was written for the Starsky & Hutch slashfest at LiveJournal. for
tovalentin, who wanted a bit of necking and some clever dialogue.
day off, Hutch in a good mood, a six-pack and a coupla fat burritos:
The perfect recipe for a fine afternoon, as far as Starsky was
concerned. He grabbed two Coors in one hand and the plate in the other,
and made his way to the couch.
Hutch eyed the plate then regarded Starsky with a slightly
wicked smile. "Those look great, Starsk, but they're. . . huge. Don’t
think I can eat that much right now."
Apparently Hutch wasn't just in a good mood, he was in a great
one. At least he hoped the man was getting at what he thought he was
getting at. Even burritos could wait for that. Starsky popped a can and
took a swig before passing it to his partner. "Not hungry at all?"
Hutch took a drink then put the can on the coffee table. "Said
I couldn't eat that much." He wiggled his eyebrows as he wrapped an arm
around Starsky's back, pulling him closer and turning him at the same
time. "Didn't say I wasn't hungry."
Oh yeah, he's in an excellent mood, Starsky thought, as he was
pulled into a kiss. He tasted beer, but under that there was the unique
flavor of Hutch. The first time they'd kissed, Starsky had realized he
knew that taste already, had always known it in the same way you look
at an apple and your mouth instinctively responds with crisp
and wet and sweet.
That first time he'd kissed Hutch, almost six weeks ago, the
shocking familiarity of it, the rightness of it, had almost made him
come in his pants. He was a little beyond that now, but he craved that
taste the way you craved a cool drink of water on a 100 degree day. He
could always conjure it up, like the taste lived in his mouth, waiting
to be allowed dominance over everything else. And just thinking about
it could make him hard anywhere, anytime. He'd learned he had to 'not'
think about it in certain situations, to avoid embarrassment.
Fortunately now was not one of those times, because
immediately he was uncomfortable in his pants. Starsky turned even
farther and straddled the long legs as he grabbed the back of the couch
on both sides of Hutch's shoulders. He used his higher position to push
Hutch's head back before he broke the kiss and slid his lips down the
He closed his eyes and found his way with his tongue, feeling
one small bump and then the other. Almost as if on cue, Hutch moaned
and his hands tightened on Starsky's thighs. Starsky smiled against the
skin. Those two flat moles on the right side of Hutch's neck were like
Braille, saying 'suck here.' They were something Starsky had always
noticed, had always known, and for the longest time he'd wanted to
reach out and touch them with his fingertip. And then his tongue.
Now he concentrated on the one just under Hutch's jaw, moving
over it lightly and wetting it before sucking gently and sliding a
little bit lower. He repeated this on each spot of flesh, and by the
time he reached the small tan spot on the side of Hutch's neck, the
blond was arching up underneath him. Starsky felt his partner's long
fingers move from his thighs to his ass. He was pulled in tighter,
being urged to rub himself in Hutch's lap.
He sucked harder, moved lower, and suddenly Hutch's collar was
in the way. He tried to work the buttons of Hutch's shirt loose with
one hand, then two, but the buttonhole was stiff and unstretched so he
finally grabbed the material on both sides and pulled. The top two or
three buttons popped free, one of them pinging against the table or a
"Hey!" There was a laugh behind the protest, but Starsky
didn't give him time to really get aggravated about it. Now that he
could pull the offending collar out of the way, he made little swirls
with his tongue at base of the throat, traced his collarbone, sucked
and bit gently on his shoulder.
Hutch's hands had been moving over Starsky's back, his ass,
against the skin underneath his shirt. Starsky felt his pants
unbuttoned, unzipped, and then Hutch said, "Oh, babe, take off your
"My shoes?" he said against Hutch's skin.
"So you can get these off." He tugged at the waistband of
Starsky's pants and chuckled. "Your jeans are so tight I can't get my
hands. . ." He trailed off as Starsky's tongue slid over his Adam's
Starsky leaned back and popped off one blue tennis shoe, then
the other before pulling his own shirt over his head and tossing it to
the side. Just as he stood to get his pants off, a loud crack sounded
out on the other side of the room, startling both of them. Starsky
turned to see a bird beating itself against the window, and a chill
went through him. He started to walk round the coffee table toward it,
thinking maybe if he tapped on the glass or put his hand on it the bird
would fly away, but the phone rang and then the bird was gone.
