NS: All in a Day's Work - S/H (part 1 of 2)
This little fic has been around for a while - a long while. But callistosh65 and her need for recuperative stories has prompted me to finish.
It's S/H . . . eventually
It's rated R
It's kinda fluffy
It was one of my WIPs . . . one down, many many to go . . .
Get well soon, my girly girl!
The day he fell in love with Hutch started out like any other day. He woke up, ate a bowl of Trix cereal standing at the sink, washed it down with a root beer, and grabbed an apple on his way out - his one token effort to eat healthy. He knew Hutch would eat it before he got around to it, anyway. He stopped to gas up the Torino and still pulled in front of Venice Place twenty minutes early. He honked. He honked again. He got out of the car and headed to the front door and that’s when it happened. In one minute, life as he knew it ceased to exist.
He turned to see Hutch jogging around the corner, at the end of his morning mile. Hutch looked exactly the same as he did every morning during his run. Blue and gold sweat suit zipped halfway up, bare chest peeking out. Hair windblown - sweaty tendrils curling around his ears - his long legs pumping out the last steps. Starsky watched him approach, fascinated, and suddenly his knees gave way and he stumbled against the door. His breath came hard and his heart beat fast. He couldn’t get his bearings.
Hutch ran over and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Starsky flinched at the unfamiliar shock of electricity that vibrated from Hutch’s hand all the way down to his toes. He stumbled back, pushing Hutch away. He leaned down with his hands on his knees, trying to clear his head and catch his breath. He held up a hand when Hutch reached for him again.
“Starsk - what the hell?”
“I’m okay - just go get dressed,” Starsky managed between gasps.
He straightened up and gave Hutch a weak smile. Hutch waited for a moment, probably making sure Starsky wasn’t going to pass out on the sidewalk, and then headed up the stairs to change.
Starsky stumbled over to the Torino and fell hard against the door. He willed his body to calm down. He made it around to the driver’s door, and fell into the seat. He wiped a shaky hand across his face. He took deep breaths and finally noticed the bulge in his jeans. What the hell was wrong with him? He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
He opened them to see Hutch open the door and slide in. He smelled like soap and sandalwood. He smelled like a little slice of heaven.
“You look like hell - what did you do last night, buddy?” Hutch asked.
Starsky tried to catch his breath again. Maybe he was getting asthma. “Must’ve been something I ate.”
Hutch chuckled. “Well, that narrows it down.”
They drove the rest of the way to the station in silence. Starsky tried to concentrate on the road and Hutch stared at him with a raised eyebrow for the first two blocks and then settled in for the ride. Starsky knew Hutch knew that something was up and it was only a matter of time before he would have to come clean. He just hoped he could figure it out before then.
*****
“Starsky, go get a candy bar or something - you’re giving me the creeps.” Hutch’s voice startled Starsky out of his trance.
For the past hour, Hutch had sat typing their weekly report and Starsky had sat staring at Hutch. He couldn’t take his eyes off his partner. Those eyes, the long fingers stroking the keys, those lips. The way he cocked his head when he was thinking, the low timbre in his voice when he asked Starsky a question. He had spent the last five minutes transfixed by the hollow of his neck and the little gold moon and star that nestled there. He couldn’t help himself.
He jumped up and headed to the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and tried to adjust his new constant companion - his swollen cock. He looked at himself in the mirror. He did look like hell. He ran a hand through his hair. He avoided the obvious. He thought about puppies and grandmas and Bigelow in Property. Nothing worked.
*****
Two hours later he drove them to The Pits for lunch. He’d given up any pretense of conversation. Hutch didn’t ask, but Starsky knew he noticed his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his hunched shoulders. The fact that Hutch chose not to comment didn’t make him feel any better. Hutch was waiting him out. And Hutch could wait forever.
Starsky nodded to Huggy and headed to a back booth, sitting on the outside edge - he couldn’t bear it if Hutch took up his regular position beside him. He had chosen the booth because there would be less contact. Chairs could be moved too close together, and Hutch practically shared his stool when they sat at the bar.
He watched Hutch exchange a look with Huggy, shrug his shoulders and slide into the booth. Starsky tapped a fork, tapped his foot, and drummed his fingers.
Huggy left them alone. Huggy always knew when to leave them alone. Brought over two burgers and two iced teas, refused the money Starsky offered, and went into the back office, where, Starsky hoped, the discord surrounding them softened to a low hum.
*****
The rest of the afternoon they checked traps and ran down snitches. This meant they were in and out of the Torino a dozen times. This meant that Starsky had to watch Hutch walk across a dozen streets. Legal parking meant that Starsky was always out of the car second - no matter where they went. So Starsky would pull over, leap out of the car and still find himself a good three feet behind Hutch. Behind Hutch’s . . .
