Work Text:
"I'm sorry," Starsky said, for what had to be the hundredth time. And he really did sound sorry, but Hutch was almost beyond caring.
"Yeah, okay, you're sorry, I got it," he said, and tried to stifle a groan as, with Starsky's help, he lowered himself onto his bed. He wasn't very successful, though, and Starsky winced. He opened his mouth, but Hutch cut off yet another apology with a raised finger and a quelling glare.
"Okay," Starsky said, in a tone that was anything but okay, and Hutch sighed.
"It'll be fine, Starsk," he said, making an effort to sound reassuring rather than drained and exasperated. "You heard the doc, it's just a really bad sprain."
"A really, really bad sprain," Starsky said miserably, "and it's all my fault."
Which was technically true, not that Hutch blamed him. They'd been horsing around on the basketball court, just a friendly little one-on-one, when Starsky checked him hard at the same time that Hutch was pivoting to take his shot. Hutch felt a sharp flare of pain as his left knee twisted in a direction it was never meant to go, and he went down, swearing a blue streak.
"It was an accident," Hutch said, "Bad timing, that's all. I'll be up and around in no time. Stop beating yourself up over it." He handed Starsky the crutches and started to lie down.
"No, wait! Lemme do that," Starsky said, all but flinging the crutches aside as he hurried to help. He drew off Hutch's shoes, carefully lifted his legs and settled them on the bed, easing one pillow under the wrapped knee and then another under Hutch's head. His hands lingered there for a moment, smoothing down Hutch's hair.
Hutch had closed his eyes in relief when the stress on his knee eased, but at the gentle stroking, he opened them again. "Hey." He took Starsky's hand and, gesturing with his chin, he said, "Sit down." Starsky gingerly perched himself on the edge next to Hutch.
"There's nothing to forgive, but if it'll make you feel better to hear me say it, I forgive you, okay?" Starsky hadn't pulled his hand out of Hutch's, so Hutch squeezed it. "It was a game, Gordo, I know you didn't do it on purpose."
"But that's the thing, Hutch. I kinda did." Starsky's eyes were cast down, looking at their intertwined fingers. "I mean, I wasn't trying to get you hurt, nothing like that. But I… I was going all-out, I wanted to really give you a game, you know?"
"You did," Hutch said with a wry smile and no small amount of pride in his partner, but Starsky shook his head.
"Since the shooting, I know you've been going easy on me. And I appreciated it, Hutch, honest. But I thought today, finally, I could prove to you that I'm back to normal, and you don't have to do that anymore."
Hutch swallowed against a tightening in his throat. "You don't have to prove anything to me, pal. No one knows better than I do that you've fully recovered."
Starsky flashed him a look of gratitude, but that was immediately followed by one of contrition. "Maybe I needed to prove it to myself," he admitted. "So I pushed harder than I needed to, and you weren't expecting it. That's why you got hurt."
"Don't be ridiculous, Starsk. I got hurt because shit happens. We get scraped and bruised on the court all the time. Remember that game when your face met my elbow?"
"Oh, yeah. I had a helluva shiner after that."
"Or the time I ended up on the ground and you fell on top of me?"
Starsky grimaced. "You and your bony knee. Took it right in my gut and I almost puked all over you."
"You see? Shit happens."
"Yeah, I guess it does." Starsky paused thoughtfully. "Hutch? You think maybe we should stop playing basketball?"
Hutch chuckled and grinned. "Maybe. Oh, and just for the record: you never were normal, you know."
Starsky grinned back. "Takes one Abby Normal to know another, Blondie." Hutch just snorted.
When Hutch began to disentangle his fingers from Starsky's, surprise crossed Starsky's face, as though he had forgotten they were still holding hands. He quickly let go. "I'll fix us some sandwiches or something, okay?"
"You go ahead. I'm not hungry right now," Hutch said, feeling the exhaustion tugging at him. "I think I'll just take a nap."
"Alright, maybe later." Starsky fussed with the pillows and the blanket. "Comfy?" At Hutch's sleepy nod, he patted his head again. "I'll be right here if you need me. You don't have to say anything and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing." He paused, then with a wink he got to his feet and headed towards the kitchen.
Hutch frowned. Starsky looked like he still had something on his mind. He opened his mouth to ask, but all he could manage was a yawn before he was out like a light.
*****
Hutch was alone and dozing on the couch when he heard a voice he thought he recognized say, in a cutting tone:
"You're good. You're awful good."
I am? Hutch thought. He opened his eyes.
