This Starsky & Hutch story is slash fan fiction. It contains adult concepts and sensuality between men.
If you're underage or offended by such things, you have been warned not to read the fiction.

This was written for the Starsky & Hutch slashfest at LiveJournal. for tovalentin, who wanted a bit of necking and some clever dialogue.


Cousin Shelley

  A 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 curved throat.

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 nearby shelf.

"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 shoes."

"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 apple.

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."

"Sorry. Dobey?"

"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 on."

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 lotta sweaters."

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 steering wheel.

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. "Y'okay?"

"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.

"Jesus, Starsk."

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 kneaded.

"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 idea.

"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 street?"

"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.

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 awe.

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 one, partner?

"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 reaction.

"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 tone.

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 pepper?"

Starsky cupped Hutch through his pants and they collapsed together onto the bed. "I sneeze."

Hutch laughed against Starsky's mouth.