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The One That Got Away

by Callisto

"Starsky!"

No answer. Hutch exhaled and started a mental count to ten. He got as far as six before he clambered out, shut the car door and took himself back up to Starsky's front door. How the hell long did it take to pick up a picnic basket?

From the closet he was rummaging in, Starsky heard the front door slam and grinned. His partner had the patience of a pitbull when it came to fish and a sunny day.

"In here!" He sang out, before Hutch could get started. "Don't go getting' your feathers in a snit, Hutchinson! Still plenty of time for me to catch more'n you--"

"What are you doing?" Spoken in quiet disbelief from right beside him.

Starsky jumped back, caught his head on the open closet door and glared at his now grinning partner.

"Clotting, I hope." He rubbed his head theatrically. "Jesus, Hutch, can't you just wait outside like a normal person?"

"Mind telling me why I'm sitting in the car while you're--" he peered round at the array of half-pulled out sweats and t-shirts, "--checking out your fall accessories?"

Starsky continued to rub his head and shot his partner a look. "'F you must know, I'm looking for my blue shirt, the one Ma gave me. It's my lucky shirt and I ain't fishing without it."

Hutch had suspected as much and made no attempt to hide the smirk. "Hate to break it to you, buddy, fishing's a skill. But if you think you can make up for that with a shirt, then you go right ahead."

But Starsky was already back in the clothes and not listening.

"A-ha!" Starsky had spied it, way up on the top shelf. With no thought, he stretched up to grab it. With no thought, his left side said no. Before the wince had even pulled his partner back and down, Hutch, ever on the alert for such moments, had smoothly moved in front of Starsky and reached it.

"Here." He put as much barely-held tolerance as he could into the gesture. Not because it was at all what he felt, but because that was what Starsky expected. A long, grim dance had taught them such steps. Slowly and painfully until they were effortless.

"Thanks," Starsky said, a little sheepish. "Gotta talk to Fifi about that."

"Whatever, Starsk. Do you think we could actually get moving sometime this century? Or is there some heather you'd like me to pin on you?"

All he got for his timely wit was a cuff on the shoulder as Starsky stepped inelegantly past. "Shut up. And get the basket." Hutch refrained from pointing out that this was the one duty Starsky had been sent back up the stairs to perform. Hutch felt the weight of it.

"Hey, Hemingway! You do know this is a day thing, right?"

"What?" Muffled. Starsky was rummaging again, this time under the sink in the kitchen. Hutch shook his head. Starsky's love of fishing was a thing to behold. All lucky shirts and expensive waders. Gone were the days when Hutch would blackmail him with girls and discos to accompany him -- and then regret it as Starsky witched and whined away the fish. It had taken four bullets to change Starsky's world view on a lot of things, but it had taken a trout to put the first smile of accomplishment back on his face. Hutch, watching tensely from the sidelines, had caught the sheer joy as Starsky turned to show Hutch his catch. He had swallowed a lump down and whooped and hollered right along. Starsky had then proceeded to catch four more that day. He had been tired and sore by sunset, but his animated chatter the whole way home had got him a tub of the gooeyist ice-cream Hutch could lay his hands on and a back rub.

Against the odds it turned out that Starsky had the patience to fish. The gentle rhythm of cast and reel was just what the physiotherapist ordered, as it helped in the building up of his left side and kick started his co-ordination back into play. Against the odds. A phrase used so much around him, it had become a cliché. As for Hutch, he suspected it was more gratitude than patience that kept Starsky still for hours, lilting smoothly from side to side as he seemed to listen to the water.

Gratitude to still be part of a sunny day Hutch could identify with, any day of the week and twice on Sundays. But he kept those soapy thoughts to himself. Most of the time. And of course, this was still Starsky. So nature treks or hikes were out, stay overs in a cabin of any kind were only to be undertaken in the most extreme of circumstances, and picnic baskets like the one Hutch was now choosing to slide across the floor with his feet, had to be filled to the brim with all kinds of unhealthy treats.

"Gotcha!" Starsky wiggled out from under the sink with a rather squished pair of waders in his hands.

"Great, now can we please leave before my back decides to empty this crap out all over the porch and feed you deer nuts?"

Starsky positively bounded past, clipping his mock-grumpy partner as he did so.

"More'n your life's worth, Blintz." His grin was dazzling, right up close into Hutch's face. "More'n your life's worth." As Starsky neatly evaded the basket and shot out the door, Hutch had another of those moments which let his partner get away with murder. He swallowed and bent down to pick the damn thing up as a voice sailed back.

"Don't forget the food, Hutch -- good fishing time's a wastin'!"

The End

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