Beginning Again

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77,112 words.

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PROLOGUE

There was something very right about Hutch’s decision to bring Starsky home from the hospital, to have his partner under his watchful eye and his devoted care while Starsky completed his recovery from the bullet holes that had nearly cost him his life. It wasn’t just the logical thing to do—nor even the right thing to do—to bring Starsky to Venice Place; it felt beyond a compulsion.

Were he asked, Hutch couldn’t describe the comforting excitement it gave him to carefully guide Starsky through the doorway and up the stairs. He just knew the feeling he had in that moment was a kind of closure he’d never experienced before.

“I’m not an invalid,” Starsky whined when Hutch wouldn’t let go of his arm on the way up to the apartment. “I probably don’t even have to be here.”

“Until you’re allowed to drive again,” Hutch argued, “the doctor says you need round-the-clock supervision.”

Starsky giggled. “I haven’t felt any pain since you forced that weenie on me a week ago.”

“It was two weeks ago—and it’s called a smoothie.”

“I gagged on it. There’s a reason they don’t make those in the hospital.”

“I told you: I can’t have my buddy eating hospital food.”

“Well, green may be your favorite color, but it ain’t mine.”

Hutch stopped them outside the closed door on the landing and purposefully put Starsky between himself and the back wall, so he could block Starsky should he lose his balance and plummet down the stairs. Hutch tightly held him by his elbow, too, steadied him, before he retrieved the key from its placement above the door jamb.

“How long are we going to live together?” Starsky wondered, giggling again. He sounded higher than his usual boyishness. “I mean, I get to eat stuff other than what you want to fix us, don’t I, hm?”

After unlocking and pushing open the door, Hutch escorted Starsky into the recently tidied living room, and then left him to his own vices. “Make yourself at home,” he invited him. “You know your way around. I’ll get your bag out of the car in a minute.”

“I see the cleaning lady was quite busy.”

The lady in question had been Abby, having spent an unplanned weekend at Venice Place after learning through the grapevine of Starsky’s near-death experience and subsequent physical therapy regimen. She called Hutch out of the blue to give her regards and well wishes and to ask if there was anything she could do to help; after hearing he couldn’t think of anything, but learning that Starsky would be living with Hutch for a while, she offered to prepare the apartment for his arrival. Hutch couldn’t resist seeing her again and even discovered he was quite comfortable with her, seeming to pick up where they’d left off, despite the short visit.

“Abby would be mortified to hear you call her the cleaning lady,” Hutch complained.

“No disrespect,” Starsky assured him. “I meant it as a compliment. Be glad Nick wasn’t given the task.”

Nick had also paid a visit during Starsky’s recovery, spending an entire week with the boys, running the occasional errand, but mainly handling the repairs to Starsky’s beloved Striped Tomato. Starsky wasn’t the only one who needed to mend from multiple bullet wounds and the car got its fair share of tender loving care as well. Nick even had it detailed so it was shining bright when he handed it over to the men in charge.

But there was no point in debating Starsky about the gifts given to them by their visitors; he was obviously drunk on medication side effects and in no shape to carry on an intelligent conversation. “Is there anything you want right away?” Hutch asked instead.

“A hamburger and fries.”

“Too late. We’re in for the day. If you’re hungry, I’ll heat up leftover pizza.”

“My second favorite food,” Starsky said with enthusiasm, bee-lining to the kitchen at a less than typical speed. “Want me to put it in the oven?”

“Knowing you,” Hutch chastised him, successfully beating him to the refrigerator to intercept Starsky’s intent, “you’ll bake the box and not the pie.” Neither of them would forget the record album Starsky had placed on the heated baking rack months earlier, and Hutch was fairly certain the memory of that instance is what caused more of Starsky’s boyish laughter. “Let me handle these matters,” Hutch advised him, “while you relax and get out of the way of yourself.”

“Don’t be a mother hen,” Starsky warned him, returning to the living room and carefully sitting on the sofa. “I’m not as frail as you think I am.”

“I want you stronger sooner.”

“The way you’re doing it, it’s going to make me . . . apathetic.”

Hutch set the baking temperature to 400 degrees, removed the pizza from its box, and put it in the heating oven, was about to get a couple of plates from the cupboard, and only then realized what Starsky had said. He faced him. “Apathetic?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, appearing amused with Hutch when it would prove that it was he who was entertaining. “You know that weak condition you get when you don’t exercise your muscles?”

“You mean . . . atrophy?”

“That’s it!” Starsky said with a snap of his fingers. “See? You agree with me: if I sit around and let you wait on me hand-and-foot, I’m going to atrophy.”

“You said ‘apathetic.’”

“Apathetic. Atrophy. Kind of the same thing.”

Hutch bit his tongue. He didn’t want to smile, despite that Starsky beamed back at him, obviously proud of himself. “Can I get you something to drink? Some fresh orange juice, maybe?”

“Yeah, okay,” Starsky agreed. He leaned into the sofa cushion behind him, hung his arm over the armrest, set one foot on the coffee table, and dropped his head back, audibly exhaling. “We can do it your way until I feel logical again.”

“—and can speak your usual butchered English and not this fascinating, drug-induced Greek.”

Without a reaction, Starsky closed his eyes and seemed to drift to sleep.

In the silence that followed, Hutch experienced that somewhat elusive warmth—relief?—that had earlier washed over him and made the homecoming that day feel so special. He paused to allow the sensation to show itself in a way that he could consciously grasp it. It forced him to take several steps toward Starsky, to forget about pizza and fresh orange juice, to not think about the practicalities of moving his partner indefinitely into his home and caring for him, but to instead fill his senses with all things—Starsky?

Hutch took several steps closer. Starsky was definitely asleep, and he couldn’t have looked more relaxed. Despite that he hadn’t shaved in several days and he sported a short-whiskered face, he was comfortably dressed in the clean clothes Hutch had brought to the hospital. Starsky’s nails were neatly trimmed and his hair washed to a shine; he’d obviously groomed himself and showered prior to Hutch’s arrival to prepare him for departure.

The picture of Starsky sleeping on the sofa was a far cry from the one Hutch had witnessed only two months earlier: from the moment Starsky had been shot-to-pieces in the police station parking lot, to his bandaged and bruised body lying for days on a bed—flanked by multi-lighted equipment and life-giving tubes—to the heart monitor strapped to his haired chest and the oxygen supply feeding his lungs, Hutch lived with a crippling fear of the long-term outcome. Starsky’s overall face had been different, too: he’d worn a mostly unconscious, comatose expression that lingered seemingly forever in the early hours and days of his valiant struggle to survive.

Despite weeks of physical therapy, on this day, slouched on Hutch’s living room sofa, Starsky was carefree, even beyond his sleep. His foot rested on the coffee table, his knee had fallen against the armrest, one arm hanging over it, the other to his side, and he appeared sprawled, not his usual closed self. No doubt the medications to control his nerve pain played a role in his total abandonment, but maybe his release from the hospital deserved full credit.

Hutch then understood what he himself had been feeling: inexplicable warmth and excitement rolled into one. It wasn’t so much that Starsky was no longer under the frenzied care of doctors and nurses, or that he’d finally been released from the medical industrial complex to get on with his life; it was that Starsky was right where he was supposed to be: solely and completely with Hutch.

He was home.

* * *

THE BED

Hutch clasped Starsky’s knee and gently shook his leg. “Hey,” he said quietly, then more loudly when Starsky didn’t respond to touch or whisper. “C’mon, buddy, wake up. You can’t sleep all day or you’ll be up all night.”

“Is it tomorrow?” Starsky sleepily asked, opening his eyes.

“You’ve only been out an hour—but the pizza is ready.”

“No shit, only an hour?”

Hutch slipped a hand under Starsky’s arm and helped him to sit up. “It probably feels longer because it was a deep sleep.”

Starsky stood. After Hutch steadied him, he slowly walked to the square, wooden table. One of the bullets that had gone into his back that fateful day had nicked the T6 vertebrae in his spine, causing an ‘incomplete’ injury that held the promise of a full recovery. But for weeks, Starsky was initially unable to walk on his own. Daily practice with several types of therapists for almost two months, and he was finally walking, but with a slight abnormality in his gait that doctors were certain would heal in time. He would still need therapy three times a week—and he wasn’t yet allowed to drive.

Hutch wasn’t happy that Starsky insisted on taking those few steps from the sofa to the table after waking from a deep sleep, despite using Hutch as a crutch, but Hutch would be the first to admit he was overly concerned when it came to his partner. He did help him to move the chair into the best position for dining, and to sit in it. “I didn’t have any oranges to make fresh juice,” Hutch said apologetically, “so you’re going to have to settle for beer.” He slid one of the two bottles in front of Starsky’s empty plate. “Somehow I don’t think you’re disappointed.”

“That salad looks good, too,” Starsky said with sincerity, hungrily eyeing the colorful offering. He picked olives out of the bowl. “And the pizza smells great!”

Hutch sat beside him at the table, his back to the kitchen, feeling a need to keep his eye on the front door. As long as one of them wasn’t up to par, it felt as if they were both exposed to the unpredictabilities of life itself. But a beer each later, a filling meal, Starsky’s charm and unchecked humor, coupled with their unspoken fondness for the quaint evening they shared, and Hutch forgot about the world outside the door.

“If there’s anything else you need,” he told Starsky, briefly clasping Starsky’s forearm to send home his promise, “we can spend tomorrow stocking up for you.”

“You know what I want more than anything?”

“Name it.”

“Nah. Never mind. You won’t appreciate it.”

“Try me.”

Starsky bit his lip.

“C’mon, buddy,” Hutch encouraged him, “cough it up. You can’t say there’s something you need and then not tell me what it is.”

“You won’t get mad?”

Hutch had second thoughts, not having expected that question, and made them both laugh at his indecision. “But, seriously, Starsk. What do you want more than anything?”

“You . . .”

“Me?”

“. . . to . . .”

“To what?”

“. . . shave off that ’stache.”

Hutch couldn’t repress his laugh. “Now you tell me? Months into my wearing it?” He sat back in his chair, stroked his neatly groomed mustache, and pretended to be insulted. “How long have you been waiting to tell me that?”

