Red Badges

Originally published in the SHareCon 2023 zine. Many thanks to editors Daisy Morgan and Babs, the rest of the CONspirators, and especially Mama Bird ?

They were lying together, face to face and skin to skin, washed in the glow of moonlight and fanned by the cool breeze drifting in from the open window. As seductions went, this one had been quite successful and Starsky had been silently congratulating himself, right up until the moment Hutch paused, his hand pressed against Starsky’s shoulder blade.

The left one.

His fingertips began to trace a small circle on his skin, over and over.

“Aw, babe,” Starsky murmured, a little dismayed. He angled his face toward Hutch’s, trying to draw his gaze, but it was no use. Those baby blues were half-lidded and lowered, trying to hide where his thoughts had gone, as though Starsky didn’t already know.

They were going around and around, just like his fingers, circling a small scar: Starsky’s souvenir from a late-night dinner that had gone FUBAR before the breadsticks were even served.

I had to talk Hutch into going, Starsky recalled. He’d wanted to go back to his place, scramble up some eggs. He was offering me breakfast, for God’s sake, and all I could think about was Italian food. Man, if only I knew then what I know now…

Instead of getting linguine with clams, he’d gotten a bullet. Shot for the first time, right in front of Hutch.

“C’mon, Blintz,” Starsky said, cupping Hutch’s jaw. “Hey, look at me.”

He wouldn’t. Instead, he pressed his face against the hollow of Starsky’s throat and slid his hands lower, down along the altered terrain of Starsky’s back.

Ah, damn it.

Lots of cops manage to go through their entire careers without getting shot. But him and Hutch, that wasn’t how they rolled. They weren’t those kinds of cops.

Well. They weren’t cops at all, not anymore.

Their move off of the streets—inevitable for him after Gunther’s assassination attempt, and voluntarily for Hutch once Gunther was convicted and his criminal enterprise dismantled—hadn’t been easy. They’d made it work only after they stopped denying what and how they felt about each other: love and desire bound so tightly together that they could not be separated without destroying the relationship entirely. When they finally admitted the truth, it was that love, fully realized, that made the transition possible.

Possible, but not easy. Even now.

Starsky never knew what would trigger one of these moods, and Hutch couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. One minute he’d be fine, the next minute he’d be all up in his own head, and the only thing Starsky could do was wait it out. Thankfully they’d become less frequent over time, and Starsky had almost convinced himself they were gone for good.

A case of wishful thinking, apparently.

Hutch rolled Starsky over, face down. Starsky closed his eyes and waited.

The bullets and subsequent surgery had left him with little sensation on the skin of his back, but he could still feel pressure. Light, almost reverent touches. Lips pressed once, twice, three times. Then the whole of Hutch’s body was on his, as though he was giving cover, instinctively shielding and protecting from old threats that couldn’t be undone and wouldn’t die. Starsky felt the prickle of tears and he swallowed against the tightening in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch choked out. “I know you don’t want—”

“It’s okay,” Starsky said, even though it wasn’t. Hutch had scars of his own, too. They both carried the remnants of battles on their bodies, reminders of mortality on their souls. They’d raced to the edge too many times to count. Starsky had arguably come the closest to the precipice, had more red badges to show for it, but that wasn’t Hutch’s fault. He didn’t need to shoulder the weight of all of them alone.

Fuck it, enough was enough.

Starsky turned to face Hutch. Hutch automatically began to roll away to let Starsky up, but Starsky grabbed him and pulled him back down so that they were on their sides, face to face and skin to skin once more. Starsky laid a hand on Hutch’s chest, covering both his heart and the bullet scar near it.

“Listen to me, Hutch,” he said, his voice hoarse but with every ounce of conviction he could muster. “We don’t need no stinking badges, you got that?”

Hutch stared at him for a second. “We… don’t got no stinking badges anymore, remember?”

“Not that kind. The red kind.”

It took another few seconds, but then Hutch’s eyes widened.

“Yeah.” Starsky nodded. “The risk was part of the job, we knew that going in. But we’re not in it anymore.”

“I love you. I love what we have now, and what we’re going to have together in the future. The past, you gotta let it go. The bad stuff, anyway.”

Hutch placed his hand over Starsky’s and squeezed hard.

“The scars, they might not disappear completely. But they’ll fade. Let ‘em, okay?”

Hutch nodded, his eyes soft. “Okay. I love you, too.”

“I know.”

Hutch laughed, then smiled. If Starsky hadn’t already been in love with the big lug, that smile would’ve done it. Since he was, though, it was the easiest thing in the world for Starsky to lean in and claim it for his own.

“Now, where were we?” he said, after a kiss had been thoroughly applied. The smile was somehow even sexier than before, and Starsky felt his breath catch.

Or maybe that was because Hutch’s hands were moving on his body again, this time in all the right ways: teasing playfully at his nipples, trailing slow, languorous heat down Starsky’s flanks, sliding wicked thumbs along the crease between leg and hip. Stroking his hard-on and balls with long, talented fingers.

Then finally—finally—Hutch brought their two cocks together, wrapped his hand around them both.

“Bringing us home, babe,” he said, flushed and breathless. Beautiful.

“Fuck, yeah,” Starsky moaned. He pulled Hutch in for another kiss, deeper and messier. Mouth to mouth resuscitation, he thought hazily, as he came. Breath of life.

* * * * *

“Starsky?”

“Hmmm?”

The pause that followed stretched out, and Starsky thought that Hutch had fallen asleep. Starsky was half-draped over his lover, and the rise and fall of Hutch’s chest was slow and even beneath his cheek.

Starsky was just about to drift off himself when he felt Hutch… not-sleeping. Looking at him.

“What is it, babe?” Starsky started to raise his head, but Hutch pressed a hand against his curls, stilling him. He could hear Hutch’s heartbeat, steady but a little fast.

“No more stinking badges, I promise. But, uh… you might have to remind me about the scars, once in a while.”

Starsky smiled, knowing that Hutch could feel it against his skin. “Gee, you think? Don’t worry, I’m way ahead of you. I already have plans to remind you on a regular basis. For the rest of our lives, even.”

“Shit, I have to be more careful what I ask for.”

“Nah, you’ll like this. Your reminders will be served up complete with mind-blowing sex.”

“Oh, really? Mind-blowing, you say,” Hutch said, with a chuckle.

“Just like tonight—mind-blowing. Each and every time. Fun and educational, see? Positive reinforcement for positive results, guaranteed.” Starsky’s sales pitch was spoiled by a jaw-cracking yawn, but the rumble of laughter he got in reply was music to his ears anyway.

“Well, I’m on board,” Hutch said. “Go to sleep, Starsk. If that’s the plan, you’re going to need your strength.”

Starsky was already way ahead of him.

So it came to pass that as he trudged from the place of blood and wrath
his soul changed.
—The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane