S&H fic: The Clothes Make The Men, by kuonji (G)
Title: The Clothes Make The Men
Author kuonji
Fandom: Starsky & Hutch
Characters: Ken Hutchinson, David Starsky
Pairings: none
Category: character study
Rating: G
Words: ~970
Summary It looked lonely. A small splash of color amid the grays and browns he was sifting through.
The Clothes Make The Men
by kuonji
It looked lonely.
A small splash of color amid the grays and browns he was sifting through.
That wasn't any rationale, of course. Certainly none at all for spending fifteen dollars on a sweater that was somewhere between too warm for fall and not warm enough for winter. Not to mention, it really wasn't his color.
Hutch tended to favor soft yellows and tans. He also had a collection of shirts that the vain corner of his mind knew accented his eyes. 'Baby blues', as his nurse, his third-grade teacher, various girlfriends, and -- bizarrely -- Starsky liked to call them.
This sweater was a dark orange, hovering on the edge but not decisive enough to make the leap into red. As he pulled it out, his conscious mind realized what had snagged his attention in the first place.
It was almost a twin of one of Starsky's.
Hutch grinned, imagining himself walking into the precinct with the thing on. Wouldn't that be a laugh?
He was putting it back on the rack, when a female voice asked from behind him, "Would you like to try that on? It goes beautifully with your cords."
An attendant smiled solicitously at him. She was a short brunette with a dimple in her left cheek, a perky ponytail, and a pair of baby blues of her own. Hutch thought, what the hell?, and shifted the sweater to his left arm with two shirts and a new tie.
Following the attendant's unnecessary directions to the changing room, he went through his prospective purchases quickly, saving the sweater for last.
It fit surprisingly well. He liked the wide lapels. He fingered the soft weave and thought about Starsky's face in the morning when he would see this sweater.
It left the store in the company of a brown plaid flannel shirt and a pin-striped blue tie.
***
The whispers started almost as soon as he passed security.
Smothered giggles greeted him from the supplies clerk where he picked up a new pack of pencils. (Where did they keep disappearing to?) Two guys from homicide openly stared when he stopped for coffee.
"Oh, fergodsake," he heard muttered in a nasty tone as he turned away. He frowned in the speaker's direction but didn't feel he had any provable cause to take offense.
Unsettled, he told himself to just get to work already. Those reports weren't going to write themselves.
It wasn't until he'd gotten to the department and saw Starsky bent over a typewriter that he put it together.
Starsky had worn his sweater today, too. The same wide lapels. The same edged hem, hanging just above the hips. The same loud color.
God, they looked like a couple of newlyweds.
Abram, at the table next to theirs, looked up at Hutch's entrance and snorted in amusement. "Hey, I didn't know about the new uniforms. When do I get one?" he called. His ribbing was friendly and automatic, though. By the time Hutch made his way to his chair, Abrams was back to studying the case file he had in his hand, fumbling for the telephone with the other.
He felt himself let out a breath as he sat down and frowned at himself for it.
"...And. There. He. Stayed. Done!" Starsky pulled out the sheet he'd been working on with a flare of triumph, only then noticing his partner sitting at right corners to him. "Hey Hutch, I've--" His mouth dropped open and his bushy eyebrows jumped as he seemed to register what Hutch was wearing.
For a moment, Hutch wondered if Starsky might actually be mad. Neither of them had ever cared before what people said about them, but this did seem strange, as if it'd been deliberate. John Blaine wasn't all that long ago, and Hutch wasn't sure sometimes where his partner's head was at.
"Hey, hey, hey! That's just like mine!"
Hutch felt his unease fade away completely in the face of that blinding grin. "Good observation. You should be a detective."
"Where'd you get it? Let me see." Starsky was up and at his side, dragging him out of his chair and turning him around with a few soft shoves. "Say," he said, choking Hutch slightly as he pulled down the label to read. "This thing's from no thrift store."
