My Hair Like Jesus Wore It

A long journey from here to there, with a bit of Starsky H/C, a bit of Hutch angst and a lot of love for Starsky’s awesome main of hair…

 

My S/H fic is inspired by 4 years of grope-y loveliness by DS and PMG and 30+ years of enthusiastic appreciation and participation from this fandom.

Many thanks to Thrihyrne for the beta. Also, thanks to Vedette Ciel for help and much kindness.

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They’d always had a thing about each other’s hair.

As far as Hutch could tell, Starsky thought he had the hair of a fairy princess.

“It flows, ya know?” Starsky said, leaning on the bar, playing with empty shot glasses. They were at Huggy’s place with the case-closed highs. Justice delivered and the bad guys put to bed. “Look ad’it flop on your forehead.” He fluffed Hutch’s hair with one hand. “An’ flow down your neck all nice ‘n soft.”

Hutch blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “You’re soft, bonehead. I’m balding.” He tipped his head to show Starsky the thinning circle on top.

“Are not,” Starsky insisted. He leaned into Hutch’s space, fluttered his thick black lashes. “‘Sides, it wouldn’t matter anyhow. You’re a blond beauty ‘n you’ll always be a blond beauty, even if you do go bald. A gorgeous bald blond is still,” he flashed his cocky grin, “a gorgeous blond.”

Hutch laughed, fanning away Starsky’s boilermaker breath. “You’re drunk,” he said.

*****

Hair had been the first thing they’d noticed about each other. Hutch had sat in a barber’s chair getting his regulation haircut after induction into the Academy. He couldn’t help but marvel at the enormous pile of dark curls collecting under the neighboring chair.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Blondie?” The man in the chair had given him a challenging stare.

“Sorry,” Hutch had said, holding up a conciliatory hand. “I was just wondering,” he’d nodded at the heap of hair on the floor, “if you were going to make a pillow out of all that.”

The other man had glanced at the hair and shrugged. “That’s nuthin’,” he’d said. “You should see it when my Uncle Murray shaves his back.”

Hutch’s surprised bark of laughter had pleased the other man. “Dave Starsky,” he’d said, putting out his hand.

Hutch had leant across the gap. “Ken Hutchinson.”

They’d pumped each other’s hands heartily, holding on for a moment, grinning.

“Nice to meetcha, Hutch,” Starsky had said.

They’d left the barbershop together, knocking shoulders as they tried to walk through the door at the same time. It seemed to Hutch they’d been together ever since.

*****

As far as Hutch was concerned, Starsky’s hair was some kind of miracle. He’d never seen hair so thick, so springy.

So gorgeously geodesic.

It might even have super powers.

One of Hutch’s favorite stories–back in the early days, even before Starsky’s hair had reached maximum poofiness–they were on a multiple homicide case that had them practically camping at Metro and Hutch caught Starsky snoozing on the desk, head on folded arms. Punchy from caffeine and lack of sleep, he leaned over Starsky and dropped a pencil into his hair. As he watched, the pencil sunk deep into the hair above Starsky’s right ear, and stayed, the dense curls holding it fast. Amused, Hutch gathered pencils from Babcock’s, Baker’s, and Simmons’s spots and slipped them into his partner’s hair. One, two, three, four, he angled pencils this way and that, across the top of Starsky’s head, down his nape, over his ears. Then, with growing giddiness, he scooted into Dobey’s office, grabbing three more pencils and the Cross pen inscribed “All my love, Edith.”

The Cross pen was his undoing. Heavy and slick, it glided through Starsky’s hair and across his cheek before clattering to the floor. Starsky woke with a start and a snort. He looked up at Hutch, blinking, his eyes sleepy and puzzled. Nine pencils slanted out of the mass of his curls.

Hutch took Starsky out to Huggy Bear’s for a midnight burger, to apologize and, he hoped, soften the retaliatory prank that would no doubt be coming his way.

“Sorry, buddy,” he said as one of Huggy’s girls plunked heaping burger and fry plates in front of each of them, then darted away before they could thank her. “It’s just that once I got started…” he shrugged. “Who knew you could put nine pencils in someone’s hair? I mean, I can put pencils behind my ear…”

“Or you can stick ’em in the hole in your head,” said Starsky. He was busy, picking the onions off his burger and salting the meat before coating it with catsup. “C’mon, Hutch, it’s just standard issue Jewish kid hair. Half the kids at PS 128 had this hair.” He glanced up, reached for a crispy fry on Hutch’s plate.

“Hands to yourself,” said Hutch, smacking Starsky’s fingers. “Your brother doesn’t have curly hair, does he?”

“Nah, more like wavy,” said Starsky. “I got Pop’s hair, Nick got Ma’s. He got took for Italian all the time.” His hand crept toward Hutch’s plate again.

“Starsk, you still have fries on your plate. Why are you after mine?”

“Yours are better, Huggy gave you more.” Starsky leaned his cheek on his fist and looked wistfully at Hutch’s fries before swirling one of his own in catsup. “You shoulda seen us in the boy’s room at school when we were twelve,” he said. “We’d line up in front of the mirror, wet our hair and try to comb it flat. There’d be water runnin’ into our collars and we’d be rakin’ our hair to the sides so hard our scalps would ’bout bleed. Then two seconds later–sproing!–curls are back. We hated ’em.”

“You didn’t use grease?” asked Hutch. He had the idea that all the kids in fifties Brooklyn wore greased back ducktails and un-tucked shirts.

“Not if Ma could see me,” said Starsky. “Jeez, Hutch, that’s the biggest fry I’ve ever seen.”

Hutch plucked it off his plate. “Damn,” he said, impressed. “That must have been some potato.”

“Potato?”

“Yeah, potato, dummy. French fries come from potatoes.”

“I knew that. How long do ya think that thing is?”

Hutch measured it against his hand. “Eight inches?”

“Ten,” said Starsky. His eyes were huge. “Hutch, lemme have it.”

“Forget it, it’s mine.”

“C’mon. Half,” Starsky begged. “I’ve never seen one that big.”

“No way,” said Hutch. “It’s mine. And keep your hands on your side of the table. Or better yet, put them in your lap.”

“If you want it, how come you put it back on your plate?” Starsky obediently tucked his hands under his thighs but his eyes were glued to Hutch’s plate.

“‘Cos it’s ‘a thing of beauty’,” said Hutch. “‘A joy forever whose loveliness increases’. I’m saving it for last, moron.” He spun his plate, revolved the fry away from Starsky. “What would your mom have done,” he asked, “if she’d caught you with hair grease?”

“Kicked my ass all the way to Manhattan,” Starsky said. His eyes shifted and he fidgeted in the booth. He jiggled one knee, watched Cookie rack up while Big Tina chalked a cue. “Grease was for hoods. Not good little Jewish boys. They had some of the best cars, though, the hoods on my block. Hot rods with white walls, pin striping, flames. They chopped the tops, swapped out the engines, lowered the chassis. Johnny Fitch had a T-Bird; Lippy Lipshitz practically lived in a cherried-up Bel-Aire; Fungus McPherson had a Merc with…say, Hutch?” Starsky nodded toward the bar. “What’s Sweet Alice doin’ here?”

“Sweet Alice?” Hutch turned, mind-eye’s already seeing Alice slipping through the crowd. He looked for a head of bright hair, a languid stroll. He’d never known Alice to show up at Huggy’s. “Where?”

“There.” Starsky gestured toward the bar.

Hutch leaned out of the booth, his eyes going over the bar, shifting to the pool table. “Don’t see her.” He turned back to Starsky. “Was she heading toward the ladies…DAMMIT, STARSK! That was mine!”

Starsky looked smug. “It’s mine now,” said he, tucking the rest of the fry into his cheek like snuff. “I won it fair and square.”

“You shit,” said Hutch in disgust. He watched Starsky chew rapidly. “Cheeze, Starsk, didja even taste it?”

Starsky licked his thumb. “A thing of beauty,” he said happily. “Just like you said.”

Hutch slumped back in the booth, folded his arms. He gave Starsky an icy stare while he weighed up the scales–nine pencils and a Cross pen on one side; on the other, a perfect fry and a partner who thought throwing his red socks in with your white laundry was a great retaliatory prank. “Okay,” he said finally, holding up a stern warning finger. “But we’re even now, ya hear?”

Starsky grinned and, balance restored, pinched another fry.

*****

Starsky wasn’t the only one who had noticed Hutch was the blondest blond in Bay City. Low-lives processed through Metro regularly called him that big blond pig. And Hutch wasn’t the only one who’d noticed that Starsky had the best-tousled mane this side of Farrah Fawcett. Starsk didn’t have to stand in front of the mirror in the men’s locker room combing over his thinning spots. He’d just step out of the shower, shake his head like a dog and fling water clear across the room.

Inevitably someone would bellow: “Starsky! Ya show-off!”

Or: “Asshole! You’re getting me wet!”

Starsky would shrug, shake again. The spray would fly as Bay City’s Finest threw up their arms as though they were under fire.

*****

There wasn’t much Starsky hated more than being doped up. Hutch understood, of course. Forest and Bellamy had left their legacies.

And now this.

Hutch cupped Starsky’s elbow, eased him down the steps. On the platform, the uniforms cuffed the cultists, Dobey wheezed and shouted.

Starsky took a few faltering steps toward the Torino before stopping. He grabbed Hutch’s wrist with one hand. His eyes wandered past Hutch’s to something in the distance. He blinked hard, breathing fast.

Shocky, Hutch thought. He was breathing hard too, arms and legs still trembling with adrenaline. It had been too close this time. Pink sunrise and black robes, crackpots chanting and Starsky hung by his wrists in a circle of knives. Too close. Hutch gripped Starsky’s shoulder, suddenly wanting to fold him over, over and over, down to a size he could tuck into his pocket for safekeeping.

“HUTCHINSON!” Dobey bellowed.

Starsky started out of his daze. He broke away from Hutch, stalked toward the Torino, his black robe rippling in the morning breeze.

“Hutch.” Dobey propped his weight on the railing, stared down at Hutch. His eyes flicked to Starsky, making tracks with his head down. “Never mind.” Dobey waved Hutch off. “Go take care of your partner.”

That’s what I was doing, Hutch thought. Before you spooked him. He trotted to catch up with Starsky.

Starsky stood behind the Torino, one hand on his hip, the other cupped around his ribs. He gestured at the trunk.

Hutch opened it.

Starsky seized his gym bag and rounded the Torino, putting its body between himself and the crime scene. He jerked out his sweats, stepped into them, flipped the robe over his head and flung it behind him. His lips were thin and grim, his hands trembling.

Hutch caught the robe before it hit the ground, folded it into a discreet bundle. He glanced up; no one was watching. “Hey buddy,” he said, softly. He caught Starsky’s wrist, gave a gentle tug. “C’mere.” He needed just another moment to do what they’d always done, hold on to hold it together.

But Starsky recoiled, snatching his wrist away. He backed up, opening his arms to show Hutch the night’s handiwork–purple bruises on his bare torso, scratches from neck to navel. Ligature marks on his wrists, a nasty burn, bruising around the temple. His eyes had gone from stunned to furious. “You tell Dobey,” he said, his voice a hiss. “If they want photos, they want samples, they want me to pee in a cup, they better get here fast. I’m goin’ home.”

Hutch caught Starsky’s shoulder. “You need a hospital first, pal,” he said, knowing it was wasted breath. “Just a quick check.”

