Nailed

A SH vignette.

First published in Venice Place Chronicles, Volume VIII.

Hutch blamed it on the fence.

Or maybe the nail, the long rusty one, sticking three inches out of the board Starsky broke when he tumbled over the fence.

Although, in all honesty, blamed might be putting it too strongly because he wasn’t complaining about how it’d all ended up.

But still, if it hadn’t been for that fence and the nail….

If it hadn’t been for them, Starsky wouldn’t have ripped his pants or cut his thigh. Which is what led them all to this.

Then again, if it hadn’t been for the perp Starsky’d been chasing, he never would’ve jumped the fence.

So, maybe this was all the perp’s doing.

Except, no, he didn’t want the perp getting the credit. Or blame. Or whatever.

So, definitely the fence.

Or the nail.

Or maybe it was the new woman in records. The red-head that took over when Minnie retired.

After all, this was hardly the first time Hutch had had to patch his partner up. He just usually didn’t have to fight off red-headed octopi to do it.

So, it might be the red-head’s fault, doing, whatever, because if she’d just kept her well manicured claws to herself, Hutch might have gone an entire lifetime without realizing just how intensely he hated seeing someone’s hand on Starsky’s thigh. Right up high, where only his hand should be.

And if that thought hadn’t shook him, the urge to shove her away when her hand inched just that much higher sure had.

Not that it had stopped him.

From shoving her off the chair, that is, not from having the thoughts. Because as he gently smoothed the antibiotic cream over Starsky’s cut, he’d had lots more thoughts, of lots more places he’d like to smooth his hands over.

And Starsk, well, Starsky didn’t seem to mind at all. Hutch didn’t think it was his imagination that Starsky had leaned in a little closer to him, had pressed his thigh a little firmer against Hutch’s hand, had looked at him longer and harder as he’d softly thanked Hutch, “babe” slipping easily off his tongue.

But even then it might not have gone any further if the octopus hadn’t decided that what Starsky really needed was a home cooked meal. In her home. With her eight arms trying to make him comfortable.

What? There were eight of them. Hutch had counted while trying to fight her off his partner. There’s no way she could have been in that much of his space without at least eight.

Not that it matters, because, hey, she’s history now, isn’t she?

Not that Hutch is feeling the least bit smug about that. Because he isn’t.

Much.

But, anyway, dinner and the octopus.

Like Hutch wasn’t perfectly capable of fixing Starsky dinner. Like he didn’t know what all of Starsky’s favorites were. Hadn’t already discussed it, at length, with Starsky’s mother.

Which, really, wasn’t all that unusual. It was just what partners did. Right?

So, anyway, dinner. At Hutch’s. With no octopus in sight. Just a little pot roast, some red wine.

Nothing that any other partners wouldn’t do for each other.

And if he’d needed to check the cut on Starsky’s thigh, by firelight, well, that was just being cautious, right? After all, it was his job to take care of his partner. If something happened to Starsky, who would have his back?

So, really, it was a completely justified inspection.

Even after he’d undressed Starsky completely. Because, after all, he couldn’t completely trust Starsky to tell him if he was hurt somewhere else. So, yeah, he’d had to check for himself.

Brushing his lips across Starsky’s thigh? Well, that was how his own mother had checked for a fever.

Okay, so she had brushed her lips across his forehead, but Starsky’s thigh had been right there and it wasn’t like Starsky was one for putting up with a lot of fussing. So he had to take his opportunities when they arose.

And if anything else happened to rise with them, well….

Not that Hutch was feeling the least bit smug about that, either. Or whatever….

Because, hey, they were two completely normal, healthy partners and it was to be expected.

Right?

And if Starsky had insisted, insisted, on returning the favor, because Hutch couldn’t be too careful about his back. Well, like he’d said, partners just took care of each other.

So, Hutch’s clothes had ended up in a pile on top of Starsky’s, as Starsk had crouched over him and massaged his way up Hutch’s body, making sure to work out each kink.

Not that Hutch had any kinks, outside of those in his back. Certainly not any that involved his partner and a set of regulation handcuffs.

Because, that was just….

Really….

Where were we?

Regulation handcuffs….

No! Massage. Right, massage.

And if Starsky had decided, completely of his own accord, that they couldn’t be too careful of Hutch’s trick knee and had made Hutch turn over….

Well, yeah, of course he did, because Starsky was a damn fine partner and that’s what partners did for each other. They took care of each other.

They took care of each other.

Lots and lots of care of each other.

Hours of taking care of each other.

In front of the fireplace.

And the kitchen table. After putting up the pot roast, because Hutch knew how much Starsky loved leftover pot roast sandwiches.

In the bedroom.

Three times.

And if, out of no where, Hutch had a sudden fondness for the backseat of his partner’s car, well, they were partners and Starsky loved the stupid thing, so, yeah, of course Hutch had to come… That is, grew to… Anyway, the car wasn’t so bad. Any more.

So, really, in the end, it wasn’t blame so much as gratitude.

The only real problem was, how do you send a thank you card to a fence?

Or was it the nail?

Chapter End Notes:

Author’s Note: For Keri. Who’s always excited by everything I write, even grocery lists. I could only possibly adore her more if she’d let me kill Kendall. Really brutally.