Lock Out

Home improvement doesn’t always go as planned. At least for Starsky and Hutch it doesn’t.

Published in the 2025 SHarecon Countdown Calendar. Based on a true story.

Hutch pressed his hands to his lower back and took a few steps back, surveying the newly painted window frames.

“Looks pretty good. Guess we aren’t such bad fixer-uppers,” Starsky said as he came up beside him. “Your back hurting, babe?”

Warm hands rested against his skin, and Hutch let out a groan. “Yeah.”

“How ’bout we go inside and you can take a nice hot shower while I grill some steaks?”

“How ’bout you add a massage to that?” Hutch smiled.

Starsky moved one hand lower and swatted Hutch on the ass. “That all I’m good for? Cooking and massaging?”

Hutch laughed as he moved towards the door. “I can think of a few other things.”

He reached out to open the door and discovered the door handle wasn’t there. He sighed as he noticed the handle had once again fallen out.

“Starsk? I thought you were going to fix this the other day while I was in court.” Hutch felt his irritation growing. The storm door had been giving them trouble for the past few weeks. It seemed every third or fourth time they turned the handle on the inside, the outside part fell off. Starsky’d promised to fix it for good the day before while Hutch testified in yet another case related to Gunther.

Hutch muttered a curse as he bent over to pick up the handle. He went to screw the handle on, only to discover there was nothing to screw it on to.

“What’s wrong?” Starsky peered over his shoulder.

“This. This is wrong.” Hutch shook the useless door handle. “The pin slipped in and it won’t attach.”

Starsky took the handle from Hutch and tried the same thing Hutch did not a minute before. “Huh.”

“I told you.” Hutch grabbed the handle back. “Get the needle nose pliers. We can probably pull it out with that.”

He knew something was wrong the minute he looked at Starsky who’d suddenly found his sneakers very interesting.

“They’re in the garage aren’t they?”

Starsky nodded. “Yeah. That’s where they are alright. Right on the work table.”

“And…”

“The garage is locked.”

Hutch patted his jeans and realized his keys were hanging from a hook right inside the door.

“I’m guessing you don’t have your keys,” Hutch said. He gave an assessing gaze at Starsky’s cut offs and realized there was barely enough room for Starsky’s cock and balls, much less a key. He ignored the twitch of his own cock as he continued to look at his partner—paint-spattered tanned legs, strained zipper, his ass barely covered by the tattered remnants of one of his oldest pair of jeans.

Starsky shrugged. “Maybe we can crawl in a window.”

“The windows are locked.”

Starsky held his hands out to his sides. ”

Hutch ran a hand through his hair and then rubbed his nose. He snapped his fingers. “Huggy has a key.”

“He’s in San Francisco visiting a cousin.” Starsky crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe.

Hutch swallowed hard and closed his eyes against that languid gaze Starsky was giving him. “I guess we’ll have to break one of the windows.”

“With what we paid to have them replaced?” Starsky reached out and placed his left hand on Hutch’s forehead.

Hutch batted his hand away. “What are you doing?”

“Just wanted to check if my dearly beloved is delirious with fever because he ignored the cost of something.” Starsky had the nerve to laugh.

“Look. I’m hot. I’m sweaty.”

“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Damn it, Starsk. This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” Starsky’s voice raised to match Hutch’s own.

“Yes. Your fault. You said you were going to get it fixed. You told me not to worry and that you had it covered. And now…” Hutch ran a hand through his hair. “We’re out here for God knows how long because we can’t even get in the garage to get something to fix our door.”

Hutch didn’t fail to notice the way Starsky’s eyes narrowed and glinted darker than usual. “Maybe if we’d bought the door I wanted, the damn thing wouldn’t have fallen apart, Mr. Squeeze a Nickel til it screams.”

“Starsk.” Hutch watched as Starsky stalked off around the corner of the house. He took one step towards him and then turned back to the door.

There was no way he was going to give in on this—this was all Starsky’s fault. He looked at the bushes planted by the front door. Maybe he could break off a twig and pry the bolt forward.

“Damn it.” Hutch shook his hand and looked at the bleeding scratch on his finger. The twig he’d managed to procure looked rather pathetic compared to how it looked on the bush. He made a half hearted attempt to dislodge the bolt but threw the twig away in disgust. And although, in the bigger scheme of things, the scratch on his finger was minor, it hurt. He made a fist and pounded on the door frames—which didn’t help the hurt, but at least it helped some of his frustration.

“Starsky!” He yelled but there was no answer.

“Stupid door.” He kicked the frame for good measure and now his foot hurt too. At least no one was going to break in the house with how sturdy it seemed.

He sighed and leaned against the door, only to feel it wobble beneath his weight.

“Move it, Hutchinson,” Starsky said from inside the house.

Hutch straightened and Starsky opened the door.

“What? How?”

“The side door into the garage wasn’t locked, dummy. Remember I went in to get us lemonade earlier? You said to go that way because you didn’t want to clean up any paint. And while I was at it, I called Babcock’s brother in law to come and fix the handle.” Starsky grinned at him.

