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This story would not have been possible without the immeasurable beta skills of the very talented Callisto and PRZed. Their help is especially noteworthy this time of the year, as both women are working on their own holiday offerings, yet took time out to lend a hand to a first-time S&H fic writer. This is for Laura McEwan who requested slash featuring both boys, Angst, Romance, Twu Wuv, and no Death. :) Happy Holidays, sweetie! Slash. Post SR. Rated PG-13 for language and exceedingly mild sexuality. |
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Something was up with his partner. David Starsky knew this to be true, the same way he knew Bogey was the smoothest tough guy ever and that Superman's X-ray vision had to be more a pain sometimes than a perk. After all, there were some things a guy--super or just plain regular--didn't want to see. And Starsky would definitely count "Hutch in Pain" as one of them. The really weird thing was Starsky hadn't recognized the signs at first. And he should have, even as zonked as he'd been on painkillers those first few weeks after the shooting. With as long as he'd known Hutch and as close as the two of them were, he would have thought he'd be the first to realize there was a problem with the big blond. What had fooled him, though, was that some of the warnings had looked at first like blessings. Things Starsky would have wished for Hutch himself, if he'd still believed wishing would get him anywhere. "You're gonna want to get yourself a tighter belt there, babe. If you're not careful those pants are gonna slide right off you. What d'you do? Go on another one of those crazy diets of yours?" "Nothing crazy about it, Starsk. Just dropped some weight I'd put on. I'd have thought you'd be pleased." "What? That you're wasting away to nothing?" "Hardly. That I'm no longer stealing your French fries." "Hey. Mi French fries es su French fries, amigo. You know that." "That means the world to me, buddy. It does. But all that fried junk is a thing of the past. I'm eating healthy now. You will too, as soon as we get you out of here." "Oh, yeah? Says who?" "Says me. When I take you home, I'm gonna fatten you up with all kinds of good stuff--organic vegetables and whole grains. Bee pollen and--" "Bee pollen? But what if I get a taste for a chili cheese dog with the works, onion rings and a triple thick malted?" "Well, I guess you're just going to have to concentrate on getting your strength back then, aren't you? That way, when you get the urge, you can drive yourself to the Chubby Chicken, and get back to work on hardening your arteries." Hutch couldn't have distracted him any better than with that talk of 'take you home'--an event Starsky had looked forward to like it was a combination of Hanukah, Christmas and the Dodgers home opener all rolled into one. No sooner had the words left Hutch's lips than Starsky's attention had turned from his partner's baggy cords to the happy day, still many weeks in the future. Besides, when you got right down to it, Hutch was right. It was no big deal. He had put on a few pounds over the last year. It hadn't really bothered Starsky, of course. He had always looked at it as having more of the Blintz to love. Still, he could see how it was probably a good idea for Hutch to get back in shape again. Which Hutch did. With a vengeance. "Where the hell you been?" "Running." "Where? How long? You were gone for a couple of hours." "Yeah? Well, today is my long day, don't forget." "How long?" "Not too bad. I only did 18 miles." "Eighteen miles?! For cryin' out loud--who the hell was chasin' you? Damn, Hutch. You ain't even been back runnin' all that long. You keep up that kind of pace and you're gonna hurt yourself." "Don't be such a worry wart. I'm only running every other day. I'm hitting the weight room on the days in between." "And that's another thing--since when do you lift? You always told me all those reps bored the crap out of you." "Yeah. Well maybe I just wasn't disciplined enough before. People change, Starsk." They do indeed. The scars twisting their way around Starsky's torso like a tangled roll of barbed wire were physical testament to that. The funny thing was Starsky thought perhaps changes had taken place inside him too. He couldn't see them the way he could Gunther's flesh and blood souvenirs, but he could feel them just the same. He wasn't sure when things had first begun to shift. It might have been after he'd been shot. But Starsky had a feeling it had actually started earlier, maybe even years before. Maybe even the day Hutch and he had met. "Oh, rats!" "What's the matter, Blondie?" "Nothing. It's just...I thought I'd brought my Criminal Procedure handouts, but it looks like I grabbed my Civil Law ones instead." "That's not a problem. You can look on with me." "Really? Oh man, that's...I really appreciate that. Thanks." "It's no sweat. Dave Starsky." "Ken Hutchinson. Nice to meet you." Over the years, Starsky had seen plenty of nice Jewish boys from the neighborhood get their hearts broken by one shiksa