Starsky whirled at the sound of a guy in a Mustang convertible honking and dove out of the way just in time. Hutch ran over as Starsky picked himself off the ground and reached down to help him up. Starsky swatted at his hand and scrambled out of his reach.
“Okay, Starsky - that’s it! What the hell is wrong with you today?”
“Damn car - about ran me over - I should haul them in.” Starsky brushed off his jeans and started across the street - ahead of Hutch. He didn’t mention that the reason he had almost been mowed down was that he had been stopped dead in the middle of the street, gazing at Hutch’s ass. Which for some reason was his favorite thing to do. It had to be the flu.
Hutch caught up with Starsky and stopped him at the door to the dingy hotel where Jeeters had asked them to meet him. Jeeters - Starsky called him Jitters because of his cirrhosis shake - had been helping them find the source of the black tar heroin that had been found on the last two ODs in their district. He had called that morning to say he had a name, maybe even an address for them.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hutch asked as Starsky tried to squirm away.
“Fine, I’m fine.” Starsky mumbled as he felt the now-familiar weakness threaten to take him down to a knee. “Maybe a little queasy from lunch.”
“Huggy wouldn’t like to hear you say that.” Hutch let Starsky go and they shoved through the door and down the dimly lit hall to Jeeters’ door. It stood ajar.
The men exchanged a glance and flattened against either side of the door. Hutch poked the door open, and they swept into the room, guns drawn. Empty. A crash and a shout sent them into the hallway, where they just caught the tail end of Jeeters as he disappeared into the stairwell.
As they reached the first landing, Starsky gave Hutch a little shove to get in front of him.
“Starsky - watch it.”
“You watch it - narrow stairs.”
“Yeah, I hate stairs. Why the hell do hypes always head to the roof?”
“I guess we could wait till he comes back down.”
They reached another landing. Hutch pushed his way past Starsky. Starsky skipped two steps and reached the next landing a full stride ahead of Hutch.
“It’s not a race.” Hutch took the steps two at a time.
“You could wait in the lobby, ya know.” Starsky increased his pace, caught the edge of a step and stumbled. Hutch caught him by the back of the jacket and helped keep him upright.
They reached the door to the roof at the same instant. Hutch pushed the door open and they rolled out. A shot pinged off the doorframe and they dove behind a metal compressor.
“What the hell is Jeeters thinking?” Hutch peered around the side of their cover.
“He’s not thinking. Hey, Jeeters,” Starsky shouted, “what the hell are you doing, man?”
Two more shots rang out. Hutch motioned with his gun to the next compressor, about twelve feet away. Starsky nodded, instinct trumping hormones for the moment, and he poked his gun around the side, pulling the trigger twice as Hutch rolled and ran. Halfway to the compressor, another shot rang out and Hutch went down.
“Hutch!” Starsky cried and burst out of his hiding place, frantic to get to his partner. Hutch, who had just stumbled over a loose panel, rolled two times and was sitting up against the compressor when Starsky flew into him.
“Starsky, what the hell are you doing? You’re supposed to wait . . . hey.”
Starsky had a tight grip on Hutch’s jacket, searching for any injury, sweat beading on his upper lip, murmuring under his breath.
“I’m okay, just tripped. Starsky, let go of me.” Hutch pried Starsky’s hands off and pushed him gently. Starsky, finally realizing Hutch was okay, threw himself back against the compressor, wiping his gun hand across his face.
“I’m gonna kill that fucking Jitters!” Starsky tried to catch his breath. Hutch peered around the corner. No shots, no sound.
“Jeeters,” Hutch shouted, “you still with us? It’s me, Hutch. Why don’t you throw out your gun and come talk to us. You’re the one who invited us to this little party, remember? What’s with the heater?”
A thin reedy voice came from behind the opposite side of the roof. “Hutch? That you?”
Starsky moved from concern to fury in less than a second. “No it’s the Easter Bunny, asshole. Shoot at Hutch again and I’m gonna blow your fucking head off.” He ignored Hutch’s warning as he stood and roared out from behind their cover, charging over to where the voice came from.
“Starsky - get down!” Hutch was up and beside him in a moment. Jeeters, having heard the tone in Starsky’s voice, slithered out from his hiding place, gun dangling from his raised hands.
“Hey, you guys - I thought you were the cops.” Jeeters smiled weakly.
Starsky twisted the gun out of Jeeters’ hand and grabbed him by his collar, raising the old man a foot off the ground.
“You could’ve killed him!” Starsky’s eyes blazed. He squeezed his hands tighter, pinching Jeeters’ neck.
