Title: It's Not Easy Being Green
Author: Dawnwind
Type: Gen
Summary: The first day on the job as detective partners for Starsky and Hutch and things
are not going well--at first.
Disclaimer: Owned by Aaron Spelling--I just play with them.
Notes: Originally written for Marcy's frog challenge.
Format: Story
Categories: Hutch Angst, Humor
Rating: PG
Size: 22K
Date Added: 2007-06-02
It's Not Easy Being Green
by Dawnwind
David Starsky would not normally classify himself as a morning person. Usually, six am came far too early for him, the rising sun beams always managing to pierce the darkest curtains in his bedroom, blasting him out of some wonderful dream about a well-endowed lovely long before he was ready to leave his fantasy lover.
This spectacular morning was all together different. The first day partnered with his best pal Hutch as detectives. Starsky had received his gold badge for two months ago, tagging along with his mentor John Blaine while Hutch languished across town under the tutelage of another older detective. At long last, Hutch's transfer had come through, and they were partners—their goal since the first week at the academy.
Starsky had jumped out of bed before the alarm rang, dressed in his brand new detective clothes—a green tie, striped shirt, corduroy jacket and brown slacks, hit the bakery for breakfast goodies and arrived at Hutch's canal side cottage with time to spare. There was no way he was going to be late on this auspicious morning.
Getting out of his 1967 red Mustang, Starsky paused to examine the car. He'd bought it used the week after graduating from the police academy and she was beginning to show her age. Not old yet, but maybe—with the raise in pay he'd be getting at the end of the year—a new car might be in the future.
He grabbed the bag of goodies and paused to watch the ducks floating serenely on the narrow canal across the road from Hutch's house. There was a whooping croak coming from the water's edge, low level but constant which almost drowned out the nearby street noises. Starsky peered down but didn't see anything among the grass and weeds growing abundantly in the mud. Since the ducks seemed completely unaffected by the sound, he figured it must be harmless enough.
Hutch's cottage was silent and dark, which was unusual. Hutch was the one who got up before dawn, ran two miles, showered and shaved all in the time it took Starsky to fully wake enough to drown himself in a cup of coffee. Hutch was peppy in the morning, while Starsky often dragged until noon.
"Hutch!" Starsky called, knocking loudly on the front door. He waited for over a minute, counting the seconds down from sixty in his head and then knocked again. No answer. Concerned, Starsky slid his fingers over the top of the door frame to locate the key Hutch kept there, and unlocked the door.
The front room was dark, every curtain pulled tightly shut just as Starsky did to keep out the morning sun. A tousled blond head just barely showed above the edge of the pile of blankets heaped on the bed.
"Hutch?" Starsky called loudly. "Rise and shine!"
The specter that rose out of the bedclothes barely resembled Ken Hutchinson. His face was creased with lines from lying on a rumbled pillowcase, his hair stood out in tuffs like bits of straw stuffing coming loose from a scarecrow and his blue eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.
"What the hell happened to you?" Starsky stepped back in surprise. This was not at all what he'd expected from his health conscious buddy, especially on their first day together.
"I couldn't sleep," Hutch growled, fighting with the sheets that had wound themselves around his feet. "I thought that this cottage would be a nice quiet change from that frigging apartment complex Van liked so much. Quiet, the realtor said. A rural setting in the middle of the urban sprawl." He tugged at the sheets with a snarl. "Boy, she had that right. Just like being at my grandfather's farm. Bullshit." He nearly ripped the fabric before Starsky intervened and unwound the offensive sheets from Hutch's long legs. Hutch's tirade had not abated one iota. "Peaceful, she promised me, with a real sense of community. Yeah, right--a community of frogs!'
"Frogs?" Starsky echoed, stepping back to keep out of firing range in case Hutch decided to start attacking anything other than bed coverings.
"To be specific, the California red-legged frog." Hutch stalked across the room, his whole body one long exclamation point of anger. "Mating season between November and March, so I have five God-dammed more months of this . . ." He gestured in the direction of the canal. The mating call of the red-legged frog was easily heard through the thin walls of the house. In fact, the whole floor seemed to hum, practically vibrating, from the noise. "Infernal racket! How is a man supposed to get a decent night's sleep? I ask you that."
"Ear plugs?" Starsky suggested. He remembered the breakfast pastries and held the bag out as an offering of peace. "Danish? I even got the one you like with prune filling."
"I can't eat. I can barely think." Hutch rubbed his eyes which only succeeded in making them redder. "I'm going to take a long, hot shower. How much time to we have?"
"It's six thirty." Starsky glanced at his watch. "I got here early, to . . ." All the excitement had drained out of him, leaving a nervous sort of foreboding. Was Hutch going to be like this all day? He helped himself to a raspberry filled glazed donut, biting down too forcefully in his apprehension. Raspberry squirted out, splattering the length of his green tie.
