For Lolabobs

The Ghosts of Christmas Crack

By Kaye

I. December 2008

Just as promised, in a cryptic voicemail the day before, a stretch limo waited just outside the stage door. Paul watched the back window slide down and a familiar hand appeared, cigarette clutched between two fingers. He shook his head and watched the fingers tap off ash and disappear back into the limo. The window remained cracked. He could only imagine the air quality — there could've been a thousand cigarettes since London. He hoped the driver had kept the divider up.

"Mr. Glaser… Paul…"

He turned from the limo to the fans clustered around the door, and began his post show ritual — signing autographs, smiling for pictures. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and saw the hand again and figured he had about five minutes before the door swung open. He heard the click of the locks and knew he had overestimated Davey's patience. He was signing the back of some 70s British fan rag, nodding to the conversation about knitted cardigans and red Torinos when he felt the air change.

"Are you trying to piss me off?" Davey growled at the same time he smiled and clapped an arm around Paul's shoulder.

Paul looked up to see most of the women in front of him in mid-stroke, mouths open, eyes bulged, as Davey leaned in and bussed him on the cheek. The flashbulbs erupted and the cacophony that followed brought three security guards and most of the cast out the stage door. Davey kept his arm around Paul and maneuvered them around the crowd, talking and signing, flirting and fawning over the same damn 30 year old pictures they'd seen for the last hundred years.

"So ladies, how was my partner here?" Davey hugged him harder, obviously trying to really piss him off.

"Oh David, he was wonderful…"

"Brilliant villain…"

"Still so sexy…"

Davey laughed and pulled Paul toward the car. "Well, you've had him all afternoon — he's mine now." He pushed him into the open door and turned. "I promise to bring him back unharmed. Happy Christmas!"

The choruses of Happy Christmas and we love you Starsky and Hutch that followed chased them around the corner. Paul reached under him and pulled out a bottle of Scotch, sat it on the seat beside him. Davey sighed and patted him on the leg.

"Now that was fun, huh?"

"Are you kidding me? You just made sure we're on the cover of every rag from here to Cardiff."

"Oh, lighten up, will ya — it's Christmas. Here…" Davey handed him a package. "Don't say I never gave you anything." He popped a cigarette in his mouth and cracked the window.

Paul stared at the gold-wrapped package and smiled. Reached over and took the cigarette from Davey's mouth, took a puff, sighed. He remembered he had no idea where they were going. "So, where are you taking me?"

Davey snatched the cigarette back. "Somewhere quiet. Warm. With an obscenely well stocked liquor cabinet and a ridiculously large bed."

"In Sunderland?"

"Not exactly." Davey handed him a highball glass. "Here."

"Not exactly?"

"You know you're a real buzz kill. Can't you just sit back and relax. Enjoy the company? I know you've missed me."

Paul took the glass. "I did miss you — until you decided to make this Starsky and Hutch World Tour Number Seven Thousand. You know I hate that shit."

"How can I forget — you remind me every minute of every day."

Paul sighed and took a drink. He hated to admit that it had been funny watching his cast mates walk out the stage door to see him and Davey together. He hated to admit there was still something about the two of them together. That they worked. That he felt good with Davey's arm around him. Felt even better with his thigh pressed against Davey's as they drove who knows how long into the middle of nowhere Northeast England. He had two days off and had illogically agreed to do whatever Davey told him to do. Well almost anything. He wasn't completely insane.

"And I better not see Stephen Fry this year."

"Again with the buzz kill — I'm gonna rename it The Festival of Lighten the Hell Up if you don't watch it. You know I've been killing myself with these plans."

"Which reminds me — we getting to our destination before sundown?"

"Yes, Rabbi, don't worry — it's all been worked out. Of course it took me forever — you know there are like three Jews in all of Sunderland?"

"112 actually."

"Really? And you know this how?"

"Oh, there was this thing… a meet and greet…"

"Is that where you wore the cardigan. For fuck's sake, Paulie, I almost had to come down and do an intervention when I saw that picture. You in the fucking sweater — seriously, I was getting worried."

