It started that morning.
Scrambling to get out of the apartment on time Hutch had spilled his shake on the shirt he was wearing and the stain the milk fat left on the cloth looked so much like Hutch had sicked down his front, he had to change it.
It'd been a busy week. A busy year. Hutch didn't have any clean laundry. At least none that he had purchased in the last decade.
The last shirt he had to his name that didn't reek of sweat, gun powder or worse, was a sight to behold. It was white with black polka dots. But not just one kind of polka dot. Three or four sizes of polka dots, grouped into rectangular patches that zigged and zagged and zoomed around the front and back.
Like obsessive compulsive bees, flying in circles.
Hutch kept his last white undershirt on, put the polka dot shirt on over it and hid it as best he could under his leather jacket. He hoped no one would notice. He hoped he could stand having the jacket on all day. He really hoped Starsky would keep his mouth shut, and ran out the door at the sound of the Torino's horn.
As he slid into the passenger seat his partner gave him a look almost immediately but he didn't say anything. Starsky pulled out into traffic, giving occasional glances to his passenger until they got into the heart of the city and were stopped at a traffic light.
"Did you comb your hair different?" Starsky asked.
Hutch gave a surreptitious glance down his front and made sure every black dot was obscured then pushed his lips together, shrugged and said, "No."
As his partner fiddled with his hair in the mirror, Starsky shrugged, gave him one more glance then shook his head and finished the drive to the station.
A few hours later, just before eagle-eyes Starsky spotted a robbery in progress, he had snapped his fingers and blurted, "You're not growin' back that mustache are ya?"
Hutch gave his partner a hurt look and muttered, "I liked the mustache."
Starsky winced theatrically and Hutch rolled his eyes. "No, Starsky. I'm not growing a mustache."
"Huh…"
The robbery took them on a car chase that crossed the city twice before it ended with the criminal's car perched precariously, nose-first on the edge of an overpass. They managed to stop traffic in both directions, and get the crooks out of the car before the '69 Ford Fairlane tipped and crumbled into a mess of steel and loose currency on the road below.
Hutch was cuffing one of them, and Starsky the other, the latter partner keeping a good distance from the edge but still trying to crane his neck to see the damage.
Still, the macabre sight of a once beautiful car cracked to pieces couldn't pull Starsky away from the nagging preoccupation that something was different about his partner.
As they walked the perps back to the Torino Starsky ran his eyes up and down Hutch's profile then finally asked, "You get new shoes?"
Hutch pursed his lips, rolled his eyes and shook his head, determined to start laundry the moment he got home, and stick to it until he had clean clothes enough for the rest of the year.
It got worse at lunch. Starsky wouldn't stop pestering, demanding to know if Hutch had on new underwear, new socks, a new mole…
He finally settled on, "It's a new tattoo. You got a tattoo. Wild man." The accusation came out in the bullpen, in the midst of the busiest shift, at the top of Starsky's considerable volume. "Where'd you get it? Leg? Arm? Chest? Back? Butt cheek? Left butt cheek?"
In the meantime Hutch was boiling. He'd been sucking down water all day to compensate and his bladder was about to explode. He was dying of hunger but hadn't finished the report for the robbery because his partner wouldn't shut up. The rest of the guys in the bullpen were getting a cheap show out of it and seconds before Hutch was afraid his bladder would combust he decided he'd had enough.
Thrusting to his feet Hutch tore off his jacket and turned in a full circle, arms out, angrily accepting the inevitable.
"New shirt, Starsk. I'm wearing a new shirt. A shirt you've never seen before. A shirt I've never seen before. A shirt that I plan never to see again. Okay!?"
The stunned look on his partner's face held for only so long and he burst into teary-eyed laughter, lettuce from his sandwich exploding over his own finished report. To the chorus of guffaws and scattered applause that followed Hutch gave a sarcastic bow, then stormed out of the room to use the john.
He stayed in the bathroom long enough to rip off the damned shirt and bath his face and neck in cold water.
By the time he returned to the bullpen most of the congestion had eased, the men either changing shifts or going back on patrol. Hutch found his partner serenely studying the newspaper when he got back, and noticed a small stack of bills neatly piled on his desk.
The blonde set down the sandwich and chips he'd bought from the cafeteria and pointed at the money. "What's that?"
"Your half of the bet, you gullible blonde beauty." Starsky said from behind the paper.
Hutch glanced around the mostly empty room, then said, "What?"
One corner of the paper curled down a little and Starsky's gleaming eyes peered up at him, his partner not even trying to contain the grin. "Well you...wore the shirt, Hutch...and I got you to show it off. That's double our money right there."
"This shirt…" Hutch asked, his jaw tense, holding up the crumbled, sweat soaked monstrosity. "You put this shirt in my dresser?"
"Yeah." Starsky managed, choking on laughter.
"And you waited, right? Until we got so busy that all I had left was this...this…"
"Oh!" Starsky sighed, his voice still high pitched with laughter. "It worked out perfect…"
"And then you let me...work all morning, sweating my little dots off...for a bet?"
Starsky straightened a little and shrugged, struggling a little harder to contain himself as he settled the paper in his lap. "Hutch...it was...nobody forced you to wear your jacket all day."
Hutch sat down and counted through the money before he tapped the stack of bills into a neat, crisp pile, folded them, and tucked them into his jeans pocket.
He ate his sandwich in total silence, letting his partner squirm uncomfortably for a half hour. He took advantage of the quiet and finished his report, taking it, and his partner's report into Dobey's office. When he came back out Starsky scrambled to his feet, following him.
"Where ya goin'?"
"Shopping." Hutch said, then looked down at the sweat stained white t-shirt he'd been left to wear. "I'm hardly dressed for work, Starsk. Besides you've got a stain on your front there. I'm gonna get you a new shirt."
Starsky stared down at his front, surprised to find that there was in fact a mustard colored smear there. Then he heard the evil cackle coming from the end of the hall and felt a cold chill run down his spine.
"Hutch…"
Another evil laugh echoed toward him and Starsky broke into a worried jog, following his partner out of the precinct.