Night and Day
Chapter One: The Assignment
Warnings: Slash, S/H. Nothing too graphic, but it's definitely there. If you don't like S&H together (but seriously, how could you NOT??) then I wouldn't read this story.
Author's Notes: I blame every word of this fanfic and my current obsession with a certain dark, curly-haired detective on Blintz, because, dammit, it's all her fault!!! But thanks, Blintz, for showing me that first episode of S&H, and aaaaalllll the great ones after it. (there's a wink here, but you can't see it ((illegal)).)
Detective Sergeant Dave Starsky whistled a tune as he took the steps two at a time up to his partner's apartment. Foregoing a knock on the door, he went right in, and headed straight for the refrigerator.
He dug through the health stuff, wrinkling his nose at the sight of carrot juice, until he found what he was looking for – the rest of the pizza they'd ordered the other night. Grabbing a piece, and pulling a bottle of coke off the door, he slammed the refrigerator door closed with his foot.
"Starsk, do you ever a close a door normally?"
He mumbled what resembled a "no" before boosting himself onto the counter and smiling at his partner. Ken Hutchinson, fresh from his shower, glanced at Starsky. "What?"
"Mornin' sunshine," the other said around a mouthful of pizza.
Hutch rolled his eyes, then took the towel from his neck and snapped it at his partner's leg.
"Hey!" he protested, nearly choking on a piece of pepperoni.
The two partners differed as much as night and day. In fact, night and day were as close a description of the two as it got.
Starsky, with his unruly dark, curly hair, slightly shorter, compact body, was night. His eyes were a sparkling blue, made more noticeable by his tanned skin, and his mouth sarcastic, but always quick to grin. His slight New York accent and cocky swagger gave him a "tough guy" look, but even his partner knew that he was a softy. Tight, worn, blue jeans encased his legs and hips, and a short-sleeved, navy blue shirt did the same to his upper body. He wore his short, black leather jacket over it, zipped up a third of the way. And, as always, his blue adidas sneakers were on his feet.
If Starsky was night, then Hutch was definitely day. He had hair of spun gold, which he kept short, and usually neat. He stood just slightly taller than Starsky, but with his lean, swimmer's body, it seemed that he towered over his partner. Aqua-blue eyes peered out of a stern, serious face, yet the man wasn't very serious. He was as quick to smile as his partner, and sometimes quicker to joke. He wore a pair of brown slacks, and had yet to put on a shirt, but he busied himself at the counter, dumping ingredients into a blender.
Starsky saw this, and made a face. "I don't know how you drink that stuff."
Hutch looked up at him. "This? It's good for you, Starsk."
"It may be good for you in the long run, but it helps to be able to get it past your nose," the other man quipped. "What's in that concoction again?"
"I've told you before."
"Yeah, but I always forget. Isn't there some kind of pessimistic liver in it?"
Hutch stopped his blended and stared at his partner. "Desiccated, Starsk, desiccated liver. And anyway, what's it matter? You'll never drink it again."
Starsky nodded once. "No, I definitely won't." Still, he watched as Hutch downed the mixture in a few gulps, swallowed hard. "You're a real piece of work, Blintz, you know that?"
Smiling, the other man put the glass he'd used on the counter, left the kitchen. Starsky finished his pizza, albeit with difficulty, and moved into the living room, drinking his coke as he walked. He waited until Hutch came out of his bedroom, clad in a light blue shirt and his light brown patent leather jacket, and the two went to the door.
"Think today will be any different from any other day?" Starsky asked as they descended stairs.
"Is it ever?" Hutch shot back.
"No."
Reaching the Torino, Starsky walked around to the driver's side, climbed in the car. The moment he sat down, the radio began to beep.
"Zebra Three, come in, Zebra Three."
Hutch slid into the passenger side, leaving the door open as Starsky picked up the radio. "Zebra Three, here."
"Captain Dobey wants you two in his office."
The two exchanged a glance.
"Roger that, on our way," Starsky said, defeated, replacing the radio. "Oh joy, Cap'n Dobey first thing in the mornin.' Shapin' up to be a hell of a day."
