For Ancasta

Christmas Song

By Verlaine

"Santa baby, forgot to mention one more thing, a ring,
I don't mean on the telephone.
Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight."

Hutch let the last notes of the piano slow and soften to blend into the finish of Linda Baylor's husky alto. There was some desultory clapping from the patrons in the lounge, but most of them were too busy talking, drinking and playing it cool to pay much attention.

Which, Hutch thought with a touch of sour humor, was probably just as well. Baylor had cleaned up amazingly well, poured into a long slinky red and silver dress that showed off every curve to perfection, her black curls tamed into an old-fashioned chignon. Though she wasn't a great singer, she could put on a vamp performance worthy of Eartha Kitt, and Hutch had chosen music that would play to her strengths as much as possible. Still, if anybody had been listening seriously it would have been obvious she wasn't a professional, any more than Hutch himself was.

The Ocean View Lounge had pretensions to being a top of the line supper club, and Hutch had to admit the kitchen served a very good prime rib. The liquor was actually poured from the bottles behind the bar, rather than under the counter, and the maitre d' had a genuine French accent. It was packed on weekend nights with couples from the suburbs, or out of town visitors steered by their hotels to a place where the food would be familiar, but the atmosphere a little exotic. Just the thing for Mr. and Mrs. Middle America wanting a little holiday splurge.

But if you knew what to look for — and Hutch did, that was part of his job — there were telltale signs that things were a little hinky. A few too many guys hung around whose necks were too big for their collars, or who ruined the cut of their jackets with underarm bulges. Larger parties at lunch almost always consisted entirely of middle-aged men, for whom the surrounding tables were discreetly cleared, and whose too-young girlfriends got told to make a trip to the powder room once the talk got serious.

A lot of those middle-aged men were permanently on the radar of every law enforcement office in the city. And nobody more than Big Vinnie Verdano, club owner and racket boss with a finger in almost every illegal pie in Bay City. Alleged racket boss, and suspected fingers, as Dobey had said more than once in disgust. Which was why Hutch and Baylor were spending their pre-Christmas evenings masquerading as second-rate lounge entertainers, and Starsky was strutting his stuff tending bar.

"Ten minute break?" Baylor said quietly, leaning on Hutch's shoulder. Lowering her voice, she grumbled, "My feet are killing me."

"Sure." Hutch grinned up at her, and pressed a quick kiss to her fingertips.

"Don't push it." She tweaked the end of his mustache, before heading off through the dining room. At several tables she passed, men beckoned her over with requests or congratulations. Only one hand managed to get to her ass: sore feet or not, Baylor was fast.

Hutch straightened his back and stretched cautiously. A week undercover as a piano player had sharpened up his musical skills, but had been hell on his back. He took a swig from the glass on top of the baby grand and got stiffly to his feet. He stretched again, and then, glass in hand, made his way over to the bar.

His partner the bartender gave him a quick wink and Hutch grinned. As good as Baylor was at undercover work, he wouldn't have felt nearly as comfortable without the solid reassurance of Starsky as his backup.

"What can I getcha, blondie?"

"Refill on the tea." Part of Hutch's cover was that he drank a little more than was good for him. Part of Starsky's job in his cover was to ensure that Hutch looked like he was drinking more than he really was.

"Good thing that's not booze, buddy, or you'd be the one with the decimated liver." Starsky whipped the glass under the counter and a moment later swapped it up for another tall shot of tea filled with ice. He lifted one of the little prepared skewers of cherries and orange slices and propped it across the top with a flourish.

"Seen anything?" Hutch turned so he could brace his aching back against the bar, munching on an orange slice, his eyes skimming the room. It was easier than looking at his partner. Starsky had been born to wear a ruffled shirt and indigo bow tie, Hutch thought. In blue jeans and leather jacket he was a sexy street tough, but in the half-formal wear the Ocean View required of its waiters and bar men, he looked like a prince on his way home from a night on the town.

Wanting his partner was somehow easier to keep under control in their normal setting. Starsky in the Torino was a temptation, but a familiar and comforting one. Here, performing his graceful dance behind the bar, twirling bottles with the same flair he had with his gun, the temptation was a constant ache that Hutch had to keep consciously pushing down.

