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Saturday, 20 June 2009
Devotion's Quandary
Type: Slash
Summary: As Starsky fights for his life, Hutch fights for their love. Episode Related: Sweet Revenge
Categories: Hutch Angst, Starsky H/C, Committed Relationship
Rating: PG Word Count: 1000 (written for Me&Thee 1000 Community)  DAWN--Oldfield
Devotion’s Quandary By Vedette Ciel "Come back to me," he whispered sweetly. "I’m waiting right here." Beeps, ticks and whirs were the only sounds the room contained, rhythmically, life sustaining machines kept their consistent verve. This third day, the vigil continued, anticipating Starsky regaining consciousness, and returning to all who loved him. Those that filled the corridor were many, from colleagues, to neighbors, to friends. Duty officers stayed longest, replacing each other. Local family members, like Al, Rosie and a cousin stayed awhile, talking together, more than paying real attention. Then there were the Dobeys, who took turns keeping tabs. Last was Huggy, always faithful, loyal, giving every minute he could. But then a plane touched down, and a force came. Rachel had arrived the second day on a late flight, panicked and flustered. She’d had her times in the room, which she used pothering and babbling gusts of emotion. Nurses let it go on because it was uncontrollable. Hutch let it go on because he had no choice. The doctors in charge already knew, however, who the primary was. Hutch had been at the bedside forever; by now, they innately determined they were treating two people. They also were aware what resonated from the conscious one was healing the other. Hutch tended his lover’s wounded body with their eternal bond. The first days he couldn’t bear to touch, but since doctors told him how critical it was that Starsky awaken, Hutch gratefully coalesced every moment to connect… who would not understand, encourage any method that worked. For these rare days, public displays of affection would be welcomed. He took every liberty and made it ethereal medicine. Rachel, however, seethed with venom. Hutch entered the hallway, and she pounced. "I’m going to put a stop to this, this… touching, your gropes. It’s not natural." "Rachel, you don’t know what you’re saying." "I do know. There is a tsod, in our family. The old men talk. I heard. I will NOT have it." "Rachel…" "I will go to your Captain, and have you removed! You should be on the other side of the glass, not hovering, looking for excuses to… put your filth, sticky hands, pawing… Stay away from my son!" She pushed past him, roughly. Hutch was too stunned to react, knew better anyway. But what to do from beyond this? He walked to the closest stairway, to beg for air. Crouching, his head in his hands, he listened to activity stories below, the doors pounded open, thundered closed. Shuffled steps grinded dirt and hurry floor to floor, agitating his fears. It was the flow of life, opening, shutting doors, entering the river, rolling with the tide. But struggling against a one way current would wear them both down. He didn’t know how much time he had, to fix this. He knew Starsky required his presence, needed his words, touch, passing him strength. For now, it was all they had. Could he talk to someone? Should he go to Dobey on his own, try to right this with Starsky’s mother? Did he have any rights at all, to love the way he did, or was it true, that the world had a flow, a communal dance that they were just going against. Yet, all his being craved was communion with his male partner. Wringing his hands, he suddenly had to go back, at least see Starsky. Like she said, through the glass. He walked back briskly, every step more urgent. By the time he reached the window, he was panting, in emotional pain. Separating, even minutes, because someone insisted, was unbearable. They would have to live their lives like this? If their chance at a life would even return? We haven’t suffered enough… The hell with this, he kept his pace, and stumped right into the room. Right to the bed, to his side, to his face, to his lips. "No, I can’t. I can’t stay away from you. From us. You need this, to come back. I need this, to continue." He placed his fingers between Starsky’s, and gathered the curl from his forehead, stroking his brow. A surge of peace encased him, cocooned them, like a magnetic force radiating from their transposition. He heard a muffled huff, sensed a possible movement of air. It was a gnat in the atmosphere, not worthy of a thought, not when he was encompassed in their intrinsic amalgam. A pause was followed by the tromping footsteps of an army of sandy shoes. The heavy man was being dragged by the sleeve, Rachel tugging rigorously, followed by an officer, and a tall, huggable skeleton. A gasp ensued, buzzards aflap, a tripped stomp and gobbled snort, and then, all froze. Marauders would have made no impression either. Hutch lowered his mouth to an eyebrow, rubbing across it, matching the other, nuzzling the nose between them. "I hear you, you’re willing, I’m here, love. Come this side, to us." "Rachel shrieked, "THIS must cease--" But Dobey took lead, grabbing her sideways. "Mrs. Star--HUSH, woman!" She clammed, mouth open, muted. Huggy’s echo, dolce, "Yeah, Shush…" A tiny shiver rose forth, a twitch to eye, a quiver in the neck. "Babe, come." Hutch stroked his thumb gently by the temple. He felt, knew. The dry mouth exhaled slightly. "Hu-hct…" "Starsk, here, right here." Flickering, the eyes opened, fluttering, focusing. Two smiles emerged, mirrored. Rachel attempted interruption, but Dobey held weighted. He nodded to Huggy to take to her side. They inched her slowly to the bed. "Hutch." The blond lowered, as the brunette lifted slightly, a practiced ritual, foreheads merged. "Kiss, H…tch. Kiss me… to life." Hutch obliged, tenderly. Starsky murmured, "Love you. Home." "Yes, you’re mine. And you’re back home." "W-where?" "It’s okay, Starsk. Everything’s okay now. You’re awake, and everyone is here. For you." "Every--?" "Your Mom’s here." "Ma? Love. Mom. Love Hutch, Mom." An agonizing sob, "Oh my boy, love my zun!" Forward, she came to clutch the hand that clasped hers to theirs. Squeezing, she succumbed. And cried. 
