Gazing
by lamardeuse
Inspired by Lorraine Brevig’s gorgeous artwork of the same
name. Your support and generosity mean so much to me, Lorraine.
Thank you.
Author's Note: This
is some kind of bizarre post-Starsky vs. Hutch thing that popped
into my head. Thanks to Dana for her input on some canon points that
I've tried to integrate in this revised version.
Sometimes Hutch thought that Starsky had to have a hundred different
ways of looking at him.
He also knew how ridiculous it was to think that—hell, at most there
couldn’t be more than a couple of dozen— but when he was under the shelter
of that blue, blue gaze it didn’t seem so foolish. Because that
gaze could drag endless combinations and permutations of emotion out of
him in a way no other’s ever had. Not his father, not his wife, not
any of the women who’d shared his bed.
Having Starsky’s gaze on him when they walked a beat was vital, because
those eyes watched out for trouble, protected him. His partner’s gaze
was more valuable than a bulletproof vest at keeping Hutch alive and whole.
That kind of look was returned, one hundred percent.
There was another look they had in common, one that communicated their
intent or their state of mind without the need for words. Hutch
had never been a big believer in telepathy and all that supernatural jazz,
but when another human being could gaze into your eyes and see exactly
what you wanted and needed in that moment, it no longer was a question of
belief. It simply was.
Then there was the gaze that Hutch could only label affectionate exasperation,
one he’d gotten a few times from Starsk, but was actually an expression
that probably appeared more frequently on his own face. That one
went hand-in-hand with the affectionate indulgence and the affectionate
tolerance and the—hell, the just plain affection. If someone else—another
cop, usually—caught that one passing between them, the observer might elbow
the person beside them and wiggle his eyebrows, as though showing you cared
about the guy you’d take a fucking bullet for was worthy of a crude locker
room joke.
But when Starsky’s gaze was touching him that way he didn’t care where
anyone else’s eyes were, because his own eyes were too busy giving back
what he was getting.
There were times when Starsky had his own ways of looking, though,
ways that weren’t so easy for Hutch to give back. There was the look
that came straight from the devil living inside Starsky’s soul, the Loki
that was always ready to play anytime, anywhere. Hutch’d be sitting
in the squad room, typing the millionth page of the most boring report in
recorded history, and he’d look up and get flattened by the shit-eating
twinkle in Starsky’s eyes.
“What?” he’d say, irritably, because that was the reaction he was supposed
to have to Starsky’s shit-eating twinkle. The irritation was only
partly feigned; whenever Starsk gave him that look, things tended to happen
that embarrassed the hell out of him. Like being swept off his feet
and into Starsky’s arms while he stared up at the ceiling and into those
wicked eyes.
But the mischievous light would only grow in direct proportion to Hutch's
annoyance, feeding on the negative energy it received. And that was
when Hutch would start feeling a little like The Prisoner must’ve felt when
that goofy bouncing ball started chasing him lazily down the beach.
It was pointless to run, so you might as well stand there and let it envelop
you, swallow you whole.
Not such a bad way to go, really.
Then there was the way Starsk would look at him when Hutch was feeling
lonely, or down, or when he was more than a little drunk. That gaze
wasn’t the clear, pure blue of mischief; it was muddy and clouded by the
current of their shared history, by the eddies of regret and loss.
When Hutch looked into those eyes, he felt like the world could be blasted
to a cinder and he’d still be whole, or as whole as he could be after thirty-six
years spent playing the role of Ken Hutchinson. Starsky’s eyes were
a haven, the safest place he’d ever known, and yet they were a trap, too.
Because once he let himself fall, he knew he’d never have the strength—or
the will—to come out again.
Those were some of the ways Starsky looked at him, though there had
to be others, there had to be. Desperately Hutch tried to think of
them, tried to picture them in his mind, but they were starting to fade like
colors at the onset of dusk, when everything washed to gray and the frigid
evening breeze vanquished the heat of the sun.
Lately Starsky hadn’t been looking at him much. Hutch could tell,
because he felt cold all the damned time now.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“What’re you lookin’ at?”
Hutch was yanked from his reverie by Starsky’s growl only to realize
that his partner’s gaze was averted, trained on someone else entirely.
Glancing around at the nighttime denizens of Huggy's, he found the guy
Starsky was eyeing, noticed with dismay that he was bigger than the two
of them put together.
“Uh, Starsk,” he offered, laying a hand on the dark-haired forearm
where it rested on the table. While he watched, Starsky’s fingers
curled into a fist, and he judiciously let go. He didn’t know where
the anger was coming from, but he knew when to let well enough alone.
A few tense seconds passed in which the two opponents stared one another
down, and then the leviathan blinked, muttering an expletive and turning
away. Hutch felt Starsky tense beside him, felt the lean body shift.
Swiftly, he wrapped his fingers around his friend’s arm one more time,
investing his grasp with determination.
“Don’t,” he murmured. “Whatever it was, it’s not worth it.”
He watched as a muscle in Starsky’s jaw leapt frantically. “You
don’t know—”
“I don’t,” Hutch agreed. “But it’s still not worth it.
