Whiskey Kisses

679

Some general kissing.

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The whiskey had been a mistake.

Hutch lifted his head off the pillow on Starsky’s couch and stared dizzily around the spinning room. Ring Ding and Twinkie wrappers littered the coffee table and floor, along with bags of corn chips and Doritos. Empty beer bottles were lined along the edge of the table, with a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey nestled amongst them, the definite offending object in this “Which of These Doesn’t Belong?” picture that used to be a living room.

Hutch’s gaze shifted from the cluttered room to the back of his partner’s head, which rested just at his right shoulder against the couch cushion. Starsky was sitting Indian-style on the floor behind the coffee table, clutching an empty beer bottle to his chest. His head was tilted to the left against the cushion and he stared blearily straight ahead at the television, attempting to make sense out of Johnny Carson’s monologue.

Yep, the whiskey had definitely been a mistake.

Hutch sighed and attempted to sit up, slightly jostling Starsky out of his drunken stupor.

“Where ya goin’?” Starsky blinked his eyes slowly, trying to shift them in Hutch’s direction. Remembering his eyes wouldn’t turn all the way behind him without moving his head, which he wasn’t about to do, he settled for the view of Hutch’s hand instead.

“Just up, I think,” Hutch answered and watched as the contents of the file folders that had been sprawled across his lap began to tumble to the floor.

‘What the hell were we thinking?’ The blond chuckled to himself as he leaned forward, pushing Starsky with him, and tried to pick up the scattered paperwork.

“Would ya cut it out?” Starsky watched his beer bottle fall and roll across the floor as he grasped the coffee table to keep his balance. “And what’s so goddamn funny anyway?”

“Huh?” Hutch stopped trying to gather the sheets of paper and turned his bobbing head in his partner’s direction.

“What?” Starsky’s head bobbed back.

“I don’t know.” Hutch gave up and flopped back on the couch, determining the paperwork could wait.

“The paperwork can wait,” Starsky murmured, resting his head back against the couch.

“I just said that.”

“Said what?”

“About the paperwork.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No… you… didn’t.”

“Yes… I… did.”

Starsky sighed and closed his eyes. It had been a strange day. It started out strange and just continued to get stranger and stranger as the day progressed. The first call they had gone on had been a report of a dead body found in an isolated corner of the city park. Three hours after securing the scene and waiting for the coroner to arrive, the body had been slowly unwrapped from the duct tape and blanket it was bound in, only to discover it wasn’t a body at all but an anatomically correct mannequin. Where a mannequin with such attributes could be purchased, along with to what use it had been put, was left up to the imaginations of all the police officers involved.

Then there was the long chase down the alley after the two assailants who had mugged Squeakers the Clown on his way home from a three-year-old’s birthday party. Not only had the muggers made off with Squeaker’s cash from the party, but also his pocket full of multi-colored balloons and handkerchiefs. One of which had come in particularly handy in an attempt to strangle Starsky during a scuffle with one of the robbers. The assailant was pulling the bright purple scarf tightly around Starsky’s neck, cutting off his air and causing him to almost lose complete consciousness, when Hutch was able to finally make his way to him and violently pulled the man off his partner. Starsky stumbled back and slowly slid down a brick wall, the vision of Hutch wrestling the thug to the ground clouding in and out of focus as he fought for air.

“Starsk! Starsk, you all right? Come on, buddy, talk to me. Tell me you’re OK.” Hutch’s concerned voice echoed through the alleyway as he bent down on one knee and hovered over his gasping partner.

Hazy violet eyes slowly blinked open. Starsky’s hand reached out blindly as a coughing fit overtook the rest of his body.

Hutch firmly grasped the searching hand and leaned in closer. “S’alright, Starsk. Just breathe.” His lips almost touched the ear they gently cooed in.

By that time, a pair of uniformed officers had arrived on the scene to take the suspects into custody. Four-year veteran Adam Fraser, new to Metro Division, watched the two detectives as he pulled Starsky’s attacker to his feet.

“Need an ambulance?”

“I’m not sure,” Hutch’s eyes blazed with concern as he looked up at Fraser, then quickly returned his attention to Starsky.

Fraser watched in amazement at the way the blond gently took his partner’s head in his hands and lovingly stroked his neck and face as he slowly came around.

