NSS: Lapsus Linguae (pre-slash)
[This is all CC’s fault.]
Lapsus Linguae
By Morgan Logan (logan117666@yahoo.com)
It was the end of their shift, and a double one at that. First they’d taken the swing shift cruising their beat, and then the stakeout they’d been pulling every night for a week. Hutch was exhausted, but the soft, puttering snores coming from the back seat made him smile as he started up the LTD.
“Arroomelleph,” Starsky said, then snorted something even less intelligible.
Seemed like Starsky could sleep anywhere, anytime. Sometimes Hutch could nap okay on stakeout, but tonight he hadn’t woken his partner for his stint on watch, hoping when he got home he’d be tired enough to be able to sleep, himself. Lately he hadn’t been, very much.
His dreams were getting too...disturbing.
Hutch pulled the car into the late-night drive-in on Melrose and stretched an arm over the seat to shake Starsky’s leg.
“Mmphwha!”
“Uh huh,” Hutch said, releasing him. “You want pickles with that?”
There was a rustling sound, and then Starsky’s head and torso were wriggling over the seat back, followed soon after by his lower half. His butt gave Hutch a glancing blow to the cheek, and Hutch leaned away with a curse, shoving at it with his hand.
He tried to ignore the lingering tingle in his fingers.
“We’re done?” Starsky said, settling into his seat and running his hands over his face. “How come you didn’t get me up for my piece?”
Hutch shrugged. A girl on roller skates came sailing up to his window, her white miniskirt fluttering. She put her hand on the roof and leaned down.
“We’re closing in a few,” she warned. “You know what you want?”
“Tuna burger, cheeseburger, two fries and two waters,” Hutch said.
She snapped her gum and nodded. “No shake tonight?”
Hutch ignored the whiny noise coming from his right.
“No shake. Starsky has to keep his girlish figure.”
She grinned and rolled away, and Hutch felt a knock on his upper arm.
“You think I’m getting fat or something?”
Hutch let his eyes drift to the right and down, but staunchly refused to let them actually focus on his partner’s trim body.
“Don’t you mean ‘fatter’?” Hutch smirked, and paid for it with a sharp pain to the back of his head. “Ow,” he said, rubbing at it.
“Cry baby.” Starsky yawned, then stretched his legs out, leaning back against the passenger door. His shin pressed up underneath Hutch’s calf.
“That’s three days of doubles in a row, and what with waking up right before swing, I haven’t done anything but work for a week,” Starsky griped. “Did you report anything tonight?”
“Not a thing. Nelson is either onto to us or very, very lucky. You wanna lay odds?”
“Not unless you’re picking up the split.” Starsky knuckled his eyes like a kid, and Hutch felt a sudden wash of affection that made him a little dizzy.
The girl came back quickly with their tray, hooking it onto Hutch’s window. He paid her, then passed over the cheeseburger and dropped the bag with their double fries on the seat between them. More than half would go into the eating machine next to him.
Hutch unwrapped his tuna burger and took a big bite. He felt Starsky’s eyes on him, and turned his head.
“Mmph?”
“Can’t believe you eat that stuff.” Starsky’s face looked both disgusted and a little wondering. “Plus, you got some on you.” His hand came out and his fingers brushed at Hutch’s cheek right by his mouth.
Hutch focused on chewing. It was either that or choke.
Starsky lifted his cheeseburger and started to chow down, and Hutch had to suppress a grin when a grease slick formed on Starsky upper lip. And he thinks I’m a messy eater.
The exterior lights of the diner shut off, blanketing them in darkness. Hutch snapped on the feeble dome light and continued eating.
“Oh shit!” Starsky said, suddenly putting his burger down onto the paper spread in his lap. “I’m screwed.” He moaned and started to reach into his pocket, then cursed and wiped off his fingers before continuing. Hutch stopped eating and turned to face him.
“What is it?”
“I forgot! I forgot again. I was supposed to get to the post office with this today.” He held up a white envelope. Hutch immediately recognized the address on the front.
“For your mom, huh?”
“Yeah.” Starsky’s head drooped. “Shit, she really needs the help this month, too,” he said with heavy guilt. “And it’s already the third. Dammit!” He thrust the thing back into his jacket pocket. “I’m such an idiot.”
“It’s okay-”
Starsky glared at him. “It’s not! I fucked up-”
“What I meant was,” Hutch interrupted patiently, “we can wire the money to her. My bank lets me do that, and they don’t charge me a fee or anything.”
