Best Laid Plans

164

A bit of vaguely New Year-related nonsense. Hutch discovers Starsky’s Kryptonite.

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Starsky sighed as he hit the carriage return, the typewriter’s jaunty bell mocking his attempts to find the elusive words for his report. How best to explain the reason why the shoplifter had managed to get away from him so unexpectedly? God, this was embarrassing.

Hutch perched on the desk next to him and looked over his shoulder.

“Still got writer’s block, Starsk? Can’t say I blame you. That was some plot twist this morning.”

Babcock, Simmons and an assortment of cops sitting around them snickered not-so-quietly behind files, hands and coffee cups.

“I mean, how can I have known you all these years and not been aware of something like that?”

Starsky hissed, “Shut it, Hutchinson, I’m warning you—”

Over Hutch’s shoulder, Starsky caught sight of Minnie Kaplan striding through the swing doors, her trim navy uniform accessorized with a delighted grin and a bright yellow feather duster from the janitor’s closet. Minnie came to a stop by his desk and looked down at him, hands on hips.

“Well, Starsky honey, I hear that finally I have a way to keep you in line.”

Brandishing her weapon, she ruffled him under the chin to hoots of laughter and catcalls from the assembled company before sweeping the flamboyant plumes slowly down Starsky’s torso while he giggled against his will in a thoroughly undignified manner. It was gonna take forever to live this down. Minnie took a bow to a round of applause from the rest of the squad room and left with a final flourish of feathers. Hutch surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

“Seriously, Starsk, why didn’t you tell me you were ticklish?”

“Does Superman go around shooting his mouth off about Kryptonite? Classified information, Hutch. I mean I ain’t gonna let on about something that people could use against me.” Starsky ran a hand through his feather-disheveled curls. “Cat’s out of the bag now, huh? Open season.”

“’Fraid so, buddy. I can see why you wanted to remain a man of mystery.”

“Hey, we all have our secrets. I mean, what don’t I know about you?”

Hutch was suddenly very interested in some paperclips. Starsky shrugged and returned, reluctantly, to his report. Maybe if he got it done in time it might keep Dobey off his back.

No such luck. Dobey demanded a full account of this morning’s fiasco in the five-and-dime, and after accepting Starsky’s solemn promise that he would try to get his ticklishness under control he moved straight on to a team briefing, during which Hutch reduced Starsky to helpless laughter by wiggling his fingers at him out of Dobey’s line of sight. Starsky seethed quietly at having his buttons pushed by remote control, and resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be hitting on any women in Hutch’s presence for the foreseeable future given the risk of sabotage.

When their shift ended it wasn’t a minute too soon.

“Watch out for drag queens with feather boas, Starsky!” Babcock shouted out of the window as Starsky steered the Torino out of the car park at speed, Hutch beside him on the bench seat.

“And Big Bird!” yelled Simmons.

***

Following a detour for takeout pizza, they headed to Venice Place with plans to watch the baseball game on the portable TV that Hutch kept in the back of a cupboard with the vacuum cleaner.

After the day he’d had, it was hardly a great surprise when Starsky was ambushed from behind and tickled mercilessly as he returned from the refrigerator with his hands full of beer bottles.

“Get off, Blondie, that ain’t funny!”

Hutch lunged again, sending Starsky’s arms shooting upwards, beer leaping from the mouths of the bottles as if to celebrate winning a motor race.

“I said fuck off, Hutch.”

“Hey, I’m just helping out on your promise to Dobey. Gotta get those reactions under control before every villain in town has a new secret weapon. I mean it’s our Achilles heel, partner, we need to get the measure of it. In a scientific manner.”

Hutch’s own increasing giggles didn’t help his argument, but they did soothe Starsky’s irritation.

“Oh I see, this is for science?”

“Science and the preservation of law and order.”

Hutch reached around to experimentally tickle Starsky’s right hand side, just below his ribs. To Starsky’s relief it was a little too high to set off a reaction.

Hutch whistled.

“God, that’s smooth.”

“Whatcha doing, Captain America?”

Hutch was running his thumb diagonally back and forth.

“I told you, it’s science. I’m isolating the tickle point.”