Starsky snorted. "Bupkes. Dobey should've set one of us up as an accountant. There's no other way we'll make it into Big Vinnie's office. I think he's starting to wonder if I've got a bladder infection, he's passed me back there so often."

"Yeah." Hutch sighed, and popped a cherry into his mouth. "Maybe he really is on the up-and-up." He and Starsky exchanged wry grins.

"Hey, Kenny. Ready to start up again?" Baylor slid onto the stool beside him, sneaking an arm behind him to grab the last of the fruit from his drink.

Hutch stretched, and winced. "Guess I'll have to be. Second set still okay with you?"

She nodded. "Blue Christmas, Holly Jolly, Mama Kissing Santa, White Christmas, oh, and that turkey at table nineteen wants Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Hutch groaned. Baby, It's Cold Outside was a duet, and that meant he'd have to sing. It wouldn't have been so bad if the song weren't another opportunity for Baylor to vamp and embarrass him with impunity.

Starsky winked. "C'mon, Hutch. Haven't heard you—"

"Since last night." Hutch pushed away from the bar. "Okay, we'll do it, but last in the set. Give me time to get my nerve up."

"Is that what you call it?" Baylor laughed over her shoulder as she headed back to the piano.

Hutch let himself drink in one last quick look at Starsky, the way the curls brushed his cheek, the quick rise of one eyebrow, and then moved it to the side of his mind so he could concentrate on the job.

He was pretty well used to stuffing part of his feelings for Starsky down into a box. A couple of times, after Rosey Malone for instance, he'd thought cautiously about letting them out, maybe opening that box up a little and seeing if those feelings could survive a bit of light and air. After Kira, he'd slammed the lid down and driven in a couple of roofing nails for good measure.

Gunther had changed everything.

Hutch still wasn't sure, almost eighteen months after the day the bullets had hit, and nearly six months after he and Starsky had hit the streets as a team again, how he could have spent so many years being so goddamned stupid. It was embarrassing how he'd been fooling himself. He'd thought that he and Starsky were friends, partners, good buddies, best ever, and on top of that he had the urge to roll him over in bed for a good time. He'd thought it was his dick talking, and even though he liked — hell, loved — Starsky like a brother, that that was basically all it was. Like being crazy about Lucy Willoughby all through ninth and tenth grade, and then actually going out with her for less than six weeks before deciding enough was enough.

He was pretty sure the shooting hadn't changed his feelings, so much as made him really look at them, and at himself. He hadn't much liked what he saw at first. It had taken more than a few nights sitting by Starsky's bed just to watch him breathe to wrap his head around the fact that he — Mr. Open-to-New Ideas Hutchinson — hadn't been able to admit to himself that he was in love with his partner.

Not that admitting it had given him the nerve to actually do anything about it.

Hutch warmed up playing a quick little jazz riff on Jingle Bells, and then he and Baylor were in the swing of it once more. Most of the music he knew by heart after a week, and he could keep a half eye on the comings and goings in the club. Not that it got them anywhere: it wasn't going to come as a shock to anyone to learn made men hung around the place. What they needed was a way to eavesdrop on those backroom conversations, or even better, get a chance to photograph some of those records. Hutch hoped that Dobey or somebody was going to come up with a better idea soon, because otherwise he and Baylor and Starsky were going to have second careers here.

They made it through White Christmas and Mama Kissing Santa Claus with only a minor problem on a chord change that Baylor luckily sang straight over, probably not even noticing. Hutch even felt confident enough to add some embellishment to Blue Christmas, a song that he'd come to loathe more over the past week than any crappy disco tune in the past four years. Baylor sang straight over those as well.

When they finally had no way to put off Baby, It's Cold Outside, Baylor came over and draped herself decoratively on the piano bench next to him, adjusting her gown slightly to show some leg. They'd discovered in the past week that a lot of musical sins would be ignored if the customers got a nice distraction. Hutch took a deep breath, prayed inwardly for his voice not to crack, and started.

"I really can't stay."

"Baby, it's cold outside." Baylor's throaty purr echoed him perfectly.