Starsky shrugged and sheepishly confessed, “Since the day it made its ugly appearance.”

“And no balls to spill your thoughts until now?”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“What changed your mind today?”

“I thought you’d have gotten bored with it by now and shaved it off before I had to ask.” He broke eye contact and twirled a beer bottle on the table before glancing back at Hutch. “The truth is, Hutch, you look a lot better without it. Years younger, too.”

“Consider it done,” Hutch said, as if he found appeasing his vanity to be worthy of a shave, and not his partner’s preferences. “What about my hair?”

Starsky studied him for a moment, concluding, “A little shorter would be nice.”

“My clothes?”

Starsky smirked at him. They both knew Hutch was the better-dressed one between them, despite that Starsky had spent the past year trying to follow Hutch’s lead in that department. Luckily, he’d resorted to his more casual clothes just days prior to the shooting, so his finer garments were still intact. “I’m saying . . . since we have to live together for a while, we may as well get the things out of the way that could end up on our nerves.”

“Like my mustache?”

“And long hair.”

“Right,” Hutch said, repressing his smile. He did love Starsky’s playfulness, even if it was intended to be mean, but had failed to be. “So, is this where I’m to tell you what irritates me?”

“I’m ready for it,” Starsky promised, sitting straighter in his chair, pretending to steel himself. “You can’t hurt my feelings. Beers and painkillers . . . and I can handle whatever you have to say.”

Hutch leaned forward, crossed his arms on the table’s edge, and made eye contact with Starsky, again noticing his beautiful blue eyes, patient and anticipatory at the same time, eager to hear Hutch’s admissions. The red sweater Starsky wore was aesthetically pleasing; its color was an appealing contrast against Starsky’s dark brown hair. Not having shaved in several days also gave Starsky a more primal appearance, while short, black curls peeked over his crew neck collar. His coloring was perfect, his relaxed posture, and his patience, all exuded warmth and . . . aliveness.

Hutch forgot the question. He was reminded of Starsky’s brush with death only months earlier. Starsky had flatlined. Even the doctor was shocked by its reversal. It meant Starsky had come that close to dying. Everything about him then, since that moment of revival, was a gift beyond priceless. How could there ever be anything about Starsky to irritate Hutch again? Hutch’s complaints could only be to affectionately razz Starsky, but they would never have genuine weight.

Hutch had to create something. “What irritates me about you is that you’re irritated by my appearance.”

“Only because I want you to look your best,” Starsky replied with a wink. “Only because you’re more beautiful without all the hair, know what I mean?”

“You’re the only one who gets to be hairy?”

“I was born that way.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

“I was shot in the back, not in the head.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Go to bed.”

* * *

“Whatcha doin’ in there, Hutch? I hope it’s not what I think you’re doing.”

Hutch busied himself preparing the couch. He’d cleaned up the kitchen while Starsky watched him and occasionally piped in with his pointless commentary about proper housekeeping. They then sat at the table for more mindless conversation, until Starsky’s pace considerably slowed, and Hutch was able to convince him it was time for bed.

“Did ya hear me?” Starsky called from the bedroom. “What are you doing in there?”

Hutch tossed the sofa pillows onto the floor, out of the way of his path to the bathroom should he need one during the night. He unfolded a flat sheet. “Making my bed,” he finally answered, when he heard Starsky’s frustrated huff.

“You’re not going to sleep on the sofa,” Starsky concluded. “I mean, how stupid is that?”

“I’m not sure you noticed, partner, but there’s only one bed in my apartment.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t take it from you.”

“I’m giving it to you.”

“I can’t put you out.”

“If you close your eyes, you’ll be asleep in two minutes, and you won’t have to think about it.”

Silence answered him. Hutch didn’t even hear a snappy comeback. He folded the flat sheet in half and laid it, length wise, across the width of the sofa from armrest to armrest, and then tucked its closed side into the rear cushions.

He assumed Starsky must have fallen asleep. He’d left the nightstand lamp on in the bedroom—he was that tired—but at least Hutch had helped him set up his toiletries so he could brush his teeth, and to get his pajamas out of his bag and laid within his reach. It was the least Hutch could do to ready Starsky for bed. It was then his turn. He turned off the table lamps—leaving one on in both the bedroom and the living room for light—and got another top sheet and blanket on the upper shelf from the armoire he kept on the balcony.

Hutch didn’t know how long Starsky would be living with him. Most of the time, Starsky made progress—incrementally, but forward just the same. Maybe they should shop for a sleeper sofa. It would give them something to do in their time off and serve to make them feel comfortable with the sleeping arrangement. Hutch didn’t want Starsky feeling guilty.

He fluffed the blanket over the sofa, deciding which end he’d put his head, and then went into the bedroom to get one of the pillows. He was surprised to find Starsky still awake, on the far side of the bed, his head and shoulders comfortably pressed into a pillow behind him, dressed in his red cotton pajamas, unbuttoned, and looking expectantly at Hutch, as if he’d been waiting all that time for Hutch to come into the room.

Hutch froze in his tracks. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m not done talking to you.”

“About what?”

“Where you’re sleeping.”

“On the sofa. Or didn’t you hear me?”

“No,” Starsky said firmly, his eyes fierce with his determination. “You’re not sleeping on the sofa.”

“It’s my house. You can’t stop me.”

“I can stop you over my dead body, Hutch.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“C’mon,” Starsky said with a frown, “deal with the point I’m making. I’m not staying here if you’re going to be on the sofa the whole time. It’s not too late for me to leave.”

“You can’t drive home.”

“I’ll call a cab.”

“We’ll shop for a sleeper sofa tomorrow if it’s that important,” Hutch promised him, hoping that would be the last of the argument. But it wasn’t.

“That’s dumb. Besides, those things are expensive and you can’t afford it.”

Hutch stepped to the side of the bed, put his hands on his hips, tried to appear defiant, despite that Starsky was actually quite harmless—and more passive than he sounded, too. “I’m not having you sleep on the sofa, Starsk. You’re not going from a hospital bed to a couch.”

“Then it looks like there’s only one solution,” Starsky concluded.

“You take the bed, I take the sofa?” Hutch flippantly said.

“You sleep in here with me.”

Hutch laughed—until he realized Starsky was serious. “Don’t be stupid,” he replied, reaching for the pillow on the near side of the bed. “It’s only a double mattress.”

“A double is two, isn’t it?”

Just as Hutch grabbed the pillow, Starsky snagged its other end—in a tight grip—and he didn’t let go, despite the firm tug Hutch gave it. He glared at Hutch, daring him to wrestle for it.

“Starsk.”

“Sleep in here. It’s more room than the sofa and a better mattress.”

“I snore.”

“You don’t.”

“That’s not what you told Lisa Kendrick.”

“Who?”

“Miss Million Dollars.”

“Oh, her. Well, I was trying to turn her off of you so she’d come home with me.”

“It worked.”

“I’m charming.”

“I sleep in the nude,” Hutch blurted, not letting go of the pillow, but straightening. He didn’t expect further argument, believing he’d stumped Starsky. Again, he was wrong.

“Since when you sleep in the buff, hm?”

“Since high school.”

“You never did that when we shared a hotel room.”

“I sleep nude when I’m alone; wouldn’t want you getting a bright idea. Now, let go of the pillow.”

Starsky didn’t comply. “So, go ahead, sleep in the nude. I don’t care. But you’re not sleeping on the sofa.”

“Starsky.”

“Hutch.”

“It’ll be a tight fit and neither of us will sleep well.”

“A three-cushioned couch is a tight fit, too.”

“But only one of us has to worry about it.”

“You think you’re in this alone, Hutch, but you’re not.”

Hutch didn’t have any other counterpoint. He let go of the pillow and endured the smug smile it gave Starsky.

“Atta boy,” Starsky said, fluffing the pillow they’d been fighting over, as if to make it inviting for Hutch. “If it doesn’t work so good, we can come up with another plan in the morning. But we’re not going to know until we try it.”

Hutch exhaled his effort. He succumbed for several reasons, not the least of which was that he didn’t want to disappoint Starsky, especially after what he’d been through. “Okay,” he agreed. “We’ll test it out.”

“Don’t worry, Hutch,” Starsky said, sounding excited, despite his fatigue, “I promise I won’t bite you . . . too hard.”

* * *

Hutch opened his eyes. He faced into the bed, but found himself alone on it. Only then did the aroma of freshly brewed coffee invade his nostrils, and he rolled to his back and stretched. From the bedroom, he could see Starsky sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in pajamas and a matching robe, profiled to him, reading the newspaper.

Hutch turned his head and laid eyes on the clock. It was his usual waking time, but he wasn’t in the mood for a run. He rather enjoyed feeling lazy that morning, resting his mind, knowing Starsky was alive and well. Several minutes of light dozing and mindless thinking later, and Hutch felt compelled to join him. He pushed back the sheet and blanket, remembered he was nude, and dressed in the sweatpants he left at the foot of the bed. As he headed for the toilet, he said a cheerful “Good morning” to Starsky along the way.

“I made coffee,” Starsky told him, sounding proud of himself. “Want some?”

A cup was waiting for Hutch when he returned from the bathroom in his terry robe. He sat at the table across from his partner and accepted the coffee with a sincere “thank you.” It tasted good and hit the spot to wake him further. “You’re getting better at this.”

“Or you have better coffee beans this time.”

“What are you reading?”

Starsky didn’t look up. “A newspaper.”

“I can see that, but what specifically?”

“Just dumb stuff. I don’t know why I bother with the news. It’s never good.”

“You didn’t go downstairs to get that, did you?”

Starsky finally looked up at Hutch. He appeared fresh, seemed to have slept well, and still wore several-days’ growth of whiskers, an even more primal look for him. Red was always the perfect color to compliment his dark hair and blue eyes. “It’s yesterday’s,” Starsky gladly explained. “I found it on the coffee table. But even yesterday’s news is dumb stuff. Maybe you’ll get us the Sunday paper and it can cheer me up. I’ll read the comics.”