“No!” Starsky knocked Hutch’s hand away, hard. “Fuck the hospital! Fuck all this shit. I’m goin’ home.”

So Hutch drove, and kept glancing to the right. Starsky refused to look at him. He turned his face to the side window, his shoulders at a hostile angle.

At his apartment, Starsky flung open his door before Hutch had even properly parked. He lunged up the steps, one hand holding his ribs.

Hutch followed, weighing his options: tread lightly or hover? He decided to make soup.

The cream of mushroom was simmering when Starsky came into the kitchen. He’d been in the shower, he’d changed his clothes, different sweats and a white tee. He glanced at Hutch, then looked away, shifting his weight on his bare feet.

Hutch felt an uneasy flutter. He’d expected Starsky to settle in the shower. He stirred the soup, tasted the spoon. Shocky, he thought, pissed off, but what else? “Hey, buddy,” he said carefully. “You need something on your stomach.”

Starsky shook his head, snapped off the stove. He found a cup, rinsed his mouth, spat in the sink. His wet hair hung in heavy loops about his face, his eyes looked small and mean.

Hutch turned back to his soup, watched Starsky from the corners of his eyes. “Fine,” he said, “don’t eat. How ’bout we put some cream on that burn instead?”

“Huh uh,” said Starsky. He pushed away from the sink and headed for the sleeping alcove.

“Hey!” Hutch dropped the spoon into the soup, burned his fingers on the splash back. “Dammit.” He sucked his fingers. “Starsk, come back here!”

Starsky waved him off. He turned toward the bathroom, pivoted on his heel when Hutch followed him.

Annoyed, Hutch tried to catch Starsky’s arm. “Hey, will you just look at me?”

Starsky dodged Hutch’s hand, rounded the bed. “Quit followin’ me!” he snapped. “And quit loomin’ over me! It’s creepy.”

“Yeah, fine,” said Hutch. “I’ll stop looming as soon as you look me in the eye, pal.”

“Fine.” said Starsky. He had the bed between them now. He glared across it at Hutch.

Hutch glared back, taking in Starsky’s rapid breathing and shaky hands, his glassy eyes and dilated pupils. “I see,” said Hutch flatly. “They doped you.”

Starsky took a step back, knocked into the bedside table, toppling the lamp. “They didn’t do nothin’!” he said forcefully.

“The hell they didn’t.” said Hutch. He was seeing it now, everything he’d missed in his panic and relief at the old zoo.

“You had your look,” said Starsky. “Now why don’t you hit the road.” He jerked his thumb toward the front door.

Hutch shook his head. “You’re holding out on me, Starsk,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Starsky lifted his chin stubbornly.

“Gimme a break, Starsk,” Hutch said. “You’re stoned. Your pupils are so blown I can see them from here.” He shifted toward the bed.

“Hey!” Starsky pointed an angry finger at him. “You just stay over there!”

“Sure,” said Hutch. He put one knee on the bed.

Starsky bolted toward the living room and Hutch lunged across the bed. He caught Starsky by the back of his shirt and yanked hard. Starsky fell and they both sprawled across the mattress.

“GET OFF!” Starsky shoved hard at Hutch’s chest and leapt up. Hutch sprang after him like a cat, seized him by the upper arms.

“Hey!” Starsky struggled. His eyes were wide, the whites wild. “Knock it off! LEMME GO!”

Hutch gave Starsky a rough shake, refusing to let go. “Goddammit, Starsk, you knock it off! We can’t waltz around here, this is serious! Marcus’s people are nuts, they’d happily shoot you up with drain cleaner!”

“YOU’RE NOT HELPING!” Starsky yelled, struggling wildly.

“Stop fighting me for Christssake!” Hutch yelled back. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“THEN,” Starsky bellowed, “LEMME THE FUCK GO!”

Hutch released him abruptly. He raised his hands in surrender, backing away. “You got it.” He leaned against the bookcase, folding his arms. “Talk to me, partner,” he said. “What did they give you? Barbies? Acid? Smack? Speed? A combo of some sort? Good ol’ Stony Black had his works at the old zoo. God only knows what he left behind.”

“They didn’t give me nothin’,” Starsky muttered. He rubbed his arms where Hutch had gripped him.

“Oh, c’mon, Starsk,” said Hutch wearily. “I’ve already played head games with Simon Marcus, so will you give me a fucking break? Just tell me what they gave you and what else they did to you.”

“What else?” Starsky’s head came up. “Whaddaya mean else?”

“I mean I’m tired for God’s sake!” snapped Hutch. He pushed away from the bookshelf, taking an angry step toward Starsky. “I’ve been running from pillar to post,” he said, his voice rising, “scared outta my mind for twenty-four solid hours! I didn’t know what I’d find, Starsk, but here you are, and thank God you’re standing, but so help me if you don’t tell me what they did to you I’m going to kill you myself! Why were you wearing a robe?” He jabbed Starsky’s shoulder with his index finger, forcing him back a step. “What happened to your clothes? Did they take them just to scare you, or was it something else? Did they touch you, Starsk? Was it rape?”

Starsky’s body jerked, his face contorted. “No, dickhead,” he snarled, curling his hands into fists. “Nobody raped me. Thanks for asking.”

“Are you sure, Starsk?” Hutch demanded. He leaned forward, his face in Starsky’s. “The kids we found, they all had evidence of sexual molestation, why not you?”

“Those were girls!” shouted Starsky. He stepped back again, his fists clenched.

“So what?” Hutch shouted back. “Are you telling me guys don’t get raped? Don’t be an idiot, Starsk! We had one kid live to make a statement, one! And she was so traumatized she could hardly remember her own name! Maybe you don’t remember stuff, Starsky, maybe you can’t remember. I think we better get you down to the hospital and checked out…”

“I’m not traumatized, asshole, and I didn’t get raped and I’m not going to any fuckin’ hospital!” yelled Starsky. “All they did was make me drink something! Something trippy! That’s all it was, something trippy in the water, okay!”

“Okay!”

“Satisfied?”

“Thrilled!”

Hutch threw himself on the end of the bed, scrubbed his face with his hands. He was shaking, disgusted with himself and furious at Starsky.

Starsky slumped against the wall, breathing hard. He spread one hand over his ribs. “That was dirty,” he said after a while.

“Yeah, well,” said Hutch sourly. “You could have just told me.”

“I didn’t want to,” said Starsky scowling. “Besides,” his voice dropped, “I coulda handled it.”

“You could have handled it?” Hutch’s voice rose in outrage. “You’re crazy, Starsk!”

“Yeah, maybe,” muttered Starsky. He moved restlessly to the window, fiddled with the wand on the blinds. The slats tilted up, flooding the dark room with sun.

“Willya knock that off?” said Hutch, holding up his hand against the light. “How many times did they give it to you?”

“What?” said Starsky. He twisted the wand, flashing the light.

“Goddammit, Starsk! Stop that! And stop screwing with me. You know what I mean!”

“Twice.” Starsky dropped the wand, left the slats open. “Or three, maybe…I don’t know. Twice, I guess.”

Hutched winced, the bright light hurt his eyes. “Have you come down any?” he asked.

Starsky shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “It’s kinda hard to tell…the whole thing’s been so freaky.” He shivered, moved away from the window.

Hutch felt his skin prickle. “Symptoms,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers. “C’mon, gimme symptoms.”

“Ah, you know, trippy stuff,” said Starsky. “Color trails, sparkles, distortions.” He moved to his dresser, visibly recoiled at his reflection in the mirror.

“What else?” demanded Hutch.

Starsky ran his hand through his hair. “Um, weird voices, weird noises like bells and runnin’ water. And there might have been a bear.”

“A bear? Great.” Hutch drummed his fingers nervously on his knee. “How about now?”

“No colors or sparkles but your voice sounds kinda hollow and I feel weird.” said Starsky. He moved to the edge of his bed, caught the edge of his dark blue top sheet. “Unreal… like I’m standin’ next to myself, watchin’ myself talk.”

Hutch exhaled forcefully, trying to release some of his tension, push away his anger. “So this might be the aftermath,” he said. “You might be more or less down already.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Starsky, worrying the top sheet between his fingers. “But I’m feeling pretty antsy.”

Hutch laughed grimly. “I feel pretty up-tight myself,” he said.

Starsky shook his head. “Not that kind of antsy,” he said. “More like I’m an ant and there’s a big truck comin’ down the highway and I’m hopin’ like hell it doesn’t squash me.” He yanked at the top sheet, pulled it free of the bed.

“Oh,” said Hutch. “That kind of antsy.” He closed his eyes, let his spine slump. He was suddenly aware of his own exhaustion, cresting like a wave, ready to crash. All he wanted to do was fall backwards on Starsky’s bed, sleep for a week. Clock out and let someone else take the responsibility. But that wasn’t going to happen, they still had hours and hours to go. “A normal person would go to the hospital,” he said, wearily.

Starsky sighed. “Hutch–”

“Oh shut up,” snapped Hutch. Suddenly he was angry again. “You know I’m going to do it. Whatever it takes, you know I’m gonna kill myself doing it. Just give me a fuckin’ minute, willya?” His eyes burned, his throat clogged with emotion.

Starsky took a deep breath, gathering himself. He moved to the end of the bed, dragging the blue top sheet with him. He sat next to Hutch, put his hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Blondie,” he said. “S’not that bad. S’not angel dust, or anything.”

“Oh, really?” Hutch said sarcastically. “How do you know it’s not angel dust? Did they tell you?”

“No, ‘course they didn’t tell me.”

“Then how the hell do you know?”

Starsky sighed. “I ain’t tryin’ to fly, am I?”

“Christ, Starsky!” Hutch leapt to his feet. He paced a few circuits of the bedroom, finally stopping to rest his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Outside he saw the Torino bumped up against the curb, the glitter of the asphalt beneath its wheels. He heard Starsky rustling restlessly behind him. He sighed, watched his breath fog the window. Beneath the damp circle of his breath, he saw a blotch of pink–the reflection of his stupid shirt. “Ass,” he muttered to him. What had possessed him to wear pink to a mass murder’s hearing? Pink. He looked like a preppy dickhead. “Ass,” he said again.

“Are you talking to me?” asked Starsky. “Or about me?”

“Neither, dummy.” Hutch lifted his head, looked at his partner.

Starsky had moved back against the headboard and wrapped himself in the blue sheet. With the bruising on his face, the scratches on his neck, with that blistering burn on his temple, he looked battered and damned near fried as well. And yet he was managing to give Hutch his smart-ass smirk. One eyebrow lifted as if to ask, are you done yet?

“Shit, Starsk,” Hutch said. He felt his heart twist, his anger drain away. It was just that way sometimes with Starsky, a twist in his heart, a crazy free-falling sensation in his stomach. There had never been anything in his thirty-two years had ever mattered half as much as this, the thing he and Starsky had made between them. It didn’t matter how used-up or close to crazy he was, Hutch didn’t clock out on Starsky and Starsky didn’t clock out on him.

Starsky shuddered suddenly, pulled the blue sheet tighter. “Shit,” he said. “Here it comes.”

“The truck?” asked Hutch. He sighed, moved to the bed and put his hand lightly on Starsky’s head.

“Yeah.” Starsky shivered again. “I held it back as long as I could.”

“What is it with you and driving, anyway?” asked Hutch. He slid his fingers through Starsky’s hair, snagging the damp curls. “Okay,” he said finally, “let’s get this done. On your feet.” He pulled Starsky gently up.