Paul sighed. "I know, I know. But it's all about publicity here. For the theatre. For the Panto. I'm happy to help."

"Well, there's helping and then there's whoring…"

"Really, Mr. Maestro? You know the difference?"

Davey leaned back and laughed. "That's more like it, asshole — I love you, too."

Paul fingered the package still in his hand. "So, is this my first present or my only present?"

Davey reached over and snatched the present. "I guess you'll have to wait and find out."

Paulie snatched it back. "No, you said I could open it now."

Davey shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, well, it's not sundown yet. Plus it's just… a token, ya know?"

Paulie watched Davey try to act nonchalant. He shook the box. Something knocked against the side. So it wasn't a scarf. He was disappointed. He loved Davey's scarves. Always wore them. Inappropriately according to Davey, but he was a little sentimental about them. And Davey. Ben Stiller had told him he thought they were cool…

"I mean it's a lot of pressure you know — I've got to find you eight fucking presents, you have to get me one. Ein. Un. Uno. It's not fair."

"Oh, boo hoo." Paul held the present up to his ear. "What the hell is this?"

"I told you, Curious George, it's just a little token… something I found when I moved last summer."

"So, can I open it?"

David ignored him, rolled down the window. "We're here!" He opened the door and stepped out. "Come on, Paulie — burning daylight here."

Paul opened his door and climbed out, package still in his hand. He looked over the hood of the limo to Davey's idea of a Christmas hideaway. Which apparently was also Charles Dickens idea of a Christmas hideaway. A magnificent stone manor house, wreath on the door, garland and candles in every window. He could smell the fire from the dozen chimneys. The door opened and Stephen Fry stepped out.

"Welcome, colonists!"

Davey walked toward him and Paul hissed under his breath. "I told you — no Fry!"

Davey turned around. "Oh calm down, woman — he's just here to let us in — this is his house."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, my dear Aladdin Sane — looking splendid as usual. Welcome to Ty Carreg, which literally translates from the Welsh to Stone House. Built in 1764 by a homesick Cymro by the name of Thomas Morgan. I took ownership in 1987 after a very lucrative card game aboard the Orient Express, but that's a story for another holiday. Come in, come in… I'm just finishing my packing and then I will avail myself of your lovely coach and you can avail yourselves of…" Stephen walked through the door and turned "…well, I'm sure the two of you will find something here to avail yourselves… knowing the randy bastard that one is." Stephen nodded at Davey, who was carrying a bag into the house.

"Merry Fucking Christmas to you too, Fry." Davey put the bag down, and whistled. "Hell, you were right. This is brilliant."

Paul stood in the doorway, allowing the scent of every Christmas cliché to surround him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Fresh bread and cinnamon and pine and some kind of berry and maybe bacon, a little smoky… Davey had really outdone himself.

"Close the door, will you?" Davey walked over and took the present out of Paulie's hand. "Tell Stephen hello and goodbye."

"Hello, Stephen. Goodbye Stephen. Thank you so much Stephen." Paul walked into the house, peeking down a hall. "Damn, this is…"

"Oh, I know — it's horrendous. All Lord of the Manor and drafty as my mum's knickers, but I've laid in a nice little holiday spread for you. And Jasper's in the back house if you need anything. So give me a kiss and go out to the kitchen. There's a light supper and some rather fine wine breathing in the pantry."

Davey gave Stephen a peck on both cheeks and a big hug. "Thanks, asshole."

Stephen turned to Paul. "Come on, Starsky — I've been waiting for my big wet Christmas kiss from you all year. And I've been such a naughty, naughty, boy." He held out his arms.

Paul reluctantly stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss Stephen on the cheek, but was instantly captured against his chest and kissed firmly on his lips, Stephen's hands moving like lightning down Paul's back, grabbing his ass with both hands.

"Hey, Fry — get your hands off his ass. Or I'll kick yours."

Stephen lowered him to the floor, kissed the top of his head and sighed. "Someday, my little Starsky Michael Gorgeousness, we will have our moment."

