This is the expergated version of a more explicit, adults-only story. The original version can be found on my webpage. The address is in my profile. This was written for the Me and Thee List "Silent Hutch" challenge. It takes place during the same time period and in the same universe as my story The Right and Proper Season.
I don't own Starsky and Hutch and I'm not making any money.
Silence
"Ah Hutch, do we gotta' watch this?"
Hutch said nothing, simply pressed his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, knowing that Starsky would understand it to mean that yes, this show was something he wanted to watch uninterrupted. Even though it was a PBS documentary about ballet. So Starsky just sighed and snuggled down on the couch next to him. It was fair enough, yesterday they had watched a marathon showing of old vampire movies for Starsky.
By the time the show was over, he had fallen asleep, cuddled up to Hutch, with his head flopped over onto Hutch's shoulder. Not that that was unusual, in these days of post-Gunther-shooting recuperation. Starsky slept a lot now. Especially on days like this, when he had been in a physical therapy session that left him exhausted.
Hutch had come to relish these peaceful moments, evenings in the little cottage they were house-sitting for the duration of Starsky's recovery, the stillness broken only by the sleepy twittering of the two parakeets that came with the house, basking in the feel of Starsky's living presence, a warm and welcome weight pressed against him, alive, mostly whole, and recovering. He snaked an arm around Starsky, pulled him closer.
Starsky was so deeply asleep he just mumbled and shifted, burrowing against Hutch, completely relaxed in the safety of his embrace. Hutch could have sat there all night, even longer, forever, completely content.
But there were things that needed to be done, and besides, Hutch knew that sleeping sitting on the couch would leave both of them stiff and aching the next day. Not that he minded for himself, but adding any more to the burden of Starsky's pain was unacceptable. So, finally, when he realized that in his relaxed state he was in danger of falling asleep himself, he decided that it was time to put Starsky to bed.
But Starsky was so deeply, so peacefully asleep, that he couldn't bring himself to wake him. Carefully, quietly, Hutch slid out from underneath Starsky. Starsky mumbled and shifted a little, but then sank into an even deeper slumber.
Hutch stood and just watched for a moment. If any one had challenged him on it, he would have said that he was letting Starsky settle in so there was less danger of him waking when he moved him, but since he was alone, he could admit to himself that he just wanted to watch Starsky for a little while, watch the beautiful, beloved face without the lines of care and pain, looking for a change calm and young again.
Then when he had looked his fill, he slid his arms carefully under the relaxed body, and ever-so-gently lifted him. He had done this before, carried Starsky, but now it was a shock to him, a pain, how feather-light his partner felt in his embrace, all spare weight melted off his bones by the long hospitalization.
It was almost tragic how easy the trip to the master bedroom, that had become Starsky's, was. Someone Starsky's size should not be so easy to carry.
Undressing him, now, that might have been more of a problem, and for more than one reason, Hutch admitted to himself. Fortunately it wasn't necessary. Starsky was already dressed for bed in sweats and a tee shirt. Hutch just laid him on the big bed, pulled the covers out from under Starsky, and then spread them over him. Starsky sighed in his sleep, rolled over, and curled comfortably up.
Hutch stood for a moment, remembering another night like this, standing by the bed of a Starsky recovering from wounds from a shooting, after the fiasco in Giovanni's Restaurant. Remembering how Starsky had looked at him, half stoned from his painkillers, and still said what Hutch could never put in words:
"No Hutch, listen... I know you. Know everything you were going through." His voice had thickened a little. "Know everything in your head..." He had paused, then went on "Know everything in your heart, too. You know that, doncha'? Ever' thing..." Starsky had lifted his hand towards Hutch's face, brushed his fingers gently across his cheek, then dropped it again. "Ever' thing..."
Of course Starsky knew. But what could Hutch say to that? Nothing, as always, nothing. Saying anything would lead to things that could never be said, places they could never go.
Hutch ran a hand through the dark curls, and then, since no one was around to see, no one to know, he bent and gently pressed a kiss to the smooth forehead. Sighing, he stood again. There were still things he needed to do before he could retire to his own bed in the spare room.
He fed and watered the parakeets, then covered their cage for the night. He watered the few of the plants that needed special tending and more than once daily watering. Finally he leashed the dog, Euripides (also part of the house-sitting deal) and took him out for his nightly walk.
It was dark and quiet in this residential neighborhood. Hutch had time to be alone with his thoughts. Thinking about the documentary they had watched that night, about how it reminded him of his brief fling with Anna Akhanatova, wondering if Starsky had thought of that too. Wondering if Starsky had ever realized another thing they'd never talked about, that a big part of the attraction he had felt for Anna had been her strength, stronger than any other woman he'd ever bedded, almost as strong as himself.
Almost as strong as Starsky, and wasn't that a thought? What Starsky's strength would be like in his arms, in his bed...
There was a thudding of running footsteps behind him. Instincts taking over, Hutch whirled around. But it was only one of the neighbors, pretty Belinda Williams from two doors down, out for a night's run in brief jogging shorts and a halter.
