Author's notes: This is a small vignette that was written for a friendly challenge where we had to use the word 'drawer'. Pretty much plot-free, but hope you enjoy it. Reviews would be nice.

Reruns

Life is a B Movie: it's stupid and it's strange, it's a directionless story, the dialogue is lame, but in the 'he said she said' sometimes there's some poetry, if you turn your back long enough and let it happen naturally.
Ani Difranco

"What're you doin'?"

"Huh?"

The words came to him completely muffled by a mountain of popcorns getting crunched and trying to be swallowed.

There was a brief pause in which Hutch moved his head rather slowly to take a glance at Starsky, stretched on the living room floor, in one of his extravagant sprawls.

One foot propped on the coffee table, the tip of the tennis shoe tapping one of the numerous bottles decorating the tabletop, defying equilibrium and gravity, arms widely spread over the couch cushions, since the floor's better than the actual sofa when it's too damn hot.

"What are you doing?"

Now loudly, clearer and carefully articulated, with no obstacles of any kind, because the popcorns were long gone. But also blankly, absently, with no perceptible interest, because Starsky's gaze was fixed on the tube.

"Just looking for something."

And Hutch resumed the search. He thought he heard a murmur in between, a sort of mumble muttered under Starsky's breath. Something like '…now that the movie's about to start…', but he didn't care.

He was too busy. After all those years he'd never learned how to tidy up things inside drawers - didn't matter how big they were, they always seemed too small. But then again, what had he to learn about it, anyway? Not everything had to have a specific order. Sometimes chaos seemed to be the most pleasant answer.

I've been living like this for a very long time now and everyone seems okay with it, thought Hutch.

Well, alright, not everyone: there had been some warnings and nasty stuff happening at work every time his clattered desk took someone's private space; and there was always Starsky with his red-and-white-super-clean-don't-throw-coffee-cups-to-the-backseat-of-a-car.

"You know… If you kept them clean, they would be easier to open," said the voice of knowledge, sitting right behind Hutch, not so teasing as usual, since the irritating loud sound of commercials on the TV cut a big chunk of the ever so sought out effect.

A harsher jerk and Hutch yanked the drawer from the desk.

"Yup! I know!"

And Hutch's mouth stretched in a big smile when he finally recognized curiosity on Starsky's eyes. He fidgeted and sat on the couch, placing the open drawer on his lap.

Marbles and lost chess pieces; pens and pencils he'd bought, tossed them into the desk and forgot he had; watercolours and paintbrushes; songs in paper sheets; pamphlets about plants and how to take care of them - one about the power of sound on the efficient growth of flora; and then pictures…, old snapshots, recent, happy or merely artistic, most of them given, not taken.

"Police academy graduation," said Hutch.

He handed over the picture of wrinkled corners to Starsky: two smiley faces, side by side, shoulders united on a half-hug, looking strangely dirt-free and innocent. Those two figures were clearly them - of that Hutch was sure - but at the same time, they weren't.

Starsky took it and the bottle finally toppled over. Hutch caught it before its content got spilled all over the carpet. When he lifted his head, he saw Starsky's amused smile, even if his gaze was already elsewhere.

"Never liked that stupid hat."

He snorted and tossed the picture back into the drawer. The movie was on and his attention fixed solely again on the small screen.

"You know, Starsk… No matter how many times you see this, they always die in the end." Hutch frowned. "How many times have you seen this, anyway?"

"I don't know. How many times did you see it?"

"Huh, two hundred and seven?"

"Same as you, then," said Starsky, staring at the images that succeeded one another with an almost childish obsession.

Slouched on the couch with the bottle of beer pressed to his lips, giving himself to the ever familiar scenes, Hutch noticed how much that old picture was still so real. In fact, nothing had changed and probably never would.

end