"Say goodbye, Fry." Davey moved between Paul and Stephen.

Paul chucked and wiped his lips. "Maybe next year, Stephen." He winked and Stephen grabbed at his chest.

"Oh, I will live on the hope of angels. Ta ra." He disappeared down the hall.

They turned around and headed down the other hall, Paul making sure to take the package. They found the large airy kitchen, light and warm, with coffee brewing and wine uncorked. A platter of meats and cheeses on the counter and Christmas carols playing softly on the CD player.

"It's too much, isn't it?"

Paul could tell the question wasn't just about the Christmas puddings steaming on the stove. "Naw, Davey — it's perfect. Thank you. I needed this." He filled the wine glasses and handed one to Davey. "Happy Christmas."

Davey clinked his glass. "And Happy Hanukkah my friend. It's been a hell of a year."

"True."

They sat in silence for a while, soaking in the wine and the music, happy to be together. Then Davey grabbed the bottle and slid off the stool.

"Come on, let's explore this castle. See if there are any ghosts."

Paulie followed him out the door, glass in hand. "Just as long as it's not Marley in chains."

"Or the Ghost of Christmas Future — that fucker always scared the shit out of me." Davey nudged open a tall door just off the kitchen. "Still scares the shit out of me."

"Don't worry; I'm here to protect you." Paulie laid a hand on Davey's back as they tiptoed through the door. He hadn't been this happy in a long time.

Two hours and two bottles of wine later they were back in the kitchen, eating roast beef and cheese and pickles and tiny puffed pastries. The rest of the house had not disappointed and they had been transformed into twelve year olds, discovering both a suit of armor and a secret door behind an old bookcase.

"This is really great," Paulie said for the tenth time.

"Yeah, it is." Davey looked up and saw the last of the daylight disappear through the window. "Ready to light some candles?"

"Ready to open my present." Paulie reached for the gold package.

Davey grabbed it first. "Okay, okay, but just remember. It's just a little—"

"Token, I know. I know. I'm not expecting an Hermes scarf. Well, not yet."

"Greedy bastard." Davey held out the package. "I guess this is in the spirit of the season. Ghosts of Christmas past and all. Happy Holidays, my friend."

Paul took the package and unwrapped it slowly, looking up at Davey once, wondering what could be so… mysterious. He pushed back the white tissue paper and stared for a moment at the blue Star of David. Looked up at Davey, back at the star, back to Davey, who was running a hand through his hair. He picked up the star, turned it over. It was heavy plastic, scratched. A paperweight, maybe. He knew he should know what this was. And then he did. He sucked in a breath as it all came tumbling back in. "Ghost of Christmas Past, Davey? From the show, right?"

"I just thought you might like a little reminder of the old days. Thought it was kind of fitting for this house. Knights in shining armor, all that. It's cheesy, I know."

He placed the star back in the package, set it on the table and walked into Davey's arms. "It's perfect. It was… "

"A goddamn long time ago." Davey pulled him to his chest and kissed him.

And this Christmas and that Christmas folded into each other and he wasn't sure about any of it. He felt like ol' Ebenezer, soaring over rooftops in his nightgown and cap, with Davey as Ghost of Christmas Past and Present, sending him back to a place he didn't know he missed.

II. December 1978

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"It's okay, Davey."

"Hell it is, Paulie. Goddamn Goldberg. Goddamn network. Fucking prejudiced bastards."

Paul managed to steer Davey away from the soundstage and around the corner toward the honey wagons. He hoped everyone was at lunch. They didn't need another headline about how Starsky and Hutch were fighting again. "Calm down, will ya? You knew it would be like this."

"Fucking bastards, Paulie. They can't do this — it's our show. We decide who they are. We do. Me and Thee. Fucking bastards." Davey paced back and forth in front of Paul.

"Come over to my trailer, okay? We'll figure this out. Together." Paul tugged him until they were both walking down the long row of trailers. They stopped at the largest one on the end and Paul unlocked the door. Davey stepped in and resumed his pacing, now between the living room and hallway in the small space.

