Fingerprints

A long-awaited Sunday off leads to unexpected discoveries.

Once in a blue moon the rota gods smiled on them, all-officer emergencies took a day off, the stewardesses were out of town, and Sunday meant lazing on the couch with the Sunday papers.

They’d discovered years ago that their reading preferences for newspaper sections were almost complete opposites, two circles of a Venn diagram overlapping on the Music and Sports pages, so why buy two papers when one would do? Hutch favored Gardens and Editorials, with surreptitious peeks at Astrology and Dear Abby while Starsky was immersed in the Motors section. Starsky kept abreast of the society gala reports, insisting that he was checking up on past and potential kidnap victims and corrupt tycoons, though Hutch had a suspicion that he just liked the gossip and the outfits. And the debutantes.

Starsky had recently emerged tight-lipped and sleep-deprived from yet another brief and tempestuous affair, and Hutch was feeling threadbare after working twelve days straight, his ideals, optimism and energy wearing thinner with each shift as the job left grubby prints on every aspect of their lives. Conversations between them were becoming increasingly clipped, crossed wires and static creeping in.

When their long-overdue Sunday off came into view like an oasis in the desert, lounging around together and killing time without either the tension of a stakeout or the pain of a hospital stay seemed the only thing to do. It had been too long.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Late Sunday morning found Hutch climbing the steps to Starsky’s place with a thick stack of newsprint and takeout from Oceanside Pastries.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, and the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen window made up for drinking that burnt-treacle crap from the percolator in the squad room at Metro for days on end. Reaching the door, Hutch knocked —shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits — then pushed open the little glass doors of the spy-hole and held the takeout carton through the opening. Starsky ambled over, grabbed the box and pushed the little doors shut.

“Thanks for dropping by, Hutch! See ya Monday!”

“Dumbass.”

The door opened. Starsky gestured him in, waving the takeout carton.

“This fruit salad better be for you.”

Hutch threw the newspaper on the coffee table.

“Of course. Remind me why I bother buying fresh Danish for an ingrate?”

“Nah, thanks Blondie, this is good. Just what the doctor ordered.”

After a quick once-over of the plants on the kitchen windowsill Hutch pulled two mugs from the shelf, checked them for dust given that Starsky had barely been home these last few weeks, and poured the coffee. Halfway through adding the second spoon of sugar to Starsky’s mug he paused and put the rest in his own drink. He could use a little sweetness.

Dividing up the newspaper they settled on the couch like a pair of bookends, propped against opposite arms. Starsky’s bare feet pushed stealthily to claim more leg-space, tangling their ankles together. Hutch leaned back and let the Sunday atmosphere wash over him — warm yellow sunlight slanting through the blinds, the rustle of paper, Starsky reading out occasional highlights from the Classifieds.

There was something about unfolding Sunday newspapers that seemed to expand them vastly beyond their original size. Looking up from an article on treating avocado root rot, Hutch found what looked like a makeshift den at the other end of the couch.

“Starsky, are you under there?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you building a fort? Doing unmentionable things while you look at the models in the underwear ads?”

Starsky’s face emerged, adorned with stray flakes of Danish pastry.

“Just ’cause your paper-wrangling skills would make you king of the morning commute into Wall Street. Only time I tried reading the paper on a subway train it caused mayhem.”

Hutch chuckled at the sudden mental image.“You? Mayhem? Never.”

“Hey, this meditation class sounds like your kinda thing, Hutch. ‘New Breakthroughs in Human Potential’. You could wear your fancy pajamas and everything.”

“Shut it, Gordo.”

After exhausting the sports reports, the comics and a complicated article on a new way to judge the octane of your chosen motor fuel and improve the performance of your engine, Starsky cast the rumpled papers aside with a yawn, stretched mightily and lay down.

Hutch shoved him without raising his eyes from Outdoor Adventure.

“Starsky, get your feet out of my face.”

“I’m sleepy! Can’t a man sleep on his own couch on a Sunday afternoon?”

“I mean it. Move ‘em or lose ‘em.”

