For SilverChipmunk

How To Separate a Pea from a Pod in a Million Easy Steps

By Sue

It's Christmas time again, and after ten long years, I finally know what that means. Some kind of weird alchemy that turns my White Knight into a Green Grinch with a heart three sizes too small.

Though, and I gotta be fair on this, my Grinch hasn't been quite so Grinchy this year. I think it's probably because of the shooting. Strike that. I know it's because of the shooting. If some of his old scratchiness didn't peek out every now and then, I'd have been long convinced that while I died and came back to life, Hutch lived and came back as a pod person.

Warm, caring, compassionate Hutch, I love. Happy, happy, nice, nice all the damn time Hutch, frankly, scares me.

I'll give you a few examples, just to prove my point.

"Hey, Hutch! I'm hungry. How 'bout goin' out to Big Buster's All You Can Eat Burrito Buffet? Your treat!"

"Sure, Starsk."

Or how about this one?

"Hey, Hutch! Merle's having a half-price paint and detail special down at the shop. How's about we take the rolling squash in and have her done up right, huh? Maybe a little fur on the dash — the kind that doesn't grow there naturally, I mean. Maybe a new color. What do ya think about… magenta? With a lime green stripe? And we can drop her real low and have him put those ground effects in that's all the rage these days?"

"Fine with me, Starsk."

You see what I mean? It's enough to drive a man to drink! Or at least a man who's got more of a stomach than I've got left, courtesy of one James Marshall Gunther, may he die a thousand deaths, each one more horrible than the last.

God, I sound like my grandmother.

But still, do you see what I'm going through now? Do you really see it? I'm honestly not sure how much more of 'nice Hutch' I can take. The Jekyll and Hyde act is close to driving me around the bend, and I was never very far from that bend to begin with. Hell, I can take long doses of Mr. Hyde. Did it for almost the entire year before I was shot, you know? But living with Dr. Jekyll is some seriously creepy stuff. Enough to give a man like me nightmares.

Still, I figure that even if most of Hutch's personality has changed since the shooting, I'm betting one thing hasn't, and that's his absolute hatred of the Christmas season. So, instead of begging him for presents — and do you know how hard that is? In his present state of… whatever… he'd give me the most expensive, useless (to him, at least) thing made without hardly batting an eyelash — I've decided to treat him to a place he's always wanted to go but has never been.

New Mexico. And not one of those fancy resorts, either. No, just him and me, a tent, a couple sleeping bags, some sun, some sand — if the desert counts as sand, anyway — and skiing up in the mountains. My body might not quite be ready to strap on a couple slippery boards to go flying down a mountain I just busted my ass climbing up, but I know it's a great love of his, and I don't think that love has changed, even though he has.

And, surprise of surprises, when I suggest it, he accepts, just like that. "Sure, Starsk. Whatever you want."

I admit, I got a little frustrated at that. "You big dumb blintz, it's not what I want that's important here. It's what you want! I want you to be happy, Hutch! Not this fake happy that you're wearin' like a mask that's about to shatter, but real happy."

What do I get in return? That dopey, vacant smile. "Whatever makes you happy, Starsk, makes me happy."

God.

If I didn't love the big lug so damn much, I'd take him to Cabrillo State on the next thing movin' and have him checked out six ways from Sunday until they could tell me how to get my Hutch back.

"My" Hutch? Damn right. My Hutch. My best friend. The man who makes me laugh when I want to cry. The man who irritates my last frayed nerve, and comforts me when the worst of the pain hits, usually in the middle of the night when it all seems so hopeless.

My Hutch. The man I love. Yes, damnit. Love. If you don't like it, take a hike, buddy, because that's the way it is.

And so here we are. New Mexico. And it's as gorgeous and peaceful as I imagined. The desert itself is really colorful, you know? Like some giant hand threw cans of pastel paint down on it and called it good. And don't even get me started on the sunsets.

"Hey, Hutch, how come the sky has so many pretty colors in it?" I ask during one particular sunset, praying hard that he'll slip into that professorial mode that normally shreds me but I now need like I need to breathe.

"Smog," he answers.

"Smog? Hate to break it to ya, pal, but we got more than enough smog over in LA and I've never seen a sunset as pretty as this."

