cart ahead of him that was already full. He paused occasionally to smile at a pretty girl doing her Christmas shopping. He swirled a tinsel chain around his neck at one point, being silly.
He'd also stopped near a couple of whining kids who were growing tired from an over-long shopping trip and made them laugh by making silly faces. He remembered how 'fun' shopping had been when he was a kid—all excitement and running around until you got too tired, or else 'behaving' and sticking right next to Ma and not getting the things you kept seeing that you wanted. It was hard being a kid and not having good impulse control. It was hard enough being an adult Christmas shopping.
He felt a little better from most of his interactions with the other shoppers (except that rude lady who slammed her cart into his because she rounded the aisle's corner too fast, and then blamed him). Not that he held a grudge.
No, the thing that was bothering him was… Hutch.
Specifically, what to get Hutch. Face it, the Blintz was HARD to shop for! He didn't really need anything. He hadn't particularly cared for the ant farm Starsky bought him last Christmas. Starsky had thought it was a great gift—something alive for Hutch to pamper, but something he wouldn't get upset over if it died.
That had been a big, fat failure. Hutch HAD been upset when the ants died, as all ants in ant farms eventually did. He'd blamed himself and been afraid he did something to cause the insects an untimely death. Starsky had had a heck of a time convincing him it really wasn't his fault. Hutch had been blue for days. Over ants.
Starsky didn't want to make the same mistake twice. He'd get something for his partner that couldn't die on him. Something perfect.
The only trouble was he had no idea what Hutch wanted. He could buy his friend a special meal or something like that he supposed. But it just didn't seem as special as having something to give him to unwrap on Christmas morning, or whenever they exchanged gifts.
Hutch hadn't said anything about going to visit his family over Christmas, and Starsky wasn't about to mention it. Sometimes Hutch got a little touchy on the subject, like he thought everyone believed he was a horrible son because he didn't visit his parents more often. Starsky didn't. Lots of people didn't visit their folks often, especially if they lived so far away.
And Starsky saw how drained and self-doubting he seemed every time he came home from such a visit. He wouldn't want to spend Christmas that way either. Hutch hated Christmas enough already.
Sometimes when he saw his partner get so miserable over this holiday, he wanted to just wrap him up in his arms and promise everything would be okay. That he would fix it, that Hutch didn't have to worry about a thing, just close his eyes and live through the holiday without thinking about it.
But Christmas was everywhere. And Christmas responsibilities, too. This year he'd convinced Hutch to help him with the Christmas party. At first glance, it sounded like he was making it worse for Hutch, making him attend a party and help with it, keeping him so busy. But if left to himself, Hutch seemed to brood and his mood grew darker and darker. At least if they were together, Starsky could keep an eye on him and try to distract him from his depressed feelings. Hutch always seemed happier around this time of year if he wasn't allowed to be alone too much, even when he complained about it. Starsky knew enough about his partner to not always listen to what he wanted but rather to what he needed.
He rounded the next aisle—and stopped, the cart skidding and one wheel making a jittering motion and squeaking. Starsky gaped down at the plant that someone had placed near the edge of the aisle. It was a tall potted tree with big leaves. It looked like something that belonged in a jungle and was really healthy and green. It had big, shiny leaves. Starsky couldn't believe how perfect it was—and after he'd already decided not to buy something alive for his partner.
Well, it looked like he was going to have to risk it. You couldn't find something this perfect—and so close to Christmas, too—without buying it. He'd just have to be extra careful to help Hutch look after it and not let it die. And if it did, he'd have to keep Hutch from blaming himself. He couldn't be sure; jungle plants might be hard to keep alive even if you were a plant expert like Hutch.
Starsky picked it up and regarded it critically. It wasn't cheap, but it was beautiful. And heavy. Lots of leaves, a healthy-looking trunk and plenty of soil in a big, heavy pot. It looked like it would last for years. Starsky nestled it carefully in the middle of his cart surrounded by the Christmas bulbs and lights and tinsel he'd bought. He steered towards the checkout, leaning low on the cart, grinning through the leaves. Everyone he passed turned to stare at the magnificent, flamboyant tree. He grinned back, cocky and assured. Hutch would have to like this.
No. He would LOVE it.
#
Starsky hummed happily as he lightly sprayed the jungle plant's leaves. They were such wide, exotic leaves! He was more certain than ever that Hutch would love this plant.
The only trouble was, keeping it alive till Christmas. He couldn't put it out on the porch. That would be too cold for a jungle plant. And it would need lots of sunshine. Lots! He didn't want it to die before he could give it to Hutch.