Embarrassed, Hutch yanked the collar back and gave his partner a sharp mock-glare. "It's good quality," he insisted, and immediately felt stupid. It was good quality, of course; he wouldn't have bought it otherwise, but was there any reason to say so? Now that he took a closer look, Starsky's sweater was thinner and of a higher weight weave. He probably had gotten it at a thrift store.
It wasn't that Starsky made any less money than he did, of course, but his partner didn't care so much what he put on his back, as long as it was comfortable and he liked the color of it reasonably well.
Starsky's was a slightly brighter hue, too. He'd probably jumped on the swatch of bright orange like a bear on honey.
"Looks good on you, Hutch. Hey, you know what this reminds me of?"
"What?" Hutch could never resist asking.
"The Fantastic Four!"
"Is that something like the terrible twos?"
As expected, Starsky scowled but continued undampened.
***
Two weeks later, Starsky brought him a present. Hutch opened it with great hesitation, aware that it was equally likely to be filled with snakes as with chocolate. You never really knew with his partner.
"Huh," he said. "It's, uh, nice."
It was. Nice, that is. All soft and midnight blue, with a good amount of stretch to the fabric. That corner of his brain told him it would show off his chest muscles nicely if he left his jacket open.
He put it on and didn't bother to wonder why Starsky was dressing him.
END.
A mysterious piece of history: I got a reminder from Google today to check my files on my Google Drive. Among the random flyers and forwarded mails and old school documents, I found this. It was written back in 2009 October. I have a very vague memory of writing this while at school; I think I was testing Google Docs. Somehow, I never got around to copying this onto my offline hard drive, much less finishing it. I literally have no memory anymore of where this was going, not even if I intended it to be slash or not. I think it ends at a reasonably good, if open, place, so I thought I'd simply post it as is. Let me know what you think. :)
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
I Dreamed I Was Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji
A Relationship, In Fifty Sentences Starsky & Hutch), by Demus
Natural Wonders Starsky & Hutch), by Nyss
Author kuonji
Fandom: Starsky & Hutch
Characters: Ken Hutchinson, David Starsky
Pairings: none
Category: character study
Rating: G
Words: ~970
Summary It looked lonely. A small splash of color amid the grays and browns he was sifting through.
The Clothes Make The Men
by kuonji
It looked lonely.
A small splash of color amid the grays and browns he was sifting through.
That wasn't any rationale, of course. Certainly none at all for spending fifteen dollars on a sweater that was somewhere between too warm for fall and not warm enough for winter. Not to mention, it really wasn't his color.
Hutch tended to favor soft yellows and tans. He also had a collection of shirts that the vain corner of his mind knew accented his eyes. 'Baby blues', as his nurse, his third-grade teacher, various girlfriends, and -- bizarrely -- Starsky liked to call them.
This sweater was a dark orange, hovering on the edge but not decisive enough to make the leap into red. As he pulled it out, his conscious mind realized what had snagged his attention in the first place.
It was almost a twin of one of Starsky's.
Hutch grinned, imagining himself walking into the precinct with the thing on. Wouldn't that be a laugh?
He was putting it back on the rack, when a female voice asked from behind him, "Would you like to try that on? It goes beautifully with your cords."
An attendant smiled solicitously at him. She was a short brunette with a dimple in her left cheek, a perky ponytail, and a pair of baby blues of her own. Hutch thought, what the hell?, and shifted the sweater to his left arm with two shirts and a new tie.
Following the attendant's unnecessary directions to the changing room, he went through his prospective purchases quickly, saving the sweater for last.
It fit surprisingly well. He liked the wide lapels. He fingered the soft weave and thought about Starsky's face in the morning when he would see this sweater.
It left the store in the company of a brown plaid flannel shirt and a pin-striped blue tie.
***
The whispers started almost as soon as he passed security.