goddess or another. For the longest time, he hadn't understood the appeal. WASPy blondes were kind of exotic, he'd supposed, in a bland, Wonder Bread sort of way. But when you got right down to it, they had the same parts as any other woman. He just hadn't gotten what all the fuss was about. Then this lanky Nordic type had plopped down in the seat next to him at the academy... ...and he had understood how Barbra Streisand must've felt in The Way We Were. Not that Starsky would ever have actually watched a chick flick like that. Not from start to finish. And not that Hutch was any Robert Redford either. His hair had been thinning as long as Starsky had known him, he couldn't dance for shit, and until recently his chest had been less developed than Starsky's little brother Nicky's sense of responsibility. And don't even get him started on Hutch's ugly ass mustache. Still, all that aside, Starsky couldn't deny his friend was easy on the eye. The parade of beautiful women who had pranced their way into and out of Hutch's bedroom over the years was proof enough of that. "You wanna do something tonight?" "Wish I could, pal. But I've already got plans." "You and Brandi paintin' the town red?" "Carla. And I'm cooking her dinner." "Carla? Carla who? When did that happen? You workin' your way through the alphabet now? Who's next? Denise? Donna?" "Oh, please! Like you're one to talk." "Me? What's my love life got to do with your alphabet soup?" "Starsky, come off it. You know as well as I do, your love life is every bit as prolific as mine. So don't go getting all high and mighty on me. You like your women the same way you like your cereal--in a variety pack." Hutch had said that to him years ago, before Terry, before Rosey. It might have even been before Helen. Starsky couldn't remember for sure. Every once and awhile he would try to prove Hutch wrong, try to prove something to himself even. That Irene Starsky's little curly-headed boy could have the American Dream, same as anyone else--a good woman, kids, and a home to come back to at the end of the day. But for whatever reason, it had never seemed to take. Women wove in and out of Starsky's life like pretty bits of ribbon, decorative, but not substantial. Not necessary. Not like Hutch, who was tough as leather and just as lasting. And that was enough for Starsky. More sometimes than he thought he might deserve. No one had ever loved him the way his partner did, warts and all. No one had ever stood up for him, stood by him. No one had ever... ...made Starsky as happy as Hutch did. And for the longest time, forever really, Starsky had believed the feeling was mutual. But, the years kept ticking by and the toll on their partnership had kept mounting. Inhuman hours, corruption, betrayal, disappointment and despair--all the bad stuff began outweighing the good. Neither of them were getting any younger and the streets sure as hell weren't getting any less mean. Sometimes, though, the streets weren't even to blame. Sometimes all either of them had to do was look in the mirror to know who was at fault. "Hutch, I want you to do something for me." "Yeah? What exactly did you have in mind?" "Nothing too difficult. You should be able to handle it easy enough. If you want to handle it, that is." "Starsky, we've put in over 80 hours in the last five days. I'm so tired I'm afraid when Dobey finally does let us clock out, I won't be able to find my way home. Trust me when I say now is not the time for riddles." "Fine. I'll cut to the chase, and you--you cut yourself a fuckin' break." "What the hell are you talking about?" "I'm talking about you tearin' yourself up inside on account of Jimmy Spano. You did everything you could." "Which obviously wasn't enough." "No, it wasn't. You couldn't save him from himself, any more than his parents could or his teachers or the counselors Juvie set him up with. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. You're not God, Hutch. No matter how much you might like to believe otherwise, sometimes." "Great pep talk, Starsk. I feel better already." When Kira had come between them, Starsky had wondered if maybe that was it. It was finally over between Hutch and him. The happiness had run out, just like patience, and forgiveness. But somehow, some way, they had gotten past that. They had grown much more careful with each other, watching what they said, offering small kindnesses, remembering to be amused by their differences rather than annoyed. It had reminded Starsky of dating. Not the frantic singles scene he and Hutch had torn through ever since Hutch and Vanessa had gone kaput. But more like the kind of courting Starsky had done back in junior high, when he had though Sarah Weinstein was the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world, and he hadn't so much wanted to get into her pants as he had wanted her to realize he was alive. Look at me, his fourteen year old self had yearned to cry from the Brooklyn rooftops. Look at me, Hutch. Of course, once Starsky had gotten shot, it had seemed as if Hutch had been unable to look away. Starsky had lost entire days