Author: Rebelcat

Gen or Slash: Gen

Warning: Non-Con, Dark Humor

Rating: NC-17

Category: Deathfic LJ Challenge

Feedback/Critique: Yes, please!

Beta(s): Thanks to both Nik Ditty and EH for their inspiration and encouragement.


Not a Fate Worse Than Death

If you break your neck, if you have nothing to eat, if
your house is on fire, then you got a problem.
Everything else is inconvenience. ~ Robert Fulghum



It was a nightmare.  An absolute nightmare.


“No,” said Hutch.


Starsky didn’t look at him.  Kneeling beside Hutch, he stared steadily at Frank, his eyes half-lidded.


“No,” said Hutch, again.  “Fuck, no.  Starsky, don’t!”  He tried to get up to stop them, somehow, but his left leg wouldn’t work.  The bullet wound in his thigh ignited, sending shockwaves of pain out in every direction.  Hutch felt his shoulders hit the basement wall as his butt reconnected with the floor, and for a moment everything went white.


Hutch felt Starsky’s hand on his head, his touch gentle.  “Don’t move,” said Starsky.


Hutch wanted to grab him, but his wrists were locked behind his back in his own cuffs.  “He’s just going to kill us anyway.”


The sudden crack of Frank’s pistol made Hutch yelp.  Plaster dust stung the side of his face as the bullet buried itself in the wall beside his ear.


“Wait!” shouted Starsky.  “Just give me a minute.”


Frank sniggered.  “You don’t need a minute.  Do it or your partner dies.  Right now.”  Stepping forward, he aimed his gun at Hutch’s head.  His other hand fumbled with the snap of his jeans.


Starsky looked at Frank, expressionlessly.  “You’re going to let him go.”


Even through the ringing in his ears, Hutch could hear the determination in his partner’s voice.  “No,” he said.  “Don’t do it, Starsky.”


“Shut up,” said Starsky, his affectionate tone at odds with the harsh words.


“Sure,” said Frank, his fleshy lips pulling back into a humorless grin.  “You do what I say, and I’ll let him go.  I’ll drive him right to the hospital, deliver him like a baby.”


“He’s lying,” said Hutch.


Starsky ignored him.  “Let me get those cuffs off my partner first.”


“No, you’re going to do me first.”  Frank worked his zipper down and pulled out his cock.


Starsky’s mouth twisted into a sneer.  “That’s it?  That’s all you’ve got?”


“Suck it,” growled Frank.  “See if you’re still laughing when I’ve got it jammed down your throat.”


“I could take two of those and still have room for more,” said Starsky, clenching his fists.


Growling, Frank stepped forward and grabbed Starsky’s hair.  Hutch felt the barrel of Frank’s gun grind into his forehead.  Instinctively, he tried to move away.  The back of his head hit the wall and he was trapped, with nowhere to go.  A sudden spike of agony in his leg made him whimper.


When Hutch’s vision cleared, he saw grim determination carved into the lines of Starsky’s face.


“No, no, no,” said Hutch.  “Oh no, please...”  He had to do something, he had to stop this.


But Frank’s gun was now aimed at Starsky’s head, and he had a fistful of Starsky’s curls.  Grinning, he thrust his hips forward, shoving himself into Starsky’s mouth.


Starsky gagged, closing his eyes.  He braced his hands against Frank’s thighs.


“Not so small after all,” said Frank.  “How do you like that, huh?”  He yanked viciously on Starsky’s head, forcing him forward.


Hutch saw a tear leak from the corner of Starsky’s eye.  He felt his own eyes sting.


“Yeah,” said Frank.  “Yeah, like that.”


Hutch couldn’t move.  Maybe none of this was real.  Maybe it was just the worst dream he’d ever had in his life and in a moment he’d wake up and everything would be back to normal.  But he was sitting in a cooling puddle of his own blood, and his jeans were stuck to the bullet wound in his thigh.  He could feel the rough grit of the wall at his back.


Frank’s gun was jammed into the side of Starsky’s head just above his ear.  His fat, hairy stomach was slapping repeatedly into Starsky’s forehead, as the man thrust his ugly, red cock repeatedly into Starsky’s mouth.


“Oh, yeah baby,” said Frank, breathlessly.  “That’s sweet!”


Hutch knew exactly how this was going to end.  Frank would pull the trigger as he came, blowing Starsky’s head off.


Because all Frank wanted was for both of them to die, in as painful and humiliating a way as possible.  And all for the crime of putting him away for two years less a day, because he’d raped his girlfriend’s invalid mother.


Frank groaned, and Hutch tensed against the wall.  If he could just fling himself forward at exactly the right time, maybe he could knock Frank’s hand out of the way...