Starsky could hear his partner answer the phone, caught a Cap'n
and a when, but he was mesmerized by the window and the frantic
bird. Something in the back of his mind gnawed at him--he couldn't
remember who'd told him, but he could clearly hear a woman's voice
explaining that it was a bad omen. Meant serious illness or death for
someone in the room. Was it his Great Uncle Saul who had supposedly
died after a bird flew into the window of his bedroom, or did the bird
actually fly in and perch on his chair?
Starsky snapped around to see his partner right behind him,
looking at him with concern. Hutch put his hand on his shoulder and
rubbed lightly. "You didn't hear me? Said your name three times."
"Yeah, Boyd and Minnelli are watching some drug runners and
more have joined in the fun. They need an extra pair of eyes for a few
hours to keep track of the newcomers." Hutch moved to button his shirt
and then sighed. Smiling, he kissed Starsky. "Better get your shoes
Bird, omen, death, and then immediately they're called on a
case? "Shoulda told him we'd been drinking, Hutch."
Starsky was tense the entire time, even though all they did
was follow a couple of dope heads for a few hours. They'd taken Hutch's
car because Starsky's didn't exactly blend in with traffic, and Starsky
had gotten in the driver's seat and held out his hands for the keys. If
he was driving, he could be more in control if something went down,
more able to make sure everything went all right. And for some reason,
Hutch didn't protest.
Yet nothing had happened, no one made a deal that they could
see, no one got shot at, and Hutch was fine. His junker of a ride
hadn't even backfired once. Smooth sailing.
"This is a new shirt, you know," Hutch said as he fingered a
spot where a button should have been. Mostly, the front stayed close
even without buttons, but when he moved just right it gaped exposing
almost his entire chest.
Starsky reached over and slid a hand underneath the fabric.
"It's a good look on you, don't worry about it." He rubbed the skin for
a moment before putting his hand back on the wheel. "I'll find 'em and
sew 'em back on, later."
"You, sew the buttons on my shirt? Do windows, too?" He
laughed. "I guess if that bird was any indication, you do damned good
with windows. Come and clean mine, will ya?"
Starsky stiffened at the unpleasant reminder, then forced
himself away from the subject. "Hey, I can sew, cook, get most stains
out of laundry and balance a checkbook. Didn't you take Home Ec in high
school? What kind of a man are you, anyway?" He gave Hutch a teasing
lopsided smile. "That was the best smelling classroom in the whole
school--all baking smells, and perfume. Took it just to meet girls."
"Did it work?"
"Betty Ann Branigan. She couldn't cook or sew, but she wore a
They were both laughing when a blue Dodge ran the light and
crashed into their passenger side.
The sun couldn't have been up long, and yet Hutch was already
awake, but not ready to get up. He rolled over carefully, trying not to
disturb a sleeping Starsky and at the same time favoring his right leg.
He winced at the twinge where the car door had buckled inward and
caught him. Two weeks later and it still ached--but thankfully it
wasn't broken. He'd been leaning toward Starsky, about to ask if he
should go sweater shopping when Starsky's face changed and Hutch felt
himself jerked toward him, practically over both his lap and the
Starsky had seen the car in the second before it made impact
and did the only thing he could--try to pull Hutch away from it. Which
is why the door hit his leg when it gave, and not his arm and upper
body. They both walked away from the accident, even the asshole in the
Dodge was okay.
But he was worried about Starsky. Since the accident, he'd
been different. . . too careful, like Hutch might fall apart at any
minute. Starsky had gotten as many bumps and bruises from the crash as
Hutch had, but you'd have thought Hutch might be on death's door, even
after his partner realized he wasn't seriously hurt.
"Jesus, Hutch! Jesus, Jesus, oh Hutch. . . " He'd hugged him
and repeated that litany as if he'd just been clutched in the very jaws
of death and snatched free at the last minute.
Hutch had finally convinced him he was fine, they were both
fine, everything was fine. But since then, Starsky acted like
doom lurked around every corner. Yesterday, he'd even taken Hutch's arm
as they were walking down a flight of steps.
Hutch grunted and looked at the dark curls on the pillow next
to him, and past that he saw a little white book on the nightstand. He
lifted up, squinting, trying to see what it was and when he determined
he didn't recognize it, he turned on the lamp next to him and reached
over Starsky for it.
Starsky's eyes opened and he rolled over to look at Hutch.
"I'm fine, go back to sleep." He sat up. Signs, Omens,
Curses and Déjà Vu, one of those little mini-books
that litter the check-out aisles of grocery stores. He wondered how
long Starsky'd had it.
"Whatcha' doin', Hutch?"
"A little light reading."