But unless he could keep Hutch out of the house for a week, he couldn't keep it in the sunny kitchen. In fact, he couldn't keep it anywhere in the house. But he had to keep it in the house, because—
There was a knock on the door. Starsky shot upright, eyes widening. "Hutch!" he breathed.
"Hey—Starsk! Open up. My hands are full!" Hutch complained.
Starsky cast a frantic look at the plant and then the door. "Uh—just a second, Hutch!" He grabbed up the plant and trundled into the bathroom with it. Careful not to slip, he plopped it into the middle of the tub. It made a scraping sound—terra cotta against porcelain. He winced.
"Starsky!" called Hutch, his voice faint from the distance, annoyed.
"Comin' Hutch!" He raced towards the kitchen, catching his foot once against the fridge in his hurry. "Ow—ow—ouch!" He hopped on one sneakered foot, holding his hurt one.
"Starsky!"
"I'm comin'! Shut up, Hutch!" He hopped, then limped, to the door, and opened it, glaring at his partner with beetled brows.
Hutch scowled back at him, looking haggard the way he usually did around Christmas. Starsky's expression softened instantly. He reached out to take half of the packages.
Instead, Hutch scowled and tried to push past him. "Just leave it, Starsk! Let me put them on the table."
"Er—sure. Sorry." He backed towards the table and glanced worriedly at the spot where he'd had the plant. The spray bottle was still there, along with a few telltale traces of potting soil and a few fine spray of water, except in a circle where it was dry. He brushed his sleeve over the spot trying to conceal it and glanced up quickly at Hutch.
Hutch was still scowling.
"Come on, Hutch. Cheer up. The food looks great." Starsky cast his gaze over the giant ham, fruit cake, dried fruit, nuts and bags of chips that Hutch had brought.
"We still need the punch," grumbled Hutch. "And we have to finish decorating and there just isn't time."
"Sure there is." Starsky moved beside his friend and put a hand on his back. He gave it a rub. "Hey. Calm down, huh? It's okay. We'll make it. It doesn't have to be perfect. And hey, you can quit if you need to, and I'll finish it."
Hutch straightened and ran a hand back through his hair, closing his eyes. "I'm—I'm fine, Starsk. I'm not going to let you down." His voice was really quiet now.
Starsky gave Hutch's arm a little squeeze, trying to be reassuring. "It's all right. If it's too much for you, don't worry about it. I'll get somebody else to help me."
Hutch snorted. "Yeah, right, can't even back up my partner for a Christmas party!"
"Hutch." Starsky caught him round the middle and pulled Hutch against his side, almost like he was wrestling him.
Hutch didn't struggle. Sunk in gloom, he sort of slumped in Starsky's arms. Starsky gave him a tight squeeze, feeling the sadness in Hutch's sturdy body. Hutch sighed heavily, eyes still closed. "Oh Starsk, I hate Christmas."
Starsky gave him a few comforting pats on the stomach. "I know you do. I'm sorry I volunteered you. I thought it would help…"
"No, it's not that, honestly. It's just—everything. Every little thing seems too hard this time of year. Every molehill a mountain. That sort of thing."
"Yeah, I know," said Starsky softly. Something had just occurred to him. That was how he felt about Father's Day. His father had died not far from it, and every year, the two events seemed connected, the memories intense and painful. He knew he was sometimes short-tempered and snappish with Hutch around that time, and Hutch always bore it patiently, trying to cheer him up and comfort him.
"When did your granddad die?" he asked quietly.
Hutch's eyes flew open, and he looked at Starsky. "Arm chair psychology, Starsk?" But he was smiling a little now, rueful and warm.
Starsky shrugged. "Just thought…" He felt embarrassed.
"Well, that's part of it. He did die close to Christmas. But it's always been this way for me, just—too much stress, too many 'shoulds' and lists and rules and… so much that's complicated and difficult without any good reason for it. These—rules about gifts. It's—it's, I mean, I can't even find you a good present! You! And I know you better than anybody."
Starsky blinked, shocked. "Don't get me anything. You're stressing about that? You don't have to buy me anything." But he realized he felt like he had to buy something for Hutch, too. Only he wanted to; it wasn't a chore. "Look, I don't want you to be worried about it. Just don't get me anything this year, okay?"
"That's worse than buying you a tree," mumbled Hutch, looking away, frowning. The line was returning to his forehead, Starsky noticed.
"Hey, the tree was a great present, you hear me?" He tugged on his partner's sleeve. "Hey. You hear me?"
Hutch turned to smile at him. "Starsk, you're a terrible liar, but thanks." He reached out and patted Starsky's side affectionately. "Don't worry—I'll get you a better gift this year!"