Hutch grabbed Starsky’s arm and forced himself into his line of vision. “Starsky - let him go. Now!” Hutch managed to get Starsky’s hand loose and Jeeters scrambled away, coughing and cursing.
“Ain’t givin you shit, man. Ain’t givin you shit.”
Starsky stood staring at Hutch, gasping for air. Hutch let him go and he went to a knee, sucking oxygen back into his lungs. He could hardly control himself; he wanted to plug Jeeters for shooting at Hutch at the same time he wanted to slug Hutch for being such a klutz. His mind reeled. What if he had lost Hutch? What if Jeeters had shot him in the head, or the chest? What would he have done? He shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing.
When he opened them again, he saw Hutch pat Jeeters on the back, hand him a twenty, and turn back toward Starsky. Jeeters saw Starsky looking at him, flipped him off, and headed to the exit on the other side of the roof.
“Well, despite your little show, he gave us a name.” Hutch slipped his notebook back into his front pocket. “Although I don’t know what good it’ll do - you’ll probably just shoot the next guy.”
“Yeah, sorry. Just scared me. Seeing you go down like that.” Starsky reholstered his gun and rose, wiping his hand across his face. He took two steps to the exit and noticed that Hutch had not followed.
“C’mon Hutch - let’s get off this roof.”
Hutch stood silent until Starsky came back to him. Out of habit, Starsky put a hand on Hutch’s upper arm in silent question. Two things happened at once. Starsky’s stomached flopped and Hutch pulled back, leaving Starsky to grab at air.
“Hutch?”
“Starsky, do you know that is the first time you’ve come within two feet of me today? Not counting your little stunt just a minute ago. Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on with you?”
Starsky just stared at Hutch’s arm. Blood seeped through the jacket. “Your arm . . .”
Hutch looked down. “Oh, hell - I must have cut it when I fell.” He slipped out of his jacket, wincing. Starsky grabbed his arm, pulling up the sleeve to reveal a jagged cut in his bicep.
“Oh shit, he shot you. That son of a bitch shot you.”
“Starsky, it’s okay - just caught it on a nail or something when I rolled. Calm down.” Hutch pulled away and wiped the blood off with the end of his other sleeve. “Just needs a band-aid, that’s all.”
Starsky’s vision blurred. He felt dizzy again. He reached for Hutch. He pulled him close, burrowing his face in the crook of Hutch’s neck, which still smelled like sandalwood and the soap from the morning. He hung on tight. Hutch put his arms around Starsky, patted him on the back, and started to pull away. Starsky pulled back, not letting Hutch go.
“Starsky, what’s got into you today?”
Starsky reluctantly pulled away from the spot he had just renamed home, and looked directly into Hutch’s eyes, despite the urge to faint.
“I love you, Hutch.”
“Love you, too, buddy.” Hutch turned to put his jacket back on.
Starsky grabbed his arm and forced him to look at him. “No, Hutch - I think I really love you. Like love you - love you. L-O-V-E you.”
“Whoa, there buddy - I think maybe you’re coming down with a virus or something . . .”
Starsky rubbed Hutch’s chest in answer. All of a sudden, he couldn’t stop touching him.
“Starsky? Could we maybe get off this roof before you really freak me out here?”
Starsky backed away. He blinked twice, then turned quickly, grabbed Jeeters little pea shooter and hustled to the exit.
*****
From inside the Torino, Starsky watched Hutch glide through the door of the hotel. Can I just fuck you now? Starsky accidentally honked the horn, trying to escape that thought - where the hell had it come from?
“I’m not moving fast enough for you?” Hutch said as he got into the car. Starsky pulled wordlessly into traffic. Hutch sighed. He leaned down and grabbed the mike, which caused Starsky to flinch, and he ran the Torino’s front tire up on the sidewalk.
“Starsky! That’s it - pull over. I’m driving.”
“Hell you are.”
“Hell I am - you’re going to get us both killed.”
Starsky slowed down and pulled into the right lane. “Think I need to go home.”
Hutch pulled the mike to his mouth and took them both off-duty. “Done. You wanna go somewhere and talk?”
“No, not now - just wanna go home.”
“Starsky - we need to talk about this.”
“Not now, Hutch. Not now. Please.”
Hutch frowned, but nodded.
They didn’t say a word all the way out to Venice, but when Starsky just pulled up to the curb, jammed the car into park, and looked over to Hutch, he knew his time was running out.
Hutch gave him a long stare and then threw the door open, slamming it behind him with a tossed off, “See you later, buddy.”
Starsky watched him standing motionless on the sidewalk for three blocks.
tbc . . . the patient can only take small doses . . .
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