Lending a Hand

904

Set after “Vendetta.” One of those long, boring evening stakeouts.

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“What time is it?” Ken Hutchinson pushed a pair of blue Adidas-covered feet off the top of the car’s front seat with his elbow, rousing their wearer.

“Hey! I was almost asleep, asshole! What?” Starsky grumped, rubbing his face and yanking a handful of unruly hair in a gesture of irritation.

“I asked what time is it. You’re the one that’s always bragging about that watch of yours. ‘The dial glows in the dark, Hutch.’ How many times this week alone have I had to hear about that goddamn watch?”

“One hundred and twenty-nine, I’ve been countin’.” Shot back his partner sarcastically, but he looked down at the watch’s luminous dial on his left wrist. “It’s exactly 2:04 a.m. which makes it exactly twenty two minutes since the last time you asked me. Wanna know what time it is in New York?”

“Not really.” Hutch sighed and shifted his head against the front seat of the LTD. “It’ll just remind me that there are some sane, normal people in the world who might actually be in bed asleep.” He absently scratched under the bandage still healing skin on the back of his right hand.

“You ain’t never been to New York if you think that. There’s a reason they call it ‘the city that never sleeps’. We’ll discuss ‘normal’ later.” Starsky grinned and leaned over the seat in front of him, the grin turning into a huge yawn he didn’t bother to cover.

“Hand still itchin’ like crazy?” He asked, swinging up a leg to crawl over the front seat next to Hutch.

“Be careful, Dummy, you almost kicked me in the head last time.” Hutch instinctively protected his still tender hand from an accidental brush.

Starsky scrambled into the seat. “Sorry about that, but at least it wasn’t anything important in danger.” He grinned again, and ducked as Hutch aimed a half-hearted slap at the side of his head.

“You don’t wanna be hittin’ my hard head with that sore hand of yours now, Blondie, cuz I know it’s still hurtin’.”

“It’s okay, just sore and itchy now. Driving me nuts.” Hutch scratched ineffectively again at the bandage.

“Yer not supposed to be scratchin it. The doc said so.” Starsky pulled the hand in question to him and gently held it as he slapped Hutch’s left lightly on the back. “So stop scratchin.”

“You gonna hold my hand all night, there, partner?” Hutch raised an inquiring brow, and smiled.

“Sometimes, sacrifices must be made in the name of partnership.” Starsky uttered with mock solemnity. “I’m willin to do whatever it takes.” He held onto the hand, patting it carefully, then sliding his hand up Hutch’s arm in a familiar, comforting gesture.

“Been a pain in the ass not having my right hand.” Hutch complained. “And now it’s being held hostage by a moron.” He rolled his eyes, but made no effort to pull his hand away.

“That’s right. Just take it all out on your old buddy Starsky. Having your right hand out of commission must be frustrating, considering how busy your right hand must get sometimes.” Starsky leered knowingly, his features satyr-like in the dim glow of the nearby streetlights.

“You have the dirtiest mind of anyone I know, you know that, Stark?” Hutch made an attempt to pull his bandaged hand back.

“You say the nicest things, sweetheart.” Starsky simpered playfully, batting his lashes and blowing a kiss at the man sitting next to him.

Hutch rolled his eyes in earnest. “Is that all you ever think about, food and sex?”

“Hutch, I’m 34, single, I’m healthy as a horse, and I’m a guy. Which means that’s about the dumbest question you ever asked me.”

“Are you trying to imply there’s something wrong with me?” Hutch frowned at him, the prominent crease between his brows deepening.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Starsky evaded. His hand still rested possessively on Hutch’s arm.

“What the hell kind of answer is that?”

“The kind that keeps me from getting my nose punched by a pissed off, sex deprived Blintz?” Starsky ventured sheepishly.

“I’m not sexually deprived, Mr. Buttinsky.” Hutch countered irritably, finally succeeding in reclaiming his now fiercely itching hand. He gave Starsky a defiant look and gave it a good thorough scratch.

“Well, I figured with Abby gone and all….” Starsky’s comment trailed off into the glare of two indignant blue eyes. “Sorry.”

The contrite tone did nothing to relieve Hutch’s growing irritability. His hand was beginning to burn from the overly enthusiastic scratching he’d just given it.

“I don’t want to talk about Abby, or my fucking messed up hand, or my currently non-existent sex life.” He paused in mid rant then let out a long sigh. “Fuck, my hand really hurts now. Godammit.”

“Told ya, you big stubborn dope. Give it here.”

Hutch surrendered his aching hand. Starsky began to gently remove the gauze and tape still the red irritated flesh was exposed.

“Got that burn stuff here with ya, that plant stuff?”

“It’s aloe vera and it’s in a bottle in the glove box.”

“We’ll just slap some of that glop on it and it’ll be good as new. If you’re a good boy and don’t scratch anymore, Dr. Starsky will give you a lollipop.”

Hutch snorted, trying not to laugh as Starsky retrieved the bottle, opened it and slathered some of the soothing gel on his hand.

“Just leave that on there.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Hutch mocked him.

“It’s been a long time since I played doctor.” Starsky giggled lasciviously, a sound Hutch always found incongruous with his normal resonant baritone. “The first time was Darlene DiMoochi in the 6th grade. She was a nice Catholic girl who would show you her day of the week panties for a dime.”

“I like those kind of nice Catholic girls.” Hutch agreed, chuckling appreciatively.

“Didn’t you marry one of those?” Starsky asked, between barks of laughter.

“Oh, right. I guess I did, except she wasn’t Catholic. And it cost a hell of a lot more than a dime.” Hutch laughed ruefully.

“Yeah, well, fuck her and her cousin, I never liked her anyway.” Starsky said fiercely.

“Well, everyone else did.” Hutch shrugged in feigned nonchalance.

“I hated that greedy bitch, I don’t care how hot lookin’ she was.” Starsky ground his teeth. “Let’s change the subject. I’m getting depressed.”

“Yeah, if I’m lucky I’ll never lay eyes on her again.” Hutch said soberly.

“From your mouth to God’s ear, buddy. How’s the hand?”

“Better, I should have just done that in the first place. Get the first aid box and help me bandage it back up, will ya?’

“Sure thing, although I’m all thumbs at this Florence Nightingale shit.”

“You do fine. You’re not the cutest nurse I ever had, but you’re usually there when I need you.” Hutch smiled at him, one of those rare smiles that lit up his eyes, the kind Starsky wished he could see more often.

“Stop it, you’re making me blush.” Starsky dug around in the little box until he found a roll of gauze and tape. “Gimme that big paw of yours.”

Hutch once again surrendered his injured hand, and with a modicum of fumbling it was soon encased in a sturdy if not expert bandage.

“There you go,” Starsky reached over and patted his friend’s fine blond hair. “And you were a big boy too. No crying. I’m so proud of you.”

“Starsk.” Hutch protested, but he leaned into the petting, resting his head on the broad shoulder beside him.

“Gotta keep up my bedside manner, don’t want no complaints.” Starsky grinned then impulsively leaned over and pressed a kiss on the fair strands.

“You’re too good to me, Starsk.” Even in the dim light, Starsky could see the faint flush on his friend’s fair cheekbones.

“Nothing’s too good for you, Hutch.”

The End