December 10th: Crisco Disco by ACL (actingcamplibrarian)

Looking back, Starsky blamed Lieutenant Berkowitz’s new baby grandson for the mess he found himself in with Hutch.

It was no secret that new life had a tendency to send shockwaves into the world. Jostle the existing folks around to make space for itself. Mess with the status quo. Just… sometimes those ripples went further than seemed reasonable, and this particular outcome was pretty far from family-friendly.

Berkowitz, every inch the proud grandfather, had been handing out cigars at the precinct that afternoon, and Hutch had stashed two in his jacket pocket — Starsky’s jeans pockets being useless for holding anything but his house keys, and if Starsky was honest he had a hard time extracting even those when he got home at the end of the day. At least the keys weren’t likely to fall out in some back alley during a chase, and they were safer in his pocket than leaving them above his front door like some people he could mention.

Anyhow… standing at the bar at Huggy’s later that evening, Starsky had helped himself to a cigar from Hutch’s pocket, Hutch grousing all the while about personal boundaries. Starsky ignored him, tore off the cellophane wrapper, bit off the end of the cigar with a flourish, and asked Huggy for a match.

Thinking about it, never mind the baby, that was the part where it had all started to unravel.

Huggy produced a book of matches from his back pocket, struck one and held the flame for Starsky’s cigar in the manner of Bogart lighting up for Bacall or some other femme fatale. Starsky took a drag and blew smoke in Hutch’s face, just to keep the bit going.

Pointedly ignoring his partner’s outraged coughs, Starsky picked up the matchbook Huggy had discarded on the bar.

“‘Crisco Disco, 408 West 15th Street’. This some new nightspot we should know about, Hug?”

“For personal or professional reasons, my man?”

“Either. Or both.”

“No need to trouble your head about it, Starsky, unless Dobey just expanded your beat by a looooong way. My cousin left the matches when he crashed at my place last week. Says there’s a giant painting of a tub of Crisco right by the DJ booth and the dance floor. Gay bar in New York. The Crisco Disco won’t be concerning you unless the gay mafia goes cross-continental.”

Hutch, still a little watery-eyed from the cigar smoke, took the matchbook from Starsky’s hand with a bemused expression. “Is the gay mafia into home baking, Hug? What’s the Crisco doing at the Disco?”

Maybe Starsky should have recognized Huggy’s double-take as a harbinger of the chaos to come, but as it was the pinball machine came free at that precise moment and he took his cigar across the room to work on his high score ranking, leaving Hutch at the bar to pursue his line of inquiry.

Starsky was making good progress, too, reveling in the rapid-fire flick of the flippers against the solid weight of the pinball, the feel of the vibrations through the metal frame as the bells rang and the lights flashed and the numbers racked up, so it caught him by surprise when out of the corner of his eye he saw Hutch leaving the bar at some speed. Starsky abandoned his play and turned around to find Huggy approaching the pinball machine, his normally easy strut unusually hesitant. Clocking his sheepish expression Starsky moved aside to let Huggy take his place at the machine.

Huggy pulled back the plunger to release another ball, his body curving as he bounced it expertly between the flippers, slowing its momentum enough to choose just the right moment to send it soaring to the top corner in a crescendo of lights and noise.

Starsky took a drag on his cigar. “OK Hug, spill it.”

Huggy’s eyes were fixed firmly on the machine as he worked the flipper buttons.

“It seems I have made some… erroneous assumptions about the nature of yours and Hutch’s” — he paused to slap the glass — “interpersonal relationship.”

“Like what?”

“Like the uh, degree of ‘in’ in your inter.”

The bells rang as the pinball volleyed between them. Starsky nudged Huggy’s shoulder, got a glare in return as Huggy readjusted his stance.

Starsky looked right back. “Gonna have to give me more than that, Hug.”

“Like you might be accustomed to using something… slippery to ease the” — Huggy’s hips crashed against the machine — “inter when you were getting personal.”

Starsky felt his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.

“Slippery like… Crisco?”

Huggy gave a curt nod. “You got it.”

“And Hutch just… left?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Sorry, man.”

“I gotta go, Hug.”

“Yeah.”