“I said I could handle it,” muttered Starsky. He held on to Hutch’s waist with both hands, steadying himself.

“And I say we’ll handle it,” said Hutch. He caught the sheet as it slipped from Starsky’s shoulders, tossed it on the bed. “Let’s do it like we did before, that time at Huggy’s.”

Starsky nodded.

Hutch settled himself on the bed, leaned back against the headboard. “C’mon, partner,” he said, patting the space between his legs. “Climb aboard. Buckle up.”

“Gonna be a bumpy ride,” sighed Starsky. He crawled into Hutch’s lap, rested his head, the heavy hair still damp from the shower, against Hutch’s shoulder.

Hutch flapped the blue sheet, spread it over both of them. He put his arms around Starsky carefully, mindful of bruises, and the way his partner had been touching his ribs since he’d brought him down from the platform. But Starsky crossed his arms over Hutch’s and held on tight. His body, as if it had been waiting for this cue, seized and shuddered violently.

“Aw, babe,” murmured Hutch. He held his partner through the long morning and the long day, through the shakes, sweats, chattering teeth and shivering dread. He talked quietly when he had to, telling Starsky he was fine, just fine. His ears may be ringing, roaring like falling water, he might be seeing bears where no bears could be but he was hanging in there and he was fine, he was safe, he was with Hutch. He told jokes when he could, old ones, new ones, dirty ones, corny ones, even a few funny ones. He reeled off baseball stats, football stats, oddball trivia, plots from movies he’d seen as a kid, anything he could think of to distract Starsky. He named all the bones in the human body, all the muscles he could remember from his pre-med days. He went on at length about the organs, vital organs, expendable organs, hollow organs, solid organs and organ systems, in the end reassuring Starsky that all his organs were doing fine, with the exception maybe of the brain which had never worked that well to begin with. When his head was finally empty and his throat too dry for words, Hutch hummed and sang softly, ignoring the ringing phone, the pins-and-needles in his legs, the warning twinge in his lower back. He watched the sun in the window, the shadows on the floor move from mid-morning position to mid-afternoon. And finally he slept, tangled with Starsky in dark blue sheets.

*****

Another favorite story of Hutch’s–the time Starsky’s hair nearly cost them Biggy Bigamist. Emily had just regained her sight and Starsky was in high spirits. They were cruising Fairfax in the LTD, shooting the breeze, their eyes tracking the street. Hutch had his left hand on the wheel, his right arm stretched across the back of the seat.

Suddenly, Starsky’s head whipped to the right. “Hey! Ain’t that Biggy Bigamist? Hutch, pull over!”

“Son of a bitch!” said Hutch. George Bigelow and his three wives pushed some of Bay City’s dirtiest heroin.

“Boy, talk about your Mormons gone wrong,” muttered Starsky, turning in his seat to watch Bigelow amble down the sidewalk like an honest citizen. “Let’s get the bastard, Hutch. Vice wants him bad.”

“On it,” said Hutch. He lifted his right arm, intending to get both hands on the wheel, cut across traffic and slide discretely to the curb. Instead, the cuff button on his flannel shirt snagged in Starsky’s hair. Starsky yelped and Hutch fumbled the turn. The LTD lurched; someone behind them leaned on their horn.

On the street, Biggy’s head popped up. He looked left and right.

“Shit!” Hutch wheeled left. He flapped his trapped arm, tried to shrug out of his sleeve.

“Ow!” yelled Starsky. He grabbed the back of his head. “That hurts! Willya get this tub to the curb?”

“I’m trying!” Cursing the ridiculous luck of stumbling over one of Metro’s Most Wanted while his arm was stuck to the back of his partner’s head, Hutch bumped the car to the curb.

“Call it!” Starsky yelled, yanking up on his door handle.

“Hang on, hang on.” Hutch tried to unbutton his cuff. “Just a sec, Starsk.”

“Lemme out!” bellowed Starsky. “Biggy’s running!” He bounded out of the car, holding Hutch’s sleeve at the back of his head and pulling Hutch after him.

Hutch swore as he scrambled across the seat, his left elbow, shoulder and hipbone banging against the steering wheel, gearshift and dash. He stumbled out of the passenger door and found himself on the sidewalk, for a very silly moment flailing both arms frantically. Then he was alone, stripped to his t-shirt and holster while Starsky flew down an alley after Biggy, Hutch’s black and white flannel shirt streaming out behind him.

Disgusted, Hutch radioed Metro before sprinting down the alley. By the time he caught up with Starsky, his partner had Biggy against a wall, reading him his rights. Hutch’s flannel shirt hung down his back.

“…one will be appointed for you. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, SLEEZEBAG?”

Biggy grunted.

Starsky turned to Hutch. “Hello, Grace.”

“My shirt,” said Hutch, weakly. He started to giggle.

Starsky shrugged, wound the shirt around his neck like a scarf and shoved Biggy toward Hutch. “At least it wasn’t your moustache caught in my fly,” he said.

*****

There wasn’t much Starsky hated more than being doped, yet here they were again. Forest, Bellamy, Marcus, Matwick and now Travers. Whatever Travers had given Starsky, it had kaleidoscoped his vision and made him floppy, unsure of what his arms and legs were doing. It also had a sedative effect he was fighting tooth and nail, but at least he wasn’t fighting Hutch.

“If I drink enough,” said Starsky, “I can piss it out.” He fumbled at the tap, nearly falling into the sink.

“Jesus,” said Hutch, catching him. “You sit. I’ll be the water boy.” He steered Starsky to the couch.

“You look like a big blond bug,” said Starsky, poking Hutch in the forehead. “You have at least twelve eyes.”

“And yours as a bloodshot as a basset’s,” said Hutch. He tilted Starsky against the arm of the couch and brought him water.

Starsky held the glass with both hands, dripping water on his shirt. “I played my guitar and sang to her,” he said, “then she tried to kill me.”

“You sang to her?” said Hutch. “Well, no wonder she tried to kill you.”

As the night passed, Travers’s junk worked its way through Starsky’s system. When the sun came up, he stood on one foot, walked a straight line, touched his nose, recited the alphabet and the fours times-table.

“You are officially sober,” Hutch pronounced.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Starsky. He went into the kitchen and brought out a bottle of Jose Cuervo.

Not the best idea, but Hutch jumped on board anyway.

They spent the morning sipping tequila, curtains drawn against the sun, the radio turned to the classical station.

“What’s this one?” Starsky asked.

Hutch, Scottie dog in his hand, paused in the middle of counting seven spaces from Park Place Avenue. He cocked his head, listened to the music. “Beethoven,” he said. “Fur Elise.”

While selling his Marvin Gardens hotel back to the bank, Starsky asked, “How ’bout this one?”

Hutch listened. It was Grieg, Peer Gynt Suite. But what part? Obviously, Starsky needed him to know. “Aase’s Death,” he finally decided.

“Aase?” said Starsky. “Like the Red Sox pitcher?

“Yup,” said Hutch, picking up a Chance card. “Except now he’s in the Angels’ bullpen.”

They spun the day out with a few hundred gin games. They called out for pizza and walked to the 7-11 for cigarettes, Wrigleys, beer and the kind of food Hutch once wouldn’t have put in his body. Hutch tuned Starsky’s guitar, tightening the sixth string until it sounded like the E in his head. He picked out Fur Elise’s perfect notes while Starsky shifted through the contents of an old cigar box, showing him photos he’d already seen: Sura Perlmutter, Starsky’s maternal grandmother; Judith and Haskel Starsky as a young couple; kid Starsky, looking like he was about to bolt out of the frame; kid Nick, his face scrunched like he was about to burst into tears.

“Did I ever show you these?” Starsky asked. He held up two dented and scratched aluminum coins.

Hutch looked over the guitar. The coins were stamped with a Star of David and the word Getto. He hadn’t seen them since Terry’s memorial but remembered Haskel’s cousin Edit had carried them out of the Lodz ghetto. “Ruskies?” he asked.

“Rumkies.” Starsky said. He put them back in the box.

Around nine, they went to the park to shoot hoops. The rim, a dull ring of light hung on the dark, banged and clattered; their sneakers slapped and skid on the concrete.

A few hours later, they flopped next to each other on Starsky’s couch.

Starsky wrinkled his nose. “Do I smell as bad as you?”

“Worse,” Hutch assured him.

“Great.” Starsky bounced off the couch. “Gotta pee,” he said.

“You always do,” muttered Hutch. He let his head fall back against couch. The tequila, the beer, the cigs, the hours without sleep were catching up with him. At this point, Travers’s junk had to be long gone and Starsky running on nerves and sheer stubbornness. Hutch closed his eyes, let himself drift.

The next thing he felt was a tickle under his nose. He opened his eyes, saw Starsky standing behind the couch, looming over him.

“Hey, Blintz,” Starsky said softly. He stroked one side of Hutch’s moustache. “Why didja grow a moustache anyway?”

Hutch shrugged. “Dunno. Makes me look tougher?”

“Tough as a pussy cat,” said Starsky. He climbed over the back of the couch, plopped on the cushion next to Hutch. He took Hutch’s face in both hands, his thumbs rubbing either side of the moustache. “Whyja go for a long droopy ‘stache?”

Hutch closed his eyes again. Starsky’s hands were cool and damp, smelling of soap. “You think I’d look better with a pencil-thin?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Starsky. He brushed his fingers over Hutch’s upper lip. “I was thinking of a toothbrush.”

“Like Hitler?”

“Nah. Somebody cool. Like Oliver Hardy.”

“Charlie Chaplin.”

“Or,” said Starsky, “we could get some grease–”

“Wax,” Hutch corrected.

“Wax, and we could give you one of those training wheel–”

“Handlebar,” said Hutch.

“Handlebar,” said Starsky. “I knew it had something to do with a bike. We could give you one of those handlebars with the curlicues. Like Snidely Whiplash.”

“No thanks,” said Hutch, yawning.

Starsky stroked Hutch’s moustache again, slid his hands up into his hair. Gently, he kneaded Hutch’s temples. “How ’bout a walrus?” he asked.

“No soup strainers,” Hutch said. He turned his head under Starsky’s fingers, the gentle rubbing about to put him to sleep.

“‘How ’bout a beer?”

“Huh?”

“Wanna beer?”

“No.” Hutch sat up and rubbed his eyes. Starsky’s hands fell away. “Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m hitting the wall here. And you need to call it a night.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said. He sighed and picked at a worn spot on his jeans. “But Hutch, I’m not tired.”

“Not tired? Of course you’re tired. Jeez, Starsky, you sound like a kid.”

“I do not,” said Starsky petulantly. He shifted away from Hutch.

Hutch rolled his eyes. He grabbed Starsky’s wrist and checked the time. Near midnight.

Starsky reached for a Car and Driver on his coffee table.

Hutch sank back against the couch cushions, hooked a finger in Starsky’s belt loop. “Scoot this way,” he ordered, tugging.

Starsky slid a few inches closer, muttering to himself.

Hutch found he could reach Starsky’s left shoulder without sitting up. He cupped the shoulder, squeezed, worked the tense muscle. “Listen, buddy,” he said. “You’ve been on the high wire all night, and all day. It’s time to come down.”

He felt Starsky’s shrug, heard the magazine slide away.

Hutch’s hand drifted lower, over the muscles in Starsky’s back. “You know, Starsk, it’s not like I don’t understand.”