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Story: Rosie and the Bear
Type: Slash
Summary: How many of each does it take to make a Starsky? Add some Blondies, a Hutch, and stir.
Episode Related: Starsky’s Lady
Categories: Hutch Angst, Starsky H/C, First Time Story, Mystery
Rating: PG Rosie and the Bear By Vedette Ciel Narcotics Anonymous, Al-Anon, I should be so lucky. Nope, there is no place to go for people like him, because if I knew of such a meeting group, I would drag him there. At least, that’s what I first thought years ago, until I learned the truth about my over-sentimental partner. You see, Starsky doesn’t know he’s an arctophile. He’s never heard the definition. But I noticed it early in our friendship. In most windows that sport some, his eyes would roam sideways when we went by. As much as he drinks in the sight of anything in a skirt, this is just as serious. And any time he’d get the chance, he’d stroll over to them, like when we went shopping for Lisa Graham’s birthday at the toy store. He would give them a squish when he didn’t think I’d seen him, but I had. At fairs and festivals, he’d drive me and my wallet crazy borrowing money to win the biggest one. He’d hustle an unfair advantage at any gun game, against teens a third of his age that only had a few dollars to spend, and no marksman’s skills. Then he’d pick the fattest, fluffiest poof of fur and parade it like a pompadour for about an hour. Talk about mortification of my public demeanor. But he’d always amaze me, finding that tiny child, a little oriental girl, or a saddened boy, and with the gentlest empathy, give his prize away. He couldn’t help himself not helping a child. I held my breath every time he did it. So it’s no surprise to me he bought Terry one. Terry Rose, her mother called her. Starsky and Terry, the two of them together, it still makes me smile. She was so perfect for Starsky, so wispy and delicate. We all had a way of fitting together that I don’t think will ever be again, with a lady. But after Prudholm’s terror, Starsky just folded into himself, after the adrenaline dissipated, and that monster was sent to a psycho ward. His will was crushed those two weeks afterwards, until that night, that Monopoly game, when I ripped open the paper and met that plush. Starsky took this huge breath, hung on to those beads for eyes. "That’s Ollie, she used to keep him on the bed with her." That little piece of paper held so much. "Dearest Hutch: To you I entrust Ollie and Dave. Please love them both. Don’t let either one of them change." I didn’t know what she meant, not really. But it was beautiful, cryptic, so like her. 
After I read Terry’s note, I was so choked up. He got worse very quickly after that. Thinking he’d break into pieces, I had to get to him, insist he come over to me. I waved my arm frantically and said, "We both need this, Starsk. Ollie’s here, I’m here." He crawled over and curled into a ball in my arms with the bear crushed to suffocation between us. Who was I to tear them apart? I half carried him to his bed and tucked them both in, then returned to blow out the candles and pick up the pieces of paper real estate. I heard him crying, and his heart called for me. I couldn’t let Terry down, not that night. I had a charge to take care of them both. So beside them, I laid me down to sleep, cradled up, their souls my keep. There wasn’t a night for a month that his fur wasn’t against his face, or his curls weren’t against my chin. It seemed all Rosies cast a spell on him, even when he didn’t know their names at first. His magnetic essence pulled them in like haunted spirits, smitten in no time. No wonder once he was told what her name was he turned harsh on that idiot Goodson. I hadn’t known yet what it all meant to him. But selfishly, I was pleased when that Rosie left, I couldn’t share anymore. Eventually, I moved in. The love that moved in him became a gift for me. He never could stop being generous, it filled me like unending stuffing, right down to my toes. I couldn’t do without, I always had room for more. He lives for that, always has to put it somewhere, and me, I’m an insatiable worm hole, and I can so live him back. That makes it so paradisiacal, getting and giving what we are. He melts me into pudding every time he says, "I always knew, you know. I knew forever would be you." He makes me feel like he made it happen. We didn’t really fall in love, instead we just burst into it. When we became intimate, I noticed Ollie had been given compensatory leave, and just kept a post on the bureau. 
Later, Starsky secretly promoted him to Officer of support services at Metro, always just an arm’s length away on the file cabinet. Everyone puts up with our quarky junk that hangs around, so Ollie just blends into the menagerie. But it’s important to Starsky to have him there, especially when we’re in the thick of a case that involves gore on the innocent. For some reason, I never had the chance to ask him why his name is Ollie. Even regular occasions with children gets Starsky’s adulation. When Edith Dobey invited us to a party for their little daughter, off we went shopping, for hours. It drove me bananas. "Why are we taking so long picking out this teddy?" "Because this one is extra extra special." "What for?" "Because it’s for a Rosie." 