Hutch closed the door to the Torino, and Starsky pulled out, the bottle of coke nestled between his legs.
The moment the duo entered the squad room, their captain, a rotund, graying man, was standing before them. "In my office," he said. At their hesitation, he took a deep breath. "NOW!"
They followed him into the office, Starsky kicking the door shut. Dobey sighed exasperatedly. "Dammit, Starsky! Use your hands!"
"Sorry, Cap," the dark-haired detective said without much conviction. He perched himself on the arm of the chair Hutch was occupying, watched his captain.
"We got a case," the older man started, sitting behind his desk. "Calls for some undercover work. Think you can handle that?"
"Well, Captain, we are undercover cops," Hutch remarked.
Dobey sent him a look, then eased back in his chair. "We got a dead body just come in this morning. Worked at a warehouse that dealt in antiquities."
"Which one?" Starsky asked.
"A&R, down on Carson. Now, there's a catch..." the captain began.
Starsky groaned outwardly, moved to sit in the chair beside his partner's. "What is it this time?"
Dobey looked angry for a moment, and Starsky waited for the outburst. Instead, the captain leaned back in his chair, regarded the two detectives, and began to chuckle.
Starsky caught Hutch's eye, raising an eyebrow. The blond man shrugged.
"Uh, Cap? What's so funny?" Hutch asked carefully.
Wordlessly, he handed the file to Hutch, who opened, peered inside, and closed it with a snap. "No," he said.
The captain continued to laugh, and Hutch handed the file to Starsky, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Starsky thumbed it open, read the contents, and looked at Dobey.
The captain actually saw the expression slide down to open-mouthed astonishment. "Is this for real?" the dark-haired man asked.
"Absolutely, and it's very important. It's been common knowledge that the antiques they deal with are fake, we've just never been able to pin it on the owner, Clinton. And now there's a dead body involved."
Starsky looked helplessly at his partner, who was sitting with a mixture of utter disbelief and amusement on his face.
"How am I going to pull this off?" Starsky asked wildly. "I'm from New York... the streets of New York. How am I supposed to be able to act gay?"
Hutch burst into laughter at the question, then stopped. "What, you're saying I'm not going to have any trouble?"
"Hey, Blondie, you at least have the sophistication and the looks to get by."
Dobey shifted his gaze between the two. "Hey, this is important, here. The guy who's dead, George Salem, fell from a catwalk almost fifty feet up."
"Fell, or was pushed?" Starsky asked, glad to be off the undercover topic.
"That's what I want you two to find out. He was supposed to meet one of the undercovers at our neighboring precinct to inform him of something, but he never made it."
"Oh, of course," the dark-haired man said. "Which means that it's pretty likely he was pushed so he couldn't talk."
"Exactly," Dobey agreed. "Now, you two get out of here and figure out your alias's and whatnot."
Hutch rose, stared down at Starsky, who was looking green. He swatted him on the shoulder. "You coming?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah." Starsky followed Hutch out the door and sat down at his desk, propping his feet on the top. Hutch stopped at the coffee machine, poured a cup.
Starsky said nothing until Hutch had sat down across from him. "Gay?"
The blonde stared at him, then started to snicker. "You should have seen your face!"
"You do realize what this means, don't you?"
The laughter died away. "What?"
Starsky rolled his eyes at his partner's obvious confusion. "They're sendin' us in undercover, together."
It was the emphasis on the last word that had Hutch frowning. "Together together?"
"It's always together, Hutch, but this time it's really together," he paused, batting his eyelashes, "honey."
Hutch felt sick. He didn't realize that it was meant that way. How in the hell was he going to pull this off?
"What's gonna happen to our reputations?" Starsky asked.
Dobey came out of his office, began laughing again at his two best detectives looking so forlorn, fetched himself a cup of coffee.
"Hey, Cap?" called Hutch.
The big man sauntered over to the desk. "What is it, Hutchinson?"
"Can we at least wear our own clothes for this assignment?"
