The Bravest of Hearts

326

Starsky can’t figure out why Hutch is angry.

 

Inspired by a discussion on the bRomance FB group about just how that first kiss would come about. This one is for you, Renee M.

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The realization of great mutual love can at time be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest of hearts may grow fearful. -Radclyffe Hall

The atmosphere in the Torino was tense. No, Starsky thought, tense was too mild a word to describe the glacial iciness coming off in waves from Hutch. He snuck a glance over at his partner when he had to stop for a red light.

Clenched jaw—check. Frown lines on forehead—check. Hands tight on jeans—check. Gaze stonily ahead—check. Yeah, Hutch was wound tighter than…well Starsky didn’t know what exactly, but tight was way too mild a term for the way Hutch was acting. The only thing he hadn’t figured out yet was why.

Their shift, as far as Starsky was concerned, was a fairly normal one. Investigation of a robbery at a convenience store which led to the arrest of a new employee, a drug deal where they finally caught the pusher they’d been after for a couple of weeks, and a foot chase through some alleys to catch Danny Toricetti who was wanted for the murder of his ex and her new husband. Nothing out of the ordinary in any of those events. Neither of them had even experienced as much as a scratch. The worst was the coughing after the arrest of Toricetti—Starsky’s lungs still not quite up to his own personal standards but good enough for the department.

He pulled up at his own house and got out, not sure if Hutch was going to follow or if he was going to sit in the car and brood. Starsky didn’t wait. Years of partnership had taught him that when Hutch was in a mood like this one, discretion was the better part of valor.

These were the moods Starsky hated though. It was easy enough to joke a ranting Hutch out of things. It was easy to let Hutch talk things out. But a silent Hutch—that was dangerous.

And hey it wasn’t his fault that the street in front of Hutch’s apartment was being torn up and not allowing his friend to get sleep during the day. Nor was it his fault that Hutch’s car had broken down once again and was in the safe clutches of Merl. He’d even borrowed a rollaway bed from the Dobey’s so Hutch didn’t have to scrunch down for a week’s sleep on the sofa. Besides, everything had been going just fine until tonight’s shift.

Starsky was fully aware of Hutch sitting on the sofa now, body rigid, that icy stare fixed on only God knew what. He ignored him as the one attempt at asking what was wrong as they left work was met with a curt “Nothing.”

Okay then. Starsky looked in the fridge. Leftover pizza, some weird salad concoction Hutch had made him eat yesterday, a jar of nearly empty grape jelly, a half block of cheddar cheese and a dozen eggs.

He pulled out the eggs and cheese and got busy. Comfort food, easy on the stomach, easy to choke down when your best friend was shutting you out.

“Soup’s on,” he said when the eggs were done and the toast was toasted.

Hutch came to the table, sat down, and stared at the plate. He didn’t even pick up his fork.

Starsky took a deep breath. May as well dive in, he told himself. It’s not like it could get any worse.

“Hutch?”

The soft name at least got a bit of a reaction—Hutch’s head came up, his gaze finally met Starsky’s. Starsky expected rage, anger, anything but the bleak despair he saw in eyes more familiar than his own.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Hutch finally said, the first words he’d spoken to Starsky in hours.

“Easy on the stomach,” Starsky said as he pointed with his fork. “You want leftover pizza instead?”

He watched as Hutch’s face turned pale, as his body tensed. Starsky felt his own body tense in response.

“It’s always a joke with you isn’t it?” Hutch’s voice was quiet, low, the tone one that Starsky always thought of as the ‘don’t fuck with me, you slimeball’ voice.

“I have no idea what you’re even mad about!” Starsky wasn’t about to give up without a fight. He threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t remember saying anything you could have taken wrong.”

Hutch got up, braced his hands on the table. “Like I said before—what the fuck were you thinking?”

“Give me clue here,” Starsky grabbed their plates, put them on the counter. “When?”

“You fucking drew his fire,” Hutch said. “You fucking drew his fire and risked your goddamn fucking life in that alley.”

Starsky sucked in a breath. Toricetti in the darkened alley, Hutch ahead crouched down behind some broke up pallets, Starsky further back with a clear view and seeing Toricetti aiming for Hutch. He’d yelled, distracted Toricetti who shot wide, just like Starsky knew he would—he could see Toricetti, Toricetti couldn’t see him. Something he and Hutch had faced time and again throughout the years. At least the years before Gunther.

“I was safe. I’m okay,” Starsky said, aimed for reason, knew it was going to backfire.

“You didn’t fucking know that!” The quiet voice was gone, replaced by yelling. “You didn’t fucking know he was going to miss.” Hutch moved away from the table towards the living room.

And Starsky, not willing, not able to leave his orbit, followed. “Hutch.”

Hutch turned on him, finger pointing. “You didn’t know. You were supposed to be safe in the goddamn police parking garage too.”

“We’re cops,” Starsky said. “It’s what we do. We’ve been back out there for six months. You know what we…”

“Five months, three weeks, and two days.” Hutch took a step towards him. “And why the fuck didn’t you get down when I told you to? Why the fuck not, Starsk?”

Whoa—okay. Starsky took a step forward as Hutch trembled.

“Hutch. C’mon.”

Hutch shook his head, grabbed blindly at Starsky, pulled him in close, and kissed him. Not a peck on the cheek, not a kiss to the forehead, but a full on, smashed lips, tongue seeking entrance kiss.

“Oh shit,” Hutch said as he pulled away, dropped his hands from Starsky’s shoulders, stepped back, almost running towards the door.