So that enlightened me. Because there was indeed another Rosie, the first Rosie. An Aunt Rosie, as beautiful as an Irish summer. It was Starsky who told me how he had acted like a brat, when he arrived to live with his relatives here. Aunt Rosie opened her door and hugged him like a lost pooch. She gave her new David a bear when he arrived from New York as a welcome present. I suspect it was to signify comfort, security, to have some --friend-- of his own. But Starsky was a tough by then, the streets had gotten to him. "A teddy? What am I gonna do with a stuffed bear? He’s staring at me! I’m not soft, I ain’t no girl." But Aunt Rosie insisted, "Someday you’re gonna like him staring at you…" "It’s an it, not a him." She started again. "Someday you’re going to like it staring at you. When you’re ready to be a man, you’ll face the loss of your father." "I already did. I don’t care. Ain’t nothing gonna bring him back or break me down. Nothing stupid like a mushy doll." "That’s boy talk. You’ll find out men do more than talk. They allow themselves to cry." "I don’t believe that. All that toy is good for is to punch in the face." 
With that, Aunt Rosie took the bear away. The next day Uncle Al bought David a set of weights with barbells. He also put up a punching bag, and boxing gloves. And Aunt Rosie tied the bear to the bag. It was all David needed for incentive. He beat that face to pulp for weeks on end. He was determined, but so was the old Irish girl. When the eyes fell off, Aunt Rosie sewed more back on. "Maybe you shouldn’t," Al wondered. "It’ll make him mean." "No," Rosie replied, "it’ll make him think. Someday, he’ll see himself in a pair of eyes, and really see." Of course, she had no idea those eyes would be slanted, and that he’d be told they were evil, that the Army would train him to kill on sight, no matter the gender or age. Starsky had said they were told, that all they were to us are, "Victor Charlies. Gooks." After a year in the field, he didn’t recognize his own features when he saw it in a rusty reflection. One long evening, he decided to tell me about that awful day his platoon had to go clean up and bury a whole village’s dead. It wasn’t his group that did the killing, but it couldn’t have made it feel any better. "That’s when I saw with my own eyes, Hutch. My real inside eyes, for the first time since my Dad died, since I left New York. I fell to my knees when I found it. I saw Aunt Rosie’s bear, just like the one I had beat to a pulp, with the crooked sewn back pupils, laying on the filthy ground, muddy and soaked in blood. And a little hand, half torn off, clutching it, was met by the most beautiful, precious porcelian face I will ever see in my life, with closed, slanted eyes, a girl not five years old, sleeping in death. My commander had two of my buddies drag me away, I wasn’t gonna be able to dig a hole and put dirt over that." 
He was quiet for a while. "I had nightmares for three days. They had me peeling potatoes to get my mind off it. I asked the Company shrink to let me go back, so I went with the Sargent to the burial site, I wanted to steady myself. I didn’t need to see anything, just be there, for a minute, because I knew I was a new person. A year later, when my duty was about over, I wrote to Aunt Rosie and asked her when she picked me up, to bring me a new bear. When I came home, I threw my head on her lap and cried like a baby. She told me I’d left the house an angry lad, but I brought her home a fine young man." The next time we visited after Starsky told me this story, I kept looking for that fluffy animal, and wouldn’t you know, Al said it always sat in Rosie’s day chair, right where they had had their talk upon his homecoming. So I went to their room, and found it sitting in the light of the afternoon, glowing from the shadow of the dust particles distributed by the Venetian blinds. I can’t even describe how flabbergasted I was. I stood and stared with my mouth open. Rosie had entered the room to get a sweater. She approached me. "He told you, Ken?" "Not everything, apparently." Rosie rose the edges of her lips endearingly. "You didn’t know what he looked like." 
Slowly, I shook my head no. "He’s amber, with turquoise eyes. With a gold bow." "Yes, his coming home safe meant so much to us. He was our precious commodity." I turned to see her radiance. I loved her for what she had done for Starsky, how she saved him and made him whole. Loved her so much. "He named him, you know." I closed my eyes. I was trembling against my will, seeing that little girl in Vietnam in my mind, the one I never really saw, that somehow I knew whose visage he picked out when he went to the fairs, the toy stores, and at Terry’s school. Had he given her a name? "I would think the bear’s name would be Rosie," I offered. She put her wise and gentle hand on my back, trying to steady me. "His name is Blondie." I shook to my core. I was so grateful there’d never be a cure for providence, and the mercy my soul had been chosen to receive. For having been given his name, and made his beau. Somehow Rosie receded. David Starsky walked in at that moment, and met me frozen in place. His sheepish grin, his manly stance; a child had flourished, a man had come to maturation. I wanted to engulf them both, in my sentimental, gifted partner. I succumbed and squeezed him until he was out of oxygen, and then I filled his mouth with the life in my lungs. With Love’s breath, our air was brimful with bliss. He told me on the way home, the things I ached to know. "It floored me, Starsk. The turquoise eyes." "Those were the first eyes that really stared at me, the first ones I really saw when I got back…" "But the little girl in the village…" I rubbed my lids, already painfully wet. "I said I saw my inside eyes, Babe. Hers were closed." He beamed a smile at me. "But when I did get a chance to look at a real person, yours just did me in." He had made us happen, right from the beginning, calling me Blondie since the Academy. 
