If You Can’t Beat ‘Em

Starsky discovers the wonderful world of internet fanfic. (First story in a trilogy.)

Winner of the 2002 Torino award for best humor story.

This is the first story in a trilogy. The second story is Hi, Ho, Torino! The third story is The Elusive Muse.

Hutch let himself into Starsky’s apartment to find his partner sitting crosslegged on the floor by the coffee table. Lips pursed, forehead creased in concentration, he was staring off into space while he tapped a pen in a rhythmic beat against the table.

“Starsky, what are you doing?”

“Writing.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” Hutch chuckled as he bent down to pick up one of the balled up papers lying all over the floor.

Cerulean. Azure. Aquamarine. Sky blue. Sea Blue. Ice blue. Crystal blue. Sapphire. Cobalt. Midnight blue. Blue violet.

“What’s this? Trying to figure out what color sheets to buy?”

“Very funny. Those are descriptions of our eyes.”

Hutch crumpled the paper and tossed it back on the floor. Deciding he’d need a beer before pursuing the subject any further, he headed into the kitchen. Grabbing two cans, he almost closed the refrigerator door, then opened it again and grabbed two more.

Settling on the couch, he popped the tab and took a deep swallow. Trying for a nonchalant tone of voice, he asked, “So, what are you writing?”

“Fanfic.”

“What?”

“Fanfic. You know… stories about you and me.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it but why?”

“Hutch, I was fooling around on the internet and found all these websites with stories about us. And there’s this one called the BCL that lists over a thousand stories by over a hundred writers.”

“BCL?”

“Bay City Library. And those are only the gen stories.”

Hutch knew he was going to be sorry but he had to ask. “Gen?”

“Yeah, you know… hurt/comfort.” Seeing his confused expression, Starsky continued. “I get hurt. You get hurt. Sometimes one of us dies. But a lot of readers don’t like death stories. So it turns out it was all a misunderstanding or a dream. Then you get a double dose of the comfort. Once during the dream and then afterwards when you find out it wasn’t true.”

Hutch shook his head. It all sounded very complicated. “They hurt us? How?”

“You name it. We get shot. That happens all the time. Stabbings. Drownings. Car accidents. Poisonings. Deadly insect bites. Train wrecks. Explosions. Well, you get the idea. And let’s not forget life threatening diseases. Leukemia. Heart attacks. Pneumonia.”

Hutch was getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Starsk, please. I don’t want to hear anymore.”

But Starsky was just warming up.

“Perps with a grudge are always kidnapping us and beating us up. It’s a wonder either of us can remain vertical considering all the times we’ve had our ribs cracked and broken. Not to mention the bruises and welts from the whips and leather belts. And our brains have been scrambled so many times by concussions. People are always hitting us over the head. We’ve been blinded several times. And then there’s…”

“Starsky, please! I really don’t want to hear anymore.”

“It’s alright, Hutch. In the last few paragraphs we always recover and go on as if nothing ever happened.”

Desperate to change the subject, Hutch asked, “You said there was comfort. How does that work?”

“We touch a lot in what one writer called ‘a brotherly love fashion’. Hold hands. Squeeze each other’s shoulders. Run our hands through each other’s hair or stroke each other’s faces. Sometimes we even kiss each other on the forehead. But that’s like a last resort and only if there’s no hope of the other surviving. And then of course, we say things.”

“Like what?”

“Ohhh … Don’t leave me! I need you! I can’t live without you! I can’t do this without you! I love you!”

Starsky shifted, obviously uncomfortable at the soapy implications. “And we cry.”

“What?”

“Uh, huh. We sniffle, weep and blubber at the slightest provocation. Everything from tears streaming down our cheeks to full blown crying jags and sobbing in each other’s arms.”

“Oh, good grief!”

They were silent for a few minutes and then for no particular reason that Hutch could discern Starsky smiled at him. “What are you doing now?”

“This is my famous thousand watt smile. Or is it infamous? I can never remember. Anyway women find it even more endearing than my equally famous lopsided patented grin.”

“Well, stop it.”

Starsky immediately began to pout, looking at Hutch with his puppy dog eyes.

“Now what?” Hutch asked in exasperation.

“I was just checking to see if it was true. According to fanfic you can never resist me when I look at you like this.”

It was Hutch’s turn to shift uneasily. Maybe there was something to all this mumbo jumbo. It was true he was a sucker for that woebegone expression on his partner’s face.