Huggy cradled the ball in the crook of one flipper and met Starsky’s gaze for a moment. Starsky put his cigar down on the ashtray and gestured towards the flashing numbers on the scoreboard, considerably higher than they had been at the start of their conversation.

“Keep the points. You can–”

Huggy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, put it against your tab. Sure thing, big shot. Now go smooth things over with your white-bread apple-pie partner.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.” Starsky rocked back on his heels as he watched the display flash. “Got any Crisco?”

Huggy mistimed his flick as his finger slipped and the ball drained down between the flippers, out of sight and out of play. He threw his hands in the air, placed his palm flat between Starsky’s shoulder blades and shoved.

“Get outta here, Starsky!”

Starsky found Hutch at home, coffee in hand, contemplating the contents of his kitchen cupboards as they lay scattered over the counters and across the table. Leaning against the piano, Starsky looked across to where Hutch was very much not meeting his eyes, took a deep breath and started with the basics.

“Hey.”

Hutch shrugged. “Hey yourself.”

“What’s with all the cans and boxes, Hutch?”

“Just putting a little order into my life. That a problem?”

“No, no problem.” Starsky picked up an ornament from the top of the piano, turned it over in his hands, put it down. Tried again. “So, Huggy tells me–”

Hutch put his mug down with a clunk. “You want coffee?”

“Sure.”

“You know where it is.”

Starsky grinned as he made his way over to the stove. “There’s that Midwestern hospitality I heard so much about.”

He watched as the stream of coffee filled his mug, then turned towards Hutch and leaned against the counter.

“So… I hear Huggy has an overactive imagination.”

Hutch looked down. “You got that right.”

“He told me he made a few assumptions.”

“Yup.”

“About the need for baking supplies in our personal relationship.”

Hutch’s sharp intake of breath didn’t merge well with his fresh mouthful of coffee. Five seconds later there was a thin layer of coffee over all the groceries on the counter and Starsky was rubbing slow circles into Hutch’s back one-handed as his gasping breaths returned to normal.

Starsky gestured at the counter with his other hand. “Spring cleaning’s going well.”

Hutch gave a shaky laugh that ended in a cough. “Fuck.”

Starsky refilled Hutch’s mug, handed it to him.

“Thanks, Starsk.”

He took a careful sip. The pause stretched, until Hutch said into the quiet, “You know, my mom makes great pastry.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And she’s complained to me, more than once, that the market has been inexplicably out of Crisco on a Saturday. Now Huggy’s got me thinking maybe it isn’t just the demand for church bake sales.”

Starsky gave a slow grin. “Well, well, well. Who’d have thought, a thriving Saturday night gay scene in Duluth.”

“Still waters run deep, Starsk. And Duluth has Lake Superior.”

“You’ve used that line before.”

“Once or twice, maybe. Not about the mad gay nightlife of my hometown, though.”

Quiet fell again, prickly, restless. Starsky scratched his neck, looked down at the coffee splashes on the kitchen floor. “So, when Huggy said… what he said. You put him straight?”

Hutch raised a quizzical eyebrow. Starsky groaned.

“Spare me the ‘straight’ jokes, Hutch. You know what I meant.”

Hutch shrugged. “Yeah… well, I think the look on my face took care of that.”

“And the speed of your exit.”

“Yeah. Meanwhile there you were, playing pinball, oblivious.”

“Best way to be. Zen enlightenment and flashing lights. Paid off our tab with the points too.”

Hutch folded his arms, quirked his mouth.

Starsky’s cocky stance deflated a little. “Well, some of the tab. Little bit of the tab. Hug was too rattled to do the math just at that moment.”

Hutch stood a little straighter, turned to pick up a cloth. “We ruffled the feathers of the unflappable Huggy Bear.”

Starsky regarded the flush on Hutch’s face as he made a poor attempt to clean up the chaos on the kitchen counter.

“You seem a little ruffled yourself there, Blintz.”

Hutch wiped his face, leaving behind streaks of coffee. “And you’re just, what… taking it all in your stride? Smooth as you are.”

Starsky grinned. “Yeah, smooth like Crisco.”

He cackled as Hutch swiped at him with the cloth.

