peg22 | NS: I Never Meta Death Drabble I Didn't Like (or something like that)

so it's a rebuttal of sorts. We all read death drabbles and death fic - with one eye closed, squinting, as to not really see the finale of one or both of the boys . . .

But when they're good - they're GOOD. Makes you have to go watch Mary Poppins or an episode of Frasier (I suggest the one where Martin brings home Sherri to meet the boys . . . killer) to get over it.

Or write odd snippets. Well, that might just be me. (and you can blame susan for the title)

I shamelessly use the words of Susan and Nik.
Here's the story link for Nik's Belly Up: http://www.meandthee.shahrazad.net/display.php?storyid=779
And the drabble that started it all: http://sjames-centre.livejournal.com/30012.html#cutid1

I Never Meta Death Drabble I Didn’t Like

by Kaye

It wasn’t the death that bothered him so much. It was the absence of life. Death he understood. As much as anyone could understand the end of the end. The end of the beginning. The capital E-N-D.

“What in the hell are you doing, Starsky? Capital E-N-D? You’re kidding, right?”

“I am not – I’m writing a death drabble.”

“A what?”

“A death drabble – couple a hundred words exhilarating my demise.”

“But you’re not dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock. You’re just jealous cuz they always kill me – not you.”

“They always kill you because they like me better.”

“No, they always kill me because I’m such a heroically tragic figure – what with getting shot and all.”

“You survived the shooting, Holmes – so why all the tragic death stuff?”

“Dunno – I just think they get in a mood . . . you know how women are.”

“Oh, this should be good – tell me, Starsky – how are women?”

“They want us to talk about our feelings, fuck and die. Same ol, same ol.”

“They want us to fuck?”

“Duh – oh, and they want you to have huge morose pity parties – especially if they kill me.”

“They want me to be morose?”

“Yep. In fact, you’re quite the buzzkill, Hutch.”

“You are officially banned from the internet.”

“See? Buzzkill.”

“Yeah, well, try living in that hospital for three weeks with you constantly whining for back rubs and ice chips . . . that’s a buzzkill.”

“I was shot! In the line of duty. Hello!”

“Yes, we all know about you getting shot. Ad nauseum. Ad infinitum.”

“Don’t get all Greek with me. It’s a big deal – my shooting.”

“Oh, now it’s your shooting?”

“Well, it’s the number one topic to write about.”

“Number one? What – you took a poll?”

“No I just . . . you came in second.”

“Oh this should be good.”

“Well, you’re not going to like it . . .”

“Starsky, just tell me. What could I have ever done to even be close to your famous ‘shooting’?”

“Well, it’s actually a tie. Remember when you got that disease?”

“You mean the time I was actually almost about to die? That disease?”

“Yeah, you get a lot of good stories about that one.”

“Really? Do I hook up with sweet Dr. Judith?”

“No, Hutch – it’s slash – jeez!”

“Slash? Oh yeah, we fuck each other, right?”

“Right – well, so it’s either you in the isolation room or . . .”

“Or what? Oh, don’t tell me it’s when that asshole rolled my car down the hill.”

“No, not that one – although there’s this story – like from your mind – real trippy. Nik wrote it.”

“Your brother is writing stories about me?”

“No, not Nick, Nik. Brit chick – good writer. Nice husband.”

“Seriously, you’ve got to stop reading that stuff. Get a hobby. Go outside.”

“It’s good stuff – but it’s not that time – it’s . . .”

“I can’t remember any time I . . . oh god, not when I got shot? By that kid?”

“No, I think I got the market cornered on shootings . . .”

“Right – the tragic heroic death drabble man. I forgot.”

“No, it’s just . . . well . . . you know they like to make you suffer.”

“They do? Why?”

“I dunno – you know women . . .”

“We’ve had this conversation – just tell me.”

“Okay, well, remember when Forest kidnapped you . . .”

“Fucking hell.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Hutch, it’s not that bad – there are some great stories about it where you come out smelling like a rose.”

“Right – and how many have me using again, huh? You said they love me morose. Hell, Starsky, that shit writes itself. Who are these women and why do they hate me?”

“They love you. They love us. Both of us. Just read this. You’ll see what I mean.”

“What is this?”

“A triple death drabble. It’s a killer.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Just read it. Then you’ll see.”

“Okay, okay . . . Although Hutch feels like Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked and alone . . . what in the hell . . .”

“Shut up and read it.”

“I am . . . but if I end up sounding like a crazy . . .wow . . .oh hell . . .”

(silence)

“Fuck.”

“I told you, Hutch.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

“Starsky, I just . . . well, I . . . I mean I . . . you know I complained a lot when you were in the hospital, and you know I didn’t ever mean it. I wouldn’t have been anywhere else – and I loved giving you back rubs – you know that, right?”

“Right – that’s why you made Huggy come sit with me all the time . . .”

“But, you know how I feel about you? This is just . . . fuck.”

“Are you crying, Hutch.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re crying – I TOLD YOU. This shit is good.”

“Well, it’s just so . . . real.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“I’m glad you’re still here, buddy.”

“Back atcha, Hutch. What are you doing?”

“Well, I was just . . .”

“Hutch, what are you doing?”

“Just following the advice of those brilliant women.”

“You’re unzipping my jeans.”

“Yes, well, you look like you can’t breathe . . .”

“Jesus . . . Hutch . . .”

“Just Hutch will do. Plain old ‘buzzkill’ Hutch.”

“Oh . . . damn.”

“So, wanna fuck, Starsky?”

“You gotta ask?”

“Well, I’d hate to break some rule – like you have to be the aggressor, or we can only do it in the backseat of the Torino, or at your house or on my porch or something . . .”

“I don’t think it matters, as long as we do it . . . oh, god, Hutch . . .”

“Yes, Starsky?”

“Just . . . don’t stop . . .”

“Yes, Starsky. Shall we end it now?”

“Whaaat?”

“You know – capital E N D . . .”

“Yes, yes. End. End. END!”