The dejected tilt vanished, and Starsky’s eyes met his brightly. “Really? We can do that?”
“First thing tomorrow,” Hutch promised. “We just gotta wake up in time to get to the bank.”
“Aw, man!” Starsky grinned wide. “You’re the best, pal.”
The gleam of gratitude forced Hutch to drop his eyes.
“I mean it, Hutch. You’re just...you’re....”
Hutch lifted his eyes again, the soft tone surprising him into it.
But Starsky looked away. “Jesus, every month it’s the same thing, I always forget until it’s too late. You should just kiss me next time.”
Hutch’s ears caught up after a silent beat.
“I should what?”
There was a pause, strangely long, before Starsky replied.
“You should k-kick me.”
He stuttered, Hutch thought, shocked. Starsky never stutters.
Hutch’s heart whispered something impossible.
“That’s not what you said,” he remarked, surprised at how smooth his voice sounded.
“No?” Starsky’s eye flickered sideways. Hutch stared with wonder at the pulse point beneath Starsky’s jaw, noting the rapid tap-tap of the artery there.
“No, I think you said ‘kiss’,” Hutch said. His mouth was too dry.
“Did I?” Starsky’s voice sounded too dry, as well.
Hutch’s heart did a weird double-thump, like tires going over a speed bump. He put his hand on the seat back and shifted forward exactly two inches.
“Well, which was it?” he said, his voice rasping “Kick...or kiss?”
Starsky finally looked up, and his eyes widened a little. Hutch could feel the heat of the bag of fries burning against his right leg. The grease on Starsky’s upper lip had picked up some beads of sweat.
Hutch found himself wondering how it would taste.
“Hutch...” Starsky said, sounding pained.
The tone slammed Hutch back into his body from where it had been floating just above, and he pulled away again, throttling his disappointment. He looked down at the remains of his tuna burger, then rolled it back into its bag and tossed it into the back.
“Some slip of the tongue, huh?” he kidded, far too weakly.
Starsky reached up and flicked off the dome light. Hutch felt him lean in close.
“Yeah,” Starsky said, “that’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Fin.
lapsus linguae n. (pl. same) 'slip of the tongue'. lapsus calami, slip of the pen. lapsus memoriae, slip of memory.
© From the Hutchinson Encyclopaedia.
Helicon Publishing LTD 2006.
All rights reserved.
Lapsus Linguae
By Morgan Logan (logan117666@yahoo.com)
It was the end of their shift, and a double one at that. First they’d taken the swing shift cruising their beat, and then the stakeout they’d been pulling every night for a week. Hutch was exhausted, but the soft, puttering snores coming from the back seat made him smile as he started up the LTD.
“Arroomelleph,” Starsky said, then snorted something even less intelligible.
Seemed like Starsky could sleep anywhere, anytime. Sometimes Hutch could nap okay on stakeout, but tonight he hadn’t woken his partner for his stint on watch, hoping when he got home he’d be tired enough to be able to sleep, himself. Lately he hadn’t been, very much.
His dreams were getting too...disturbing.
Hutch pulled the car into the late-night drive-in on Melrose and stretched an arm over the seat to shake Starsky’s leg.
“Mmphwha!”
“Uh huh,” Hutch said, releasing him. “You want pickles with that?”
There was a rustling sound, and then Starsky’s head and torso were wriggling over the seat back, followed soon after by his lower half. His butt gave Hutch a glancing blow to the cheek, and Hutch leaned away with a curse, shoving at it with his hand.
He tried to ignore the lingering tingle in his fingers.
“We’re done?” Starsky said, settling into his seat and running his hands over his face. “How come you didn’t get me up for my piece?”
Hutch shrugged. A girl on roller skates came sailing up to his window, her white miniskirt fluttering. She put her hand on the roof and leaned down.
“We’re closing in a few,” she warned. “You know what you want?”
“Tuna burger, cheeseburger, two fries and two waters,” Hutch said.
She snapped her gum and nodded. “No shake tonight?”
Hutch ignored the whiny noise coming from his right.
“No shake. Starsky has to keep his girlish figure.”
She grinned and rolled away, and Hutch felt a knock on his upper arm.
“You think I’m getting fat or something?”
Hutch let his eyes drift to the right and down, but staunchly refused to let them actually focus on his partner’s trim body.
“Don’t you mean ‘fatter’?” Hutch smirked, and paid for it with a sharp pain to the back of his head. “Ow,” he said, rubbing at it.
“Cry baby.” Starsky yawned, then stretched his legs out, leaning back against the passenger door. His shin pressed up underneath Hutch’s calf.
