Sunday Shopping

Just a bit of shopping on a Sunday–with a wee bit of angst thrown in.

“You ready?”

Hutch groaned as he opened one eye to look at his partner.

“It’s Sunday,” he muttered.

“Yeah. Sunday. Swap meet, flea market. C’mon. Get a move on. It’s nearly six.”

Hutch pulled the pillow over his head. The sun was barely up and Starsky was already dressed, for God’s sake.

His relief was short-lived as the pillow was removed and the nice blanket he was under was unceremoniously ripped away.

“Shit, Starsk. It’s cold.”

“Says the man from Minnesota.”

Hutch didn’t bother to open his eyes even as he heard a theatrical sigh.

“Guess I’ll have to drive myself.”

That got his attention even if he knew it was all for show.

“You aren’t cleared for driving,” Hutch said as he opened his eyes only to see dark blue eyes inches from his nose. “Okay, okay.”

He grumbled to himself all through his shower and through the toast and eggs Starsky made for him. He took the thermos of coffee with a half-hearted smile.

Halfway to the flea market with a bit of caffeine in his system, he snuck a glance at Starsky who was humming along to some tune he was hearing only in his mind. Starsky was smiling, radiating happiness and health.

It wasn’t as if Starsky had had much to look forward to over the past months. Recovery, therapy, pain, and more pain. Hutch felt suddenly humbled and petty and small in the face of all of that.

They pulled into the lot at the huge flea market at precisely seven thirty.

“I hope we didn’t miss any good stuff,” Starsky said as they got out of Hutch’s car.

“It’s not even eight,” Hutch said, looking at him. “How many people can be crazy enough…”

Starsky looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. “The smart people are here now.”

Hutch nodded. He still didn’t know how good an idea this was. The market was spread over a huge distance and Starsky’s stamina still wasn’t up to par. “Starsk.” He went to the trunk, stood waiting.

He watched as a whole host of emotions played over Starsky’s face—elation at this first big excursion, anger, stubbornness, and finally resignation.

“Yeah.”

Hutch barely heard the word but he opened the trunk and got out the wheelchair.

“You might not need it,” Hutch said. “Let’s see.”

That sunny smile re-appeared and Hutch felt his breath catch. He fought down the image of Starsky lying in that hospital bed and focused on the living, breathing, whole man in front of him. The man who had quite competently made love to him last night.

“Yeah.”

“So where do we start?” Hutch asked as Starsky led the way. The flea market, the swap meets, the yard and garage sales had always been Starsky’s weakness. It seemed as if his partner couldn’t resist a good bargain.

Starsky shrugged. “Nowhere in particular.”

Uh oh, Hutch thought. That meant they were going to be walking through the whole sprawling site.

He followed, pushing the chair as Starsky stopped at nearly every booth, no matter what was being sold. Still, it was fun to watch his partner in action, talking to the vendors, learning about their wares, bargaining for the best deal on…

“Why the hell do you need a wagon wheel?” Hutch asked as they walked away with yet another purchase.

Starsky moved out of the path of other shoppers and faced Hutch. “Because a certain someone got rid of the other wagon wheel I bought a couple of years back.”

“Because another certain someone put it in my car,” Hutch said as he reached out to take the wagon wheel from Starsky and put it on the seat of the wheelchair. “Did you really think I didn’t notice you sneaking stuff into my car all these years?”

Starsky ducked his head and then glanced up. Hutch had long ago dubbed the look the “puppy dog.” He’d also long ago learned not to fall for it. Well at least not most of the time. “You thought it was yours.”

“It was in * my * car, if you recall.” Hutch started moving again. “I knew it was yours. Just like the football and that stupid wet suit you put in there.”

“You’re the one with the newspapers and trash in the backseat,” Starsky said, just a little breathless from Hutch’s faster pace.

Hutch slowed down. “Papers that you read. Fast food wrappers because of where you insist we eat.”

He stopped when Starsky put his hand on his arm.

Starsky tilted his head and then shook it. “Did you hear what you said?”

“Of course I did. I said it, didn’t I?”

“No. You’re talking like we’re still partners.”

“We are still partners,” Hutch said, very quietly.

“You think I can make it back?” Starsky asked. There was a whole world in that simple question.

“I think you’ve made it this far.” Hutch covered Starsky’s hand with his, squeezed the fingers lightly. “And I’m gonna be with you no matter where we wind up.”

They stood so close that Hutch heard Starsky swallow, saw the tremor in Starsky’s jaw, heard the intake of breath. He wished for a world where he could take his hands, put them on either sides of Starsky’s face, and pull him in for a kiss and not one person would bat an eye. He settled for moving his hand to Starsky’s shoulder and resting his fingers against Starsky’s neck. Later, the touch said. Later.

Starsky leaned into the touch, nodded once, and started walking again.

“C’mon, partner,” he said. “We’ve still got lots to do.”

Hutch pushed the chair, held onto the wagon wheel, grinned, and followed his partner through the crowd.