Post Game

798

Middle of the night reflections on stupid games, life, Buddy Holly, and mushrooms.

 

The archivist wishes to thank Vedette Ciel for retrieving Paula’s stories from the Me and Thee Archive. And special thanks go to Keri T. who has made sure Paula’s work will continue to be available to Starsky & Hutch fans.

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Hutch blinked his eyes in the darkness of his bedroom, the soft sounds of night having hushed away the day’s chatter. Windows open, Hutch knew that is must be late, as the sounds of the traffic were muted and sporadic and seemed so far away. His sensitive ears heard a soft sound from the living room, and he quietly pushed himself and padded from the alcove.

“Starsk?”

“Right here, you okay?” Starsky sat up straighter on the couch. “What’sa matter?”

“Nothin’,” Hutch assured him. “Why are you still up? What time is it?”

Starsky leaned his head against the sofa back. “Bout three,” he allowed. “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.” He closed his eyes and yawned. “Not tired at all.”

“No, not much,” Hutch allowed fondly. “You want some company?” He moved over to sit beside his friend.

Starsky smiled, reached out, and patted him on the knee. “No, I’m fine, Blintz, but you need your beauty sleep. You got botulism written all over your pretty face.”

Hutch laughed softly. “Well,” he said, “I look better than I did, anyway. And I feel okay, honest.”

“Sure you do.” Even in the dim light provided by the flickering of the silent television set, Hutch’s eyes were dark smudges, the illustration to all he’d been through physically in the last week. “You look like hell.”

“Starsk, they wouldn’t have let me out of the hospital if I weren’t okay. You know that.”

“I know.” Starsky sighed, then turned away and yawned, hard. “I know.”

“You’re the one who needs sleep,” Hutch squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

Starsky peered at him through the flickering night. “Hard,” he said, “sometimes I–”

“I know,” Hutch assured him. “Hard to let go of that… that… whatever that is.”

“Yeah.”

“Hard for me too, a lot of times.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s just that I — why in hell did we–”

“I don’t know,” Hutch said, shrugging a shoulder. He smiled self-consciously. “We do a lot of dumb stuff. It would have been fun if–”

“You were so sick.”

“Yeah.”

“Sucked the fun right out of the game, not knowing… and then not being able to…”

“Starsk, you did it all once you found me. It’s okay.”

Starsky shrugged listlessly, and rubbed at burning eyes. He buried his face in both hands and yawned, then he smiled sheepishly. “Really. I’m not sleepy.”

“You need to go back to bed.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re the one who was…”

“I’m not the one who’s drowsing off here now, Starsk,” Hutch told him. Hutch reached an arm across Starsky’s shoulders and drew him closer, and Starsky, in his turn, slid his arm around Hutch’s lower back, between the soft cotton pajamas, and his light bathrobe. Hutch lay his cheek on Starsky’s head, feeling the soft disarray of the tangled curls, smelling that mixture of shampoo and soap and partner that was uniquely Starsky.

“You smellin’ my head?” Starsky asked, amusement in his tone.

“Smells a lot better than burning vinyl,” Hutch told him, squeezing his shoulder to reinforce that he was teasing. “I think there’s still a slice of Buddy Holly left, if you’re hungry.”

“Got any mushrooms?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Starsky said, settling against his partner with a shivering yawn. “About that…”

“Starsk, it doesn’t matter,” Hutch told him. “Honest. I told you that.”

“But there were only eight of them…”

“Seven, now.” Hutch smiled.

“There are only seven of them…” Starsky wrapped his other arm around Hutch and hugged him tightly.

“But there’s only one you, one Starsky,” Hutch said, softly.

“Who almost let you down.” Starsky ran his aching forehead against Hutch’s shoulder.

“You didn’t.”

“I could have. What if–”

“I trust you,” Hutch said, simply. “That’s all there is to it. I always know that you…”

Starsky raised his head, eyes blinking tiredly. “I do,” he said.

“I know.”

Starsky was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I don’t know how you do it,” he said, finally.

“Do what?”

“Have all that faith in me — that trust. Stay so calm.”

Hutch laughed quietly. “That’s easy,” he said. “Meditation.”

“Meditation, huh?” Starsky nestled in closer, tightening his hold as a massive yawn worked its way through his frame. He turned his head into Hutch’s chest and yawned again, not quite as deeply. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Hutch asked. “Being exhausted? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You should go back to bed,” Starsky told him, letting his eyes drift closed.

“Nah,” Hutch answered. “I’m really comfy. You sleep like this?”

“Abso–ab….” Starsky yawned again, his jaw aching from the effort. “…lutely.”

“Me too.” Hutch scrunched down a little on the sofa, the embrace shared more comforting than anything else he could think of. He reached up and rubbed his own eyes. “I’m kinda tired too,” he admitted. “Hey?”

“Mmm?” Starsky murmured, already nearly asleep.

“You want some soup?”

Starsky chuckled silently, but the warmth of it bathed Hutch in comfort and serenity. “Nah,” he answered, after a few minutes.

“Okay. Let’s go to sleep, then.”

“M’kay.”

“One question before you start snoring on me, huh?”

“Yah huh, sure…”

“What was the deal with that closet, anyhow?”

Starsky’s eyes popped open. “Uh…”