Why, Miss Jones, You’re Beautiful

“Of all the Starsky’s that Hutch knew and loved however, none were as scary as Secretive Starsky.”

Hutch figured that over the years he had gotten to know every incarnation presented by his partner.

There was Excitable Starsky who bounced around on the balls of his feet, enthusiasm and energy coursing through his veins, fired up and raring to go. There was Hard-Done By Starsky who would turn his big puppy dog eyes on Hutch, mournful and full of disbelief that Hutch could be treating him so shockingly. There was Happy Starsky, a man who could unleash a smile so startling in wattage that Hutch would yearn for sunglasses, and float along for the rest of the day knowing that all was right with his world. Righteously Angry Starsky was a sight to behold, terrifying in his intensity, power and rage held tightly in check, simmering below the surface. Grumpy Starsky was similar, but with explosions more unpredictable, and soothed with much greater effort. Sickly Starsky was a snuffling and whimpering creature who demanded attention and pity and pity and attention, and could hardly be compared with Sick Starsky, who suffered in stoic, strained silence. There was also of course Hungry Starsky who would still always opt for the burritos over a salad, and who still could eat at the drop of a hat, anytime, anyplace, anywhere. Hutch didn’t forget Sexy Starsky, who could blow his socks off with a look or a simple, lingering touch, or Sensual Starsky, who soothed away Hutch’s aches and pains, worries and woes.

Of all the Starsky’s that Hutch knew and loved however, none were as scary as Secretive Starsky.

Secretive Starsky usually preceded something big and ugly and loud. The surprise party he threw for Hutch’s 57th Birthday for example. Why 57th? What was so special about 57? No-one had big parties for 57th birthdays. Starsky had just answered Hutch’s shell shocked rant with the typically Starsky reply “Exactly.”

A few years before that, Secretive Starsky had brought the monstrous, hulking car that lurked in their garage, leaving their Ford parked on the drive. When Starsky had led a blindfold Hutch out to the beribboned, rust infested, red Torino (sans stripe of course, Merle hadn’t been near this thing), it had explained the weeks of furtive telephone calls, secret trips out and sly, sidelong glances.

That little episode had seen Secretive Starsky segue in quick succession through the Excitable, Hard Done By and Sulky models, in the time it had taken Hutch to explode with rage at the waste of their money, and space and the clear deterioration of his partner’s mind.

Seems his partner had shut out the memory of Hutch’s blatant lack of affection for the vehicle and his near ecstasy when the Striped Tomato had finally gone to the great scrap heap in the sky. Seems Starsky had expected a joyful, nostalgia fueled reaction.

Closer inspection, and the application of a few of Hutch’s own models (starting with Angry and Sarcastic, before moving through Patient, Tender and Understanding) had revealed Starsky’s growing insecurity as grey hairs began to appear at his temples, and the after affects of all those bullets and declining lung capacity meant that he was facing a desk job or retirement. Several long hours of conversation and even more of planning and telephone calls and talking to the right people, saw them both handing in their resignations, and making a new start working in child protection. Which in turn, meant seeing a lot more of Righteously Angry Starsky, but as he mingled much more often with Happy Starsky, Hutch was content.

Except of course they still had the damned car.

Secretive Starsky had also resulted in the purchase of two puppies, now enormous, fully grown Labradors that had to be walked twice a day. A side effect of this was a ridiculous period of time when Hutch, facing his own demons as he began to accept that his hair, fine and gold as it was, was disappearing at a rate no amount of desiccated liver could cope with, reached the conclusion that Starsky was becoming Sneak Around Starsky and finding someone else to fire his rockets. The whispered conversations he had overheard with Starsky requesting “a blond, the younger the better and with good stud potential” had resulted in a desperate call back to the last number dialed, where he was greeted by a strong, drawling and very male voice. These facts had added together in Mathematician Hutch’s brain to make a very solid five, where there only ever should have been a four.

The fall out and explosion from that misunderstanding meant that now at least, Hutch took time to recognize the signs and merely anticipated and dreaded rather than dashing off on ridiculous flights of fancy.

This time around, Secretive Starsky had been present for a week or two, putting away his newspaper when Hutch walked in, making hushed and harried phone calls and leaving for mysterious appointments. He could now be seen (from the entirely natural, if ever more difficult to reach, vantage point of standing on the edge of the bath and peering through the bathroom window) , stuffing a small package he’d taken from the car tightly inside his jacket ,before zipping it up and, oh shit, coming back inside.

Dignified Hutch limped into the sitting room, wiping shampoo from his sleeve and looked blandly at his partner. “Been out?”

This was greeted with an incredulous glare, and a slightly confused “Can I smell coconut?” as Starsky went to their bedroom, and could be heard rustling slightly behind the closed door.

A few days passed, and Secretive Starsky stopped making phone calls, stopped, in fact, being Secretive and Hutch, waiting for either a gift-wrapped package or some unpleasant revelation grew ever more tense and on edge.

Then, Hutch came home early, and recognizing an opportunity; very quietly. Tiptoeing up their stairway, feeling like a character in a bad French farce, he crept up on his prey and nudged open the door.

And gaped.

Starsky; sitting at his desk and doing paperwork; engrossed and thorough, had become Bespectacled Starsky.

Hutch caught a glimpse of the thin dark frames resting low on Starsky’s nose as he toted up figures, before his lover realized he was observed. Not realizing at first who was watching him, Starsky’s hand flew to reach for a gun he no longer wore, but his next action, as recognition snapped in, saw the glasses snatched from his face and dropped into the desk drawer.

“What are you doing here?” Angry and accusatory, Starsky went in on the attack, but he was dealing with Tenacious Hutch now, and didn’t stand a chance.

Or wouldn’t have done, had he not also been dealing with Quite Suddenly Horny Hutch.

Q.S.H Hutch, in fact, who strode across the room and kissed Starsky hard and aggressively before growling “Put them back on.”

“Why?”

“So I can take them off.”

Later, a delicious (and mostly out of focus) hour later, Starsky peered over the rim of his re-donned glasses, and eyed the flushed face of his lover. He wavered for a brief moment whether to be Smug Starsky or Slightly-Embarrassed Starsky, before settling finally on So Goddamned Happy He Might Burst Starsky.

The End.