Hutch didn’t really feel like moving, but he did—to grant Starsky’s wish. He retrieved the paper from the bottom of the steps outside his front door, and removed it from its wrapper as he returned to the table. “Here you go, Cronkite,” he said, handing the B section to Starsky and keeping the A. “We can switch when you’re done.”

Starsky didn’t complain. “Is that restaurant downstairs open on Sundays?” He sounded distracted by his reading.

“Most of the time,” Hutch replied. He folded the paper in half to read the above-the-fold article. “But Sally had a family emergency and she’s gone until the end of the month. Want me to fix us something?”

“Like what?”

“I can scramble up some eggs. There are potatoes and English muffins and fruit.”

“Bacon?”

“Don’t have any. I’ll substitute with avocado.”

“You know I hate avocados.”

“I know that’s what you say as you wolf down guacamole whenever we eat Mexican food.”

Starsky looked at him again, appearing sheepish, and then said, “Oh, yeah,” as if he only then realized avocados were the main ingredient in guacamole. “Can you make us some of that?”

The combination would definitely improve the taste of the eggs, so Hutch agreed. “Give me a minute to enjoy a cup of Joe.”

“What are we going to do today, Hutch?”

“Relax?”

“Doc says I have to get some walking in, even if it’s a little.”

“We go for a walk in the park?”

“Okay.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I can do it,” Starsky insisted. “I feel good. But we have to do more than just that; we can’t sit around just reading newspapers.”

The day had barely begun, but Hutch was pleased to learn Starsky’s energy had already improved since his release from the hospital. “How about lunch and a movie—or a movie and then lunch?”

“Yeah! And maybe we could stop by my house for some things. I can pick up some clothes, my clock, and stuff like that.”

“We could do that afterward.”

“So, we have a plan,” Starsky said with satisfaction.

“Did you sleep okay last night?”

“Like a rock—if rocks sleep, I mean. You?”

“Like a cat—and they do sleep.”

“So, see? It’s not such a bad arrangement, is it? We even kept our hands to ourselves.”

Hutch smirked at him. “We were exhausted. Let’s see if we toe the line tonight.”

“Hey, Hutch?”

Hutch looked deeper into Starsky’s bright blue eyes when he saw his expression change from excitement to sincerity, and returned the warmth of the man’s sentiment through his voice. “Yeah, buddy?”

Starsky wasn’t facetious. “I can’t thank you enough for taking care of me, you know?”

“Me and thee, partner; you’d do the same if the tables were turned.”

“I don’t know,” Starsky said affectionately. “I’m not all that good at scrambling eggs—and I sure as hell can’t make guacamole.”

* * *

They ended up having lunch first, and then seeing a movie afterward, because the walk in the park following breakfast took longer than expected—not so much because Starsky had to be careful, but because the weather was beautiful and they enjoyed lengthening the stroll for that reason alone. They ate at a Mexican restaurant; Starsky had whet his appetite at breakfast for chips and avocado dip.

“How’s the pain?” Hutch asked after their margaritas were delivered and they waited on the food. “It doesn’t look like you’re in much of it—and you don’t act like you’re on medication, either.”

“Do the drugs make me act crazy?”

“They make you silly.”

“Do I say stupid things?”

“Only a little more than usual.”

Starsky tossed Hutch an insincere smile. “Admit it: you love me despite my annoying behavior.”

“I love you because of it.”

Starsky laughed, as if he’d been bested, but appreciated it, too. “I think I’ve had lots more distractions from my condition today. No need to pop a pill.”

Hutch was glad to hear it. “The tequila will buy you some pain-free time instead.”

“I feel its effect already. But, damn, I’m going to need a call girl before too long.”

“Come again?”

“Exactly,” Starsky said with a snicker. “I’d like to come again.”

Hutch wasn’t sure what Starsky meant; did he masturbate in the bed they shared the night before? Maybe getting shot in the back had affected his brain. “How long has it been for you?”

Starsky calculated, settling on, “I was able to steal some sex time with Laura before she had to go home.”

“You clever boy.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A few months.”

“But what about you? Have you gotten laid since then?”

“I’ve been too sick with worry to get laid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, partner. Sounds like you’ve gone longer than I have without. At least I was comatose for part of that time.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m just saying it looks like we’re both in need of some cock candy—and you more than me.”

“I came to terms with my priorities.”

“That’s a . . . kind thing to say,” Starsky replied, as if he carefully chose his words. “But a man’s got needs.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hutch said sarcastically. He didn’t appreciate Starsky telling him what he already knew and dismissing his underlying sentiment at the same time. Hutch wanted Starsky to know how absolutely and utterly important he was to him.

Starsky didn’t seem to hear the silent words because he asked, “Where do you think we could find the right . . . call girl, hm?”

“You’re not serious.”

“I need to get laid, Hutch.”

“Ask the waitress for a date.”

“I said I need to get laid, not into a relationship.”

“Try masturbating then—but do it in your own bed.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow at him. “I do now see that your priorities have been rearranged.”

“Yours, too, if you’re still a cop looking for a call girl he can hire.”

Starsky laughed out loud and then sipped margarita to repress his outburst. “I forgot how well you keep me in line,” he said, setting down the glass. “But, yeah, sure, we’ll swing by my place after we’re done here, get my things together, and you can wait in the car while I take care of myself.”

“You’re that horny,” Hutch noted, shaking his head at Starsky, amused.

“I couldn’t very well do it in the hospital.”

“I suppose not.”

“I mean, you’ve done some of that for yourself while I’ve been AWOL, haven’t you?”

“Like I said, I haven’t been much in the mood for anything outside of getting you well.”

“Them are some skewed priorities you got there, Hutch.”

Hutch sealed his lips. Maybe Starsky would never appreciate just how close Hutch had come to losing him. In the end, did it matter what Starsky felt or believed? Hutch had him back—from the edge of the precipice, no less—and anything else was pure vanity.

Starsky seemed to sense Hutch’s reservation; his tone changed from one of flippant banter to one of serious resignation. “I’ll take care of myself this afternoon. Keeps me from doing it in our bed—and out of jail at the same time.”

“Do what you need to do, so long as you do it in private.”

“You’re okay with me taking care of myself while you wait in the car?”

“If you’re okay with it, I’m happy for you.”

“I’m okay with it. I need it. Being hospitalized for two months has left me climbing the walls.”

“So maybe the delirium isn’t all because of the medication, huh?” Hutch asked with the edge of a playful put-down. “Climbing walls because of your balls?” he added in a singsong voice.

“Look who sounds derelict now.”

“Delirious.”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s what you think you said.”

Starsky giggled that time and sipped more margarita.

* * *

“Did everything work out the way you hoped?”

Hutch had waited for Starsky on the landing, not in the car. He needed to help Starsky back down the stairs from his apartment, having already transferred Starsky’s two bags of clothes, toiletries, and other items into the trunk.

“I got a load off,” Starsky admitted, laughing at his pun. “You really are a pal, Hutch. Not sure I could hang around while you rubbed one out.” He held onto Hutch while Hutch did likewise to him, and they carefully descended the stairs. “I say that with all due respect.”

“I’m just glad you’re feeling . . . lighter,” Hutch joked, feeding off Starsky’s playfulness. He helped Starsky into the car.

But, on the way back to Hutch’s apartment, Starsky listed his serious complaints, not sounding like a man who’d unburdened his pent-up energy only a few minutes earlier. “You can drive my car,” he whined, pointing out an obvious fact, “but I can’t. I can’t even go up the steps without a guide dog.”

“Woof,” Hutch said, trying to improve Starsky’s mood. He lazily drove Starsky’s car along surface streets to Venice Place, encountering sparse traffic along the way.

“Everything’s different,” Starsky explained. “I’m living at your house, sleeping in your bed, wearing your clothes.”

Hutch looked over at him to verify Starsky’s fact—and only then realized Starsky was dressed in Hutch’s sweatpants and one of his lesser-worn baseball jackets. “But we’ve got your stuff just now,” Hutch reminded him. “You’ll feel like your old self in no time.”

“I’m saying everything has changed, Hutch. Where I live, how I live, what I’m feeling and doing, but it’s more than that.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Things just seem . . . different.”

“What things?”

“Like this street,” Starsky said, presenting it with both hands through the windshield as if Hutch couldn’t see the road. “It looks different . . . I mean, it feels different.”

“Same asphalt.”

“But, like . . . it moved on.”

“The road has moved on?”

“Everything has moved on. I’ve been in rehab for a couple of months and everything has moved on without me.”

Hutch really did try to empathize, and thought he found a way. “Like . . . when you go on a trip somewhere for a while and come home to the same old place, but it feels different?”

“Like that.”

“Time passes, so what’s the complaint?”

“I don’t know. I guess that it doesn’t feel like it’s going to be back to normal any time soon.”

“Look on the bright side: we get to spend quality time with each other.”

“Last time I remember doing that, we were surrounded by Satan worshippers in the woods.”

Hutch tried not to laugh. He didn’t succeed. But before Starsky could complain about his reaction, Hutch quickly said, “Let’s think of ways to get through this next phase of your recovery that make you feel productive and satisfied with your life.”

His words seemed to have calmed Starsky; he didn’t say anything for several minutes. He instead looked out the window at passing scenery and kept his thoughts to himself. Finally, after what seemed like some deep consideration, Starsky suggested, “Maybe we could stop at a dime store and get a jigsaw puzzle.”

“A grand idea, partner.”

“And some marshmallows.”

“With graham crackers,” Hutch proposed.

“And maybe we can make a list tonight of all the things we can do . . . come up with some ideas, I mean, and set us a schedule.”

“We’ll ink in a calendar.”

“Then I can have stuff to look forward to.”

“A good plan, Starsk.”

As if Starsky had thought of it.

They were wordless for a while, each lost in his own time; Hutch in thoughtful ways to make Starsky happy, Starsky’s mind seemingly meandering outside the window. Hutch eventually pulled into an empty parking lot in front of a Kmart, stopped the car, killed the engine, and faced Starsky before Starsky could get out of the vehicle.

