FIC (repost): Postcards from Azerbaijan - Starsky & Hutch
Title: Postcards from Azerbaijan
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1900
Spoilers: 3x09/10 - "The Plague"
Other formats: AO3
Disclaimer: This is an amateur, not-for-profit work of fiction. No attempt has been made to copyright characters and/or concepts owned by the Starsky & Hutch people, nor is any infringement intended on existing copyrights.
A/N: Originally published in Venice Place Times, October, 2001, by Venice Place Press. Thanks to jat_sapphire and Paula Wilshe.
Summary: He didn’t remember that much, really. There were certain things that lingered, swatches of sensation: cold and hot, dry and wet, dark and bright. There was the smell of plastic and the grainy ceiling he’d thought for sure would fall. And there was Starsky, full of light and assurance and gentle lies, all of which he’d had to turn away.
Postcards from Azerbaijan
He didn't remember that much, really. There were certain things that lingered, swatches of sensation: cold and hot, dry and wet, dark and bright. There was the smell of plastic and the grainy ceiling he'd thought for sure would fall. And there was Starsky, full of light and assurance and gentle lies, all of which he'd had to turn away.
But now the wind swept up his hair and the sun was on his arm and he was far from all of that, growing farther still with each easy lurch of the Torino along Main Street. Starsky needed new shocks, he thought happily, and reached over to crank up the radio, angling his other hand out the window so he could play percussion on the door.
"Hey, hey, watch the paint," Starsky growled automatically.
Hutch just laughed. He let gravity take his head back, let his eyelids drop; the fuzzy burst of afterimage made him think first of lipstick on glass, and then of Judith. Judith, who was at this very moment on a plane headed east, flying First Class courtesy of a grateful Bay City PD; Judith, who had kissed him and told him no.
Judith, whom he did like, he really did, except that she'd also served as a distraction. He had nudged along his desire for her with purpose, their flirtations and watery gazes through the glass reminding him about being alive. And he felt bad about it a little, but he knew she'd had her motives, too. And she had not stayed.
Hutch opened his eyes abruptly, the blare of car horns yanking him from his thoughts. "Hey, sleeping beauty," he said, elbowing his partner, who indeed looked suspiciously like he'd been catching a nap, "down here on our planet, green means go."
Starsky blinked and shook his head jerkily a few times. "Right, yeah," he muttered, pressing down on the gas and waving a half-hearted apology to the guy behind.
"Want me to drive?" Hutch offered, primarily to bait him.
"As if that'd make the roads any safer," Starsky rejoined, unenthusiastically. "Anyway, we're almost there."
"Suit yourself." Hutch was not about to relinquish his mood. He couldn't wait to get home and open up all the windows as wide as they would go, to fuss over his plants, tune his guitar. Only that smooth, perfect ice-cold brew would elude him for awhile, because of the antibiotics--but that was okay. There were worse things to wait for.
He could have done a little jig when they pulled up to Venice Place, the Torino stuttering to a halt at the curb. "What's with the tomato, Starsk?" he asked cheerfully, leaning over the seat to grab his jacket. "Buckling under the weight of all those parking tickets?"
Starsky grunted. "White zone, red zone, lime-green zone--who the fuck cares?"
"The guys on the LAX beat, apparently." Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Hutch glanced at his partner, who didn't seem particularly intent on moving. "You comin' or what?"
"I dunno. Tired." Starsky shrugged.
"Yeah, I kinda got clued into that when you decided to call it a night in the middle of three-lane traffic. C'mon and open up the trunk already, would you?" Hutch got out, slamming the door just for the fun of it, then went around back himself. He leaned his butt up against the side of the trunk, tilted his shoulders and face into the warm air.
"Quit workin' on your tan and move, if you want your stuff," came Starsky's voice, gravelly with fatigue. "And what'd I tell you about the paint, huh?"
"Sure." Hutch beamed briefly at him and pushed away from the car. Starsky mumbled under his breath while he jiggled the key in the lock and lifted the trunk, then:
"Christ, Hutch, whatcha got in here, your pet rock collection?" he huffed, hauling out the bloated PD-issue duffel. "Kitchen sink?"
"You're the one who packed it, dummy. Give it here."
