Starsky’s Home (Almost)

Starsky’s home from the hospital after being poisoned by Bellamy.

Starsky’s home. Well, almost home. Twenty-four hours of poison, followed by another twenty-four hours of observation (by Hutch as much as by the doctors, it felt like). Now here he is on Hutch’s couch, Starsky’s own couch still feeling less than safe, this close to Bellamy’s break-in that had started all this in the first place. He can’t shake the memory of the face, grotesque under a stocking mask, the sharp scratch of the needle; and then falling, tumbling to the floor, remembering only the numbers that would connect him, stabbing desperately, clumsily, four-four-five double-six four two, to “Hutch…”

So, Starsky’s home, near enough. Face down on Hutch’s couch feeling bruised, sick, limbs aching. Floating in limbo, no limbo dancing though, limbo dancing is not an option right now, and a massage would not be pleasant, either.

Massage would not be pleasant. But here’s Hutch, stroking him gently with flat open hands as he would a cat, distracting from the aches in his limbs but not adding to the pain by pressing down. Hutch’s touch giving limits to the unnerving sense Starsky has that the discomfort in his body stretches out endlessly, the soft gestures smoothing it away like turning down the volume on the sensation. Here’s Hutch. Big warm gentle hands stroking his back from the shoulders down, his legs from thighs to ankles, his head and neck, each arm and hand. Starsky still feels like he’s floating, but in a balmy ocean, in a sunlit pool.

Hutch’s hands slip off Starsky’s feet, settle them gently on the couch.

“There, you’re done. How’s that? Feel better?”

Starsky yawns into the pillow.

“Blintz, if I had the energy, I’d jump your bones.”

He hears Hutch’s laugh, the fondness in his voice.

“Hold that thought.”

Hutch runs one finger down the nape of Starsky’s neck. He drapes a blanket carefully over him, then walks across to the kitchen, turns on the tap to wash the dishes. Starsky lies quietly listening to the clink of the coffee cups in the sink. He can still feel the trace of Hutch’s fingertip on his neck, not soothing like his earlier touches. The energy is different. It’s not the response he thought he’d get to his joking comment, he’d been expecting a playful slap from Hutch, a brushoff, a smart comic comeback… Puzzling, Starsky drifts off to sleep.

———————————

A few days later they’re sitting at Hutch’s table having a late breakfast, reading the newspaper, sun slanting in through the blinds. Hutch stirs his coffee, asks,

“Better today?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Eyes still on the newspaper, Starsky adds,

“I’ve got more energy now.”

They look up, eyes meeting across the table. Hutch’s eyebrow quirks. And Starsky jumps.