“I just hide it better, Blintz. Like a beautiful, majestic swan. Gliding on the water with my feet paddling like crazy underneath.” He looked up as Hutch snorted, held his gaze. “What’s got you spooked, partner? Not the first time someone’s jumped to that conclusion about us. By now I thought it was water off a duck’s back.”

“But this is Huggy, Starsk. Also…” Hutch sighed and slumped down into a kitchen chair. “Also… he’s not wrong.” He looked up at Starsky. “About me, at least. The way I look at you. And now that Hug’s said it, I feel like a coward. Like I’m behind on the assignment. Hug assuming I’m way down that road when I haven’t dared set foot on it.”

Starsky had apparently forgotten how to breathe somewhere around “not wrong.” Hastily filling his lungs to stave off the sudden lightheadedness, he hoped his voice sounded vaguely normal as he asked, “What’s the assignment, Hutch?”

Hutch scuffed at the floor with the toe of his sneaker. “Uh, getting you into bed, I guess.”

“Getting me…” Starsky couldn’t help himself. He collapsed in laughter, doubled over, fighting to catch his breath. Glancing over, he caught an expression of raw hurt on Hutch’s face and raced to soothe it, stepping forward to reach down and smooth away a smear of coffee from one cheek, leaving his hand there as he spoke.

“I’m sorry, babe. It’s just, all these years… at any given moment I’ve been seconds away from going to bed with you. I mean, I’m yours for the asking. But you never ask.”

The blindsided look in Hutch’s eyes gradually thawed into mischief. “So, if I ask… I can get caught up on the assignment?”

“Play your cards right and you might even get extra credit.”

In a matter seconds Starsky found himself pinned against the counter as Hutch surged forward into a kiss that made sudden sense of a lot of things, pieces of the universe tumbling down around them and falling into place. Somewhere lights flashed and bells rang and illuminated numbers raced to infinity, Starsky’s bar tab be damned.

Feeling a nudge against his hip, Starsky mumbled, “Is that a cigar in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

Hutch smirked. “That would be more flattering if you’d said it about my gun.”

“No way I’m mistaking that gun for your dick, babe, unless you’re hung like a horse and keep it in your armpit.”

Hutch winked, then took Starsky’s hand and guided it downwards. “But Starsk? I am pleased to see you.”

Starsky leaned in and kissed him, deep and dirty, feeling a shiver unfurl from the small of his back and explode gently somewhere between his shoulder blades.

Hutch pulled back and rested his forehead against Starsky’s cheek. “Thing is, there’s a problem.”

Fuck. Starsky swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m all out of Crisco.”

Starsky shook Hutch’s shoulders. “Don’t scare me like that! Bozo.”

Gently he kissed Hutch’s cheek and reached back down to stroke him slowly through his jeans. “No Crisco, and no butter in the refrigerator? Now you’re regretting the health food diet, huh? No way I’m testing out the lubricating properties of wheatgerm.”

Hutch chuckled, a little breathless.

Starsky continued, “Although there’s always the late night supermarket. I’ll fight off the church ladies in the baking aisle for ya.”

Hutch was breathing faster, looking down at Starsky’s hands on him. “You know Starsk, it’s not a deal-breaker. We could work on some related assignments. Like, uh, measuring the viscosity of olive oil.”

“Or the speed I can get your clothes off.”

Hutch said nothing, just bent down and grabbed him in a fireman’s carry, lifting him over his shoulder. Starsky wriggled.

“Fuckin’ college wrestlers.”

“Just gonna demonstrate velocity, Starsk. That’s speed and direction…”

Hutch headed for the bedroom.

Over the next few days, several things happened.

Hutch acquired an entirely undeserved reputation among the local supermarket cashiers for his new interest in home cooking.

Starsky started wearing a longer jacket in case he got turned on in the baking aisle.

Huggy was gifted Hutch’s untouched cigar on their next visit to the bar. He demonstrated a run of perfect smoke rings before ceremoniously handing over the matchbook from the Crisco Disco. Starsky tucked it into Hutch’s pocket for safekeeping. Hutch didn’t say a thing about personal boundaries.

Lieutenant Berkowitz was none the wiser, and they made sure it stayed that way.