When Starsky finally focused on what Hutch was doing, he made
a half-hearted attempt to grab it. "That's nothin'."
Hutch pulled it away and flipped through it. "If a groom drops
the ring during the ceremony, the marriage is doomed. Shit, Starsk,
here I thought it was doomed just from him putting it on her finger."
Starsky chuckled and rubbed his face. "Put it down and go to
sleep, will ya?"
"No, this is good. Never completely extinguish a campfire
before going to sleep. A few embers should always be left, or bad luck
will follow. Truly brilliant, that one. Smokey the Bear is just
fucked." Hutch snorted and shook his head. "Oh, oh, listen to this one.
It's good luck to have a naked woman on board a boat--calms the seas."
He tilted his head back and laughed. "It might calm the seas
but I'll bet it agitates the crew."
Starsky sighed, though he smiled. He spoke softly. "I think
having an actual woman on board was thought to be bad luck, so that's
why ships used to have women carved on 'em."
"It's good luck to set out to golf on a rainy day? I guess
lightning hitting your golf club must mean you're truly blessed." He
chuckled and flipped some more pages, and found an underlined passage.
Starsky grabbed at the book but Hutch was too quick.
They looked at each other intently for a moment. Then Starsky
sat up. "I remembered hearing that as a kid, and look what happened
Hutch! Dobey called and sent us out right after--no, while the bird was
here--and if that car had been going just a little faster, if you'd had
your arm out the window, if--"
"If, if, if. No ifs, babe. It happened the way it happened,
I'm fine, it's over." He put his hand on the back of Starsky's neck and
"But Hutch, don't you think it's an awful big coincidence? Do
you realize how close you came? How lucky you are to be okay?"
Hutch sighed and decided this couldn't keep up. "I don't
believe in luck, Starsky. I don't have to. I believe in you. You saw it
coming and pulled me farther away from the door, or I would have been
seriously hurt. You're the only luck I need." He pulled Starsky forward
and kissed him, but he could tell Starsky was still hanging on to the
"Come on. The car hit us because the driver ran a red light,
because he was in a fucking hurry, and we were out there because drug
dealers run in god damn packs and Boyd and Minnelli don't have eight
eyes and I think Dobey has both our phone numbers tattooed backwards on
the inside of his eyelids. Not because of any bird confused enough to
try to fly through a window. Things just don't work that way, babe."
Starsky opened his mouth, but Hutch shook his head.
"If the bird had been the one who called and sent us out that
day, then I'd say, yes, we were set-up! It was a hit! But as it is, no,
Starsk. It was just a god damned dippy bird, probably fell out of its
nest as a baby and bruised its brain, and never did 'get' the whole
window lesson, but the momma bird wouldn't let bird school hold it
back, because what would the sparrows in the next tree think?"
Starsky plopped back down in the bed.
"Look at this stuff. A bird flies into your house. . . that's
listed under bad and good luck. How can it be both? It's only bad luck
if he pecks your eyes or shits on your shoulder while he's there, or
what?" Hutch scoffed and tossed the little book on the nightstand next
to him, then stretched out against Starsky and put his hand on his
partner's chest. "Those are just old superstitions, still around from
the days when people had to explain life that way, probably from before
they knew the world was round."
He rubbed circles on Starsky's chest, his fingers combing
through the dark curls. Starsky's hand came up to cover his.
"You and I have come close to buying it, separately and
together, and there were no birds, or broken mirrors or black cats
doing the tango in our paths then. Right?"
Starsky sighed and rubbed the back of Hutch's hand. He rolled
onto his side, pressing the lengths of their bodies together.
Hutch kissed him, just a gentle press of lips. "Besides, even
if omens were actually messages or warnings, which they're not, you
were here, too. Maybe I should be grabbing your elbow when we cross the
"I don't worry about me, babe. I've got you for that, and
you've got my back. I only worry 'bout losing you."
"I could tie a black cat around my neck, disco underneath a
ladder and drive through a wall of mirrors, and you'd be no closer to
losing me than before. You got that?"
Starsky smiled and rolled them both over so that he was on
top, careful not to bump Hutch's sore leg. He kissed Hutch, licking
across his mouth, sucking lightly on the bottom lip before pushing his
tongue inside that taste and moaning softly as he felt Hutch's
hips press up into his.
He pulled away to breathe. "Dunno, Hutch. I think this is
pretty good luck." He pressed his hips forward and felt their erections
rub together. "Don't you?"
