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After A Coffin for Starsky, Starsky’s home.

June, 2007

He’s home.

I don’t want to leave him, and he knows it. He says, pretending to be grudging, “Stay, then.”

This first night has been long and dark. I sit on the couch in my shorts, a blanket around me, leaning back so I can hear him in his room. Now and then, through the window, clouds shift to wink a few stars my way. The occasional car drives by, its headlights touching a book, his jacket hanging from the coat rack, his menorah.

This space is Starsky.

It’s also me.

Memories fill the darkness between the lights. The flicker of the tv; the scent of coffee; the gurgle of the water cooler.

The clink of beer bottles.

Laughter. Quiet talk. Falling asleep.

But now it’s three o’clock in the morning, and I haven’t slept. I don’t think I will. I stand, drop the blanket to the floor and move to his doorway.

A streetlight casts a glow through the window, enough so that I can discern his body on the tall bed, molded in relief beneath the one thin blanket that covers him, all he needs on this warm night. I move closer until I’m at his side; until I can hear him breathing.

His curls blend into the shadows stretching along his headboard. His face seems pale in the dim light. His torso is a broad log under the dark blue cover. One leg is stretched out straight, the other bent toward the empty half of the bed. One hand is nearly hidden beneath the cover; I can see his fingertips where they rest on his chest, as if protecting his heart. The other lies lower, resting above his hip, his arm light against the dark fabric. He looks as if he’s been frozen mid-dance.

Once again, as I have countless times, I think about how we both nearly bowed out of the dance this week; Jennings’ poison and Bellamy’s needle cooperating to plunge Starsky into a deadly spiral, twisting him away from me even as his body twisted within my arms, bent in pain.

Bellamy on the roof, cornering me. The sharp sound of Starsky’s gun, firing to save my life rather than his own.

He loves me that much.

I know.

And I loved him enough to not stop the fight when everyone else had given up.

I won. We won.

I bend low, touching my nose into his hair, breathing in the scent of him. The hospital sterility still clings, but beneath that is Starsky.

As I begin to rise, I realize he is awake, watching me. His uncovered hand moves towards me, touches my cheek, sliding to cup the back of my neck. My shoulder is next, and his hand slides warmly down my arm until it meets my own hand. Gently—my Starsk is ever gentle—he moves my hand to rest on the one covering his heart. I am captured.

“I’m here,” he whispers. His hand moves back to my face while our other hands turn to engage fingers, pressing to affirm that he is, indeed, here. Real. Alive.

Home.

I bow my head. Tears have risen embarrassingly to my eyes. And I’m tired. So tired.

He shifts in the bed, pulling aside the blanket. “Lie down with me.”

Surprising myself, I do not hesitate. I clamber in, trying not to jostle him. Once in, though, I am unsure of where to put my hands, my body, if I should touch him at all.

He resolves the issue without words, tugging at me until my head rests against his chest, his heart thumping solidly in my ear. He holds me close.

“I love you, too, Blondie,” he says softly. “And I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

~end
June 17, 2007

Chapter End Notes:

Notes: Much thanks to Lolabobs for her beta and advice.