Home Repairs

A new slant on an old friendship faces unfamiliar tests.

Story Notes: This story was originally printed in NIGHTLIGHT 2, published by In Person Press in 1991.

Special thanks to Daphne G and Carmen for digitizing help and to Donna F for final proofreading.

The shifting of the bed as his lover left it awakened him. Through half-open eyes he watched the lean form pad naked through the doorway and disappear into the dimness of his living room.

A sleepy glance at the clock confirmed the impression given by the lack of light. It was early. Too early to be up on a Sunday morning.

Starsky stretched luxuriously, body still glowing with the satisfaction of the previous night’s lovemaking. If he stayed in bed, maybe Hutch would return and could be seduced back under the covers for more of the same. Contentment lay over him like a downy blanket, encouraging the lethargy. Smiling drowsily to himself, he snuggled deeper into the pillow. The sense of well-being followed him down into his dreams.

***

The next awakening was considerably more abrupt. Yanked from a pleasant dream by sudden strident noise, he was further jolted when the overhead light snapped on. Eyes slitted against the unwelcome brightness, he made out the tall figure of his partner standing in the doorway, naked and radiating annoyance. Forcing his lips to work, he mumbled intelligently, “…whuh…”

“Goddammit, Starsky, half your kitchen floor’s underwater!”

That got his attention. He sat up fast, sleepy lassitude eradicated by images of burst pipes and flood damage. “What? Why?”

Hutch scowled. “That damned bargain basement refrigerator of yours has leaked all over the place.”

Relief replaced alarm as the grim messenger turned away. Not the pipes, then, which meant the dire appraisal was probably another example of Hutchinson hyperbole. Thoroughly awake now, he rolled out of bed, not bothering to grab a robe, and ambled after his friend to the kitchen.

“I came in here in the dark to get some orange juice and stepped in that.”

Following the accusatory finger, Starsky discovered that “half the floor” amounted to a shallow puddle not more than three feet in diameter in front of the fridge. He shook his head chidingly. “Keep your…” His eyes roamed meaningfully over Hutch’s body. “…hair on. You won’t melt.”

“Thank you, Carl Sagan,” the other man answered sarcastically, refusing to be jollied out of his mood.

Starsky assessed the puddle. “Probably the drainage tube from the freezer section is clogged. We’ll just mop up the water and check it out.”

“You mop it up,” his companion retorted rudely. “I’m going to get dressed.” He stalked out of the room.

Starsky grimaced. Hutch was in a snit again. His blond had been touchy as a rattlesnake with a hangover for several days, alternating between irritable fault-finding and brooding silence. For some mysterious reason, the refrigerator had become a bone of contention between them.

His apartment had come furnished with a stove, but he’d had to supply the refrigerator himself. Last week the old one had died, leaving him with a freezer full of thawed frozen food and melted ice cream. Instead of appreciating his ingenuity in picking up the replacement (frost-free, yet) second-hand from Goodwill, Hutch had criticized everything from its lack of warranty to its color.

Inside it, Starsky discovered a very slow drip running from the receptacle designed to catch condensation from the freezer down the rear wall of the compartment. Water had probably been accumulating under the hydrator drawers for days before overflowing its boundaries. Initial diagnosis confirmed, he quickly mopped the flooded area before leaving the kitchen.

Hutch came out of the bedroom, buttoning the cuffs of his flannel shirt. Without speaking he settled on the couch and began to pull on his shoes, abandoned there during the Late Late Show the previous evening.

Starsky paused. “The tube’s stopped up. We can fix it in no time.”

Hutch didn’t look up. “What do you mean ‘we,’ paleface?”

Fighting to hold on to his good humor in the face of the other man’s determined negativism, Starsky ignored the remark and headed into the bedroom. As he pulled on his clothes, he considered the black cloud in the other room. Hutch. Partner and best friend for eight long years, lover for four short weeks. Familiar as his own face in the mirror, unknown as the dark side of the moon.

The love had been there from the start, comfortable and unquestioned. Desire had come to them suddenly and without warning one night as they sat at Hutch’s place, drinking to celebrate Starsky’s return to active duty following Gunther’s assassination attempt. The powerful physical attraction had arisen unforeseen but mutual, finding them together in this as in so much else, and now seemed like a natural extension of the bond which had linked them from the beginning.

Hutch, with his typical blintz compulsion for analysis, had immediately begun to dissect the change, searching for causes and explanations. Conversely, Starsky had pushed for a more laid-back attitude, superstitiously afraid that attempting to classify or define this unique relationship might jinx it in some way. They loved one another, and had said so. For the present, that was enough for him. They had been at odds over the issue several times, but Hutch must be getting the message because lately he had stopped trying to steer them into discussion.

When Starsky reentered the kitchen area, the subject of his thoughts was seated on the bench behind the table, seemingly absorbed in the morning paper.

“You gonna help or not?”

Hutch turned a page. “Not until I’ve eaten.”