Suddenly Frank shrieked.  It was a shockingly high pitched sound.  The gun exploded and Hutch cried out, falling hard onto his side.


For a fraction of a second all Hutch could see was a horrifying vision of Starsky’s shattered skull, broken bone mixed with bloody hair.


Then his vision cleared and he realized that he was looking at Starsky’s back.  Starsky was kneeling in front of him, not a foot away.


“St-tarsky?”  Hutch’s voice sounded small, even to his own ears.


Starsky turned instantly, dropping Frank’s gun.  “Hutch, are you okay?”  He hesitated a moment and then slapped his pockets.  “Oh, right.  The keys!”


Hutch saw Frank’s legs flop limply as Starsky yanked on his pants, searching for the handcuff key.  Finding it, Starsky leaned over Hutch and began unlocking his cuffs.


Hutch twisted, staring.  “You’ve got blood on your chin.”


Starsky grimaced and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “Ugh, that’s really... ack!”  He scrubbed harder, with both hands this time.


Hutch got his arms under himself and tried to get up off the floor.  “You, uh... you bit him?”


Starsky left off trying to exfoliate his lips and pushed Hutch back down.  “Don’t move, I’m going to go call an ambulance.  Aw, geez, buddy.  Your leg looks bad.”


Hutch craned his neck, looking around Starsky’s hip at what remained of Frank.  “And then you shot him in the head.”


“I’ll be right back,” said Starsky.


Hutch grabbed his leg.  “Don’t!”  He didn’t want to be alone in this basement with Frank.  It didn’t matter that the man was dead.


Starsky stared at him for a moment, his lips pursed.  “All right,” he said.  Sliding an arm underneath Hutch, he hoisted him upright.


The world spun sickeningly around Hutch, and for a moment the room grew dark.  But then he was bracing his wobbly legs, and leaning on Starsky’s shoulder.  He drew in a long, sobbing breath.


“Easy,” said Starsky.  “Easy, I’ve got you.”


Hutch opened his eyes.  Frank was curled into a ball on the concrete floor, his hands between his legs, his eyes open and staring blankly.  Hutch could see twin pools of blood on the concrete floor under both Frank’s crotch and what was left of his head.


Hutch felt bile flood his mouth and he swallowed hard.  His throat burned.


Starsky spat, a glob of saliva hitting the floor with a wet splat.  Then he hoisted Hutch a little higher against his side.  “You ready?”


“Yeah,” said Hutch.


“Because those stairs look tough,” said Starsky.


“I can do it,” said Hutch.


“I believe you.”


As they staggered up the rickety basement stairs, Starsky kept up a running monologue.  “I’m going to have to brush my teeth for hours.  And my tongue.  If I can reach my tonsils, I’ll brush them too.  Maybe I’ll just eat a whole tube of toothpaste, instead.  Burn my taste buds out with peppermint.  I can always grow new ones, right?”


“Starsk,” said Hutch.


“That was disgusting.  That was beyond disgusting.  I think I should get to pick where we eat lunch for at least a year, just to get rid of that taste.  Healthy food ain’t going to cut it.  Not after what my mouth has been through.”






They were at the top of the stairs.  Starsky paused to look at Hutch.


“You were.”  Hutch could hardly breathe.  “You were...”


“I know.”  Starsky’s eyes were shadowed, the blue almost turning black in the dark hallway.  “But he’s dead and we’re not.”




“Right,” said Starsky.  He helped Hutch around the corner into the living room.  “And here we have a couch and a phone!  All the amenities of home.”  His voice was light again.


Hutch’s descent onto the couch was not much better than a controlled collapse.  It took him a few moments to blink the tears out of his eyes.  When he could focus again, he noticed that Starsky was staring at the phone pensively.


“What’s wrong?” asked Hutch.


Starsky sighed.  “I’m not ashamed of anything I did.”


“You didn’t do anything to be ashamed of,” said Hutch.  Regret twisted a knot in his stomach.  Everything Starsky had done, he’d done to keep him safe.  To save him from his own stupidity in allowing Frank to get the drop on him in the first place.  Oh God, thought Hutch.  It’s all my fault.


A sharp smack on his cheek brought Hutch back to the present.  Startled, he looked up into Starsky’s face. 


You didn’t do anything to be ashamed of, either,” said Starsky, firmly.


Hutch wasn’t convinced, but Starsky had a look in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t above kicking a wounded man’s ass.


“What I’m trying to decide,” said Starsky, “is whether I ought to go back and shoot that bastard one more time.  Just so the coroner won’t find my teeth imprinted on his dick.”


“Go,” said Hutch.  “I’ll call the ambulance.”


Starsky’s smile was brilliant.