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The knock on the door sounded just as Hutch was about to add rosemary to the bowl of stuffing he was mixing. Starsky snickered at the fountain of little green needles that erupted across the kitchen table, and again, louder, at Hutch's exasperated look at the mess.
"Just for that, mushbrain, you can answer the door." Hutch tried to sweep up the scattered fragments of herb using the edges of his pinky fingers, and only made the problem worse.
"Yeah, right, make the gimp do the walking," Starsky grumbled, as he began the process of getting up.
Hutch waved his hands, already covered in flecks of onion and parsley and breadcrumbs, now liberally crusted in rosemary as well. "You really want a trail of this leading to the front door? Because if you do, you're the one running the vacuum cleaner."
Starsky paused halfway through the shift-shove-shuffle it took to get him on his feet, and grinned up at his partner.
"What, you're worried Santa's going to deduct neatness points?"
Hutch rolled his eyes as the knock sounded again. "Go on, get the door."
Among the many good things about moving in with Hutch, near the top of Starsky's list was that Hutch let him do stuff. Sure, he griped and nagged and kept an eagle eye on him; sometimes Starsky felt like suggesting Hutch apply to IA if he wanted play Big Brother that badly. But he never lifted a finger to do something Starsky could do for himself. After months of people opening doors and carrying his stuff and asking every second step if he needed a rest, Starsky was too grateful for words that Hutch trusted him enough to let him push himself. Trusted him enough to believe he'd ask for help when he really needed it.
Sometimes they didn't get it quite right: Starsky's first attempt to climb the Venice Place stairs had ended with him collapsed in a heap half-way up, Hutch hovering over him, face so white Starsky's chief worry was that both of them would end up passed out in the stairwell. But mostly, the same instincts that had worked so well between them on the street worked at home too. Starsky was sure if he made it through all this sane and functioning, it would be because of Hutch.
Starsky got himself upright and grabbed his cane from where it hung on the edge of the table. Seven months after the shooting in the garage, five months after the stroke, and he was finally moving faster than an arthritic snail. For so long it had seemed like he wasn't getting anywhere, like he'd never get anywhere, like his future was going to be an eternity of catheters and walkers and physiotherapy that hurt like a bitch and didn't change a damn thing.
But in the past month it seemed his brain had finally gotten the message that it needed to rewire some connections. He could talk now, without feeling like he had to dig every word out of a Chinese dictionary written backwards. He had graduated from walker to cane, and though his right leg still dragged, it moved. Always slowly, not always willingly, but he was getting back enough strength that sometimes he could push it through when the muscles seemed to forget what they needed to do. There were moments when Starsky thought he could actually feel his body struggling to figure out the new wiring, finding ways around the damage to get back in the groove.
And it was about damn time, because Starsky was pretty sure if he didn't make some serious progress soon, it was going to kill Hutch. He still felt a cold trickle down his backbone remembering the day he'd been alert enough to notice Hutch had cut his hair. Not just a little bit off the back and sides either, but a full-out gyrene buzz cut. The time right after the stroke was a blur of pain and confusion and helplessness, studded with sudden raw blasts of terror, and Starsky was honestly glad he couldn't remember most of it. But the moment Hutch bent down to talk to him and Starsky realized he was seeing pale pink scalp through blond bristles was going down as officially the worst of all. From that day on, his determination had never wavered. No matter what it took, Starsky was going to live long enough to be able to ruffle Hutch's hair again.
And watch him eat a decent meal.
The hair-ruffling would have to wait: even with Starsky out of the hospital and settled in at Venice Place, Hutch was getting himself ruthlessly barbered every couple of weeks. But Starsky had high hopes for the decent meal. Damn the doctors, damn Gunther, damn the insurance company and the physiotherapist and everything else, the two of them had resolved they were going to have a blow-out Christmas dinner. Turkey with all the trimmings, and even if they ended up with leftovers for a week, they were going to savor every mouthful.
They'd made it to Christmas, and a few months ago that would have been a sucker bet.
When he finally reached the door, Starsky braced the cane under his right elbow so he could use his left hand turn the deadbolt, and then open the door. Keys on the lintel, doors left casually unlocked, trust itself, all had been additional casualties of Gunther's hitmen.
Two tall figures wrapped in winter coats stood on the landing, both carrying shopping bags bulging with brightly wrapped presents. They beamed at Starsky as the door swung open.
"Merry Christmas, David! Happy Chanukah!"
"Mr. Hutchinson?"
Startled, Starsky took an unguarded step back. The cane slipped out from under him and he felt himself flounder as too much weight came down on his right leg.
Hutch's father dropped his bags and grabbed Starsky under the arms, supporting his weight effortlessly.
"Easy, son, I've got you. Ida, grab his cane, will you, hon?"