"Can you stop the pacing?"

"You got a beer in here?" Davey threw himself into a chair.

Paul reached into the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. "You know, you really need to do yoga, Davey. Your blood pressure must be off the charts."

"Yeah, well, it happens to upset me when people try to fuck with us. With the show. Did you read the fucking thing?"

Paul sat on the couch opposite. "Yes, it's typical ABC Christmas bullshit. So what? We know the kid's good. You're going to be great. You get to act all over the place — what's the deal, really? So Starsky's not exactly Jewish…"

"Not exactly… that's like saying Frank Sinatra's not exactly Italian." Davey took a swig of the beer. "I think we should walk. Until we get a rewrite."

"Why? It's just going to piss off the crew, who are ready for a break. It's going to piss off Aaron, who thinks we're too expensive already. Is it that important?"

Davey stood and sat his beer on the table. "Well, fuck, I guess not. What's next then, Paulie? Hutch's not from Minnesota? Maybe he secretly eats junk food. Maybe Starsky really met Huggy in the back room of the Manhole on Sunset — been fucking him through the series — how would you like to try to play that?"

Paul stood and faced Davey. He hated when he got this worked up. He didn't know how he was ever going to break it to him that he already had lawyers trying to figure out a way to get him out of his contract as early as the end of the season. The other problem was that he also loved it when he got worked up. Those fine jaw muscles tensed, the eyes sparked, the mouth… he couldn't think about his mouth. The last time he found himself pondering the soft curves of that mouth, he ended up pushed against the fake back wall of Dobey's office, trying to commit that mouth to memory, his hands up under Davey's shirt, the sparks between finally ignited, nowhere to go but where they were headed. Until footsteps on the soundstage tore them apart, panting.

Since then it was all touch all the time. But only in front of the cameras. They didn't dare tempt fate twice. There were too many dark corners and too many ways to get caught. But as Starsky and Hutch — they could maul each other all day long in the name of the "brotherhood of cops" and no one would think twice. Paul was beginning to think he was actually falling in love with Hutch instead.

"Uh, Paulie… did you hear anything I said?"

And there it was. That mouth. Those eyes. Overworked, overwrought, unavailable. And so Paul did the only logical thing he could think of at that moment and lunged, shoving Davey back onto the couch and falling on him, twisting his hands in that fucking girly soft hair, hearing the small protest from Davey right before he kissed him, ignoring everything except the ridiculous need he'd been harboring since the pilot to run his hands and lips over every inch of him. He felt Davey shift a bit and he almost came up off the couch when Davey reached inside his shirt and ran his hands up his chest. He lost his balance for a second, but Davey hung on, pulling him right on top of him, his tongue pushing down his throat, every thought of Christmas or Hanukkah or even the fact they were due on set in twenty minutes scorched out of their minds by the heat and combustion of a chemistry experiment gone horribly right.

They were lying tangled on the floor when the knock came.

"Paul — we're waiting for you on set." Amy, the set PA.

"Thanks. Tell Earl I'll be there in five minutes."

"Okay… uh, do you know where David is? I knocked on his trailer door and no answer… and Kristy's in school at three, so we have to wrap early today."

Davey started to speak but Paul put his hand over his mouth. "Check catering — I think he went to find some coffee."

He heard Amy walk away and struggled to his feet. Davey looked up at him from the floor.

"You really think we can do this after… this?"

Paul smiled. "Well, buddy, we're going to have to now. You heard her — Kristy's in school." He held out his hand and Davey took it, hoisting himself off the floor.

"Yeah, well, that's why I hate acting with kids."

"You better get used to it — she's Aaron's princess you know — he's developing some show for her already."

Davey smoothed his pants, tucked in his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, so maybe we can get a guest shot when we get fired from this one."

"Davey…"

"You can't seduce me into agreeing, Paulie. I'm still pissed off."

"I didn't… I mean… well, you didn't seem to…"

Davey leaned in and kissed Paul hard on the lips. "No, I didn't seem to at all. Been wondering when this was going to happen for a while. Thought it might happen in Vegas — you all goo goo eyed at me…"

"I was not!"