of his recovery to the drugs that had made his healing possible. His friends had tried to fill in the blanks where they could, Huggy and Dobey tattling on behavior Hutch had been unwilling to confess on his own. Through them, Starsky had learned of his partner's lengthy vigils, the way the man would often haunt his hospital room like an exhausted, heartbroken ghost. Starsky had a memory of one such visit. Or maybe it wasn't a memory. Maybe it was only a dream. He couldn't be sure and, because of that, had never confronted Hutch with what he thought he knew. Whatever it had been had taken place early in his convalescence, during the days when he would drift in and out of consciousness, like the tide washing a beach, though his periods of wakefulness weren't anywhere near as regular. During one such stretch, Starsky had thought he could sense his partner in the room with him, close by. He hadn't opened his eyes. He couldn't just then. But his other senses had seemed to be working pretty well. He could hear the machines monitoring his progress, beeping and swooshing from arm's length away. He could feel the over-starched hospital linens, crisp against his skin, and cool. And he could smell Hutch's aftershave. Starsky could never remember the brand, but he had recognized the woodsy, clean scent so familiar to him. The one that always reminded him of pine forests and the kind of blue sky that could hurt a guy's eyes to look at, as bright and clear and open as it was. Starsky felt that same way sometimes when he looked into Hutch's sky colored eyes. Starsky had lain there, unmoving, listening to the low intimate rumble of Hutch's voice. He thought the words had been spoken softly, right near his ear, stirring the hair there so it had danced against his temple. But maybe that had been an illusion. Maybe the voice had only been inside his head. Hey, buddy. It's me. I can't stick around long. I'm still in trouble with that nurse of yours. She ratted me out to the rest of the staff and now they're threatening to escort me out if I overstay my welcome. But what do you care, huh? You're sleeping like a baby. That's all right, though. That's good. It's not that I want you to wake up. It's just...I needed to see you again before I headed home. Make sure you were really doing okay now. And I wanted to tell you something that couldn't wait, something you need to know. We got him, Starsk. Gunther. I just got back from San Francisco, and he's headed to jail for a really long time. He can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt either of us ever again. So don't worry, okay? It's over. Everything is taken care of. Just...rest. And get better. And know...just...know I've got it covered. Your apartment, your mom, the bills, all that departmental paperwork mumbo-jumbo. I'm even getting the tomato fixed up again, good as new. So all you have to focus on is you. That other stuff--it doesn't matter. And I mean that. You know? The stuff with us and the job, and...everything. We'll figure it out when you're feeling better. And whatever you want, Starsk...whatever, I'll make it happen. You'll see. I know it's not going to be easy for you, babe. You've got a lot of hard work, and sweat and pain waiting for you. I know that. But I promise you, you'll never have reason to regret coming back, and you'll never, ever have to face any of it alone. I swear, by everything I know to be holy, I'll be the best friend I know how to be. For you. I'll give you my very best, Starsk. I just...I hope it's enough. Starsky thought Hutch might have touched him then, laid his hand on Starsky's head, pressed his lips there. But Starsky had never opened his eyes to be sure. The next morning, as soon as visitors' hours had officially gotten underway, Hutch had been at Starsky's door, just like usual. Tired looking, but so damned happy. Starsky remembered thinking, it's like he's got the sun shining out of him, straight from his pores, up through the ends of his hair. Hutch had never admitted to a late night visit, had never made mention of the previous evening at all, other than to grumble how getting stuck in a window seat on the flight home had made his back scream in protest. Instead, he had told Starsky about Gunther's capture, as if he had never said a word about it before. In the daylight, Hutch had gone into more detail about the arrest itself, sharing with his partner the way Gunther's bravado had crumbled so pitifully when he had realized he would receive no preferential treatment from the San Francisco PD. But Hutch hadn't talked about the rest of it. About his promises to Starsky and all that had made him voice them. He hadn't even acknowledged such feelings might exist. So Starsky had decided they probably didn't. Not that Hutch didn't love him to pieces. Starsky knew that. But the other stuff--the vows and the plans for their future together, and all the need and pain and fear Starsky had heard bleeding through those softly spoken dream words... Maybe it was better not knowing for certain. At least just then, when it had been such an effort simply to stay awake