Christmas Spirits

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2000

Seasoned Timber 2 (2002)

  “You know, you can tell me if you’re sick. There’s no reason I can’t postpone this trip,” Hutch began conversationally over the lunch he was eating and Starsky was not.

  Across the diner booth from him, his partner looked up in exasperation from the wilted french fry he’d been studying. “Would you--look, I’m tellin’ ya for the last time, I’m not sick.” To underline his point, he popped the fry into his mouth and followed it with a generous bite of his hamburger.

  Hutch hid a smile at the almost immediate wince of disgust that came over Starsky’s face as he began to chew. As stuffed up as he sounded, the food probably had as much taste as a piece of paper. But the amusement faded just as fast as Hutch remembered the reason *why* Starsky, who usually moaned and groaned over every little injury, was going to such great pains to hide the fact that he obviously wasn’t feeling well. Hutch softened his tone placatingly. “Starsky, it hasn’t been that long--your lungs still aren’t too strong. I just think someone should keep an eye on you. It’s not like I *have* to go now.”

  Starsky’s expression, relenting in the face of his honest concern, firmed up again at that last. Yes, it was like Hutch had to go then, and they both knew it. “I’m fine,” he muttered stubbornly, congestedly, and giving his food a sick look, shoved it to one side. “Just not hungry right now.”

  Hutch’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “Yeah, I can see how that handful of raisins you had this morning would’ve filled you up.” Raisins he, in fact, had insisted Starsky eat after learning his partner had overslept and hadn’t had breakfast.

  That just earned him a withering glance as Starsky climbed out of the booth. “I gotta go before we leave. Meet ya out in the car.” The look he gave Hutch was nonchalant and intense all at once, asking--no, telling--Hutch to let it go.

  Hutch met it with unblinking affection, a soft smile playing on his lips. His answer was clear.

  Starsky finally made a sound of frustration and strode off toward the back of the diner. Hutch sighed, taking another sip of his soda. He couldn’t blame Starsky for his chagrin, for feeling stuck like a player in a game whose rules had changed. Hutch had been the one who had changed them.

  It had taken time for Starsky to accept that for each of the past three Christmases since they'd been partners, Hutch had left town and headed off to spend the holiday in company and parts unknown. After several unsuccessful tries at coaxing Hutch into joining him in various shared holiday plans, Starsky had finally accepted this mysterious quirk of his friend’s. If that was what Hutch needed, Starsky supported his going, much as Hutch knew his partner missed celebrating with him. An explanation was long overdue, sharing the difficult memories the holiday held for him, but...he wasn't quite ready to face that yet. And in the meantime, Starsky didn't press. They both knew when to push and when the other needed space.

  Just as Hutch knew now that Starsky was a big boy and certainly capable of taking care of himself, especially with Hutch due to leave the next day for his Christmas retreat. Except that an ex-con named Jesse Solan had shifted that balance a little just a few weeks before. Suspected of a pair of rapes, Solan had lashed out against the detectives dogging him by taking Starsky hostage. The ensuing showdown had left Hutch with a battered and nearly drowned partner. Starsky’s lungs hadn’t been severely compromised, but that scare followed too closely his earlier shooting at Giovanni's, and both incidents were recent and bad enough that Hutch intended to keep an eye on this new threat to health, however mild. It hadn’t been a decision made without cost, and Hutch wasn’t sure yet how he felt about staying, but it’d been the only choice. Besides, half of Starsky’s ideas of therapeutic care seemed to involve refried beans.

  He just hadn’t foreseen Starsky’s reaction to his change of plans, though he should have. Convinced Hutch needed the time alone, Starsky wasn’t about to let anything, including his own needs, interfere. And the fact that Hutch wasn’t letting his friend protect him only perturbed the brunet more. Starsky never had much patience with anything that kept him from helping his partner.

  Starsky was weaving his way back, not looking much refreshed. With a half-shake of the head, Hutch rose from the table and grabbed both their trays. Off Starsky’s nearly full one, he salvaged the soda before dumping the rest, then headed to meet his partner already by the door. “Here,” he thrust the cup at the brunet. “It’ll help your throat.”

  Starsky gave him enough credit not to argue, dourly sticking the straw into his mouth and sucking on the drink as they returned to the car.

  Hutch wasn’t finished. Over the hood of the Torino, he pinned his partner with a look. “And when we get back, if you don’t tell Dobey you’re taking sick time, I will. With me gone, he’s gonna have you do paperwork, anyway, and do you really want to work on it feeling like this?”

