Adagio

A shower sex, fluff, and angst sandwich.

The September heat should make it impossible to feel cold in his bed, but there’s a definite chill, and when he reaches his left hand over to the other side, he discovers the reason.

Starsky sits up and swings his legs over the side. It seems too early to be awake for a Saturday, but his body needs to be stretched. Hutch has probably already been up for an hour, having slipped off for his morning run quietly. Hutch had launched himself back into his health nut regimen over a year ago, working on himself as if he was the one in recovery. Starsky rubs a hand over the scars on his chest, and supposes that Hutch had been in need of recovery just as much as he himself had been, probably more so. The haunted look that Hutch had carried around for months had made Starsky mildly appreciate that he hadn’t been in Hutch’s place during the entire mess.

Starsky’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening. When he makes his way out of the bedroom, he’s taken over by irrational grumpiness. Well, petty jealousy. Hutch looks like a Nordic god, even sweating, even if he’s moving more carefully these days due to his own old injuries, whereas Starsky feels like Frankenstein’s monster.

It’s really a sense of panic, regret over wasted time, and astonishment that it’s taken this many reminders of their own mortality for them to get to this point in their relationship, a mourning over lost youth. Really, he should just feel grateful that they’ve been so lucky, that they’ve come through everything stronger, that the haunted look in Hutch’s eyes has been replaced with a kind of happiness that Starsky had forgotten the look of. Really, he knows better, but a scowl crosses his face all the same.

Hutch takes one look at him and sees right through it. He grins. “Wrong side of the bed, Starsk?”

“Sore,” Starsky clips, “and who gets up this early on a day off?” he grouses.

“Missed me, huh?” Hutch smirks, and suddenly he has the strangest expression, one that is equal parts indulgent, concerned, and predatory. “We’d better get you into the shower, work that soreness right out.”

Starsky suddenly feels weak in the knees. “What makes you think I want your sweaty hands all over me?” He complains as convincingly as possible as Hutch ushers him toward the bathroom.

Hutch’s countenance changes just slightly. “It’s not about what you want, Starsky. It’s about what you need.”

The game is in full swing. “And just what do you think I need?”

Hutch has turned the water on, adjusted it for exactly the right temperature. He shrugs out of his t-shirt and slides his shorts off. He places both hands on Starsky’s hips and hitches his thumbs beneath the waist-band of Starsky’s shorts. “I gotta be honest, Starsk. I don’t care all that much about what you need; this is really about what I want.”

Starsky wants to protest that he hasn’t brushed his teeth, but Hutch has his mouth in a kiss and it just doesn’t seem all that important anymore. Then they’re in the shower and suddenly Hutch’s actions belie his earlier words as he massages Starsky’s back and shoulders. Starsky returns the favor the best he can, sluicing soap and water over the smooth planes and lines of Hutch’s body, but it’s cramped in the shower, for one, and two, Hutch gives him a wicked grin and pulls Starsky flush against him, places his hands on Starsky’s ass and makes the filthiest, sexiest noises Starsky has ever heard as he rubs their cocks together.

They come moments apart, Starsky gasping and slumping against Hutch. The melancholy doesn’t leave him, not entirely. It never does these days. But Hutch has managed to chase the worst of the demons away, yet again.

They towel off lazily and Starsky is set to head back to bed and doze off, but Hutch has other ideas. “Let’s go to the beach,” he says, “or the park. I’ll pack us a picnic.”

Starsky groans. “And join the rest of the sunburned masses? No thanks.”

“You’re not going to burn, you’re just going to get that nice golden tan and be the best-looking guy out there.” Hutch is already pulling fresh clothes on and running a comb through his hair.

“How are you impressed with me when you see yourself in the mirror every day?”

Hutch pauses and takes a long look at Starsky. This game they play is a necessity, letting them say what they can’t seem to state directly, and his teasing is deliberate and careful. “Well, I’m not here because I love you. I’m not here because you inspire me, the way you don’t let the world change you, the way you keep fighting. So it must be because I can’t get enough of this.” Hutch has circled behind Starsky at this point, and he wraps his arms around Starsky’s waist. Slowly he lets his hands trail over stomach and chest, resting his palms over the scars, feeling the beat of Starsky’s heart. “I mean, if I could, I would leave you tied to the bed and just have my way with you at my leisure, but you require some maintenance. You know, food and sunlight. So I guess I’m just going to have to spoil you by packing all your favorites.”

This finally coaxes a grin from Starsky, and Hutch, knowing that he’s won, matches it with one of his own.
Starsky leans into Hutch. “Wanna drive my car?”

Hutch’s grin grows wider. There’s only two reasons Starsky would ever eagerly offer to let Hutch drive the Torino: to take care of Hutch or to let Hutch take care of him. “I don’t know, I really like watching you drive.” He places a kiss right behind Starsky’s ear, and relishes the shiver he feels in his partner.
“Yeah right. You just know I’m the far superior driver. Let me go get some clothes on.”

Hutch watches Starsky walk away, that old swagger nearly returned. Somehow the small triumphs are the best ones.