Dobey's face turned red. They're worried about wardrobe?! "I don't care what you wear Hutchinson! As long as you're convincing!" he bellowed, then strode back into his office and slammed the door.
"Well, that was smooth," Starsky commented.
"Shut up," Hutch shot back.
"I don't know if I can pull this off," the other man said quietly.
Hutch leaned forward, smiled warmly at his partner. "Hey, we'll pull it off the same way we always do. Together."
Starsky made a face. "I'm beginnin' to hate that word."
"But it's such a fabulous word!" Hutch gushed, blue eyes sparkling.
The curly-haired detective stared wide-eyed at him, then groaned. He knew Hutch's impression was right on, and his would take a lot of work.
In the end, Hutch agreed with Starsky that changing the inflections and accent were hopeless, and that he'd be better off speaking normally, albeit a bit more softly, and with different expressions.
Neither of the two could honestly say that they'd ever really been around gay people, but they were smart enough to know that they came from all walks of life. The cops hated stereotypes, and knew most other people did, as well. Therefore, their only problem was that their ignorance of the speech meant they had to fall back on their actions.
Given their already close friendship, both men knew body language wouldn't be too much of a factor. They simply had to convince the men at the warehouse they were more than just friends. They'd talked it over and agreed that holding hands would be relatively easy and painless, as would be simple gestures of affection, ones they used frequently anyway.
Starsky had insisted they use his car. Hutch had caved, on the condition that Starsky remembered to say nothing about the Torino's engine or shocks at the warehouse.
As they pulled up to the gate that separated the warehouse from the street, both men took a collective deep breath.
"Can I help you gentlemen?"
Starsky smiled as best he could at the "guard." The man was wearing a flamingo pink leisure suit, for crying out loud, with a powder blue scarf tied around his neck.
Hutch grabbed Starsky's free hand, hoping to appear more persuasive.
"Dave Ryans and Ken Newman here to see Mr. Clinton," Starsky told him.
The guard checked his clipboard, then opened the gate.
"Go right on in, Mr. Newman," he said.
"No, I'm Ryans, he's Newman," Starsky corrected. He pulled the Torino through the gate, parked it at the end of a line of cars.
"Ready for this?" Hutch asked, climbing out of the car.
"No, but does it matter?" Walking toward the door, the two stayed purposefully close, allowing their arms and shoulders to brush against the other.
As they entered the warehouse, their eyes were assaulted by a myriad of colors. The gay community, it seemed, were very into bright colors.
One guy wearing, to Starsky's immediate shock, blue hot pants and a very tight blue woman's shirt approached them. "What can I do for you studs?"
Hutch sensed Starsky's unableness to speak right away, and stepped forward. "We're here to see Mr. Clinton," he said, shooting Starsky a warning look. "We have an appointment. I'm Ken Newman, and this is my partner, Dave Ryans."
"I'm Bunny," the man said, offering his hand to Hutch, who automatically kissed his knuckles. Starsky did the same, trying his best to keep a grimace off his face.
Bunny would have looked like a woman, if it weren't for the fact that he had closely shaved, dark brown hair, and his lack of breasts. He was tall and thin, not as thin as Huggy, who looked like a beanpole, but thinner than either of the two detectives, and nearly three inches taller than Hutch. His eyes were large and a dark, liquid brown. Not at all unattractive, but one look told you he was gay. Bunny carried himself like a woman, stepping lightly, swaying his hips, and even wore high-heeled sandals. Starsky had a fleeting thought that it would be hard to work in shoes such as that.
Bunny sent them back through the warehouse, instructing them that Clinton's office was all the way at the back. While they walked away, Bunny gazed appreciatively at the two rear ends.
"Bunny, who were they? They're hot!"
The man turned to a shorter guy. "Ken Newman and Dave Ryans," he said in a dreamy voice. "Don't get your hopes up, Brian. They're a couple."
The other man's face turned sour. "Damn."
"You're telling me."
The two detectives were nearly to Clinton's office when Starsky finally spoke.
"Bunny? His name is Bunny?"
Hutch shook his head. "I guess there are all kinds."