  Starsky’s irate protest died with the situation put like that, not to mention Hutch’s implicit intention to go away after all. He gave his partner the expected put-upon look but stayed silent. Nor did he try to hide his faint shivers anymore as he hunched over the steering wheel. Nothing short of being at death’s door would make him give up *that*, though they’d been there once, too, Hutch soberly remembered. So what was a little bout of ‘flu among friends?

  Or a painful holiday, for that matter? Whether Starsky approved or not, Hutch figured he’d soon find out.

  Hutch turned the key in the lock gently, not wanting to awake his possibly sleeping partner within. After clearing two guaranteed days of sick leave with Dobey the afternoon before, then fixing some soup at Starsky’s over his half-hearted protests, Hutch had sternly told the man to stay in bed and take it easy. Which should mean by now...

  Yup, he blew out a breath in aggravation. The sound of the TV blaring away some early morning how-to show confirmed his suspicions, as did the lump on the couch before it. A cold lump, if Hutch was any judge, curled in on itself to try to stay warm. Hutch eased the door shut behind him and crept closer, though the television would have drowned out a full-scale SWAT assault. Rounding the couch, he stopped and studied the scene.

  A congealed half-full bowl of soup sat on the coffee table, a pile of magazines on the floor witness to the haphazard way space had been cleared for it. Next to the bowl sat an empty glass and a bottle of medicinal syrup that had far more left in it than it should have. Starsky seemed oblivious to it all. Wrapped in the comforter off his bed, he was hunkered down among the couch cushions. An electric blanket was also tucked in around him, but its cord trailed forlornly along the ground, no outlet close enough to plug it into. Starsky’s eyes were half-open but without life, staring at the TV without moving to follow the activity on it. Certainly not watching, and definitely not what his partner would have called resting.

  Hutch frowned. Hadn’t Rachel Starsky taught her son how to take care of a cold? Sometimes Hutch wondered how Starsky had survived all...

  His annoyance died away. Starsky *was* a survivor; he’d had to be one. Sent away to relatives by his mom at the age of nine, maybe all the nurturing and mothering Hutch had taken for granted when he’d been sick as a kid wasn’t so natural to Starsky. It would certainly explain some of his eating habits.

  Well, never too late to learn, right? Hutch moved closer, and Starsky started, turning toward him with slower-than-normal reflexes and a slightly muddled confusion when he saw who it was.

  “Hutch? What’re you doin’--”

  “Checking in on you, dummy.” Hutch was already reaching for the soup bowl and glass over the mounds of his partner’s feet. “This your idea of taking it easy?”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” The nasal growl ended up in a rough cough.

  “You got that right,” Hutch answered from the kitchen, where he’d already dumped the old soup and was turning on the gas under the pot retrieved from the refrigerator. “Mind telling me when you had something to drink last?” he called out.

  “Dunno.” The strength of indignation was coming back into his partner’s voice, brain beginning to work again. Hutch knew that shortly, sick or not, Starsky would start asking some questions of his own, ones Hutch didn’t have the answer to. But for the moment, he knew what he needed to do and how to do it, and that was as far as he was thinking.

  With a full glass of cold water, he went out into the living room again. “Well, you should. It’s easy not to realize how dehydrated you are when you’re sick, and that can make you even sicker, or worse.” He stopped in front of Starsky, reaching out the glass. “Think what the guys would say if we pulled you through getting shot only to lose you to influenza.”

  For a joke, it wasn’t very funny and neither of them laughed. Starsky reached out a hand that felt too hot as it brushed Hutch’s and, not looking so annoyed anymore, took the glass and drank half of it before it sagged into his lap.

  Hutch, meanwhile, went over to flick off the television, plunging the house into a seemingly deep silence. Except he could hear Starsky’s stuffy breathing behind him, even as his partner dully insisted, “I was watching that.”

  “*Duck Hunting with Pete*--you got a new hobby you’re not tellin’ me?” Hutch asked pleasantly as he turned back. He brandished a spoon in one hand. “Two tablespoons of the syrup, too, buddy.”

  Starsky’s hands were fumbling on the small bottle and he reluctantly relinquished it to Hutch, who had it open in a few seconds. He was busy watching Starsky’s none-too-steady handling of a full spoon when Starsky stopped, giving him a hard look. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be gone?”

  It was amazing how those feverishly brilliant eyes could focus so piercingly on him. Hutch gave a feeble wave of the hand and sank down on the arm of the easy chair beside the couch. “I cancelled my reservation.”

  “What?” The spoon was plunked down onto the cap of the bottle, splashing syrup onto the table unheeded. “Hutch--”

  “Forget it. I’m not leaving with you sick.”