About halfway through there hadn't been any glitches yet, and Hutch risked a glance at the bar, and saw Starsky watching him. There was a funny look on his face, one that Hutch recognized but couldn't quite place. He'd been there for Starsky's first bite into a kiwi; this expression held the same mixture of apprehension and astonished enjoyment as when he'd realized that this weird fuzzy egg-shaped thing was delicious. But there was something else in his eyes Hutch couldn't place, and he didn't have time to look around and figure out what might be causing it. At any rate, it wasn't an expression that suggested Big Vinnie was sneaking up behind him with a set of brass knuckles, so Hutch put it away to ask about later and concentrated on getting through the song.

They got some nice applause this time, and gave an encore of I'll Be Home For Christmas, which quieted things down enough that nobody paid any attention when they finished their set and left. As usual, Baylor headed straight out, her last job of the day being to report to Dobey on their progress, or lack of it. Hutch hung around the bar, drank another iced tea and then switched gratefully to beer. If anyone looked, he was scribbling out musical arrangements and scraps of songs; it made a good enough cover for the notes he was really making on who they'd seen meeting who, and any fragments of conversation they'd picked up.

About fifteen minutes before closing time, he gave Starsky a wave and headed out the back way. Big Vinnie's office door was tightly closed. Out of habit, Hutch looked around and gave the knob a little shake, but there was no give to it. Not that it could ever be that easy, he thought, with a little headshake at his own optimism.

Even with the dumpsters out back, the air outside was clear and cool compared to inside. Hutch drew in a deep breath, and yanked loose his tie. Eight o'clock tomorrow night before he had to haul himself back there and pretend he liked performing tacky Christmas music for bored wiseguys and their indifferent bimbos. He shot a disgruntled look at his cover ride, a pale blue Honda Hutch loathed with a passion. Driving with his knees around his ears had never been high on his list of favorite things.

He sighed, and pulled out his keys to unlock it, when he heard footsteps rapidly approaching from behind. Whirling, he just managed to pull a punch as Starsky skidded to a stop in front of him.

"Whoa, buddy! Gettin' a little jumpy this time of night?" Starsky did a little bob-and-weave in front of him.

Hutch shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Not like there's anything to be nervous about at Big Vinnie's, right?" He looked closely at Starsky. "Something wrong? Thought you had to clean up before they'd spring you."

"Yeah. I, uh, just wanted to ask, um…" His voice trailed away.

Hutch felt a sudden catch of alarm. The last time he remembered Starsky sounding so rattled when they weren't actually in danger had been back in the early days of their partnership, when he'd asked Hutch exactly how a guy could tell if he'd gotten a girl knocked up. Starsky looked funny, too. He looked nervous, but there was more than a trace of that expression of surprise and delight he'd surprised on Starsky's face while he was singing.

"Starsk?" He reached out and lightly gripped Starsky's shoulder. "What's wrong, huh?"

For a minute, he thought Starsky wasn't going to answer. He looked down, and the fuzzy yellow light of the parking lot was enough to let Hutch see that he was going from nervous to a battle between stubbornness and embarrassed.

Despite his curiosity, he'd already decided he might as well let it all ride when Starsky suddenly took a deep breath and looked up. "You're getting along okay with Baylor, right?" Starsky asked, in a rush of breath.

"Yeah," Hutch said slowly, puzzled. This was what had Starsky charging out after him? "Gonna talk to Dobey when this is over, get him to push her to apply for detective. She's always been a natural undercover."

"I see." Starsky nodded jerkily. "You gonna ask her out?"

"What? No." Hutch knew he'd spoken too quickly, too sharply, but he couldn't have held it in if he'd tried. One of the promises he'd made to himself after Kira was never to date another cop. It was stupid, he knew: Kira's being a cop had nothing to do with her character — or his own. But he couldn't help the aversion that had grown up in him at the idea.

Of course, he'd always make an exception for Starsky.

"Hey, Hutch." Starsky gave him a light poke in the arm, and he realized he'd missed something.

"Say what?"

"I asked, why not? Baylor's smart, fun, and she's a knock-out in that dress."

"She's, um, well." It was Hutch's turn to stumble to a stop. It wasn't just his own reluctance, either; there was something about the way Starsky was talking Baylor up that sounded forced and he wasn't quite managing to look Hutch in the eye.

"She's what?"