"And what was with the clothes?" Now he stopped and turned to Hutch. "And why'd you call me your partner? You're gonna blow our cover before we ever get it established."
"Starsk, when you say "partner" here, it's not as in working together."
"Oh." The bewildered man turned and rapped lightly on the office door.
"Come in."
He opened the door, let Hutch go through first.
"Ah, Misters Ryans and Newman." An older man stood from behind a desk that sat across from the door – both men were relieved to see he was wearing a normal suit – and extended his hand. "You're Ryans?"
Hutch shook his head and the proffered hand at the same time. "No, sir, I'm Newman. He's Ryans."
Starsky moved forward. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clinton," he said, shaking the man's hand.
Roger Clinton was an Englishman who'd moved to Bay City ten years before to start an antiques business. When he realized that they were expensive to buy and harder to sell at a profit-making price, he began to forge items. With a low cost of production and cheaper-than-real-antiques prices, he was pulling in a hell of a profit. The department had been trying to bust him for years, but had had difficulty getting the proof they needed to make the charges stick.
According the man himself, the reason he'd hired people of an alternate lifestyle was because he, too, was gay, and spent many years in England being harassed. The hard upbringing had given him a sympathetic outlook on anyone the same as he, and he wanted to give the gay community chances they wouldn't have anywhere else. In that respect, he was good guy.
Now that there'd been a murder, however, it was up to the two detectives to figure out the pieces of the puzzle, and fit them together.
"So, boys," Clinton sat down, indicating the two chairs in front of his desk for the two. "I hear that you've just moved here and are looking for jobs."
"Yes, sir," Hutch said, reaching over to squeeze Starsky's hand. "We heard from Lucky Eddie that this is a wonderful place to work, and you're, shall we say, sympathetic, to people like us."
"Sympathetic? Hell, it's a requirement!" the old man boomed, chuckling.
The other two shared his joke with a laugh.
"Okay, gentlemen, here's where it stands. I have room for you, that's not a problem. Lucky Eddie recommended you, and I respect his opinion. Beyond that, you two look very much in love, and it's quite refreshing to an old goat like me. Do you have a place to stay?"
"We've been living out of a hotel for a few weeks now," Starsky said. "Money's running a bit low."
Clinton nodded. "We have an apartment building just behind the warehouse, here. I believe I have one apartment open, if you'd like it."
Hutch smiled. "That'd be wonderful, Mr. Clinton."
"Good, it's settled then. You can start tomorrow. Take today to get settled in, meet some of the people here."
"It'll be nice working for you, Mr. Clinton," Hutch said, standing up.
The men shook hands, and the two went back out to the Torino to grab their luggage. They were given a key for apartment 366, and sent to the building.
When Hutch unlocked the door and it swung open, Starsky groaned.
"Don't they know that sometimes, all this color is just too much?"
The apartment was really rather nice, if not a bit girly. The huge double bed was decked out in yellow sheets and a yellow bedspread. The living area was an insane blend of reds, blues, and greens.
"Oh, my God," Starsky said, staring wide-eyed at a painting on the one wall. It was a portrait of two men in a rather lucrative position. "Hutch, we have to live here?"
"Only until we get the info we need," his partner assured him.
"Yeah, and this is some great motivation to get it fast."
Hutch threw himself onto the bed, laid on his side with his head propped on one hand. "Hey, Loverboy, come here."
Starsky stared at him, unblinking. He walked toward the bed, never taking his eyes off his partner, until he could reach out and grab a pillow. He threw it hard at Hutch's head. "Don't ever call me Loverboy," he warned. "I prefer Stud Muffin."
The blond laughed, dropping the pillow back onto the bed. "I'll be sure to remember that."
A knock at the door had Starsky turning. "I'll get it," he offered.
When he swung the door open, he saw Bunny standing in the hall. Or, he was fairly sure it was Bunny, since the man's face was completely hidden by a houseplant.
"Housewarming gift," he said, poking his head around the leaves.
"Oh, how sweet of you Bunny. Would you like to come in?"
Hutch entered the living area, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the plant.
"A Codiaeum variegatum! How nice of you!"
