The Things I Cannot Change

Hutch claims his spot.

Originally published in SHareCon 2010 zine.

Hutch turned out the hall light and stood in the bedroom doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust. As his pupils dilated, and shadows resolved into shapes in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, a familiar tableau presented itself.

Starsky sprawled on his belly on the bed, head mostly buried in the pillow, and arms outstretched above his head. In this light, the scars on his back were hardly noticeable, no more than imagined imperfections. But Hutch knew they were there. Knew the location, shape, texture, even the bitter flavour of each and every one of those scars.

Tonight, Hutch tried to pretend they were only misplaced shadows.

Letting his gaze trace beyond those shadows, down past the bare back to the pale blue sheet, a second, just as familiar sight, met Hutch’s eyes. It tightened his mouth, deepened the dent between his eyebrows, and curled his fingers into loose fists.

In the juncture of Starsky’s carelessly spread thighs, a blackness curled that was no trick of shadow or play of light.

Chaplin.

As if sensing Hutch’s glare, Chaplin’s head came up. Black bodied. White faced. Yellow eyed. The cat met Hutch’s glare with feline disdain.

Starsky’s cat. Kiko had given it to Starsky as a welcome home from the hospital present. Starsky had promptly christened it Chaplin for the black brows and moustache that marked its face. He didn’t seem to care that Chaplin was female and the name inappropriate. Neither, apparently, did Chaplin.

Hutch hated that cat with a passion. He wanted to pick up the interloper by the scruff of her neck, heave her out of the room, and slam the door behind her. His loose fists curled tighter.

Instead of rough ejection, Hutch leaned over the bed, picked Chaplin up gently, and carried her to the basket that was now several sizes too small for her. He laid her on the cushion, knelt on one knee, and rubbed her cheek in apology. Not her fault that Starsky was now home more than he was away. That Starsky was no longer too busy to own a cat. And never would be again.

Chaplin never seemed to hold a grudge, either for the eviction from her comfortable place, or for Hutch’s resentment. Perhaps, for her, their mutual devotion to Starsky allowed her to forgive. Tonight, as usual, she stropped her face against Hutch’s hand and purred her acceptance of her place.

Truce established, Hutch rose, turned his back on the cat, and promptly forgot her as he made his way to his side of the bed. His clothes fell wherever they would, scattered as soon as the last button, snap or zip gave way. He would earn a blue-eyed glare for the mess in the morning, but tonight, Hutch didn’t care. He desperately needed his place.

Naked, Hutch lifted the sheet and slid onto the empty space beside Starsky. With his thigh, he laid claim to the place Chaplin had tried to usurp, while his arm found a resting place across Starsky’s back. He could feel the raised wheals of the surgical scars against his wrist, the skin newer, softer, hairless.

Hutch had barely settled onto the mattress when Starsky began to move, responding perhaps to the warmth of Hutch’s body or the possession of his grip. A moment or two of uncoordinated effort straightened sprawled limbs and turned the sleeper fully into Hutch’s embrace.

“Mmmm. Hutch?”

There was just enough of a lilt in the sleep-rough voice to make an inquiry of the name. Just enough inquiry to tickle Hutch’s funny bone.

“You were expecting somebody else?” Hutch asked, then brushed wild curls away from Starsky’s temple and pressed a kiss to the smooth skin.

“Never.” The single word was a promise, accompanied and reinforced by the strong left arm that encircled Hutch’s neck and the poorly-aimed kiss that found his chin. “Love you.”

The anxious tension slipped away from Hutch as he settled into the place their love had forged for him.

Here in the warmth of nights spent in Starsky’s arms, Hutch had found his serenity. Serenity that gave him the strength to live through the cold days spent in Starsky’s absence. Strength that leant him the wisdom to accept the difference Gunther had blasted into their lives.

“I love you, too, Starsk.”