“What else do they say about us?” He drained the first can of beer and immediately popped the top of a second.

“They think I have sexy buns.”

“Sexy what?”

“Butt. Rear end. You know… my tush.” Starsky waited for a sarcastic retort but Hutch only looked stunned. “I never walk into a room, I always saunter, strut or swagger. The Starsky chicks think that’s extremely sexy. Little do they know I only moved like that because Aaron Spelling made me wear my jeans so damn tight.”

“Starsky chicks?”

“That’s what my fans call themselves. You have your own clique — the Hutch babes.”

Hutch, who had been feeling a bit depressed at the thought of women drooling over Starsky’s tush encased in skin tight jeans, perked up at the thought of having a legion of devoted fans. “Yeah? What do they say about me?”

“They love your hair. Always carrying on about how blond it is and how the sunlight catches the golden strands and makes you look like an angel.” Starsky’s expression said exactly what he thought of that analogy. “And your hands. There are women who have a fetish about your long, lean, supple, strong but gentle hands. They just love when you wag your tapered index finger at someone. Makes them swoon.”

Hutch held up the hand that wasn’t holding the beer can and turned it from side to side. He had always thought his hands looked sorta aristocratic. His examination was interrupted by a question from Starsky.

“You want to hear about the clichés?”

“Sure, why not.”

“The Torino is always the striped tomato though a few writers have compared it to a Coke can which I thought was rather clever the first time. Your car is always referred to as the junk heap. When the writers can’t think of anything else for us to talk about we insult each other’s cars. Or we argue about food. I’m always hungry and my stomach growls constantly. I always have cold pizza and root beer for breakfast and burritos for lunch. You always call me a junk food junkie though you always give me a quarter so I can buy a candy bar. Which is another thing I do constantly. We always order pizza for dinner. There has to be some way to get those morning leftovers and it gives you a chance to eat something besides desiccated liver shakes, wheat germ and alfalfa sprouts. Even though in the fourth season you broadened your eating habits, in fanfic you always eat health foods.

“It’s a miracle we’re not alcoholics or our stomachs aren’t hanging over our belts because all we ever do is guzzle beer. And we must never sleep with all the coffee we drink. We must be on a permanent caffeine high.”

Starsky stopped to catch his breath before continuing.

“Whenever we go on vacation we always go to Dobey’s cabin at Pine Lake. You always rhapsodize about the trees and the fresh air and I always whine about being eaten by bears or chipmunks.”

“Starsk, you cannot be eaten by a chipmunk.”

“I know that. I was using them as a metaphor for all four legged creatures.”

Sometimes his partner’s thought processes were beyond Hutch’s understanding. He reached for another can of beer and waited for Starsky to go on.

“Whenever one of us is depressed we always go to the beach. We must have trudged up and down the entire coastline of California with all the walks we’ve taken.

“We’ve played so many games of Monopoly we should be in the Guinness Book of World Records. Or at least I should be listed as the world’s worst player because I always lose. Though when we play chess I always win so I guess it evens out.

“I always call you blondie, blintz or when I’m feeling really affectionate the blond blintz. You always call me Gordo. At least once in every story one of us has to call the other babe. And one of us has to say me and thee. Any writer who can work both into the same story is considered a genius.

“You had a miserable childhood. Your parents are cold domineering unfeeling rich people who gave you lots of material things but never any love or affection. You rarely speak to them because they disapprove of your career choice. Your father wanted you to be a doctor or a lawyer or take over the family business. I’m not sure how it ties in but I think that’s why you have this huge guilt complex.”

“Now wait just a minute. I have very nice parents. And what’s with this guilt thing?”

“I don’t know, Hutch, but in fanfic you always feel guilty about everything. The least little thing and you blame yourself. Anyone looking for you will find you off in the greenhouse whimpering and wallowing in guilt and remorse. Speaking of the plants, you’re always communing with them. Always talking to them. Always fiddling around with them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hutch snorted, though remembering Starsky’s earlier comment about big bellies he glanced guiltily at the third can of beer in his hand. “Where do these writers get such ideas?”

“From canon. Fanfic is just an exaggeration of anything we ever said or did on the show. Remember the year you were grumpy and referred to Christmas as euphoric sentimentalism?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, guess what, buddy. You’re the modern day reincarnation of Scrooge.”

“They think I ha…hate Christmas?”

“Uh, huh. And I forgot to mention that you always stutter. At least once in every story.”