"Hi Ken!" she called brightly as she ran past. Hutch smiled and waved, but didn't reply. Belinda had already made it plain that if he wanted to drop by and visit her after walking the dog or any other time, he'd be more than welcome. Hutch gathered that the invitation extended beyond the cup of coffee in the kitchen that had been mentioned, and into the bedroom.
But he wasn't interested. Belinda was just another good-time-girl, looking for a pretty bedmate and a fun time. Hutch had had enough of that for one lifetime. His last few relationships had showed him that.
Kira, beautiful blond Kira, Starsky's girlfriend. Even in his apologies, in their making up and reestablishing their friendship, Hutch had never brought himself to explain that one thing about Kira that had attracted him had been her closeness to Starsky, that bedding her was bedding Starsky at only one remove. Did Starsky know that, Hutch wondered?
Probably. Just as he probably knew another thing Hutch had never said, how much Marianne Owens looked like Starsky, and how that chance resemblance had worked on Hutch's sympathies, led him to her bed, too.
How long, he wondered, had it been since he had a relationship that was simple, uncluttered by a subtext of Starsky? His brief reconnection with Kate Larrabee, maybe. Or Melinda Rogers, the groupie who had latched on to him during the investigation in the garment district.
And maybe, now that he thought of it, the similarity of names was another reason for his reluctance to take Belinda up on her coffee and sex offer, the reminder of the impersonality of it, Melinda simply looking for a body in a uniform, Belinda only looking for a pretty face and a good time. Neither of them giving a damn about who he really was, what he really felt. Sometimes it seemed like no one did that. Except Starsky. Always Starsky. Another thing Hutch had never said.
Euripides had done his business, and was ready to head home. Hutch quietly let himself in, unleashed the dog, fed him and gave him fresh water.
There was no reason to check on Starsky. None at all. But the impulse was irresistible, the need to see that Starsky was there, alive, sleeping soundly.
He quietly peeked into the bedroom. Starsky had shifted his position and lay in a comfortable, boneless sprawl. Somehow he had kicked his covers off half way. Hutch slipped silently into the room and pulled them up again, gave another pat to the tousled curls. Prevented himself from stealing another kiss.
He carefully locked up the house, turned off the lights, and climbed into his own bed.
He couldn't sleep. Thoughts of Starsky were tumbling through his head, running like a squirrel on a wheel, around and around. How long had it been since he admitted this truth to himself, that he wanted Starsky as more than a friend, more than a partner, but rather as a lover? How long since he'd admitted the truth about himself that he'd run from for years, the truth that had made him recoil from his only-half-understood desire for Jack Mitchell, made him completely sever all his ties with the man who had been his best friend from childhood. But his feelings for Starsky went deeper than that, went too deep to let him cut and run even when he realized what they were.
Pull away, step back, sure. That's what had been going on, in part, he had to admit, this tumultuous past year. But in the end, it had been to no avail.
That Starsky knew something, felt something similar himself, Hutch was well aware. He knew it when Starsky watched him in the showers at work or the gym, knew it when they squirmed past each other exchanging places in the car, back seat to front, coping a feel as they went. But was Starsky able to admit to himself what all that meant? For that matter, was Hutch ready to accept all that it implied?
The silent spaces between them at the time of John Blaine's murder told Hutch that no, they weren't. The times that Hutch had tried to say the words, but been left in silence. The things Starsky could have said, but didn't.
Hutch turned restlessly in bed. He could tell sleep was going to elude him this night. And he needed sleep, needed to get up early the next day to take Starsky to a doctor's appointment. Well, there was always one sure way to relax and unwind.
His hand slid down his front, stroking his chest, while his other hand pulled his shorts down, to be kicked off and away. He let himself indulge in the fantasy that he kept locked away for special times, for when nothing else would do, the fantasy of Starsky holding him, Starsky stroking him like this, and of himself doing the same for Starsky.
His mouth sliding down Starsky's chest, his hand stroking Starsky. Starsky gasping, calling his name, Starsky desiring his touch.
He took himself in hand, as his mind brought him images of moving down Starsky's body, dwelling lovingly on each part, each place, his hands exploring the beautiful curves. Imagining Starsky helpless in the throes of passion, gasping, crying his name, throwing his head back in complete abandon.
Hutch's mind dwelt lovingly on his vision of Starsky writhing underneath him as he did something he doubted in reality he could do, take all of Starsky, with a practiced panache that would surely have failed him in reality... but here it didn't matter, here and now, in his fantasy he could do anything, swallow without spilling, without choking, without gagging on the taste, as Starsky panted hoarsely, chanting out his need for Hutch's touch.
As he sped up, and brought himself closer, his mind showed him the rest. Taking Starsky and making him his own, completely and forever in a joining that made Hutch just as much Starsky's as well. Feeling the whole of Starsky's body, knowing he could bring him to the final height, hear him gasp, hear his moans and gasps rise to a crescendo of passion, calling his name, as finally Hutch reached the point of no return, silently gasped and shuddered, drenched in sweat, keeping his desire to cry out locked between his teeth for fear of waking Starsky in the next room.
Hutch flopped back, panting slightly. Yes, that was how it would be, if it ever could be. If the words could ever be spoken. If the silence could ever be breeched.