peg22 | Ficlet: Crush

It's just a moment in the day to day of the boys.
It's an observation.
It's the thing they tried so hard to ignore
during most of S4.

It's a big ol Crush! And who doesn't love
a big ol Crush? I mean, really?!

(first appeared in SHarecon zine)

Crush
by Kaye

It’s his hands.

The thought came out of nowhere and stopped Hutch
mid-stride in the middle of the hallway, in mid
sentence. Starsky turned back to him, face full of
smirks and smartass remarks. Hutch just stood frozen,
watching as Starsky held out his hands, fingers
forming a thousand questions and then he ducked under
the grasp, and disappeared through the nearest door.
Supply closet. Stood for a moment, staring at bleach
bottles and toilet paper, feeling his heart thudding
in his ears. Tried to rationalize the storm raging in
his body. Tried to get the image out of his head. The
hands. Starsky’s hands. The way his fingers tug at
his left eyebrow when he’s worried. Or thinking. The
way he grips the steering wheel, knuckles straining,
always laughing. The way his finger reels in a stray
drop of taco sauce, leaning back in a chair, licking
it off his ring . . . Jesus.

He heard the door swoosh open and shut and then those
hands were kneading his neck, thumbs hard into his
shoulder blades.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer, thinking instead of those hands that
held his head while he puked his guts out after a day
of too much reality and a night of too much Tequila.
Those hands that had massaged the horror of heroin out
of his broken body, deflecting the blows, breaking the
spell. Keeping him safe.

Hutch turned around and took one of Starsky’s hands in
both of his. Laid them on his chest. Cradled against
his heart. Those hands that had shoved him out of the
way of countless fists and bullets and bad ideas.
Stopped him from taking Artie Solkin six feet under.
Tugged him close enough to blend their heartbeats
after Gillian. Those same hands that had reached out
blindly for him across a Monopoly board.

Hutch looked up and Starsky smiled at him, wrapping
his free hand around Hutch’s neck, pulling him close
until his head rested on his shoulder. The sounds
outside the door faded to a distant murmur. Heartbeats
slowed. Time lost provenance.

Hutch finally raised his head and took Starsky’s other
hand. Turned them both palms up. Starsky shifted from
one foot to another, but didn’t speak. Just watched as
Hutch brushed a kiss across each one. Pulled Starsky
close until their foreheads were touching, their
breaths tangled, chests heaving.

“What are we doing?” Starsky whispered.

“I came in here to think.” Hutch could feel Starsky’s
face move. Smirk or smile, he couldn’t tell from this
close.

“What are we thinking about?”

“About your hands.”

Starsky broke the connection then, placing both hands
on Hutch’s shoulders, pushed him back, looked into his
eyes, eyebrow raised. “What about my hands?”

“I love your hands.”

Starsky raised his arms, turning his hands over,
frowning. “Same hands as always Hutch.”

Hutch pulled Starsky closer, pressed a quick kiss
against his lips and released him.

“Thank God, buddy. Thank God.” He ran a hand through
his hair and opened the door back into the world.

Starsky stood, shocked. Looked at his hands again and
then followed Hutch into the hallway.

“Is that it?” Starsky caught up to Hutch, nudged his
shoulder.

Hutch smiled and kept walking. “It’s never it. You
should know that by now.”
He pulled open the door to the squad room and then
stopped. “Thank you, Starsky.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Everything?”

“All of it. I don’t tell you that enough.”

“That’s the truth.”

They walked through the door, and were immediately
swallowed back into their day, the moment lost in all
the other moments that came after. Except for the fact
that for the rest of the afternoon, Starsky kept
staring at his hands.