"And Ollie? You named him, not Terry?" "Of course I named him. I already had a Blondie." I whispered it out. "So Ollie was also me?" Oh, God. "You mean she…" "Terry knew. At the time, I wanted your happiness, your inner boy to always be with me and Terry." Even in their bed. I was awed by the paradoxes. I took his hand that hung between the seats in the car. "That night, after the presents, when I offered to hold you…" "…Little did you know you were offering me the whole package, both pieces of yourself. But you were the only adult in the room, Hutch, I was imploding then… I couldn’t have made it without you." "No wonder you were never jealous she gave Ollie to me…" "Why would I be? You were right there." That smile, like Aunt Rosie’s. "And here you are." We exchanged a glance. And I was floating, knowing I had a lifetime of this to go. Terry’s note suddenly flooded in. "She wanted us together, Ollie and Dave, not just Starsky and Hutch." "Yep." Joy dripped out of me. "And Ollie fits you when you’re silly, from where I Stan." FIN Colors
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Story: Inner Music
Type: Slash
Summary: Hutch follows his elan vital to David's soul. Episode Related: Fatal Charm
Categories: Hutch H/C, Pre-SR
Rating: PG Word Count: ~4200 INNER MUSIC by Vedette Ciel Office typing A stuffy, uneventful day continued in the Metro police station squad room. Clock watching was not Hutch’s favorite pastime, even with his feet up. Stuck in the office until his partner finalized his paperwork was certain drudgery. Often it felt arid not being within Starsky’s attentions, but apparently it took all of his marbles to deal with the present task. Poink! Hutch shot a crumbled pill ball of paper into Starsky’s typewriter, impatiently waiting for Starsky to finish his writing. Starsky gave him a glare, "Hey! You’re gonna mess up my masterpiece." Hutch leaned back in his chair. "Masterp--it’s just your report, Starsk. And at this rate, it’ll be covered in dust before you finish it." Starsky fished the little clump out of the carriage. "Why don’t you occupy yourself with something useful, like cleaning your desk?" Hutch took his feet off the blotter. "What’s wrong with my desk?" "With the drawers in your desk. They barely open, there’s so much clutter in ‘em." They often had these battles about neat versus slob. Hutch tried to pull a drawer open to no avail. "Yeah, well, at least I don’t have ketchup packets putrefying in my pencil tray." Starsky turned. "They’re in reserve." "For what, paint touch ups to the Torino?" Starsky smirked, "Very funny, red tomato wisecracks." Hutch finally got the second drawer to budge, then pulled it so hard, it fell out and spilled. "See?" Starsky laughed. Hutch patted around for the pile. "What’s the point of leaving them empty?" "Well, at least reduce the 86." He opened his own side drawer with ease. "Maybe if you find room, you can have this." Starsky reached over and handed a wrapping paper present to Hutch. Hutch startled. "Starsk-- what is this?" "It’s an early birthday present." Hutch smiled just a dite. "But I said I…" "Which is why I’m ambushing you now, so you can’t complain when it gets close." Hutch blushed and carefully placed it in front of him. "I’m not compl--, I’m, oh nuts, okay…." He looked up into genuine warm eyes, "thank you, partner." He started to get excited despite himself. "What is it?" "Open it up." He looked around the room. No one paying attention. "Here?" Starsky nodded like a kid. That always made Hutch smile for real. "Okay." Hutch pulled on the side tape with his graceful fingers, saving the paper. He pulled out what appeared to be some kind of magazines, or folders… "It’s some lyric sheets, for guitar. Wow, there’s over three dozen here. These are expensive." "So? You’re worth it. Besides, you know how to play." Hutch perused the selection. Starsky had gone to a lot of trouble, picking material Hutch not only relished, but could learn at his level. Hutch looked up with every song title and smiled sheepishly. "These are beautiful." Starsky beamed like a flash cube. "Check out the bottom part." Hutch turned over the pile and checked out the last pages. There was a pad with about fifty pieces of blank music sheets. On the top it had been imprinted, with empty title lines, and a subscript, in cursive font: Music by Kenneth Hutchinson Apologize Hutch leaned back in a daze, flabbergasted. "Starsky, I don’t know what to say, no one ever…" "…noticed you’re full of inner music. But you are." Hutch had chills of nervous energy, he was cold from the thought Starsky may have heard him attempting to sing made up lyrics before, while he was warm from the emotion Starsky made him feel because he liked to hear him play. Hutch gathered the pile that by its own propulsion was gently coddled to his chest with both arms. He looked up to his partner, his back rounded like an embarrassed but happy bird. He nodded and smiled a full wattage of eye twinkle, speechless. Starsky smiled too. Starsky pulled the report out. "Let me pass this in, and we can go, ‘kay?" When he got to the door, he turned back to see Hutch rubbing his fingers across the embossed name. He sauntered into the hallway lighter than air. ~*~ Hutch was nearly a master at choosing healthy supplements for his shakes, but when it came to women, he let them blend him to a pulp. Once he met a lady, he let her lead him into whatever direction she chose. Unfortunately, the destructive type met with him way too often. Such was the case with Diana Harmon. Within a few mediocre dates, Hutch had his wits stretched to the limit as to how to get her out of his life. After missing a six o’clock dinner he reluctantly agreed to, he entered his apartment to find the entire contents ravaged and destroyed. Hesitantly, he picked up a hanging plant, then walked to the remains of his most prized possession. Stunned, all he could muster as he hung his head was to say aloud, ‘Damn.’ 
