I'm Laverne...he's Shirley...or is that Lennie and Squiggy?

by Allie

"Hey…Laverne."

"What?" Hutch stopped in his tracks, and turned a stunned, fierce expression on his pal. "What did you call me?"

"Laverne." Starsky grinned, not in the least repentant. He shifted then, and shrugged. "Well, I heard one of the guys referring to us as Laverne and Shirley. I was thinking about decking him, but then I thought about it—"

"Hope you didn't hurt yourself," interjected Hutch.

Starsky gave him a 'look.' He continued calmly. "And I realized it makes sense. By the way, you're Laverne." He looked pleased with himself.

"I am not Laverne. In the first place…"

"Sure you are. Tall. Blond. What's to argue about?"

Hutch glared at him. "Laverne is the ethnic one. You. You are the ethnic one. Me, I'm white bread and American cheese."

"Don't sell yourself short." Starsky gave him a pat on the arm. "You used some pretty 'ethnic' words the other day when you barked your shin."

Hutch glared at him. "That has nothing—"

"An' you have to admit, Shirley was the charming, dark-haired one." He gave an ingratiating smile and blinked his eyes a few times, leaning back against a desk and crossing one ankle lazily over the other.

Hutch hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and gave Starsky a narrow-eyed look. "Well, that disqualifies you right there."

"What?" Starsky jumped up, casual demeanor lost. "You sayin' I ain't charming? I'll have you know—"

"You talk with an accent, don't you? Your hair's kinda weird, admit it. And you constantly chase members of the opposite sex—shamelessly, I might add. Your taste in fashion is, well…heh heh…" He gave Starsky a pat on the shoulder and a mock-sympathetic look. "Trust me, buddy, you're Laverne."

Starsky just glared at him a moment. "I got dark hair. I'm shorter. I'm Shirley."

Hutch swallowed his smile and straightened, standing a little taller. "All right, Starsk. You're Shirley. If you insist."

"You're darn right I insist! You're Laverne…I'm Sh— Oh, hi, Captain." He straightened as well.

Dobey glared at him. "Starsky! Or should I say, 'Shirley!' What are you two doing? Why aren't you working?" He gave them both a glare.

"Oh, well, Captain, I was just—explaining to Hutch why he's Laverne and I'm Shirley."

Dobey stared at them. "He's Laverne. You're Shirley. Hmph! You're both nuts!" He went into his office and shut the door.

The two cops looked at each other. Starsky's mouth twitched. A smile tugged at the edge of Hutch's mouth. Starsky tried to look rueful, and Hutch to look serious, but they both burst out laughing.

"And another thing!" Dobey yanked the door open and scowled at them. They did their very best to become instantly straight-faced and stop laughing. He glared back and forth from one to the other. "You two clowns aren't Laverne and Shirley. You're Lennie and Squiggy!"

The door slammed with a bang, leaving Starsky and Hutch staring at each other.

Starsky's expression looked rather hurt. "Lennie and Squiggy? The two dumb guys? The comic relief?" His voice rose in indignant outrage.

Hutch started to grin and couldn't seem to stop. "Yeah. Those two."

"What are you smilin' about?"

"Because," said Hutch. "I'm Lennie."

"You're Len— Why?" His eyes began to narrow. "You're not Lenny."

"Sure I am." He held up fingers, began to tick them off. "Taller, blond, marginally smarter…"

"I am not Squiggy. He talked in a funny voice."

Hutch started to laugh hard. He pointed at Starsky and nodded; he seemed to have trouble speaking. "Y-you-you're—"

"I am not Squiggy! And you are not margarine smarter than me!"

"Noooo, I'm not 'margarine smarter' than you at all."

Starsky glared at him, and turned to walk around to his side of the desk. Hutch fell into step behind him, drawing his head down a little and lowering his voice, making it sound a little dopey. "Hey, Squiggy, what do you want to do tonight?"

"Punch you in the kisser," growled Starsky. He yanked his chair out, and gave Hutch a narrow-eyed glare.

Hutch laughed. But he also went back to his side of the desk and got to work.

They finished up eventually, and went home. For once, they'd taken separate cars; it used more gas but saved time with picking each other up and dropping each other off, so once in a while they didn't carpool; but tomorrow they were due again. Starsky left as soon as he finished his work, barely saying goodbye to Hutch, and then only with a grunt.

Hutch wondered if he'd pushed it a little too far. But, then, Starsky had started it. He went home, showered, had a bite to eat and fell asleep in front of public television.

In the morning he had a crick in his neck, and woke up too late; he was running by the time Starsky's car squealed up the drive.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" He tried to yank on his jacket while holding a piece of toast in one hand, and ran down the steps with his gun half buckled on.

He hurried around the front of the car, and slid into the passenger's seat.

"Forgot your fly," said Starsky. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, sounding grumpy.

"Oops." Hutch finished buckling his holster and slid up his zipper.

Starsky's car squealed into traffic, his head lowered as he put all his concentration into grimly driving.

Hutch pondered saying something. But it had been funny, and Starsky wasn't one to hold a grudge; he'd be over it by lunchtime and chattering away again, probably comparing the two of them to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson (claiming the best role for himself, of course—even though Hutch was taller and Starsky had never smoked a pipe in his life). Hutch decided to relish the quiet. He turned to look out the window, crunching his boysenberry toast.

They pulled up at a stoplight.

"Hey. Hutch."

"Yeah?" Hutch turned to look at his partner with the last bite of toast halfway to his mouth.

Starsky flopped a paperback onto Hutch's lap. "You're Lenny." His fiercely set mouth suddenly tilted into a roguish grin.

Then the light changed, the car screeched forward—and Hutch sat stunned, staring down at a copy of—

Of Mice and Men.