Hutch jogged up the stairs outside Starsky's building, skipping every other one. He let himself in when he reached the top, careful not to jostle the beer bottles cradled in the crook of his arm as he kicked the door closed with his foot.
"Hey, Starsk!" Hutch tossed his keys on the table near the door and moved into the kitchen to set down the overfilled bag of groceries next to the sink. He glanced over his shoulder through the arch towards the living room as he searched for Starsky.
The six-pack of beer slipped the last few inches from his hands to hit the counter with a loud rattle; Hutch grabbed the edge of the counter, keeping upright by sheer force of will for a minute before he gave in to suddenly wobbly knees. He slid down the front of the cupboard, landing in a graceless heap on the linoleum floor.
Starsky lay on the couch on his back, chest barely rising and falling beneath the afghan as he breathed. On the end table above his head was a vase full of carnations, their riotous colors muted in the evening gloom. Hutch swore he could smell them from across the room, even though he knew it wasn't possible.
The tableau was scarily similar to the one he'd watched over every night for weeks after Gunther's goons had changed everything.
A soft snore from the direction of the couch broke Hutch from his reverie as Starsky shifted and muttered in his sleep. Hutch dropped his head into his hands and thanked every god he'd ever heard of that Starsky was still alive.
He didn't have any idea how long he sat there on the floor, but a concerned "Hutch?" and a soft touch to his shoulder brought his head up. He blinked a few times before realizing that night had fallen and darkness had filled Starsky's apartment.
"You ok, Hutch?" Starsky sat carefully on the floor next to him, his warm hand sliding down to settle on Hutch's knee.
"I'm—" Hutch cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Got a funny way of showing it, sitting on the floor in the dark while the beer gets warm." Hutch could hear the gentle grin in Starsky's voice.
"Just contemplating the linoleum." Hutch sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "You really need to mop the floor more often, Starsk. It's disgusting."
Starsky snorted. "What good is time off if I have to mop the floor? Isn't that what I've got you for?"
Hutch gave a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah, I guess you do. Though I hope you keep me around for more reasons than just my housecleaning skills."
"You cook awful good." Hutch looked over at his partner. He could see by the faint moonlight shining through the balcony doors that Starsky's shoulders were shaking as he tried to contain his laughter.
Hutch struggled to keep a straight face. "I am not your wife, Starsk."
Starsky burst out laughing. It was the most joyful sound Hutch had ever heard—a laugh that involved Starsky's whole body and set loose his gorgeous smile. Hutch hadn't heard it since before Starsky'd been shot. He smiled reflexively, shifting as Starsky leaned against him and continued snickering. Hutch wrapped his arm around Starsky's shoulders, careful not to brush the bandages on Starsky's back where they made lumps under his soft, often-washed T-shirt. Starsky's hand moved from Hutch's knee to his thigh as they got more comfortable.
They sat in silence for a minute, broken only by the occasional snicker, before Starsky continued. "Okay, you can be the husband."
Hutch smiled and ruffled Starsky's hair. "Very generous of you, Starsk."
"I'm a generous guy, Hutch."
"Yeah, you are."
Hutch couldn't stop staring at the flowers, silhouetted in the light from outside. "Where'd you get the flowers?"
"Kids down the block were selling 'em for a church fund raiser."
Hutch tightened his arm around Starsky.
"Hutch," Starsky asked softly, his voice deep and serious in the darkness, "what's wrong?"
Hutch took a breath and kept staring straight ahead. "Edith brought flowers like those when she heard you were shot. She came to visit with Dobey the second day you were—you were in the hospital. I remember not having any idea what to do with them when she handed them to me—I'd spent all night in the chair outside your room, watching the machine try to make you breathe. One of the nurses found a vase and put them in there. She—she put 'em on the ledge above your head, and every time I came back to check on you, they'd died a little more.
"I—I remember thinking about artists who painted a still life of cut flowers in a vase, like the one we saw at the museum a few months before you were—before you were shot, wondering how they saw any life at all in something that was, by its very nature, cut off from what made it alive.
"And you were so still."
Starsky slipped his other hand behind Hutch's head to cup his nape, bending towards Hutch and pressing his forehead to Hutch's temple. "I'm here, Hutch."
"Yeah, I know," Hutch said. "Thanks for not dying on me." The joke felt leaden—everything was still too vivid in his head. Six weeks wasn't nearly long enough to forget the horror of watching Starsky fight to live.
"Any time, partner." Starsky leaned back and his hand drifted down to stroke Hutch's cheek with the back of his fingers. Hutch looked up, his breath catching at the intense look on Starsky's face. "Hey, Hutch?"
"Yeah, Starsk?"
"I changed my mind. You do get to be the wife. But I promise not to bring you flowers, okay?" Starsky grinned and leaned closer in, stifling Hutch's half-hearted protest with a deep, intense kiss, invading Hutch's mouth like he belonged there, overrunning him like they'd done this before. Hutch met him kiss for kiss, hands moving to cup Starsky's scruffy cheeks, reveling in the fact that Starsky was alive—and anything but still.
Hutch panted a little as Starsky drew back, watching carefully as Starsky lightly put a hand over one of the lower wounds on his abdomen. A slight shake of Starsky's head was the only needed response to Hutch's raised eyebrow, so he shifted them until Starsky was leaning against him again. "I'd better get a ring out of this, Starsk, 'cause I'm not the kind of guy who puts out on a first date without a good reason."
"Yes, you are. But that's okay," Starsky said, dropping a kiss on his nose, "I love ya anyway."
Hutch sighed happily. The meaning behind the words they'd said to each other before had changed so easily—as easily as they'd slipped from friends to new lovers. "Love you, too, Starsk."
Love and thanks as always to Veronica, goddess among women, editor and motivator extraordinaire. *vbg*
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