Agitated and angry, he hoped talking to Starsky he’d find some solace. "Girl’s gotta be sick to do something like that." Starsky worked audaciously on his model ship. "I agree." Hutch didn’t feel Starsky was getting it. "She needs help!" "I agree with you. Look, there’s a roll of black thread in the second drawer of my desk…" "Starsk…" Hutch barked. But Starsky remained neutral. "Whatta ya gonna do, are you gonna want to take an APB out on her for vandalism? The thread, please…" "She’s dangerous. Well, she shouldn’t be on the street!" Starsky conceded. "Look, I’m no shrink, but, I'm thinking it’s a possibility she mighta worked out her aggression on your place tonight…" They started at each other through the model ship’s rigging. Hutch shook his head dejected. He put his beer down and walked to the window. Starsky continued with his task. Little did his partner know, he was formulating how to help, what to say. More importantly, he was giving Hutch room to vent, without making him suffer anymore emotional intervention, he was pretty sure Hutch wouldn’t accept pity. Hutch gazed into the darkness, glum and in pain deeper than Starsky understood at the moment. In barely a whisper, he confided, "It’s just…Starsky, she--she smashed my…the guitar." Starsky lifted his head, and saw the blood drain out of his friend’s face. But before he could utter a sound, Hutch sighed fitfully and walked out. The headlights of the car backed away before Starsky had a chance to foster a refutation. Regrettably, he watched as the Ford disappeared. The next day, with Huggy’s help, the three of them surveyed and cleaned the shambled remains of Hutch’s possessions. While installing a new lock on the door, Hutch felt relief when Starsky admonished Huggy for dropping the guitar’s carcass on the floor with little consideration for its meaning. Starsky said emphatically, ‘Huggy, you’re talking about a man’s heart!’ Continuing to work on door knob, Hutch the inside, Starsky the outer, the two moved the tumbler in unison, as if their hands, and minds had met. Hutch blinked in appreciation, meeting his eyes, eking out a smile. Starsky did care after all, he really did. 
Within a week of healing up from the stitches it took to repair his arm injury, Hutch had been able to recover many similar items like those he had owned with assistance of another of Huggy’s cousins. "Hamper Man?? That’s his name?" "Hey, they don’t call him that for nothing, why he can make a derivative out of a primitive, if you get my drift! He can retrieve some of the finer things in life for little financial finesse!" Hutch’s eyebrows were up. "You’re not going to make me wonder just where he finagles these finesses, are you, Hug?" "Strictly legit, my man, I promise you that. Hamper’s gains are a mover’s remains, voluntary of course." "Of course." "Just check him out at his shop, he’ll even deliver." Starsky tried to be encouraging. "Worth a look, Hutch. Your style ain’t exactly hard to match, being row cocoa and all." Hutch winced. "Rococo, goofball." "Worry not, he’ll have plenty of mish to match your mash." Huggy chimed, with Starsky chuckling along. Between the both of them, all Hutch could do is slap himself and shake his head. ~*~ 
"Zebra three, signing out." Heading back to Metro, Hutch was glad it was Friday afternoon. Opening the window slightly, he welcomed the breeze. "Want to head to Huggy’s after I get my car, Starsk?" "Can’t, remember? Uncle Al wants me to help him tow that ‘59 De Soto back to his garage, as his next restoration project." "Oh, yeah, that’s right." Hutch was a little disappointed. "I might not be back until after Rosie stuffs me with soup, crackers and cannoli." "Sounds better than the special at the Pits." Starsky looked at his partner and their eyes met. "I gotta call to make before I go, though. Maybe you can run an errand for me?" Starsky’s smile was hard to resist, it always had a tingling warmth meant just for Hutch. "Sure. Guess I can do that. What is it?" "Gotta make the call first." They turned into the station. ~*~ Hutch snuck into records to chat with Minnie while helping himself to her coffee, which was always better than the sludge that occupied the pot in the squad room. By the time he returned, Starsky was long gone. With only a lonely note left on his desk, Hutch was feeling a little blue, as often he would at the beginning of another weekend. Unlike his partner, sometimes the only local family tie that he had, that he wanted, was Starsky himself. Before reading the note, Hutch opened his desk drawer and retrieved the package Starsky had given him for his birthday. He had brought home a few of the song sheets, and practiced them when alone every chance he had when no one was around. Those he had left at work, he often contemplated over fondly, humming the words in his head, mentally fingering the chords. It was a way to relax in between stressful moments, and a way to connect to his feelings, his affections, for Starsky. Visualizing the demolition of most of his items, he was even more grateful he had chosen to leave this treasure at work. Spared from loss, it had become attached to his esteem, still fragile from the wrath of someone he had shared a bed with. Why couldn’t such an intimate act ensure no harm would ever come from what such arms embraced? He closed his eyes knowing a song was forming in his brain. He placed the dog-eared first page of the music paper pad on top of the pile again, like he had many times before. He reached for a pencil, then remembered where he was. No personal words here, it was, too foreboding, too dangerous. He didn’t think he could control what lead would bring to jotter. He was becoming aware no creative spark did not have his partner entwined in it, and would be as distinct as the bark of a Bassett hound in heat. He opened the note. Sorry I can’t be there, Hutch. 1072 East Waterbury. They’re open ‘til 6. Ask for Danny. S. As the errand tugged him back into reality, Hutch returned his gift to the drawer and headed for the parking garage. ~*~ Locating the shop on East Waterbury, Hutch found it still occupied despite the traffic that delayed him. He walked in, wondering if this was another informant Starsky had rustled up from an old case he may have been on. The clerk came forward from the employee area behind the counter, welcoming him in. "You must be Blondie." Hutch was taken aback. Not the name Starsky used for him when on duty. Blushing, he smiled and shrugged at the same time. "Danny, is it?" "Yeah, your friend told me you had real good looks. You sure live up to your name." Starsky said that? Hutch chuckled shyly, not sure why he was here. "Uhh, I was sent to see you…" "Yes, Mr. Starsky told me to have it ready. It’s out back. Just a sec." Hutch stopped in his tracks and looked around. This was quite a fancy pawn shop, a very particular pawn shop, full of one-of-a-kind pieces, vintage tea sets, ivory statues, leather-bound books and antique lace. It didn’t seem like a place Starsky would linger in. Maybe he didn’t know this side of his partner, the thought intrigued him. Starsky was full of surprises, and here was another that delighted his heart. Danny returned with an expensive hard-shell guitar case and opened it on the counter, in a flourished presentation. Hutch felt like he was crawling forward in slow motion. "Well, you can hold it if you want, and try it out. It’s all paid for." Hutch couldn’t get his feet to move. A silly snort came out, from embarrassment. Or was it shock. He placed his fingers on the neck, then on the strings, until he could feel the blood in his arms enough to lift it. "It’s…amazing." "Wait until I tell you who owned it. It belonged to session guitarist Larry Carlton, who’s done studio stuff for Vicki Carr, Andy Williams and the Partridge Family." "And the Fifth Dimension." "Right, so you know who he is." Hutch nodded, as he thought about the fact that Starsky knew Hutch owned his 1968 Uni album With A Little Help From My Friends. 