I don’t want to see any more blood on you.”
Which was a slightly crazy thing to say, but it caused Starsk to look
at him out of the corners of his eyes. That made it worthwhile, if
nothing else.
“Okay,” Starsky allowed, easing back against the vinyl bench.
Hutch felt Starsk’s eyes on the place where they were joined and hastily
removed his hand. The fist uncurled slowly like a dying flower.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Starsky was moving before he
finished the sentence. Shivering, Hutch struggled to catch up.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The apartment smelled like patchouli incense, a reminder of last night’s
date. Brenda had cooked him an elaborate meal of poached trout and
curried vegetables, and after she’d left the cacophony of smells had made
sleep impossible.
The things I do to get laid, he’d thought as he watched the
curl of smoke wending its way through his kitchen, then wondered when the
hell he’d become a parody of himself.
“Whew! Smells like the Maharishi Temple over on West Ocean,”
Starsky muttered, waving a hand in front of his face.
“I’ll open a window,” Hutch said, motivated by the sudden, heartstopping
fear that Starsk would leave. He careened through the apartment
until there was a steady crosswind blowing through the place. Soon
it would be autumn, or what passed for autumn here in Paradise. He
felt a strange, abrupt longing for crisp Minnesota fall nights. Because that kind of cold at
least served its own purpose, had its own purity. Anything was better
than this gradual, pointless freezing.
When he finally turned to Starsky, he found the man sprawled on his
couch, a semi-recumbent invitation to sin.
Fuck, he thought, annoyed by the sudden failure of his legs
to support the rest of his body. He swayed for a moment, and Starsky,
sensing his distress, shifted to one side to make a place for his teetering
frame.
“Got any beer?” Starsky asked after Hutch had collapsed beside him.
“Yeah.”
There was a moment of expectant silence. Hutch made to rise, but was
stopped by a firm hand. “Don’t get up.”
“But you wanted—” Hutch’s gaze rose to Starsky’s face at that
point, and was pinned by a look he’d never seen before. The unfamiliarity
of it was such a shock that he looked away, afraid he would no longer recognize
his reflection in those eyes.
“Whut’d I want?” Starsky husked. Hutch didn’t respond, didn’t
look up. After about a hundred years, Starsky blew out a breath and
leaned back against the couch. His hand dropped from Hutch’s arm.
The loss felt like an amputation.
“What did that guy say to you?” Hutch asked, voice no more than a whisper.
He glanced up in time to see Starsky shake his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“But it—”
“It doesn’t,” Starsky insisted. “It wasn’t him.
He wasn’t—that wasn’t what really pissed me off.”
“What was it, then?”
Starsky hesitated for a few seconds, then murmured, “Me and thee,
partner.”
Hutch felt the surface of his skin contract. Leaning forward,
he scrubbed at his face with his hands. That all of it, all of the
years and the blood and the beauty would come to this, had to be the supreme
cosmic joke. Only it wasn’t so goddamned funny when you were the
one who’d fucked it all up.
“I wish I’d never touched her,” Hutch muttered. “I wish I’d never—”
And then, to his complete and utter shock, Starsky started laughing.
Hutch looked at him, finally, stared in complete astonishment as his partner
convulsed and shook and wheezed until tears leaked from the corners of
his eyes.
“Jesus,” he panted, “is that what you think this is about?”
Before Hutch could respond, he collapsed under another fit of giggles.
“What else would it be about?” Hutch demanded, confused and shaken
and nauseous at the sight of everything going straight to hell.
“You can’t even stand to look at me any more—”
“You never look at me!” Starsky shot back, sobering quickly.
Hutch frowned. “That’s not—” But he bit back the words,
because suddenly he realized it was true.
Starsky was wiping at his eyes, taking in long, shuddering breaths.
“I been looking,” he said, voice low. “You just haven’t been seein’.”
Hutch sucked in a breath, willing to concede that small point.
Now all he had to do was summon up the courage to see his future reflected
in Starsky’s eyes.
He wasn’t sure if he could do it.
“C’mon,” Starsky said gently, as if sensing his trepidation.
“Look at me, Hutch.”
Hutch took another deep breath, raised his head and looked.
Those blue, blue eyes were on him, gazing their fill, giving him every
damned look he’d ever received from them and a few he’d never seen before
all rolled up together. It was beautiful, and overwhelming, and
terrifying. It was his whole life distilled into one pure, crystalline
moment, and Hutch knew the second Starsky recognized the same look in his
eyes.
“We’re so fucking stupid,” Starsky breathed, bracketing Hutch’s face
with his hands and pulling him forward to meet his mouth.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Starsky, it would seem, was no longer interested in waiting for Hutch
to make any more important decisions, because within minutes Starsk had
him stripped, panting and backed up against his big bed. He planted
one hand in the middle of Hutch’s chest and shoved, and Hutch went, felled
like an oak tree. Starsky followed him down and straddled him, still
fully clothed.
He felt the weight of Starsky’s gaze everywhere now, lighting on his
arms, his neck, his left hipbone, his knees, his cock. The thoroughness
of it left him gasping, shivering, broken. How the hell could he
have missed this?