“Let’s see if we can find a better way to think about this,” Hutch suggested. He looked deeply into Starsky’s questioning blue eyes and knew his own serious expression alone had successfully stalled Starsky in his tracks. “I’m going to keep reminding you, buddy, that you flat-lined on that hospital bed two months ago.”

Starsky’s posture drooped, seeming to sense where Hutch was about to lead him—and that he’d been pathetically feeling sorry for himself. He also apparently welcomed the reminder because he didn’t argue its relevance.

“Every breath you’ve taken since then,” Hutch told him, on cue, “has been a gift unto itself. Every thought you’ve had, every feeling you’ve felt, every second of life you’ve lived, has been a godsend. I know you want to come back at me with some wisecrack like, ‘Well, if I’d died, I’d be dead and wouldn’t know it,’ but that would be looking at the dark side of things—and that’s not the Starsky I know.”

“I’m not going to say that about being dead.”

“You’ve come a long way in two months—from being barely able to walk to having your guide dog help you up and down the stairs.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Starsky said, sounding as if Hutch didn’t need to tell him more, that he would accept the way things were and end his self-pity. “I guess I just want everything back to normal right away.”

“It’ll be a new normal for a while.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll find ways to make it interesting and fun.”

“I believe you.”

They spoke to each other without words, finding common ground and agreement, leaving the sorry behind, and anticipating new adventures that only they could call their own.

Hutch got out of the car. When he reached the passenger side, Starsky was just opening the door and turning in his seat. “Are you sure this place isn’t closed, Hutch? There’s not a car in the parking lot except ours. It looks deserted.”

“It is,” Hutch replied. “It’s Sunday evening, remember?” He opened the door wider to aid Starsky’s exit. “We’ll buy the puzzle and some marshmallows at a 7-Eleven on the way home,” he said, dangling the car keys in front of Starsky’s face, “but first let’s get you practicing your starts-and-stops behind the wheel while there’s still some daylight left.”

Starsky momentarily bit his lip, realizing he’d been granted his wish, and obviously overjoyed by it. He graciously took the keys with a big smile on his face. “You really are my pal, Hutch,” he affectionately said as he got out of his beloved car with Hutch’s help. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Same place I’d be,” Hutch replied, pulling Starsky up and into his arms for a long-overdue hug—right there in the empty parking lot, still in broad daylight. He held Starsky close and tightly, felt Starsky’s warm and appreciative embrace in return, and bathed in the warm deliverance that was literally Starsky’s new lease on life.

“Same place I’d be,” Hutch quietly repeated, that time into Starsky’s ear as he closed his eyes and squeezed him closer, listening to Starsky’s breath, and aware that he held all that was precious to him in that minute. “You’d be forever lost and alone.” His voice cracked on his last words because he didn’t have any worthy enough to prove to Starsky just how monumental such a loss would have been in his life.

* * *

“Maybe we can see Dobey this week, even though we don’t have to,” Starsky suggested. He hugged his pillow under his cheek and lay on the bed beside Hutch, facing him and making eye contact with a sincere hopefulness. “He could give us a case that only requires thinking on our part, so we can still be involved in police work while we’re on leave.”

Hutch faced Starsky and likewise hugged his pillow. “To keep our minds sharp as tacks?”

“I’d like to reconnect to my job sooner than later,” Starsky admitted. He was dressed in cotton, zippered shorts and an unbuttoned, short-sleeved shirt, its deep blue accenting his eyes, even in the lamplight. Although he’d more than once promised Hutch that he didn’t plan to grow a beard, his days-old growth continued to give him a positively more masculine appearance with every passing hour.

Hutch was nude under the sheet—and alone beneath it, too, as if Starsky had purposefully chosen to lie on top of the covers, using them as some kind of protective boundary between himself and a naked man. Hutch couldn’t remember how either of them had slept the night before. By the time they ended their argument about where Hutch was going to sleep, they were exhausted enough to fall immediately into slumber. But on this night, their second one in the same bed, they were more awake, despite having cleaned the kitchen, shut down the apartment, and arrived in the bedroom relatively together as if sleep had been the priority.

“Maybe Dobey will have a challenging case for us to solve,” Hutch figured, following Starsky’s lead. “He’ll have no choice but to put his two best minds on it.”

“Exactly.”

Hutch noticed the excitement in Starsky’s one-word reply. His partner felt lost, so every piece of his life that they could put back into place, gave Starsky direction and security again. “I don’t think we’re going to be bored, Starsk.”

“We got some things to do now,” Starsky agreed. He held steady eye contact with Hutch, defying any discomfort he may have felt to be on the bed with a completely undressed man beside him—for the second time. “Our dance card is filling up fast.”

Hutch smiled at him, then pet Starsky’s hair for half a minute, wordlessly, noticing how unmoved Starsky was by the touch in the context of their closeness. When he broke the affection to pursue an end to his curiosity, Hutch asked, “Did you sleep in shorts and a shirt last night, too?”

“Pajamas, remember? My red ones.”

Only then did Hutch remember; they weren’t his Long John’s, but Starsky obviously loved to wear red to bed. Even Hutch liked the visually aesthetic way that particular color contrasted to Starsky’s dark brown hair.

“But I was too warm,” Starsky said, as if to explain his reasons for not wearing his pajamas that night.

“There’s no heat on in the house,” Hutch told him.

“From the heat radiating off of you, I mean.”

“We don’t have to use a blanket, either.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Starsky explained, unfazed. “Face it, you’re hot.”

“Are you razzing me or being serious?”

“That first one.”

“Well, I’m serious: trying to figure out if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“With what?”

“Sleeping in the buff.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Nothing in the scheme of things. But it isn’t every day, I don’t think, that you find yourself in bed with a naked man. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in bed with one.”

“You’re not just a man, Hutch. You’re my pal.”

“As long as you’re okay with your boy pal being stark naked beside you—”

“It doesn’t bother me at all. But while we’re on the subject . . . how come you don’t sleep in jammies?”

“Never liked the feel of being wrapped up in something all night.”

“Is sleeping in the nude like wearing sweats to bed?”

“Better.”

“How’s it better?”

“Sweats are clothes: they fit your body. A blanket is just a cover.”

“Makes you feel loose?”

“Liberated. Haven’t you ever done it?”

“No.”

“You never had sex and went to sleep without putting some kind of clothes on afterward?”

“Well, yeah, I’ve done that, but it’s not like being alone doing it. I still get to hold her close . . . feel her body . . . be ready for another go . . . it’s kind of like wearing her instead of pajamas.”

“So, in all your years on Earth, you’ve never just slept naked by yourself?”

“My mom taught me to be proper.”

“Proper is restrictive.”

“She said it had something to do with ‘cleanliness is next to godliness.’”

“Like I said: restrictive.”

“You’re saying we should be dirty?”

“I’m saying natural isn’t dirty.”

“You think it’s natural to sleep in the nude?”

“Probably—under bison hides and fox furs or something. You tell me: natural to have sex in the nude, but not natural to sleep in the nude?”

“I see what you’re saying.”

Their voices were soft, despite the superficial dialogue. It was as if neither of them really wanted to go to sleep. Their day had been relatively lazy, unlike the previous one, and they were more awake that night for the unusual experience of sleeping together in the same bed, one of them dressed, one of them not. They learned new things about each other, and both were interested in the conversation because of it.

“Does it feel the same to do it when you’re alone as it does when you’re with somebody?” Starsky wondered. “I mean, does it feel as good to you tonight, for example, or does my being here keep you . . . restricted?”

“Makes no difference. Feels the same. Liberating.”

“I don’t think it’s something I should try, though,” Starsky said, his attentive gaze softening into playful provocation, as if he endeavored to liven the conversation. “You and me, naked in the same bed . . . I think that might be weird.”

Hutch imagined Starsky naked under the sheet with him. They might accidentally brush up against each other in the middle of the night. Would that be weird? Hutch didn’t think so, but his mind wasn’t on the taboo reflections that probably punctuated Starsky’s thoughts; for Hutch, it was a moment to reflect on the idea that the single most important person in the world to him would be that close—skin-to-skin close.

As he entertained that notion, Hutch felt an inexplicable warmth pass over him. He broke eye contact to isolate it before it vaporized, but he was too late. In the meantime, his introspective pause had apparently tested his partner.

“It’d be weird, Hutch,” Starsky said, emphasizing his assessment as if he’d read Hutch’s questioning mind and needed to supply him with the correct answer before he could conclude anything else. “I’ll practice sleeping in my birthday suit after I get home.”

Hutch looked back into Starsky’s eyes. “Weird isn’t always a bad thing,” he heard himself say, sort of absentmindedly.

Starsky simply stared at him, unreadably.

“I don’t mean anything by that,” Hutch quickly explained, hoping to intercept wherever it was Starsky had emotionally gone in that moment. “I was only pointing out a fact.”

“You and me sleeping naked in the same bed and that doesn’t strike you as weird?”

“Unusual, obviously.”

“I don’t know, Hutch.”

“You’re looking at it through everybody else’s eyes.”

Starsky considered that observation, and then nodded in subtle agreement. “Yeah, you’re probably right, starting with my mom’s.”

“When you think about sleeping in the nude with me, does—”

“I don’t think about it.”

“When you think about it right now, tonight, does the idea of it scare you?”

“It’s weird, but you don’t scare me.”

“Not even knowing I’m stark naked under this sheet as we speak?”

“I knew what I was getting into when I said you have to sleep in here with me—and it don’t scare me.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t what?”

“Scare you.”

“That’s what I said.”

Hutch smiled at him. “I love having you back,” he gently told Starsky, not able to help himself. “I’ve missed you these past couple of months even though I’ve been beside you every day.”

Starsky looked off for a moment before he resumed the eye contact, and said, “I think I’ve felt you here all along—even when I was in a coma. It’s my life I’ve missed.”

“I know I didn’t tell you this, but maybe the doctors or the nurses did: I left the hospital before you flatlined.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To look for someone to kill.”

They were silent for a moment to absorb the unspoken details of Hutch’s confession, and then Hutch added, “but your heart began beating again the minute I returned.”

Starsky blinked at him. “What are you saying here, Hutch?”