The distinctive voice belonged to Humphrey Bogart, who was smiling mirthlessly and speaking, not to him, but to Lauren Bacall.
Hutch shook off his drowsiness with a rueful smile. The TV set, it seemed, had been watching him for a while. He had no idea what the name of this film was, but it didn't take Starsky's encyclopedic movie trivia knowledge to figure out the basic premise: Bogart was playing a cynical tough guy opposite Bacall's sultry yet vulnerable siren. It was evident from the actors' body language that he'd woken up in the middle of a highly charged scene.
"I'm sorry, Slim," Bogie was saying, "but I still say you're awful good and I wouldn't—"
"Oh, I forgot. You wouldn't take anything from anybody, would you?" Bacall shot back. "You know, Steve... you're not very hard to figure. Only at times. Sometimes I know exactly what you're going to say. Most of the time. The other times—"
Hutch watched with appreciation as Bacall slid into Bogie's lap. Their chemistry was undeniable, their sexual attraction palpable. The scene was textbook seduction, and it was a toss-up as to who was seducing whom.
"The other times you're just a stinker," she said, then kissed him.
As Bacall stood up, she said, "You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing."
Hutch's jaw dropped.
"Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."
After she closed the door behind her, Bogie whistled.
Eyes wide, Hutch did the same.
You don't have to say anything and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing.
His conversation with Starsky a week ago, nearly forgotten, came back to him in a flash.
Holy shit.
Starsky was Slim. Which meant… what? That Hutch was Steve?
That was… that couldn't be right. Could it?
He was just quoting the movie, Hutch said to himself. That's Starsky, that's what he does. Don't read more into it than what's there.
But what, actually, was 'there'?
The answer to that question was immediate and unassailable: nothing less than the best damned relationship Hutch had ever had.
Theirs was a partnership that had weathered the harshest of storms, a friendship that defied the odds. They were still together, despite their differences and their faults, despite everything the world threw at them, and, miraculously, despite everything they threw at each other.
There was banter and bickering, naturally. Ribbing and teasing had always been part of their synergy, even if they didn't always play nice. But "me and thee" was built on more than just banter. There was devotion, respect, and trust.
And love, the bedrock. Hutch could honestly say that he loved Starsky, without reservation or qualification. Oh, not from the very beginning, of course. They'd hit it off okay when they first met at the Academy, but it certainly didn't qualify as 'love at first sight.' Now, though? What he felt for Starsky was far and away deeper and more profound than what he'd ever felt for anyone, including Vanessa. Starsky, too, seemed to treasure their relationship above and beyond all others, considering how fond he was of saying, "Hutch is closer to me than my brother."
…Which, now that Hutch thought about it, was a very interesting pronouncement. What kind of close did that make them, anyway?
For years now, they'd asserted that their unconventional intimacy was simply their version of being 'best friends.' They'd managed to make nearly everyone believe it, including themselves.
With the clarity of hindsight, however, Hutch had to admit to what was now startlingly obvious: they had been flirting. No, more than that: they'd been courting, but it was a courtship without a declaration, an endless pas de deux that was all adagio, no coda. They'd circled around their desire yet never confronted it; gone out of their way, instead, to avoid calling it out for what it was:
Sexual attraction. Very sexy sexual attraction, as a matter of fact.
God, they were stupid.
So. Question answered: there was, in fact, a helluva whole lot of 'there' there.
Now what? It was one thing to figure out they were Bogie and Bacall—or was it Steve and Slim?—but it was a whole other thing entirely to figure out what he was supposed to do about it.
It occurred to him to wonder, did he have to do something about it?
You know you don't have to act with me, Steve.
Intentionally or not, Starsky had given that decision to Hutch. The ball was in his court.
They could go on as they had been, continue turning a blind eye to their slow burn. It would taper off, surely. After all, their friendship was on solid ground. They would be best buddies for the rest of their lives, into retirement and beyond. That wasn't small potatoes. It would be fine. Hell, it would be great. And Hutch wouldn't have to do anything….
....Except turn back the clock, un-realize what he'd realized, and forget the look on Starsky's face when he'd held Hutch's hand and said, "I'll be right here if you need me."
Yeah, unring that bell? Fat chance. He couldn't, even if he wanted to.
And that's when he knew he'd already made his choice: because he didn't want to. Not even the tiniest bit.
Well, I'll be damned. I'm in love with the mushbrain.
And God, that felt so right.
Okay, then. Your move, Hutchinson. How are you going to make it?