"He’s known for his electric guitar mostly, but he’ll play anything, like this acoustic. Think he’s going solo these days. His manager sells me a few of his instruments, from time to time, when gigs get lean. It comes with all its history, on paper, plus an autographed letter with a picture of Larry using the guitar. I’ve had this awhile." There was nothing more awe inspiring than to hold an instrument a revered musician had created on. The guitar was more worn than his had been, but it made it all the more endearing. And the workmanship of the instrument far exceeded the quality of what he had lost. Hutch tried to shake awake his shellshock. "What do I owe for this, I mean, how much?" "Like I said, already paid. Besides, Mr. Starsky wanted to be sure you wouldn’t find out. He told me if you asked to tell you ‘the music you make has no price.’" Hutch met his eyes with a thud. Danny grabbed the guitar before Hutch dropped it. "You okay?" Hutch tried to recover. " Ah, yeah, yes," clearing his throat, "yes I am. Just so --unexpected." "You’ve got a good friend, I can see that. Let me get you a few picks and the extras, I’ll be right back." Hutch stared at the case until it blurred from sight. What had he done to deserve this? In a spiritual thunderbolt, he heard Starsky’s voice in his mind say, "just because you exist." His stomach flipped. He dabbed his eyes quickly before Danny returned. Still shaky, they carried the idolized items to Hutch’s front seat. Driving back to Venice, the cadence of the engine strummed a scant flutter of sound out of the strings from time to time, making Hutch’s heart skip a beat or two. The little tune vibrated as if it was coming from his vocal chords. It sounded like You, I love you. It was all rushing to fruition. And it was all so wondrously true. ~*~ 
It was later than he’d hoped, but Starsky was glad to have helped Uncle Al with his new project. The De Soto was in nice shape and was worth restoring. Aunt Rosie was true to form and had food made for an army, and couldn’t help herself packing some of her goodies for Hutch. Starsky drove back eager to get to Venice, and see how his partner made out retrieving his special gift. For weeks, Starsky had been paying installments on the guitar, after feeling deeply for Hutch’s loss of the damaged one, especially because it had been with him for many years. Not having had the reaction Hutch needed the night he was told what happened when his apartment was destroyed compelled Starsky to escalate his efforts to show his partner he cared. What Hutch didn’t know was how very much Starsky held dear everything his partner needed. The fundamental way to love Hutch was to pay close attention to his interests, then lead by example. Hutch still found it difficult to accept presents at traditional times such as Christmas or birthdays, much less so out of the blue, yet he constantly craved affection and attention. He just wasn’t aware of it, probably from being neglected as a child. But Starsky knew the affect his ministrations had on him since the day they met, and had attained a strong propensity of his own for Hutch in every aspect of his life. The last few weeks they had talked about a lot of things, rearranging Hutch’s apartment, while Starsky hovered, making dinners, keeping him company. Some of the conversations had gotten pretty deep, considering the items Hutch had to replace, each had a memory to eulogize. One evening, Hutch was particularly morose. "What happens, Starsk, to a soul that can’t fall in love?" "I don’t believe in that falling stuff. I think it’s more that they are found to, than made to." Hutch contemplated uneasily, " …so how does it know?" Starsky looked at the blond head, that stared at the floor, with empathy. "I think it suddenly speaks when the correlation happens, and says something profound." "Doesn’t seem like that has happened, or ever will." "When it does, they’ll be no doubt, Hutch." Hutch looked up dismayed. "But…" Starsky tilted his head tenderly. "Don’t worry. It’ll happen. It has to." "But why?" "…just because you exist." Thinking about that conversation now, he hoped Hutch would understand the gesture of the surprise, and apperceive what Starsky already discovered, that they were meant for each other. Starsky stopped at a neighborhood store for a six pack. As he approached the Venice area, he pondered amusingly how it went at the pawn shop, what Hutch’s face must have looked like when he first saw the guitar and its case. It had taken a while to find one that would be more than just a replacement, but unique. He would never tell, but he had planned for Hutch to pick it up by himself, and take time to adjust without rejecting the gift as too much. He parked the car about a block away, and walked to the front of the building. As he climbed to Hutch’s apartment, gentle but hesitant chords were sloping down the stairway. Starsky intuitively sensed disturbing his friend would end the session abruptly. He was always entranced by Hutch’s talent; instinctively, he settled on the stoop, stretching his legs. He rested his back on the wall and listened. ~*~ Hutch sat comfortably on the sofa and ran his fingers on the fret. He had tuned the instrument for a few minutes, rather unnecessarily, for the guitar was exquisite in sound and design. Once his hands found their place, he initiated playing and singing, with a tune he knew would exercise its resonance and range: Vincent 
Starry, starry night:
Paint your palette blue and gray.