Hutch didn’t respond to the grin, and he stalked in through the door, deliberately avoiding touching Starsky in any way. He was hot, his foot hurt, his finger hurt, his back hurt, and, for a minute, he regretted their decision to ever buy this broken down old house.

He stomped into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and didn’t give a damn that they lay on a pile in the middle of the floor. He knew Starsky hated clothes not being put in the hamper, unless they had wound up on the floor because they’d pulled them off each other in their eagerness to get to bed.

He got into the shower and turned on the spray. “Fuck!” He nearly fell as he took a step backwards to avoid the ice cold water. Sure he was hot, but he didn’t want to end up shivering.

He adjusted the knobs and finally the temperature was perfect—barely above lukewarm. He grabbed shampoo and scrubbed his scalp, rinsed it and then picked up the soap Starsky usually bought for him. He inhaled the citrus-y, minty scent and felt the tension in his shoulders and jaw release.

“Love you using this,” Starsky said once when he’d come home with it. “Plus it says it’s good for the environment. Handmade by some communist group.”

“I think you mean co-op,” Hutch said after he read the label.

He smiled in the shower at the memory of what came after that exchange. Starsky insisting on making sure every inch of Hutch’s body was thoroughly washed.

Abruptly pulled out of the happy reminiscence as the water went from pleasant to what felt like boiling because Starsky had probably flushed the toilet in the half bath, he cursed every cent they’d put into this house. Should have stayed renting Venice Place or Starsky’s apartment, even if they’d both fallen in love with the bones of this place.

The first time they’d walked in through the front door with the real estate agent, he knew this was the place where he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Starsky—with the worn hardwood floors where countless feet had passed, with the little bit of stained glass above the bay window in the living room, with the patio that Starsky loved out the back door. The added bonus of it being within their budget helped seal the deal.

The water temperature went back to bearable and Hutch finished rinsing off. He stepped out of the tub and grabbed for a towel. It was warm-fresh out of the dryer. Starsky must have snuck into the bathroom while he showered-his partner always cat-light on his feet, and deposited the towel as a gift, a little ‘I know what you need right now and this is it’ gesture.

Hutch wrapped it around his waist and when he went into the bedroom discovered his dirty clothes were no longer on the floor, but out of sight in the hamper. On the bed, his favorite green t-shirt, soft with wear, and a pair of jeans lay waiting for him to put them on.

When he finally walked into the living room, he could hear Starsky singing on the patio while he stood at the grill. He looked at the kitchen table where a bottle of wine chilled in an ice bucket and a huge salad rested in their fanciest bowl. Hutch grabbed the bucket and the bowl and carried them out to the patio.

After depositing his burden on the picnic table, Hutch walked up behind Starsky and wrapped his arms around Starsky’s waist.

“Hey.” He nuzzled the dark curls on Starsky’s nape and planted a kiss on the salty, slightly damp skin there.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Ken Hutchinson?” Starsky grinned despite his words.

“I sent that guy down the drain.”

“Good.” Starsky turned around in Hutch’s arms. “Didn’t much like that guy.”

“Me neither, Starsk.” Hutch sighed as Starsky kissed him. He reluctantly dropped his arms when Starsky pulled away to turn back to the grill.

“Don’t want to let the steaks burn.” Starsky waved tongs at him. “Sit down, relax, I got everything covered.”

“I’m sorry,” Hutch said as he obeyed Starsky’s orders.

Starsky looked at him and shook his head. “You’re always uptight after a Gunther trial.”

“I am?” Hutch sat back and looked at the plates on the table. Starsky had put out the few pieces of Hutch’s grandmother’s china they had, along with silver candlesticks.

“Of course. You think I didn’t notice? So,” Starsky came to the table with the steaks on a platter, “I’m sorry too.”

Hutch nodded. “Glad we got that settled. Wining and dining me, Starsk? Is that the bottle of champagne Huggy gave us as a housewarming present?”

Starsky popped the cork and grinned. “Yep.” He poured the bubbly into Hutch’s glass before his own.

“I thought we were saving this for a special occasion?”

“It is a special occasion. I’m calling it ‘done with painting the windows and not being locked out of the house’ night.” Starsky raised his glass and held it out for Hutch to clink with his own.

Hutch couldn’t help smiling at his partner. All the anger, all the worry, all of everything that he couldn’t control melted away at Starsky’s smile. He didn’t know why or how the universe had allowed them to find each other, and then, even more than that, become friends who grew into lovers. He felt a rush of overwhelming love and tenderness.

He clinked his glass with Starsky’s. “Here’s to us. And to forever.”

Starsky echoed his words softly before taking a sip of the champagne. Then he sat down his glass, picked up his knife and fork and winked at Hutch. “Time to eat. You’re gonna love the dessert I have planned for later tonight.”

“I can hardly wait.” Hutch set down his own glass and began cutting his steak. Starsky better watch out-he had a few ideas for dessert planned too.