Paula Wilshe
Dave Starsky consulted the tattered page which he had spread open on the counter, several inches from the work area in front of him. He brushed a bit of excess flour from his hands, and reverently smoothed the crinkled edges of the paper for better readability.
The
paper was older, not ancient, but well used, its edges no longer crisp, and the
body of it soft and pliable from countless foldings and unfoldings over the
years. Some of the words written in
long-ago blue pen were smudged, and there was a sentence or two which bore the
remains of a gentle pat-dry following an accidental splatter of one ingredient
or another.
Starsky
glanced at the paper again, although this too was merely a ritual, the
directions having been long since absorbed into his consciousness—an odd set to
know, in truth, yet it was comfortable and familiar and felt right. He smiled as he went about his work.
Hutch
eased open the bedroom door, and peered out sleepily. Seeing his partner, back to him, at the kitchen counter, he
tugged his tattered bathrobe tighter across his chest and shuffled toward
Starsky. Without speaking, he eased
himself down on the barstool next to where Starsky stood. "Hey," he offered finally, voice
rusty both from illness and from sleep.
Starsky
started slightly, so intent on his task that he'd not heard the blond's
approach. "Hutch!" He leaned over and draped an arm around his
partner. "What're you doin' up,
huh?" he asked, dropping a light kiss on Hutch's temple. "How you feeling?"
"Um…."
Hutch smiled shyly. "Like I've
risen and joined the undead."
"Ah,
Salem's Lot." Starsky
grinned. "Loved that movie."
"Miniseries,"
Hutch corrected. "It went on for
days. And days. And days.
At least that's what it felt like." He squeezed Starsky's arm and winked, the feigned disagreement so
much a part of their dance that it felt like safe harbor, a comfort rather than
a tease.
Starsky
tilted his head back and gave the blond a cool, appraising stare. "I still think you look a little like
that guy."
Hutch
snorted. "I don't think so. And especially not today."
"Your
hair's the same color."
"Yeah,
well, he's got more of it," Hutch returned with a smile as he ran his
fingers through his own fine, tousled strands.
He fingered his upper lip, smoothing down his moustache. "He doesn't have one of these either."
Starsky
ran a thumb across the soft bristles.
"His loss," he said with a smile. He leaned over and gently kissed the spot where his thumb had
just brushed. "My gain."
Hutch
smiled and guided Starsky's arm till it was draped across his shoulder, then
leaned his head down, trapping it there between shoulder and cheek. He closed his eyes and sighed. "What a night."
Starsky
shook his head. "I don't remember
the last time you were this sick," he said sympathetically, as Hutch
released his arm and raised his own head.
"I
hope I'm never this sick again," Hutch replied, running a light hand over
his midsection. "This has
been….whew…." He blew out a deep breath.
"I don't think I've ever thrown up so much in my entire life. Even
in college when we—“ he held up a hand.
“I don’t think I’d better think about that right now.”
"I
don't think anybody has ever thrown up this much," Starsky
acknowledged with a solemn nod.
"You were seriously scaring me last night. One more trip to the bathroom and we were
gonna make a detour to the ER."
Hutch
smiled tiredly. "I'm glad I
restrained myself, then."
"You're
still warm," Starsky said, laying the back of his hand first against
Hutch's cheek, and then on his forehead.
"but it's down a little, I think."
"I
feel a little better."
"Good,"
Starsky said, nodding in approval.
"Do you think you could keep some ginger ale down?"
Hutch
thought for a moment.
"Maybe," he allowed.
He started to rise but was pushed back down by his partner's gentle
hand.
"I
got it. Don't you move."
Hutch
leaned his elbows on the counter, resting his head against an arm and yawning
as Starsky cracked cubes from the ice tray and dropped them into a tall
glass. "I was really out," he
murmured, as Starsky poured soda into the glass. He yawned again and rubbed his eyes.
"You
needed it," Starsky assured him, pushing the glass across the
counter. "Little sips," he
instructed.
Hutch
nodded. "Hear ya." He raised the glass to his lips and took a
few tentative swallows. Setting down
the glass he looked up at Starsky, who was watching him, eyebrows raised
expectantly. "So far, so
good," he pronounced.
"Good,"
Starsky said, reaching across the counter to squeeze the terry-clad
shoulder. "You need the
sugar."
"So,
um," Hutch took another small drink, then gestured down at the counter
with his half-filled glass.
"What're you doing?"
His eyes moved to the slip of paper sitting to his right. "What's this?" He looked down at it. "That's your mom's handwriting, isn't
it?"
