The V Word

It’s the middle of present-day tax season, and Hutch is having a little trouble remembering what day it is.

Starsky snapped his fingers, disrupting the early evening quiet of the living room, and Hutch gratefully looked up from the TurboTax tutorial that had been making his head swim for the past three hours. At the current rate he was going, it would take him two months just to figure out how the damned program worked at all, let alone be able to do anything with it.

“Hmm?”

“Hey, hey, I just thought of something. What day is it?”

Starsky closed the book he had, up until now, been thoroughly engrossed in (Hutch didn’t know what it was about, but the cover had a number of large, angry-looking bees on it, which didn’t exactly inspire him to find out more) and set it on the couch beside him. He crossed his foot over his other knee, and then leaned back into the cushion, looking like he was getting ready to get comfortable.

Looking like he was getting ready to feel smug about something.

Hutch struggled not to roll his eyes, and tried to remember the answer to the question. “Tuesday? Wednesday? Something in the middle.”

Starsky was less successful in hiding his own eye roll. Hutch watched as Starsky’s gaze flicked to the ceiling and stayed there a moment as he inhaled deeply through his nose, a sigh in reverse, before looking back at Hutch.

“No, dummy. Day of the month.”

“Hey, you said day, I gave you a day. I can’t help it if you don’t ask the right questions.”

“I’ll give you a question: How’d you like to spend the night out on the lawn?”

“Temper, temper.” Hutch held his hands up in a placating gesture before turning back to the monitor. “Fine, you want to know the date,” he said, emphasizing the ‘t’, “okay. Uh, let’s see…Friday was…carry the two…makes today…oh, wait, it’s here on the screen if I just roll over…February 14th.”

“Uh huh… ” came in reply from the couchwardly direction. No further explanation was offered.

Hutch sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to deal with this, on top of taxes?

“And…?”

“And…” Starsky’s voice carried a teasing lilt, trying to lead him, but damned if Hutch knew where it wanted to go. Swear to god, but he still couldn’t tell what Starsky was getting at half the time, even after having nearly forty years to get used to the man.

So, Hutch said nothing. He looked back over at Starsky, as if asking a silent “Well?”

Starsky said nothing, too, and just kept staring at Hutch over the rim of his reading glasses like he expected Hutch to know something. Or at least be able to figure it out.

There was a beat.

And then another.

And then it hit him.

“Oh, hell.” Hutch slumped back in his seat.

“MmHMM.” Starsky said, nodding triumphantly.

“What’re you all “mmHMM”-ing for, huh? You only remembered two seconds ago,” Hutch grumbled, more annoyed with himself than Starsky.

Not that he was all that upset about the date itself, but more the sole fact that he’d forgotten at all was irritating. Just another sign of the years adding up. Used to be he could remember dates and names he’d only halfway read in some book somewhere some twenty-odd years ago…

He blinked and tuned back into Starsky’s voice, the owner of such having (quite nicely, actually, given the self-satisfied grin he was wearing) waited for him to catch up before continuing.

“Yes, but-” Starsky raised his finger to jab at the air, visually punctuating his own words, “I remembered. Whereas you…”

“Well, excuse me for trying to make sure the IRS doesn’t toss us in jail. You’re not exactly a deductible, y’know.”

“I should hope not. And like you’d have remembered anyway.”

“Yeah. Anyway.” Hutch picked up a pencil and started tapping it against the edge of the desk. “So…”

“So.”

“So what do you want to do?”

Starsky shrugged. “Dunno, but I hope it doesn’t involve you doing that all night.”

Hutch set the pencil down. “I could go to the store for some candy…” he offered lamely.

“Hutch, when’s the last time you saw me tear into a Hershey bar? You know I’m not allowed any of the good stuff,” Starsky said, plucking at the frayed edge of one of the couch pillows. “Besides,” he finished somewhat glumly, “they’re probably all out, anyway.”

Hutch tried (rather valiantly, he thought) to keep from smiling. The same sob story had been aired every holiday for the past ten years. Woe is me, since I, David Michael Starsky, confessed sugar-salt-and-fried-food-fiend, can’t have anything worth having anymore. My life is so hard. The world is unfair. Why, oh why, me? He didn’t think even Starsky believed it anymore.

“Well, buddy, you’re probably right. No candy it is, then.” He grinned at the glare Starsky shot him. “After all, wouldn’t want you to end up inconvenienced later when we’re…” Hutch trailed off.

Starsky’s eyebrows went up. “Later, huh?”

Hutch got up and crossed over to the couch, where he tugged Starsky up to meet him.

“Yeah, later.” Hutch drew Starsky’s glasses off and tossed them on the couch.

Starsky pulled back. “Careful, old man, that’s how the last pair broke. Don’t you forget about them bein’ there.”

“Who, me? I never forget anything. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, later.”

Hutch leaned in to press a quiet kiss into the curve of his neck, the skin wrinkled and soft under his lips, before nibbling a slow, heated path along Starsky’s jaw line up to his earlobe. One hand found its way, the path familiar and well-worn after so many years, under Starsky’s sweater, fingers tangling through hair gone soft and gray with age, while the other moved around to slide under his belt and sandwich in between denim and ass, thoroughly enjoying the snug position.

Starsky groaned, tilting his head to allow Hutch more access.

“Or,” Hutch whispered, gently nipping at Starsky’s ear while both hands started moving, “now. Now is also a choice.”

Starsky’s hands, which had remained comparatively inactive up to this point, started to work at unbuttoning Hutch’s shirt.

“Now is good. I like now. ‘N fact, I’m a big fan. The more now the better.”

—

Hutch didn’t get to work on their taxes again until much, much later.