"She's a cop," Hutch blurted out.

"Don't wanna date cops any more?" Starsky looked surprised, and the shadow of delight on his face dimmed.

"Yeah. No. I…" Hutch took a deep breath to try to slow himself down. "I learned my lesson," he went on grimly.

"Kira?" Starsky laughed. "Buddy, we both screwed that one up, and it didn't have anything to do with her being a cop. If she'd been a stewardess or a nuclear physicist we'd still have ended up throwing punches over her. That's what she got off on."

Hutch nodded. "I get that, really, but, there's just something stuck in my head." He looked at Starsky sharply. "Do you want to ask Baylor out? 'Cause if you do, go ahead. Like I said, she's good undercover, and good to work with, but that's it."

Starsky laughed again, a little wildly. "No, Hutch. I wanna ask a cop out, but it ain't Baylor."

Hutch felt a sudden kick in the pit of his stomach, a rush of butterflies worse than anything he'd felt all week sitting down at the piano. Don't be dumb, he scolded himself. Whoever he's talking about, he can't mean what you think. Get it together.

Still, he couldn't help the feeling, and his voice held a hint of challenge as he said, "So, you want to ask somebody for a date? Go ahead. Not like you to worry about getting a pretty lady to go out with you."

Starsky looked at him for a long moment, a quiet serious look that slowly lightened into that look of surprised happiness again. The smile Hutch got then was one he'd never seen before. A little shy, a little flirty, and full of a heart-stopping affection. His heart started to pound, and his mouth went dry.

"Okay." Starsky nodded, and then lifted his chin with determination. "So, you wanna go out?"

Hutch licked his lips, and tried to swallow a lump in his throat. "You—" His voice was a squeak, and he stopped and cleared his throat again. "You mean like a date? A real date?"

"Yup." Starsky looked as if one wrong word might send him running, but he stood his ground, and met Hutch's eyes. "Maybe even go steady." He swallowed as well, and Hutch heard the dry clicking sound of nerves. "What d'you think about that?"

"I think you might have a good idea there, Ollie." Hutch felt a grin spreading across his face. He probably looked dorky, he thought, and didn't give a damn.

Starsky's own grin gave the overhead light a run for its money. "You have any preferences?"

"Well," Hutch said thoughtfully," we could do what we usually do. Head over to Huggy's for a beer or two. Go down to the Diner Deluxe and get a couple of tuna burgers—"

"With pickles and onions," Starsky broke in.

"Right, pickles and onions. Then we could cruise up in the hills, find a nice place to park and watch the city lights."

"We are not cruising anywhere in that piece of junk." Starsky gave the Honda a disdainful look. "Not enough room in the back seat."

Hutch felt his mouth drop open and a heat rise in his cheeks. "Back seat?" It was a squeak.

Starsky stepped closer, and reached out to take one of Hutch's hands. His hand was shaking, Hutch noted, and slightly damp, but the grip was as firm as ever, the hold the same one Starsky had used over the years to haul him to his feet, reassure him after a firefight, or calm him down when anger could have gotten the better of him.

"I said, 'going steady', Hutch. I meant it. That kinda implies there's gonna be some action in the back seat some time."

"A bed will probably be easier on my back." He had to be sure that Starsky knew exactly what he meant, what Hutch wanted him to mean.

Starsky nodded. "That's the plan, blondie. Back seat, bed, anywhere we can get away with it."

Hutch met Starsky's eyes, and saw the feeling that backed the grip on his hand. The butterflies in his stomach settled, and a feeling of peace and calm slowly started to rise. Starsky hadn't changed. The love and trust and partnership were all still there.

"Okay then," Hutch said, and felt his grin get even broader.

"And we're taking my car," Starsky said firmly.

"This time," Hutch said just as firmly. "We're gonna share, right?"

"Always."

Starsky started for the far corner of the lot where the Torino was parked. He didn't let go of Hutch's hand, and Hutch turned his own so their fingers twined. Looking down at their joined hands, he felt those butterflies rise again in joyful flight. Their inspiration raised his voice, and as he began to sing, Starsky laughed, and joined in.

"You're all I want for Christmas, and if all my dreams come true, I'll find my stocking full of you."

The End.