“Whatever you say, mon Capitan.”

After a moment’s respite followed by some determined wriggling Hutch found himself draped in heavy, dozy Starsky, along with some random pages from Metropolitan News. At least the offending feet were back where they belonged at the far end of the couch. Resigning himself to his immediate future as a mattress, Hutch propped up his paper against the top of Starsky’s head — conveniently situated in the middle of Hutch’s chest — and tried to lose himself in the book reviews.

It figured that Starsky could use some rest. He seemed to be endlessly chasing women these days, showing up at work looking all fucked out and refusing to spill the beans on his night’s adventures. Which suited Hutch just fine, frankly. Hearing specific details of Starsky’s dates felt like death by a thousand cuts. He just passed the coffee pot over and didn’t ask.

It wasn’t as if Hutch slept well, either. He had the less fun kind of sleeplessness, staring at the ceiling at three a.m. and hoping for the sounds of occasional passing cars to anchor him in the unnerving isolation of the wee small hours.

Starsky seemed to be drifting off now, his chest rising and falling in a steady, soporific rhythm against Hutch’s belly. Blissful silence stretched—

“Fuck.”

Starsky’s voice was muffled. Hutch felt the vibrations of it through his breastbone.

“What?”

“…Nothin’.”

Hutch lifted the newspaper from Starsky’s head.

“What, Starsk?”

“I want this. Fuck.”

“You want what? The book reviews?”

Starsky raised his head, propping his chin on Hutch’s chest as he looked up at him.

“This. You. Me. On the couch. Sunday papers. I want this.”

Hutch shrugged.

“Well, you got it. Now go back to sleep and let me read in peace.”

Starsky shook his head, his chin digging in sharply.

“No, you’re not listenin’. I mean I just want this. Not, oh… New York secretaries, or stewardesses on their way to Vegas.”

“What, you planning on swapping sex for reading, Starsk?”

“Nooooo….”

The single syllable stretched like a clarinet note played by a virtuoso, an upward swoop that would have fit right in to ‘Rhapsody in Blue.’

Oof. Hutch felt his eyes widen as his cock filled, pressing up hard against Starsky’s belly. Starsky’s eyebrows rose in response.

“Well, no-one could say you’re slow on the uptake, buddy.”

Blushing furiously, Hutch rolled away so fast they both fell off the couch with a crash. He disentangled himself from Starsky and the coffee table with as much dignity as he could muster and sat back down amongst the scattered pages, leaning forward with his head in his hands. Slowly, making no sudden moves, Starsky hauled himself back up on the couch and sat by Hutch’s side, eyes straight ahead.

After a moment Starsky held out a hand, smeared with newsprint, palm up. Hutch placed his on top, a slow clasp of a low five, folding their fingers loosely together. He took a deep, ragged breath in, blew it out slowly.

“Jesus Starsk, talk about nought to sixty in seconds flat.”

“Yeah, sorry. You kinda bounced me into that one. Shouldn’t ask probing questions.”

“That’s what you get for putting the moves on a detective.”

Starsky gently shook their joined hands.

“Well, you busted me. Kinda incriminated yourself there, too.”

“Guess so.”

“So, whatcha gonna do about it, officer?”

“Starsky, I don’t know! Give me a minute, will ya?”

“Uh, sure.”

Starsky dropped his head, went to stand up. Hutch grabbed his hand harder and pulled down.

“Hey, I didn’t say let go. I need you to stay close so I can think uh, straight.”

The hum of the refrigerator seemed strangely loud all of a sudden. Leaves rustled on the tree outside the window. Hutch’s thumb stroked along the edge of Starsky’s index finger, back and forth, contemplating.

“So, me and thee, huh?”

“Yeah. The answer to the eternal question — who do we…” Starsky raised one wicked eyebrow.

“What, you were unexpectedly overpowered by lust in the middle of your afternoon nap? Sure you weren’t just dreaming of Wonder Woman?”