Starsky sighed to himself. His partner had always been a moody bastard, but recently the fluctuations in his temperament bordered on the schizophrenic — one minute happy and loving, the next bitterly morose. Last night had been… incredible. The sex, which had started out a bit awkward and self-conscious, just got better and better. Now Hutch was back to the same cool withdrawal that was becoming so familiar of late. Shrugging philosophically, Starsky reached for the bread. He’d had years of experience dealing with the contentious blond, and Hutch had yet to come up with the sulk that could stand for long against a determined Starsky assault.

Breakfast eaten, he retrieved his toolbox from the Torino’s trunk while Hutch washed up. Together they dragged the heavy appliance a few feet out from the wall. A black metal panel screwed to its rear side shielded bundles of extruding wires. Starsky reached for his Phillips head screwdriver, but Hutch got to it first and he was left to support the panel while his partner removed the screws.

He focused on the large graceful hands performing the task. Overlaid against the image he saw those same hands on his body last night, coaxing intense arousal and delivering ecstatic release. He shivered with remembered pleasure. A week or so ago, Hutch had brought up the possibility of living together. Caught off guard, he had responded noncommittally at the time, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed.

An esoteric tangle of wires attached to the panel precluded its complete separation from the body of the refrigerator. They peered into the gap, locating the tube and the bracket that connected it. “Okay,” directed Hutch. “Hold the panel out of the way while I unscrew it.”

Stung by the assumption of authority, Starsky protested. “Hey, why don’t you hold the panel?”

In a flash the earlier acrimony returned. “You want help? Take it or leave it.”

Starsky counted silently to ten and resigned himself to watching from the sidelines. “Have it your way.” Live with Hutch? Only if he didn’t kill the surly son of a bitch first.

Having separated the drainage tube from its upper bracket, Hutch knelt to search for the lower point of attachment. The placement of the refrigerator with respect to the wall and counter and the need to leave the panel attached left only a narrow gap to work in. Hutch was crouched on one side while Starsky stood on the other, leaning over precariously to support the metal sheet. He shifted his uncomfortable grip on the metal, carefully avoiding a jagged edge on one side.

“Ouch! That was my head!”

“Sorry,” he muttered, not meaning it. The mood was definitely becoming contagious. He watched impatiently as his companion tried to fold his tall form into an area too small for it. With his long reach he had succeeded in detaching the tube at its upper location but the lower connection was on the opposite side of the machine, necessitating an awkward ineffective stretch with his left arm to reach the screws.

Spotting an opportunity for a more active role, Starsky intervened. “Let me do it. I’m left-handed.”

He could see that Hutch wanted to argue, but the logic was inescapable. With poor grace he withdrew himself and Starsky took over his position on the floor. There wasn’t quite enough space to see what he was doing. He craned his neck further, bumping the protective shield.

“Quit jiggling. This edge is sharp,” came the pettish complaint from above.

Starsky indulged in a brief satisfying fantasy of placing his partner’s head in the door and slamming it a few times. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on the job at hand, reaching for the closest screw.

Several things happened in rapid sequence. As he shifted position, his shoulder struck the edge of the metal, shoving it over. Simultaneously Hutch let out a yell overhead and dropped the panel, which clipped Starsky smartly on the back of his head, driving his face into the back of the appliance. Provoked past endurance, he extricated himself and scrambled to his feet, filled with righteous indignation.

Hutch preempted him. “Dammit, now you’ve made me cut my hand!” he accused, cradling the injured part protectively. Starsky caught a glimpse of red and forgot his own complaint.

“Here, let me see.” Taking the hand, he unfolded reluctant fingers to reveal a shallow two-inch gash across the ball of Hutch’s thumb which bled sluggishly. With unthinking remorse, he brought the injury to his mouth and began sucking gently at it.

Hutch snatched the hand away. “What are you doing?”

“Sucking the poison out.”

“More like putting it in. Don’t you know there are more germs in a human’s mouth than a dog’s?”

The ungrateful rejection was the final straw. Starsky’s sorely-tested hold on his temper snapped. “Too bad you’re not sleeping with a dog, then, isn’t it?”

“I’d get more cooperation from a dog.”

“You mean obedience, don’t you? You always gotta be in charge!”

“Maybe because you’re too damned dumb to cross the street alone!”

The blatant injustice of the remark left Starsky momentarily speechless.

At last Hutch seemed to realize he’d gone too far. A flush stained his cheeks and he took a step backward, as if trying to disassociate himself from the offensive statement. “I didn’t mean that.”

Starsky was in no mood to be placated now. This type of scene had become all too familiar recently. Turning the other cheek was a worthy concept, but he had no intention of becoming his lover’s metaphorical punching bag.

“What the hell do you mean?” he demanded. “Where do you get off with this ‘holier than thou’ crap? I’m sorry you hurt your little hand, but is it my fault the stinking tube got clogged?”

Hutch resumed his aggressive stance. “It’s your fault we’re messing with this piece of junk in the first place. You get what you pay for, Starsky. How many times I gotta tell you that?”

“Are you saying I should have laid out four hundred bucks for a new one?” In the midst of his outrage the absurdity of the argument struck him. He shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. What business is it of yours, anyway? It’s my money, and my refrigerator, and my apartment!”

