Could I Have This Dance?

709

Starsky’s in a dancin’ mood.

 

Thanks to LS for the beta and encouragement.

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The slow, soft lilt of a jazz sax drifted in through the open hotel window, cracked to let in the warm breeze of the early spring evening. Sunset painted rose and gold on the walls of the room and its occupants. Starsky came away from the window and stroked a hand across the broad back bent over a suitcase on the bed.

“Dance with me.”

“Hmm?” The bent figure didn’t look up. “Can’t find my tooth…” Hutch frowned to himself, and rifled through the folded-but-rumpled clothing in the case. “…don’t know where I…” He straightened, still looking distracted. “What were you saying?”

“Come on, dance with me. I wanna dance.”

“What? Why?”

“Why does anybody ever want to dance?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

“C’mon, we never do, and I want to.”

“You know I’m not-”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. Can’t be that bad.”

“You always say that, and it always is.”

“Besides, how many times you get an exciting offer like this, huh?”

Hutch sighed. “You’ll see. And then you’ll be sorry.”

“Never.”

“All I’m saying is don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Listen, either you dance with me, or I dance by myself. And then you’ll be the fool trapped in the room with the crazy person who’s dancing by himself.”

“…’m already the fool trapped in the room with the crazy person, dancing or no,” Hutch said, under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought not. Fool.”

————–

Hutch’s knee banged into Starsky’s for the third time in as many minutes.

“Okay, that’s it. Damn, Hutch. How the hell’d you manage to get this old and still never pick up any of my moves?”

“Well, I-”

Starsky sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. “It was a rhetorical question.”

“Aren’t most questions rhetorical? Meant for the provocation of discussion, of argument and philosophizing in the sense of-”

Starsky swung them both around, cutting off the speech before it could begin. “Man, can’t you just shut up? I’m trying to have a moment with you here, and you can’t-”

“I just meant…”

“And you can’t even keep quiet long enough to enjoy it.” He muttered to himself, “I swear, try to do a nice thing for a guy and he doesn’t even have the sense to know what’s going on.”

They quietly shuffled together.

“Hu-Ah, Hutch…that’s my foot.”

“I know.”

He snorted a laugh. “Shit, blondie. You couldn’t cut a rug in two if someone handed you the scissors.” The jab was gentle, as was his smile.

“Better with you.”

“Nah. You’re just bettair weeth-” he paused, mid-accent. “Damn, what was my name?”

“What name?”

“My name, my name! Remember? Terpsichore, tango, cha cha cha?”

“Uh…no. Wait. Something ethnic, right? Mario?”

“…that doesn’t sound right.”

“Jean Luc?”

“Hey now, was that my French accent?”

“With you, I never can tell…” Hutch smirked.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, smartass. Come on, we can’t be this old.”

“Hmm…Esteban?”

“Oh, yeah.” Starsky sashayed them in a small circle. “You’re just bettair because n-ho h-won can deep like Este-”

Hutch pulled back abruptly. “Try it and we’ll both end up in traction.”

“Wouldn’t mind being holed up in bed with you for a coupla weeks,” Starsky leered. He stroked one hand down the nape of Hutch’s neck, pressing gently with the other at the small of his back, and Hutch eased back into the embrace, despite the long-suffering look he shot at Starsky. They began their slow, lilting step again.

“Uh huh. And you want to explain to those ER nurses how it happened?”

Starsky paused only for a moment.

“We were mixing cement.”

“We were mix…what?” Hutch stopped moving again.

“Yeah! You were haulin’ the bucket – I told you not to, on account of your back an’ all, but you did it anyway. I swear, sometimes I think I took a mule home with me instead’a you – and you tripped and bowled over into me and there we were.”

“Starsk – why…what…Why were we mixing cement?” Hutch’s expression was pained.

“To put in our new basketball hoop.” Starsky sounded as though the answer were obvious.

“But we don’t have a new basketball hoop.”

“I know, Hutch, that’s what the cement was for! Geez, try to keep up with me here, huh?”

Hutch stared in disbelief for a good minute – up until he saw the smirk tugging at the corners of Starsky’s mouth.

“Gotcha.” Starsky grinned, deepening the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“Imp.” Hutch swatted half-heartedly at Starsky’s rear. “Should’ve left you at home.”

“But then you’d be lonely.”

“Wouldn’t. Be nice. Quiet. Could finally get some work done.”

“‘S a real shame.”