“Buddy, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Starsky managed to croak. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

“Easy.” Hutch soothed, placing a steadying hand on the still heaving chest then looking up at the officer. “He’ll be all right. Just get those assholes outta here, will ya?”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Fraser turned a puzzled expression to his own partner. The two shrugged in unison and led the suspects toward their cruiser, leaving the two detectives huddled together in the alley.

Two hours later found Starsky sitting on a bench in the police locker room rubbing at the raw red lines Squeaker’s scarf had left on his neck. Dobey had told him to take the remainder of the day off to rest and give Hutch the opportunity to get caught up on their overdue paperwork, but he had declined. All he needed were a hot shower and some clean clothes and they’d be able to get back out on the streets. Grimacing as he pulled his sweater over his head, he began to question his own logic.

“You know that’s MINE.” Hutch slid next to Starsky and tugged on the sweater’s sleeve.

Starsky looked down at the orange material. “It is?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Starsky shrugged. “Well, I don’t have anything else in my locker.”

“It’s OK, Starsk.” Hutch was obviously still in concerned mode. “You can wear it.”

“I’ll give it back.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will-someday.” Hutch smiled. “Sure you’re OK?”

“I’ll live.” Starsky stood from the bench and began fastening his holster under his right armpit.

“What is it with those two?” The doors to the locker room swung open and Fraser’s voice boomed throughout.

“What two?” A second voice asked.

“Starsky and Hutchinson.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Starsky shot a puzzled look at Hutch, who was staring back at him questioningly, then stepped behind a locker to stay out of view.

“Didn’t you see them in that alleyway?” Fraser asked, pulling his locker open and taking off his hat. “Hutchinson was all over Starsky, holding his hand, whispering in his ear. I thought for a minute there he was going to kiss him.”

Fraser’s partner shrugged and stared at his reflection in a tiny mirror attached to his locker door. “Oh, that. That’s the way they are with each other, especially when one’s hurt. You get used to it.”

“Man, I don’t care how hurt I am, don’t you ever touch me like that.” Fraser slammed his locker shut and waited for the other man to finish preening. “Friggin homos,” he added before the twosome disappeared through the swinging doors.

Silence and the heaviness of Fraser’s last two words filled the locker room as Starsky sat next to Hutch, both staring at the floor, mouths open. They sat that way for a few moments, Starsky finally turning his head to face his partner.

“Maybe taking the rest of the day off ain’t such a bad idea.”

They informed Dobey that Starsky wasn’t feeling too well and that they were both going to take some work home. They’d be at Starsky’s if anyone needed them. They decided to stop at Huggy’s for some burgers. And beer. Lots and lots of beer. And somewhere along the line, the whiskey came into play. A good way to avoid the subject, Starsky supposed. They had both suspected that things were being said about them. They’d seen the strange looks and heard the quiet snickering. But this was the first time it was put so bluntly-in their earshot anyway. They couldn’t help the way they acted with each other. It just came naturally.

“Friggin’ homos.” The words echoed in Starsky’s inebriated head. He leaned his head farther back on the couch, nestling it deeper against Hutch’s arm. The arm didn’t move away but remained right where it was, welcoming the contact. Starsky thought about how it felt to him-how comfortable it made him feel. How not alone. How could anyone think such things about them? He loved Hutch with all his heart. But he didn’t LOVE Hutch. It was true he’d never shared such physical closeness with another man before. He’d always been very tactile, but not to the degree he was with his partner. It just felt right. It was all perfectly innocent. Wasn’t it? Of course it was. How anyone could think otherwise was beyond him.

“You sure you’re OK, Starsk?” The question came out of nowhere.

The soothing tone and pure concern almost brought tears to Starsky’s eyes. “I’m OK, Hutch.”

“How’s your neck?” Suddenly a hand was on Starsky’s shoulder.

“A little raw. But not too bad.”

“Did you put some salve on it?” A long finger plucked at the collar of the sweater, revealing the ugly marks for closer inspection.

“Yes, Mom.” Starsky craned his neck uncomfortably and moved the collar back in place.

“OK.” The hand patted Starsky’s shoulder, eliciting a content sigh.

“Hey, did I thank you for saving me?” Starsky reached for a stray Dorito laying on the coffee table.

“No. Do you ever?” Hutch snorted.

Starsky contemplated the question for a moment, the Dorito suspended in front of his mouth. “No, I s’pose not.” He shrugged and stuffed the cheesy chip in his mouth. “Thank you,” he added between crunches.

