Hope Against Hope

Starsky unlocked the door to Hutch’s place and pushed it open.

The last time he’d done this, he’d had a premonition that something wasn’t right. That creeping suspicion coalesced into a dreadful certainty when he’d discovered Hutch’s gun hanging in the closet, its owner nowhere to be found.

This time, Starsky knew exactly where Hutch was—right by his side. Leaning on him, in fact. Starsky gladly took on the weight, his arm around Hutch’s waist lending support and, he hoped, comfort.

He had his partner back, despite all the odds against it. Hutch was battered and bruised, still hurting from a nightmarish ordeal, but alive. Starsky was grateful.

They stumbled into the house together. Starsky managed to keep an exhausted Hutch on his feet just long enough to reach the bed, where, with a deep groan, he collapsed, dragging Starsky down with him.

“Hutch,” Starsky said, nudging the long and heavy frame pinning him. “Hey. C’mon, let me up, huh?”

Hutch made a sound of half-hearted protest, but he shifted a little, and Starsky was able to slip out from under. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Hutch’s eyes went from half-mast to the thinnest sliver of blue. Hutch’s hand came up, grasped Starsky’s knee.

Starsky was relieved and grateful that Hutch was alive, of course he was. This was a hope against hope made manifest; a God-damned miracle, and he knew it.

“Thanks, Starsk.” The mumbled words were barely out before Hutch himself was out, in what Starsky prayed would be a restful and healing sleep. He caught Hutch’s hand as it started to slide off his leg, and clasped it in both his own.

To want more than this… well. That smacked of hubris, didn’t it, as though he were taunting a capricious Fate to change its mind and take Hutch away from him again. Fuck that, Starsky wouldn’t let his hopes go there.

Except he already had.

“You want to drive my car?”

He’d blurted it out on impulse with the vague idea of cheering up his partner, who had looked so sad and defeated as he walked away from Jeanie. Too late, Starsky realized he’d let the cat out of the bag. Hutch, though, who’d been running on the fumes of fumes by then, had only chuckled before dropping into the Torino. He’d said little all through booking Forest and had been barely conscious on the drive home, only rousing slightly when Starsky dragged him out of the car.

Starsky squeezed Hutch’s hand gently. There was no reaction, no response.

Would Hutch remember later what he’d said? Would he figure out what it’d really meant?

And did Starsky want him to?

Starsky reached out to smooth down the tousled blond hair. He brushed his fingertips lightly along Hutch’s cheek as he drew away. A soft, pleased smile curved Hutch’s lips for a moment, and Starsky’s heart skipped a beat.

Hope remained, then. Starsky smiled, took a breath, and leaned over to croon softly in Hutch’s ear:

Baby, you can drive my car
Baby, I love you