Breakfast in Bed

“Happy birthday, old man.”

Starsky rolled over to see Hutch standing in the doorway of their bedroom, with a tray in his hands and a smirk on his face.

Just a little Older Boys birthday fluff. Written for the LJ older_not_dead “Gifts” promptathon. The prompt, unsurprisingly, is “Starsky/Hutch, birthday breakfast in bed.” I really tried, but could not come up with a better title.

Starsky yawned and cracked his lids open to a watery light. Not six o’clock yet, he guessed, but out of habit he squinted at the clock on his nightstand anyway. Yep, only 5:38. Way too early to get up. He closed his eyes again, hoping to fall back into sleep, but after a few minutes, he sighed and gave up trying. It was no use, he was officially awake.

He reached his arms up and stretched a little. It felt good, despite the loud popping of his joints. He had to stop before he went too far, though. The last time he really stretched freely, long and hard like he used to, he almost put his back out.

He sighed again. The seized-up muscles had been a warning: here was another thing that wasn’t so simple anymore. Gone were the days when he could stretch or lift or run without effort, without considering the consequences. It was a reminder from his body that he was getting older, and that getting older sucked. He couldn’t afford to ignore that reminder, no matter how much he wanted to, because it had fucking hurt. He’d be damned if he did that again. One bad back in the family was more than enough.

At the thought, Starsky slid his hand over to pat the bad back in question, but the other side of the bed was empty.

He frowned. Hutch was an early riser, but he wasn’t usually up this early. Unless he had to take a leak, of course. Which, come to think of it—

“Happy birthday, old man.”

Starsky rolled over to see Hutch standing in the doorway of their bedroom, with a tray in his hands and a smirk on his face.

Geez, talk about getting old, he’d almost forgotten. Well, not forgotten, not exactly. He knew it was his birthday, he simply hadn’t thought about it until Hutch said it just now. He pushed himself up to a sitting position as Hutch entered, bringing with him a heavenly aroma.

Hutch leaned in, gave him a quick kiss on the forehead (because morning breath), and set the tray down over his lap with a flourish. “Here you go,” he said briskly as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, wow,” Starsky murmured as he took inventory, his mouth watering. There was honest-to-God bacon, not the fake turkey kind. And real fried eggs, sunny side up, not scrambled Egg Beaters. Cinnamon french toast, made from one of the recipes that Ma had passed on to Hutch. Coffee, naturally; the fancy kind that they favored now (and how in the world had he managed to sleep through the bean grinder?) Most importantly, there wasn’t a shred of shredded wheat in sight. “You really do love me.”

Hutch snorted and said with mock sarcasm, “Because nothing says love like an artery-clogging breakfast.”

“My arteries are fine,” Starsky replied, “’cause you’ve been taking good care of ’em. So having the good stuff once in a while is okay, even the doctor said so. But—”

“Yeah, I know. What the hell, it’s just once a year,” Hutch said, chuckling.

Starsky wanted to discuss the finer points about the difference between ‘once in a while’ and ‘once a year,’ but there was a more pressing issue he needed to take care of. “Anyway, I—”

“Anyway, eat up, you’re going to need your strength,” Hutch said, and the look in his eyes made Starsky weak in the knees. Or it would have, if he’d been standing. Which, damn it—

“I can’t,” he blurted out. “Not yet.” He picked up the tray carefully and handed it back to Hutch. “Hold this.”

“Wha—”

Starsky tossed off the covers and got out of bed. “Wait, I’ll be right back,” he said, and hurried down the hallway. He could hear Hutch snickering as he got to the john.

Getting older really sucked. Thank goodness they were doing it together.