Starsky raised an eyebrow. "A what?"
Hutch looked at him. "It's a Croton, Davey."
The dark-haired man looked back to Bunny. "Kenny has the green thumb," he explained. "I'm afraid I just kill the things."
Hutch took the plant as Bunny sat down on the bold green couch. "It's so nice to see someone living here," he said. "It's been so empty since George—" he broke off, swallowing hard.
"Is he the guy that—"
"Yeah, he fell from the top catwalk," Bunny said tearfully.
Starsky sat next to him. "It sounds like you were close," he said softly.
"George was my best friend," Bunny told him. "It was no accident he fell."
"What do you mean?"
Bunny realized his slip. "Nevermind, it's nothing."
"You can tell us, you know. We don't know anyone else here."
"Don't say anything. George went up on that catwalk a hundred times a day, and he always wore the safety harness. Hell, he wore it around on the floor, too, just so he didn't have to keep putting it back on when he went up. It doesn't make any sense that he'd take it off." He sniffed and wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry for dumping this on you, it's just that no one else speaks of it. It's as if George never existed."
Starsky patted his knee warmly. "It's quite all right, Bunny," he said. "If you ever need to talk, Kenny and I are very good listeners."
Hutch had arranged the Codiaeum variegatum near the window. He joined them on the couch, draping an arm around Starsky's shoulders. "He's right. We don't know anyone in town, yet, so it's always nice to have someone around to talk to."
Bunny grinned. "You two are so sweet. I hope I find someone someday that I can be in love with as much as you are."
"How do you know we're in love?" Starsky asked him.
He laughed then. "Are you kidding? It's written all over your faces! Look, I have to get back to work, but why don't you come up to my apartment for drinks later, around eight? I'm in 401."
"Sounds good," Hutch said. "Thanks Bunny."
"No." The other man stood, shaking his head. "Thank you. I'll see you two tonight."
"Bye," Starsky bid him, as the man known as Bunny left the apartment.
"Well, he's nice," Hutch said.
"Yeah, he is. I keep forgetting he's a guy," Starsky told him, a grin spreading across his face.
"It isn't hard to," the blonde agreed.
"So, this is something," Starsky began, grabbing paper and a pen from the inside of his jacket. "Bunny said George never took that harness off while he was working."
Hutch recognized his partner's decision to talk about the case, so he slid to the end of the couch and turned to him. "All right, what do we know?"
"George was supposed to meet with an undercover the day before he fell," Starsky said.
"And never made it, because that fall killed him," his partner put in.
"Right. Now, we have a witness who said that he never took off the safety harness, but when he fell, he wasn't wearing it."
Hutch sat in thought. "That would show that the fall wasn't an accident."
"Hmm," Starsky said, nodding his agreement. "So, George has some information, then has an accident. So now the question is, who killed him, and why?"
"I don't think it was Clinton," Hutch told him. He looked up, and was met with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh? And why not?"
"Because, after talking to him today, I got a feeling from him. He doesn't even realize that forging those antiques is breaking the law, or if he does, that's as far as he's ever gone. He's not a murderer."
"How do you know that?"
Hutch stared at Starsky. Sometimes his partner came off as a bit scatter-brained. "I've never met a murderer who grins like that, partner. He's too, content to just kill someone."
"All right, so we rule out Clinton. And we can definitely rule out Bunny. That breakdown was anything but staged."
"Right." Hutch furrowed his brow. "So then that leaves about a hundred other men."
Starsky groaned. "Hutch, I don't wanna be here very long."
"Then I guess we better put our detective feet forward and solve this."
"Okay then." Starsky went to stand, but a loud grumbling stopped him. "How 'bout dinner?"
Hutch laughed. "That stomach of yours is always on time, even if you aren't."
"The reason why I don't need an alarm clock," Starsky quipped. "So, you cookin'?"
The blonde snorted. "Considering that what you call food is the equivalent to road kill, yes."
"Hey, that's not very nice, Hutch."
"Do you want to eat?"
Starsky mumbled, "Yes."
"Then shut up and let me cook."
TBC