Davey chuckled. "Okay, so what are we going to do about this?"

"I don't know — we can't really go public, I mean, I'm not sure what 'this' is… I just… well, I mean, you know I love you, Davey, but…" He stopped when Davey threw his head back and laughed.

"What?"

"I meant about the show. What are we going to do about the show. Not… this. I mean, this was… aw hell, Paulie — I've been fucking crazy about you since the beginning. You've had to know that. I just don't want to fuck it up — you and me and this and…"

"Yeah, I know. Great potential for fucking up."

"Even greater potential for the best fucking thing to happen to either of us."

Paul sighed. "It's complicated."

"What isn't? Hell, you'll probably still be copping a feel in the rest home. But for now — what are we going to do about this fucking script?"

Paul sat back down on the couch. "I don't know — I guess we can Jew it up."

Davey grabbed a beer from the fridge. "Pardon me?"

"Well, if Starsky's Jewish, then let's get it in there — maybe they could argue about Hanukkah, fight over a dreidel… "

"It can't be obvious — S and P will knock it out. It's got to be secret. Undercover."

"You want us to go undercover on our own show where we in fact frequently go undercover?"

Davey began pacing. "It's perfect. If they want Starsky to love Christmas — let's make him love Christmas. Really love Christmas."

Paul wondered if he had damaged Davey when they had just… "Overboard? You mean like Starsky should carry a Christmas tree everywhere — drive a sleigh, buy a reindeer?"

Davey was now rifling through shelves above the little table. "Yeah, yeah, but think more subtle. Know any carols?"

"Know a lot of Janices, not so many Carols." Paul wriggled his eyebrows, trying to get Davey's attention.

Davey turned quickly. "What's this?" He held up a blue Star of David.

"Well, Davey, it's a Star of David — a paperweight I think. A fan sent it — see, they get it, Starsky's a Jew. Maybe that's all we need."

Davey grabbed a towel from the table and wrapped the Star of David. "This is good."

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to hide it somewhere."

Paul stood now, grabbed Davey's arm. "Slow down, Davey. You want me to sing Christmas carols and you're going to hide a Star of David — where? In your…" He looked at Davey's crotch and then looked away, his face turning a new shade of red. "Uh, sorry…"

Davey shook his head. "Didn't think you'd turn into the girl, Paulie — and you know there's no room down there…" He ran a hand across Paul's stomach. "Come on, we gotta get on set. Operation Starsky Christmas Fever has begun." He opened the door and hopped down the steps, tucking the towel under his arm.

"Paul, can I see you a minute?"

Paul looked over the camera at Earl Bellamy, the director, who was motioning him across the set.

"Here it comes," Davey whispered and disappeared behind Hutch's apartment.

Operation Starsky Christmas Fever had been up and running for four days. Paul had been singing Christmas songs and ho ho ho — ing all over the set. He had even managed to work a completely dressed tree into the script. Well, Davey had managed it. Something about Earl's niece and concert tickets and Paul hadn't wanted to hear any more. He still hadn't figured out where Davey had hidden the star.

"How's it going?" Paul tried to act interested. Innocent.

"Just wanted to let you know the dailies are shaping up nicely. And I'm really digging what you're doing with all the whistling — the interplay between you two is coming off great on screen.

"Oh, uh, good. Yeah, well, we like to mix it up a bit — keep the characters fresh." Paul wondered if there was a shovel big enough for what was coming out of his mouth. "It's not too much? We can pull back if you want…"

"Hell, no. It's making this script better and my job easier. And the kid's great."

"She's something else. A real pro." Paul gave Earl a pat on the back and then turned toward his trailer. "We still set for three?"

Earl nodded and instantly was surrounded by crew. Paul walked toward his trailer smiling. He realized he was whistling We Three Kings, when he felt a hand on his back.

"Did we get busted?" Davey joined him.