  But what had seemed reasonable to him only made Starsky’s flush deepen, real anger kindling in his face. He leaned forward toward Hutch. “I don’t need you here, I didn’t ask you to stay. You need a break, so go. I’m not a little kid, Hutch.”

  “Neither am I,” Hutch countered quietly. “I’m not going to fall apart if I don’t leave.”

  Starsky’s expression shifted into something a little less antagonized. “Look, Hutch, you and me both know it’s easier for you to spend the holidays off somewhere else. I appreciate that you're willing to stay but I’m fine with you leaving, really. I don’t want ya to stay just ‘cause I picked a lousy time to get sick.” The coughing fit that followed that lengthy speech didn’t detract from his determined look.

  Starsky had never understood why he left, not really, and wouldn’t even try to convince either of them that he did, but he’d accepted it just as they always had each other’s differences. That bit of understanding meant all the more to Hutch because he knew that not sharing the holidays cut into Starsky’s own pleasure. Just as Hutch had grown up with motherly comfort during illnesses, his partner had hung on tenaciously to childlike joy in the holiday season and the desire to share it with everyone around him. Especially those he was closest to.

  Maybe they both had something to teach each other.

  “What if I don’t want to leave?” Hutch suddenly asked.

  Starsky watched him warily. “I’d wanna know what made you change your mind.”

  “You.” At Starsky’s look, he quickly half-shook his head. “Not just because you’re sick and I’m worried about you, though you’d be the same in my shoes and you know it. That’s my right, partner, like it or not.” He smiled slightly at the inadvertent agreement he saw in Starsky’s reaction. But Starsky was just concerned for him, something that frustrated Hutch as much as it touched him. “Maybe all those lectures about holiday spirit are just finally sinking in and I want to spend Christmas with a friend.” Okay, his best friend, but Starsky already knew that.

  Starsky wasn’t quite buying it yet, that measuring look still in his eye. As well as heavy exhaustion and some discomfort. The red cast of his cheeks and the glow in his eyes confirmed the fever Hutch had felt before, and his voice sounded as raw as his throat no doubt felt. It probably wasn’t the ideal time to be having a long discussion, but then, that hadn’t been Hutch’s choice. 

  He chewed on his lip. “Listen...just accept it for now, okay? I’m not a hundred percent on this yet and I’m not gonna tell you I haven’t had any doubts. But I want to try it, all right?” The honest admission tumbled out of him before he thought about it, a peculiar effect of Starsky’s on him. They’d never been very good at lying to each other.

  But that truth was what Starsky seemed to have needed, and he finally relaxed, giving Hutch a surprisingly game, “Okay.”

  Hutch found himself relaxing, too. “Okay. So how ‘bout we get you back to bed?” 

  That turned out to be a lengthy affair. He lent a hand for the actual move, then, discovering that Starsky was still in his clothes from the day before, laid out a pair of pajamas and left to collect the soup while Starsky changed. He made some tea while he was at it, Starsky’s favorite comfort-drink during illness as Hutch had once discovered, and came back to find a shivering and sluggish Starsky trying to untangle a mess of blankets and sheets.

  “Need some help?” was all it had taken, and Starsky had flopped down into a chair to watch as Hutch remade the bed and turned back the fresh covers before helping Starsky in. Food had followed, as much as Starsky had energy and appetite for. Then, when the warmth both inside and out began to take their effect and Starsky’s shivering eased, Hutch retrieved syrup and water and saw to their administration. Everything he could think of done and Starsky finally looking drowsy and comfortable, Hutch sat in the one chair in the room to keep the invalid company until he fell asleep.

  “It’s Christmas Eve today, isn’t it?” Starsky asked around a yawn and a cough.

  “Yup.”

  “That means tomorrow’s Christmas.”

  “Usually does,” Hutch agreed.

  “Was gonna get my tree today,” Starsky murmured. “An’ your gift.”

  No matter how long Hutch was gone over Christmas, his partner always had a gift for him upon his return, whether he had one for Starsky or not. Starsky had tried hard to hide his disappointment that first year when Hutch hadn’t gotten him a thing, and the next year Hutch had found it didn’t go against his principles *that* much to find some present for his partner. But he hadn’t picked one up yet this time, either. “Don’t worry about it,” he soothed.

  “You ever get a tree when you go away for Christmas?”

  “No.” But Starsky had one eye open, watching him, waiting for more of an answer than that. Hutch braced himself. “I pretty much avoid all the trappings. I read, take walks along the ocean or in the woods, think.” His lip curled. “Sure beats the superficial ‘gimme’ spirit Van taught me all about.”