He grabbed the bag and was already halfway up the sidewalk before he realized Starsky wasn't with him. "Hey, come on," Hutch said, impatient now. His partner remained beside the Torino, face lined and unreadable. "Starsk, it would be like negligent homicide to let you back on the road right now. You can nap upstairs, let's go."
Starsky didn't say anything, but Hutch saw his mouth twitch, the stiff shoulders roll forward. Satisfied, he turned back toward the building.
The air in the stairwell was stale and smelly, as usual: it felt wonderful to Hutch. He took pleasure in the solid thump of hardwood on his feet, Starsky's slightly heavy breathing at his back. At the door, he let his hands roam leisurely across the grooves in the frame, though he knew exactly where the key was. And when the door was opened, the heat that spilled out into the hallway filled up his body with pure energy and home.
"Fucking pressure cooker in here," observed Starsky.
Undaunted, Hutch dropped his bag and jacket into a heap on the floor. "I'll open some windows," he said lightly. "The couch is thataway."
"Thanks for the tip," Starsky said, and flopped down into a heap of his own. His eyes closed almost instantly.
"You hungry?"
"You got anything?"
Right, Hutch thought. "Come to think of it, probably not. Unless you happened to pick up a few things for me while...."
Starsky opened one eye, snorted. "Yeah, Blondie, during some downtime from runnin' around like a maniac tryin' to find Callendar and cure the plague, I stopped off at the Safeway to grab you some cold cuts."
"Funny," Hutch said, but he could feel his ears burn up a little. "I suppose you want to order in, then."
"Not unless you do. A beer'd be nice, though."
"See what I can find. Meanwhile, try not to overexert yourself," he added dryly, as Starsky closed his eyes again and merged into the cushions.
Hutch went around to all the windows, letting them yawn wide, the sun and breeze pouring through and sealing every crack. He was thinking of Azerbaijan, of the village where he would see a hundred and forty-seven years, of the cool, grey-green mountains where he would spend his days, and of the postcards he would send: Having a long life, wish you were here. Or maybe he would live out on the Caspian Sea, in a secondhand boat just big enough for himself above and a cot below, his nautical maps and his fishing tackle. He would let his hair get salty, his skin honeyed and crisp. And he would write his postcards on parchment, then throw them to the waves.
Back on dry land, however, he was out of beer--and pretty much everything else. The cold from the fridge did feel nice on his face for a second, until he got a strong whiff of something that should have been thrown out a week ago, effectively stalling both his daydreams and his hunt.
He headed back to the living room to deliver the bad news. "Starsk," he began, and stopped, confused by the blur of movement from the couch in front of him.
Starsky was scrambling up, it seemed, only to crumple briefly when his leg struck the coffee table straight on, hard. Ouch, said Hutch's mind reflexively, but it wasn't that; there was something else, something different he caught in Starsky's face, that made him cross the room in three long strides. The space was thick with it, that something which was not a coffee-table type of pain.
"Hey, Starsk?" Starsky was trying to hobble away from him. Hutch snatched his arm. "Hey," he repeated.
His partner's head was tucked down; Hutch heard him swallow more than once.
"Where you goin'?" Hutch tried again, mildly.
Starsky took in a breath, sharp and low. "Bathroom," he said, and his voice was not right. "That okay with you?"
"Depends," Hutch replied, not letting go when Starsky tugged. "Somethin' to tell me first?"
More of those breaths, faster now. Starsky would not look at him. Gently, Hutch reached out and tapped a finger on his cheek.
"Staaarsky," he said.
And suddenly, even before Starsky brought his head up, Hutch thought, Oh.
Everything in him cringed at what he saw in Starsky's face. And here he'd been rhapsodizing over doorframes, dreaming of--
Oh. Oh, Hutchinson. What a fucking, fucking asshole you can be.
"Sorry," Starsky choked, and Hutch shook his head, pulling him in. He felt Starsky tremble and then fold over a little, as if he'd broken; Hutch heaved him up gently, his arms wrapped firmly around Starsky's back and middle. Marveled, as he too often had, at how quietly Starsky cried.
And he remembered more, now, with his lips pressed close to Starsky's ear. He remembered anger, and talking about doctors and games and pieces of meat, because he'd been terrified. He remembered Starsky, who had not talked about those things, who had let the fear seep into his voice and his hands.