“Sure,” said Starsky, and Hutch felt his back relax a little. “You get it, I know that.”

“That’s right,” Hutch agreed. “I’ve been where you are now. I know it messes with your head, your sense of control. You wind yourself up like a clock just trying to hold it together.” He touched Starsky’s shoulders, the taut muscles.

Starsky nodded, poked the Car and Driver until it plopped to the floor. “Hard to let go,” he admitted.

“But you can let go,” Hutch said gently, squeezing the back of Starsky’s neck. “You’re okay, you’re safe. You know you’re safe with me, don’t ya, Starsk?”

Starsky glanced back at Hutch, made a face. “Yeah, I know I’m safe, Hutch,” he said. “You’re here and you’d breathe for me if you had to but that’s like lettin’ someone else drive my car. I’d just rather do it myself, you know?”

Hutch chuckled, reassured. “Fussy,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” said Starsky. He put his elbows on his knees, scrubbed his face with his hands.

Hutch slid his hand up the back of Starsky’s shirt, let his fingers touch warm flesh. “Breathe,” he said, humming, searching for the tune. “‘Breathe in the air. ‘Don’t be afraid to care. Leave but don’t leave me…'” He let his voice trail away and yawned. “God, I don’t even have the energy to sing Pink Floyd.”

Starsky snickered. “Ain’t your style anyway,” he said.

“It ain’t Vic Rankin,” agreed Hutch. He let his head fall back against the cushion, patted Starsky’s back and closed his eyes.

Starsky sighed and shifted. He was silent for a while. Then he said, “My Uncle Herschel had a Fu Manchu. Unusual look for a Jew. We called it his Jew Manchu.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Hutch said.

“His wife, Sylvia, had facial hair too,” Starsky went on. “She shaved it but Nick and I could feel the stubble when she kissed us. But no one was as hairy as Uncle Murray. He used to say, ‘when there’s a full moon, three times I have to shave.'”

“Must be something to that wolf-man curse,” Hutch said. He slipped lower, propped his feet on Starsky’s coffee table. He let his hand drop to the small of his partner’s back, curve around his hipbone. He tuned out as Starsky rambled on about his Uncles Herschel and Murray, his bald Aunt Malka, and Shmuel, the Orthodox uncle whose side curl dipped into the soup at the seudat mitzvah after Nick’s bris. Hutch relaxed, feeling Starsky’s voice wash over him. His partner’s stream of consciousness was his lullaby, the most familiar and comforting sound in his world. He let it lift him and rock him, float him like a baby in a Moses basket out of the room and into an easy sleep.

Sometime later Hutch awoke with a neck cramp and a hard-on. Starsky was sprawled in his lap, dead asleep. His head was in the crook of Hutch’s arm, his left hand lay heavily in Hutch’s crotch, his exhales warming Hutch’s ribs. Hutch yawned and stretched, lifted his ass to restore the blood flow. After a while, he settled again, plucking Starsky’s hand out of his lap, studying the palm as though he could read the lines. Back in the early days, he’d wondered about the two of them. He’d worried a bit, picking through labels and names, looking for one pliable enough to fit over his relationship with Starsky. Eventually he’d given up. Every word or phrase he knew sounded like someone else’s definition of what he didn’t really want to bind up with names and labels after all. Hutch closed Starsky’s fist, swung his long legs from the coffee table to the couch, worked them under Starsky’s. When he was reclined on the couch with a pillow supporting his neck and head, he pulled Starsky up to his chin like a blanket and closed his eyes. Whatever they were, they had always been.

*****

When Hutch made a mental list of all the women in his life who’d knocked him for a loop, he had to give little Vivian a place of honor. She’d laid him flat, damn near wrecked his heart, put him in the hospital and on the couch for nearly two months.

He pulled the tension band his therapist had given him, amazed that muscles that used to move with well-oiled ease now stubbornly refused to give. He poured sweat, cursed in star-spangled colors and wondered if, considering his right leg and lower back, this shoulder was his third strike. He gained fifteen pounds, got hooked on Days of Our Lives and decided Starsky was a freak of nature for bouncing back so quickly from the bullet Joey Martin put in his back.

Starsk rode a desk at Metro, or hit the streets, occasionally partnered with Joan Meredith but more often with Sweet Lou Legette who had hands as big as frying pans and a voice like a piccolo. Most nights after work, Starsky dropped by Hutch’s with whatever had caught his eye at the Rainbow Grocery–soybeans with feta and peppers, bean sprout-mushroom salad, Gorp, honey, tahini and thick brown bread. He brought greasy bags of fast food for himself, but he always brought more French fries than even he could eat, and always placed them where Hutch could reach them without twanging sore muscles. He also picked up books from the Bay City Library: Updike, Cheever, Mailer, Kesey, then Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates and Erma Bombeck when Meredith pointed out he was only choosing male authors. While they ate, Hutch leafed through the books and Starsky studied a glossy hardback called Couples’ Massage.

After they’d eaten, Hutch sat forward on the couch, let his button-front shirt slide down his arms. Starsky sat behind him, greased his hands with baby oil. He rubbed, starting with Hutch’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs into the pain until he got Hutch past it. Starsky’s hands were strong and warm. They went up and down Hutch’s back, under his armpit, down his side, around to his chest and entry wound. They softened the unyielding muscle, worked healing blood into rigid scar tissue. Some nights Starsky rubbed for more than an hour, until Hutch was as loose and relaxed as a baked noodle, tipping at the edge of sleep but unwilling to go over because Starsky’s hands felt so good.

When he did tip over into sleep, Hutch always seemed to take Starsky with him. He’d awake to find himself slumped on his side against the couch cushions, Starsky spooned up tight against his back, thighs against his ass, arms around his waist. The position reminded Hutch of early days when he still had his bike and Starsky rode behind him, holding him just like this. They’d wind up and down the Hollywood hills late at night, running away from their uniforms and Vanessa, blowing off the day’s steam. They’d find a straight desert stretch and Hutch would lay down the throttle. They’d rip through the dark, the wind whipping Hutch’s hair the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Behind him, Starsky would be laughing like a loon, arms strong and holding on tight.

On the couch Hutch lay snug and slumped in Starsky’s arms, aware that deep in his core something was moving. All those names and labels he’d picked through over the years, none of them fit. There was just one word for this, the thing he and Starsky had made together. There was one word and he’d buried it deep inside years ago. It floated now, untethered, starting a slow ascent to the surface.

*****

When Meredith realized they were going to keep calling her Joanie, she began calling them Davey and Kenny.

Starsky sat on the floor, leaning against her legs. She hunched over him, her fingers moving quickly. Beer in hand, arm flung over the back of the couch, Hutch watched, fascinated as she plaited his partner’s bubble of hair into neat corn rows that followed his skull. Hutch thought it all looked pretty violent. Meredith tugged, yanking Starsky’s head back while he yelped, “Ow, honey, not so hard. Ow, owie yee–owitch!”

Meredith slid into their lives easily, dropping by Hutch’s sometimes with Starsky, sometimes on her own. She brought him matzo ball soup from the Jewish delicatessen while he was healing, purple leaf salad, vegetarian lasagne and wholegrain bread from the Rainbow. She brought him a bag of frozen peas to lay over his aching shoulder, a trick she’d learned from her boxer brother. Hutch could see how good it could be, the three of them. Meredith brought out the best in Starsk, she could hardly argue with the crazy cop hours and she understood the Starsky/Hutch bond as well as anyone who wasn’t Starsky or Hutch. Still Hutch couldn’t make himself love her the way he’d loved Terry. That moment had passed.

When Meredith ended things, she talked to Hutch first.

“Think being a black cop is tough, Kenny?” They were in Hutch’s kitchen. She was washing, Hutch drying. Starsky had jogged down to the 7-11 for a six pack.

“Yeah.” Hutch knew it was.

“Think being a woman cop is hard?”

Hutch nodded. Hell, he’d made it hard for a woman or two, himself.

“How about being a black woman cop?”

Hutch nodded again, stacked plates. He waited to see where Meredith was going.

“How about a black woman cop married to a white man cop?”

“What?” The silverware clinked, slipping through Hutch’s fingers. He was suddenly off-balance, like the kitchen floor had tipped.

“Sorry,” said Meredith, gathering up the utensils. She cut her eyes at Hutch. “Guess I rattled ya.”

“I, uh, yeah, uh.” Hutch felt sweat in his armpits. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. “I, I, well it’s just that Starsk never mentioned anything.”

Meredith’s mouth turned down. “Oh, he didn’t, did he?”

“Oh, well, you know, he might have–”

“Don’t snow me, Kenny,” Meredith said flatly. “He never said pea-turkey. Thanks, that tells me just what I need to know.”

“Aw, Joanie–” Hutch started, his voice conciliatory.

“Huh uh,” Meredith held up one soapy hand. “Don’t make it pretty neither, just say it like it is. I thought we were going somewhere but he was just along for the ride.”

“C’mon, Joanie,” Hutch protested. “Starsk’s not like that.”

“Sure he is,” said Meredith. She plunged a coffee mug into the sink, thoroughly drowning it. “All you guys are.”

“Some guys are!” said Hutch, suddenly angry. “But not Starsky. Not with you. He’s not using you, for God’s sake!”

Meredith snorted, her mouth unhappy.

There was a moment of silence. Hutch watched Meredith scrub the mug hard enough to scrape off the “I Love NY.” He rubbed his sore shoulder, feeling foolish, like he’d been suckered into a hunt for a left-handed screwdriver.

Finally he said, “Joanie, you played me.”

She sighed, rinsed the mug, set it in the drain. “I’m sorry, Kenny,” she said. “I just needed to know.”

“Well, maybe you should have just asked,” snapped Hutch. “I feel like an ass for being so sincere.”

Meredith shook her head. “I know you, Kenny. You would have been a gentleman. This way, I got the truth.”

“Jesus,” said Hutch, wishing he’d asked Starsky to pick up smokes too. “Interrogated in my own kitchen.”

“I’m sorry,” Meredith said again, looking miserable. “I’m just in over my head, Kenny. I’m getting in deep here, deeper than a smart girl should.”

Hutch took a breath, struggled with his resentment. “Joanie,” he said. “Starsky’s crazy about you. If you really want him, give him time.”

Meredith shook her head sadly. “I know when to cut my losses, Kenny. I’m pushing thirty and I want a family. Think I have time to wait around for that fool?”

“Guess not,” said Hutch. He leaned back against the counter, massaged his shoulder. The ache in his chest made him feel mean.

Meredith picked dismally at the lasagna pan. “Do you want me to rub that?” she asked.

Hutch’s mouth twisted. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll wait for Starsk.”

Meredith exhaled sharply. “Kenny, do you want me to leave? I don’t want Davey to come back and find us glaring at each other.”

Hutch sighed, closed his eyes. “Don’t leave,” he said finally. “I was being a jerk.”

Meredith shot him a look, her fine-plucked eyebrows lifted. “No you weren’t,” she said. “And you’re still mad.”

Hutch didn’t deny it. “All that black and white stuff,” he said. “Was it just your set up?”

Meredith had the grace to look abashed. “No,” she said. “Not really. There’s been…stuff. My mama’s not happy and my sister asked me if I was trying to pass.” She sighed. “Nothing’s easy for mixed raced couples, Kenny. And mixed-race kids? They feel different right off the bat, like they got no people. But if Davey really loved me, I could deal with it. I could tell the world to go to hell. Now it’s just one more reason to give him up.”