"Crap." Starsky looked down at the stain with a grimace.
Oddly enough, it didn't look half bad. In fact, he'd seen paintings in museums with less artistic flair. As long as no one got close enough to smell the raspberry scent, there was no problem. He finished the donut, licking his fingers with renewed good humor. The sounds of Hutch taking a shower from the bathroom were another good sign. Hutch was sure to be in a better frame of mind once he was clean and had some caffeine in him.
To hasten the process, Starsky turned on the coffee machine, whistling Snow White's cleaning song while he worked. Once Hutch smelled the heavenly aroma of fresh roasted coffee, he would be all smiles.
Sure enough, soon after the shower went off, Hutch stuck his head out the door, nose twitching. "You made coffee?"
"It's brewing," Starsky said, trying not to stare at his partner. If anything, Hutch looked worse. He'd nicked himself shaving, so there were small wads of bloody paper stuck to his right cheek and neck, his hair was plastered down to his scalp giving him the look of a drowning victim and his eyes were still red enough to star as the 'before' example an eyedrop commercial.
"You have raspberry all down your tie," Hutch said in a fairly reasonable tone of voice that changed into a snarl. "If those frogs don't shut up, my head is going to explode."
"Do you want to call in sick?" Starsky asked. This was not going well at all.
"Not a chance, partner!" Hutch replied with forced heartiness. "This is our big day. Grab my blue shirt, gray tie and slacks out of the closet."
That was more like it. Starsky grinned in relief. He was used to Hutch ordering him around. Hutch was kind of bossy, that was just his way of gaining control of any given situation. "No problem!" Starsky said cheerfully, finding the requested clothing. He added a dark blue blazer, since he was 99% sure that was the one Hutch would want anyway, and handed them through the partially closed bathroom door.
"You know, maybe you could get an exterminator?" Starsky called out over the din of the blow dryer. "For the frogs, I mean." Even with the roar of hot air, he could still hear the constant drone of amorous frogs.
"They're endangered," Hutch said morosely, coming out of the bathroom. "I've already researched this all last week when I was moving in. Besides, it's not like they're even on my land. It's the city's fucking canal."
"Hutch!" Starsky admired his partner, stunned by the change. Hutch's shiny blond hair fell softly over his forehead, the blue shirt complimented his eyes perfectly and he'd obviously used some product to get the red out, as well. "You look terrific."
"If I can just get through this day awake," Hutch said, pouring a large cup of coffee. He downed half of it in one gulp and grabbed the pastry bag. "Are you coming? We're going to be late."
"Uh—yeah, lemme pour a cup for myself." Starsky said weakly. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day. Outside, he could hear some lucky frog proclaiming his sexual prowess with a particularly loud ribit.
Hutch was contemplating the water when Starsky got to the car. "They stop around ten in the morning—it gets too hot for them, I think," he said, pointing toward a large clump of submerged grass. Two frogs were just visible, attached together in a bizarre position that appeared vaguely painful.
"There's the biggest one's nest, I guess you'd call it," Hutch said. "I named that one Steen after my mother's older brother and the other one is Gertrude."
"You named the frogs that are keeping you awake?" Starsky asked. Maybe sleep deprivation had unhinged him.
"I took naps all weekend," Hutch went on as if Starsky hadn't said anything. "The frogs only sing late at night and in the morning."
"Maybe you should stay with me for a while." Starsky got in the car, waiting until Hutch joined him
"Oh yes, that'll make me sleep better," he drawled sarcastically. "You live above a bar, Starsk." Hutch downed the rest of his coffee, putting the mug down on the floorboards just as the engine caught. "Huggy is going to get cited if he doesn't stop pouring after hours."
"He says his clock is slow." Starsky navigated the morning traffic with a sinking heart. They were now officially late unless there was some miracle on the freeway between Venice and Bay City.
There wasn't. Captain Esterhaus gave his newest detective team a look that clearly said "I expected more from you two on your first day," and waved them to the back of the room. Starsky squeezed past the blue uniformed officers getting their assignments for the shift and joined the covey of plainclothes detectives in the rear, feeling Hutch's warm hand on his back helping to steady him in the underbrush of shoed feet and coffee cups strewn between the chairs.
They sat behind the rest, as befitting their rank in the pecking order, and settled in for the run down of Bay City crime for November 10th. No murders, which was rare, but there was the usual compliment of muggings, burglary and vandalism. Starsky snickered when Esterhaus handed out wanted flyers for Michel Dumond, aka Frenchy the Frog, and elbowed Hutch in the ribs.
Hutch made a sound halfway between a snore and a snort, loudly enough to be heard by the older detectives. Dietrich snickered and Blaine gave them the evil eye, reminding Starsky of all the times he'd been brought up short by that expression in his teens.
"Hutch, wake up!" he hissed, poking his partner. Hutch peered blearily at him, gaped and straightened with an abashed look on his face.
