Comfort Zone

Starsky becomes Hutch’s comfort zone.

Inspired by a discussion where it was suggested that Hutch winds his finger around Starsky’s curls to help himself fall asleep.

“You doing okay, Dave?” Alyssa, one of the night nurses, asked as she came into his room.

Starsky turned his head and gave her a small smile. “Yeah. Pain isn’t bad right now. And…”

“Hutch hasn’t been by to see you yet, hm?” Alyssa began to take his vitals.

“I guess he got tied up at the station,” Starsky said after she finished taking his temperature. “He’s been working overtime.”

She patted his shoulder and smiled. “You want to call him? We can try to get him for you.”

Starsky shook his head. “Nah. He’ll be here later, I guess. That won’t be a problem will it?”

“You know Doctor Bachman has given permission for him to visit no matter the time as long as he doesn’t interfere.” Alyssa pointed to the doorway. “Plus we still have a police presence on this floor.” She put his chart in the holder. “Just make sure you don’t try to stay awake for him, okay?”

Starsky nodded and watched her go. Stay awake? That wasn’t likely. He counted himself lucky if he could keep his eyes open for more than an hour and a half. Today he’d managed two hours at a stretch and that was only because the physical therapist had started working with him. After that session, he’d fallen asleep while eating lunch. Even reading was still a chore as his concentration was shot due to the painkillers he was on.

He wanted to see Hutch. He missed him and wanted to at least be able to remind himself that Hutch had come through the assassination attempt uninjured. Although if he was honest, Hutch hadn’t been looking the greatest these past few weeks. It seemed that as he was improving, Hutch was looking more and more worn and pale.

He woke up some time later and heard a slight snore coming from his side. He smiled as he caught sight of his partner sitting in the chair that probably was now molded to his ass. Starsky turned his head and stopped at the feel of something tugging on his hair—Hutch’s fingers were tangled in his curls.

At his movement, Hutch snorted and woke, straightened, pulled his fingers free, and looked almost guilty of something, although what it could be, Starsky had no idea.

“Hey,” Starsky said, his voice hoarse.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Hutch said and yawned. He looked exhausted, Starsky thought.

“I think I woke you,” Starsky said. He shifted his hand, touched the back of Hutch’s where it lay on the sheet. “You need to get a decent night’s sleep, babe.”

“I wanted to see you,” Hutch said. “Sorry I got here so late.”

“Go home and get a decent night’s rest.” Starsky didn’t fail to notice the wince as Hutch shifted in the chair. “C’mon. You don’t have to be here and sleep. It’s not good for your back.”

“I…” Hutch paused, looked at Starsky’s hand on his, and then sighed. “Yeah. I’ll go home.” He glanced over at the door and then back at Starsky before he leaned in for a stolen kiss. “I love you.”

“Love ya, too, babe.” Starsky smiled. “Be careful driving home.”

“I will,” Hutch said as he left.

And Starsky fell back asleep, feeling strangely unsettled about Hutch but unable to figure out why.

* * * *

The first week Starsky was home from the hospital, he realized just how worn out Hutch was. He’d lost weight, his eyes had lost their fire, and he moved as if he were far older than he was.

He woke up each night to find Hutch beside him in bed—not unexpected even though sex was still out of the question—Hutch’s long fingers buried in his curls and that same odd guilty look he’d seen a few times in the hospital.

Well, he might not be a detective working the streets at the moment. Hell, Starsky thought, he might not never be a detective working the streets again. But it wasn’t as if his brain had been damaged along with his body. He could figure it out, he was sure.

They were watching a movie one evening a few weeks later before he got a glimmer of a clue. It was the first time he’d managed to stay awake for most of the day—only one nap in the afternoon following his physical therapy appointment. Starsky stretched out on the sofa with his head on a pillow on Hutch’s lap.

“How’s it going with the investigation?” Starsky asked.

Hutch sighed as he took a sip of soda—he’d given up beer since Starsky had to. “It’s going.”

Hutch put the soda down. “His lawyers are throwing up all sorts of roadblocks but the butler is singing. If nothing else, he’ll get charged with the murder of Bates.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Starsky said. He could feel the steel tension in Hutch’s thighs. He stroked the arm that lay across his chest, Hutch’s skin warm and alive and the muscles tight. “He won’t walk.”