Smothered giggles greeted him from the supplies clerk where he picked up a new pack of pencils. (Where did they keep disappearing to?) Two guys from homicide openly stared when he stopped for coffee.
"Oh, fergodsake," he heard muttered in a nasty tone as he turned away. He frowned in the speaker's direction but didn't feel he had any provable cause to take offense.
Unsettled, he told himself to just get to work already. Those reports weren't going to write themselves.
It wasn't until he'd gotten to the department and saw Starsky bent over a typewriter that he put it together.
Starsky had worn his sweater today, too. The same wide lapels. The same edged hem, hanging just above the hips. The same loud color.
God, they looked like a couple of newlyweds.
Abram, at the table next to theirs, looked up at Hutch's entrance and snorted in amusement. "Hey, I didn't know about the new uniforms. When do I get one?" he called. His ribbing was friendly and automatic, though. By the time Hutch made his way to his chair, Abrams was back to studying the case file he had in his hand, fumbling for the telephone with the other.
He felt himself let out a breath as he sat down and frowned at himself for it.
"...And. There. He. Stayed. Done!" Starsky pulled out the sheet he'd been working on with a flare of triumph, only then noticing his partner sitting at right corners to him. "Hey Hutch, I've--" His mouth dropped open and his bushy eyebrows jumped as he seemed to register what Hutch was wearing.
For a moment, Hutch wondered if Starsky might actually be mad. Neither of them had ever cared before what people said about them, but this did seem strange, as if it'd been deliberate. John Blaine wasn't all that long ago, and Hutch wasn't sure sometimes where his partner's head was at.
"Hey, hey, hey! That's just like mine!"
Hutch felt his unease fade away completely in the face of that blinding grin. "Good observation. You should be a detective."
"Where'd you get it? Let me see." Starsky was up and at his side, dragging him out of his chair and turning him around with a few soft shoves. "Say," he said, choking Hutch slightly as he pulled down the label to read. "This thing's from no thrift store."
Embarrassed, Hutch yanked the collar back and gave his partner a sharp mock-glare. "It's good quality," he insisted, and immediately felt stupid. It was good quality, of course; he wouldn't have bought it otherwise, but was there any reason to say so? Now that he took a closer look, Starsky's sweater was thinner and of a higher weight weave. He probably had gotten it at a thrift store.
It wasn't that Starsky made any less money than he did, of course, but his partner didn't care so much what he put on his back, as long as it was comfortable and he liked the color of it reasonably well.
Starsky's was a slightly brighter hue, too. He'd probably jumped on the swatch of bright orange like a bear on honey.
"Looks good on you, Hutch. Hey, you know what this reminds me of?"
"What?" Hutch could never resist asking.
"The Fantastic Four!"
"Is that something like the terrible twos?"
As expected, Starsky scowled but continued undampened.
***
Two weeks later, Starsky brought him a present. Hutch opened it with great hesitation, aware that it was equally likely to be filled with snakes as with chocolate. You never really knew with his partner.
"Huh," he said. "It's, uh, nice."
It was. Nice, that is. All soft and midnight blue, with a good amount of stretch to the fabric. That corner of his brain told him it would show off his chest muscles nicely if he left his jacket open.
He put it on and didn't bother to wonder why Starsky was dressing him.
END.
A mysterious piece of history: I got a reminder from Google today to check my files on my Google Drive. Among the random flyers and forwarded mails and old school documents, I found this. It was written back in 2009 October. I have a very vague memory of writing this while at school; I think I was testing Google Docs. Somehow, I never got around to copying this onto my offline hard drive, much less finishing it. I literally have no memory anymore of where this was going, not even if I intended it to be slash or not. I think it ends at a reasonably good, if open, place, so I thought I'd simply post it as is. Let me know what you think. :)
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
I Dreamed I Was Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji
A Relationship, In Fifty Sentences Starsky & Hutch), by Demus
Natural Wonders Starsky & Hutch), by Nyss