  “Hey, your ex is a bad example,” Starsky protested sleepily. “I bet your folks were sorry you didn’t wanna do Christmas anymore.”

  Hutch hesitated at that. They had been, his sister Chris even more so. Only Hutch had seemed to connect the holiday with Michael's, the eldest Hutchinson son's, untimely death. And while his grandfather had understood his reasons, even young Ken Hutchinson had felt his beloved grandpa’s sorrow that Hutch had turned his back on the holiday. He hadn’t really thought about that in a while, not since letting Vanessa’s poisoning of the Christmas spirit confirm his every suspicion about the holiday. “Yeah,” he finally said softly.

  Another yawn, and a cough spurt that ended as Starsky pushed himself up and drank the last of his tea. He shrank back under the covers. “It’s not about the tree, Hutch, or the gifts.”

  Hutch sat silent, waiting for the rest. Just what was it supposed to be about, besides a crush of bad memories and social imperatives to be merry and joyful and to spend money?

  But he wasn’t going to get his answer then. Starsky began to snore, out for the count mid-thought.

  Bowing his head briefly, Hutch finally levered himself out of the chair and went back out into the living room. Maybe if he found a good book to read, it would take his mind off his heavy thoughts.

  The book he’d ended up with, ironically, was a well-worn Bible. The contents of Starsky’s shelves never ceased to amaze him, but the little navy blue volume tucked in beside an equally thumbed Torah seemed to fit right in. The dedication page inside the Bible, to David Starsky from a Father Edmund Jones, only raised Hutch’s eyebrows. The variety of people Starsky had crossed paths with and befriended, or who had befriended him, over his lifetime was one thing that didn’t surprise Hutch anymore.

  And so Hutch sat with the fragile volume in his hands, wondering if it was his partner who had creased and smudged so many of the pages. A photo tucked between two leaves gave him a probable answer, a black-and-white snapshot of a smiling, younger Starsky in Army fatigues, surrounded by a group of similarly dressed and just as young men. Bibles were read a lot during wars, no matter what your faith was. Hutch carefully tucked the picture back into its place and then continued flipping forward, to the gospel of Luke, chapter two. Finding what he was looking for, Hutch made himself comfortable in the easy chair and started to read.

“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed...”

  The light from outside was beginning to dim before the creaking of bedsprings announced Starsky was waking up. Hutch headed into the kitchen to start things warming and listened with half an ear as Starsky straggled to the bathroom. When the door reopened, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll bring you room service in a minute.” Starsky muttered some response and shuffled back to bed.

  Hutch eyed him critically as he went into the room, flicking on the light with one hand as he balanced a tray on the other. If anything, Starsky looked more flushed and unwell, shivering under the covers. After putting the tray on the nightstand next to the bed, Hutch walked back out into the living room and retrieved the abandoned electric blanket, bringing it into the bedroom to spread over the bed’s occupant. He plugged it in, then grabbed another blanket out of the closet and added that to the pile for good measure.

  “There, that oughta be warmer. How’re you feeling?” He laid the back of his hand against one red cheek for a minute. Definitely hot but it didn’t seem dangerously so, and Starsky’s breathing was no worse than earlier that day.

  “Terrific,” Starsky rasped.

  Hutch grinned at the answer. “I’ll bet. You ready to eat something?”

  A slight shake of the head. “Jus’ want some tea.”

  “I’ve got that, too, buddy. You wanna sit up some?”

  He managed to coax some more medicine and water into the reluctant patient along with a half-mug of tea, then watched Starsky ease gratefully under the covers again.

  “Any warmer?”

  “Mmm.”

  That seemed like a yes. Hutch hitched himself onto the edge of the bed, the corner of his mouth turning up as Starsky shifted slightly to give him more room. “I don’t suppose you feel up to coming out into the living room and helping me with something, do you?”

  Starsky frowned at him, knowing Hutch knew he didn’t feel up to doing anything but lying there and feeling miserable. “Like what?”

  Hutch stood and walked out, returning within seconds with a large cardboard box. “Like telling me where to put these up.”

  Starsky shoved himself up on one elbow again, expression clearing amazingly. “My decorations? I didn’t have time--” Another thought seemed to occur to him and his eyes narrowed a little. “Look, you don’t have t’do that. I know that stuff bothers you.”

  “Hey, I’m just giving you a hand, right? Besides, who knows, maybe it’ll get me in the spirit, too.” Hutch shifted the box in his arms, suddenly brusque. “So, you feel like helping?”

  Starsky’s eyes were glowing with something other than just fever. “Sure. ‘Sides, you’d put everything in the wrong place.”