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills.
Sketch the trees and the daffodils;
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Vincent, Don McLean, 1972 Starsky held his breath and waited for another chorus. Hutch provided only quiet. He began to mingle the chords on this verse with what sounded like a blend into another. All the while, Starsky’s mind drifted to the times he would ask him to constantly play this song, because he loved the details of the imagery, and the way the words fluttered off Hutch’s vibrato. He knew already that this private concert had to be chosen for him, because Hutch always started a session for him with this selection. The voice began again: Time in a Bottle If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I’ve looked around enough to know
That you’re the one I want to go
Through time with Time in A Bottle, Jim Croce, 1973 Hutch stopped again. He sighed loud enough for Starsky to need to swallow. He almost missed the fact that Hutch was beginning to speak aloud. "God, she’s beautiful. Just like you, Starsk. Just like how you make me feel…." Baby Im A Want Baby I’m-a-want you, baby I’m-a need you
You the only one I care enough to hurt about
Maybe I’m-a crazy, But I just cant live without...
Your lovin’ and affection, Givin’ me direction
Like a guiding light to help me through a darkest hour
Lately I’m a-prayin’, That you’ll always be a-stayin’ beside me
Baby I’m-A Want You, Bread, 1972 Starsky was staring at the ceiling, holding his knuckles to his lips. Could he believe this was happening? That their souls felt the same things? Oh, Hutch, please let it be true. He wanted to barge right in and find out. But he couldn’t, shouldn’t. The strings began again, an instrumental verse, slow and sad. Hutch’s gentle tenor sang out: And I Love You So And, yes, I know how loveless life can be.
The shadows follow me, and the night won’t set me free.
But I don’t let the evening bring me down
Now that you’re around me.
And I love you so.
The people ask me how,
How I’ve lived till now.
I tell them, I don’t know. And I Love You So, Don McLean, 1976 "I don’t know how I’m ever going to have the courage to play what I wrote for you, Starsk." Starsky could almost feel Hutch’s butterflies introducing themselves to the ones in his own stomach. He heard Hutch clear his throat, "Hope he doesn’t mind my stalling, he always liked this one…" Your Song And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world Your Song, Elton John, 1970 Starsky was holding his hand to his face, his fingers across his nose and mouth. Leaning his elbow on his knee, he was holding back tears. A quiet moment passed, and then in a raspy voice, he heard his partner say, "This is for you, Starsk". An original tune generated, as Hutch hummed the melody. Starsky drew in a long breath: In my thoughts, you are all I can believe, In my heart, not far, from all I’ll ever need, And in every song, the words call out your name, My soul sings to the tune of your acclaim Beside you daily, I am yours to trust, At night, my dreams ask for what is just, And in all I long, in musings, it’s the same, To make you mine is all of what remains No hiding what your love has done to me, For you, partner, are all I’ll ever need. Come to me soon, as quick as time allows And share the harmony of what’s between us now. In every song, you’re all I can acclaim, The inner music of my spirit calls your name. Inner Music, Hutch, 1977. The chorus was repeated as an instrumental as Hutch’s voice had cracked. Starsky knew he had to enter now. He tried the unlocked doorknob and walked in. Hutch never looked up, and continued playing. Maybe they both knew they were only a door frame apart. It had always been that way. Starsky walked slowly to the new couch, and sat on the trunk in front of it. Hutch gave the last few repeated strums a final brush. His eyes met Starsky’s smile. Hutch trembled to his core. "Starsk." Hutch clutched his prize. "You like it." "I-I don’t have words yet." His voice caught. "I heard them anyway." It was dead quiet. What had been heard? What had they known? What was not clear? Hutch wasn’t sure, but didn’t care anymore. He moved the guitar to the left. He reached out with the right. He fell forward on his knees and clenched himself to Starsky’s waist, choked, his head tucked, nuzzled to the fur of Starsky’s chest like a silky hair-shirt. Starsky stroked the blond strands and cuddled the love of his life. He spoke softly. "Your song, Babe. It’s us." He felt Hutch shivering, nodding into his passionate caress. "Our inside music, Hutch. It’s been playing in the background way too long." Conjointly, their euphony had now arrived. ~FINIS~ 
NOTES: All lyric excerpts above are the property of the original artists. The lyrics for "Inner Music" are created by Vedette Ciel. Artist Larry Carlton began his career in So. California, and is known for collaborating the TV theme for "Hill Street Blues". Visit Larry Carlton’s music at: http://www.larrycarlton.com/music.html
What Kind of Crazy
In An Ord World Story type: Pre-Slash (viewer discretion) Story rating: PG This story is based on the end tag in Season One Episode "Texas Longhorn" What Kind of Crazy By Vedette Ciel 