"You two are looking a mighty green today, fellas," Ferguson teased.
"Starsky, you have raspberry on your tie," Blaine pointed out under his breath.
It was going to be a long, long day.
"Let's have a big welcome to our newest team, Starsky and Hutchinson," Esterhaus said loudly. Blaine, Dietrich, Connors and Ferguson all called out derisive comments at their neophyte colleagues until the captain waved them quiet. "You two will be on hooker detail today—our two lovely ladies from vice will be walking the streets all day with you on the watch."
"Thanks, Captain," Starsky stood up formally, trying to make a good impression for once in his life. There was a lot riding on the two of them. Very few young detectives were allowed to be paired together, but he and Hutch had both scored well above average on their detective exams. He'd already been identified as a troublemaker since his first day on the force. He knew that many, including John Blaine, who'd known him for over ten years, were hoping that Hutch would have a calming effect on him. Hutch's sleeping through his very first morning report was not going to look very good.
They could only hope that the rest of the day went better. Much better.
"Get out there and make this city a safer place!" Esterhaus said when the detectives and officers began to collect their coffee cups and file out. "Oh, Starsky and Hutchinson."
"Captain?" Hutch enunciated clearly, as if to make up for his earlier faux-pas.
"Don't get too used to this shift—starting next week you'll be on nights until the New Year."
"Nights?" Starsky squeaked. "I'll never get any sleep."
"Thank God," Hutch said almost in concert with his partner. "I'll finally escape those damned frogs and get some sleep."
"Lucky for you," Starsky grumbled all the way out to the car. It occurred to him that they were both far too well dressed to be hanging out in a Mustang on the seediest corner in BC watching prostitutes. The department's dress code mandated that all detectives maintain a clean, well-groomed appearance. Only undercover cops got to dress in jeans and t-shirts. Currently, Dietrich and Connors were the only two who got away with dressing down, and in Starsky's opinion, their neat golfing shirts and pressed slacks still screamed cop. Maybe they were undercover at a country club?
"Don't you think we oughta be dressed like the rest of these miscreants?" Starsky suggested watching the inhabitants of downtown Bay City pass in front of the Mustang's windshield.
"Miscreants?" Hutch repeated, raising one blond eyebrow. "Shannon looks pretty good, in my opinion. Those fishnets, however, would never work on your hairy legs."
Starsky stared out moodily at the two women they were assigned to watch. Both were lounging against the wall of a liquor store, displaying their wares. Shannon looked surprisingly lovely in a red leather-ette micro-mini skirt that barely cleared the curve of her ass, fishnets and a black lace bra.
"Few other women can pull that look off in broad daylight," Starsky agreed. Debra had on a lurid green sweater that made her breasts look like avocado rockets, and a pair of teensy white shorts. She very clearly had no underwear on. "And, no. I mean, we don't look anything like the kind of guys who'd be out on 7th street before noon drooling at the hookers."
Hutch glanced at Starsky with a short nod of his head. "Very few men could pull off raspberry on their tie, but on you, Starsk, it works."
"Hardee-har-har," Starsky sneered. Stake-outs were boring. He'd already learned that much as a patrolcar officer. In two whole months with Blaine, he'd never pulled out his piece, run down a suspect or raided a drug lab. There had to be more to detective work than this. Much more.
Hutch's head lowered slowly over the next hour until he appeared to be contemplating his navel. Had there been anyone else in the car, Starsky would have wagered a bet on how long it would take Hutch to start snoring again, but since he was alone, he promised himself a big juicy burger with tons of blue cheese on the top if Hutch fell asleep in the next ten minutes.
He won, with time to spare. Leaning over, he blew a puff of air into his partner's ear. Hutch jerked upright with a gasp, nearly braining himself on the top of the car.
"What'd I miss?"
"Shannon fellatioed a guy right in front of Sukker's Likkers," Starsky said with a straight face. "But other than that, nothing."
"Fellated," Hutch corrected, straightening his tie. "Fellatio is the noun, fellate is the verb."
"Look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls," Starsky quoted.
"What'd I miss at the roll call?" Hutch knuckled sleep out of his eyes, which were distinctly bloodshot, and yawned.
"You really were asleep, huh?"
"Just resting my eyes," Hutch said testily.
"Number one on the local most wanted list, Frenchy the Frog." Starsky passed over the flyer he'd stuck in his pocket, his eyes on Shannon who was handily dispatching two underage boys who appeared to be interested in a threesome. "Two aggravated assaults on women, one rape and . . "
"Starsk." Hutch held up the sketch artist's drawing of the suspect, plastering it to the inside of the car window.
"He was last seen driving a green Ford," Starsky went on. Shannon gave the teenagers a wave, walking them to over to a beat up Chevy.