Hutch flinched, and Starsky watched self-righteous arrogance turn to icy anger. “You’re right,” he agreed stonily. “Good point.” He spun abruptly and left the room.

Starsky stared after him, utterly mystified. What was happening? There had to be more to this situation than snobbery over a second-hand appliance. Didn’t there? He followed his adversary into the other room.

Moving with short jerky motions that betrayed his upset, Hutch scooped his jacket and holster off the hat rack.

“Where are you going?”

The other man wouldn’t look at him. “I’m going home. To my apartment. You stay here, in your place. Just the way you want it.”

Starsky’s mouth was open to snap a sharp retort when he heard what his partner was really saying. He shut it again. Oh. He caught up with the retreating man as his hand closed on the doorknob. “Wait. Is that what all this is about? Separate places?”

Shoulders hunched defensively, Hutch maintained stubborn silence.

“Come on, Hutch. We need to talk.”

“Talk? That’d be a switch.”

Starsky heard the unhappiness beneath the sarcasm and berated himself silently. “Better late than never. So tell me. Do you think I don’t want to live with you?”

Hutch turned then, and as if a floodgate had been opened, the bitter words spilled out. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to think? Since all this started, every time I’ve tried to tell you what I’m thinking, or find out what you feel, you shut me off with some superficial bullshit. ‘Don’t analyze it to death.’ ‘Let’s just take things as they come.’ ‘If it feels good, do it.'” With painful accuracy, his companion threw his own words back at him, and Starsky was amazed at how shallow they sounded. “You act like it’s some kind of weekend romp. Well, it means a hell of a lot more than that to me!”

Looking at Hutch, reading both the anger and the embarrassment evident in his body language, Starsky understood for the first time how his reticence must have looked to his insecure lover.

Hutch hated to feel vulnerable, and hid his softer feelings behind a sham of haughty cynicism. Fear masqueraded as acerbity; unhappiness became caustic wit. Starsky knew that but hadn’t stopped to analyze it, attributing Hutch’s recent moodiness and truculence to every cause but the right one. Sometimes his density amazed even himself.

“If I admit I’m a jerk, can we start over?”

Hutch’s head snapped up and he eyed Starsky guardedly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m sorry I didn’t listen to what you were trying to say, and I’m sorry if I made you think I was any less… involved in this than you are. Wasn’t that I don’t care. It was just…” He paused to consider what he had meant, wanting to be certain there was no opportunity for further misunderstanding. “I think I was afraid if we tried to… look for reasons for what happened, or explain it somehow, we’d get so tied up in psychological mumbo-jumbo we’d lose us. Or else start to feel guilty and decide maybe we shouldn’t be doing it, or something.” It all sounded confused and foolish when he verbalized it. “Dumb, huh?”

For long minutes wary blue eyes assessed him. Then the tension left the tall figure and Hutch shook his head despairingly. “No. Coming from you, it almost makes sense.”

Swept with relief at the apparent absolution, Starsky wanted to pull his lover into his arms and continue the apology in a more tangible manner. But Hutch was the injured party here, and the first move would be up to him.

Hutch ran a hand back through his long hair, looking a bit shamefaced. “Sorry for being such a bastard about the refrigerator. When you bought it, I figured that was your way of saying you didn’t want to live together, that you liked things as they were.” He shrugged sheepishly. “For two smart cops, we sure made a mess of things, didn’t we?”

“Actually, I was thinking of you when I bought it.” He grinned at the interrogative look. “I figured there was no point laying out the dough for a new one. If I’m gonna be shacking up with you, we’re gonna need a bigger place. I mean, I’ve got a lotta stuff, and we gotta have room for that tropical rain forest you keep.”

The pure uncomplicated happiness in the answering smile melted him, and he couldn’t wait a moment longer to hold his lover. Hutch met him halfway, enfolding him in strong arms and returning the hug enthusiastically. They stood together in silent contentment for long moments before their lips sought each other out. The kiss was slow and clinging, and during it Hutch threaded his fingers into Starsky’s hair and began to massage his scalp in the way Starsky was learning to love. With a murmur of pleasure he pressed closer.

“What’s this?”

Starsky flinched as questing fingers discovered the place where the panel had struck his head. His earlier resentment had vanished completely and he answered dismissively. “Nothing. Just a bump.”

Hutch wasn’t to be satisfied so easily. “It’s bleeding. Here, let me see.” Turning Starsky, he parted the hair with careful fingers to search out the wound. “Did I do that? I’m sorry, babe.”

“Come on, Hutch. It’s nothing. Your hand’s worse.”

Hutch’s blank expression said he too had forgotten his injury. He looked at the hand, then back at Starsky, and smiled appealingly. “What do you say we save fixing the fridge for later and take care of these before gangrene sets in?”

Arms around one another, they proceeded toward the bathroom and the medicine chest. Starsky chuckled. “The walking wounded, huh?”

With the expected telepathy, Hutch picked up on his thought. Leaning close, he whispered suggestively. “Hey, little boy. You wanna play doctor?”

“In more ways than one, lover. In more ways than one.”