Hutch smiled and folded his arms across his chest, staring at the ceiling. “No thanks needed, buddy. Anytime.”

“Woulda been an awfully embarrassing way to go-strangled by a clown’s scarf.”

“Yeah, I suppose it would’ve been.”

Starsky nodded and stared at the television for a while, unspoken thoughts obvious in his squinting eyes. Hutch sighed contently and closed his eyes, beginning to drift off to sleep.

“Hutch?”

“Hmm?” Hutch startled at the unexpected call of his name. He sleepily shifted his gaze to his partner when he didn’t get a response. “What is it, Starsk?”

Starsky exhaled a long breath. “Oh, nothin’, I guess.”

Hutch stared at the back of Starsky’s head, knowing whatever was bothering him would come spilling out eventually. He didn’t have to wait long.

“You ever think about it?”

“Think about what?”

There was no response from Starsky, who was obviously struggling to find words.

“What?” Hutch’s tone was becoming aggravated.

“It was just a stupid question.” Starsky grunted as he moved his legs from their crossed position, stretching them out under the coffee table. He placed his hands by his sides and knocked his sock-clad feet together, knowing he’d piqued his partner’s curiosity and the probing questions would soon begin.

“You’re thinking about the locker room, aren’t you?”

The directness surprised Starsky. He half cocked his head in Hutch’s direction. “Yeah. Ever think about it?”

“You mean about what people say about us?” Hutch shifted to his side, folding his hands between the pillow and his cheek.

Starsky swung his legs out from under the table and sat sideways in Hutch’s direction, resting his chin on the couch arm, their foreheads almost touching. “Yeah. That and…” he began, then looked away shyly.

“And what?” Hutch couldn’t help but grin at Starsky’s awkwardness.

Starsky sighed uncomfortably, knowing there was no way out. He’d started this, after all, and Hutch was not going to let him off the hook-not now. His eyes locked with his best friend’s and he decided to go for broke.

“And if what we have together-you know, this…” He pointed his finger between the two of them, indicating their current physical closeness, “If it’s weird.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Do you think it’s weird?”

Starsky widened his eyes and shook his head. “No. Never. But…” he trailed off, shrugging.

“Come on, Starsk. When did you start caring what other people think?”

“Well, I don’t. But what if…”

“What if what?”

Starsky hesitated and looked away. “What if this really does mean something? I mean, what if we’re really…”

“Gay?” Hutch half-whispered, his grin widening.

“No, not gay.” Starsky giggled into the couch arm, causing Hutch to laugh.

“Then what?” Hutch finally asked, playfully tugging at a dark curl.

Starsky swatted the hand out of his hair, a serious look overtaking his face as he rested his temple against the corner of the couch arm. “I don’t know. I just-I mean, look at us right now, for Christ’s sake. Most men don’t act this way together. But it just feels so comfortable.”

Hutch smiled at the thoughtful look on Starsky’s face, just mere centimeters from his own. He was right. It did feel comfortable. More comfortable than anything he’d ever known.

“I don’t have an answer, Starsk. I really don’t. It’s just the way it is with us. But it doesn’t make us gay.”

A mischievous drunken grin formed crookedly on Starsky’s lips. “Then I guess the blow job I was gonna ask for is out, huh?”

“Well, that depends on how you ask.”

The serious tone in his partner’s too-quick answer caused Starsky to jerk his head from the couch arm, a momentary look of shock crossing his face. Hutch moved his head back as well and he blinked rapidly at the widened violet eyes staring blearily at him. Snorts of laughter soon overtook the twosome and filled the room for a few moments. The snickering finally sputtered to a stop as Starsky groaned and wrapped his arms around his middle, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his forehead on them.

“Jesus,” he mumbled into his denim-clad thighs.

Hutch nestled his head back into the pillow and watched his partner slowly rock back and forth, apparently feeling the effects of the roughing-up he’d taken earlier along with their little drinking binge. A bright red mark peered out through the crooked collar of the orange sweater, causing Hutch to wince in sympathetic pain.

“You OK?” he asked, placing a hand on Starsky’s back.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You sure?” Hutch began moving his hand in a circular motion, noting the heat radiating from the tense shoulder blades.

“Mm-hmm.”

