For the Bulges in Tandem—Constrictions

Shaking a bit of talc over his thighs, Starsky stepped into his jeans. Hutch had almost choked on his coffee the morning Starsky had debuted this pair. The denim fitted like a second skin. The jeans were all a part of their newest game. It was a game conducted in mutual silence, a game that gave them time, a chance to examine their feelings and ponder their future without endangering their present.

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch mixed anthology zine, The Fix #2 in 1988.

Beep… beep… beep… beep.

There was a Mack truck backing up through his bedroom. With one hand he flailed about, hopelessly attempting to ward it off. Abruptly, he made contact with the snooze button and blessed peace reigned.

Shit, he thought vaguely. It was too early to be anything more than vague. He had ten minutes before that damn racket started up again—he could put them to good use by going back to sleep. He burrowed more securely under the pillow, determined to extract another nine minutes from the night. He’d only hit the button twice so far, so he deserved this reprieve…

With unerring instinct, he reached out and switched off the alarm seconds before it could assault him a fourth time. He groaned, sliding just his feet and legs toward the edge of the bed, clinging to his pillow as long as humanly possible. Definitely, but definitely, someone had gotten in his room during the night and assaulted him with a lead pipe.

“If this is thirty-four, God forbid I should reach eighty.” Unfeelingly, the pillow ignored his mumbled complaint.

With his feet on the floor, he could ease his conscience somewhat; he was moving, really he was. Eventually he’d even be able to sit up.

The thought of facing Hutch’s energetic arrival in his delicate pre-coffee condition was impetus enough to send him staggering to his feet, regretfully abandoning his nest.

Slit-eyed, he headed for the kitchen, fumbling for the kettle to put the life-giving water on to heat. Basic life support initiated, he shuffled back through the living room. Resolutely ignoring the siren call of the bed, he made it to the bathroom.

First things first. He relieved the morning-urgent cry of his bladder.

There was a texture to his eyes that, over the course of years populated by too many sleep-deprived nights, had become much too familiar. Periodically, whiling away the time on stakeouts, they had tried to define the sensation. As he recalled, the current version was that his eyeballs had been rolled in lapidary grit. Maybe he should leave his eyes to science.

Bending over the sink, he splashed cold water over his face, cupping his hands in an attempt to soak his eyes. The lapidary grit wasn’t letting up. He met the bleary red gaze in the mirror—maybe he should help out science sooner rather than later. What a mess. Why didn’t Hutch ever look like this waking up? Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t be so goddamned… awake in the mornings.

Musing on the unfairness of life in general and having a morning person for a partner in particular, he turned on the shower. The billowing steam warmed him gently, a poor substitute for the comfort of his bed. He stood beneath the spray, eyes closed against the almost too-hot water. He let the heat do its work. Slowly, his muscles relaxed, knots eased by the steady pounding. Rolling his head, Starsky worked the tension from neck and shoulders.

Giles was going to get off. Diamond was too scared to testify and without him they’d never make the case stick. Damn. Couldn’t they understand? They’d never get out of the gutter if they didn’t stand up for themselves, take a risk now and then. Well, maybe he was wrong—he lathered his hair briskly—maybe Diamond would find some backbone. He and Hutch could protect the guy. Yeah, they’d have another shot at convincing him. Their job completed, the suds disappeared down the drain as he rinsed off. They’d convince Diamond, save the guy; well, get the guy to save himself. Starsky stepped from the shower in a better frame of mind.

The kettle was whistling urgently as he padded toward the kitchen, towel wrapped haphazardly around his hips. He rescued the boiling water and got down a mug. A glance at the clock and he pulled out a second cup—a spoon of instant in Hutch’s, a spoon and a half plus two of sugar in his own.

Several cautious sips of liquid later, he waited for the caffeine to kick in so he wouldn’t slit his throat shaving. Monday’s donuts were stale now, but dunked in coffee it made no difference. Satisfied that he might not spill his own blood, he returned to the bathroom.

He managed the ordeal without bloodshed. Maybe Hutch had nicked himself this morning, he thought evilly; any man who got up and voluntarily ran a mile in the morning deserved a nick or two. He couldn’t count on that though; the clumsy blond never seemed to cut himself that way. Maybe he should skip the deodorant today, punish his partner himself. It would be fitting revenge for being forced to ride in that moving junk heap Hutch called a car.

Yesterday’s jeans were slung over the chair. He carried them over to the bed—he wasn’t in the mood to struggle with a clean pair. The nylon of his briefs was clinging uncomfortably to the slight dampness of his skin. Shaking a bit of talc over his thighs, he stepped into the jeans. Hutch had almost choked on his coffee the morning Starsky had debuted this pair. The denim fitted like a second skin. He flopped back on the bed to arrange himself carefully before easing up the zipper. The jeans were all a part of their newest game. It was a game conducted in mutual silence, a game that gave them time, a chance to examine their feelings and ponder their future without endangering their present.

Somewhere along the way an awareness of each other’s bodies had developed. Once they had recognized it in themselves, there was no hiding that awareness from their other half. With the awareness had come fear, not of Hutch or a sexual act, but of the threat to their companionship.

He wasn’t sure where they were going and had initiated the teasing game as a defense for their deep roots. The teasing was fun; it kept at bay tensions that might otherwise have torn them apart before they were ready to come together.

The jeans were a display case, outlining Hutch’s options, an opportunity to discover what he really wanted. Not only were they intended to help Hutch examine his own feelings, but to communicate openly, without the awkwardness of words, Starsky’ s own reactions. So far it had worked admirably. Hutch had even joined the game, adding pants to his wardrobe that tended to tighten the front of Starsky’s.

The situation had its drawbacks; certain delicate areas occasionally suffered from a degree of chafing, sitting down sometimes ended with numbed legs, and getting things out of one’s pockets was no longer a process to be undertaken lightly.

The sound of the front door opening propelled him off the bed. Being caught trying to struggle into obscenely tight pants wasn’t part of the play.

“Coffee’s on the counter!” He fastened his belt, reinforcing the snap. Pulling on a t-shirt, he didn’t attempt to tuck it in—he knew a lost cause when he saw one.

In the living room, he intercepted Hutch and was handed his abandoned mug.

“Hurry up, Starsk, I want to get over to talk to Diamond again before we see the D.A.”

He took the proffered coffee and drained the lukewarm contents, observing over the rim the familiar, beautiful face of his partner.

They’d have to talk soon, he thought, things were becoming very clear.

“Just let me get my shoes on.” He turned to find his shoes and bent over to put them on, making sure that Hutch had an unobstructed view. Straightening, he turned to see Hutch’s eyes rise to meet his. On the other hand, maybe that talk could wait. He smiled into the knowing eyes. The jeans would stay a little longer; he could learn to enjoy the constricted life.