"Hey, Starsky. I’m beginning to think that everybody in this town is crazy except you and me." "Funny, I was beginning to have serious doubts about you." Another joke. For a minute, Hutch smiled painfully, then looked into Starsky’s face, to penetrate a thought into his soul through his eyes. Suddenly Starsky was forced to take a hard swallow. Hutch withdrew, and lowered his head, looking into his beer. "Okay, Hemingway," he murmured quietly, placing the stein on the bar, sadly walking towards the johns. Huggy overheard. "Those doubts…ain’t so funny, are they?" Starsky winced. "What did I just do?…" Huggy took Hutch’s unfinished beer, and shook his head in disgust. He slid it over, a startled Starsky grabbing it before it fell off the edge. He looked into it, like a crystal ball. He lifted his face, "Well?" He looked for what he’d often seen, the seer, the soother. But Huggy was tired tonight, of the one upmanship between these two, knew Starsky’s glee when it came to games, meant he never knew how to quit while he was ahead. Huggy hardened. "You two just finished a pretty tough case, now didn’t you?" "Yeah, it was, well, your typical misery, why?" "Anybody die?" Starsky frowned, "What kind of stupid question is that?" "Answer me how many people you met that died." "One, two, a couple." "A couple." Starsky corrected now that he remembered. "Actually, a real couple. First, the wife. Then the husband." He recollected the facts from his written report. "Oh, yeah, and then there was Chaco. Wasn’t sorry to see him go." Huggy shook his head. "That all?" "What, you want an official list? Sending flowers or something?" Huggy moved closer. "You want my help or you just want to spend the night sparring with plastic forks, Toto?" Starsky drew in his chin. Huggy called him that in the early days, as an indication he was acting like a bratty kid. Starsky began to feel the back of his collar making his neck itchy. "Also, we did the sailor in. I guess that makes four officially." Huggy leaned on the bar with one elbow. "And you met Angel. She ain’t exactly fully alive no more." Starsky felt his stomach turn. He clasped Hutch’s beer again, this time looking for his handprint, his sweat, his essence. "Whadda you saying, Hug?" "I’m saying that Blondie of yours don’t have your skin. Sounds like its go-go-boom-crash-pow straight through and no time to process, know what I mean?" Now Starsky’s whole back was itchy. "Yeah, I hear ya. But Blon--Hutch, he can take it. We’re a team." "Because he’s your complement, not your copy." Starsky kept his head down. He was starting to feel scolded. I don’t understand what I screwed up. Huggy reached for his forearm. "You sit here and think about it. I’ll be right back." Starsky couldn’t help himself. He put his mouth to the stein where Hutch’s had been. He took a long sip, as he pinched his lips together on the rim. He leaned his forehead on the mug and sighed. ------------- Hutch had walked towards the restrooms, but quickly took a turn through the kitchen. He walked over to the dishwasher and asked for his cigarettes. He went to give him one from the pack, but Hutch presented a five dollar bill and took the entire package. The boy smiled and eagerly took the money, as Hutch made his way out the service door. In the alley, he leaned against the building behind the dumpster and lit up. Smoking calmed him down sometimes, but it took two or three in a row. He’d never really had the habit, but he’d sometimes imbibe to get the bitter taste of chaos out of his hide. And right now all he wanted was to fill his core with fresh smoke, ‘cause the rotten crud of death was lingering in his lungs. He finished the first one fast. Better not to get caught out here chaining up. He rubbed his chin and exhaled, hearing his partner’s comeback again. Funny, I was beginning to have serious doubts about you. Doubts. Hutch had to smirk at that. It was his own fault, he knew Starsky didn’t have a clue. ‘Crazy except you and me.’ The two of them weren’t crazy. The two of them were sapient. The two of them had a purpose, the two of them could deliver. Despite it all, they were still alive, together. The two of them, the two of us. The two of us. The door opened. Huggy waltzed over to the cloud of tobacco. "Doing okay, my man?" Hutch smiled, shyly. He offered Huggy a puff. "Yeah, I’m okay." "He’s pretty miserable, Blondie. Doesn’t understand." Hutch nodded. Huggy avered, "He doesn’t know yet." Hutch took the last drag, stomping on the butt. Looking into Huggy’s concerned face, he stated, "He’s not ready, Hug, you know that." They exchanged a quiet stare. "I just believe that when the time comes, it’ll all be worth the wait." Huggy wished he could do more. "You coming back in?" The door opened again. Huggy walked towards it, patting the shoulder of the other half, waltzing back inside. Hutch turned and their eyes met, as Starsky swept over to him. Starsky’s eyes were watery. "Hutch…it was a tough case, wasn’t it?" "Yeah, Buddy…" "And I’m the crazy one for not noticing it was hard on you." Hutch didn’t have time to react to the bulldozer of a hug that came at him, except to equal the embrace, and succumb, to his ear being covered with a silvery tear and a muttered "I’m sorry…" Hutch buried his head in that froth of curls, breathing in. "Hutch, I don’t know what kind of crazy we are yet, but I know whatever it is, it’s okay. Okay?" Starsky clutched tightly. Separating just enough to see each other, Starsky answered Hutch’s gaze at the bar. He got it right this time. 
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