Nuts

Hutch wonders if he’s going nuts.

Originally published in the zine Blue Eyes and Blue Jeans 2 in 1996 by Linda McGee and Pat Massie, Idiot Triplets Press.

Hutch pressed the back of his head against the rough tree bark, grinding his scalp just hard enough for it to hurt. The sunshine dazzled his closed eyes, and the feel of the tree trunk digging into his back allowed his mind to wander further. Still, the pain in his spirit was so great that no external sensation distracted him for long. He sighed, opening his eyes and shifting his seat a bit. He had been sitting so long that the pebbles under the seat of his jeans were beginning to feel like spikes.

He wasn’t complaining. At least he could still feel something. Starsky wouldn’t mind the hardness of the earth, or its dampness, even though he would sleep under it for the rest of time.

Damn. A slightly sweaty hand angrily rubbed across his face. He could feel a sunburn blooming just under the surface of his skin. Not that he particularly cared; no one would dare point out to him that he was red or peeling. He wasn’t exactly approachable these days. Even Dobey knew better than to call Hutch on his increasingly bad temper. In the past, Dobey had mostly left that up to Starsk…

A sharp backward jerk of his head into the tree trunk made Hutch’s eyes water with pain. There. You got something better to think about now, Hutchinson? He felt grim satisfaction with this self-punishment. However, an unexpected tap on the top of his scalp brought his eyes open.

Nothing. The little park looked the same as when he had come here, about forty-five minutes ago. It was fairly quiet for a city park, and was mostly deserted in the morning hours, which is why he had found himself wandering here whenever he got a chance. No one would bother him. The blue jay that had been screeching above his head in the hickory tree was an exception he could easily tolerate. He smiled—almost—and closed his eyes again.

Since he couldn’t banish Starsky from his thoughts for any length of time, Hutch tried to focus on the good memories. It was the hardest at night, when he ached to reach out for the warm muscular body that should still be beside him.

He was not sleeping well. The only time he managed to drift off was when he was totally exhausted from work, or when he was able to work up a really convincing fantasy that Starsky was there with him. The trick to it—providing he was able to concentrate hard enough—was to immerse himself in the sensations he associated with making love to his partner. The sweet-salt taste of his skin, the subtle fragrance of his hair and body, the feel of slender, calloused fingers gently working at Hutch’s cock… Once, he had successfully carried the fantasy to the point that he could actually feel himself sliding into Starsky’s tender, warm opening. He had rigidly controlled the pumping of his hips, careful not to hurt his lover, yet filled with a raging passion to merge wholly with this beautiful, loving man. He was so spent afterward that he fell immediately to sleep, and actually cried with disappointment when he woke up the next morning to find that it hadn’t been real…

Hutch rubbed his face again, hard. No, the things to think about were the dazzling, unself-conscious smile, the way Starsky’s eyes filled with pain when he knew Hutch was hurting, the cocky, self-assured swagger, the very bad jokes—even his sometimes nauseating taste in food.

Crack! This time it was more than a tap. His eyes snapped open in time to see the hickory nut on the rebound as it fell off his scalp. He rubbed his head as he peered up into the branches above. There—bright beady eyes looked down and a bushy grey tail flicked, almost as if the squirrel bombardier was laughing at its target. Hutch couldn’t help himself—he grinned up at the rambunctious rodent, who seemed to be smiling back. Hutch had always loved animals, and he was grateful for the lift to his spirits. After all, it had been six weeks since he’d last felt like smiling.

His head dropped forward. Damn. How could he forget, even for a minute…. A third nut bounced off his shoulder.

“Hey, you; show a little respect, willya?” The squirrel chittered gleefully, and inched further down the tree. Hutch watched as it placed careful paws on the bark, easing its way casually along the trunk, until it was a scant four feet above his head.