Braver, Hutch thought. Always braver than me.
"Shh, shh, shh, easy, Starsk," he whispered, and remembered his neck sticking to the pillows, the pressure in his chest when he breathed. Starsky there, what his eyes had really said: oh God, you're in pain, oh God, please don't die. He remembered....
Azerbaijan.
"Easy, buddy, it's okay, it's all okay now," except, Christ, he had really never wanted to remember.
It was Starsky who at last pushed back from him, wiping his eyes, gulping down air. "Man, I'm so tired," he blurted out, sounding almost exasperated.
"Yeah." Hutch kept one hand on his partner's shoulder until it was batted away, though Starsky stayed close. Then he added, "And there's no beer."
"Figures." Starsky glanced very quickly at him, then away again. "Dunno how I can love a guy who don't even keep a spare six-pack in the house."
Hutch swallowed. "I can--um, I'll go to the store."
"Forget it, s'okay. I'd just fall asleep in it anyway." There were still tears in Starsky's voice, but he patted Hutch's stomach once and moved away from him.
Following with his eyes, Hutch suggested, "Why don't you go crash in the bedroom, huh? Bed's more comfortable, and I'll be out here for awhile getting things in shape anyway. We can order some dinner when you get up."
"That," said Starsky seriously, "is the best idea I've heard all day." He punctuated his declaration with a an overblown yawn, and Hutch smiled.
"I'll wake you in a couple of hours, if you don't get up on your own."
"Just try and keep it down when you start singin' to the plants," Starsky told him, and disappeared quickly into the bedroom.
"Yeah," Hutch said again, softly.
For a minute he just stood there in the middle of the living room, doing nothing. Then, shaking himself a little, he made his way quietly to the kitchen and took down one of his largest watering cans, the light blue one with the faded prints of conch shells and starfish. He brought it to the sink, intending to fill it--but instead found himself leaning hard against the counter, his gaze drawn up to the open kitchen window.
He stared outside, out at the sea and the cool, gray-green mountains that were not there. Then he set down the watering can, covering his mouth with his hand.
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1900
Spoilers: 3x09/10 - "The Plague"
Other formats: AO3
Disclaimer: This is an amateur, not-for-profit work of fiction. No attempt has been made to copyright characters and/or concepts owned by the Starsky & Hutch people, nor is any infringement intended on existing copyrights.
A/N: Originally published in Venice Place Times, October, 2001, by Venice Place Press. Thanks to jat_sapphire and Paula Wilshe.
Summary: He didn’t remember that much, really. There were certain things that lingered, swatches of sensation: cold and hot, dry and wet, dark and bright. There was the smell of plastic and the grainy ceiling he’d thought for sure would fall. And there was Starsky, full of light and assurance and gentle lies, all of which he’d had to turn away.
Postcards from Azerbaijan
He didn't remember that much, really. There were certain things that lingered, swatches of sensation: cold and hot, dry and wet, dark and bright. There was the smell of plastic and the grainy ceiling he'd thought for sure would fall. And there was Starsky, full of light and assurance and gentle lies, all of which he'd had to turn away.
But now the wind swept up his hair and the sun was on his arm and he was far from all of that, growing farther still with each easy lurch of the Torino along Main Street. Starsky needed new shocks, he thought happily, and reached over to crank up the radio, angling his other hand out the window so he could play percussion on the door.
"Hey, hey, watch the paint," Starsky growled automatically.
Hutch just laughed. He let gravity take his head back, let his eyelids drop; the fuzzy burst of afterimage made him think first of lipstick on glass, and then of Judith. Judith, who was at this very moment on a plane headed east, flying First Class courtesy of a grateful Bay City PD; Judith, who had kissed him and told him no.
Judith, whom he did like, he really did, except that she'd also served as a distraction. He had nudged along his desire for her with purpose, their flirtations and watery gazes through the glass reminding him about being alive. And he felt bad about it a little, but he knew she'd had her motives, too. And she had not stayed.
Hutch opened his eyes abruptly, the blare of car horns yanking him from his thoughts. "Hey, sleeping beauty," he said, elbowing his partner, who indeed looked suspiciously like he'd been catching a nap, "down here on our planet, green means go."
