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They're at Huggy's. He watches as Starsky walks back to the bar from the john, and a young lady winks at him. He smiles back, in that charming but jokingly flirtatious way, as usual. But this time, Hutch doesn't feel that twisted envy that he needs to shove into the smallest box in the darkest closet in the deepest corners of his mind; he knows that the smile will always, always belong to him.
It's hard to believe there was a time before he knew Starsky. It's even harder to believe that, just a couple years back, Starsky was at the very brink of disappearing from his life, slipping through existence like sand through his fingers. He remembers Starsky's pet rock - the one he (relentlessly) carried around. Ignacious. It's an odd comparison, perhaps, but nowadays, he feels as if Starsky is Ignacious. All he hopes is that he never loses him, and vice versa.
He'd been close. So close. He doesn't count the times (the hundred of times) they've dated girls, and maybe even thought they found the one; each time, they come and go. But death - you don't normally come back from that.
Starsky did, once. A miracle perhaps. Maybe the universe wanted to say something.
Hutch wonders who'd be better off dead sometimes. They're pushing forty, they've been shot god knows how many times, and he isn't sure how much more damage a body could sustain in a hopefully long lifetime. He shudders at the thought, grateful that they're no longer working on the streets, although he does occasionally miss the thrill.
Starsky finally sits next to him. He's talking, as always, beer in hand; Hutch's slightly concerned because his hands are flailing around while he explains some new factoid he'd read earlier.
Hutch looks at him, keeps looking. He notices the rhythm they have. It feels right when he says something to Starsky - something he doesn't quite remember anymore, but it's probably witty and skeptical, but Starsky knows the joking intent. It feels right when Starsky gives him a look, that look, although Hutch can count maybe fifty different looks Starsky gives him on daily basis. It feels right that it's almost a pattern.
Hutch often sees the many couples around him and wonders whether they feel the same thing. Like how him and Starsky argue and bicker over the minute details like seventy-year-old married sweethearts, yet feel that skip in his heart whenever he sees that recognizable grin, directed towards him, and only him. It's like a 4th-grade valentine, or the first time he realized that he didn't just love this man - he was in love, and it was irrevocable.
We've known each other for over ten years, Hutch beams internally, but his expression remains stoic as he acts irritated at Starsky's words.
However, Starsky catches his eye, and it's as if he has read Hutch's mind. In return, and almost involuntarily, Hutch flashes a wide, warm smile.