Too surprised to pull away, Starsky let himself be supported while Mrs. Hutchinson set down her load and retrieved his cane. Starsky took it, making sure to plant it firmly before settling his weight. Hutch's father held his elbows for a moment longer, cocking one bushy blond brow questioningly.
Starsky nodded, steadying himself a bit more firmly. He was not going to collapse in front of Hutch's parents, he thought fiercely. Something must have showed on his face, because Mr. Hutchinson winked at him before he turned to retrieve the presents.
"Mom? Dad?"
Unnoticed, Hutch had come out of the kitchen. He stood behind Starsky, wiping his hands over and over on a kitchen towel, looking poleaxed.
"I thought you were going to Aunt Lucy's for Christmas?" he said weakly.
"Ken!" Ida Hutchinson swept past Starsky to throw her arms around her son.
"You look so thin, dear! And what have you done to your hair?" Starsky could see how her hand trembled as she stroked Hutch's bristly scalp.
"Just needed a change, Mom." Hutch's voice wobbled, and he returned his mother's hug fiercely.
"You couldn't just drag that ratty old serape back out of the ragbag?" Ida's voice shook as badly as her son's, but her smile widened as she pulled him into another hug.
When she let him go, Hutch was bright pink, but the smile on his face had Starsky feeling a prickle of tears. Damn, how long had it been since Hutch hadn't looked like he was carrying the world on his shoulders?
"Dad." Hutch held out a hand to his father.
"Hell with that, kiddo," the older man said gruffly, and enveloped Hutch in a hug of his own.
Edgar Hutchinson had been a logger in his youth, and still had the shoulders and arms to prove it. Not quite as tall as Hutch but nearly twice as wide, Starsky always thought the old man looked as if he'd been carved with a chainsaw out of some pale, very tough wood. As his father's arms closed around him Hutch suddenly seemed to crumple, burying his face against Edgar's shoulder.
Thank God, Starsky thought. Blondie can finally ease off the load just a little.
Determined to let father and son have a minute together, he turned his best smile on Ida. "Mrs. H, can I get your coat? We weren't expecting company."
"Oh, that's alright, David." Ida waved one elegant hand dismissively. "We really weren't planning on coming ourselves until—"
A loud cough from the landing interrupted her.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Ed pulled away from Hutch and turned to Starsky, grinning broadly. "David, there's somebody here who'd like to see you."
Starsky got himself shifted halfway round and froze.
"Ma?"
"Davileh."
He was enveloped by the warmth of home.
**
After dinner, Starsky was banished to the greenhouse while the others did the dishes. Much as he wanted to protest being sent out like a little kid, he knew he was pretty much done for the day. Little tremors shook his right arm every now and then, and he was tired enough to sometimes come up blank on a word.
Better to put his feet up and let the peaceful green space soothe him for a while.
Starsky leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking about Christmas dinner. Five people were a crowd around Hutch's kitchen table, but nobody had objected to the closeness. Mrs. Hutchinson produced a mincemeat and apple pie, brought all the way from Duluth in her carry-on bag, and Starsky's mother had commandeered Hutch's apron and whipped up a batch of feather-light baking powder biscuits. The two women had compared gravy recipes and swapped stories featuring their sons' childhood Christmas shenanigans, with Starsky and Hutch both protesting and laughing in equal measures.
Watching Hutch constantly smiling was the best part of the evening as far as Starsky was concerned. The past year had been brutal to them both, but when Hutch smiled, really smiled, Starsky could see a lot of his partner's old spirit still in there.
Maybe we'll never be good for the streets again, he thought, flexing his right knee and feeling the drag of muscles struggling to respond. But we're gonna be okay. We just need a little more time to get ourselves together.
A quiet step made Starsky open his eyes. Edgar Hutchinson was looking down at him, a thoughtful frown on his face.
"The ladies said I was welcome to take my cigar out here," he said, settling down across the table. "The smoke won't bother you?"
Starsky shook his head. "I like the smell. Be a while before I can have a good Cuban again."
"Fine, fine." Edgar trimmed his cigar and lit it, the little ritual stretching out the silence. Starsky hid a grin and leaned back in his armchair, continuing to flex his knee and looking at Hutch's big purple and green striped Zebrina like it held the secrets of the universe. He'd been a cop long enough to learn how to wait when somebody wanted to talk.
When Edgar's cigar was glowing to his satisfaction, he looked across at Starsky and said, "I hope you boys are okay with us surprising you like this. I . . . " He paused and shook his head grimly. "Ken told us how badly you'd been hurt, but seeing it for myself—I just hope it wasn't too much for you."
Starsky chuckled. "I'm better than I look. It'll take a while to make Hutch believe it, but things are picking up all the time."
"He cut his hair." Edgar brushed a hand over his own close-cropped grey-blond hair. "I remember arguing about that with him when he was in college. Never thought I'd see the day . . . " He paused, taking a drag on the cigar and eying Starsky uneasily.
"Spit it out, Mr. H.," Starsky said. "You probably can't ask anything somebody else hasn't."