C'mon, Hutch, tell me that's because I'm dumb. Tell me it's because I'm too busy looking straight ahead to ever take in the beauty of what's above. Tell me something, damn it! I'm goin' nuts here!

"It's not the same kind of smog," he says, though his voice is light and happy. "It's the dust from the sands. The more dust in the atmosphere, the prettier the sunset."

Well. Maybe I'm managing to break through a little. Or maybe I'm just dreaming it up. I don't know anymore.

We'd rented a couple of donkeys to take us on our trek into the desert. Placid things, both of them, more interested in picking at the sagebrush than actually walking anywhere, but you can't always get what you want in life, right? Me, I only want my Hutch back the way he was.

Once the sun is almost completely set, it starts to get dark and chilly in a hurry, and I suggest that Hutch might want to start looking for a place where we can camp out for the night.

"Anywhere you want to stop is fine with me, Starsk."

I slam my head down into my hand. It hurts, but I don't care. "Hutch, it's me here. Your buddy, Starsky, remember? The guy who doesn't know nothing from deserts and forests or anything that doesn't come with a relatively comfortable bed, a real roof over my head, and an easy drive to the nearest hamburger stand? You gotta help me out some here, please."

Is that a sigh I hear? Nah. It's probably just the wind. Going through the newly empty place in his skull where his brain used to be.

"Hutch…."

"Okay," he says, all chipper, like I've presented him with the keys to the executive crapper or something. "How about right off that trail over there? Seems like a nice, safe place to bunk down for the night."

At last. A chance to bait him. "You sure?" I ask in as timid a voice as I can manage. "I mean, what about the snakes, huh Hutch? I heard snakes like warm things, like rocks and even bodies, to snuggle up to in the night. They're cold-blooded you know. And how about the scorpions, huh? The guy who rented these donkeys to us warned us about the scorpions."

Do I get snapped at? Made fun of? No. What I get, instead, is, "It's okay, buddy. I'll protect you. Nothing will hurt you while you're with me. I promise."

Ah, the crux of the problem named "I can't leave Starsky alone to as much as take a piss in case he breaks into a million pieces I can't put back together again." I've become convinced that that is the very reason for Pod-Hutch's existence.

And I'm more than sick of it.

In fact, I think I'd rather sleep in a rattlesnake den covered with scorpions than have to deal with this… this duplicate of a person I've loved and looked up to for a decade or more.

Do I say anything about it? Hell no. Instead, I slide wearily off my donkey and start to pull down the stuff we'd packed the morning before. Then I get an idea. It's a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.

If there's one thing that Hutch absolutely hates when we go on trips like these, it's when I try to 'help' putting up the tent. Now I'm good at a lotta things. Tent building ain't one of 'em. So I say, all airily, "It's ok, Hutch. I'll take care of the tent. You just unpack the other stuff and relax, huh?"

I wait. One. Two. Three. Then, "Sure, Starsk. If that's what you want."

No, that's not what I want, damnit! I want you to growl at me, to poke at me, to make fun of my pitiful attempts to put up a tent that I know hated me from the minute it spied me from its place on Hutch's bedroom shelf.

I don't say any of that aloud, of course. It would be a waste of breath, and he wouldn't be listening anyway, trapped behind that happy mask he insists on wearing day in and day out.

Instead, I practice what I preach and start to set up the damned tent. At first, I consider making my usual bumbling job of it, but the effort suddenly seems too much, and so I go at it as best I can. And wouldn't you know? It comes together perfectly, not a tie out of place, not a loose stake in the bunch.

"Would you look at that," I mutter to myself in amazement. Never thought that'd be a skill I'd master, but there you have it.

I feel him come behind me and lay an arm across my shoulders. It feels good and I lean in more, letting him take some of my weight. He does, without complaint. "See, buddy?" he says. "I always knew you could do it."

And there, right there, I see a glimpse of him. My Hutch, happy and proud of me for doing something I could never get before.

"Thanks," I say, feeling kinda shy for who knows what reason.

"Now that you've got that set up, you can put down the pads and the sleeping bags, and I'll get some rocks and sticks and start a fire. Can't have a campout without a fire, right?"