“Better watch it, squirt. I could grab you if I stood up.” The squirrel did not seem impressed by this observation. In fact, it crept even closer, giving the man a good look at its curious eyes and the little curly patch of fur on its forehead. Hutch had never seen a squirrel with curls or wavy fur; he sharpened his gaze, and saw how the hair became darker, almost black, between the small, round ears.

“Looks just like you’re wearing a toupee, little guy. I guess even squirrels get a little thin on top when they’re middle-aged, huh?” The creature declined to comment on this impolite statement. Instead, it crept still closer, seemingly charmed by the sound of the human voice. Hutch sat fascinated as the beast inched down foot by foot, until it was staring him in the face as he craned his neck to look up. He could see every detail of the little face, including the deep blue eyes…

Hutch yelped as he banged his head against the tree yet again—this time unintentionally. The squirrel immediately vanished back up the tree. No. There’s no way any squirrel ever had blue eyes. Have I finally flipped? He massaged his head and neck, flicking bits of bark from his hair. Still, he couldn’t keep from sneaking a look back up the trunk.

Sure enough, the little sylvan acrobat was on its way down again. Hutch sat motionless, trying not to frighten it. He needn’t have worried. The squirrel was cautious but hardly timid. It crept even closer this time, seeming fascinated by the human face before it. The tiny paws grasped the bark firmly, and the tail flicked with suppressed excitement. Hutch found himself holding his breath in the last few seconds before he could clearly see the creature’s eyes. He was not mistaken. They were a beautiful sapphire blue—and one of them closed in a knowing familiar wink.

“Starsk!” Hutch was on his feet in a minute, but the small furry form hurtled itself up the tree. It paused on a branch, chattering rodent invective down at the nearly frantic man. “Starsky!” he hissed. “Get down here!” The woodland sprite showed no signs of obeying. Hutch was nearly trembling with awe and reluctant hope. “Dammit, is that you?”

Hutch forced himself to sit back down at the base of the tree. That’s it—just act casual and he’ll come back down. He’s probably just confused or something. What is this—reincarnation? Whatever, I won’t let you down, Starsk. His mind didn’t quite add “this time.” He’d never believe there wasn’t something he could have done to stop Gunther.

Now, he had more immediate things on his mind; the squirrel was staring down again. Hutch sat stock still, trying not to look up too frequently. For god’s sake, don’t scare him off now. But how am I going to get hold of him? Will he let me touch him? I don’t think he really knows who he is yet.

Hutch was still turning these thoughts over in his head when he sneaked another glance upwards, and saw that the squirrel was gone. What? Where’d he go? Hutch sprang to his feet and looked around the trunk. No squirrel. He peered up at the branches, walking around the base of the hickory, and was very near panic when he saw a flash of grey about twenty feet away.

Yes, that was the one. But why was it heading away from the human? Then Hutch saw another furry form at the base of a nearby jacaranda. This newcomer seemed very interested in Starsk—er, his squirrel. By the time Hutch recognized the tell-tale signs of romantic attraction, his squirrel had reached the female. She patted a paw at the male coyly and began moving away. To Hutch’s amazement, “Starsky” followed.

The frustrated man bellowed, “You two-bit hustler! Get your tail back here now!” Hutch watched as the tail in question flicked dismissively in his direction before vanishing behind the jacaranda.

* * * *

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, shaking until Hutch opened his eyes. He was lying in the hospital bed next to Starsky, who was munching on the bag of redskin peanuts Hutch had brought him this visit. “Whatsamatter, blondie? You havin’ a nightmare or somethin’?”

Hutch’s eyes gratefully drank in the sight of his partner who, he was remembering, had not died in Gunther’s attack—not permanently, anyway. Starsky’s cheeks bulged with peanuts. For a second, Hutch gaped at him, reminded sharply of the furry visage in his dream.

“Talk to me,” Starsky mumbled through the mouthful of food. “You didn’t useta thrash around so much when you were dreamin’. And why’d you keep yellin’ ‘squirrel trap’?”

Starsky never quite understood why Hutch swung a pillow into his face.