"Hey, don't. If you feel like you have to buy me something, I'll pick something out, okay? Don't worry about it, huh?"
Hutch nodded half-heartedly.
It was the best Starsky could expect. "Now, I'm sorry you got stressed buying this stuff. I have the rest of the stuff in my car. What do you say we put the ham and stuff in my fridge and drive over and work on the decorations a bit, then go to Huggy's? My treat."
Again Hutch nodded. "You put it away. I've got to take a leak." He headed towards the bathroom.
"Uh—" Starsky took one step after his partner then stopped, his sneakers squeaking on the kitchen floor. He watched as Hutch closed the door behind him. He gnawed his lip a little, trying to remember if he'd pulled the shower curtain the whole way. He'd been in so much of a hurry…
Well, Hutch would see the tree, or he wouldn't. It would be a slightly less than perfect gift if he saw it now, but maybe it would cheer him up a little. And maybe he'd know how to keep it alive. Trying not to worry, Starsky turned and began loading the goodies for the party into the fridge, beginning to whistle Jingle Bells somewhat flatly. Soon he was down on his knees, trying to cram goodies into his fridge.
"Starsky!" shouted Hutch from the bathroom, his voice echoing a little in the enclosed space.
Starsky jumped. "Yeah, Hutch?" He scrambled to his feet and grimaced at the twinge in the one he'd hit on the fridge. He headed towards the bathroom, wanting to ask "Do you like it?" But Hutch sounded annoyed…
"If you have to have Christmas music, try singing instead of whistling."
Starsky had the distinct impression Hutch was gritting his teeth. Starsky grinned in spite of the implied insult to his whistling. "What, is that annoying you, partner? Does it make it hard to pee?" He wanted to get in some insult about being a tight ass but it didn't quite come together before Hutch emerged, frowning at him.
"It's very annoy—"
"You get back in there and wash your hands!" demanded Starsky, starting towards him, pointing. "We're gonna be decorating a Christmas tree and everything!"
"Yeah, yeah." Hutch went back into the bathroom. Starsky heard the water running. And then Hutch began to whistle too. Jingle Bells.
Starsky grinned. He'd managed to get a song stuck in his partner's head, and he hadn't even been trying. That had to be some kind of record.
#
"Starsky!"
"Just a second, Hutch!"
Starsky wobbled on a chair, reaching for the top of the tree, trying to put a star on it.
"I'm trying to do the tinsel! If you'd get out of the way…"
"It doesn't have to be perfect, you know."
Hutch frowned up at his curly-headed partner. "Of course it does. The whole precinct is coming to this party. Do you want to have a ratty-looking tree for them?"
"Not ratty-looking," said Starsky patiently. The edge of his tongue stuck out of his mouth as he concentrated on the star, trying to get it twisted on right. "Homemade. There." He stood back and tilted his head. Then tilted his head further. Then further. "It's—almost straight."
Hutch sighed. "Get out of the way and let me do it."
Starsky looked down at him with beetled brows. He looked annoyed. "For somebody who doesn't like Christmas, you're sure getting bossy and trying to take over everything."
"That's because—" Hutch's mouth snapped shut. Realization poured over him like hot oil, burning his soul to a crisp. "Everything has to be perfect," he said in a small, miserable voice. He put down the tinsel abruptly and raked his fingers back through his hair. "I didn't realize I was doing that." He looked up at Starsky. "I'm—sorry. I always hated it when my—my—when people said everything had to be perfect and now I'm doing it too." For a moment, he was afraid he was going to get wet-eyed and Starsky would see.
Starsky's annoyed look was gone. He gave Hutch a sunny, authentic smile. "Never mind! Help me down and straighten that star for me. Then let's throw all the tinsel and ornaments on. We can make any last minute changes tomorrow, before the party. And Hutch, about gifts…"
His voice trailed off as Hutch reached to help him down, taking one of his hands and holding the back of the chair with his other. Starsky hopped down, wobbled and then limped two steps.
"You're foot's still hurting you?" asked Hutch, frowning. "How'd you hurt it?"
"I banged it on my fridge. About gifts…"
"Well how long has it been hurting?"
"Not long, couple hours. About our gifts…"
"Do you need to see a doctor?" Hutch stared down at his friend's foot. Starsky wore his ratty blue-and-white sneakers, and his old jeans were frayed at the bottom. Hutch knew they hid some of the world's skinniest male ankles. Starsky was prone to turning them and had to be a little careful sometimes. If you didn't take care of such injuries, they could really hamstring you when it came to doing your job as a cop. Not to mention, of course, that they caused a lot of pain.