"Don't forget the marshmallows!" I shout out after him and get a lazy wave in return.

Well, what do you know about that? Maybe my plan's starting to work. Maybe I'll finally get him back for good.

In less than a half an hour — those Sea Scouts sure taught him how to start a fire in a hurry. Why, I'm not sure, but I welcome the skill, believe me — we're sitting side by side in front of the roaring fire, our dinner of hotdogs and beans gobbled up and the marshmallows roasting just fine on the thin, green sticks it took me an hour to find. Can't roast marshmallows on anything else. Makes 'em taste funny.

So, the fire's blazing, and we're both warm and toasty in our jackets and leaning against each other, munching on our gooey treats and I'm about as happy as a pig in… well, wherever pigs are happiest at, I guess. Of course, when things are at their best, I just gotta poke. I think it's what they call one of those defective jeans… or genes, whatever. Hutch would know. "Hey, Hutch?" I ask.

"Yeah, Starsk?"

"Are you happy?"

"Of course I am, buddy."

"Happy for you, I mean. Not just happy cause I am."

He turns to me, that smile still on his face. Man, I'd like to slap it right off, you know? "Your happiness is my happiness, babe. You know that."

If there was a rock nearby, I'd consider crushing my own skull with it. Not because I don't appreciate the sentiment, because I do. But I'd much rather hear it comin' from my Hutch than this waxwork dummy I've been saddled with for the past seven months.

Finally, I decide to give it up for the night. Either that, or I'll wind up working myself into a mood that will wind up having even me wanting to stay far away from myself. I give a pretend yawn and a real stretch that stops just short of painful. The scars are nearly healed, but every once in awhile, they give me a twinge.

And, of course, Hutch is immediately all over me like a cheap suit. "Are you alright? Are you hurting? Did you pull anything? What's wrong, huh? Can you talk?"

Letting my frustration get the better of me, I slap his hands away and get up on my feet, on my very own, thank you. "I'm fine," I snap, hating myself for it, but not knowing any other way to express myself.

I look down, knowing I've hurt him with my attitude, but damnit, the man's smiling again! Smiling like my little hissy fit was the most precious thing on this earth. I feel like a toddler who just took his first crap in the potty chair. Believe me, it's not the best feeling in the world for an adult.

Turning on my heel, I open the flap of our tent, make sure there aren't any hungry scorpions or heat seeking snakes around, and crawl into my sleeping bag without bothering to strip.

That's another thing that's changed since the shooting. From the time we'd finally admitted our feelings to one another, up until the shooting, we went at it like rabbits every chance we got. The loving was so hot and heavy that I thought I could die from so much pleasure and adoration.

Now, he won't even touch me. I've even resorted to begging, reminding him that something as simple as a rub off has about as much a chance of injuring me as tripping over an invisible ant in the sidewalk.

Does that logic work? Course not. He reminds me (and reminds me, and reminds me!) that my heart stopped once, and he was damn sure not going to be the cause of it stopping again.

I got so mad after that particular argument that I spent the next three days on the couch. The worst part? He didn't even notice. Or if he did, he didn't seem like he cared. He even, god damn him, seemed a little bit relieved. Relieved, can you believe it? If I wasn't so sure he loved me, I'd be having some serious doubts about the state of our relationship.

Anyway, between the exercise and the mind contortions I went through that day, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the little blow-up pillow I brought along.

Whether Hutch ever joined me, I'll never know.

*******

Morning comes and the inside of the tent is about the right temperature for basting a turkey. I look to the side to see that I'm the only one basting. Hutch is long gone, if he ever bothered to join me, that is.

Fumbling with the damn grabby thing pretending to be my sleeping bag, I finally manage to crawl out, unzip the tent, and step out into the cool, beautiful New Mexico morning. The air is bracing, and I take in a deep breath of it, feeling it cooling me from the inside out. Has anything ever felt so good? Even my morning stretch goes off without a hitch or twinge or a Hutch all over me in a way I'd prefer him not to be.

The next order of business, taking a leak on a nearby tree, is done without any problems, and then I'm ready to go on my search for Pod-Hutch, knowing he couldn't have gotten very far. Or hoping so, anyway.