“That’s three days of doubles in a row, and what with waking up right before swing, I haven’t done anything but work for a week,” Starsky griped. “Did you report anything tonight?”
“Not a thing. Nelson is either onto to us or very, very lucky. You wanna lay odds?”
“Not unless you’re picking up the split.” Starsky knuckled his eyes like a kid, and Hutch felt a sudden wash of affection that made him a little dizzy.
The girl came back quickly with their tray, hooking it onto Hutch’s window. He paid her, then passed over the cheeseburger and dropped the bag with their double fries on the seat between them. More than half would go into the eating machine next to him.
Hutch unwrapped his tuna burger and took a big bite. He felt Starsky’s eyes on him, and turned his head.
“Mmph?”
“Can’t believe you eat that stuff.” Starsky’s face looked both disgusted and a little wondering. “Plus, you got some on you.” His hand came out and his fingers brushed at Hutch’s cheek right by his mouth.
Hutch focused on chewing. It was either that or choke.
Starsky lifted his cheeseburger and started to chow down, and Hutch had to suppress a grin when a grease slick formed on Starsky upper lip. And he thinks I’m a messy eater.
The exterior lights of the diner shut off, blanketing them in darkness. Hutch snapped on the feeble dome light and continued eating.
“Oh shit!” Starsky said, suddenly putting his burger down onto the paper spread in his lap. “I’m screwed.” He moaned and started to reach into his pocket, then cursed and wiped off his fingers before continuing. Hutch stopped eating and turned to face him.
“What is it?”
“I forgot! I forgot again. I was supposed to get to the post office with this today.” He held up a white envelope. Hutch immediately recognized the address on the front.
“For your mom, huh?”
“Yeah.” Starsky’s head drooped. “Shit, she really needs the help this month, too,” he said with heavy guilt. “And it’s already the third. Dammit!” He thrust the thing back into his jacket pocket. “I’m such an idiot.”
“It’s okay-”
Starsky glared at him. “It’s not! I fucked up-”
“What I meant was,” Hutch interrupted patiently, “we can wire the money to her. My bank lets me do that, and they don’t charge me a fee or anything.”
The dejected tilt vanished, and Starsky’s eyes met his brightly. “Really? We can do that?”
“First thing tomorrow,” Hutch promised. “We just gotta wake up in time to get to the bank.”
“Aw, man!” Starsky grinned wide. “You’re the best, pal.”
The gleam of gratitude forced Hutch to drop his eyes.
“I mean it, Hutch. You’re just...you’re....”
Hutch lifted his eyes again, the soft tone surprising him into it.
But Starsky looked away. “Jesus, every month it’s the same thing, I always forget until it’s too late. You should just kiss me next time.”
Hutch’s ears caught up after a silent beat.
“I should what?”
There was a pause, strangely long, before Starsky replied.
“You should k-kick me.”
He stuttered, Hutch thought, shocked. Starsky never stutters.
Hutch’s heart whispered something impossible.
“That’s not what you said,” he remarked, surprised at how smooth his voice sounded.
“No?” Starsky’s eye flickered sideways. Hutch stared with wonder at the pulse point beneath Starsky’s jaw, noting the rapid tap-tap of the artery there.
“No, I think you said ‘kiss’,” Hutch said. His mouth was too dry.
“Did I?” Starsky’s voice sounded too dry, as well.
Hutch’s heart did a weird double-thump, like tires going over a speed bump. He put his hand on the seat back and shifted forward exactly two inches.
“Well, which was it?” he said, his voice rasping “Kick...or kiss?”
Starsky finally looked up, and his eyes widened a little. Hutch could feel the heat of the bag of fries burning against his right leg. The grease on Starsky’s upper lip had picked up some beads of sweat.
Hutch found himself wondering how it would taste.
“Hutch...” Starsky said, sounding pained.
The tone slammed Hutch back into his body from where it had been floating just above, and he pulled away again, throttling his disappointment. He looked down at the remains of his tuna burger, then rolled it back into its bag and tossed it into the back.
“Some slip of the tongue, huh?” he kidded, far too weakly.
Starsky reached up and flicked off the dome light. Hutch felt him lean in close.
“Yeah,” Starsky said, “that’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Fin.
lapsus linguae n. (pl. same) 'slip of the tongue'. lapsus calami, slip of the pen. lapsus memoriae, slip of memory.
© From the Hutchinson Encyclopaedia.
Helicon Publishing LTD 2006.
All rights reserved.