Work Text:
by Morgan Logan (logan117666@yahoo.com)
Starsky slept.
Hutch couldn't, still trying to absorb what had just happened, his mind a
wheel spinning from implication to implication, unable to fix on any. He
lay on one side, looking down at his best friend, his partner and now,
incredibly, his lover.
With his track record, he wasn't sure what right he had had to move toward
Starsky last night and initiate that first, astounding kiss. His body had
done it without permission from his mind, which now kept spinning,
spinning, fear laying its hand on the wheel and keeping it turning. If
I hurt him like I hurt the others....
His eyes traveled to Starsky's face, the improbably long lashes on the
lids that hid ocean blue depths, the proud arc of the mouth that was, for
once, tightly sealed. He let himself feast his glance there before moving
on to the scarred chest; his eyes skittered away from the terrible
keepsakes.
Hutch noticed that Starsky's hands were clenched into fists, the one
tucked up close by the pillow, the other curled tightly, pressed against
the mattress by his belly, protecting. Life had injured his partner in so
many ways, taking his father away when he was still so young; uprooting
him and sending him to California. His losses were great. Helen, Terry.
His health, thanks to Gunther. The fists were a reminder; they were
poised as if ready to fend off further blows.
How was it that he had trusted Hutch, of all people, not to hurt him next?
Hutch took a breath, and sighed his partner's name, "Oh, Starsky."
Starsky's head moved slightly in his sleep, and Hutch watched, amazed, as
one fist loosened into a seeking hand that crept across the space between
them to close against Hutch's chest.
Over his heart.
Hutch slept.
February, 2005
San Francisco, CA