“It’s what you said a minute ago: that you felt me there all along. It’s when I wasn’t there that you couldn’t feel me . . . and you left.”

“Because you left.”

“I think so.”

“I think so, too,” Starsky said decidedly, his voice filled with absolute shock to learn what he just had. He pulled his arm free from under his pillow and tenderly touched Hutch’s cheek. “In a way, you saved my life.”

“Or could have ended it.”

“That kind of dark side of thinking isn’t the Hutch I know.”

Hutch abandoned his sorry, savored the feel of Starsky’s hand to his face, that warm skin-to-skin closeness he’d only imagined a few minutes earlier, and tried a smile instead. “Don’t ever leave me, Starsk.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Starsky promised. He briefly rubbed the end of Hutch’s nose and then dropped his hand to make heartfelt eye contact. “Me and thee, remember?”

How could Hutch ever forget?

“Well,” Starsky said with a laugh, interrupting the silence that had abruptly settled over them, “that’s some conversation we’ve had: from deep to trivial and back again.”

Hutch made a similar effort to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t exactly call our discussion about sleeping in the nude together ‘trivial.’”

“Me neither. The part I was calling trivial was where you had to ask if anything you could say or do would scare me.”

* * *

When Hutch opened his eyes that next morning, the first thing he noticed were the three scars that would forever be visible across Starsky’s back. His partner faced away from him, to the far wall of the bedroom, the blanket and sheet pushed to his hip. There was enough light in the room from the early rising sun for Hutch to make out the distinct, nickel-sized indentations of discolored skin that punctuated the points of impact. Luckily, the bullets hadn’t gone through Starsky, or they’d have taken chunks of muscle and flesh out of his chest upon their exit and left him with permanent disfigurement. They’d done enough damage simply on entry.

It was the middle scar that drew Hutch’s attention, as it often did; the bullet that caused its cavitation was the same one to nick his T6 vertebrae and nearly cost Starsky his ability to ever function again below the waist. Weeks of physical therapy—walking, swimming, fitness equipment, and lots of frustration and fatigue—had finally paid off; Starsky could confidently walk with supervision, which he needed primarily while he was under the influence of his pain medication. But he’d told Hutch on more than one occasion that he sometimes still had to consciously place his steps or his legs would uncontrollably buckle on him. Would he ever run again?

Hutch’s bullet wound many months earlier to his left shoulder had been much more fortunate: it had only damaged flesh and muscle, no bone or nerves, and long-ago healed without the visible cavity of the projectile’s entry. Starsky would probably carry his scars forever. Without them, his back was nearly unblemished, rich in smooth, tanned-colored skin, well-muscled, and strong. But it certainly had a harrowing story to tell.

One fraction of an inch to the left and the damage would have paralyzed Starsky for life. Hutch shuddered again to think of it; further yet to either side of Starsky’s spine and the bullet could have fatally pierced his heart. In many ways, Starsky had lucked out: he never had to battle an infection, none of his vital organs had been shattered, and he had already been fit enough to begin recovery almost immediately, all of which bettered his chances for the long run. But it was Hutch who had kept Starsky’s spirits high; without the relentless encouragement, Starsky may have given up hope on several occasions, won his battles, but lost the war.

Dobey had been kind enough to allow Hutch the time to spend most of it at the hospital and the rehab facility, to not only keep his partner company, to bring him food and clean clothes, to entertain and console him, but also to aid the physical work of Starsky’s literal step-by-step reconstruction. Only Hutch could egg Starsky on, force him into going the extra mile, keep his eyes on that prize—and hold him in his arms when Starsky sometimes hit the wall of despair. It might be true that Starsky’s rehabilitation was just as much Hutch’s survival as it was his partner’s.

On this new morning, the second one Starsky shared with him in his bed, Hutch came face-to-face again with the stark reality of just how close they had truly dodged a bullet. Despite it, there was more recovery ahead for them, the least of which was on the surface; Hutch reached to touch that middle scar, to transcendentally warm it with further healing, but he stopped himself before he made contact. He didn’t want to wake Starsky, especially to focus them on that shared, nightmarish memory. Hutch dropped his hand, pulled the blanket to his chin, and privately exhaled his grave and reminiscent thoughts—to save himself instead.

Starsky’s breathing broke its rhythm soon after and caused Hutch to abruptly hold his own; he hadn’t meant to disturb Starsky by his careless movements, and figured Starsky could go back to sleep if he needed it.

But Starsky scratched his head, sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbed his face in his hands, and audibly let out a breath. After half a minute, he pushed off the mattress, tugged at the waistband on his shorts, and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll make us some coffee,” he good-naturedly said without looking back. “Don’t stay too long in bed, Hutch. We’ve got things to do today.”

* * *

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Starsky said.

“Tired?”

“In a good way.”

“You had quite the workout today.”

Starsky had undergone nearly two hours of physical therapy at the rehabilitation facility in which he’d spent the previous six weeks. It was followed by an indoor swim exercise, and a deep-tissue massage afterwards; the goal was to prevent scarring along his spine from applying pressure to the still-healing vertebrae and therefore impeding or reversing Starsky’s progress without needing risky surgery.

Their late afternoon had subsequently been polished off by an unplanned visit to The Pits; they shared food and beer with Huggy, played the slot machines, and finished with a round of pool. Starsky seemed energized and aptly abled; he laughed a lot, too, and not just because he won a few dollars off of Hutch. The therapy had put him in top form. Hutch suspected there might be a crash later, a total drain of Starsky’s strength and maybe even his confidence, simply due to an expected fall from his rare euphoria. But by early evening, as they relaxed at home, and despite Hutch’s hunch, Starsky seemed wonderfully none the worse for wear.

He excitedly opened his puzzle box and dumped the 2,500 pieces on the coffee table after having first cleared everything off of it, including the telephone and candles. He then sat on the sofa, leaned forward, and busied himself making certain all the pieces were turned right side up—while Hutch sat cross-legged on the floor, cushioned by a sofa pillow, on the opposite side, and watched Starsky revel in his task.

“Are you on pain meds today?” he wondered. He leisurely drank beer, ate pretzels and green olives from the bowls he’d set on the coffee table, and enjoyed watching Starsky prepare his puzzle. “You seem happy in an entirely different way.”

“No meds,” Starsky cheerfully said. “Seems when I’m doing stuff with you, I don’t hurt so much.”

Hutch didn’t bait him, despite sounding like he did. “You spent most of today with other people—therapists, swim instructors, doctors—”

“You were there with me for all them times.”

Sweet sentiment. Hutch accepted it, despite the bad grammar—or maybe because of it. He studied Starsky’s face, his still-not-shaved appearance, his hands and his eyes, how eager he was to ready his puzzle for piecing together. Starsky was distracted enough to answer Hutch’s comments with a certain conviction of the heart. There was an innocence to his replies. Perhaps it was the new lease on life he’d been given that made him more forthcoming about his deeper feelings. There was an easiness to him, one he’d cozied into since leaving the hospital.

And it didn’t get past Hutch, all over again, just how close Starsky had come to not having left it alive.

For a minute, the vision of Starsky playing with his puzzle blurred before Hutch’s eyes. He was lost in that sometimes panic he felt when he reflected on what could have been.

“Why are you so sad?” Starsky suddenly asked.

“I’m not sad,” Hutch replied, snapping out of his trance, and realizing he’d obviously been wearing his thoughts on his face.

“Something’s going on with you. I’ve noticed it lately.”

“It’s exhausting to keep up with you,” Hutch playfully said.

Starsky didn’t buy it. “That wasn’t the look of sleepy.”

Hutch surrendered. “Sometimes you catch me in moments of . . . retrospection.”

“What are you retrospecting?”

“How close we came.”

“To what?”

“Losing you.”

Starsky abruptly lifted his eyes and looked into Hutch’s. Momentarily, he seemed speechless, but then he said, “But here I am, Hutch—alive and well and kicking—bullet holes and all.”

That last part of Starsky’s wisecrack didn’t sit well with Hutch, but he didn’t outwardly complain; he was able to keep his intention on the priorities in his life: the first of which was Detective David Starsky. So, to prevent the conversation from going over the edge, he lifted his beer in yet another toast to Starsky’s survival.

* * *

“Hutch, wake up. Wake up.”

Hutch opened his eyes with a start, having awakened from the immediate light in the room and hearing Starsky’s plaintive voice sounding more concerned than alarmed. “What’s wrong, Starsk?” He thought Starsky may have had a bad dream.

They lay beside each other on the bed; it was sometime in the middle of the night. The lamp on Starsky’s nightstand was on, but Hutch couldn’t see his clock past Starsky, who was up on his elbow.

“I’m sorry, Hutch,” Starsky said with genuine remorse. He faced Hutch and repeatedly pled for his forgiveness before he confessed, “I wet the bed. I’m sorry.”

Knowing what the problem was eased Hutch’s concerns and immediately calmed his emerging panic. The next step was to fix what had gone wrong. “It’s okay,” he told Starsky, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s all right.”

“I thought I was past that,” Starsky lamented. He pushed back the blanket. “Oh, shit, Hutch. I’ll clean up, but we have to get out of the bed.” He rolled away, stumbled when he stood, and headed for the bathroom.

“Let me help you,” Hutch said quickly, hoping to get an arm under Starsky to balance him before he could take a single step.

But Starsky was already on his way. “I can get there okay,” he insisted, proving it.

There also was no point in telling Starsky that his accident wasn’t anything to worry about; Starsky was probably as embarrassed as he was disappointed, and words of wisdom would be better spoken after the situation was behind them. When Hutch heard the water run in the shower, he figured he had a couple of minutes to remove most of the evidence before Starsky returned to the bedroom—and therefore spare him further embarrassment. Working quickly, Hutch dressed in his robe, pulled the blanket off the bed, removed the sheets, and noticed that only the bottom one had been soiled.

It wasn’t Starsky’s fault. He’d nearly lost all ability to control his bladder in the days and early weeks after the shooting. As he regained strength, he managed better, eventually believing—and confirmed by doctors—that he’d overcome that particularly delicate injury. But he and Hutch had enjoyed a long day prior to nightfall—Starsky’s physical therapy coupled with their playing around at The Pits—and Starsky had probably gone into a deeper sleep than normal that night. The ensuing relaxation took over his bladder. There was nothing to forgive.