and alert. Not with everything out of control and so damned unsure. So he had put those thoughts away, like he'd put away so many other uncomfortable, unfortunate things--his father's death, Vietnam, the way Nicky seemed somehow destined to disappoint, all his failed relationships. He hadn't missed them, or had even had much opportunity to regret not acting on them. In the months following, Starsky had had plenty of other things to keep him occupied. Getting healthy was a bitch. It took forever, weeks and weeks in the hospital, months and months of sitting around on his ass, when he wasn't sweating blood in PT. It had fucking hurt in ways Starsky had never even imagined. The kind of hurt that had him throwing up because of the pain (a real treat given the mess that was his chest). Crying into his pillow, into his hands, into Hutch's arms. "Mmmm. Oh, ohhh... Awwww, fuck." "Starsk?" "G-go away, Hutch." "What's wrong, buddy?" "You not listenin' to me, Blondie? I said get outta here! Go back to watchin' Carson or whatever. J-just leave me alone." "If you think I'm going to go back to sitting on the couch, watching TV, when you're in here on your own, hurting, you don't know me very well." "Yeah, well...didja ever think I might not want you here? Huh? Didja ever once maybe consider givin' a guy his privacy?" "You don't have to pretend with me, Starsk. You know that. There's no need to hide--" "Who the fuck is pretendin'? Shit! This don't look real enough for you?" "It does. It does. All too real. So...let me help you, okay? That's all I want to do is help. Come here...come on now. Come here. That's it...there you go. I've got you... Ssshh. I've got you. Try and relax, babe. It's a couple of hours yet before we can give you any more pills. Just breathe. Nice and easy. You remember what the doctor said. Breathe through it. That's the way. Good. That's good." "I hate this. I fuckin', fuckin' hate this, Hutch." "I know. I know you do." "I just want everything to be normal. You know? Like it was before." "It will be, pal. I know it will." "Y-you promise?" "Yeah, I do. I promise, Starsk. Everything will be just the way it was. You'll see." And bit by bit, it was. Almost, anyway. Starsky had worked harder than he had ever worked at anything in his life, while Hutch had stood by his side, cheering him up, pushing him, coddling him. Making Starsky the absolute center of his universe. Starsky supposed he should have maybe felt guilty for commanding as much of Hutch's time and attention as he had. But it had felt so damned good to be cared for like that, and Hutch hadn't really seemed to mind. Plus, it was doing the trick. Together, the two of them were getting Starsky back in fighting form. Starsky's mobility was almost back to where it had been before the shooting. He still had a lot of work to do when it came to building up his strength and endurance, and his clothes still drooped where they used to hug. But he could move without wincing now. Sleep through the nights without meds. He was on the mend. Finally. Better still--he was getting his life back! He could go to Huggy's now for a burger (even though Huggy insisted on serving him a salad with his order, rather than fries or rings--a move that had Hutch's fingerprints all over it), drive his beautifully restored Candy Apple Red schweetheart to the beach to watch the sunset (Hutch's role in the Torino's transformation had earned him enough brownie points to balance out the whole rabbit food thing), or take a walk through the park with his camera (as long as he didn't go too far or too fast). Starting on Monday, Starsky was going to be back at Metro, riding a desk, but working again. Earning a paycheck, pulling his weight. He was almost there. While Hutch... Hutch looked as if he had just lost his best friend instead of having finally gotten him back again. Not every minute of the day, of course. Sometimes, Hutch looked at Starsky with the same kind of amazement he might show a unicorn or a leprechaun, or maybe even Bigfoot. Like he was afraid if he blinked, Starsky might suddenly vanish, as if he had never even been there to begin with. Mostly, though, the stronger Starsky got, the sadder Hutch became. Starsky knew one thing was involved with the other. But he couldn't figure out exactly how. He sure as hell knew Hutch wasn't upset because he was getting better. That just wasn’t possible. But something was up. No question. Only Starsky didn't know what it was. And most of the time, he couldn't even predict what might set it off. "It's gotta be like tryin' to keep both a wife and a mistress happy at the same time." "What does?" "Your staying here with me. I wonder if your plants feel like you're cheating on 'em." "What the hell are you talking about?" "I'm talking about you basically living in two places now for months. I don't know how you do it. You've got half your clothes here, your guitar, all that weird food you eat, I don't even know how many books and records and shit. How can you keep track of where anything is?" "I don't mind, Starsk. I told you that. I like being here for you." "Yeah, I