"Just the opposite. Apparently an overdose of Starsky cheer with a side order of Hutchinson huffiness is just what the director ordered. He practically gave my head a pat." Paul unlocked his trailer and opened the door. "You coming in?"

Davey stared at him, an eyebrow wagging, a slow smile creeping. "You want me to?"

"I asked you didn't I?"

"Yeah, but what are you asking?"

Paul sighed. "Now who's the girl? Get in the damn trailer Davey, or not. We're back on at three."

Davey walked past him and tossed himself onto the couch. "You know I haven't been to my trailer for a week. People are beginning to talk."

"What people?"

"My people, your people."

"We have people?" Paul handed Davey a beer.

"Oh, we've got people. People who need peop—"

"If you finish that, you'll be sorry."

Davey popped the top off the beer. "Never sorry, Paulie. Not when I'm with you."

Paul sat down on the couch, pulled Davey's legs into his lap. "Well, if I hear another Christmas song…"

"That's Streisand, buddy. Definitely not Christmas."

Paul laid his head back and closed his eyes. He absently rubbed Davey's calf and smiled when he heard him moan.

"You will kill me one day, you know that?" Davey practically purred.

"Not my intention. Trying to get you to relax. Seriously, you've gotta do some yoga."

Davey lifted his head. "Is that an invitation?"

"For yoga, yes. For whatever is skipping through your dirty little mind, no. We've only got an hour."

"Could do a lot of damage in an hour."

"Rest, Davey, rest. You can damage me later."

"Really?"

Paul sighed and switched legs. "Yes, really. Why don't you come out to the beach tonight. I'll cook some steaks. We can talk."

"Oh, talk. Okay."

"We need to talk, Davey."

"We're talking now, Paulie."

"You know what I mean."

"I do, but maybe I don't want to talk. Maybe talking is code for not fucking."

"Maybe. I don't know. It's not my intention…"

"But I know you, Paulie. You've had just enough time to think way too fucking much about this and you're about to give me the Glaser special and send me packing." Davey lifted his legs off Paul's lap. "But, the problem is, you can't send me packing. You're stuck. We're stuck. Three more years at least. Hell, who knows how long after that."

"That's not what I'm…"

"I get it, Paulie — you've got plans, I've got plans. Hell, I'll be in Europe all summer with the fucking tour. Can't we just let this be what it is? Can't you just leave it alone?"

Paul stood and faced Davey. "Can you? Can you let it be what it is?"

"Depends on what you think it is."

"No, it depends on if you can keep your shit together."

Davey stood. "My shit? I'm not the one in the Torino with a hard on yesterday."

"No, you're the one with your hand down my pants giving it to me."

They were breathing hard and pissed off and neither one could admit they were scared to death that it would all be gone in an instant and even more scared that it never would. And Davey reached up to smooth Paul's scowl and Paul fisted the front of Davey's shirt and Davey trailed his hand around to Paul's neck and Paul wrapped his arms around Davey and then lifted his head and the first kiss made words redundant. The second kiss answered any questions either of them had about any of it. The third kiss took them right over the edge of no going back, but by then neither one of them noticed.

III. December 2008

"Okay, but I can't remember where you hid it? In the apartment? Didn't we shoot in the apartment? "

They were lying together in the promised ridiculously large bed, all down and silk and warm. The fire crackled, cigars and brandy waited on the bedside table. Paul wished he never had to go back. To the Panto. To the States. To anything. His priorities seemed to magically rearrange themselves whenever he was with Davey.

"Seriously, man — did you ever watch our show?"

"No. Well, yes, I do remember some nights catching the opening credits before you pounced — hard to keep you off me in those days."

Davey rolled on his side and ran a hand over Paul's bare chest. "Not so easy now."

"Yes, but at least now there are naps."

"God, I love naps." Davey reached for a snifter. "We're going to owe Fry after this."

"You owe him. I'm still in trouble for last Christmas — the fire, Hugh."

"So you're serious — you can't remember?"

"Not exactly, but it was a hundred years ago — Ghosts of Christmas way way Past."