When Hutch returned from placing the sheets into the washer on the balcony and grabbing up a few bath towels along the way, Starsky had already come back to the bedroom. He stood at the foot of the bed with wet hair, hands on hips, dressed only in his red pajama bottoms, and cautiously studied the mattress. “It’s ruined,” he decided. “Shit, Hutch, how are we supposed to sleep on it?”

“C’mon, buddy,” Hutch said, affectionately squeezing Starsky’s elbow, “let’s make lemonade out of lemons.” He pushed a towel into Starsky’s hands. “We’ll soak it up, put these in the wash, and we’ll flip the mattress. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m thirty-six years old, Hutch, and—”

“—and you were shot in the back, lucky to even walk again. This is peanuts.”

Hutch pressed a towel into the urine spot and continued to absorb as much as he could before he decided the cloth couldn’t hold any more liquid. He then left for the washer while Starsky took over with the towel Hutch had given him. “Just get up as much as you can,” Hutch instructed him on his way out. “We can work on it more tomorrow if it’s still wet.”

It was obvious Starsky felt ashamed of himself. Even after Hutch joined him in the bedroom again, he could see Starsky’s distress creasing his brow, and Starsky avoided eye contact as he finished the soaking task, eventually walking past Hutch to take the towel to the balcony. Hutch called after him to set the washer. “To hot and for ten minutes.” He then repositioned the mattress at a diagonal for a better team grip.

Wordlessly, and when ready, they worked in tandem to flip the mattress, turning the urine stain toward the foot of the bed, so it was further still from their heads. Starsky stood patiently afterward on his side of the bed while Hutch retrieved another set of sheets from the linen shelf in the living room armoire. “Something my mom taught me,” Hutch joked when he came back to the bedroom, mostly to ease Starsky’s chagrin. “Always have clean ones on hand.”

Without another word, they re-made the bed. From waking to ready-for-sleep-again, the entire process took less than twenty minutes.

“See?” Hutch said, presenting Starsky with the newly dressed mattress. “It’s nothing to write home about.” He stripped naked, tossed his robe to the foot of the bed, and then climbed into it, bunching his pillow behind his head.

But Starsky didn’t move.

“It’s really okay, Starsk.”

“What if I do it again?”

“Then we’ll wash these sheets, too.”

Starsky smirked at him and stated the obvious. “We can’t flip the mattress again.”

“Then we’ll have a slumber party on the living room floor.”

“It’s not funny, Hutch.”

“It’s not the end of the world, either.”

“How come I did that, hm?”

“Deep sleep after a long, rigorous day? Lesson learned. We take it easier from here on out.”

Starsky seemed to appreciate the assessment—and its solution. He thoughtfully scratched his head for a moment, and then got into the bed. “It’s embarrassing, Hutch,” he admitted, pulling the sheet and blanket to his shoulder.

“I’m not embarrassed for you.”

“How can you not be?”

“I’m remembering how bad it was in the beginning, after you came out of the coma, and you had to wear adult diapers for a while.”

“That was also embarrassing.”

“Your bladder was the least of your problems.”

“I know,” Starsky agreed, with a submissive demeanor. “But I’m a grown man and I was supposed to be past this.”

“Proving that you still need my help,” Hutch teased. “So how bad can that be?”

They settled, leaving the lamp on, hugged their pillows, silently faced each other, and finally made gentle eye contact. Hutch wouldn’t be able to sleep until Starsky got beyond his humiliation. After a minute of their mutual silence, listening to the chugging washer in the other room, feeling refreshed and together again, and gazing into each other’s blue eyes, he found the perfect way to cheer Starsky up.

“Your dick still works, right?”

The question did the trick. Starsky laughed, reluctantly, but with apparent acceptance of the overall picture. The frown left his brow, the hint of a smile came to his lips, and the light shone brighter in his eyes.

“Am I right?” Hutch asked, pushing Starsky further into his self-forgiveness. “You proved it yesterday when I gave you time alone at your apartment. So, who cares if the bladder has an accident, so long as the dick still functions?”

“You have a point, Hutch.”

Starsky sounded relieved to have been reprieved. He closed his eyes. The blanket and new sheet draped his shoulder. His haired arm and chest were still visible—as was his face—and Hutch again studied the aliveness of his skin, the overall look of him, Starsky’s damp hair and his familiar features, his masculinity and his relaxation, his inevitable return to peacefulness.

Hutch had, once more, done his job to repair Starsky’s broken self-identity. And he would do it until end of days. There was nothing as precious nor anything more beautiful than the man who lay on the bed beside him, bathed in the amber light from a single table lamp, traveling with him once more around the sun . . . somewhere in the middle of the night.

* * *

THE ROOM

“Do you want me to make something?”

“Help yourself,” Hutch said. He was busy at the stove frying up a garden omelette and homemade hash browns for them. “How about some toast?”

Starsky opened the refrigerator and stood inside its door. “There’s nothing in here, Hutch.”

“Because it’s already in the pan?”

“But, I mean, nothing, Hutch. How come your fridge is always empty, hm?”

“I eat mostly fresh food when I’m home.”

“Like beer, pizza, and dead rats?”

Hutch did his best to ignore Starsky’s gross assessment and painful reminder while he continued to monitor what he cooked instead. After half a minute, he realized Starsky had parked himself near the stove to watch him. “Did you find the jam?”

“What’s the point?” Starsky whined. “There isn’t any bread.”

“It’s in the breadbox.”

“And where is that, Betty Crocker? Riddle me that.”

“If you understood half of what you said, you’d realize how little you know your native language.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“On top of the fridge. If it had been a snake, you’d be dead by now.” He was proud of himself for throwing an animal-in-or-near-a-refrigerator reminder back at his partner, but had to poke Starsky in the ribs to get the smile he’d expected; even then it was only a smirk. “C’mon, all’s fair in love and war,” Hutch explained. “Hurry up and make the toast. I’m almost done here.”

Starsky turned away as Hutch concentrated on sautéing vegetables; he did hear Starsky get the butter and jam from the refrigerator. When he eventually heard the heating elements lock down in the toaster, he was pleased by Starsky’s overall success. “Was that so hard?” he joked.

“What’s hard is your head,” Starsky wisecracked.

“We’ll go to the market today. Does that make you feel better?”

“It kind of does. How often do you do that?”

“Every couple of days.”

“Every couple of days?”

“Not often enough?”

“Sounds like you’re spending a lifetime there. I only go once a week or so.”

“I wouldn’t have the space for a week’s worth of food.”

“That’s my point, Hutch. If you had a bigger refrigerator, you wouldn’t have to go shopping so often, and there’d be food in it.”

“My fridge is the same size as yours.”

“No, it isn’t,” Starsky said with annoyance. “Mine has two doors—and a freezer.”

“Mine has a freezer.”

“Yours has a breadbox with iced walls posing as a freezer—it’s not even big enough to hold a pizza. Maybe a dead rat.”

Hutch got two plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table, trying not to laugh at Starsky’s complaints. They would have a filling and relatively tasty meal, regardless of what was or wasn’t in the refrigerator, so what was the problem?

“How old is that thing anyway, hm, Hutch? A hundred years?”

“Thirty-five.”

“I believe it.”

“Because it’s true. It belonged to my grandparents. They gave it to me when I left Minnesota.”

Starsky busied himself with buttering toasted bread when it came ready. He put four slices onto a saucer, neatly stacked, and then took it to the table with a jar of jam. “They gave it to you because it was too old even for them,” he said. He also brought utensils and paper napkins to the table, and then brought over their coffee cups. “Put that ancient thing in the greenhouse; keep back-up stuff in it, and then buy yourself a modern-day fridge, like mine.” He sat in a chair that faced the balcony.

“What would I need with a big refrigerator if I’ve got a market a few feet away?”

“You could freeze pizza in it, for one.”

“Or pick up a fresh slice or two from the pizza parlor across the street.”

“You’ve got an answer for everything.”

Hutch joined him with the skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other, and sat with his back to the kitchen. Condiments were already on the table, as were two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice, and a large ceramic bowl of fresh fruit—apples, oranges, and bananas. He dished Starsky half of the veggie-packed omelette and a heaping portion of hash browns, and noticed Starsky’s nonplussed expression. “I run by a market every day that’s right there on the corner,” Hutch reminded him. “Picking up a few things whenever I need them is no big deal.”

“Have it your way,” Starsky replied, sounding finished with the debate as easily as he’d started it. He stared at the food in front of him with hunger in his eyes. “Looks delicious, Hutch. You shoulda been a chef or something.”

“Or something?”

“Well, I mean, you could be whatever they call people who make a living from cooking.”

“Chefs.”

Starsky wisecracked a smile. “It’s just, you know, that I like to cook, but I’m nowhere near as good as you. It’s another one of your amazing talents.”

“The trick is to just imagine what the finished meal should be and piece the puzzle together from there. You’re good at those—crosswords and jigsaws and murder mysteries.”

They ate while they conversed—and drank coffee and orange juice. Starsky was in a relatively affable, relaxed mood, despite his earlier irritation with Hutch’s refrigerator. Hutch had a feeling his partner had gone on the offense to offset the humiliation he experienced the night before, having lost control of his bladder while he slept. He needed to prove he was still a tough guy.

“So, let’s say I want to make a lasagna casserole,” Starsky supposed between bites. “I’d cut up some noodles and fry them in a pan, right? Then I’d add some spinach and stuff for taste. Toss it in the oil and whatever. I’d probably have to bake it for a while—until all the cheese melted. Pop some decoration on it—”

“Decoration?”

“Like . . . parsley twigs.”

“Garnish.”

“Is that better than parsley?”

Hutch resumed eating to keep from chuckling.

“Well, anyway, Hutch,” Starsky concluded, seeming to sense that Hutch had inwardly laughed at him, but he was bent on ignoring it, “I’d then scoop it out of the pan and put it on our plates with some corn or something.”