know. You said it was no big deal." "It's not." "You're such a liar." "I'm not...why would you say that?" "Hutch, please. Don't sell yourself short. What you've been doing for me is a huge deal--moving in, taking care of me like you have. That means a lot, pal. It really does. Not everyone would turn their life upside down for someone like that." "I don't look at it that way." "Oh. I, um... Yeah. I guess you're right. It's probably time, isn't it? Man. You must be looking forward to getting me out of your hair." "Now, wait a minute. That's not what I'm sayin' here. You've been terrific--" "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don't know." "I don't want you thinkin'--" "No. You just want your life back. There's nothing wrong with that, Starsk. You want things to get back to normal. I understand." Only Starsky didn't think Hutch did. Not really. Not the way Starsky had meant it. But whenever he'd tried to explain himself and the situation, Hutch would cut him off. "Starsk, don't worry about it. I promise you my feelings aren't hurt. It's okay. Stop trying to apologize." The thing was, Starsky wasn't trying to apologize. He was trying to keep Hutch from being so miserable. And doing a lousy job of it. It would be easier, he supposed, if he could hold a real conversation with his partner. Only, ever since he had moved out earlier in the week, Hutch had been awfully hard to pin down. He would call in religiously, once in the morning and once in the evening, checking to make sure Starsky was doing okay, and asking if he needed anything. But he never stayed on the line long enough for Starsky to say much more than "I'm fine" and "I think I've got everything I need." Almost everything, anyway. By Friday morning, Starsky had had enough. Slipping behind the wheel of the Torino, he swung by a little deli Hutch and he would frequent when they had business over near the university, picked up a Greek salad for Hutch, and a sub and chips for himself, and headed in to Metro. If Mohammed wouldn't come to the mountain, then the mountain was going to damn well track Mohammed down. And bring him lunch. "Starsk! What are you doing here?" Hutch asked as Starsky made his way through the doors at Metro, smiling and saying hello to the cops he knew. Hutch stood in the hallway with his jacket on, and a file folder in hand, as if he might have just come back from court, looking harried, but genuinely pleased to see his partner. That was promising. "Doing a trial run for my drive in to work Monday morning and bringing you a bowl of green stuff from Harvey's," Starsky said, displaying the generously sized salad on his fingertips like a waiter at a five star restaurant. Hutch smiled, took the bowl, and gave it a sniff. "Oh, man. Harv's Greek salad? I haven't had one of these in ages. Thanks, Starsk. You didn't have to do that." "I know I didn't," Starsky said, smug as could be. "I'm just a really terrific person." "And modest." "Well, yeah. Not to mention hungry," Starsky said, shaking the white paper bag containing his own lunch for emphasis. "Okay. So...um, let me drop this on my desk," Hutch said, gesturing with the folder, "and grab us some sodas. It's a nice day. You want to eat in the park?" Starsky grinned. "I like the way you think." Once Hutch had gotten rid of his paperwork and coaxed a couple of cans of Coke out of the machine, the two men took their food and walked to a small park about a block or two from the station. With it being a weekday, they were able to find a battered, yet available picnic table. Starsky climbed atop it; Hutch took a seat below on the bench. As they unwrapped their food and settled in, Starsky looked around with satisfaction. This was nice. He was glad Hutch had suggested eating outside. Maybe the fresh air would do the blond some good, help him to relax a little more. While he seemed happy enough about Starsky's visit, Hutch looked tired to his partner's knowing eyes, like something had been disturbing his sleep. Luckily, whatever was bothering him didn't impact his appetite. He dug into his salad with true enthusiasm and appreciation. Starsky did equal credit to his turkey sub. Harvey's had reliably excellent grub. Even though it was on the other side of town, Hutch and he should make a point of going there more often. Conversation was light while they ate, gossip about the station, observations about the game that had been on the tube the night before. It was easy between them. Starsky was glad he'd come. "So you know the real reason I drove down here, don't you?" Starsky ventured after he had polished off his sandwich and was rooting around inside his Fritos bag, gathering up the crumbs with damp fingertips. Hutch tensed as he looked up from his salad, as if something Starsky had said had made him wary. "Doing your good deed for the day?" Starsky bobbed his head and slid his finger from between his lips. "Yeah, that. But also--you and I gotta make plans." Hutch frowned. "For what?" "For Saturday night." If anything, Hutch's frown deepened. "What's happening Saturday night?" "That's what I'm sayin'!" Starsky enthused. He was improvising with this line of conversation. