Episode-Related Drabbles

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Ten drabbles (100, 200 or 300 words) based on specific episodes.  Some banter, some humor, some angst.

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Starsky & Hutch Pilot:  “Hutch Exercises His Wit” 

“That clown comin’ in today?”

Hutch breathed through several pull-ups. “Clown, Vinnie?”

“Guy with the bad clothes and lousy diet, who sat here yesterday, propped his dirty sneakers on my barbells, and got crumbs everywhere.”

“Ah.” Hutch dropped lightly to the floor. “Starsky.”

“Starsky, huh? He spilled Coke on my floor, you know.”

“Sorry about that. He wipe it up?”

“With his sleeve.”

Hutch sighed and began his stretches.

“Three chocolate donuts,” groused Vinnie. “Three! Know what he did then?”

“Can’t imagine.”

“Ate a piece of pizza. Called it dessert.”

Hutch winced.

“That was his breakfast!” Vinnie bent toward Hutch. “Coca-Cola! Donuts! Pizza!”

“I hear ya, Vin. No need to shout.”

“He gonna keep showin’ up? Eatin’ crap in my gym?”

“Yep,” confirmed Hutch, stretching his hamstrings.

“Christ.”

“Maybe you can convert him to protein shakes and workouts.”

“Nah. Clowns don’t listen.”

“Vinnie, you were a drill sergeant. Get in his face, tell him what’s what.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure! Starsk was in the army. He responds well to forceful authority figures.” Hutch toweled his face, hiding his grin.

“Think it’d work?”

Hutch slapped Vinnie’s shoulder. “When Starsky comes in, go for it, Sarge.”

“Will do, champ.”

Hutch, whistling, hit the showers.

 

JoJo: “Car Talk”

 “Hutch, guess what.”

“What?”

“Your car fills me with rage and hate.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep. Every dent, the shitty paint, all this weird trash, and that… fucking… horn, fills me with cold hatred.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. I’m filled with cold hatred right now.”

“Starsky. Starsk. You love my car.”

“I love it?”

“You love it. Makes you feel superior. And, sadly, you rarely get to feel that way around me. So go ahead, tell me you hate it – the message I’ll hear is ‘thank God your car has character, Hutch, otherwise you’d be perfect.’”

“Hear my finger’s message?”

“Love you, too.”

 

Running:  “Starsky & Kiko”

“Kiko.” Starsky nodded toward the door. “Let’s get some air, huh? Hutch’ll finish cooking.”

Hutch snorted as he stirred the spaghetti sauce. “Yeah, I’ll do everything. You guys relax.”

Starsky grinned and steered the kid outside. Kiko looked nervous, like he knew what was coming.

“Don’t do that again,” Starsky said. “Don’t shut him out. Got it? You need him, kiddo. And he needs you.”

“He needs me?” Kiko sounded amazed.

“Yeah. So don’t screw around. It hurts him.”

Kiko nodded, looking ashamed.

Starsky slung an arm around him. “Sucks not having a dad.”

“Yeah.”

“I know. I been there.”

 

A Coffin for Starsky:   “Outta Luck, Outta Time”

Wedell’s dead.

Al Wedell is dead.

Last shot, last hope, last chance, and… Wedell’s a dead man.

I’m a dead man.

I gotta… I gotta wrap my head around this… I gotta…

Oh, my God. I can’t…

Aw, babe, water won’t help. Ah, jeez, partner. I love you so much.

Is this it? Outta luck, outta time…

This is it.

Doesn’t feel real. Feel like I’m in a sad book, or a scary movie — the likeable sap who’s sacrificed to prove awful stuff can happen. That the bad guys really are bad, and the heroes won’t always win.

Fuck. I wish this was a movie. I’d talk to the writers, get me a better scene. Better than sitting here at my crummy desk, lookin’ at my stupid blue dog, feeling the knife in my gut, listening to the clock tick, seeing despair on Hutch’s face…

Oh God, Hutch. This gotta mean something. I want a better scene. Better lines. A different ending.

“Ya know, if this was a cowboy movie… I’d give you my boots.”

I’m scared. Buddy, I’m really scared.

Stay with me, touch me, don’t leave me.

“You’re my pal, Hutch.”

I’m so sorry I’m leaving you.

 

 The Bounty Hunter:  “Close Call”

Sweet old Maggie McMillan had called him later, after sending Abby to Metro for him. “Did you like her, David? Abigail’s a lovely thing, yes?”

“Maggie,” Starsky had sighed, “everyone pales in comparison to you.” She’d chuckled, sounding wise yet delighted. Starsky really liked Maggie.

He told her he’d fixed Abby up with Hutch – that the two blond beauties looked so good together, he couldn’t resist!

He didn’t say Hutch had taken Abby from him.

Staring now at his dried liver milkshake and plateful of glop, Starsky thought… Damn. Hutch took a bullet meant for me. I love that guy.