"You can't go back to the force." It wasn't a question, but Starsky nodded anyway. Some things could be fixed, with enough care and time, and some things couldn't. Accepting that was harder than anything Starsky had ever done in his life.
"What about Ken? Will he be able to stay?"
A part of Starsky wanted to tell Edgar Hutchinson to mind his own business, and he fiercely shoved it down. Being Hutch's dad gave the man some rights.
"I don't know."
But answers to that kind of question weren't part of them.
"Fair enough." Edgar leaned forward, clear blue eyes so much like Hutch's it made Starsky wince. "Let's put it this way: has he lost his nerve?"
Starsky hesitated a moment too long, and Edgar visibly quailed.
"No!" Starsky snapped. "At least, not like you're thinking. He held it together until I had the stroke. Hell, he's held it together, held me together, more than anybody ever should have to. Weren't for Hutch, I might've bought the farm this summer. He's the reason I'm walking and talking, instead of stuck in a ward somewhere."
"But he can't go back to the work you used to do."
"I wouldn't let him back on the street without me anyway."
"So that's the way it is."
"Yes, sir." Starsky met Edgar's eyes without flinching. "That's the way it is."
Edgar shook his head slowly, a rueful grin on his craggy face. "It's funny how things just sneak up on you sometimes. Here we've been, thinking we could worry less because Ken had a good partner to back him up. Turns out we've got ourselves two boys to worry over instead of one."
"Mr. H.—"
"Ed," the older man interrupted, puffing contentedly.
"Ed." Starsky gathered his courage. "We're gonna be okay. I'm getting disability and insurance, and once I get back on my feet a little more, I'll find something I can do. Dobey's got Hutch on desk duty right now, so he's got time to figure things out too. We're not gonna go hungry." He leaned forward. "I gotta thank you for getting Ma out here for Christmas. I can't pay you back right now, but once things shake out, I'll make sure to square things."
"No you won't." Ed waved one big hand. "If anybody owes anything here, it's our family. You've kept our boy alive over the years, and that's worth more than a dozen plane tickets."
Starsky shrugged, feeling his cheeks heat slightly. "Works both ways," he said.
"Maybe." Ed puffed again. "Though I'd say your backbone has a lot to do with it too. But it takes a special kind of partnership to do what you two do, and make it work." He looked sharply over at Starsky. "I suppose it's no secret Ida and I weren't happy when Ken decided to be a cop. If he'd stayed home and joined the state patrol, maybe we could have felt easier in our minds. But out here, in Los Angeles? In this dangerous place? I won't lie, David. We've been sick with fear sometimes, reading the newspaper or seeing on the TV the things that go on out here.
"But once we got to know you, we felt a little better. We knew you'd look after him, just like he's looked after you.
"That's what partners do," Starsky said.
"Maybe. Maybe. But you two go above and beyond for each other. So, Ida and I have been thinking. My company does a fair amount of business out here on the coast. Some of the directors have been talking about setting up our own security division, especially in the Los Angeles area. Sounds like that might be tailor-made for you and Ken."
Starsky gaped at him for a moment, then pulled himself together. "Sir, that's real generous of you, and I know you're wanting the best for us, but I can't take something that big. And I'm not sure Hutch would either." He felt an unwilling grin tug at him. "He's always been pretty set on making it without—"
"Without charity?" Ed interrupted. "Yep, he's a stubborn one, always has been. But trust me, this job won't be charity. If you take it, you'll probably work harder than you ever have in your lives. You're going to be responsible to the board of directors, not to me, and you'll have to prove you've got what it takes for the job."
"Have you talked to Hutch about this?"
Edgar chuckled. "I thought I'd get your take on the idea first. If I can't convince you, I've got no chance of getting through to him."
Starsky leaned back, a sudden small flare of hope coming alive in his chest. A chance at a job. A real job, one that would make use of their skills, and let them still work together.
And make some decent bread, too, Starsky thought.
"So what do you say, David? Want to help me convince Ken that this is a legit offer?"
"Responsible to the board?" Starsky asked.
Edgar nodded.
"But we could run our own show?"
"With some oversight." Edgar held up a hand as Starsky opened his mouth. "Stockholders like to see documented expense accounts. But when we pay for experts, we tend to let them use their expertise and not second-guess them unless they really go off the rails."
"And it's both of us or neither."
Edgar nodded again.
Starsky took a deep breath. "Okay," he said. "Let's talk to Hutch."
"In the morning," Edgar said firmly. "We'll all do better on a good night's sleep."
"Hope it won't all turn out to be a dream," Starsky said, preparing to get up.
"In our family, we've always had the idea that the best Christmas gifts aren't so much about the things you get, as about the opportunity that comes with them. That's all we're giving you: opportunity. The rest will be up to you."
"That's all we've ever needed," Starsky said. "That's all we'll ever need."
The End