Starsky blinked and shook his head jerkily a few times. "Right, yeah," he muttered, pressing down on the gas and waving a half-hearted apology to the guy behind.
"Want me to drive?" Hutch offered, primarily to bait him.
"As if that'd make the roads any safer," Starsky rejoined, unenthusiastically. "Anyway, we're almost there."
"Suit yourself." Hutch was not about to relinquish his mood. He couldn't wait to get home and open up all the windows as wide as they would go, to fuss over his plants, tune his guitar. Only that smooth, perfect ice-cold brew would elude him for awhile, because of the antibiotics--but that was okay. There were worse things to wait for.
He could have done a little jig when they pulled up to Venice Place, the Torino stuttering to a halt at the curb. "What's with the tomato, Starsk?" he asked cheerfully, leaning over the seat to grab his jacket. "Buckling under the weight of all those parking tickets?"
Starsky grunted. "White zone, red zone, lime-green zone--who the fuck cares?"
"The guys on the LAX beat, apparently." Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Hutch glanced at his partner, who didn't seem particularly intent on moving. "You comin' or what?"
"I dunno. Tired." Starsky shrugged.
"Yeah, I kinda got clued into that when you decided to call it a night in the middle of three-lane traffic. C'mon and open up the trunk already, would you?" Hutch got out, slamming the door just for the fun of it, then went around back himself. He leaned his butt up against the side of the trunk, tilted his shoulders and face into the warm air.
"Quit workin' on your tan and move, if you want your stuff," came Starsky's voice, gravelly with fatigue. "And what'd I tell you about the paint, huh?"
"Sure." Hutch beamed briefly at him and pushed away from the car. Starsky mumbled under his breath while he jiggled the key in the lock and lifted the trunk, then:
"Christ, Hutch, whatcha got in here, your pet rock collection?" he huffed, hauling out the bloated PD-issue duffel. "Kitchen sink?"
"You're the one who packed it, dummy. Give it here."
He grabbed the bag and was already halfway up the sidewalk before he realized Starsky wasn't with him. "Hey, come on," Hutch said, impatient now. His partner remained beside the Torino, face lined and unreadable. "Starsk, it would be like negligent homicide to let you back on the road right now. You can nap upstairs, let's go."
Starsky didn't say anything, but Hutch saw his mouth twitch, the stiff shoulders roll forward. Satisfied, he turned back toward the building.
The air in the stairwell was stale and smelly, as usual: it felt wonderful to Hutch. He took pleasure in the solid thump of hardwood on his feet, Starsky's slightly heavy breathing at his back. At the door, he let his hands roam leisurely across the grooves in the frame, though he knew exactly where the key was. And when the door was opened, the heat that spilled out into the hallway filled up his body with pure energy and home.
"Fucking pressure cooker in here," observed Starsky.
Undaunted, Hutch dropped his bag and jacket into a heap on the floor. "I'll open some windows," he said lightly. "The couch is thataway."
"Thanks for the tip," Starsky said, and flopped down into a heap of his own. His eyes closed almost instantly.
"You hungry?"
"You got anything?"
Right, Hutch thought. "Come to think of it, probably not. Unless you happened to pick up a few things for me while...."
Starsky opened one eye, snorted. "Yeah, Blondie, during some downtime from runnin' around like a maniac tryin' to find Callendar and cure the plague, I stopped off at the Safeway to grab you some cold cuts."
"Funny," Hutch said, but he could feel his ears burn up a little. "I suppose you want to order in, then."
"Not unless you do. A beer'd be nice, though."
"See what I can find. Meanwhile, try not to overexert yourself," he added dryly, as Starsky closed his eyes again and merged into the cushions.
Hutch went around to all the windows, letting them yawn wide, the sun and breeze pouring through and sealing every crack. He was thinking of Azerbaijan, of the village where he would see a hundred and forty-seven years, of the cool, grey-green mountains where he would spend his days, and of the postcards he would send: Having a long life, wish you were here. Or maybe he would live out on the Caspian Sea, in a secondhand boat just big enough for himself above and a cot below, his nautical maps and his fishing tackle. He would let his hair get salty, his skin honeyed and crisp. And he would write his postcards on parchment, then throw them to the waves.