“Sounds delicious,” Hutch said, barely repressing his urge to show his amusement. “Make it for us some time.”

“Get a bigger refrigerator, smart ass, so I got space to keep all the ingredients, and I just might do that.”

Hutch winked at him. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

“Did one of you lose a bet?” the cheerful hairstylist asked. The young blonde fastened a black cape around Starsky’s neck after he’d taken his seat in the chair, and made sure it covered his body and clothes. “My two-for-one sale isn’t until next week.”

“We just got tired of looking at each other’s faces,” Starsky said, winking at Hutch. “He needs to get rid of that stupid mustache.”

“I think it’s kind of cute,” the woman said.

“We’re joined at the hip,” Hutch explained, pretending to have been wounded by Starsky’s veiled insults, “and too much hair gets on his nerves.”

“You don’t look like brothers.”

“We’re partners,” Starsky said. He shared a friendly glance with Hutch, who sat across from him against the wall, and broke eye contact only when he was leaned back for his shave. “Almost ten years now.”

“That’s too bad,” the woman replied, sounding as friendly as she behaved. She wrapped a wet, presumably warm, towel around Starsky’s face, leaving his nose and mouth visible, and playfully added, “I hoped I had a chance, even if it was a slim one.”

Hutch winked at her and said to Starsky, “Instead she’s going to hide your ugly mug.”

“I should have said we’re police officers,” Starsky told her, visibly relaxing. “Detectives.”

“Oh,” the woman coyly responded. “So I still have a chance—with a smart guy, no less.”

“We’ll have dinner tonight,” Starsky played along, “but only if you cook.”
Hutch listened to their flirtatious conversation while he watched Starsky be carefully shaved with moisturizing shaving cream and a straight razor. Hutch’s turn was next; they’d promised each other they’d get haircuts and clean-shaven faces by end of day—and held to that pact when Hutch suggested they visit a barbershop following their therapeutic stroll in the park. Starsky insisted they do a walk-in at his favorite salon and, afterward, they would stop by his apartment to pick up the water cooler from his kitchen.

Maybe Starsky was serious about his hopes to rendezvous with the young woman. After his shave, while his hair was being cut—and following lots of meet-and-greet dialogue between the hairstylist—Starsky asked Hutch, “We don’t have any plans tonight, do we, Hutch?”

“We do,” Hutch told him. He leaned forward, set his forearms atop his knees, and made firm eye contact with Starsky. Starsky’s frown caused him to quickly say, “Besides—and to throw this back in your lap—you’re not ready for the big leagues yet.”

His words did as they intended—and silently reminded Starsky of his recent bladder accident. Starsky thought he’d been as embarrassed and as humiliated as he ever could be that night, but having a similar mishap in bed with a woman would be more than disastrous; it would permanently damage his self-esteem. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, buddy,” Hutch genuinely said, “but that’s where we are.”

“Right,” Starsky agreed, snarling at himself. “But you sure know how to suck the air out of a room.”

“What’s the problem?” she wanted to know.

“Looks like I can’t spend the night, after all, sweetheart,” Starsky said, covering the truth with silly commentary. “I mean, I don’t even know your name.” He tried a laugh. “Mine is David, by the way. His is Hutch.”

“Marilyn,” she replied, cutting Starsky’s hair while they continued to flirt. “Like Monroe.” She was attractive, maybe not as much as Hutch was beautiful, but enough to have caught the men’s attention when they initially walked into the salon; Starsky had simply been the one to land the first strike.

“I want to know why him and not me,” Hutch said, trying again to intercept Starsky’s direction, purely in Starsky’s best interest. “I have the prettier face, don’t I?”

“I’ll decide after you’ve both been shaved and trimmed,” Marilyn joked. She was definitely a brave soul—or maybe she seldom got to meet two exceptionally attractive men, let alone to have them unexpectedly walk into her salon—rather masculine males, at that—and she wouldn’t waste time. “But I’ll make spaghetti for both of you if I can’t choose,” she said, invitingly. “You boys bring the wine.”

Hutch lost ground. He tried again. “Sorry to burst the bubble, darling, but I’m a one-woman man. So is he.”

“Yeah,” Starsky added, holding eye contact with Hutch. “We’ve been down that road together and now know the rules.”

Hutch winked; he was proud of Starsky for finding a way out—then Starsky opened the door wider instead.

“But as long as I’m home at a reasonable hour,” he laughed, “my bodyguard will lengthen my leash. You will, won’t you, Hutch?”

Hutch wasn’t jealous, but he did feel a pang of possessiveness just then—and for the first time. Perhaps it was because Starsky hadn’t really been out of his sight or his reach since the day he’d gone into the hospital. When Hutch wasn’t around, the doctors and nurses took care of him. Starsky wasn’t yet fully recovered, and Hutch felt compelled to watch over him until then. It was one thing to stand outside the door while Starsky masturbated in the privacy of his apartment, but another to play chaperone while Starsky bedded a woman—which meant Hutch preferred Starsky didn’t leave his observable space.

“There was an incident,” Hutch began, but Starsky cut him off.

“Don’t tell her about that. It’s nobody’s business.”

Hutch realized what Starsky thought he would have told Marilyn—that Starsky had wet their bed—and quickly explained what he planned all along to say. “He was the victim of a recent drive-by shooting.”

The playful banter between the three of them suddenly took a somber turn, but Hutch didn’t back down; he was determined to derail the date until Starsky was a fully functioning, on-his-own-again police officer, and could hold his ground without Hutch’s supervision.

“When he’s well,” Hutch told her, allowing Starsky to be the victor in the long run, “maybe you would be kind enough then to cash his rain check.”

Starsky scowled at him. It was apparent by his pursed lips that there was a lot he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. His haircut was ending; his face had been shaved, and he looked his usual clean-cut self, but he obviously wasn’t happy with Hutch; all dressed up, so to speak, and nowhere to go.

The three of them talked about the weather instead, about politics and movies, about food and music—and the future. Hutch did most of the conversing while Marilyn cut his hair—and shaved off his mustache. Starsky sat in the waiting chair against the wall and piped in when he felt like it, but mostly he seemed anxious to get on the road again. In fact, he was more interested in leaving the salon, so he could say what he’d apparently been waiting to say to Hutch for some time.

“I never took you for a cock blocker,” he said with a snarl as they got into the car. “I figured I’d be safe if I didn’t spend the night with her, if I just had dinner and a lay, but you couldn’t even give me that much—and I thought you loved me more than that.”

Hutch turned the ignition and brought the Torino to life. The only thing that kept him from feeling hurt by Starsky’s observation was the knowledge that he’d been right to keep Starsky focused on his recovery. “Starsk,” he said, not looking at Starsky as he shifted the gear into reverse and backed the car from its parking spot, “the truth is . . . I love you more than you will ever know.”

“Uh-huh.”

Neither of them said anything else until they were on the main thoroughfare headed to Starsky’s apartment to pick up the water cooler. It was Starsky who finally spoke. “I know you love me, Hutch,” he admitted with affection, “and the amount you love me is a lot. I’m sorry I said what I did. Besides, she wanted a date; I just wanted to get laid.”

* * *

“You like it there, doncha, Hutch?”

Hutch couldn’t have cared less, but an answer would make Starsky happy, so he said he thought it was the perfect place to put the water cooler—along the rear wall diagonal to the refrigerator and beside the console table. “What made you want one of those anyway?”

“I liked Dobey’s dispenser, the one at the office—water on demand.”

“Like the tap?”

“Wise guy. It tastes a lot better than tap, and you know it.”

Hutch didn’t argue; he did like the water in the squad room better than what came out of his sink faucet, but he’d never consciously made the comparison before. He was just happy Starsky was pleased to have his precious water cooler within reach. “How often will we have to refill the jug?”

“Dan the Water Man comes around once a week with a five-gallon bottle; I’ll tell him to change my service to this address. He’ll leave it inside the door at the bottom of the steps, if that’s all right.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because you’ll have to be the one to carry it upstairs.”

“I see.”

“When I’m strong enough, I can do it.”

“By then you’ll be home.”

“That’s true,” Starsky said on second thought.

Hutch knew Starsky simply wanted to pull his own weight around the apartment, but he needn’t concern himself with those matters. His sole job was to get well. “It’s not a problem,” Hutch insisted. He finished centering the water cooler on the wall and stepped back to admire it. “I bet I get spoiled on this in no time.”

That sentiment seemed to further relax Starsky; he looked pleased and confident, and finally took off his jacket. “Let’s put away the groceries and see how much food that fridge really holds.”

They’d stopped by a supermarket after leaving Starsky’s apartment that afternoon and bought enough for a week’s worth of meals—times two. It was apparent to Hutch that he’d still do most of the cooking, but at least Starsky gave him ideas about what those dishes would entail, and he no longer had to guess. He did want his partner to do more than just exist under his roof; he wanted Starsky to enjoy the time, too.

Their day had been quieter than the previous one, and they unwound further with a satisfying meal of spaghetti and tossed garden salad, garlic bread, and red wine. Hairstylist Marilyn had whet Starsky’s appetite for his second favorite food, and he downed two helpings of the spaghetti, genuinely enjoying Hutch’s homemade marinara sauce with every bite. “If you were a woman,” he quipped, his mouth full of pasta, “I’d make you my wife.” A wink followed his proclamation.

“I’m not that easy,” Hutch countered him. “If I were a woman, I’d want more than what you’re currently calling romance.”

Starsky laughed. “I’ll be back in the saddle someday.”

“In more ways than one?”

“I’ll be stronger, too.”

“How do you figure?”

“I now know what it means to be weak.”

Starsky hadn’t meant to sober the moment, but the reference to his near-death experience did that for Hutch. He drank wine to cover for his momentary emotional setback, found his banter voice, and said, “You can rebuild your strength, Starsk, by running the five-gallon water bottles up the stairs.”

“You think I’ll be here that long? I mean, don’t get me wrong: it’s been nice to laze around at night, but I’m getting better every day. We walked the loop twice at the park today, remember?”