Hutch glanced at the set again, then picked up the TV Guide that was sitting on the coffee table and turned to that day's schedule. Channel 7 was running a Bogie and Bacall double feature that afternoon: To Have and To Have Not, which was currently playing out on the screen, followed by The Big Sleep.
It was a sign. Had to be.
Hutch stretched, adjusted the cushion under his leg, and turned up the volume. Slim and Steve were talking again, and Hutch didn't want to miss a word.
*****
"Soup's on!" Starsky called out as he waltzed in, pizza box and a six-pack in hand.
"Hi, Starsk," Hutch replied. He turned off the TV and sat up a little straighter.
Hutch had pointed out that he was now capable of standing and hobbling long enough to take care of himself, prepare simple meals at least, but his protests had been cheerfully ignored. Not that he tried very hard, to tell the truth. He enjoyed Starsky fussing over him, basking in the sunshine of his partner's attention. Tonight, though—he'd been counting on Starsky's presence for more than just food and coddling.
Starsky laid his cargo on the table and plopped down on the couch next to Hutch. "How's the knee?"
"Okay. It feels a lot better today."
"Good, good," Starsky said, gently patting the leg. "Here, eat while it's hot. Gotta keep your strength up. Like Ma used to say, 'feed a sprain, starve a fever,' something like that." Hutch snorted but took the slice of veggie pizza that Starsky offered. The root beer too, though he wished it was real beer. It might have helped calm the honest-to-goodness butterflies that were doing somersaults in his stomach.
Hutch watched as Starsky ate (from the pepperoni and anchovies side of the pizza), listened to him recount the highlights of his day at the station, and waited for the right moment.
Hutch wasn't nervous, not exactly. But this business of falling head over heels in love with Starsky, the person he already loved from head to heels, made him light-headed, excited, and ridiculously happy all at once. He was keenly aware that they were on the verge of entering into new territory, and very soon things would forever be different.
Starsky chased down a bite of pizza with a swallow of soda. "'S good pie, huh?" he said, punctuating his words with a belch.
"Good pie," Hutch agreed. It probably was. He couldn't tell.
So alright, maybe he was nervous. Just a little, though. And it was the good kind: not nerves of fear, but of anticipation. He took a deep breath. Faint heart never won fair Starsky, he thought.
"What the heck is up with you?" Starsky was eyeing him suspiciously.
"Who, me?" Hutch raised his eyebrows with as much innocence as he could muster.
"Yes, you. You've been smirking ever since I got here."
"I'm not smirking. I'm smiling." To be fair, it was probably more a grin than a smile, but it was definitely not a smirk.
Starsky rolled his eyes. "What the heck are you smiling about, then?"
"Nothing."
Starsky paused as though waiting for a punchline, but Hutch didn't stop grinning. He couldn't.
Starsky tried to hide his own amusement behind an exaggerated sigh. "I think you're going stir crazy or something. I swear Hutch, sometimes I don't get you."
And there it was—the right moment.
"Hey, Starsky."
"Yeah?"
Hutch dropped his chin, looked up at Starsky through his lashes, and in his very best Bacall voice said, "I'm hard to get. All you have to do is ask me."
Starsky looked thunderstruck. "What did you just say?"
Hutch could feel his face getting warm, but he didn't let his gaze drop. "You heard me."
They stared at each other for a long, breathless moment, then another.
"I guess I did," Starsky finally said. It was, Hutch registered, delivered in Starsky's best Bogie.
Starsky licked his lips, pursed them. Started to blow, but Hutch cut off the whistle with pursed lips of his own.
Their first kiss tasted of cheese and root beer and anchovies and them.
It was amazing.
"I liked that," Hutch said when they finally broke apart. He ran his thumb along Starsky's brow and down his cheek, paused to stroke his reddened lips. "I'd like more."
"Me too, babe," Starsky murmured, his voice husky and tinged with wonder. "Oh, man. Me too." Suddenly, he cupped Hutch's face in his hands. "Am I dreaming? Tell me I'm not dreaming," he said, halfway between a plea and a demand.
"Move closer." Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky and pulled him in. "Does this feel like a dream to you?"
"Yeah, kinda," Starsky admitted. "The kind of dream I never want to wake up from." He chuckled faintly and added, "I think I need a little more convincing to believe this is real."
Still channeling Bacall, Hutch said, "It's even better when you help."
"Shut up Slim, I am helping," Starsky growled. He still looked a little stunned but he was catching up quick. "Do that again, schweetheart," he growled, so Hutch did.
He was very, very convincing.
We had it all
Just like Bogie and Bacall
Starring in our old late, late show
Sailing away to Key Largo
—"Key Largo," Bertie Higgins