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. "We've got to decide--after all, it's my last Saturday before going back to work. We've got to mark the occasion." Starsky watched as a series of hard to define emotions flitted across Hutch's face like shadows. Finally, as if choosing one at random, Hutch's lips curved in a smile. But it didn't look to Starsky as if the smile reached Hutch's eyes. "S'pose we could swing by Huggy's, get something to eat, play some pool." Starsky nodded. That's the spirit, Blintz. Don't run away from whatever is bugging you. Let me be there. Let me help. "Yeah. Some food, a little pool, a couple of cold ones. Maybe check out the talent. Talk to a pretty girl." Hutch's smile faltered. He glanced down as he pushed a roly-poly olive around with his fork. "Been a while for you, I guess." Starsky didn't know what to make of Hutch's reaction, but he sure as hell didn't want the guy's pity. Better to fess up than avoid it, make a joke of it. "A pretty long while, if you must know. It'll be good getting' back in the saddle again. So, whaddya say? Saturday night at Huggy's? Should be fun." Hutch looked up again, his smile back firmly in place, and shrugged. "Sure, why not. It'll be nice to get back in the groove." "That a boy," Starsky said, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt. "I'll pick you up at seven. Dress sharp, partner. Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to break a few hearts." Hutch balled up his napkin and tossed it on top of what remained of his lunch. "Oh, I'd say that's guaranteed." Starsky spent Saturday morning doing grocery shopping and errands, and part of Saturday afternoon taking a nap. He wanted to make sure he had plenty of get up and go for that evening. Taking his time, he dressed in his best fitting pair of jeans, a wine colored chamois shirt a stew named April had once told him made him look like a gypsy, and a pair of boots that added an inch or two to his height. Pleased by what he saw in the mirror, he headed for the Torino, excited about what was to come. Hutch and he would go out, kick back, have a few laughs. And maybe, just maybe, if he timed it right and Hutch had the proper amount of alcohol in his system, Starsky could get to the bottom of his buddy's blues. But, if he were honest, Starsky had to admit that wasn't the only reason why he thought a night out might be just the ticket for them both. The time he had spent with Hutch the day before had really whetted his appetite for more of the same. He was used to having his partner underfoot--on his couch, in his car, leaving silky blond hair in his sink. That week had been tough, going cold turkey without his other half. He'd never admit it, but Starsky had missed the big lug. He wondered if the feeling was mutual. Traffic was fairly light with it being early on a Saturday. He made good time to Venice Place, and lucked out by scoring a parking space only a couple of doors down. His spirits high, Starsky shoved his keys in his pocket and strutted to the building's entrance, where, simply to annoy Hutch, he played In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on the doorbell. Hutch quickly buzzed him in. To make up for his Iron Butterfly tribute, Starsky politely knocked when he got to Hutch's apartment door. "It's open," called a voice from the other side. "How's it goin'?" Starsky asked, stepping inside and looking around. Hutch had been busy. After months of neglect, the place was spotless. "Pretty good," Hutch said from the bedroom. "I'll just be a minute. There's beer in the fridge if you want one." "Don't mind if I do," Starsky said, sliding off his leather jacket and tossing it on a chair. Humming happily to himself, he crossed to the kitchen. Beer. What a lovely word. It was so nice to be able to drink again, even if only in moderation. He hadn't realized how much he enjoyed the taste of Budweiser until he had gone without it for months. Reaching in to the refrigerator, Starsky pulled out a can for him and a can for his pal. Popping the top on his, he took a sip. "You know, I was wondering," Starsky began as he moseyed through the apartment and towards his partner, "if I'm careful, do you s'pose I could chance a spin on the dance floor? Huggy said he had a live band playing tonight that was supposed to be pretty good." "As long as you don't try to out-swivel Elvis, I don't see why not," Hutch said, his voice sounding muffled. When Starsky reached the bedroom, he realized why. His friend was rummaging around in his closet. He wondered what the hell Hutch was looking for. When the blond stepped into view, Starsky thought he might have an idea. "W-what the hell did you do to yourself?" Starsky sputtered, depositing the beer cans on the dresser with a noticeable clunk, and taking a step towards the other man. Hutch was dressed in jeans, socks, and a vivid peacock blue shirt that hung from his shoulders untucked and unbuttoned. He had a pair of boots in his hands. His hair was still slightly damp and lay tousled atop his head. It