Starsky lifted his head slightly and turned in Hutch’s direction. He once again rested the dark curls against his knees and smiled at his partner.

“I guess we’re just lucky then, huh?”

“I guess so,” Hutch smiled back, a curious look quickly replacing the smile.

“Can I ask you a question, Starsk?”

“Shoot.”

“If you did ever decide to kiss a man, who would it be?”

Starsky snickered and turned his face back in to his knees.

“Well?” Hutch shook Starsky’s shoulder slightly.

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” Starsky’s shoulders hunched, his face still buried.

“Never?”

“Nope.

“Oh.”

“Have you?”

“No. No!” Hutch answered defensively, then softened. “Well, not until now.”

The partners fell silent for a moment. The only sound that filled the room was an Alka-Seltzer commercial coming from the television.

“Terrific.” Starsky’s muffled voice wafted from between his knees.

“What?”

“Now I’m thinking about it.”

“Alka-Seltzer?”

“No, dummy. The other thing.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

“You,” Hutch blurted out simply.

“What?” Starsky’s head rose from his knees.

“You.” Hutch repeated. “I’d kiss you.”

“Oh.” Starsky nodded, contemplating.

“Well?” Hutch rose up on his elbow.

“Well, what?” Starsky blinked.

“Wouldn’t you kiss me?”

“I don’t-I don’t know.” Starsky stretched out his legs and leaned back against the couch.

“Well, if not me, then who, huh?” Hutch said into Starsky’s hair. ” I mean, who else could you possibly kiss? Dobey?”

“Oh, man.” Starsky covered his face with his hand and shook his head.

“Huggy?” Hutched laughed, then snapped his fingers in the air. “Or how about Newman in RI, huh?”

Starsky quickly turned around, facing the blond. “Are you nuts? His breath always smells like coffee and onions. And he’s got that big, fuzzy mustache.”

“Right. Well, then how about…” Starsky’s hand clamped over his mouth stopped Hutch mid-sentence.

“All right. All right. You. I’d kiss you.” Starsky admitted, taking his hand away from the blond’s mouth. “God, I’d kiss you right now if it would get you to shut up,” he added, leaning heavier against the couch.

Bloodshot and bleary, two sets of familiar blue eyes locked. A silent mutual decision was made in mere seconds. The two heads simultaneously tilted to the right and leaned in to one another. Their lips parted slightly and gently found each other’s. A slow, soft kiss began and quickly turned more passionate. Starsky leaned forward on his knees and forced Hutch’s head back on the pillow. This kiss continued for a few more seconds, Hutch’s hand moving to the back of Starsky’s head, drawing him in closer. Starsky, his breath now coming in pants, pulled away slightly and the kiss broke momentarily. Starsky hovered over Hutch and they both smiled slightly, exchanging a brief playful look.

Starsky cupped the back of Hutch’s neck and lifted the blond head to meet his for another, more forceful kiss. Starsky parted his lips further as Hutch’s tongue gently probed at the opening. Their lips remained locked even as Hutch began to smile at the odd sensation of Starsky’s strong, warm lips covering his own. He quickly withdrew his tongue and could feel the kiss begin to weaken. Soon it was no longer a kiss, but two sets of lips merely resting against each other. Starsky began to snicker, and Hutch pulled his head away, resting it back against the pillow, unable to control his own laughter. Starsky rested his forehead against Hutch’s shoulder, where he collapsed into a fit giggles, his full weight resting on Hutch’s arm. Hutch continued to laugh and buried his face in the back of Starsky’s head, patting him on the back with his free hand.

“God, that was awful,” Starsky, his face still buried in Hutch’s T-shirt, murmured between giggles.

“I know,” Hutch tried to catch his breath. “Horrible-just horrible.”

“I mean, no offense, Blondie,” Starsky lifted his head and sat back on the floor, wiping at his tear-filled eyes with the back of his hand. “But that tongue thing is just nasty.”

“Your lips are really dry, Starsk.” Hutch laughed, clutching his sides. “Ever heard of Chap-Stik?”

“Hey!” Starsky attempted to sound serious, but fell miserably short.

“Doritos and beer-ugh!” Another burst of giggles destroyed Hutch’s own attempt to regain his composure.

The laughing continued for a few minutes, finally ending with the twosome back in the same positions they had started out in. Hutch lay on his back with his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling, and Starsky leaned heavily against the couch, his head resting on his folded arms with his face buried in the couch cushion.