Hutch put a hand on Meredith’s shoulder. He felt a pang of honest sympathy, but it wasn’t nearly as sharp as his relief. Her gain would have been his loss.

“Kenny?” Meredith looked up at him, her large eyes luminous. “I am sorry. You must think I’m the biggest bitch.”

Hutch chuckled. “I don’t know, Joanie,” he said. “I’ve known some bitches in my time.” He paused, let the last of his anger float away. “You don’t even make the top ten.”

Meredith stared at him a moment longer, her mouth trembling. Just when Hutch thought she might cry, she burst into laughter.

Hutch laughed too, feeling the tension break. “Joanie, honey,” he said, “If you need reasons to let Starsky go, I can give you plenty. He snores, he eats like a pig, he’s a mama’s boy, his feet stink and he’s never met a shower drain he couldn’t clog with all that hair.”

“Oh, Kenny,” said Meredith. She laughed again, put her arms around him. “You’re just a big ol’ blond softie.”

Hutch hugged her, curling his big frame over hers. As he held her, his heart opened like a flower. He could finally love her the way he’d wanted to all along.

*****

Starsky’s new nurse snapped three teeth on her comb trying to untangle his hair. She looked disgusted and tossed the comb into the trash, suggesting a shaved head. Hutch told her he was sorry Starsky was such a fucking inconvenience. His tone was so icy she left the room in a huff.

Starsky sighed, gave Hutch a wry glance. “Let’s call Joanie,” he said.

Meredith came with oil and a wide-toothed pick, working both through Starsky’s hair after Hutch had helped him with the complicated business of rolling to one side.

Hutch sat on the edge of Starsky’s bed, Starsky’s head in his lap. Meredith sat on the other side of the bed, leaning over Starsky. She separated tangles with the pick, sticking it in her own hair when she needed both hands. Her fingers were gentle this time, she wove loose fuzzy braids instead of tight rows.

“That’s nice, Joanie,” sighed Starsky. “How come it hurt last time?”

“Maybe, Davey,” said Meredith, smiling at Hutch, “I was a little mad at you last time.”

“Not mad anymore?” Starsky asked hopefully. He looked up at Hutch.

“How could I stay mad at you?” Meredith said lightly. “Besides, babe, I got a better offer.”

“Ow,” said Starsky. “Now, that hurts.” He closed his eyes, one hand curled on Hutch’s knee.

“You had your chance, baby,” said Meredith. “Check it out, Kenny. See how long his hair is when I pull it straight?”

Hutch leaned across Starsky. Meredith tugged a lock of Starsky’s hair, pulling it out to its full length. Coil by coil it unwound, shiny black and slippery with oil, until it reached nearly to Starsky’s shoulder blade. Hutch looked up to see Meredith watching him. Her large liquid eyes were guileless. Whatever had passed between them had passed. All was forgiven.

*****

After Starsky was released from the hospital, Meredith dropped by again, this time to take the braids out. She picked out Starsky’s hair, combed it until it fluffed from his head in a large dark halo. “Now you know how the soul brothers do it,” she said.

“Wow, Starsk,” said Hutch, impressed. “You should see yourself. You have a giant afro.”

“So take a picture,” said Starsky sourly.

Hutch wanted to. Starsky looked like Pam Grier with Groucho Marx eyebrows and no boobs. But there were shadows under his eyes and his mouth was tight. Two hours of PT and twenty minutes of Meredith pulling his hair had worn him out, he was hurting, pissed, probably teetering on the edge of a hissy fit.

“Someone needs lunch and a nap and maybe a hug,” Hutch said.

“Fuck off.” Starsky lifted a middle finger.

Meredith grinned at Hutch, waved and slipped out the door.

Hutch left Starsky scowling on the couch and cobbled together a comfort meal–scrambled eggs, buttered toast, sweet canned peaches. He brought Starsky a plate and plopped down beside him. He ate, ignoring Starsky’s foul temper, the slump of his shoulders, the towering afro that leaned and swayed when he shifted.

After lunch, Hutch gathered the dishes, watched with the eyes in the back of his head as Starsk eased off the couch and worked himself across the room, leaning on the back of a chair, against the wall, the bookcase. Hutch sighed over the sink, picked dried egg with his thumbnail. It’ll get better, he thought. It will get better.

By the time Hutch joined him in the bathroom, Starsky had managed to shuck his clothes by himself. He stood under the spray, bracing himself with his left arm, hand flat on the tiles. Hutch leaned against the doorjamb, heart clenching and unclenching.

“Find the shampoo?” Starsky asked, breathless under the spray. The afro was taking on water weight, collapsing slowly, falling to his shoulders and into his eyes.

“Sure.” Hutch wheeled about, looking for the shampoo, finding it in the cupboard under the sink. When he turned back, he saw Starsky easing himself down to the tile floor.

“Hey, hey,” said Hutch, alarmed. Without thinking, he stepped into the shower, catching Starsky by the arm.

“Hey yourself,” said Starsky, gasping. “I’m okay.” He sat on the tiles, pushing back the slumping afro. He winced, laid his head on his knees.

Hutch hunkered next to him. “Sure you are,” he said. “You always sit down in the shower.”

“Yeah, all right,” said Starsky. “I got a little light-headed, nothin’ I can’t handle.” He lifted his head, his eyes took in Hutch, flicking from his feet to the top of his head. “Idiot,” he said. “You’re in my shower with your shoes on… your shoes, your socks, your jeans, your t-shirt and a flannel shirt. This ain’t laundry day.”

“Idiot?” said Hutch. He shoved his wet hair back, felt his t-shirt sticking to his back, water running down his sides. Under his jeans, his underwear stuck to his ass. “I was worried about my dipshit of a partner.”

“You probably have your holster on,” said Starsky.

“No, but look at my Nikes,” said Hutch. His new nylon and suede Tailwinds were soaked, the waffle soles squelching as he shifted his weight. “This gonna hurt them?”

“Won’t do ’em any favors,” Starsky said. He shifted, grimacing. “Hey, long as you’re here?”

“Make myself useful?” said Hutch. He squirted a healthy glop of Prell into Starsky’s hair, worked up a lather. The last of the afro wilted, twisted back into looping curls. Hutch’s arms were heavy in his wet sleeves, his legs clumsy in stiff, sodden jeans.

Starsky ducked his head under the spray. The suds poured down his chest, collected in his crotch. His naked back was a wreck, a patchwork of puckers, ridges and train track scars.

Hutch moved closer. He traced the longest train track, running from rib cage to hip. He sighed.

“Not a pretty picture,” said Starsky.

Hutch traced Starsky’s back with both hands, letting his fingers wander over the strange new ridges and hollows. “I think it is,” he said.

“You would,” Starsky said.

Hutch moved his hands across Starsky’s back, touching all the knots and gouges, the white lines and shiny new flesh. The scars on Starsky’s back were his. Starsky never saw them, they belonged to Hutch. Hutch leaned forward, pressed his lips to a finger-length weal, its stitch marks radiating like a centipede’s legs.

Starsky’s breath caught. He turned, slipped into Hutch’s arms.

“Ah, Starsk,” Hutch murmured. He caught Starsky, held him close. Water echoed in his ears, ran into his eyes, dripped from his moustache. He let his hands slide up and down Starsky’s sides, the skin naked, warm and soapy against his flannel shirt and jeans. “Hang in there, baby,” he said, kissing Starsky’s neck. “Hang in there, darlin’.”

*****

Hutch had no clear recollection of how he’d arrived at Memorial without a drop of Starsky’s blood on him. When reality had shifted, he’d been standing on the fault line. Like any survivor, he’d found himself stumbling out of the rubble with fragmented memories like snapshots in a shoebox, jumbled and out of order.

He remembered the tail lights of a cop car, Dobey in the middle of the parking lot, mouth open, arms flung wide. He recalled uniforms mobbing the Torino and Minnie on her knees, glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. Sweet Lou Legette charged by, buffeting Hutch with his wake. Then someone was talking in his ear and pressing on his hands. Minnie had flecks of blood on her glasses and she wanted Hutch to lower his gun.

He then found himself in a cubicle, wrapped in a blanket. Images swam out of the back of his mind like small fish out of dark water. He looked over an oxygen mask at a feminine hand holding his, feminine fingers pressed to his wrist. The hand disappeared. When he removed the mask and slid from the gurney, no one stopped him. He left the cubicle and found a hallway. As he walked, he felt like he was pushing aside layers and layers of dirty scrim, surfacing from a murky dream. He recognized the halls of Memorial, saw himself reflected in glass windows and steel trolley legs, a tall slouching figure with a white face, a white shirt. The pristineness of his own whiteness appalled him. He looked like a bride when he should look like a butcher. Minnie, he remembered, had blood up to her elbows, like she’d dipped her arms in spaghetti sauce.

Sweet Lou’s soprano led him to another hallway. Hutch shouldered past the uniforms, waved off Dobey, found a chair and turned it backwards. He sat in front of a plate of glass. On the other side of the glass was Starsky.

Months later reality shifted under Hutch once again. This time he was expecting it, waiting for it. Even so, he was taken by surprise.

After Gunther’s arrest, Hutch had shrunk his world to two. Anything that wasn’t Starsky, Starsky’s recovery, had simply fallen away. In the hospital he’d helped Starsky eat, wash, relieve himself, shave, brush his teeth. He’d clipped Starsky’s toenails, scratched itchy places Starsky couldn’t reach. And after they returned to Starsky’s apartment, Hutch had been the one to answer the phone, pay the bills, cook the meals, wash the clothes. He’d driven Starsky to his doctor’s appointments, to PT, he’d helped him through his exercises, consoled him when they hurt too much. He’d filled prescriptions, dispensed painkillers and antibiotics, he’d kept water on hand to flush toxins. He’d comforted Starsky when despair hit like a locomotive, coaxed him out of bed on mornings when he couldn’t be bothered. He’d commiserated, calmed and distracted when he could, raiding the Hobby Shop for model ships and Lionel accessories, cooking pots of chicken soup and following Judith Starsky’s instructions to whisk an egg yolk into each hot bowl. He’d screamed, yelled and threatened when he had to, bullying Starsky into cooperating with his physical therapist, telling him to stop sulking and fucking blow in the spirometer before someone shoved it up his ass. He’d been the one to move, finally, lock stock and barrel into Starsky’s apartment, bringing his fussier plants over in groups of three and four, settling them in a sunny spot under the bedroom window, separate from Starsky’s plants as though his partner’s spindly philodendron, drooping spathiphyllum and water-logged African violet could be bad influences. He’d moved off the couch and into Starsky’s bed when it became clear that Starsk slept better with him there, he’d spooned up to Starsk in the night when he realized it was a relief for his partner to rest against him and take his own body weight off his tender, healing muscles. He’d raised his eyebrows over the copy of Couples Massage Starsky had never taken back to the City library and replaced it with Swedish Massage Therapy which he’d found in the Rainbow Grocery. He’d been the one to roll up his sleeves, grease up his hands and put in hours of massage, just like Starsky had when he’d been shot, hours of kneading hard hurt muscle, warming it until it could begin to stretch again.

“Didja do that all that 4H farm kid stuff?” Starsky asked one day when Hutch had him face down on his bed, working him over with oiled hands.

“Sure,” Hutch answered. “Raised a few cows, some pigs.”

