Crush

It’s his hands.

Originally published in the 2006 SHareCon zine.

It’s his hands.

The thought came out of nowhere and stopped Hutch mid-stride in the middle of the hallway, in mid-sentence. Starsky turned back to him, face full of smirks and smartass remarks. Hutch just stood frozen, watching as Starsky held out his hands, fingers forming a thousand questions and then he ducked under the grasp, and disappeared through the nearest door. Supply closet. Stood for a moment, staring at bleach bottles and toilet paper, feeling his heart thudding in his ears. Tried to rationalize the storm raging in his body. Tried to get the image out of his head. The hands. Starsky’s hands. The way his fingers tug at his left eyebrow when he’s worried. Or thinking. The way he grips the steering wheel, knuckles straining, always laughing. The way his finger reels in a stray drop of taco sauce, leaning back in a chair, licking it off his ring… Jesus.

He heard the door swoosh open and shut and then those hands were kneading his neck, thumbs hard into his shoulder blades.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer, thinking instead of those hands that held his head while he puked his guts out after a day of too much reality and a night of too much Tequila. Those hands that had massaged the horror of heroin out of his broken body, deflecting the blows, breaking the spell. Keeping him safe.

Hutch turned around and took one of Starsky’s hands in both of his. Laid them on his chest. Cradled against his heart. Those hands that had shoved him out of the way of countless fists and bullets and bad ideas. Stopped him from taking Artie Solkin six feet under. Tugged him close enough to blend their heartbeats after Gillian. Those same hands that had reached out blindly for him across a Monopoly board.

Hutch looked up and Starsky smiled at him, wrapping his free hand around Hutch’s neck, pulling him close until his head rested on his shoulder. The sounds outside the door faded to a distant murmur. Heartbeats slowed. Time lost provenance.

Hutch finally raised his head and took Starsky’s other hand. Turned them both palms up. Starsky shifted from one foot to another, but didn’t speak. Just watched as Hutch brushed a kiss across each one. Pulled Starsky close until their foreheads were touching, their breaths tangled, chests heaving.

“What are we doing?” Starsky whispered.

“I came in here to think.” Hutch could feel Starsky’s face move. Smirk or smile, he couldn’t tell from this close.

“What are we thinking about?”

“About your hands.”

Starsky broke the connection then, placing both hands on Hutch’s shoulders, pushed him back, looked into his eyes, eyebrow raised. “What about my hands?”

“I love your hands.”

Starsky raised his arms, turning his hands over, frowning. “Same hands as always, Hutch.”

Hutch pulled Starsky closer, pressed a quick kiss against his lips and released him.

“Thank God, buddy. Thank God.” He ran a hand through his hair and opened the door back into the world.

Starsky stood, shocked. Looked at his hands again and then followed Hutch into the hallway.

“Is that it?” Starsky caught up to Hutch, nudged his shoulder.

Hutch smiled and kept walking. “It’s never it. You should know that by now.” He pulled open the door to the squad room and then stopped. “Thank you, Starsky.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Everything?”

“All of it. I don’t tell you that enough.”

“That’s the truth.”

They walked through the door, and were immediately swallowed back into their day, the moment lost in all the other moments that came after. Except for the fact that for the rest of the afternoon, Starsky kept staring at his hands.