“Wait just a damn minute.” Starsky moved. got to the door a step behind, pressed Hutch against it. He grabbed a handful of Hutch’s green t-shirt—the one he loved to see Hutch in—and pulled him in close. “You think you’re gonna plant one on me and just leave with no explanation?”

“No, no.” Hutch shook his head. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t m-mean to d-do it.”

“I kinda think ya did,” Starsky said.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, Hutch so close, his breath was hot in Starsky’s neck. His face was reddened, bright blotches on otherwise more pale than usual skin.

“I…”

“You love me,” Starsky said. “You kissed me because you love me.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Hutch put his hands up to untangle Starsky’s fingers from his shirt.

“You’re sorry for kissing me? Or for loving me that way? Or both?” Starsky released him, even though he didn’t really want to let go. But Hutch needed to be in control, Starsky recognized it. How many months had Hutch felt not in control, how many months had his life felt as it was spiraling out of orbit, headed straight into the burning sun?

Hutch shook his head, turned away. “I tried, Starsk. I tried to not love you that way.” He half-heartedly pushed Starsky away, put his hand on the knob. “I’ll go some…”

“Hutch,” Starsky said his name softly, as if he was trying to coax a beaten dog to him. “You ever think of asking me what I feel, mushbrain?”

Hutch met his steady gaze, and Starsky saw hope flair for just a moment. He licked his lips and his voice was unsteady but he asked. “What do you feel, Starsk?”

Starsky grinned, grabbed fistfuls of that green t-shirt, pushed Hutch against the door, and kissed him. He moved his hands from t-shirt to Hutch’s waistband, unbuttoned the buttons of the jeans, and pushed them down along with the briefs Hutch wore.

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful, babe,” Starsky said as he looked down. He found it hard to speak, his voice gone hoarse. “Let me.”

He looked up. Hutch’s head was thrown back against the wood of the door, a few strands caught in the carvings. Eyes closed and his long neck stretched out, glistening with sweat, while Starsky could see the beat of his pulse.

“Please.” The word came out as if Hutch was being strangled. “Starsk.”

Starsky ran his hands down Hutch’s flanks, delighted in the transition from cotton to skin, from hairless to the thatch of wiry blond hair. He went to his knees.

“I’m here,” Starsky said. “I’m alive.”

He licked Hutch’s belly button, moved his mouth lower, sucking skin, heard Hutch’s gasps of pleasure as he took his time taking Hutch’s balls into his mouth, so different than his own.

“God, Starsk,” Hutch finally said. “I can’t…”

“You like it like this?” Starsky licked Hutch from root to tip. He’d always been told he was good at oral sex. Guess it was time to test it out on the person who meant the most to him.

Hutch gripped his hair, pulled with growing need. “C’mon, c’mon.”

Starsky fumbled one handed, released his own cock with its insistent demand, and took Hutch fully into his mouth. Hutch was big, bigger than Starsky expected but perfect. Perfect in every way. He moved slowly, gently, wanting to be as perfect for Hutch as Hutch was to him. But Hutch pulled on his hair harder and the moans and groans intensified.

“Please, please, please,” Hutch’s voice chanted and he came in Starsky’s mouth.

Starsky swallowed again and again, the taste of Hutch salty and slightly sweet. Like Hutch, Starsky thought, giddy with joy as he grasped his own cock and pumped.

Hutch softened in his mouth and he rested his ass on his heels. He opened his eyes as Hutch slid down the door.

Hutch’s pupils were huge—black in a sea of blue, and there were tears in his eyes.

“Starsk,” Hutch said. He reached out and his hand fell on Starsky’s neck, warm and broad and strong.

“Did that answer your question?” Starsky asked, still feeling a bit dazed and ready to stretch out on the floor with Hutch and sleep for a million years.

“Thank you,” Hutch said. His hand, where it rested on Starsky’s neck, tremored. “Thank you.”

“I do love you,” Starsky told him. “Always have, I think.”

And then Hutch leaned forward into Starsky’s embrace and cried, his tears hot as they fell on Starsky’s neck, on his shoulder, on the fingers he brought up to wipe the tears away.

“I’m here,” Starsky said again and again until he thought Hutch believed it.

Hutch sat up, wiped at his face with both hands like a child who’d had a temper tantrum, and pulled up his shirt to wipe his nose. That alone told Starsky just how far gone Hutch had been, still was.

“Sorry,” Hutch said. “I…sorry.”

Starsky opened his arms, held his breath until Hutch came into them once more. “Why?”

Hutch just shook his head against Starsky’s chest.

They sat in silence for what felt, to Starsky, like a long while. He was aware of the clock ticking, the swish of the occasional car on his not heavily traveled street, their breathing that had somehow come into sync, and the scent of their sex.

Hutch grew heavy against him and much as Starsky didn’t want to move, he knew they needed to or neither one of them was going to be able to get up.

“C’mon, babe,” he said into Hutch’s ear, into the little damp curls there. “Let’s go to bed.”

Starsky got to his feet, held out his hands for Hutch to take, and then pulled up Hutch’s jeans when Hutch tried to take a step with them still around his ankles.

They lay in Starsky’s bed together, with the cool air of a window fan blowing over them.

“You didn’t get down,” Hutch said into the dark—a place, Starsky figured, it was easier to say them. “You didn’t.”

Starsky stroked Hutch’s hair. “I couldn’t. You needed me to save you.”

He heard the little intake of breath, the hitch that meant Hutch was fighting down fear and tears.

“I need you alive,” Hutch finally said.

“I’ll do my best,” Starsky said. “That’s all I can promise. That and my love for eternity.”

Hutch pulled Starsky close and Starsky went willingly. “Eternity’ll do, Starsk. As long as we’re together.”

Starsky smiled.