Someone on the list mentioned that it always seems to be Starsky that dies. This is not a deathfic, no worries, but I thought Starsky deserved some angst on that side of things. Plus, the image of Hutch leaning against a dark doorway wouldn't leave me, so together, this came out.



He sat up, heart pounding.

The darkness melted into mere dimness, streetlights filtering through the curtains. A shadow leaned against the doorframe, and the light glinted off a belt buckle.

"You all right?"

The shrieking root of his fear, coming to life over and over again through his dreams, faded back into its black jungle of tangled images and cold, blank death.

Alive. Hutch lived, stood in his doorway, a sentry against the nightmares that plagued Starsky, night after night, weeks past the last close call.

He alternated rubbing a shaky hand over his face with rubbing both hands against his blanketed thighs. "Yeah." A lie. He wanted to rub at his cock, stiff with adrenaline, his balls seated tight against his body.

Hutch came to sit on the edge of the bed, propping one arm against the mattress, across Starsky's lap. "Which one this time?" His face hovered near, eyes dark in the shadows.

Starsky trembled, touched Hutch's shirted chest. He pressed, seeking reassurance through warmth and heartbeat. Hutch breathed deeply, moving Starsky's hand outward.

Alive.

He shook his head, his own harsh breath loud in the quiet room. Every dark, horrible event, or none of them, maybe all of them, congealed into one long nightmare. Hutch shot. Shot again. Dying alone in a pristine room. Under a car. Stabbed with a knife. And every time, Starsky arrived too late.

Hutch killed, taken from him. Failure to protect...too late. Lost. Too late. Never touching the way he wanted to touch, never saying what he wanted to say.

"Hutch..." His hand slid down, rested against the belt buckle that had promised light only moments earlier. It warmed beneath his hand, and further below, a more familiar surge pressed against his wrist.

"Starsk?" A ragged whisper. "Do you...want...me?"

Starsky nodded. "Please?" He tensed for a refusal, a slam to the jaw.

Hutch bore him down to sweat-soaked pillows, kissing away the tears Starsky hadn't realized he'd even shed.

~end