Kimberly's Drabble
Sep. 27th, 2004 09:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ink_splotchKimberly’s drabble: Starsky/Hutch, excited, jeans
Hutch opened the door, pushing it open with his foot. Said foot barely managed to hit the ground before Hutch found himself up against the wall, Starsky pressed against him, kissing him breathless.
Which was nice, but a bit impractical. Hutch pulled away briefly.
“Starsk, let me just set the groceries down, kay?”
Starsky stared at him for a second, before comprehension hit. He took the bags from Hutch and carried them into their kitchen, Hutch following. The bags were placed on the counter, just barely managing to stay there as Starsky whirled round and before Hutch could even worry about them, he was pressed against the wall again.
“They fit!” Starsky grinned, before kissing Hutch, writhing happily against him. At the back of Hutch’s mind, he wondered what, exactly, Starsky was talking about, but the rest of him was too occupied with kissing and trying to touch as much as their clothing allowed to be touched.
As his hands try to get at Starsky’s buttons, he marvelled, somewhere at the back of his mind, at how healthy Starsky felt these days. Just after he’d left the hospital, before they’d admitted anything, Starsky had been thin. He’d been skinny enough for Hutch to count ribs when Starsky got dressed in the hospital. It hadn’t helped that for the first month after the hospital, Starsky hardly ate. He seemed preoccupied, busy with rehab, worried about something.
Of course, Hutch’d finally figured out what it was, and thankfully it hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d thought. Rather pleasant actually, and Hutch almost snorted at the understatement. He didn’t remember exactly what happened, an argument about Starsky’s eating habits, he remembered the dull way Starsky’s eyes flashed, and then Starsky had kissed him. He still wasn’t sure why, but he had thought it secondary. Five months later, they had a house together, and Starsky was eating again, filling out wonderfully, and almost ready to be back on the force.
And with this to welcome him home, Hutch thought, no one could be happier.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Starsky asked, tugging at Hutch’s hair. “They fit!” Hutch blinked at him, again trying to figure out what he was talking about.
“My jeans, they fit.” And Hutch looked down, and there were Starsky’s favourite, pre-shooting, jeans, the ones he’d almost cried over when he’d found out they didn’t fit anymore. They fit now, snug and just as sexy as Hutch had remembered them.
Hutch kissed Starsky, slower this time. “Yeah.” He said smiling. It was all he needed to say.
“Bedroom? I wanna see you take these things off me.” Starsky said, tugging at Hutch’s hand.
Hutch watched Starsky walk towards the bedroom, with the grace he had had before the shooting, in jeans that finally fit, and he couldn’t help it.
He broke into laughter and almost ran to catch up.
_finis_
Home sick. Don't feel too bad, just keep having dizzy spells, and my temperature is still around 38.5-39, so I'm sitting home, bored. Good times, good times.
Hutch opened the door, pushing it open with his foot. Said foot barely managed to hit the ground before Hutch found himself up against the wall, Starsky pressed against him, kissing him breathless.
Which was nice, but a bit impractical. Hutch pulled away briefly.
“Starsk, let me just set the groceries down, kay?”
Starsky stared at him for a second, before comprehension hit. He took the bags from Hutch and carried them into their kitchen, Hutch following. The bags were placed on the counter, just barely managing to stay there as Starsky whirled round and before Hutch could even worry about them, he was pressed against the wall again.
“They fit!” Starsky grinned, before kissing Hutch, writhing happily against him. At the back of Hutch’s mind, he wondered what, exactly, Starsky was talking about, but the rest of him was too occupied with kissing and trying to touch as much as their clothing allowed to be touched.
As his hands try to get at Starsky’s buttons, he marvelled, somewhere at the back of his mind, at how healthy Starsky felt these days. Just after he’d left the hospital, before they’d admitted anything, Starsky had been thin. He’d been skinny enough for Hutch to count ribs when Starsky got dressed in the hospital. It hadn’t helped that for the first month after the hospital, Starsky hardly ate. He seemed preoccupied, busy with rehab, worried about something.
Of course, Hutch’d finally figured out what it was, and thankfully it hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d thought. Rather pleasant actually, and Hutch almost snorted at the understatement. He didn’t remember exactly what happened, an argument about Starsky’s eating habits, he remembered the dull way Starsky’s eyes flashed, and then Starsky had kissed him. He still wasn’t sure why, but he had thought it secondary. Five months later, they had a house together, and Starsky was eating again, filling out wonderfully, and almost ready to be back on the force.
And with this to welcome him home, Hutch thought, no one could be happier.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Starsky asked, tugging at Hutch’s hair. “They fit!” Hutch blinked at him, again trying to figure out what he was talking about.
“My jeans, they fit.” And Hutch looked down, and there were Starsky’s favourite, pre-shooting, jeans, the ones he’d almost cried over when he’d found out they didn’t fit anymore. They fit now, snug and just as sexy as Hutch had remembered them.
Hutch kissed Starsky, slower this time. “Yeah.” He said smiling. It was all he needed to say.
“Bedroom? I wanna see you take these things off me.” Starsky said, tugging at Hutch’s hand.
Hutch watched Starsky walk towards the bedroom, with the grace he had had before the shooting, in jeans that finally fit, and he couldn’t help it.
He broke into laughter and almost ran to catch up.
_finis_
Home sick. Don't feel too bad, just keep having dizzy spells, and my temperature is still around 38.5-39, so I'm sitting home, bored. Good times, good times.
