Wish I May, Wish I Might

Starsky is sad post Sweet Revenge.

A 20 minute challenge on the bRomance group to write a story mentioning one or more of the top shows of the ’77-’78 TV season. The show I mention was still on air in ’79 although the story takes place in the summer and it would have been a re-run. Whether or not it would have been on TV the night of this story might not be accurate but well…artistic license.

Also the story is slash but there is nary a kiss to be had.

The sound of keys in the door made Starsky look away from the TV. He hurriedly pushed the tissue box behind a pillow and wiped a hand over his face.

He forced a smile to his face as Hutch came into the living room, all smile and hearty cheer.

“Hey, Starsk. How’d it go today?” Hutch sat down next to him on the sofa. “I bet you did great at therapy, huh?”

Starsky nodded. “Yeah, terrific.” He didn’t mention the way he’d hobbled into the house or the need for two doses of painkillers. Grateful—he needed to be grateful for making it as far as he had. He turned his attention back to the TV.

Laverne and Shirley were up to their antics although Starsky couldn’t have told Hutch what was going on. The laugh track sounded strident to his ears—fake, just like his smiles and pretending things would get back to normal.

“You been watching this all evening?” Hutch put a hand on Starsky’s knee. “I should have called but…”

“You have a job, partner,” Starsky said, the words bitter in his mouth. “Just re-runs.”

“Starsk.”

“I’m okay.”

Hutch moved his hand to Starsky’s shoulder, his strong fingers kneading a knot of tension. Starsky shrugged, and Hutch withdrew.

“I’ll make us something to eat,” Hutch said. Starsky hated the way there was no condemnation in Hutch’s voice, just more understanding and patience.

“I ate earlier,” Starsky said. He wasn’t about to mention he’d thrown it up less than a half hour later.

“Oh.” Hutch sat back down.

Starsky risked a glance at him, looked at the way Hutch’s hands rested useless on his lap. Can’t fix it this time, can you? He wanted to scream those words at Hutch but he couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t. There was a difference.

Laverne made a wise crack, Squiggy replied and the laugh track told Starsky what to do. Except…he didn’t. The tears that had been coming off and on all day came unbidden. And he couldn’t stop them.

“Starsk?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Starsky mumbled and pulled the tissue box out from behind the pillow.

“I’ll be back. Hang on.” Hutch got up.

Starsky watched the screen with unseeing eyes and listened to Hutch moving around the house.

“C’mon,” Hutch said. He stood in front of Starsky with a warm jacket and a couple of blankets.

“What?”

“It’s a surprise. I nearly forgot,” Hutch said. He held out his hand and Starsky took it, trusting Hutch just as he always did.

They got in the car and drove—away from the city, up into the mountains. Hutch pulled off into a small parking area.

“What’s going on?” Starsky asked. There were more than a few cars in the lot and people were sitting in folding chairs, chatting quietly.

“Perseids,” Hutch said. “Meteor shower.”

“Meteor shower,” Starsky repeated. “So we’re gonna see what exactly?”

“Shooting stars.” Hutch got out chairs, set them up to his satisfaction and then bundled Starsky in a blanket.

They sat so close, Starsky could feel Hutch’s body heat, and he uncovered his hand to take Hutch’s hand in his.

Hutch’s fingers closed around his, strong, warm, familiar, comforting.

There was no artificial soundtrack here. No fake laughter. Starsky didn’t need to pretend to be happy when his soul and body ached.

“I see one!” A young voice called out.

Starsky looked at the sky and saw a shooting star, and then another, and another. He tightened his grip on Hutch’s hand. And when he looked at Hutch, he saw the stars reflected in Hutch’s eyes. Who needed to wish on shooting stars when his dreams were beside him all the time?