And I'm right. He's just a few hundred feet away, sitting crosslegged on top of a tall rock with a flat top, perfect for sitting and watching the sun rise. I walk as softly as I can so as not to disturb him, and I see, finally, my Hutch. No mask, no empty headed smiles, just the man himself. And he's crying.

"Hutch? Why're you crying, buddy?"

His expression changes faster than the Torino can take a corner and the fake, plastic smile goes right back on his face. "I'm not crying, Starsk," he says in that too gentle tone of his that drives me up and over the creek. "It's just sweat." He 'proves' it to me by wiping his cheeks and showing me his wet hands. "See? Nothing but a little sweat from being out in the sun too long, that's all."

I may not be a country boy, versed on all the things that can happen to you when you sit in the sun too long, but I do know tears when I see them, and I was seeing them right then, no matter what he said.

"Hutch…."

He jumps off the rock like he's got springs in his ass and moves up to me, still smiling that stupid smile that he thinks I can't see through. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry, Starsk? I bet after all that riding yesterday, you could eat a horse. Well, I don't have any horses handy, and I don't think Mr. Callahan would like it if we ate one of the donkeys, but I think I can whip up something that you'll like. How about it, huh?"

When Hutch gets nervous, he either stutters, or he talks fast. This time, he sounded like a 33 1/3 vinyl played at 78 speed.

"Hutch," I say, calm as I can, "it's okay. Sure, I'm hungry, but it's my turn to cook, remember? You cooked last night."

"And you put up the tent, buddy. So it's my turn to cook."

Why is there never a good, deep hole around when you want to jump into one, huh? Tell me that.

"Hutch, it's my turn to make breakfast. How about if you take down the tent. Then we'll be even, ok?"

After a second, he smiles again and nods. "Sure, Starsk. Anything you want. I've already started heating up the water for coffee, and cold rations are set out by the rocks. I'll see you in a minute, huh?"

God damn him and the donkey he rode in on. I can't help feeling that my last chance to get my Hutch back is slipping through my fingers like his beautiful hair used to when we were making love.

Trudging back over to the newly revived campfire, I start to spoon some grounds into the pot of boiling water when a scream comes over the small mesa we've camped out on. I straighten quick and reach for the gun I'm not wearing. "Coyote?" I ask.

"A woman," Hutch answers, for once without that damn blasted smile of his.

"Let's go, partner," I say. "She sounds like she needs our help."

And for once, for once he doesn't question me. Instead, he just kind of gathers himself and trots off toward the sound, staying with me step for step.

The scream, loud and piercing, sounds again, much closer this time, and when we step around a tall boulder, we come upon two people, a man and a woman, on the ground, their donkeys picking at the brush uninterestedly behind them.

The man looks up, scared as I've ever seen a man look, except for maybe that time I saw Hutch looking down at me when I'd almost bought it at the police garage. "Please, can you help us? My wife, she's in labor and I don't think the baby's going to wait!"

I resist the urge to bite the chump's head off. What in the hell was he doing taking a very pregnant woman, his wife no less, on a trek across miles of empty desert on a donkey for God's sake? Instead, Hutch and I move forward as the team I've wanted us to be since forever.

He squats down while I remain standing, trying to shade the poor woman with my body as best as I can.

The husband moves away from Hutch quickly, and my partner gently spreads the woman's legs, peering inside as well as he can. The angle's bad, I know, but damn if he doesn't look good doing it. "I'm going to have to put some fingers inside you to see how dilated you are and if I can feel the baby's head. Is that okay?"

"Anything!" the woman screams. "Oh, God, anything! My baby! It hurts!!"

Damned if I don't feel jealous. There kneels my Hutch, the one I've begged for months to see, spending all that special… Hutchness… on a complete and total stranger.

Then I kick myself and go on from there. "You got any water?" I ask the husband, who looks like he's gonna become one with the sand in about a minute.

"W-water?"

"Yeah, you know, the wet stuff that you drink?" Boy, where did this bozo come from, and how in the world did he know how to make her pregnant?

"Yeah, I got some, over… over…" And like that, he's out.