"Okay, so short of making you watch the episode…"

Paul reached over and pinched Davey's nipple. "You wouldn't dare."

Davey swatted his hand away. "God no, I know you. One frame of your gorgeous ass of yore and your dick's the size of a toothpick for the rest of the weekend."

"Funny — what about you? One look at your old head full of hair and you're crying like a baby. Guaranteed."

Davey sighed. "Aw, you know me, Paulie. You truly know me."

"I'd hope so — ah hell, the fucking car!"

"What?"

"You hid it in the car. I remember now — it kept sliding all over."

"Give the man a blow-job."

Paul leaned up and kissed him. "Rain check — now I want to see the show." He shoved the covers off and hopped out of bed. "Show me the disc."

Davey struggled up to his elbows. "Get the fuck back in here — it's cold."

"Come on, Davey — I wanna see it — the Christmas episode."

"You're either drunk or having a stroke — lie down."

Paul walked over to the other side of the bed and pulled the covers. "Seriously, you started this — now show me the money."

Davey pulled the covers back up. "I don't have the disc — Jesus, you think I carry the show with me at all times?"

"I'm not going to answer that — but I bet you've got it here. Now. Come on."

"Sorry, man. I stopped all of that shit long ago. When you threatened to actually shoot me. With a gun."

"I did not." Paul sat on the bed. "Well, hell — where are we going to get a copy of it?" He snapped his fingers, jumped up and threw open the door. "Fry's got it."

"Fry? Why would he—"

"For fuck's sake, of course he does — he's always telling me how he enjoys my "assets" or whatever… now where you suppose he keeps them? Did we pass a TV anywhere?"

Davey pushed the covers down and sat up. "I swear to God, Paulie, if you're yanking my chain about this…"

"Later, Davey — come help me look."

Davey wrapped a blanket around him, grabbed the snifter and followed Paulie out the door.

They found the whole series in the library, with a post it note attached. In case you boys want to reminisce… Love, Stephen. It took them a while to find the episode.

"Little Girl Lost? It was called Little Girl Lost? I thought it was a Christmas episode." Paulie popped in the disc and sat down beside Davey, who had moved from brandy to scotch.

"It was — but remember, Kristy McNichol was in it — she got lost… we found her."

"I forgot. Hey, did you know she lives up in Topanga now, near your old house. With her girlfriend."

"I love Topanga. And I figured about the girlfriend. I had her pegged way back then." Davey handed him a cigar.

"You did not. Didn't you try to get her back to your trailer when she came back for that piece we did in that fucking barn? Froze my ass off in the fucking barn."

"Shhh, this is my favorite part."

"The credits? Oh, of course it is. Sorry, buddy."

"Shh…"

The show started and familiar Torino roared down the alley, screeching out into the street. They sat silent, both wincing when Hutch leaped onto the roof of the car.

"You know you can trace all your back problems to right there." Paul lit a cigar.

"Thank you, Mother."

"Fuck, were we really this young?" Paul squinted at the TV.

Davey stretched out on the couch, his legs in Paul's lap. "We were fucking babies."

Paul massaged his ankle. "Fucking, that's for sure… remember when we…"

Davey nudged him in the stomach with his knee. "Seriously, Paulie — I'm watching this."

Paul blew cigar smoke at him and then pointed at the screen. "There it is. Damn. I can't believe you kept that star."

"We look good." Davey leaned up and rubbed Paul's shoulder. "See, it's not so bad."

Paul grinned. "The reindeer on the rearview? Your idea?"

"My idea."

"Is that my next Hanukkah gift? Is this going to be the Props of Christmas Past?"

"I'm good, Paulie, but even I'm not that good. I just thought the star was… you know…"

"I know — a touch of … what did I just say?"

"Euphoric sentimentalism. All those years in California have really rounded out your accent."

Paul chuckled. "I forgot how smart Starsky was."

"And how handsome Hutch was?"

"Well, you do have nice hair."

"Are you trying to make me cry, Paulie? On Christmas?"

"Davey, shut up, will ya? I'm watching my favorite show."

fin