"You've got me there." Hutch raised his head and kissed
Starsky and Hutch both stood in the small kitchen, Hutch
leaning casually against a counter with his hands in his pockets,
Starsky putting huge slices of a Chicago-style pie on plates.
Hutch watched him with what felt like a goofy grin plastered
on his face. The man's every movement, whether he was slicing a pizza,
pulling his gun or using his mouth to make Hutch shake with need and
cry out his name--no matter what he did, Hutch could feel him, like
electricity in the air, all around him. Hutch could picture this energy
that drove his partner, this essence that was Starsky, as something
coiled-up, spring-loaded, incredibly bright and pulsing. Always bright.
Even Starsky's superstitions and omens and signs, even his
willingness to believe in things like ghosts and bigfoot and Nessie,
somehow made him all the brighter. Hutch loved that part of
Starsky--his wonder at the mysteries of life was really hope
and enthusiasm--there was an inherent optimism in that willingness to
see connections and meaning in even the simplest of things.
Where Starsky considered possibilities, Hutch quoted facts and
statistics. Pragmatic, practical and realistic, that's what he was and
he guessed he'd always be. He envied Starsky sometimes, for his hope
and the way he looked at the world. Hutch felt wonder at very few
things in life, but he felt it when he thought of Starsky. Wonder and
Hutch walked up behind him, intending to catch his mouth in a
kiss as soon as he turned. He watched Starsky salt his piece of pizza
and almost gave his position away by telling him he should have tasted
it first, but then Starsky knocked the salt shaker over with the back
of his hand. He pinched up some of the salt and tossed it over his
shoulder, right into Hutch's face.
Hutch closed his eyes and sighed. "Starsky."
He spun. "Shit, babe, didn't know you were right there." He
wiped at Hutch's face, a grin breaking out over his own.
Hutch smiled back. "No harm done." His face took on an air of
complete innocence. But he couldn't just let it pass.
That's not how this ride worked.
He grabbed the shaker and flicked his wrist a few times,
scattering salt over the countertop, onto the floor.
Hutch continued to shake salt into the air, here and there,
not even caring that he'd likely be the one who'd clean it up. He shook
it over both his shoulders, then both of Starsky's, and ended with a
pantomime of applying deodorant under both arms. Then he put the shaker
firmly in Starsky's hand and smiled. What'cha gonna do about that
"Okay, Hutch. . . I think you made your point."
Hutch pulled a face of mock horror. "Oh my God, Starsk, what
if I just caused stormy seas, failed marriages and 327 years of bad
luck for some poor idiot golfing in the rain?"
Starsky snorted and clomped the shaker down onto the counter.
"Fine, mock me all you wanna." He wiped the salt into the sink, then
went to get the broom while Hutch watched, a little bothered by his
"Starsky. . . it's just salt, for Christ's sake. I thought
we'd been through this. You don't honestly believe. . . ?"
He bumped the broom bristles against Hutch's shoes, pushing
him back so he could sweep. "Just salt. I know, I know. You don't hafta
make such a damned big scene about it. And such a mess. It was just
habit, Hutch. I don't believe spilling salt is back luck. Which is a
good thing, or you'd be doomed." He said the last word with a menacing
Hutch took the broom from Starsky and backed him up until he
was pressed firmly against the counter. He leaned in and hugged his
partner, pressing his lips against Starsky's neck. "Sorry. I'll clean
it up." He moved his mouth a little, letting his tongue flick out.
Sighing, Starsky hugged back. "Pizza. . . later?"
"Mmm hmm." He kissed Starsky's neck and ran a hand through his
hair. "We'll have more of an appetite afterwards anyway." He sucked
hard enough to bruise and then pushed away and grabbed the broom.
"Just let me clean this up first, or the pipes might break,
we'll get three inches of snow and all the cheese might slide off our
pizza." He winked. "You never know."
Starsky looked at him like he had three eyes, and then cocked
his hip and smiled. "Jesus, Hutchinson, you are such a tease." He
sauntered toward the bedroom, peeling his shirt off as he walked. Hutch
caught up with him before it hit the floor.
Starsky gasped as Hutch backed him against the doorjamb and
pressed his hips forward. "I guess spilled salt is good luck, then?"
Hutch attacked his neck again and spoke between kisses. "It
would seem so." As they moved into the bedroom, Hutch asked, "Since
you're such an expert, I've always wondered--what happens if you spill
Starsky cupped Hutch through his pants and they collapsed
together onto the bed. "I sneeze."
Hutch laughed against Starsky's mouth.