“I say we make a pact right here, right now.” Starsky’s words were slurred and sleepy.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Hutch sighed.

“That we never, ever do that again.”

“Fine by me.” Hutch’s gaze shifted from the ceiling to his partner’s head, realizing that Starsky had fallen asleep in the millisecond it took for him to complete those three words.

“Starsk?” he whispered.

Deep even breaths and slight snoring were his only response. Hutch sneered at the evil whiskey bottle still resting innocently on the coffee table. His eyes softened as he looked back at the unconscious form slouched next to him. His hand absently reached out and gently tugged at one of the dark curls. He chuffed at the comfort and love that filled his heart with the tiny gesture. He’d never tried to make sense of the closeness they shared before. Never saw a reason to HAVE to make sense out of it. It simply WAS. And, for that, he was grateful.

“Starsk,” he shook the sleeping head gingerly.

“Mmmph.”

“Buddy, go to bed. You can’t sleep like that. You’re gonna get a crook in your neck.”

Starsky didn’t move.

“Starsk!” Hutch reached over with his other hand and lifted Starsky’s head. Glazed eyes blinked halfway open.

“Wha?”

“Go… to… bed.”

Hutch held onto the head until he was sure it would remain upright on its own. Starsky’s dazed eyes circled the room, and he nodded once. He slowly lifted himself from the floor and groaned at the dizziness that consumed him as he stood.

“All right?” Hutch looked up at the swaying figure, hoping for an answer in the affirmative, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to sit up too steadily himself to assist.

“Mm-hmm.” Starsky grunted and weaved toward his bedroom. “You stayin’?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Night,” Starsky croaked, and flopped stomach-down on his bed, asleep before he even hit the mattress. Within seconds, the only sounds filling the cluttered apartment were the humming of a forgotten television set, the steady tick of a grandfather clock, and the gentle snoring of two drunken detectives.

*~*~*~*

Starsky held on to the door jamb between his bedroom and living room. He groaned and shielded his eyes against the sunshine that streamed through the half-open blinds. His eyes darted around the cluttered living room, taking inventory. Apparently it had been one hell of a party. He wished he could remember it. He stumbled toward the bathroom and was surprised to see a foot hanging off the edge of his couch. Hutch? Of course Hutch. Who else would be sacked out on his couch at this hour of the morning?

Memories of yesterday afternoon slowly flooded back to his mind. The alleyway, the locker room, Huggy’s, a couple of shots of whiskey. The last thing he remembered was tossing back a jigger of Wild Turkey and stuffing a Ring Ding in his mouth while Hutch sputtered about the McGinley case, the key elements of which, it would seem, now lay scattered across his living room floor. What the hell were they thinking?

“Hutch?” he croaked.

Nothing. He sighed and moved slowly into the bathroom. He pulled the rumpled orange sweater over his head and tossed it into the hamper. A nasty heat wave was predicted for the next week or so, giving him plenty of time to get the sweater washed before Hutch thought about it again and asked for it back. It would also give him time to invent another excuse to hang on to it. For some reason, he loved that frigging sweater.

He stared at his disheveled reflection in the mirror. Some of the marks from the scuffle yesterday afternoon had turned a sickly green and purple. A laugh escaped his throat as he realized the bruises could easily be mistaken for a string of hickeys. He decided that’s the story he’d use when he was undoubtedly questioned by John Blaine and the others during their big bust this afternoon. He’d have to talk Hutch into going along with it. Marks left by the throes of passion would sound much better than a menacing purple clown scarf. Especially after yesterday afternoon.

“Friggin’ homos.” Starsky rolled his eyes at the words, knowing they were going to follow him for a long time to come. They’d even caused him to have a strange, strange dream about he and Hutch-kissing. He reached in the shower and turned the hot water faucet on. He shook his head and chuckled as he stepped out of his jeans and tossed them on top of the orange sweater in the hamper. Kissing Hutch. How ridiculous was that?

Starsky stepped into the shower and stood under the warm stream of water, grimacing at the bad taste in his mouth. “Doritos…”

“….and beer,” Hutch smacked his lips in distaste and slowly sat up, remembering the full details of last night’s drunken encounter.

Starsky squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his palms and began to lather his hair.

“Ugh,” the partners grunted simultaneously, neither hearing the other.

End