Author's notes: This is just a short snippet I wrote some months ago - I've fun experimenting different POV's and getting inside characters' heads. Did a couple more snippets at the time, but can't seem to find them anywhere...

Anyway! There's some religious content, but there's no worth getting offended. At least that wasn't the idea at all (and the porcupines line was really borrowed from one of Patrick O'Brian's novels, but as I said before: I was only experimenting at the time.)

Hope you enjoy it!

Stakeouts

Sure, I love the guy: seventy five per cent of the time we spend together; seven years working the streets; catching bad guys everyday; facing death twice a week with no one else protecting my back - I ought to love him.

It has been me and thee since the beginning - I look after you, you look after me - and nothing will ever change that. He's my best friend, even though sometimes he has this most irritating quality.

"Starsk…" Nothing… "Starsk." Louder… No answer, still the same old melody. "Starsky!" Much louder now.

"What!?" Does he really sound scared, here? Good! Wasn't my intention to scare him but that was even better.

"Will you cut that out?"

"Cut what out?" he asks, giving me one of his innocent grins.

"Well… perhaps that humming you've been doing there."

"What's wrong with the Spanish Flea?"

"Nothing. Except it's been going on for hours now." I'm getting an headache here pal, so please: Just enjoy the silence.

"But I've nothing better to do" I listen him complain.

Who am I kidding? Starsk can't be silent; it's just not part of his nature; no one has ever taught him to shut up or stay still - always on movement… That's why I hate stakeouts so much: because we sit all night in this striped tomato of a car he has, occasionally watching the ins and outs of a god forsaken house and nothing happens but a major headache or a sore troath.

"Hey, I know! Why don't we play a game, uh?" No, please… no stakeout games…

"Nah… not in the mood."

"Ah, c'mon Hutch! I'm bored!" And here he is complaining again. Sometimes he does that a lot. I sigh; give up without even trying; wave at him to begin.

"Okay!" he smiles - at least it makes him happy. Mental note: stop being a selfish bastard. "Let's begin with… words beginning with the letter… S! I'll start!"

Seven. Style. Silver. No, Gold won't do. Sword. Soul. Sandwich. System. Sandstone. Sand. And Stone, eh! Samaritan. Salad - he laughs at this one; only I could think of salads during stakeouts - Sail. Satisfaction. Star. Sky. Starsky.

"Hey! That's not a word!" I find myself protesting.

"What do you mean it's not a word? It's a name! My name!' he really seems offended…

"Oh, that's it… Alright then: Seppuku!' I add triumphantly.

"What!? Where the hell did you dig that up? That's way worst than Starsky!"

"At least it's a word. Japanese for suicide." I explain him, realization dawning on me. "But if you don't like it: Suicide."

"Not on my seats. Oh no, you won't…" he grins, before frowning, before grumbling. Got you now, haven't I? Can't think of anything else, can you buddy? Well, guess I win this…

"Solomon" he mumbles.

"Told ya: no names allowed."

"But I like him! He had a thousand porcupines!"

"That's concubines, clown! A thousand concubines!" And now I'm trying to remain serious because sometimes he's such an idiot… But a funny one, I confess.

"Whatever… for all I know he was a grown man surrounded with a thousand braless chicks." I roll my eyes because he seems excited with the idea, as if he was Solomon himself. "What do you say about that?"

"Hmm… Solomon was a very busy man?" And probably very tired…

"He must have had tons of…" Oh boy, after this he'll never shut up. This conversation will last for hours, I just know it. "You know what I mean…"

"No, I don't know what you mean." I know, but I don't care because sometimes he's so gross, I… I don't want to know, because I've a damn headache.

"Of course you do." Thankfully he cools off. A minute of pure silence, no background voices is all I ask. Forty two seconds past; you can do it, partner. Forty nine - only eleven to go and no one can take my silence minute away from--

"You know? I think I want to be a muslim." Oh no, here we go again.

"Yeah? And why's that?"

"Because when they die they're like Solomon!" There's that stupid grin all over again. "They get all these virgins in Heaven and…" Oh, now I have to interrupt him.

"That's only if you die as a martyr, you moron!" And suddenly I'm feeling really cranky for no reason at all. What was that mental note again? No selfish bastardies!

"What do you think I am?" he asks, looking me in the eye, as if he's making some kind of declaration everyone knows about except me. "Putting up with your shit all these years."

"Yeah, you're a real saint, pal." My voice is sarcastic but I'm smiling again, although the headache is mounting.

"You bet I am! Ask Sheryl about it."

"I don't wanna know." Because I know where this will lead - if we ever got out.

"I tell you: that gal thinks I'm God."

"I don't wanna know!" Because sometimes he can be such a sordid chauvinist and I really don't wanna know!

"Okay…" he holds his hands up high. "Sinner…"

What? I give him a questioning stare: Is he calling me a sinner? Fair enough but where did that come from?

"Sinner - begins with a S!"

I laugh. "Oh! Selfish, then"

"Sleep! Promise I'll wake you if anything happens." he's smiling. Sometimes I wonder if he can really hear my thoughts or if it's just that damned intuition of his. With a nod, my eyes close, trying to get some peace from inside.

It's true: sometimes he's an idiot; but sometimes he's also a saint and I couldn't be more happy about it.

end