 

Las Vegas Strangler: “Going Back”

The drive home felt long. Starsky glanced at Hutch, who was slumped in the passenger seat, fedora tipped over his eyes.

“Hutch? How come you never told me you were valedictorian?”

Hutch’s answer came slowly. “Dunno. Not that important, I guess.”

“Whaddaya mean it’s not important? In my school, the valedictorian had the best grades in the whole class. Didja have the best grades?”

“I suppose.”

“You ‘suppose.’ What, you can’t remember?”

Hutch sighed. “Yes, I had the best grades. Happy?”

“Ecstatic. How come you never said?”

Hutch shrugged.

“My grades weren’t great,” Starsky said. “For a while in junior high I kinda had a truancy problem. In high school I stopped skipping, but I had jobs and didn’t study enough. Liked my classes, though. I was interested in learning stuff.”

Hutch smiled under his hat and dropped a hand on Starsky’s knee.

“You should be proud, Hutch. Valedictorian. ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’ Bet you were prom king, too.”

“Nah.” Hutch was quiet for a full minute. “Jack was.”

Starsky glanced over. “Come here.” One tug brought Hutch’s head onto his lap. Starsky pulled off the fedora and dropped it in the back seat. “Wanna sleep?”

Hutch nodded.

“Then sleep.”

 

Gillian: “Case Closed”

 Metro, 3 a.m. Starsky, jaw throbbing from the punch he’d taken earlier, closed the file on his desk and looked at his partner. Such deep weariness in those shadowed eyes, such emptiness on that face.

Without speaking, he led Hutch out to the Torino. At Venice Place, he ushered him upstairs, settling with him on the couch, whiskey at hand. Neither drank.

When Starsky tugged, Hutch sank against him, sighing, resting his head. Hutch’s fingers ghosted over Starsky’s bristled cheek, over the darkening bruise.

Starsky took the hand, carefully kissed the sore knuckles, and held it loosely against his chest.

 

The Vampire:  “Suckers”

“Well, Starsk, you’ve got garlic and a wooden stake, but… what about silver bullets? What if this vampire has a werewolf sidekick? If so, you’re screwed, pal.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

“Or, wait — maybe he has a gang of ghosts working for him. Or zombies. Better buy more shit for your monster-killing kit, Starsky. You’re not properly prepared.”

“You shut up, Mr. I’m-So-Smart.”

“Wow. Good come-back.”

“Here’s a better one: Shut up, you condescending asshole.”

“That is better.”

“Think I’m gullible, huh, Hutch? Stupid, innocent and gullible.”

“Nah. Not innocent. Naïve, maybe. And stupid and gullible.”

“Yeah? Which one of us got suckered by Louie’s dame last week, huh? Tell me that. Which of us was so sure she had a heart of gold underneath her spandex?”

“Now, Starsk–”

“And who forked over a crisp twenty to Slicky Ricky the other day? For the millionth time? When ya gonna learn, Hutch? The kid’s not getting clean. Doesn’t want to. What he wants is your easy money.”

“Aw, Starsky, he–”

“He’s laughin’ all the way to the bank, babe. Or to the hole in his mattress where he stows your dough.”

“You… shut up. Condescending asshole.”

“Good come-back. Ya big softie.”

 

Fatal Charm: “Blood & Water”

“She gone? Starsk, is she gone?” Hutch’s voice was very faint, and his hand fell away from the bloody towel around his arm. Starsky pressed his own hand there instead, into sodden, red warmth.

“Diana’s gone, buddy,” Starsky told him softly. “And you’re gonna be fine. You got a little scratch here, but you’re okay. EMT’s comin’.”

“…She stabbed me? Starsk?”

“Yeah.” Hutch started to shake, and Starsky pulled him closer. “You feel cold, huh. That’s shock, babe, but you’re good, I got ya.”

“You got me,” Hutch breathed.

“I do,” nodded Starsky, resting his forehead on Hutch’s wet hair.

 

The Plague:  “How to Say Goodbye”

Starsky stayed very focused during his search for Callendar. Single-minded, passionate, and filled with a fierce, defiant hope.

He’d sometimes slip, though. For a few seconds here and there, when dialing the phone, or driving, or climbing stairs, his mind would slip. His hope would slip. And he’d imagine saying goodbye.

If he had to say it –- and he wouldn’t, he would not, he refused to –- but if, if…

If he was going to have to… he had to do it right. He’d catch himself practicing, seeking the words, trying to sum things up, to say it all. What would Hutch need from him, or want?

The things in Starsky’s heart were all wrong:

don’t do it,
don’t leave me, stay here,
don’t die, you big dummy,
don’t do it, if you love me, don’t do it, don’t do it, oh god…

Those words were wrong. And unfair.

Starsky tried to imagine doing it right, doing it well. In his mind, he could only get this far:

taking Hutch’s hand,
pressing it to his own heart,
meeting his eyes…

He could only get that far before blinking away tears, scrubbing his face, and continuing to dial, or drive, or climb.