A Fine Impression

53

Inspired by the scene in The Specialist where Starsky’s legs are propped up between two beds.

 

Author’s Notes: Written for the twenty minute fic challenge. Prompt words Watch and Space.

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“Do you have to watch that cop show right now?” Hutch asked from across the cramped hotel room. “I’m trying to read.”

“Nothing else to do,” Starsky answered dryly, not looking up. “Besides, how boring of a person can you be if you’re reading the bible right now?”

Hutch narrowed his eyes and glared at his partner. “I’m very alert, don’t worry. Unlike you appear to be. For all we know, a trained assassin could burst through the door of this rundown hotel room any minute and take us both out,” he added, chuckling. “Do you want the police to draw your chalk outline in the shape of a person slumped on the floor between two beds, with their legs propped up on each one?”

Starsky dragged his eyes away from the TV screen, peering at his partner. “That makes absolutely no sense,” he said, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “How could they draw a chalk outline if the only part of my body touching the floor is my rear end? All they’d get would be the impression of my butt on the carpet. That’s about it. There would be no torso, no arms, and a blank space where my legs are supposed to be.”

Hutch looked over at Starsky, his expression seemingly neutral. “That butt would make a fine impression indeed,” he remarked. “Can’t argue with that,” he shrugged with a smirk.

Starsky caught a gleam in Hutch’s eyes. “You know, Hutch, I don’t think this conversation is very professional,” he said, focusing on several black and white police cars racing down the highway, sirens blaring. “Perhaps we should stop talking,” Starsky added with a sly smile.

Starsky placed his hands on the gun resting on his chest, his eyes still fixed on the television. He could see Hutch out of the corner of his eye, closing the bible and setting it down. Hutch rubbed his thighs as though pondering his next move, then slowly stood up, raising his arms over his head to stretch, trailing his fingers down his collarbone and over his body-hugging green t-shirt. Starsky began to breathe deeply, acutely aware of Hutch’s movements as he walked over to the TV and turned down the sound. Starsky’s breath quickened as Hutch pivoted, taking a deliberate step toward Starsky.

Starsky stared as Hutch knelt between his legs, quivering as those long fingers brushed against the fabric of Starsky’s shirt. Hutch placed his strong hands on the floor on both sides of Starsky’s torso, lowering himself as if preparing to do a ladies-style push-up, his breath warm against Starsky’s neck, their eyes locking in a charged moment.

“Who,” Hutch asked with determined intensity, “are you,” he continued, leaning in close so their faces were just inches apart, “calling boring?”

Without waiting for an answer, Hutch pressed his lips against Starsky’s, his palms firmly planted on the floor for balance, his face flushed and his breath heated. Starsky instinctively removed his hands from his gun, entangling his fingers in Hutch’s hair as he deepened the kiss, savoring every moment, feeling as though Hutch was pouring a new kind of life into him.

Hutch drew back slowly, his blue eyes shining and his eyebrow arched, inviting a reaction. “Well?” he murmured. “Was that more exciting than a dumb cop show?”

“Depends,” Starsky teased, tugging on Hutch’s shirt. “I enjoy the episodes where they get their man in the end.”

Hutch leaned on one arm, his other palm grazing one of Starsky’s propped-up legs. “Real life,” he whispered, “can be more exciting than fiction.”

Starsky parted his lips as Hutch swooped on him for another kiss.

The television show was forgotten. All that mattered to Starsky was that he had already gotten his man.