"Hutch!" said Starsky, and he looked up quickly to meet blazing blue, reproachful eyes. "I'm trying to ask you something!"
Hutch spread his hands. "Okay, ask away." He crossed his arms, and concentrated on his partner's face, trying not to let his gaze go back to Starsky's foot.
"All I want to know is when you want your present. I already said, you don't need to get me anything, but I got you something, and I want to give it to you whenever you'd like it."
"How about next Christmas?" asked Hutch.
A quick flash of anxiety showed in his partner's face. "Oh, I don't know if I can…"
"Keep another ant farm alive that long?" asked Hutch.
The second he said it, he was sorry. Acute embarrassment and hurt showed on his partner's face.
"I—I'm kidding, Starsk," said Hutch hurriedly. "I'm sure it's great. I just—I didn't manage to get you anything especially wonderful so I'm—I'm just…"
"I said you don't need to get me anything. But I really want to give you this. So can you please, if you have a preference, just tell me? If you don't, I'll surprise you." Starsky spoke slowly and carefully, as if trying to keep a rein on his words, keep them from flying out ahead of him like shrapnel, causing hurt—the way Hutch's had done.
Hutch saw from the slightly slumped stance of Starsky, and the way his long eyelashes had lowered and his smile disappeared, that he was feeling hurt and weary. Inwardly, Hutch sighed.
"It doesn't matter to me. Whenever you want. I'm sorry to be so annoying. Just…don't mind me, okay?" He reached out to pat Starsky on the arm, half caress, half swat.
"Oh, I don't." Starsky moved away, casting him a smile. But he was obviously still somewhat hurt by Hutch's caustic attitude.
Hutch stood wretchedly a moment, his own shoulders slumped. Should he go after Starsky and try to fix it? Or should he just let him alone, give him time? Hutch looked up at the tree, half decorated, its star askew on top. It was very crooked. Sighing, he climbed the chair to try to batter it back into the right position, inwardly cursing this whole stupid time of the year.
#
The Torino screeched to a halt and Starsky and Hutch flung the doors wide. They were off and racing down the alley after the perp almost before the car had stopped.
"Freeze! Police!" yelled Starsky, raising his gun. A gunshot answered this demand.
Starsky was down.
One second he was running, the next his face was kissing pavement.
"Starsk!" Hutch cried, the sound rent from him like a sob. He raised his gun and fired back at the perp as if in a dream, and saw the man drop and clutch his arm.
Hutch ran past his partner's fallen body, each breath like a sob, and kicked the gun away from the perp and handcuffed him roughly to a fence.
Then he ran back to his partner.
"Hutch," said Starsky, half rising. His face was bloody. "I'm okay," he gasped, sounding as though he was trying to catch his breath.
In a moment, Hutch was by his side lifting him gently, searching for a wound. "Just—hit my nose," said Starsky, batting him away.
"But you fell. You got shot." Hutch held him close, almost rocking him. "You're all right? You're really all right?"
Starsky nodded, gulping, and wiped at his nose with his sleeve. "My—my ankle, Hutch. Twisted it just as he fired."
Hutch's eyes filled. He fumbled for his handkerchief and gave it to Starsky and then looked up at the sky, filled with silent thanks for his Christmas miracle.
#
"You don't have to carry me, you know."
"It's no big deal." Hutch maneuvered carefully around the corner and up to Starsky's front door.
"Now how you gonna open it?" said Starsky, sounding amused. "Let me down and I'll do it."
Hutch put him down, but kept hold of Starsky so his partner wouldn't put weight on his ankle. It was swathed in Ace bandages and somewhat swollen. Starsky was putting on a brave face, but he'd been quite hurt, first from banging it and then from twisting it so savagely in the alleyway.
Leaning on his partner, Starsky unlocked the door and pushed it open. Immediately, Hutch scooped him up again and carried him inside.
"Hutch!" complained Starsky, thumping a fist down on his shoulder. "You're bein' stupid!"
"I don't want you hurting yourself. Besides, you're not all that heavy. I carried you in the restaurant, remember?"
"Yeah, well, I was hurt a lot worse back then and your back was stronger, too! Right here. Put me down."
Hutch obeyed, depositing Starsky on the couch. His partner looked up at him, still slightly indignant. It didn't last, however. His face spread in a wide grin. "Oh, Hutch! I got you the best present. You want to see it now? I'm not going to be able to take care of it with my foot like this. So will you open it now?"