"Terrific," I groan, walking over to the two donkeys and rifling through the packs until I find bottles of water, a couple of relatively clean blankets, and a knife.

I walk the stuff over to Hutch and set it down beside him.

"Thanks," he says, not even looking at me, but saying it just like he used to before the pod people took him over. I'm so happy, I feel like I could jump to the moon and back.

Wetting one of the rags, I go to the lady's head, squat down, and wipe her face and what I can see of her chest. She's sweating up a storm, and crying, both, and yeah, I can definitely tell the difference, no matter what some bozo wants me to believe. "How're you doing?" I ask her.

After she's done imitating one of my trains, she strains to look up at me. "Not so bad now, thank god."

"Well, if you don't mind me asking, what are you doing out here, pregnant as you are?"

"No room at the inn?" she says, smiling just a little bit.

Even though we don't exactly worship in the same churches, I get the joke and give her smile right back to her. "Well, don't worry. Even if the Angel Gabriel didn't make it down here with his trumpet, you've got Angel Hutchinson here, ready to make your dreams come true."

"You-you think so?"

"I know so."

I know he hears me, but he won't look up, so I've got no idea what my words mean to him, if anything at all. Still, it doesn't matter for the moment. Pod-Hutch takes a back seat to this minor emergency. "How you doin' down there, buddy?" I ask.

"She's fully dilated and 90 percent effaced," he replies, speaking in tongues that I can't understand without a translator present.

"Does that mean the baby's almost ready?" I hazard.

He looks up then and gives me a sunny smile that is one hundred percent pure, undiluted Hutchinson. "It means the baby's almost ready, buddy."

Yes!

"Oh god, Oh GOD," the woman wails. "He's coming! My baby's coming!"

"He is," Hutch answers, his voice as cool and professional as a doctor's. "And if you feel the urge, push. Push as hard as you can. I've got my fingers under his head right now, so it's okay to push."

"Oh god! It's coming!"

"Take a deep breath and push!" I yell, realizing for the first time I don't even know her name. This is getting weirder by the second. "Push!"

"I am pushing!" she screams, nearly rupturing both my eardrums. I suddenly have a new respect for women. I think I'd die if I tried to push a bowling ball through my dick. In fact, I know I would. How they manage, I'll never understand. I'm pretty glad that I don't, actually.

"He's starting to crown, Ma'am," Hutch says, all country-boy polite. "Keep pushing when you feel the urge. We're almost there."

Ok, it's really entering weirdville here when I find myself making those choo-choo noises along with her, but it seems to help, as does her clawed hand around my wrist, so I just keep doin' it.

"Head's out," Hutch announces from between her legs. "Gonna give the shoulder a little turn so it can make it past the vaginal entrance."

Yes, I'm man enough to admit that I blushed when he said… that… word. Lucky my skin is so dark. Then again, by the twinkle in his eye when he looked up at me, I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. And hell, for that twinkle, I'd keep myself in a permanent state of blushing embarrassment.

"And here comes the shoulders, and… congratulations, Mrs.… er… Mrs.…"

"Anderson," she replies weakly.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Anderson. You are the proud mama of a bouncing baby boy!"

"Oh thank god," she sighs. "Oh, thank you god. My baby, my son, alive, thanks to you two brave men."

"Wasn't me, Mrs. Anderson," I say, smiling fit to split my face wide open. "It was all Hutch."

"You did your fair share too… partner," he says, smiling big at me as he places the wet, squirming bundle on the woman's chest. "Teamwork. The key to any successful partnership, don't you think?"

His words knock the wind outta me, I swear they do. Mrs. Anderson might have gotten a son outta the deal, but it was my Christmas wish that was fulfilled. Damn if my eyes don't start to sting, and I real quick wipe at 'em with the back of my hand.

But he catches me at it and grins knowingly, still all Hutch.

"Just some sand," I say, lying like a rug. "Got some in my eye."

"Uh-huh. Next time, try blinking. I hear that usually works in circumstances like this."

Before I can spout off my usual retort, he's back to delivering the placenta, a thing that looks like what my ma cooks with onions. He looks over to the husband to see if he wants the cord cut, but the dumb cluck is still out cold, so he uses a lace from one of his own boots, ties a couple of knots, and hands me the knife.

