WARNING: The Starsky and Hutch fan fiction of Alexis Rogers is homoerotic in nature and theme, and often contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between two or more men. If this adult content offends you, please go play some place else. If you are under the age of consent where you live, please go away. If you don't like the laws where you live, change them. Remember, one can make a difference.
RATING: This story carries the slash rating of "G" as it only presents the concept of a homosexual relationship. This is one of the Groundhog Day stories.
DISCLAIMERS: This story exists solely for the enjoyment of those of us who care, and is not intended to infringe on any copyright or other legality of "Starsky and Hutch", Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg, David Soul, Paul Michael Glaser, William Blinn, Michael Fisher or anydamnbody else that I might have overlooked. No money has been made from the story nor is there likely to be.
COMMENTS should be directed to Alexis Rogers at email@example.com
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Yvette glanced up as the back door opened and Hutch strolled in, his hair damp and his clothes faded and casual. The moustache was gone, making him look ten years younger. There was lightness to his step as he lifted the lid and sniffed. "Ummmm."
"Hutch," she slapped at his hand, "you know the customers aren't allowed in the kitchen."
He tore a hunk of bread from a fresh loaf and mumbled around it, "I'm not only your best customer, I'm your landlord, and besides you're cooking a special dinner for tonight and I just wanted to check on the progress."
"It'll be ready on time." She sliced mushrooms, then set them to marinate. "I don't understand what's so special about tonight." But it's definitely special. I haven't seen you this happy in weeks, if ever.
"It's Ground Hog Day." He speared a mush-room, then closed his eyes as he savored the tangy flavor.
She stared at him for a moment. Since summer, she had seen him go through a myriad of emotions beginning with severe depression. Starsky had been in the hospital when she and her family had opened the restaurant and Hutch had been distant and cold. After Starsky had been released, Hutch had been happier, but not jubilant, like now. "I don't understand. In France, we don't celebrate Ground Hog Day."
"The rest of the world doesn't celebrate it either -- just Starsky and I."
"It's my compromise for Christmas."
Finishing the mushrooms, she reached for the carrots. "I don't understand why you don't celebrate Christmas. It is the most joyous time of the year. I love the presents and the decorations and the family get-togethers and the carols and midnight mass -- all of it."
"Yvette," he stroked her face with his fingertip, then perched on a stool beside her, "you, with your sweet innocence and your deep-seated religious background that allows you to believe in something I haven't been able to believe in for a long, long time, and Starsky, with his wonderful child-likeness, can appreciate Christmas. I can't. Maybe there are even moments when I wish I could believe, but I can't. I hope you never lose your faith, your love of the season because when it's gone you can never get it back. It has no meaning for me, I feel like someone stole it from me, and even worse, it has come to represent all the things I despise in this life -- greed, crime, commercialism. From where I stand, Christmas is just a royal pain in the ass."
The wild happiness seemed to evaporate with his words, so she popped a carrot in his mouth and caught her breath as he licked her fingers. Don't do that. Her stomach fluttered and she wondered again what it would be like to sleep with him. But he had never done anything more than flirt and tease since they had met. This had been a good location for the small restaurant and the garden was perfect. The place was already equipped for the business. All they had had to do was move in. And Hutch was right, he was their best customer, especially in the summer, when he and Starsky would come down the back stairs late in the evening and sit quietly in the corner, drinking wine and eating whatever was left, spending hours talking and sharing each other's company. A flash of the two men looking at each other came to mind, the casual closeness, the shared smiles, the constant touching. Perhaps that's why you've never been interested in me. He released her hand and she went back to her task.
His eyes clouded over. "If I could, I'd leave town every December and go to Asia or somewhere that Christmas doesn't exist. But I always end up staying here and working so that men with families can have the time off. And Starsky enjoys the festivities so much..."
And you can deny him nothing. She watched him for a moment, wondering if he would continue, but he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. "Hutch?"
"Huh? Oh yeah?"
"Did you decide on a wine?"
"Yeah. The Reisling. It's chilling."
"You know, I still don't understand why you pick this day to celebrate."
"It's just a day, kind of a forerunner to spring. Nothing special. I really want to be able to feel the joy that Starsky feels at Christmas, but no matter how hard I try, I can't. So several years ago I decided to see if I could capture the so-called spirit of Christmas and move it to another day."
"Did it work?"
"I think so. I don't feel the pressure from Christmas as much and Starsky doesn't bug me about it. He lets me do all this for him and he seems to enjoy it."
"And who cooked your dinner before we moved in here."
"Well, for your information, I'm a fairly good cook and I would have cooked tonight if we hadn't been working overtime for the last week. That doesn't leave me much time to putter around in the kitchen."
She giggled until tears welled up in her eyes. The image of this tall, clumsy man in a kitchen amused her.
"What's so funny?" he demanded, stealing another carrot.
"You...in an apron...in the kitchen." She wiped her eyes. "I can just see you with a hammer and screwdriver chipping dried pasta out of the pasta machine."
"The first Monday I have off, I'll show you pasta or whatever." Resting his hands on his hips, he stared down at her.
"Okay, it's a date. But don't expect me to clean up your mess."
"I don't make a mess."
"Hutch, I've been in your place, more than once. You exist in a mess." She paused, remembering the room from this afternoon. "Well, most of the time. You've done a nice job with the table. The candles and the flowers are wonderful. Why violets?"
Hutch smiled. "Because they're Starsky's favorites."
"When did you have time to do it?"
"I spent about an hour last night setting everything up. Glad you approve." He smiled again, this time at her, and her heart melted.
Footsteps clanged on the metal stairs in the courtyard and a voice yelled, "Hutch!"
"In here, Starsk."
"I should have known," Starsky announced as he bounced into the room and helped himself to a handful of mushrooms.
"You two are going to eat all the profits."
"And you love every minute of it, my dear." He kissed her hand, then nibbled at the carrot she was holding.
"Out, both of you out of the kitchen. Your salad's in the fridge, if you want to get started. I'll bring the soup up in a little while."
"Onion?" Starsky asked, his blue eyes wide and bright.
"Of course, and for you, with extra cheese."
"That's my partner, the only man I know who uses French onion soup as an excuse to eat mozzarella cheese."
"Well, I like it that way." He turned towards Hutch, his lips pouting, but Yvette sensed that he wanted to be kissed rather than soothed.
Hutch turned him around and shoved him towards the door. "Bring the soup whenever you're ready."
"Sure." Walking to the doorway to the garden, she watched as they ascended the stairs, their arms around each other. Before entering the building, she heard them laugh quietly, a contented sound, and then Starsky whispered, "I love you."
"I love you, too, David." And the pair disappeared into the hallway.
Yvette basked in the glow of that laughter, the smell of the spring flowers, the blue of the sky and the obvious joy of love.