"Ah,"
Starsky answered, "yes it is."
"Letter?"
"Nope." Starsky pulled the bowl he was working on
closer and peered into it.
"I
take it you're making food," Hutch said, "but…." He shrugged his
shoulders sheepishly. "I hope
you're making something for you, because I don't think I can eat yet and I
don't want you going to a lot of trouble for--"
Starsky
moved to the oven and turned it to pre-heat.
He picked up a cookie tray and carried it back to the counter, giving
Hutch a quick squeeze as he moved around him to his work spot. "Not trouble," he assured his
partner. "I'm enjoyin'
myself. You want to hand me that rolling
pin?" he asked, pointing to the other side of the counter.
Hutch
blinked in confusion, but handed over the requested utensil. "Pizza dough?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Cookies?"
he asked with a pained wince.
"Nope." Starsky turned to grin at his partner. "Good guesses, though."
"You've
got…" Hutch brushed at the front of Starsky's shirt. "…flour all over you."
"You
wanna make an omelette, you gotta break a couple of eggs," Starsky said
philosophically.
"You're
making omelettes?" Hutch looked
positively ill. "Starsk, I
can't—"
"Crackers,"
Starsky said firmly.
"Crackers,"
Hutch repeated.
"Crackers." Starsky's tone brooked no denial.
"You're
the one who's dusted with flour, making like the galloping gourmet all over the
kitchen and you're calling me crackers?" Suppressing a smile, Hutch leaned his forehead against his hand
and sighed dramatically. "Maybe
this is a dream. Maybe I'm delirious. Maybe I'm sicker than I think I am. All I'm doing is sitting here. How is that nuts?"
"Hutch,"
Starsky took hold of both shoulders.
"Come on. Nobody puts nuts
in crackers."
"What?" Hutch swayed slightly on the barstool. "Um…seriously…maybe I better go back to
bed."
"I
think that's a good idea, babe," Starsky agreed. "You okay? You gonna—?" He made a face and placed a hand on Hutch's abdomen.
"Mm
mm," Hutch shook his head and pulled himself slowly to a standing
position. "I'm done with that, I
think."
"Okay." Starsky trailed him down the hall, and stood
at the ready while Hutch sank gratefully back into bed. "So, um," he tugged the sheet and
blanket up a bit higher to make sure Hutch was warmly covered. "I'm gonna bring you something to eat
in a little bit. Do you think you can
stay awake?"
Hutch
nodded. "Just don't…no pizza, no
cookies and nothing with nuts, all right?"
"You
got it." Starsky hummed his way
back into the kitchen, glancing down at the recipe one more time, though he
didn't need to. But just looking at it,
remembering, made him feel good and settled and safe, and he decided to give
his mother a call later on to thank her for tucking it in amongst the latest
cache of things she'd sent him from home.
As
usual, her timing had been exquisite.
How had she known Hutch would fall victim to the flu so soon after she'd
sent it? She hadn't, of course—or had
she? Sometimes mothers were awfully
inscrutable and Starsky had long since given up trying to explain coincidences
such as these. It was better to accept
and be gracious.
When
Starsky had pulled the cookie tray out of the oven, he used a spatula to
separate and lift his warm, lightly browned creations, then set about heating
up a mug of light chicken broth.
Moments
later, he paused in the doorway of the bedroom, a sappy grin breaking free as
he watched Hutch for a moment. Cheeks
slightly flushed, dark smudges under his eyes to illustrate the sleepless night
he'd spent, and hair just every which way, Starsky was afraid his heart would
burst from the love he felt for this man, with whom he was lucky enough to
share moments such as these. Starsky
knew that the overwhelming affection and empathy he felt for Hutch now was
nothing short of real and binding love.
Blinking his eyes quickly, he cleared his throat. "Um…dinner," he said softly.
Hutch
nodded and pushed himself up higher in the bed, and Starsky placed the tray in
front of him gently. Hutch leaned over,
closed his eyes, and breathed in slowly through his nose. "The broth smells really good,
Starsk," he said, "Thank you."
He opened his eyes and looked down at the tray again. "Crackers," he said softly, the
smile audible in his voice. "You
made me crackers."
"Yup,"
answered Starsky. "Crackers."
Hutch
looked up at him. "I didn't know
you could do that. Was that—with your
mom's handwriting on the--"
Starsky
sat down on the edge of the bed.