“I feel like the prize pig,” Starsky said, flinching, gripping his pillow. “That you’re groomin’ for a show.”

“A show, huh?” said Hutch. He dug into the muscle under Starsky’s shoulder blade, into the latissimus dorsi, feeling the gnarled tissue restricting Starsky’s right arm movement, causing him hip pain at night.

Starsky’s breath caught. “Jeez…or for slaughter. Hutch, that hurts.”

“I know,” said Hutch. “I’m sorry. There’s a word for that, you know.” He hooked his thumbs into a knot, bore down. “Caring for livestock, I mean.”

“What?” Starsky stiffened. “Fuck, that really hurts.”

“Deep breath, babe,” said Hutch. He put both hands on Starsky’s back, on the long muscle that fanned like an inverted wing from the armpit to the tailbone. He used gliding strokes to warm the cross-hatched flesh, the wounded train-track scars. “Husbandry. It’s called husbandry.”

“No kiddin’?” Starsky panted. He tipped his head, looked back at Hutch. “You’re my husband? T’rrfic.”

Hutch laughed, worked the muscle, building heat. “Well,” he said. “Husbandry usually includes breeding.”

“You’ve got my clothes off, you’ve got oil, you’ve got me face down on the bed,” Starsky said, relaxing a bit. “How much closer can we get?”

Hutch laughed again. He tapped an adhesion, imagined the rigid tissue breaking up, washing away in the blood stream. How much closer? They’d already moved from colleagues to friends, from friends to partners, from partners to best friends, from best friends to co-custodians of Starsky’s healing body. And now? Hutch dripped more oil on Starsky’s back, wondering what would finally trip his heart, send it flying over the last flimsy barriers between them.

In early September, almost a perfect four months after the hit, Starsky managed a trip to the beach, a walk along the shore. He was laughing, walking hip to hip again with Hutch. He wasn’t galloping, he wasn’t leaping, he wasn’t even close to his old confident arm-swinging swagger. But he was walking, laughing, nudging Hutch with his shoulder, gesturing just as widely as he used to. Hutch was laughing too, nearly giddy with delight. He could hardly believe how far they’d come. Starsk, who had taken four bullets, Starsk who had died on the table was up and at ’em again, on his feet, out of bed, out of doors, reveling in the warm sun, the chilly wind and the sand under his bare feet.

Starsky stopped, watched the ocean go in, go out. “Wanna get my dogs wet,” he said. He looked down at his feet as though they were a thousand miles away.

Hutch leapt to help him. “Let me just roll up your jeans a bit.” He knelt at Starsky’s feet.

“Hey, I can get down there,” protested Starsky. He started to bend awkwardly.

“Stand up, dummy,” said Hutch, slapping Starsky’s thigh. “Just let me do this for you. Actually, it’s for me,” he glanced up at Starsky. “Don’t wanna kill my back hauling you back up.” He turned Starsky’s jeans up quickly.

“T’rffic,” said Starsky, hands on his hips. “Now I feel like Ma.”

“Okay, you lost me, buddy,” said Hutch. He looked up at Starsky again, waiting to hear what weird association his partner had made this time.

“When she was pregnant with Nick,” said Starsky, “she used to make me put on her shoes for her. I still remember her toes…like little sausages about to bust their skins.”

Hutch laughed. “So you’re saying you’re like my pregnant wife?” he said.

“Hey!” Starsky was indignant. “Kish mir en toches.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hutch. He continued to kneel at Starsky’s feet, gazing up at him with amusement.

“Wanna know?” said Starsky. “Learn to speak Yiddish, nudnik.”

“Oh, I know a bit of Yiddish,” said Hutch. “Putz.”

“Yutz,” countered Starsky.

“Shmuck.”

“Shlub.”

“Shleeze.”

“Shleeze is not a word,” said Starsky.

“Okay, shmoe, then.” said Hutch.

“Shmendrik,” said Starsky, looking at the ocean. “Gayn cacken ofn yam.”

“All right, all right, matzel tov,” said Hutch. “You win.” He started to rise.

“Of course, I win, baby blue,” said Starsky. “I’m a born winner.” He put a hand out to help Hutch up. “Hutch?”

“Yeah, what now?” asked Hutch. He took Starsky’s hand.

Starsky looked down at him, his smile brilliant. “Ich libe dich,” he said.

“What?” Hutch froze, his heart somersaulting.

“Ich libe dich,” Starsky repeated.

“My grandmother used to say that to me.” Hutch sank back down into the sand. He felt the world shift, tilt him gently.

“You had a Yiddish grandmother?” Starsky asked. He was still holding Hutch’s hand.

“German,” Hutch whispered. He leaned against Starsky’s thigh to steady himself. “She used to say ‘Ich liebe dich, kleiner’.”

“Ah,” said Starsky. He ran his free hand through Hutch’s hair. “Ich liebe dich, Hutch.”

“Ich liebe dich auch, Starsk,” said Hutch. He pressed his face into Starsky’s thigh. “Ich werde dich fur immer lieben.”

Hutch rubbed his cheek on Starsky’s thigh, closed his eyes. He felt Starsky stroking his hair, the wind pulling at the sleeves of his flannel shirt. The wind blew and ocean rolled in and out, hissing on the sand. Hutch rubbed his chest. Deep in his core, things were moving, almost as though his body were changing. Something popped and splintered in his chest, something else snapped into place. Ouch, he thought, touching his heart. Hurts.

“Hutch?” Starsky was still stroking his hair, holding his hand.

“Yeah?”

“You okay, babe?”

“Sure, Starsk.”

“Then why is your nose bleedin’?” Starsky stooped stiffly to look at his face.

“Is it?” Hutch touched his face. “Oh, hell.” He laughed. “Figures. Must have been the adrenaline.” He clambered to his feet.

“Did you get a rush?” asked Starsky with a shaky laugh. “I did too. Look.” He held out his hands. “Tremblin’ and everythin’,” he said.

“Christ,” said Hutch, laughing weakly. “What a pair of maroons.” He wiped his face with his shirt, examined the blood on the flannel fabric. “It’s not too bad, is it, Starsk? Is it stopped? Get it out of my moustache, will you?”

“Ya big blond goof,” Starsky said. He stood close, laughing as he licked his fingers, scrubbed at Hutch’s moustache. “There ya go, clean as a whistle.” He patted Hutch’s cheek. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Sure, Starsk. Good.” Hutch laughed. “Well, a little dizzy, actually.” His heart floated in his chest, giddy, trembling.

Starsky snorted. “Dizzy blond. I coulda told ya that.”

“I’m okay, Starsk.” Hutch took both of Starsky’s hands, held them in his. He felt himself grinning. “I’m about as good as it gets, okay?”

“Okay.” Starsky’s smile was tender, fond. He gripped Hutch’s hands.

Hutch felt his grin fading. He heard the ocean hiss, go in and out, a couple walked by chatting. This, he thought, there is only one word for this. They had said it, now they needed to cement it. Hutch moved slowly, reaching for Starsky’s hip. He gave a gentle tug.

Starsky came readily. He fit his body into Hutch’s.

They stood like slow dancers for a moment, chest to chest, groin to groin, thigh pressing thigh. Then Hutch pulled back slightly. He tilted his head in an unmistakable way, leaned in slowly. “Okay?” he whispered just before his lips touched Starsky’s.

Starsky’s lips moved under his. “Okay,” he whispered back.

They kissed very gently on the sand.

The ocean went in and out, hissing while they kissed. Hutch dipped his head slightly, Starsky lifted his face. They leaned against each other, locked together, swaying gently. Starsky’s lips were soft and warm, wet when he pressed in deeper.

After a long time, Hutch raised his head. “Is this weird?” he asked. He had to know.

“Hmmm?” said Starsky. “What?” His lips were swollen, his face flushed.

“Kissing me,” said Hutch. “Is it weird?”

Starsky looked surprised. “What’s so weird about kissin’ a gorgeous blond?”

Hutch laughed. “What about a blond with one of these?” He touched his moustache.

“A misplaced eyebrow?” Starsky touched it too.

“Lip spinach,” said Hutch, his heart soaring.

“Yuck.” Starsky made a face. “Are you tryin’ to talk me out of this, Blintz?”

“Not at all,” said Hutch. “I’m just saying I’ll shave if you want me to. Don’t want you to think of Aunt Malka when I kiss you.”

“Aunt Sylvia,” said Starsky. “Aunt Malka was as bald as a baby’s butt.”

Hutch laughed again, folded his arms around Starsky, pulled him in tighter. “Oh, Starsk,” he said. “I’m a guy. Don’t you mind?”

Starsky shook his head against Hutch’s shoulder. “Nah,” he said. “Okay, maybe I minded a long time ago, back when I first figured out we might be headin’ this way.”

“A long time ago?” asked Hutch, surprised.

“Yeah,” said Starsky. “Back when all that stuff happened with Johnny Blaine, I had to do a lot a thinkin’…about love and sex, about you and me, about… you know, honesty.” He shrugged. “I figured out we might be headed this way and I minded some, yeah. But time went on, a lot of shit happened and I kinda got it through my thick head that some things just don’t matter, you know?” He gazed at Hutch in that direct way of his. “How ’bout you? Do you mind?”

“No.” Hutch shook his head, thinking. “I always knew we had something special,” he said, “but I didn’t have a name for it. Then when I did, I…well, I just sorta waited it out.”

“Waited it out?” asked Starsky, puzzled.

“Yeah,” said Hutch. “Waited for it to happen naturally.”

Starsky’s brow creased. “Happen naturally?” he said, disbelief in his voice. “You mean you were waitin’ for me to make the first move!”

“Was I?” Hutch asked. He felt himself smirking.

Starsky looked comically annoyed. “You dirtbag!” he said, stepping back. “You always make me go first. So when there’s a fuck up, I look like a dumbass and you come off smellin’ like a rose!”

Hutch caught Starsky’s left wrist as he slid out of his arms. “Okay, okay, I’m a dirtbag,” he said, laughing. “I’m a chicken shit. But you have to admit there was a lot at stake.” He raised Starsky’s wrist, kissed the pulse point.

“Was there?” Starsky asked. He watched Hutch kiss his wrist, his forearm. “How so?”

“Well,” said Hutch, now kissing the tender bend of Starsky’s elbow. “What if I had kissed you and you hadn’t wanted it? I could have screwed us up.”

Starsky looked at him like he was crazy. “There ain’t no way to screw us up, Blintz, or we’d have done it by now. Sure, it might have been rocky for a while, but we’da got it together. We’da gone on bein’ us no matter what. We’re always gonna be us.”

“And now?” asked Hutch. He tugged Starsky gently back into his arms.

“And now, this is us,” said Starsky. He slid one hand up the back of Hutch’s shirt, his thigh between Hutch’s legs.

“This?” asked Hutch. He lowered his head, desperate to kiss again.

Starsky lifted his chin, his lips brushing Hutch’s. “This,” he said, “is us.”

“Me and thee,” whispered Hutch. He couldn’t wait any longer. He held Starsky’s head, kissed him hard. He felt his heart go then, fly out of his chest like a kite jerked up into the sky by a strong wind. And when Starsky laughed into his mouth, he knew Starsk had felt it too.

***

Was he a good lover? Hutch wondered sometimes. But most of the time he figured he didn’t have to be. Starsky did all the work.

