A short snippet inspired by KimberlyFDR's icon.






 



“You sold my car.”

Hutch groans and thunks his head softly against the back of the couch, where he’s sitting trying to concentrate on the speech he’s writing for the Jefferson High graduation.  After more than a decade of being everybody’s favorite English teacher, it’s still a chore to write these things—maybe he’ll wing it like he did last year.  The kids always laugh when he tells them that story about the time Starsk and he were undercover on the cruise ship—

“I can’t believe you sold my car.”

“Would you please let it go,” Hutch growls.  This has been going on for hours, at irregular intervals, until he’s ready to tear out what’s left of his hair.  “Who told me they wanted to sell the damned car in the first place?”

“I wasn’t ready, s’all.”  Starsky’s small, sad voice stirs Hutch from his self-pity; he opens his eyes and regards his partner, who’s finally come to rest in a corner of the living room, his back propped defensively against the wall, his arms folded in front of him.

Hutch sets his notepad on the table, takes off his reading glasses and pushes himself to his feet.  Starsk watches him approach with a shrouded look that’s completely unlike him.  “Hey,” he says softly, not quite daring to touch him yet, “what’s this really about?”

Starsky’s gaze fixes on a point on the floor, and he shrugs.  “Dunno.  I guess I’m just bein’ stupid.  The thing was costin’ me more than our two other cars put together, and the frame was—well.”

Hutch nods.  The frame of the Torino had been weakened by years of hard driving.  Unless they’d wanted to replace the whole chassis, it would’ve become dangerous to drive.  He’d told that idiot about the problem on the phone, but he’d still let his partner drive off in it like a maniac.  It would serve those skinny kids right if the body just peeled off the wheels while they were sailing along the Ventura highway.

Sometimes Hutch wonders how the hell they ever survived their thirties.  It wasn’t like we didn’t have about a hundred close calls.  But now they’ve earned a little down time, and the money they’ll save by not coddling the Torino means they can travel more, do more of the things they love to do.  He’d thought he and Starsky had been in agreement about that.

But in order to step into the future, you sometimes have to give up a piece of your past.  Hutch might not have shared Starsk’s love for the striped tomato, but he can sure relate to that, because he gave up his badge for a dozen reasons, but the most important one is standing in front of him right now.  More than twenty years ago he stepped out into thin air with nothing but this man to hold onto, and he’s never regretted that decision.  But the car, he realizes now, was Starsky’s last tie to that life they once shared, the one that introduced them to one another, nearly ripped them apart, and finally bound them so tightly together that he can’t see his life without Starsky in it.

When he thinks about it like that, he’s surprised to find he misses the damned car too.

“You’re not bein’ stupid,” Hutch says softly, one hand finally daring to cup Starsky’s cheek.  “It was more than just a car to you.  To us.”

Starsky snorts.  “Yeah.  To you it was a garbage disposal.”

Hutch smiles.  “Don’t forget repository of boysenberry jam.”

Starsky’s eyebrows wag playfully.  “Makeout location.”

Hutch’s mouth opens, then closes.  “Think it’s too late to get it back?”

Starsky’s grin is slow and wicked and it starts a low simmering burn in Hutch’s gut.  “Don’t worry, baby blue,” he murmurs, leaning forward to brush his mouth against Hutch’s.  “We never lost it.”





End

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