“What is?”

“Mama always told me not to fall in love with liars.”

Hutch snuffled a laugh against Starsky’s shoulder. “You never did follow rules too well.”

“Guess not.” Starsky tucked his head further into the crook of Hutch’s neck and sighed contentedly, moving one hand up from Hutch’s waist to gently tease through the fine strands of his hair. “This is nice.”

Hutch harrumphed, but Starsky felt the wide, warm flat of his hands trace up and settle against his own back, beginning to trace lazy circles.

The rose-gold of the sun had shifted and faded into the pale purple wash that comes just before dark falls, the soft strokes of night brushing at the edges of the sky, feathering out into twilight. They swayed together in comfortable silence, only occasionally knocking knees.

“I’ll never understand how someone who can sing like you could have absolutely no sense of rhythm.”

“Just special, I guess.”

Starsky tilted his head down and laughed into the warm curve of neck where his chin had rested. The body pressed against him shivered briefly in response, and he smiled to himself, slow and wide. “We startin’ to have fun yet?” he murmured into the skin heating under his lips.

Their dance stilled, but the hum of the saxophone from outside continued and hung low and sweet in the air, providing a quiet backdrop to the sound of their breathing.

“Depends on your-” a groan, as Starsky’s lips traveled around to his throat and were quickly joined there by his tongue “y-your definition of fun.”

“And is this part of your definition of fun?” The words came out dark and teasing, muffled by cloth and skin as he bent to undo Hutch’s shirt buttons, following the path of the opening vee down with his mouth. Starsky’s tongue stroked short, soft licks against the aged gold of Hutch’s chest, while his hands busied themselves tugging Hutch’s shirttails out of his waistband and then moving back up his sides to smooth against the bare skin underneath.

Hutch stilled and closed his eyes, attempting to focus, while one of his hands involuntarily tangled itself into the silver-threaded hair pressed against his chest. “I, uh. Yeah, I-“-a shuddering breath-“-I like, uh.” He swallowed hard. “I…what was the question aga—” His words were cut short with a laughing gasp as Starsky’s mouth found his nipple.

“I-oh, geez-ha-oh, that tick-Starsk! Starsky, no, stop, do-” The sucking pressure shifted, and suddenly Hutch wasn’t laughing anymore. “Ohhh…Starsk, Starsk.” His head tilted back, bliss painting his features, while his fingers continued their blind stroking through his lover’s curls.

Starsky’s mouth abandoned its post to kiss across to the center of Hutch’s chest – wet, open-mouthed kisses that made Hutch shiver against him. “Y’know, Hutch…if you’re cold, we could always get you buttoned up again. Find you a sweater somewhere…” He nosed playfully at the blond’s sternum as his fingers picked up where his mouth had left off, twisting and plucking at the pert nub, eliciting a gasp from its owner. “Should I take that as a yes?” He made as though to draw back and leave, but the grip that suddenly tightened in his hair prevented any such doing.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Deciding that Hutch was still too coherent, Starsky redoubled his efforts. He brought his left hand up to match the ministrations of its mate, increasing both the rate and volume of Hutch’s moans, while his tongue painted a wet trail up to the base of Hutch’s throat. He settled at the notch where Hutch’s pulse thrummed, and began lapping at the skin there – soft, flat strokes soothing against the rapid beat of blood just below the surface.

“Can almost taste your heart,” he mumbled into Hutch’s chest. Hutch blinked down at him, and brought a hand up to cup Starsky’s face, thumb smoothing across the skin under his eye, tracing the lines of his age.

Starsky continued, licking a short path up until he reached the bulge of Hutch’s Adam’s apple. He sucked at the soft heat of it, making Hutch moan at the sensation. The sound buzzed against Starsky’s tongue, and he smiled into the skin before gently pulling away.
“What say we get a little more horizontal, huh? I’m gettin’ a crick in my neck standing here like this.”

“Boy, you sure know how to sweep someone off their feet.” His tone was wry, but Hutch’s eyes were soft and hot with love and desire.

Starsky shuffled Hutch backwards across the darkened room until they both bumped into the bed. “Didn’t ya get the memo, Hutch?” He towed the willing body down to the mattress with him, promptly rolling over to straddle his hips.

“Sweeping’s out…’s why we got the Hoover.”

Starsky’s lips caught Hutch’s helpless laughter as the saxophone wailed into the inky black outside, starting a new nightsong.