"My mom's recipe, yes," he said. "It was in that box of books and stuff she sent last
week." He handed Hutch a
napkin. "These are what she always
used to make when I was a kid and just getting over being sick. When I couldn't eat anything else…I could
always eat her crackers, so I thought since you--" He flushed
slightly. "Anyhow, when I was real
little, I thought it was magic, 'cause if I hadn't been able to eat for a
couple of days, and then she'd make these and suddenly I could….well, you know
how it is." He grinned. "'Course, when I got older I realized
it wasn't magic really, and Ma said it was just because crackers are bland but
she appreciated the compliment."
Hutch
picked up a still warm cracker and took a small bite. He chewed it thoughtfully, swallowed, and took another. "Starsk?"
"Yeah,
babe, what?"
"It's
really good."
"Yeah?"
Hutch
nodded. "Yeah."
"You
think you're gonna be able to hang on to that?"
"I
think so," Hutch said, reaching for the mug of broth. "All of a sudden I'm hungry. It must be magic," he added with a grin. He sipped gingerly, and reached for another cracker. "You, um," he began, munching
contentedly, "You think you could teach me how to make these
sometime? You catch this flu from me,
and I'll make 'em for you."
"Let's
not be hasty about it," Starsky answered.
"I don't want you to have to try it out right away since you're not
a hundred per cent yet." He
smiled. "But yeah, sure, it isn't
hard. The worst part is trying to
separate the whites from the yolks, and trying to read the splotchy bits on my
mom's recipe. I thought about copying
it over but," he shrugged, embarrassed, "I was afraid it wouldn't be
the same."
"It
wouldn't have been," Hutch agreed seriously. He downed the rest of the broth, then nibbled on the last cracker
as Starsky cleared the tray away.
"Hey."
"Hm?"
"Thank
you."
Starsky
ran his fingers along Hutch's brow and smiled fondly. It was funny, he thought, because the important things and the
unimportant things were all somehow part of the tightly woven fabric of their relationship—the
one they'd shared for years and years in variant manifestations. Some days it was life and death, some days
it was the flu. Days like this were all
the more precious because the closeness that was shared was without drama, yet
also without pretense. It was as if the
world outside stopped for a time, the universe narrowing to just the two of
them, allowing them quiet time just to be.
Starsky
lifted the tray from Hutch's lap and brushed at a few crumbs that clung to the
blanket. "You ready to go back to
sleep?"
Hutch
stretched luxuriously. "Not quite
yet," he said, around a yawn.
"Soon."
"You
want to read? I'll go get your
book."
"Mm
mm," Hutch wrinkled his nose.
"My eyes are kind of burny still." He rubbed at them sleepily.
"How
about the t.v. then," Starsky offered.
"I can bring it in here."
Hutch
considered for a moment. "Yeah,
that'd be great," he said finally.
"I can just close my eyes and listen. Maybe there's something good on, huh?"
A
few moments later, Starsky slid under the covers next to him, t.v. in place on
the dresser, and T.V. Guide clutched in his hands. "Do you want anything before we get settled?" he
asked. "Something to drink? More crackers? I made a whole batch, you know." He pointed to the plate on the nightstand. "See?
I brought some more in."
"No
thanks," Hutch answered with a drowsy smile. "I feel pretty good right now." He moved himself over till he was up against
Starsky, who reached an arm around him and cuddled him close. "What are we watching?"
Starsky
paged through the periodical.
"Geez, not a lot on," he said. "Saturdays suck for t.v.
'Bosom Buddies,' but it's a rerun.
'9 to 5,' but it started an hour ago, 'The Best of Merv,' bleh. Hey, here's one on KTLA—Swan
Song?" When Hutch didn't respond,
he continued. "You love skiing and
it's all about some Olympic skier has-been guy who's trying to make a comeback
and he—Hutch?" He leaned down and
whispered against a warm cheek.
"Hutch?"
Hutch
was burrowed up against him, snoring lightly, completely relaxed for the first
time in two days. Starsky ran his lips,
feathery light, across Hutch's face to his ear, and Hutch squinched his face,
pushing himself closer still, but not opening his eyes.
"All
alone on a Saturday night," Starsky lamented softly, as content as could
be. "Just me and the
t.v." He picked up a cracker and
bit into it absentmindedly while he watched the opening credits of the film. His eyes widened and he broke into a grin as
the camera panned and tightened on the face of the lead actor. "Hey!" he said happily,
"Whaddya know!" He tucked
Hutch tighter against him, and settled back in bliss.
THE
END