He rested his chin on Starsky’s shoulder. Starsky took a swig of beer, then lifted the bottle towards Hutch’s mouth, somewhat hampered by the fact he couldn’t actually see Hutch’s face behind him. Hutch accepted the haphazard mouthful of beer and continued in his quest to map trigger points across Starsky’s abdomen.

“What do you call this bit, anyway? If you were a racehorse it would be your flank.”

“Not a racehorse. Are we gonna watch this game or what?”

“In a minute. Hold your horses.”

“Blintz, that’s terrible.”

Hutch’s other hand came around to aid the mission, moving slightly lower, convulsing Starsky briefly before gently smoothing his skin. Apart from the tickles, it was kinda nice…

“Oh.”

Starsky froze, clearing his throat.

“Um, Hutch, I think maybe you’re having an effect you didn’t bargain for there, buddy, you might wanna stop.”

“Might?”

“Well, I don’t know what you were bargaining for, do I?”

Hutch rocked back on his heels, took a breath.

“Honestly, even I’m not sure I know what I was bargaining for.”

Starsky could still feel the place where Hutch’s hands weren’t any more.

“Huh. Also I, uh, might want you to keep going.”

“You might, huh?”

“Think so, yeah.”

“Think that you might, or think that…”

“Actually, no, strike that, that’s a bad idea. Spur of the moment, not thinking it over— don’t know what we’d be getting into. Better not.”

“Better not?”

“Yeah. Think so.”

Starsky’s heart was racing from back-pedaling so hard, and he felt very grateful at that moment that Hutch was standing behind him, making eye contact impossible. He couldn’t have held on to the beer bottles more tightly if they were a life preserver.

It was Hutch who broke the silence.

“Starsk.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve, um, thought about it. Before, I mean.”

“Huh.”

“Quite a lot, in fact.”

“Okaayy.”

Hutch’s forehead thumped gently against Starsky’s shoulder blade, making his next words harder to hear.

“So… you telling me you haven’t thought about it at all?”

“Hutch, I put a lot of effort into not thinking about it. I mean it was my New Year’s resolution. Not to think about it.”

Hutch chuckled. His thumb was absently stroking under Starsky’s rib, gentling him like a horse that had been spooked.

“So, it’s March now. How’s that New Year resolution working out for you?”

Starsky huffed out a laugh.

“Right now? Not so well.”

Hutch seemed to have abandoned his scientific quest for the tickle point, but his thumb continued the soothing motion. Starsky’s heart rate gradually slowed. He came to a decision.

“Hutch?”

“Mm?”

“When I thought about this kind of a situation — which I most definitely have not been doing, at least since New Year’s — there was some, uh, kissing involved.”

“There was, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Turn around, babe.”

Starsky turned and rested his forearms on Hutch’s shoulders as he looked into his eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

The beer bottles clinked behind Hutch’s head as Starsky leaned in and kissed him in a way he had absolutely not imagined at any point during the calendar year so far. Hutch’s hands were in his hair, fingers stroking the nape of his neck. Fortunately, it turned out that kissing Hutch was a pretty much surefire cure for nerves and misgivings. Starsky broke free to put the beer bottles on the table, then put one cold hand under Hutch’s chin, the other up his shirt. Hutch wriggled.

“I’m not ticklish, my strong moral fiber protects me…”

“Is that like wheatgerm?” Starsky kissed his neck. “What was your New Year’s resolution anyway, Mr. Perfect?”

“Getting up at six every morning for a run. Unbroken streak so far.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But you know, resolutions are made to be broken.”

Starsky beamed, then pulled open the snaps on Hutch’s shirt in one fell swoop to get to his chest.

“God, I always wanted to do that.”

Hutch grabbed his face and kissed him, hard.

“You’ve really put a lot of effort into not thinking about this, huh.”

“Devil’s in the details, Blintz.”

Hutch sat on the couch and held out one hand to pull Starsky down beside him. When Starsky started to reach for it, Hutch wiggled his fingers and his eyebrows and Starsky collapsed in giggles.

“Great, now whenever you do that wiggly fingers thing at me, not only will I laugh, I’ll get a hard-on. In Dobey’s office. In these jeans. You bastard.”

“Life is just a vale of tears, Starsk.”

 

They didn’t watch the baseball game.