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It's nine o'clock in the morning, which means Hutch should've been out for his usual run three hours ago. But it's hard to when a Starsky is entwined in your arms.
Hutch can't help but get impressed by how persuasive the man can be, even without his words.
Starsky has his eyes closed. Yet he easily finds Hutch's chest and throws his hand over it, right above his heart. Then drifts back to sleep, just as swiftly. Hutch chuckles, a little wary of waking Starsky up fully; he's thinking about how to annoy his partner about staying in bed so late.
"Late?" Starsky would say, in exaggerated shock. "You're the lunatic here waking up at the crack of dawn."
Their morning would continue with him sweet-talking Hutch into making pancakes, or some other treat. They'd bicker. But Hutch always gives in - not before mentioning some obscure, eyeroll inducing statement about keeping healthy that Starsky huffs at, as if that's compensation for Starsky to get what he wants.
"You're making me lazy," Hutch then, without fail, responds. "I haven't had a proper run in ages."
Starsky only grins with a half of a pancake in his mouth. Hutch resists the urge to tell him off, just for the sake of it. His expression makes it clear, however, and Starsky knows; he doesn't stop, just for the sake of it too. A stranger observing them in a distance would be utterly confused by their truncated conversations. It's their specialty, Hutch believes, that no one could ever replicate. Everyone deserves their own Starsky, but also - Starsky belongs to him, and Hutch doesn't mind feeling selfish over it.
Hutch smiles at the thought. Starsky stirs a little, still nestled on his shoulder, signaling that he's about to get up soon. It's been a routine for - god, has it been a year? Every time the pair somehow get closer, Hutch realizes how seamless it is; it took becoming a couple for him to notice how not much actually changed. The touches, the words, the sentiments only extended and grew stronger, not that it wasn't before.
"Hutch." Starsky could've been just yawning - it's hard to tell.
"Starsk," he enunciates, gently caressing Starsky's back. They're as close (physically, at least) as any two people could be.
Starsky actually yawns this time, and seemingly disagrees. He wraps a leg around Hutch's; he grabs a handful of his t-shirt; he fills the gap between his head and Hutch's neck.
"For someone barely awake, you're certainly a teensy bit demanding, huh?" Hutch jokes. Maybe half of those words actually enter Starsky's ears, and he can process even less of those. A tug on the shirt is the sole response he gives.
"Fine, fine," Hutch lets himself laugh. Kissing the top of the curly mop of hair, Starsky smiles a bit in satisfaction, but still refuses to let go.
Hutch doesn't mind.