Starsky’s fingers brushed lightly down Hutch’s cheek and Hutch shuddered.
“Cold?”
Hutch shook his head. “Not anymore.” He met Starsk’s gaze;
his hand rose and mirrored the caress he was receiving. Starsk arched
into the touch like a cat, then began ripping at the buttons of his own
shirt.
Hutch awakened from his stupor then. With a growl, he pushed
up suddenly, and the smaller man lost his balance.
“Hey!”
Moving swiftly, Hutch flipped him onto his back, covered Starsky like
a blanket, then grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the mattress.
He lowered his face until all he could see were those eyes.
“Go slow,” Hutch whispered. Starsky heaved against him, mouth
open, gulping in air.
“Don’t wanna,” he protested. “Feels like I waited forever for
this.”
Hutch drew back a little at that. “How long?”
Starsky paused to consider it, his struggles momentarily forgotten.
“Guess if I wanted to be honest, I’ve always thought about it. But
it hasn’t been like this for long. Since right after…” He trailed
off; no matter, because Hutch knew what he was talking about.
“What about you?” Starsky demanded. His eyes held a shadow of
doubt, of uncertainty, and Hutch wanted nothing more than to erase it.
He released Starsky’s wrists and sat up, then shifted position so that they
were lying side by side.
“You know me,” Hutch murmured. “I’m good at sticking my head
in the sand.”
Their gazes locked and held, searching for a home in the depths of
the other.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Hutch choked, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Oh, Christ, Starsk—”
“Shh,” Starsky soothed, gathering Hutch up in his arms. “Enough
of that, babe. Way I see it, we just—lost sight of each other.
But it’s over, and I don’t want to see any more blood—on either of us.”
Deliberately, Starsky eased onto his back, pulling Hutch over on top
of him. “We’ll try it your way,” he husked, tugging one of Hutch’s
big hands over to the middle button of his shirt. “Slow and easy.”
As mesmerized by this patient, generous man as he had been by the passionate
dervish, Hutch moved to obey, suddenly agile fingers freeing each button
until Starsky was stripped to the waist. Once that task was accomplished
he glided his palm over the rough swirls of hair for some time, occasionally
ghosting his fingertips over the smooth skin of Starsky's sides for contrast.
Starsky gritted his teeth, fighting the bit of his own self-imposed
equanimity, but he couldn’t stifle a moan when Hutch grew fascinated with
dark, prominent nipples. “Ahh, Jesus,” he rasped finally, “you ever
gonna kiss me?”
Hutch smiled and took Starsky’s face in his hands. Starsky gazed
up at him through heavy-lidded eyes glazed with lust and exasperation
and need, and Hutch decided he liked this new look a great deal.
He rubbed the rough pad of his thumb against Starsky’s lower lip until
his jaw went slack, and then took advantage of the weakness with his tongue.
Hands fisted in Hutch’s hair as Starsky returned the kiss with all the
stored potential energy of the past few minutes, weeks, months.
After that slow and easy went flying out the window, not that Hutch
gave a damn. The pace increased, fueled by eager hands and mouths,
until they were grinding against one another helplessly. Somewhere,
Hutch found the strength to push himself up, breaking the contact.
Robbed of the sweet pressure of Hutch’s body, Starsky emitted a sound somewhere
between a roar and a whimper.
“What the—” Starsky panted, eyes flying open, mouth a hard line of
frustration and rage. Hutch silenced him with a savage kiss, then
pulled back. One hand plunged into Starsky’s hair while the other
wrapped around his cock. Hutch watched Starsk’s eyes widen at the
blatant act of possession.
“Like this,” Hutch panted, gazing down into Starsky’s sweat-sheened
face. “I need you to see me.” He stroked experimentally; Starsky’s
throat convulsed, but his eyes remained open. “I need to see you.”
Starsky nodded jerkily, and then Hutch felt his own erection enclosed
in a tight, uncompromising grasp. He sucked in a breath as Starsky
started a rhythm that brought him swiftly to the edge.
But it was the look in Starsky’s eyes that sent him over.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“What’re you lookin’ at?”
Starsky shifted against the vinyl bench, leaning closer. This
late at night Huggy’s was almost deserted, but even if it had been packed
to the rafters Hutch suspected his lover would’ve done the same thing.
Because the mischief was back in his eyes, and both of them knew exactly
what that did to Hutch.
Irritated him? Sometimes.
Embarrassed him? Not so much any more.
Made him want to push Starsk up against a wall and devour that insolent
grin? Hell, yeah.
“I’m lookin’ at you,” Hutch answered, closing a couple of more inches
between them, giving back a little of his own mischief. “You mind?”
Starsky’s blue, blue eyes touched him everywhere, and Hutch shivered
with the promise of dawn and a thousand brilliant colors blazing in the
sun.
“I don’t mind,” Starsk murmured. “I don’t mind one bit.”
End
January 2005
send feedback
leave a
comment on my livejournal
Back to Starsky & Hutch Fiction