"Open it…? Take care of it?" Hutch gave a nervous laugh. He scraped a hand back through his mussed hair. "Sure, buddy." Even if it was something horrible, he'd be grateful, he decided. He had Starsky, alive and safe, and that made even Christmas wonderful.
"Great!" Starsky thumped a hand on the couch in excitement, grinning his 100-watt smile. "It's in the bathroom. Just pull the shower curtain."
Casting a bemused glance back at his partner, Hutch walked into the restroom. "Pull the…" The shower curtain rings rang as he tugged, and he stopped mid-mumble.
There sat a beautiful plant. He felt a smile slowly spread over his face and released his breath, relaxing and smiling more than he had in days.
He emerged carrying it, his face full of wide, green leaves.
"Starsky, it's perfect!"
"You like it?" Starsky sounded uncharacteristically shy. "I wasn't sure what it was."
"It's a banana tree! Starsky, you got me a banana tree! Where did you ever find… It's beautiful! Where did you find it? I've been hunting for one of these…"
Starsky laughed aloud in delight. "I'm so glad! I just stumbled across it in the store near the gardening section. I'm surprised it was there, like a miracle, waiting for me to find it. I'm so glad you like it! Now you can keep it alive through Christmas, right? I was worried…."
Chattering to and over each other, they regarded the handsome plant, their faces all smiles.
#
Hutch looked out over the successful Christmas party they'd made. The Captain was happily eating some of his wife's homemade apple pie, chatting to a friend. Policemen and detectives milled around, toasting each other, joking, exchanging gifts and playful jibes.
All seemed to be right with the world at the BCPD. The couple of minor perps who'd just been booked had even been released temporarily on good behavior to have a cup of eggnog with their arresting officers. Peace and goodwill! At least for one brief moment of the year.
Hutch looked up at the tree, and the star that was somehow crooked again, though he could've sworn he'd straightened it perfectly the other day. It made him think of Starsky and how appearances could be deceiving. And the lesson Starsky had taught Hutch: how sometimes thing could be perfect even if they didn't look like it outwardly.
Hutch picked up two packages from under the tree and went in search of his partner. He found him by the table that was covered with Christmas goodies.
Starsky stood leaning on crutches, making a meal of all the attention he was getting. In the end, he'd refused to let Hutch help him around, and Hutch had refused to let him try to walk on his hurt ankle. So they'd compromised on a pair of crutches.
They'd dug out the old pair Starsky had after his last foot-related accident, and he was obviously enjoying the attention they got him at the Christmas party. He'd actually said, "Too bad I don't have a cast to sign!" Hutch had given him an answering glare.
Now Starsky stood by the table that was weighed down with food, eating a huge chunk of rum-laden fruitcake. He smiled when he saw Hutch walking towards him, but his mouth was too full to talk. He looked eagerly at the packages in Hutch's hands. "Two!" he mumbled around his fruitcake.
"Crumbs, Starsk," said Hutch, laughing and trying to go for his friend's mouth with a napkin.
Starsky shoved him away, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and swallowed. "Let me see 'em!"
Hutch looked down, feeling himself grow embarrassed. "Well, it's not much I'm afraid." He handed over the two packages diffidently.
"I'll love 'em, Hutch. I told you, you didn't have to get me anything." Grinning, he ripped the paper off the smallest of packages—and gasped. He held up a miniature toy car, bright red with a white stripe painted on the side. "You got me a Torino! Thanks, Hutch!"
Hutch blushed. He held out the second package wordlessly, feeling as clumsy with his tongue as he sometimes was with his feet. He had no idea what to say, but Starsky's reaction delighted him.
Casting him another excited smile, Starsky ripped open the second package. Slowly, he drew out two teddy bears.
They were specialty teddy tears, made to order, complete with clothing and shoes.
One had pale yellow fur, blue eyes, and wore tiny cowboy boots, corduroy pants, and a shirt with a guitar embroidered on the back.
The other had brown fur, blue eyes, and wore tiny blue sneakers, blue jeans, and a red t-shirt.
They both had pleasant-looking faces and stitched-on little bear smiles.
"I thought they could keep Ollie company," mumbled Hutch, utterly embarrassed. Teddy bears? What had he been thinking? Yeah, that was a great gift for a grown man. Good going, Hutchinson…
"Hutch," said Starsky in a hushed voice. He looked up, and his eyes were bright and warm. "I love them. Thank you." He hugged both bears close, and his throat bobbed. "It's perfect."
Hutch smiled back gratefully, his heart too full to speak. He moved to Starsky's side and slung an arm over his shoulder. They looked out over the Christmas party together.
It was, indeed, perfect.
[[End]]