Things We Don't Talk About
by Allie
"Kick the bucket," said Starsky, his grin naughty and cheerful.
"Six feet under," countered Hutch.
"Pushing up daisies!" said Starsky.
Dobey walked by. "Ahem. What are you boys up to now?" He scowled at them, and their unfinished paperwork, pointedly.
"Nothing, captain." Starsky smiled up at him. He sat with his chair turned around, arms propped on the back of it, looking relaxed and a bit unkempt, his hair wildly a-curl, his flannel shirt faded and stretched tightly across his chest muscles.
"Yeah, we're just playing around, Captain," said Hutch. "Don't worry. We're almost done." He picked up a report and waved it cheerfully, his smile sunny and innocent.
"Yeah, well you just finish it and then play around!"
"We will, Cap!" said Starsky brightly. To prove his good word, he began to type again, looking up and smiling at Dobey innocently.
Their captain regarded them suspiciously for a moment then said "Hmph," and turned back to his office.
Starsky typed a few more sentences, and then looked up at Hutch. His blond head was bent studiously over his typewriter as he laboriously picked out his words two letters at a time, hunting and pecking. His bent head didn't conceal the furrow on his brow.
"You can type better than that, Hutch."
"Well, I'm out of correction fluid, and I don't want to make any mistakes."
Starsky snorted. He finished typing the last of his report with a flourish, leaned closer to stare at the paper, then whipped it out of the machine and held it up in triumph. "Finished first!" He waved it.
"Congratulations," said Hutch.
"You still mad?" asked Starsky.
"Of course I'm not mad." Hutch hit one of the keys very hard, frowned, and pried it loose from the paper.
Starsky regarded him dubiously. "Uh-huh. That's why you're over there breaking your typewriter."
Hutch looked up and pretended to smile. "Hit it a little hard, that's all."
"Uh-huh. Sure you did. C'mon, Hutch, all I asked you was—"
"I know what you asked! And you're not going to die."
"All I asked was if I did, would you be the one to call my mother?" said Starsky in a quiet voice. "It wouldn't be as hard for her to hear it from you."
"It still wouldn't be any walk in the park for her."
"I know that, I'm just—"
"Starsky!"
Voices around the precinct fell silence. Glances fell on Starsky and Hutch. Some stayed and watched, others raked away, not wanting to be drawn into any conflict between the two of them.
"What, Hutch?" asked Starsky, raising his eyebrows calmly.
"You are NOT allowed to die. If you ever did die, I would take care of everything. I would call your mother and y-your no good brother, and I would—would arrange all the funeral plans and p-p-put flowers on your grave and—all of it." He raised a big hand, gesturing vaguely. "But that doesn't matter. Because YOU are NOT allowed to die. Hear me?" He glared fiercely at his partner.
"I hear you, partner," said Starsky, in a low voice. His smile was deep and affectionate. "And I won't. But we gotta talk about this stuff sometime."
"No," said Hutch, "we don't." He finished his report, yanked it from the machine, rose and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go to Huggy's—and change the subject."
"Living's part of dying, Hutch," said Starsky quietly. "You know that." He followed, and gave Hutch a swat on the backside as they walked. "But I'm not goin' anywhere, partner."
"Better not," said Hutch, and then he smiled.