  It took a few minutes to get Starsky out on the couch and comfortable and warm again, but soon he was wrapped around a new mug of hot tea and directing Hutch in hoarse whispers where to put each new item the blond fished out of the box. The heavy silver menorah went on the living room windowsill, complete with nine new, white candles. A Star of David ornament hung above it from the top of the sill. The miniature Christmas tree went on the kitchen table and the wreath on the front door. Knick-knacks reflecting Starsky’s joyous embrace of both holidays were scattered around all the rooms of the house.

  The last item from the box was something wrapped heavily in tissue paper, as if it’d been packed for shipping, and Starsky’s mood seemed to dim at the sight of it. “You want me to take this out, too?” Hutch asked tactfully.

  Starsky gave him an odd, wan smile. “‘S up to you--it’s yours.”

  “Mine?” It was Hutch’s turn to frown. Starsky had said he hadn’t had time to get a gift, and it would have been doubtful he’d have chosen to bury it at the bottom of his decorations even if he had. Hutch carefully set to unpeeling the layers of paper.

  Nestled inside was a simple, carved wooden creche. Hutch’s throat tightened at the sight.

  “How’d you get this?” he whispered, not looking up.

  “I asked your mom to send something a few years ago. I thought you just left each year ‘cause you got lonely at Christmas and I wanted you to feel more at home. I called your mom and asked her for something that was yours and she sent that, but it never seemed like a good time...” Starsky trailed off, equally drained of voice and certainty.

  No, Hutch silently conceded, it probably never would have been a good time, not with every reminder of the holiday a bittersweet one at best. But there were good memories, too, if he cared to remember. The simple ornament in his hand was a powerful reminder of that. “My grandfather carved this for me,” he said softly.

  “I know.”

  He looked up at his partner finally, seeing the anxious way Starsky was watching him, trying to gauge his response. Definitely some good memories. Hutch managed a smile that was probably a little wavery but sincere. “Can I put it out somewhere here?”

  Starsky was beginning to relax. “You sure you don’t wanna take it home?” 

  “I’ll probably see it more here,” Hutch answered wryly.

  “Well, if you want,” Starsky said hoarsely, freeing a hand for a feeble wave around the room. “You get t’choose a place for that one.”

  “Thanks.” Hutch paused, giving Starsky an almost hesitant glance. “Maybe I’ll put it out in my apartment next year.”

  He could see Starsky register the implications of that idea, the fond look Starsky gave him before subsiding back into the nested blankets. Hutch could offer no guarantees that he wouldn’t feel the urge to take off again the next winter, leave behind the good memories with the bad. But there would be more reason not to go, and an awakening desire to stay and celebrate. Starsky would know as much, but he wasn’t asking for more than that.

  A hard look around the room, and Hutch finally placed the little nativity on the remaining free windowsill. The moonlight fell on it there as if it’d been designed to.

  Hutch lowered himself into the chair next to his partner and cast an admiring glance at their handiwork. The whole room looked kinda nice--a little overdone, as was typical of his partner, but in the festive way of someone who couldn’t get enough of the season. Hutch’s eyes kept straying back to the simple creche, though.

  His partner’s rough cough drew his attention back to Starsky, and to the realization that the brunet’s endurance was rapidly ending. Hutch jumped up again. “Let’s get you back to bed, huh? Big day ahead. You wanna be your best on Christmas Day, right?”

  Starsky didn’t argue this time, even his heavy tiredness not masking his contentment. Although Hutch had to walk him slowly back to the bedroom, he couldn’t regret the night’s activity. “Looks nice,” Starsky whispered next to him, turning slightly to catch one of the silver-and-blue ornaments they passed.

  “Yeah, it does,” Hutch agreed. He helped pile the blankets on again, readjusting the electric blanket once more. “Sorry there isn’t a tree,” he added in afterthought. “I’ll pick up your gift later.” 

  “Doesn’t matter--‘s not about the tree an’ gifts.” Starsky’s voice was almost gone. “M’rry Chrissmas, ‘utch...”

  “Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too, partner.” Hutch shook his head once, creeping out of the room even though he doubted he could wake the already unconscious sleeper if he’d wanted to, and shutting the door softly behind him. His eyes fell at once on the creche again, across the room.

  It really wasn’t about trees and gifts and all the other things he’d been running from all along. Starsky had been trying to tell him as much for years. It was about receiving. Everything from that little nativity baby, to a hand-carved ornament, to a mending partner who was worried about him even in the midst of illness.

  Hutch finally shook himself, circling the room to click off the lamps, only moonlight left to soften the darkness of the room. Then, stretching out on the couch he closed his eyes, at peace, and drifted into sleep.