I, of course, look at him like he's nuts.

He grins and bumps me with his shoulder. "C'mon, partner. You can do this. Piece of cake, right?"

And there it is, what I've been waiting for even more than his real smile: his confidence in me as a man, as a cop, as a partner. Nodding, I take the knife, count to three in my head, and make the cut.

Little Anderson Jr decides it's high time his presence is noticed, and lets out a loud wail. Mrs. A immediately puts him to her breast, where he starts suckling happily and yes, I'm blushing again.

Damn it.

After he washes the blood and other gunk from his hands, Hutch stands up, takes one of the remaining bottles of water, the gallon jug this time, and dumps it over the unconscious Mr. Anderson, who awakes with a splutter and a "What happened? Is it over? What happened?"

"Well," Hutch says, "I'd give you a cigar, but since I don't have one handy, how about a handshake? Congratulations, Mr. Anderson. You're a Daddy."

For a minute, it looks like the big dope is gonna go right back out again, but he finally steadies and crawls over, dripping wet and all, to greet his wife and the newest member of his family.

It's a sweet scene that's made all the more sweeter when Hutch comes up next to me and slips an arm around my waist, squeezing me tight for good measure. "Merry Christmas, Hutch," I whisper.

"Merry Christmas, babe," he whispers back, kissing me in front of god and all and not giving a single good goddamn. "Thanks for leading me back to myself."

I shrug like it was nothin'. "Piece o' cake," I say, so filled with joy that I could burst into a million pieces.

Another sound, this one a deep rumbling, interrupts our peace, and in a very short time, a desert buggy comes to a stop in front of us. Two Park Rangers jump out and survey the scene, relief all over their faces. "We got worried when you didn't return to the camp," one of them says. "So we figured we'd come out for a look-see."

"Looks like we got here too late for the festivities," the other says, smiling at the mom and dad and kid.

"It's okay," Mrs. Anderson replies as she switches the kid to her other breast. "God sent down two very special angels to watch over us and give us peace."

Hutch and I look at one another. Angels we are not.

"We're just glad we could help, Ma'am," Hutch says, all earnest.

"Well, we'll be taking the three of you out now, Mrs. Anderson. We've got to get you and the baby to the hospital to get you checked out. Make sure everything's ok, you know." The Ranger turns to us. "We could take you guys back, too, if you want. We got enough room."

"Nah," Hutch says, unconcerned. "We can hike it out. No problem."

And the smile he gives me makes me feel like the most powerful man on this earth. "Right," I reply, or at least I think I do. I'm not too sure my voice is workin' too good at the moment.

"Okay, but be careful out there."

"Piece of cake," Hutch cracks and elbows me in the belly to get me to laugh, which I do, grudgingly I might add. "Right, partner?"

"Yeah."

Within a couple of minutes, the family and their kid are loaded aboard the buggy and it disappears from sight. Hutch still has his arm around me, and if it was up to me, we could stay this way until the sun explodes and turns the earth into a charcoal briquette.

After a moment, Hutch clears his throat and says, "Hey, how about packing it in and hiking back out of here, huh? I've got this sudden urge for a private Christmas celebration. Indoors. All night long."

"Yeah?" I ask, my heart poundin' so hard in my chest I'm afraid it's gonna escape through my ribs and go hopping down the desert all by itself.

"Oh yeah," he purrs in my ear. "All. Night. Long."

"You break down the tent, I'll pack up our gear. Let's get goin', partner. Time's a'wastin'."

The sound of a true Hutchinson laugh is one of the finest sounds in the world.

It isn't long before we're all packed and aboard our furry friends, headed back to civilization as we know it.

I give my donkey a little kick to spur him on a little ahead of Hutch and, when the time is right, I start singing, as loud and as off-key as I can. "Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire…."

"Starsky!"

"Jack's snot dripping from his nose…."

"Starsky!!"

"Drooling Carol getting stoned by the fire…."

"Starsky, so help me god, if I catch you, I'm gonna…."

The rest of his threat is cut off by my belly laugh.

He's back. My Hutch is back.

Christmas miracles do happen, after all.

In the immortal words of a certain boy, "Merry Christmas, every one."