These days, Starsky was a live wire: cheerful, animated, energetic, glad to be alive. He was also as horny as a three-balled tomcat. When Hutch opened the door after work, he did so cautiously, never knowing what he’d find. Starsky might meet him with slippers and a martini, candles and chocolate sauce or handcuffs and a smirk. Once he’d wrapped himself in Saran Wrap, an idea he’d gotten from Total Woman, a book Minnie and the girls had been guffawing over at work.

As a lover, Starsky was inventive, curious, uninhibited, intense. He was bossy, mercurial, both tender and rough. He might leave a trail of rose petals and chocolate and want to make love all night, or he might push Hutch against a wall for a couple of quick hand jobs. He liked control–tackling Hutch to the bed, startling him in the shower, pressing him to his knees in the kitchen–and had a genius for turning everyday objects–wooden spoons and oven mitts, fern fronds and watering cans, toothbrushes and dental floss–into sex toys. He also had a smirking fondness for public risk, happily groping Hutch in the back of crowded elevators, under the table in restaurants and bars, fondling him to erection in a packed movie house. At work Hutch was often self-conscious; he could smell Starsky all over himself, on the collar of his shirt, in the lining of his jacket, and in the locker room he had to be careful to cover the evidence of their love-making, marks on his neck and nipples, razor burn on his face and thighs, rug burn on his knees, shoulder blades and ass. At home, their sex could get so vigorous and noisy the neighbors had once pounded on the wall, mortifying Hutch. Sometimes Hutch wanted to say, What are we, rabbits? Maybe we should do something else tonight, but he never got further than Jesus Starsk and ah God do that again.

As much as Starsky liked control he had a way of giving it up that simply turned Hutch inside out. He could let Hutch turn him this way and that, stand him on his head, swing him from the chandeliers, or work him over until he was an incoherent mess and never worry he was giving away more than he should. Hutch had never experienced such openness, such ready, willing and able-ness with any other lover. His women had all been exciting but each one had brought her own set of complications. Nancy had been young and skittish, too inexperienced for anything more than the basics; Vanessa had been a ball of fire but manipulative, withholding and, honestly, a bit evil. Jeannie had been sweet and china doll pretty but so listless and anemic, Hutch had felt like a nuisance when he wanted sex. And poor doe-eyed Gillian had been so wistful and eager to please that Hutch’s need to protect her had always surpassed his desire for her. Even beautiful, loving Abby, by far the healthiest of his women, had had her tricky moments. A few times, Hutch had misjudged her readiness, her interest, a few times he’d touched her in places he clearly should have known were off bounds. A few times he’d missed important cues and found himself apologizing for the rest of the weekend. And once he’d walked in on her laughing with a girlfriend about faked orgasms. As wilting as that was, the confrontation was even worse. Abby’s reassurances–not with you Hutch, never with you, you’re so good in bed–made him feel like an ass, a peacock who needed to be reassured his strutting was magnificent, and her insistence that it was no big deal made him wonder what the hell was a big deal if lying during love wasn’t. In the end, with all his women, Hutch had learned to keep an eye on himself when he made love, and to keep his expectations reasonable.

But with Starsky, things were different. For one thing, Starsk couldn’t fake an orgasm if he tried. For another, with Starsk, Hutch was simply unable to keep an eye on himself. He found himself meeting Starsky’s openness with a lack of self-consciousness he’d never known before. For the first time in his adult life, he stopped hovering above himself in bed, analyzing, second-guessing, examining his performance. He stopped wondering if he was good enough, sensitive enough, responsive enough, if he was misreading a yes or a no or a glance or a silence. He just made love. It was kinda magical, really: his zipper went down, his cock uncurled and his brain tumbled out of his skull, floated up and out of the way. Starsky opened his arms, said, “You can have whatever you want, Hutch,” and Hutch took it all.

Even so, they hadn’t leapt straight into bed after that first kiss on the beach. They’d both known there was talking to be done first. So they’d talked, parked in Hutch’s latest decrepit LTD at a look-out point in the hills, at Starsky’s kitchen table, playing hands of gin rummy and drinking a little wine. They’d talked in Hutch’s greenhouse while Hutch watered and Starsky limbered up on the large exercise mat Hutch had bought him for the bodyweight calisthenics he’d worked into his recovery therapy. They’d talked in the park, at the grocery store, in the bathroom, over the laundry, cooking and cleaning. They’d chatted on the phone for hours after Hutch had packed his plants and his guitar and moved back into Venice Place to give the new thing they were making between them room to grow.

They’d talked about a lot of things, like why Hutch had been so pissy in the months before the shooting, what had really happened with Kira and whether Starsky would have eventually married Terry. They’d talked about their women, their first loves, true loves, puppy loves, ships in the night, missed opportunities and really bad ideas They’d discussed growing up, becoming men, being cops, growing older and measuring up to fathers, grandfathers, uncles and mentors like Dobey, Iron Mike, John Blaine and Luke Huntley. They’d talked about mothers and siblings and whether, when and how Nick was going to screw up again. They’d discussed Starsky’s conscription to Vietnam, his twelve month in-country tour and Hutch’s decision to drop out of med school and turn his back on a comfortable life in the Hutchinson family practice. They’d discussed football, baseball, basketball, boxing, wrestling, running, gymnastics and tennis, driving cabs and playing guitar, painting, toy trains and model ships, chewing gum and cigarettes, and how Hutch, a long time social and stress smoker, hadn’t lit up since Starsky took two bullets in his right lung. They’d talked and laughed until their sides hurt. They’d wept a little too, or rather Hutch had while Starsky who was not a crier–they’d talked about that too–hadn’t.

They’d talked for nearly two months and while they were talking, Starsky was growing steadily better, stronger and more independent. He’d begun taking classes at the Center for Yoga on Larchmont, calling it the High Temple of Whole-Grain Hooey even while his balance, flexibility and strength improved dramatically. He’d started driving himself places in a ’69 Palmetto Green Bonneville his Uncle Al had provided. While Starsky was never going to love the Bonneville like he’d loved the Torino, he was happy enough to drive it to yoga, to PT, to the hospital for check-ups, to the Dobey’s for weekly dinners, to the Alpha Beta and the Rainbow, to the thrift store where he was keeping an eye out for a new bomber jacket since his old one had been cut to pieces in the ER.

Hutch, meanwhile, had returned to Metro after six months compassionate leave and joined the team created to unravel the many threads of the Gunther case. For the first time in his police career, he found himself clocking out at 5:30 every afternoon just like a regular Joe, eager to get home to dinner and spouse.

They still weren’t having sex but Hutch certainly would have said they were making love. They spent hours on the padded mat in the greenhouse, Hutch’s big plants bending over them. Hutch had never felt more in his element, under his heavy rubber trees, his airy ferns, with the humid smell of dirt, the sky through the windows and Starsky above him, beneath him or beside him, eyes dark, body pressed to his. They kissed for hours, undressing slowly, lying skin to skin. They held each other, breathed together, passing one breath back and forth until they were dizzy. They caressed each other, petting and teasing, they slept and woke, tangled and nude. They spooned or lay face to face, wrapping arms and legs around each other, faces in each other’s necks. They slid against each other, letting sweat and friction do their work, bringing each other, time and time again, within a hairsbreadth of orgasm before backing down, beginning again. The decision to delay penetrative sex, ejaculation, wasn’t something they discussed. Rather, Hutch thought they were acting instinctually, taking everything they knew about love and sex back down to the bone, undoing it and rebuilding it, honing and refining until it was something entirely new, a thing only the two of them could have made together.

Then sometime in November, the third or the fourth, though Hutch refused to remember the exact date–even utterly in love he resisted the sentimental circling of dates–Starsky asked him if he’d mind losing the moustache.

Hutch’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really?” he asked, touching it. “You don’t like it?

“I like it fine,” said Starsky, stripping off his shirt, lobbing it into the laundry basket. “I just wanna know what it’s like to kiss you without it.” He tucked his chin, grinning both shyly and slyly. “I’ve heard good things about your upper lip.”

“My upper lip.” Hutch frowned. He followed Starsky into the bathroom. “From whom?”

“Judith.”

Hutch peeled off his own shirt, dropped it to the floor. He watched Starsky move about the sink, opening the hot tap, collecting his shaving supplies. He dropped his eyes to Starsky’s back, to the smooth bare skin on his shoulders and below, the weals, welts and train tracks. “Who?” he finally said. “Judith? Your mother?” He wasn’t trying to be coy, he truly didn’t remember.

“No, other Judith.” Starsky lathered his face. “Dr. Judith.”

“Oh.”

In front of Starsk, the mirror steamed. He shaved himself with quick efficient strokes, twisting his wrist this way and that. He tapped his razor on the sink; blue-black whiskers and suds filled the bowl. His face, when he rinsed it, looked brand-new, pale and raw.

Hutch moved in behind Starsky, wiped the steam from the mirror. He put his hands on Starsky’s hips, caught Starsky’s eyes in the mirror. “Do me now,” he said, nuzzling Starsky’s neck.

In the cloudy mirror, Starsky’s eyes were amused, aroused. “You mean shave you?” he asked.

They ended up on the floor, arranging and rearranging themselves until they found the best position–Starsky with his back against the tub and Hutch lying in his lap, his head resting on Starsky’s hip. Starsky took Hutch’s chin in his right hand and with tiny scissors in his left clipped Hutch’s moustache down to stubble. He wiped Hutch’s face with a hot towel, draping it for a moment over Hutch’s jaw. “Hot towel’s ‘sposed to soften the beard,” he said. “But your hair is so fine, it might just melt in the heat.”

“Zatso?” murmured Hutch, perfectly happy to melt in the heat. He closed his eyes, willing to lie forever in Starsky’s lap, Starsky’s belly under his cheek, Starsky’s thighs at his back.

After a while, though, Starsky moved. He hung the towel over the rim of the tub, lifted his arm to the sink, found his shaving brush. Hutch kept his eyes shut, felt Starsky raise his chin, lather his face with tickly circular motions. He smelled the soapy mint of shaving cream, Starsky’s warm skin.

Starsky lifted his arm, dropped the brush in the sink, found the razor. “Ready?” he asked, touching the razor to Hutch’s cheek. Then he laughed. “My first time doing this to another guy.”

Hutch felt his lips tilt up in a smile. “Mine too.” His skin felt clean and cold after the razor, jazzed and jumping with blood. “Is it weird,” he asked, “if I get turned on?”

“Not if I do too,” said Starsky. He wiped Hutch’s face with the warm towel, tipped him gently back to lie on the tile floor and climbed on top of him.

When they kissed, it was the barest kiss Hutch had ever had. His shaved lip felt naked and raw, almost too tender for touch. Starsky’s breath was warm and damp, his kisses soft, flicking to the sides of Hutch’s mouth, to the top lip, the bottom. Hutch turned his head, following Starsky’s mouth, trying to catch the quick kisses.

Starsky dodged Hutch’s mouth. He laughed, licking, nipping, running his tongue over Hutch’s sensitive skin. Hutch felt a growl rise in his throat. He slung an arm around Starsky’s neck, pulling him down and closer, forcing him into a deeper kiss. Starsky opened his mouth wide, taking Hutch in. For a moment they grappled, arms pulling at each other, hips grinding, then Hutch surged up, seized Starsky and flipped him to his back. He hung over him, hands planted on either side of Starsky’s shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. “So, partner,” he said, breathing hard. “Wanna dance?”