“I mean there’s always background lust, but you know… It just— felt right. Feels right. You and me. ’Specially pressed up nice and close on the couch.”

He winked, then ducked as Hutch tried to cuff his head with their joined hands.

“OK, OK, I’ll quit messin’.”

Keeping hold of Hutch’s hand, Starsky settled against the back of the couch and stared off into space.

“So. I was feeling nice and sleepy and relaxed, first time in weeks… and as I was drifting I just uh, paid attention to how you felt against me, how I feel when I’m with ya. Let myself go with it instead of distracting myself like I do every other day. Turns out, when I go with it— I just thought, I don’t need more than this, different than this. I got everything I need right here.” He glanced across at Hutch. “I mean, let’s face it, you are gorgeous, and… OK, I’m gonna shut up now.”

“Starsky, you know I—“

Starsky pulled his hand back, crossed his arms across his chest.

“Hutchinson, if you say ‘you know I love you, but,’ so help me—“

“No, dummy, I was gonna say, you know I got hard.”

Starsky grinned lecherously. “Couldn’t miss it, Blondie.”

“Shush. Well if you’re so keen, where’s the evidence?”

“I was just laying farther down your body, pal. Trust me, I got hard. Ask the couch. There’s probably still a dip, like the cement footprints outside Grauman’s. Wanna check?”

“I highly doubt you challenged the upholstery.”

“I’d like to challenge your upholstery, fella.”

Hutch blushed. “Starsk, that doesn’t even make sense.”

Starsky bumped their shoulders together.

“What, your dad never called a curvaceous lady ‘nicely upholstered’?”

“No, because you made that up. Anyway, you’re the one with the upholstery.”

“Did you just tell me I have a nice ass, Blintz? Such a smooth-talker.”

“Just stating facts. Come on, we both know who’s got the silver tongue in this partnership.”

“Oh, you can’t just give me an opening like that and expect me not to take it.”

Hutch’s eyes twinkled. “Give you an opening, huh?”

He smothered a laugh at Starsky’s exaggerated double-take.

“Hutch, I’m shocked. I thought you were such a nice boy.”

“Hmm. I think you may be a bad influence, buddy.”

“Well, I try.” Starsky hesitated a moment, then shifted so they faced each other. He put a hand on Hutch’s thigh. “Wanna find out what I can do with my silver tongue?”

Hutch swallowed. “Um, OK.”

For all his proclaimed suavity, Starsky’s hands fumbled as he reached for him. Hutch had a sudden rush of vertigo as Starsky moved forward, closing his eyes as cool fingers settled on his cheek. His belly flipped. Well, if he was in free-fall he was taking Starsky with him.

With a thump he landed Starsky flat on his back in the sea of crumpled newspaper and as their mouths came together, all heat and breath and urgency, he tried to sink all the months of smothered longing — the many, many months — into the kiss. Starsky grabbed a handful of shirt and went with it, setting off sparks with swipes of his tongue, steering them into slower, more deliberate kisses. It felt like a conversation. It felt like, well, kissing Starsky. Something settled in Hutch’s chest at the thought, like a safe springing open with the last turn of the dial, a bird coming home to roost. It felt good. It felt really good.

When they broke apart, Hutch was laughing.

Starsky sat up. “OK, let me in on the joke here, pal. This ain’t the reaction I usually get.”

Hutch slumped back against the cushions.

“Sorry, Romeo. I mean I am swooning, Starsk. I’m lightheaded, my heart rate’s through the roof. It’s just… you have this revelation, and five minutes later we’re kissing.” He reached out and traced the outline of Starsky’s mouth. “I coulda said something long ago, but I never did because I was too scared to jump off the cliff. Now here you come just— ‘Geronimo!’ and pull me over with you.”

“Aww Blintz, you shoulda said. Or were you giving me time to get used to the idea?”

“No, I was just scared.”

Starsky tilted his head. “You wanna say something now?”

Well, Hutch figured they’d already gone over the cliff and survived. He took a deep breath.

“Um, Starsky, would you like to go to bed with me?”