"Starsky!" Hutch used his forefinger to push Starsky's chin to the right, orienting him on Debra and her john. "That's the guy."
"You've got to be kidding." Starsky flicked his eyes between the sketch Hutch held and the man chatting up Debra. Same bulgy eyes, comb-over and pencil thin mustache. The bulbous wide lips were obviously what had earned him his nickname. "Hutch! That's Frenchy the Frog!"
"That's what I said."
"Call it in!" Starsky yelped. "I'm going after him."
"Wait!" Hutch grabbed at Starsky's arm with the hand already holding the police mic and missed him entirely.
This was it. Starsky grinned, sliding his hand to his department issue weapon holstered under his right arm. This was what he'd been waiting for—a real collar. He kept his excitement contained, strolling around the rear of the Mustang as if he had all the time in the world. On the other corner, The Frog had taken Debra's arm and was pulling her into the alley. It was quite obvious that she didn't want to go, but the six inch heel of her left white plastic boot caught in the grate on the sidewalk, making her stumble.
"Leave me alone!" She batted at the hand gripping her arm, unable to get free and unable to move with her heel stuck. French reached down, unzipping the plastic boot effortlessly, and jerked her into the alley in the time it took Starsky to cross the street. He had to dodge an oncoming bus, but used the cover of the long vehicle to ease his piece into his hand.
No time to think, just react. He had to get to Debra before The Frog hurt her anymore than he already had. Starsky hit the sidewalk at a running crouch, knowing without looking back that Hutch was close behind him. It wasn't just that he could hear his partner's feet on the asphalt, but something more—the feeling that there was someone there for him, always watching his back, just as he would always watch Hutch's.
"Police!" Starsky yelled, racing into the alley. Debra was cursing a blue streak, her voice echoing weirdly off the walls of the buildings on either side.
The Frog had her on the ground with her green sweater pushed up to reveal the full lusciousness of her breasts. He kneed apart her thighs, digging at the waistband of her shorts.
"Freeze, bullfrog!" Starsky ordered, leveling his gun on the rapist.
"Move away from the lady," Hutch added, joining Starsky with his service revolver in hand.
Faced with two large, angry cops, The Frog froze with his hands still bunched in Debra's clothing. "She likes it rough!" he complained.
"I do not!" Debra kicked out with her remaining boot, but missed him.
"You heard him, Froggie." Starsky took a step nearer, which freaked the would-be rapist. He scooted back, lying face down on the dirty ground with his hands on his neck without being told. "Hey," Starsky said smugly. "You think he's done this before, Hutch?"
"Crossed my mind," Hutch agreed with laconic grace. He knelt down, giving Debra a hand while Starsky frisked The Frog. "How are you doing? Did he hurt you?"
"Esterhaus said this would be an easy gig," Debra groused, her cop face back on. She took his hand, groaning when she stood. "My back's aching, but that's all."
"You're all right?" Hutch solicitously tugged down her bilious sweater to give her a modicum of decency.
Starsky snapped the cuffs on The Frog's skinny wrists and chanted the Miranda from memory, feeling the first flush of pure happiness.
"Debra!" Shannon came around the corner at a dead run, her short skirt leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, long dark curls flapping in the breeze. "Black and Whites are on the way! Did you get him?"
"We got him." Starsky hauled The Frog to his feet, grinning broadly. He felt good. In fact, he felt great, absolutely on top of the world. This would show all those nay-sayers back at Metro. Starsky and Hutch were the finest partners ever to be paired together in the history of the force. They'd collared the most wanted in BC within their first two hours on the job. "We done good, partner," he said to Hutch.
"We did, didn't we?" Hutch grinned back at him, turning just enough to let Starsky out of the alley with Froggie. As they passed one another, Hutch patted Starsky's belly, just once, but it was enough. "We need to lay down some ground rules, though, buddy."
"Yeah?" Starsky handed his prisoner over to the waiting officers. The Frog glowered, his bulbous lips so like Steen the Red-legged frog that Starsky laughed. "Like what?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Hutch.
"Don't jump out of the car before I have a chance to call back-up, We need to establish a pattern—I liked that you went low, so I should go high . . ."
"You are taller," Starsky agreed amiably, slipping his pistol back in the holster. "Hutch, you're thinking about this way too much. Just go with the moment."
"I'm too sleepy for that," Hutch sighed. He bent down to retrieve Debra's wedged boot, prying it out of the grating. "Ladies? Can we offer you a ride back to the station?"
"Maybe a cup of coffee with Bay City's finest detectives?" Starsky said, linking one arm through Hutch's and the other through Shannon's. On the other side, Debra had donned her boot and taken Hutch's hand. A blond and a brunette, to match up with he and Hutch. Perfect.
"Starsky, you have raspberry on your tie," Shannon said.
The End.
Send feedback to Dawnwind
| This page has been viewed | times since 2007-06-02. |