“Yeah,” said Starsk, his voice hoarse. His eyes, hot, fixed on Hutch’s.

Hutch yanked the snap on Starsky’s jeans, suddenly in a hurry after months of waiting. “Where’s the…” he asked, looking around.

“Under the sink,” said Starsky, popping the button on Hutch’s cords.

Hutch lunged for the sink cupboard, knocked aside shampoo, Comet and tile cleaner. He found a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil and held it up.

“Yeah,” said Starsky. He wiggled his tight jeans down his hips, kicked his legs free. “C’mon, c’mon,” he said, sounding a little desperate.

Hutch’s hands were shaking. He pushed Starsky back down on the tiles, spilled a puddle of oil out onto his belly. He slid his hand through the oil, coating his palm, his trembling fingers.

“Hutch,” Starsky gasped. He sat half-way up, grabbing Hutch’s shoulders. “C’mon.”

Hutch rubbed the oil into Starsky’s belly. Starsky’s hips lifted, his cock, hard, leaking and florid, tried to find Hutch’s hand.

“Easy, lover.” Hutch pushed Starsky down again, skimmed his oily fingers over Starsky’s hip. “We’re gonna do it. Just tell me how you want it done.” He caught Starsky’s cock in a loose fist. “You want top or bottom?”

Starsky hissed, rocked up into Hutch’s fist. “Top, bottom, middle,” he said. “All of it.”

***

In February Starsky passed his boards and returned to work.

As soon as they hit the streets together, they realized they had to get off.

***

Hutch quietly sold a chunk of land his grandfather had left him in Minnesota. When the rather handsome check arrived, he stepped outside to watch Starsky in the drive washing the Bonneville with a bucket and a garden hose.

“Hey Starsk,” he called. “Get yourself a passport. I’m taking you to Italy.”

“Italy?” Starsky glanced back over his shoulder. His hair was shaggy, the ends wet and hanging in tendrils. His jean shorts were so cut high, the back pockets were exposed. “Why Italy?”

“Because I like Italy,” said Hutch. He loped down the stairs while Starsky leaned over the Bonneville’s big hood. “It’s the best place for Renaissance art. You like Italian food and God knows you could use the culture, pal.”

I got culture,” said Starsky. He slopped a soapy sponge over the hood, leaving white curls of soap on the green paint. “I got a library card and a Huichol Indian yarn painting so authentic it smells like peyote. That’s culture, baby.”

“Okay, okay, you’re Mr. Culture,” said Hutch. He sat on the grass a respectful distance away from Starsky and his wet sponge. The sun struck his crown, heating his scalp. He brushed his fingers through his feathery, fly-away hair, which he’d recently cut short to match his clean-shaven upper lip. Hutch missed his old don’t-fuck-with-me look but Starsk said he looked ten years younger. “Let me take you to Italy anyway, babe,” he said. “I’ll buy you an espresso.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. He scrubbed the Bonneville, his arm jerking, his ass wiggling. “We’re going all the way to Italy just for an espresso?”

“Sure, why not?” said Hutch. “The shit we drink at Metro, you think that’s coffee? Time you knew what real coffee tastes like.”

“I know what real coffee tastes like,” said Starsky. “My grandma used to make Turkish coffee–”

“I know, I know,” said Hutch lightly. He leaned back on his elbows, his eyes shifting between Starsky’s ass and the soap sliding in foamy lumps over the Bonneville’s grill. “Your Yiddish grandma made Turkish coffee above an Italian restaurant in a Polish neighborhood.”

“That’s right,” said Starsky. He tossed the sponge in the bucket. “So?”

“So?” Hutch leapt to his feet, strode toward Starsky. “So Rome, Venice and Milan, Starsk! Florence, the Tuscan hills, the Italian Riviera! Dontcha wanna see the world, Starsk? See the great cathedrals, Saint Peter’s Basilica, Santa Maria del Fiore? Dontcha wanna see Brunelleschi’s bronze dome, the Palazzo Medici and the Pitti Palace?”

Starsky laughed, picked up the garden hose, adjusted the nozzle. “You’re cute, Blondie, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” He flicked a handful of soapy water at Hutch.

“Philistine.” Hutch turned away. Suddenly he whirled back. “Say, you know what, Starsk?” he said excitedly. “There’s a city in Italy called Torino!”

“No way!” Starsky’s eyes opened comically wide. “Really? For real?”

“Sure as shittin’, Starsk. Wanna go?”

Starsky’s mouth opened and closed. He stared past the Bonneville which gleamed like a beached sea creature in the sun, all metallic ocean green and white wet foam. Finally he turned back to Hutch. “What’s it like, Hutch?” he asked. “You know, Torino?”

Hutch grinned, spread his arms wide. “With a name like Torino? Gotta be great!”

Starsky nodded, adjusted the nozzle again. “Sure,” he said. “Gotta be.” The hose coughed and jerked, let go a thick stream of water. “Hey Hutch?” Starsky called over the water.

“Yeah Starsk?”

“If we go to Italy, can we go to Germany too and drive two hundred miles an hour on that Autoban?”

Hutch felt his face light up. “Only if you get a passport.”

***

In May of 1980, when they handed their two week notice to Dobey, they stood out of respect.

Dobey stayed seated, staring at his blotter, a half-eaten ham sandwich in wax paper. “You’re sure?” he asked.

Starsky nodded. “Everything’s changed,” he said. “The whole shootin’ match.”

Hutch winced at the word choice. He tried to explain. “We’ve changed,” he said. “Out on the street, our priorities have changed. We can’t quite give the job our all anymore, Cap’n. But we don’t know how to do it halfway. That make sense?”

Dobey grunted, shrugged. “Your call,” he said.

“We think we better get out while we’re still ahead.”

Dobey frowned, tapped his blotter with his Cross pen. “Lieutenant’s exam?” he asked.

“We don’t think so, Cap,” said Starsky. “We’re just going to take some time off. Explore our options.”

“But thank you all the same,” added Hutch.

Dobey clicked his pen, looked from Hutch to Starsky, then out the window. “Damn,” he said, softly.

Hutch stood with his hands locked behind him, parade rest. Beside him, Starsky shifted, bounced lightly on his toes, his restless energy back in full.

“All right,” said Dobey. “So be it.” He tossed his pen down, pushed out of his chair and rounded his desk, coming to stand in front of them. Much to Hutch’s surprise he opened his big arms, gathered them both into an embrace.

Hutch stumbled, catching himself on Starsky’s shoulder. They stood in a triangle, chests brushing, arms around each other’s shoulders. Dobey was talking low and fast under his breath.

“Amen,” said Dobey. He let go, stepped back.

“Amen,” echoed Starsky, realizing they’d received a blessing.

“Amen,” Hutch started to say. He got as far as “Ah” before his throat closed up. “Ah,” he tried again. “Ah, ah.” His voice cracked, his eyes filled with tears. “Ah shit.”

Starsky patted him on the back, whisked a napkin from Dobey’s desk. “Sorry, Cap,” he said, smirking and passing the napkin to Hutch. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

Hutch shrugged helplessly, blew his nose into the napkin.

The next two weeks were filled with parties and Hutch found himself struggling into work hung-over most days. There was a precinct barbecue in the park, a final softball game against West Valley, a shindig down at the bowling alley and the blow-out to end all blow-outs at the Pits. Hutch got so loaded at the Pits, he woke up on Huggy’s pool table, his feet stacked one on top of the other and propped on a ladder-back chair. The queasy smell of frying meat filled his nose and he could hear Starsky singing like Ethel Merman in the kitchen.

When Kathy Marshall got wind of their departure, she threw them a private party at Starsky’s. She brought over dinner, way too much champagne and bid them an energetic, affectionate good-bye. Hutch doubted that any two people had ever been said goodbye to so many times in one night, and in so many different positions. Starsky’s mattress looked absolutely violated in the morning, stripped of its blue sheets, toppled to the floor and splotched with oil and bodily fluids. The bathroom floor was covered with sopping towels and in the front room his papa-san chair was in splinters, wrecked beyond redemption.

They were invited to Maggie Blaine’s for dinner, to Mitzi and Lisa Graham’s, to the Ramos’s, the Walters’s and Minnie’s. They took Sweet Alice to a fancy restaurant, dropped in at the children’s center where Terry once worked and caught a special performance by Sugar at the Blue Parrot. They got shit-faced with Merle the Earl who hung fuzzy dice around Hutch’s neck and customized his denim vest with strips of shag carpet. They had notes or calls from Mickey, Joey, Chris Phelps, and Luke Huntley. Ray offered them half-price tattoos and Chickey dropped by to give Hutch a big sloppy smooch, something he claimed he’d been dreaming of for years. On the day before they left town, they got a call out of the blue from Joe Collandra who usually went out of his way to avoid them.

And now they were back at the beach, ready to throw their badges into the ocean again. They were leaving Bay City. They didn’t know exactly where they were going, only that they were going.

They sat, perched on the hood on Hutch’s LTD, watching the sun sink and the surf go in and out. Starsky shifted about on the hood, foot tapping, one knee jouncing while Hutch watched the surf go in and out until it went out finally with the chunk of his brain that did his worrying for him, leaving behind the white noise of water on sand. He let his shoulders down then, and let his mind float, feeling it–wide open possibility–hovering just behind him.

They had a car. They’d drive and follow the road just to see where it would take them. They had time and enough money to afford months of diner food and king size Travelodge beds. They’d drive and drive and eventually they’d drive to an airport, leave the LTD and fly over the ocean to Italy where there would be other cars to drive, pasta and sauces to eat, culture to absorb, wine and dark rich cups of coffee to drink. And then there was Torino, where Starsky claimed they’d discover the true meaning of life and Hutch had no reason to doubt him. After Torino, they’d drive to Germany, to the mythic highway running in infinite loops through the country. They’d blow down the road, two hundred miles an hour, spinning through the loops, laying the accelerator flat, opening up the engine and letting the wind scream through the windows. Somewhere on the Autobahn, they’d find it, Hutch thought, their moment of wide-open possibility. They’d drive fast enough, hard enough to blow it all away, Bay City, the rough streets, the guns and badges, the ghosts of souls damaged and lives lost on their watch. They’d leave behind the reports and the courts, the judges and lawyers, the fathers, mothers, preachers and teachers, everything they’d learned and needed to forget. They’d burn every bridge behind them and not even care because out of their own ashes they’d pull something new, something all theirs and only theirs, something that didn’t exist yet and wouldn’t until he and Starsky made it.

The water hissed on the sand and on the hood of the LTD Starsky shifted and squirmed like a kid who had to go to the bathroom. Hutch rubbed his upper lip, missing his moustache. He thought about the early days when he’d pick through all the names and labels in the world, looking for one pliable enough to stretch over his relationship with Starsky. He’d been an idiot, he supposed.

“Hey, Starsk?” Hutch put his hand over Starsky’s where it lay next to his thigh. “What’s another word for love?”

Starsky didn’t look at him but his lips curved up in a smile. “Don’t need no other word, Blintz.”

“Guess not,” said Hutch. He squeezed Starsky’s hand. Without speaking, they slid from the hood, Starsky going left and Hutch going right. Hutch tossed the car keys over the LTD’s hood and Starsky caught them, sliding into the driver’s seat. Hutch slammed the passenger side door. They pulled into traffic, slow at first but gaining speed, gaining speed. Hutch watched the rear view, the side mirror as the beach, then the city fell away. They were on their way for sure.

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