was shorter than Starsky had seen it since their early days as detectives. And Hutch's moustache was gone, leaving behind a swathe above his upper lip a shade lighter than the rest of his face. Shit. The longer Starsky stared, the more Hutch's fair skin flushed. Soon, the blond couldn't meet Starsky's eyes. "I just went to the barber," he mumbled to a spot somewhere over Starsky's right shoulder. "That's all." "I'll say," Starsky said, moving closer still. Hutch looked good, real good. Cutting away all that excess hair made him look like a kid again. Starsky couldn't understand at first why that bothered him. "When you said, 'take a little off the top,' did the guy take you too literally?" "I don't know why you're making such a big deal over it, Starsk," Hutch said, finally meeting Starsky's gaze when he shot him a glare. Sitting down on the end of the bed, he began tugging on his boots. "You hated my moustache." Starsky nodded, and came to stand in front of him. Reaching out his hand, he ran his fingertips over the top of Hutch's newly shorn head. "Yeah, I did. But you didn't." Boots on, Hutch looked up at him. That warm glow Starsky had seen in Hutch's gaze so often before was there again. But this time, there wasn't only affection in Hutch's eyes, but a vulnerability Starsky hadn't witnessed since he'd been injured. Hutch hadn't let him see need in all that time. Starsky was seeing it now. "You gonna tell me what this is really about?" Starsky asked quietly, his hand curved now around the side of Hutch's face. Hutch shrugged, yet didn't look away. "Seemed like a good time for something new. You know, a fresh start." Slowly, like glaciers forming, like a senior citizen with a walker, like the longest extra inning game ever, the pieces began to fall into place for Starsky. "You're not trying to start fresh," Starsky said, certainty growing even as he said it. "You're trying to go back." "What are you talking about?" Hutch said with a frown. "Back to what?" "Back to what we had," Starsky said, his hand now on Hutch's shoulder. "Getting me and the car up and running, your makeover, hitting Huggy's on the weekend to raise a little hell--none of that's fresh and none of it's new." Hutch began to look worried. "But you like it. All of it. It's 'normal.' That's what you said you wanted." Starsky felt something inside him grow swollen and heavy. An ache, like the problem was physical. Yet, it had nothing to do with bullet wounds or healing muscle. The big dumb blond. Shaking his head, he sat down on the bed beside Hutch and rocked his partner's arm, side to side. "What are you? Santa Claus? Some kind of genie? I make a wish and you decide to grant it? What's that about? Why would you try and take something like that on?" "Because I'd do anything for you," Hutch whispered, his smile small and wry. "Because I made a promise." Aw, Hutch. And suddenly--or maybe not so suddenly--Starsky had another wish. One that frankly scared the hell out of him. Be on the same page with me here, babe. Please don't freak out. "What if I've changed my mind?" Starsky asked, slipping his hand into Hutch's and holding on for dear life. "What if I don't want normal?" Hutch gazed down at their clasped hands, then lifted his head to meet Starsky's eyes, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern. "What do you mean, Starsk? What do you want?" Starsky took a deep breath. "Just this." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Hutch's. The other man startled, but didn't pull away. Instead, he tilted his head just a touch to make the fit more perfect and whispered a sound mingling surprise and pleasure. Hutch's mouth was firm and soft and, slightly parted, molded itself to Starsky's, giving even as it received. Taking his time, Starsky kissed Hutch like he would have kissed Sarah Weinstein all those years before. The way he would have if she had ever looked at him. Their first kiss finished, Hutch was looking at him now. "Starsk," Hutch said, his eyes shining, his voice husky and low. "When you got out of the hospital, I was so very grateful, and so, so scared. You were really...fragile then, and in such awful pain. I would have given anything to have traded places with you. It killed me to see you like that." "You think I don't know that?" Starsky said, nudging his forehead against his partner's, the touch gentle, his words hushed like Hutch's. "I could tell you were hurting too, even though you never said a word." "Yeah? Well, part of me may have been hurting, but part of me kind of liked it," Hutch said, pulling back so he could meet Starsky's gaze, as if what he had to say was too important for him to do anything else. "Not you being in pain--that was the worst. But the other stuff--taking care of you, living with you, being as close as we were. Together, day in and day out. That...that was the best. It made me realize more than ever how much you mean to me." Hutch took hold of Starsky's other hand now, so the two of them were even more firmly linked. "I started getting ideas. You know? About how good it could be once you were well again, and