Starsky scrambled off the couch, held out a hand to pull him up and surged forward with a yell of “Geronimooooo!” that dissolved into laughter as Hutch swallowed the word with a kiss, grabbing Starsky in a bear hug and walking him backwards towards the bed in a stumbling tango that somehow swerved both the wicker chair and the recliner before they landed in a tangle on the mattress.

Turned out falling was easy once you got the hang of it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It also turned out that if you make love after reading the Sunday papers you end up with inky fingerprints in unexpected places. As they lay dazed in the rumpled mess they’d made of the bedsheets, Hutch traced the dark smudges of printers ink that daubed Starsky’s skin in the afternoon sunlight.

“You look like a crime scene, Starsk.”

“Mmmm. Whaddya say?”

“You look like… no, not a crime scene. Like a chronicle.”

“A what?”

“You know, a story.”

“Heh. Steamy romance novel. That’s why there’s handprints on your ass.”

“There’s just no poetry in your soul, is there?”

Starsky smirked. “Got all the poetry I need right here.”

He still had a possessive hand on Hutch’s junk, absently fondling, feeling the weight of it in his palm, stroking a fingertip along the softness. Hutch felt an echo of pleasure down his spine.

“You won’t get much joy out of that for a while, buddy.”

“I know, I’m familiar with the mechanics. It just feels nice. Heavy and warm and soft. And yours, dummy. Why, you don’t like me doing that?”

“Oh I like it, don’t worry. Love your hands on me.”

“Yeah. Getting my hands on those last few inches that have been off-limits all these years.”

“What do you mean, “few inches”? We’re talking double figures here.”

Starsky snickered.

“Um, Hutch, I think you pressed an extra button on your calculator there, babe. You’re hung, but you’re not that hung.”

“Surface area! I meant total surface area!”

Starsky howled with laughter. Rolling onto his back, he lay struggling to catch his breath between cackles. Hutch blushed and thumped him.

“Stop laughing!”

“Ow! Stop it.” He started giggling again. “Surface area! Hutch, your mind!”

Hutch sat up on the mattress and hugged his knees against his chest. Laughter subsiding, Starsky pushed himself up on his elbows and tapped an index finger on the furrowed line between Hutch’s eyebrows.

“Scientists should study this. Who knows what goes on in there?”

Hutch batted the hand away and held on to it. Starsky snorted.

“Surface area…”

Hutch rolled his eyes and ran his free hand, palm down, from Starsky’s chest to his hip and back up again. Starsky wriggled and stretched against the touch.

“You know Hutch, I have no idea what my surface area measurements are.”

“No?”

“No. You should map them. You know, for science. All those square inches.”

“I should, huh?”

“Yeah. With your tongue.”

Hutch shifted down so they were lying side by side.

“Well, I’m all for the expansion of knowledge…”

He leaned over and ran his tongue lazily along Starsky’s collarbone and on down the centre of his chest. Starsky yawned and put a hand on Hutch’s head.

“Not now. Wait ’til it’s back to the full extent of its uh, surface area. Else you’ll only have to check it again.”

Hutch shrugged, lay down and tucked his head under Starsky’s chin, kissing the nearest available square inch of shoulder for good measure.

“Well I was thinking I’d have to check my calculations a few times anyway, Starsk. You know I’m very thorough.”

“Mmmm. And not very good at math.”

“That too.”

“Yeah. Me either. Never mind, we’ll just keep trying til we get it right.”

“Sure. Every boy needs a hobby.” Hutch stroked Starsky’s arm slowly, back and forth. “Could take a long time, though. We should probably just cancel our other um, projects. You know, the…New York and Vegas projects.”

“I like your thinking, Ollie.”

The fridge was still humming, leaves still rustling outside. Starsky’s hand lay heavy and reassuring at the nape of Hutch’s neck. The motion of his other hand, tracing patterns on Hutch’s back, began to stutter as Starsky’s breathing evened out towards sleep.

Hutch felt the peace of it all settling into his bones.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah…?”

“I like Sundays.”