Back on dry land, however, he was out of beer--and pretty much everything else. The cold from the fridge did feel nice on his face for a second, until he got a strong whiff of something that should have been thrown out a week ago, effectively stalling both his daydreams and his hunt.
He headed back to the living room to deliver the bad news. "Starsk," he began, and stopped, confused by the blur of movement from the couch in front of him.
Starsky was scrambling up, it seemed, only to crumple briefly when his leg struck the coffee table straight on, hard. Ouch, said Hutch's mind reflexively, but it wasn't that; there was something else, something different he caught in Starsky's face, that made him cross the room in three long strides. The space was thick with it, that something which was not a coffee-table type of pain.
"Hey, Starsk?" Starsky was trying to hobble away from him. Hutch snatched his arm. "Hey," he repeated.
His partner's head was tucked down; Hutch heard him swallow more than once.
"Where you goin'?" Hutch tried again, mildly.
Starsky took in a breath, sharp and low. "Bathroom," he said, and his voice was not right. "That okay with you?"
"Depends," Hutch replied, not letting go when Starsky tugged. "Somethin' to tell me first?"
More of those breaths, faster now. Starsky would not look at him. Gently, Hutch reached out and tapped a finger on his cheek.
"Staaarsky," he said.
And suddenly, even before Starsky brought his head up, Hutch thought, Oh.
Everything in him cringed at what he saw in Starsky's face. And here he'd been rhapsodizing over doorframes, dreaming of--
Oh. Oh, Hutchinson. What a fucking, fucking asshole you can be.
"Sorry," Starsky choked, and Hutch shook his head, pulling him in. He felt Starsky tremble and then fold over a little, as if he'd broken; Hutch heaved him up gently, his arms wrapped firmly around Starsky's back and middle. Marveled, as he too often had, at how quietly Starsky cried.
And he remembered more, now, with his lips pressed close to Starsky's ear. He remembered anger, and talking about doctors and games and pieces of meat, because he'd been terrified. He remembered Starsky, who had not talked about those things, who had let the fear seep into his voice and his hands.
Braver, Hutch thought. Always braver than me.
"Shh, shh, shh, easy, Starsk," he whispered, and remembered his neck sticking to the pillows, the pressure in his chest when he breathed. Starsky there, what his eyes had really said: oh God, you're in pain, oh God, please don't die. He remembered....
Azerbaijan.
"Easy, buddy, it's okay, it's all okay now," except, Christ, he had really never wanted to remember.
It was Starsky who at last pushed back from him, wiping his eyes, gulping down air. "Man, I'm so tired," he blurted out, sounding almost exasperated.
"Yeah." Hutch kept one hand on his partner's shoulder until it was batted away, though Starsky stayed close. Then he added, "And there's no beer."
"Figures." Starsky glanced very quickly at him, then away again. "Dunno how I can love a guy who don't even keep a spare six-pack in the house."
Hutch swallowed. "I can--um, I'll go to the store."
"Forget it, s'okay. I'd just fall asleep in it anyway." There were still tears in Starsky's voice, but he patted Hutch's stomach once and moved away from him.
Following with his eyes, Hutch suggested, "Why don't you go crash in the bedroom, huh? Bed's more comfortable, and I'll be out here for awhile getting things in shape anyway. We can order some dinner when you get up."
"That," said Starsky seriously, "is the best idea I've heard all day." He punctuated his declaration with a an overblown yawn, and Hutch smiled.
"I'll wake you in a couple of hours, if you don't get up on your own."
"Just try and keep it down when you start singin' to the plants," Starsky told him, and disappeared quickly into the bedroom.
"Yeah," Hutch said again, softly.
For a minute he just stood there in the middle of the living room, doing nothing. Then, shaking himself a little, he made his way quietly to the kitchen and took down one of his largest watering cans, the light blue one with the faded prints of conch shells and starfish. He brought it to the sink, intending to fill it--but instead found himself leaning hard against the counter, his gaze drawn up to the open kitchen window.
He stared outside, out at the sea and the cool, gray-green mountains that were not there. Then he set down the watering can, covering his mouth with his hand.