“He can’t. Not for all he’s done to you,” Hutch said, and there was a slight catch to his voice.

Starsky opened his eyes and looked up at him—Hutch so rarely smiled these days. The part of him that demanded vengeance wished that Gunther would just drop dead or that someone would get him in the jail cell where he sat awaiting trial, but the part of him that demanded justice wanted to see Gunther in court, wanted to hear twelve people say guilty on count after count, wanted to hear the judge bang a gavel and sentence the slime to living the rest of his life in prison, wanted the man be reminded every day that Starsky was alive and walking around wherever he wanted while his life was now confined to gray cinderblock. But mostly, mostly he just wanted it all to be over so that Hutch would smile again and his eyes would light up and he’d play his guitar and be happy.

“I’m okay,” Hutch said as if he knew Starsky needed to hear it. He smiled even if it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, I thought you wanted to watch this stupid movie.”

“Mothra is not a stupid movie,” Starsky said and turned his attention to the TV.

He became aware of Hutch’s fingers on his head, of his curls being slowly twined around them. It was soothing and nice and he thought he’d say something, but the fingers stilled and he looked away from the movie to see that Hutch had fallen asleep—the lines and stress melted away, looking like that fresh-faced guy he’d literally run into at the Academy.

Starsky brought the hand that rested on his stomach to his lips and kissed it.

* * * *

Hutch came dragging into the bedroom a week later, shirt half untucked, every line of his body radiating anger even if he didn’t have the energy to show it.

“You hear the news?” His voice was sharp, yet weary.

“Yeah.”

Hutch pulled off his shirt, dropped dress pants, and boxers, kicked off shoes and lay on the bed beside Starsky. “I wanted him to pay, Goddamnit. He shouldn’t have…”

“It’s okay,” Starsky said. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”

Hutch stretched out, close but not touching, almost as if he were afraid. “He got away easy.”

“Not if you believe in Hell, he didn’t,” Starsky said.

He felt surprisingly detached. Gunther was dead. There would be no trial except whatever one the news stations and the public decided to give him—the only legacy now one of doubt and question. Had he ordered a hit on two detectives? Had he really killed Bates? Just how many strings had the man been pulling on how many puppets?

But he was grateful too—grateful that Hutch would be able to put it to rest. Grateful that he wouldn’t have to face the man in a trial, grateful that Hutch wouldn’t have to undergo what would have been a vicious cross-examination, grateful that the feds would be investigating all the business dealings, grateful that they would be able to look ahead and not have to keep looking back.

Hutch sighed beside him and Starsky realized Hutch had a curl wrapped around one finger—letting it go, capturing it, and repeating the process again and again. Hutch’s eyes were closed, and there was a small smile of contentment on his lips.

“Hutch? You awake?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“You like my hair,” Starsky said.

“Love your hair, love your eyes, love your smile, love you.”

“Hutch.”

“I’m awake,” Hutch opened his eyes and pushed himself up against the headboard. “I’m awake.”

“It’s okay,” Starsky said. He took Hutch’s hand in his, looked at him and saw the guilt there in bloodshot blue eyes. “It’s okay.”

Hutch looked away, at their hands, at the bedspread, at the door, anywhere, Starsky noticed but at Starsky’s face.

“You were in so much pain. There were so many machines,” Hutch finally said. “I didn’t know where to touch you.”

“So you touched my hair,” Starsky said. He placed his palm against Hutch’s cheek, smiled as Hutch leaned into it. “Let’s lie back down, okay?”

Hutch’s eyes were already closed again but he scooted down. “Yeah.”

Starsky stretched out on his side next to him, put his hand on Hutch’s waist, rubbed his thumb against warm skin.

“It helped,” Hutch said. He formed a fist as if he was worried to touch Starsky now.

Starsky smiled, brought the clenched fingers to his lips and kissed each one. “Relax. I’m here.”

“Mm…” Hutch’s breathing was deepening.

“You wanna play with my hair to get to sleep, it’s okay. You got that?”

Hutch sighed and even with his eyes closed, unerringly found a curl to wrap around his finger. “Jus…til…”

“I know, babe. I know.” Starsky closed his eyes too and let the weight of Hutch’s hand, the soft sound of his breath, the warmth of long legs pressed against his, lull him deep down into sleep—safe and loved and blessed.