all that togetherness became something else, something really new. It didn't even seem like such a stretch. I already loved you so god damned much. What difference did it make how I expressed it?" "Hutch...," Starsky began, not sure what the hell he was going to say, but needing Hutch to know he wasn't out there on a limb, all on his own, with his feelings exposed. Only Hutch wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise. "But then you started talking about how you couldn't wait for things to get back to normal, how you wanted everything back the way it was--" "I meant my health, you dummy," Starsky explained, tugging his hands free so he could swat Hutch on the shoulder with one of them. "Well, I didn't know that, did I?" Hutch said, defending himself. "You never gave me a clue. Just yesterday you were talking about picking up women tonight." "I never said pick them up. I said talk to them." "Which with you is usually a prelude to picking them up!" Starsky gave that statement its due. For all of about two seconds. "That was before I fell in love." Hutch stared back at him, eyes wide, seemingly stunned. "I-in love?" "What did you think this was about, Hutch?" Starsky asked, the question voiced quietly because it looked like any sudden noise or movement might inspire his partner to bolt. Or maybe faint. The blond seemed poised to do either. But in the end, he held it together. Releasing a soft, shaky breath, Hutch wet his lips and shook his head. "I wasn't sure. You said it was what you wanted. And I wanted it too. I was afraid if I asked too many questions, you might change your mind." Starsky sighed the sigh of the tragically misunderstood. "It's a good thing you're a looker, Blondie. Because I swear to god, you're not very bright." A smile began to slowly alter the shape of Hutch's mouth. "Oh yeah, smart guy? Well then, why don't you spell it out for me?" "Okay," Starsky said with a crooked grin. "For you, I'll even use small words." Reaching out, he cradled Hutch's face carefully between his palms and looked him straight in the eye. "I love you, my blond bombshell. I have for the longest time. I just didn't realize what kind of love it was." "But you do now?" Hutch asked, his hands coming up to cover Starsky's wrists as if to hold him in place. "Yeah," Starsky said, nodding. "It's the kind that means no more picking up women. For either of us. You okay with that?" Hutch tightened his fingers in a quick, firm squeeze. "Yeah. I'm very okay with it." "Good," Starsky said, drawing his arms in and pulling Hutch closer. "Now come here." Hutch went willingly, his hands sliding away from his partner's and up, one to hold on to Starsky's shoulder, the other to clench in his thick, curly hair. Their second kiss had a very different character from the first, more demanding, more adult. Mouths open and pressed warmly together, their tongues sought each other out, tasting and lapping gently against and around. Starsky played as he explored, sliding slickly along Hutch's teeth, the roof of his mouth, nipping gently at his lips. Hutch groaned his enjoyment and gave as good as he got, tugging Starsky nearer and tumbling them both sideways to lay on the bed, arms wrapped around each other, their legs tangling like vines. "Damn, Hutchinson," Starsky said, pulling his mouth away at last with some regret, and slipping his hands beneath Hutch's open shirt. The skin he found there was warm and smooth, and so very nice to touch. "You're one hot tamale when your motor gets revving, aren't you, babe?" Hutch gazed back at him with blast furnace eyes, his face flushed, his hair messy and falling tangled over his brow. "I don't want to go out." "So we won't," Starsky said, kissing him again. "You're not going to get any argument from me. Hell, I may never let you out of this bedroom again." Hutch smiled, and kissed his partner back, long and slow, his hands pulling Starsky's shirt free from Starsky's jeans and slipping under it to pet and caress. "This is crazy, you know," he murmured later in a voice Starsky had never heard before, though undoubtedly countless women had. It made a shiver roll through Starsky's frame like an electric current racing down a wire. Starsky chuckled to keep from moaning. His partner was right. This was crazy, what they were getting ready to do. But it wasn't scary. Because it was Hutch. "Yeah, it is. But it's not the first crazy thing we've ever done. And I doubt it'll be the last." "Not if you're around," Hutch said, his face so close Starsky was going cross-eyed looking at him. But he didn't plan to stop looking any time soon. "I'll be around," Starsky said, making a promise of his own. "For better or for worse, in sickness and in health." Hutch smiled again in response, his grin bright and wide, his happiness lighting up his face, lighting up the room, in a way Starsky hadn't seen since he had first opened his eyes in the hospital. And Starsky thought he was the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world. ******* The End Back to Home Back to Stories |
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