“Let me get this straight. Because my parents supposedly didn’t love me I’m a stuttering guilt-ridden Christmas hating horticulturist with attractive hair and hands?”

“Yup. But you’re nice.”

“Nice!”

“Uh, huh. But I’m nicer. And I’m playful. Despite the traumatic death of my father and the angst of being sent away from my mother and brother at an early age, I’ve managed to hold onto an innocent and childlike enthusiasm for life. That’s why I always rip open my Christmas presents in wide eyed abandonment.

“And why I love creature feature movies and say schweetheart in an atrocious Bogie imitation. And why I have this fascination with watches. You have that old fashioned pocket watch but I always have an expensive wristwatch with lots of fancy dials and gizmos.

“And I’m not sure but I think that’s why I always oversleep and am always late. And don’t tell me not being punctual is another sign of my immaturity.”

“I don’t believe this. Starsky, are you listening to yourself?”

“A hundred writers can’t be wrong, Hutch,” Starsky said smugly. “I mean if they want to describe me as an adorable imp or a lovable tousled haired little boy, who am I to argue?”

Hutch almost choked and hastily swallowed his beer. “I’m nice but you’re adorable? Give me a break.”

“It’s not important how they describe us individually. So what if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth and are sometimes cold and sarcastic and like to occasionally flaunt your knowledge of caviar and ballet. Or that I’m street smart as shown by the fact I always drop my ‘g’s’ and use double negatives.

Or that I’m sometimes portrayed as this dumb gullible schmuck who’s naive and superstitious to the point of being a caricature. What’s important is The Relationship.”

Starsky emphasized the last words by drawing two quotation marks in the air. He picked up a piece of paper from the table. “Let’s see… we’re partners. Best friends. Buddies. Pals. Comrades in arms. Brothers in everything but name. Two halves of a whole. That’s a biggie. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been called that.

“We’re kindred spirits. I’d die for you. You’d die for me. And should one of us ever die, the other will always feel it because we’re soulmates. That’s also why we always carry on entire conversations without saying a word.”

“Starsk…” Hutch never got a chance to finish his sentence. Blue eyes locked with blue eyes. Without words, in the empathic silent communication they had perfected over the years, each knew what the other was thinking and smiles appeared on their devastatingly handsome faces.

“So we’re going to show them how to write a great hurt/comfort story, huh?” Hutch asked as he joined his friend on the floor.

“Yeah. I’ve been doing all this research and I found a big hurt that no one’s written about yet.”

“Well, from what you rattled off, it sounds like the only ones not done so far are beheadings and being burned at the stake.”

“Hey, those are good. Hadn’t thought of those. Maybe we can use them in our next story. For this one I thought we’d go with a paper cut.”

“Starsky,” Hutch rubbed his hand over his eyes like he always did in fanfic, “that’s ridiculous.”

“Paper cuts are very painful, Hutch,” Starsky said in the plaintive whine he always used because he knew his partner could never resist him when he used that tone.

“I know but… oh, what the hell. Let me see what you’ve written so far.”

Hutch let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as his long slender tapered fingers patted, stroked and caressed Starsky’s wild unruly tangled and sleep tousled mane of dark chocolate curls.

“Huuuutch,” Starsky cried as tears streamed from the depths of his beautiful cobalt sapphire blue eyes. “My finger hurts.”

Hutch blinked back the tears in his own aquamarine sea blue eyes. He had promised Starsky he would never hurt him and now his partner, best friend, soulmate and brother in everything but name, lay writhing in agony and it was all his fault! His guilt ran rampant and a stray sunbeam glinted off his silky golden blond hair as he bowed his head in remorse.

Knowing they only had a few minutes before Starsky went into shock from the blood loss from the horrific paper cut, Hutch grasped his cold limp hand in a death grip. Starsky was his lifeline and no force on earth was going to tear them apart!

Hoping to reassure his partner everything would be alright, Hutch spoke in his calm soft quiet gentle soothing voice.

“Everything’s going to be alright, babe,” he crooned, clasping Starsky in his arms in a vain attempt to take some of his friend’s pain into his own body. “Just hang on. I can’t do this without you! Remember me and thee.”

“You know something, Starsk?”

“Hmmm?”

“This isn’t bad.”

“Told ya. Like that old saying says, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

“Sure. So what happens next? How about you moan a little more and then I’ll…”

End

Chapter End Notes:

Ouch, That Hurts by mutt and jeff became an instant fanfic classic, becoming the only story to ever win first place honors in all categories of the 2002 Torino Awards.