“Walking is one thing. Running is another. Running and jumping and ducking and diving, and all of the other machinations we go through in a day. You’ll have to be ready to keep up.”

“How soon do you think that will be?”

“We play it by ear.”

“I’m not talking piano lessons.”

Hutch repressed his smile. He didn’t want to tell Starsky how adorable he sounded. Every word he spoke was a gem to Hutch. Just to listen to the sound of Starsky’s masculine voice was a gift, no matter which words he used. Even the occasional grunt or sigh or chuckle Starsky expressed was music to Hutch’s ears—and an inspiration to his soul.

“Speaking of the piano,” Starsky said, having triggered his own apparent sentiment, “maybe you’ll play something after dinner?”

“You name it.”

“I’d like to clean up afterward, then get another glass of wine, turn the lights down low, light a few candles, and just listen to you play. Would you do that for us?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“That’s one of the things I love about you, Hutch.”

“My heartbeat?”

“Your talent.”

Hutch couldn’t help but speak with a sincerity he could never have fabricated. “Thank you for saying so, buddy boy.” He made heartfelt eye contact, inwardly acknowledging that he was hypersensitive to those precious moments, and pushed against the emotional bursting in his chest so as to not appear overly sentimental. He wanted to say what he truly felt, deep down, but all he could manage under the enormous gratitude that overwhelmed him was a wordless sentiment: “One of the things I love about you, Starsk, is your still-beating heart.”

* * *

“Would you feel better if I’d moved into your place instead?”

“No,” Starsky replied, sounding truthful.

“I just assumed you’d move in with me while you recovered, but it never occurred to me that—”

“I’d rather be here.”

“—maybe you’d feel more comfortable at home.”

“Are you listening to me?”

Hutch lay beside Starsky on the bed, faced him, held eye contact, was serious about moving them into Starsky’s apartment if he preferred, but Starsky seemed bent on staying where he was.

Despite that, Hutch tried again. “Your place is bigger—bigger bedroom, bigger living room, bigger kitchen—and your stuff is there, and—”

“I appreciate your concern, Doctor, but my important stuff is here now.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, settling the matter. “How about another question then?”

“Go for it,” Starsky quipped with a smile. “Or was that the question?”

Hutch returned the smile, noticing the warmth in Starsky’s face—clean-shaven, relaxed. “It seems you haven’t been on pain meds since the day you got here; is that true?”

“A detective you’ll one day make,” Starsky joked. “I haven’t had a need for them, I guess. Maybe it’s that I can drink beer now that I’m out of the hospital, and it does the trick, you know?”

“Maybe. Relaxes muscles. Eases pressure on nerves.”

“Tastes better.”

“Doesn’t dumb you down as much.”

“There’s the love,” Starsky said with a light laugh. He gingerly rolled away, rubbed his eyes, laughed again.

“And only love,” Hutch clarified, softly. He would never not remind Starsky every chance he got—from that horrible day months ago and into their future—that all he had for Starsky was unconditional love.

Starsky rolled back toward him, settled his eyes on Hutch, visibly sobered. “I know you were scared,” he said. “I know how terrified you must have been. But you don’t have to worry anymore; I’m going to be more careful.”

“You weren’t being careless.”

Starsky didn’t respond to that observation; what could he say? It was true, after all. There hadn’t been a mistake on Starsky’s end. He’d done nothing foolish or stupid. He simply walked from the police station to his car in broad daylight to begin his usual routine—and nearly lost his life, at no fault of his own.

“Okay,” he said in a low voice, accepting Hutch’s assessment. “But, I mean . . . I know you love me. I know it’s more than you have words for because it’s the same for me, I mean, and how I feel about you.”

They passed that love between their eyes; there could never be words for the purity of the feeling in both their hearts.

It didn’t faze Hutch to be that intimate with Starsky; he’d been intimately close to him countless times in the years they’d known each other, but he soon found the unique humor in it that night, and playfully asked, “Should we be talking like this while we’re in bed together, and the pretty one of us is stark naked?”

Starsky laughed again. “You brought it up.”

“I haven’t, though,” Hutch said, playing off the words. “I’ve never had a boner around you.”

Starsky rolled to his back, laughing still. “Same here, buddy. But why do you have to make light of stuff, hm?”

“Just reminding us of our boundaries.”

“Another thing you don’t need to do.”

Hutch was fully nude under the covers—as he’d been every night since they began sleeping together—while Starsky was dressed in shorts and an unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt. He may have been more relaxed than the night before: on one of their errands that day, he’d bought a large, high-absorbency incontinence pad that he’d since slipped under the fitted sheet.

“I figure I should remind us of the invisible wall between us when I’m telling you I love you—in bed,” Hutch explained.

“Oh, I see.”

“It’s a balance kind of thing.”

“Got it,” Starsky replied, rolling back again to look into Hutch’s eyes. “Keeping our balance is everything.”

Hutch knew Starsky spoke specifically about himself in that moment. Although he’d gone off his pain medication, he still had to be careful. He was a long way from being able to run or jump—or fight. He would need Hutch’s supervision and guardianship for weeks to come. They both knew it. And they both knew the bond between them wasn’t just one of trust, but of a deep, abiding love.

Maybe Hutch made Starsky uncomfortable—or at least embarrassed him—with the constant verbal reminders. He would have to find other ways to let Starsky know just how deeply he loved him.

* * *

“We need a bigger bed, Hutch.”

Starsky’s suggestion was obviously a wisecrack—it certainly sounded like one—and he’d made it because Hutch had accidentally rolled into him early that morning. Hutch didn’t even know he had butted up against Starsky until he heard Starsky’s voice. He opened his eyes, saw only ceiling from his position on his back, felt Starsky snug beside him; rather, he realized they were joined from shoulder to hip—more, that they were under sheet and blanket together, too.

But Hutch didn’t move off of him. Instead, he closed his eyes, wordlessly drifted in the ensuing silence, and continued to bask in the peaceful warmth—and closeness.

Starsky didn’t budge, either, but he didn’t seem as easy. “Did you hear me? We’re going to need a bigger bed if you keep squeezing me out.”

“Have I done it before? More importantly, is that what I’m doing now?”

“I mean, if we’re going to keep to the invisible wall, then, yeah, you’re taking up some of my side.”

Hutch laughed, but didn’t shift over. He knew Starsky wasn’t serious about the absolute no-touch argument he pretended to proffer. Hutch did, however, take mental inventory of where their bodies made contact, concluding that nothing inappropriate had transpired between them. Starsky was still dressed in shorts and shirt. Hutch played along. “We could cut the mattress in half, make twins out of it.”

Starsky wasn’t amused. “Could there be a dumber idea?”

“We could invest in a king-sized bed.”

“Or you could just stay on your side of this one.”

“I have no problem sleeping on the sofa.”

“Back to that, are we, hm?”

“You’re the one making a case for separation.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea, that’s all.”

Hutch chuckled, lying still with his eyes closed, further feeling Starsky against him, knowing he’d be disappointed to end the snug warmth between them, especially where their bared skin touched, but verbalizing a solution to appease his partner just the same. “Get out of bed and make us some coffee. Problem solved.”

“You move over. I’m not ready to get up.”

Hutch was no longer certain he’d accurately assessed Starsky’s sincerity, so he rolled back to his left shoulder, away from him, finally breaking the contact. “Happy now, buddy?”

“We need a bigger bed. That’s all I was saying.”

“I’m sorry I crossed the line.”

“Not looking for an apology.”

“I’ve rectified the situation. Are we done here?”

“Like I care.”

“About which part? My mistake or . . . how to fix it?”

Lazily, Starsky said, “You don’t scare me.”

None of their conversation made sense to Hutch that morning. “Are you back on pain meds?”

“A bigger bed, Hutch. That’s all I said.”

“Okay—and I said we could get a king-sized bed—but a good mattress is also expensive.”

Silence followed Hutch’s observation. He didn’t open his eyes; indulged in the resting, admittedly missed the physical contact with Starsky. Whatever Starsky decided about their predicament, Hutch would honor it. He waited to hear Starsky’s solution, but Starsky still didn’t say anything. “We can bring your bed over here,” Hutch finally said.

No comment.

“Move some of the furniture in the living room and set it up in there,” he continued.

No comment.

“That way, we’ll both have our own bed.”

Still, not a word.

“What do you say, Starsk? Sound like a plan?”

No reply.

Hutch rolled back, looked over his shoulder at Starsky, discovered Starsky’s closed eyes, relaxed face, slow breathing, and realized that Starsky had gone back to sleep.

Just as Hutch had initially suspected: Starsky had never been serious about getting a bigger bed; he just wanted to play with the unexpected position they’d found themselves in that morning.

* * *

“Swing by your apartment after therapy and pick up your bed?”

“What?” Starsky asked, sounding rather dumbfounded.

“We can set it up in the living room,” Hutch furthered. He drank coffee and bit into another half of a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. “There’s space for it if we move the coffee table.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said we needed a bigger bed.”

Starsky frowned, sipped coffee, didn’t leave eye contact with Hutch, but also didn’t say a word.

“This morning,” Hutch reminded him, “you said we needed a bigger bed because I’d accidentally bumped into you.”

Starsky’s expression softened, as if he remembered, and Hutch finally made sense to him. “Well, a bigger bed is different than two beds, isn’t it?”

“A bigger bed would cost us,” Hutch explained. “Bringing your bed over here will only tax our muscle and effort.”

“Mostly your muscle,” Starsky said with a light laugh and a wink. He was dressed still in his denim shorts and shirt from the night before, presumably buttoned for breakfast. He, too, ate from the plate of the halved PB&J sandwiches he’d made while Hutch finished his shower. “But we don’t need another bed.”

“So, my taking up room on your side of the bed isn’t a deal-breaker?”

“I’m not encouraging it,” Starsky said. “I mean, I’m just saying we don’t have to jump through hoops for anything else. I was giving you the facts, Detective, not making a case.”

“You can’t have a case without facts.”

“Smart ass,” Starsky mumbled. He returned to browsing the folded newspaper, lazily ate sandwiches, and drank coffee.

Hutch studied him for a minute, waiting for further explanation. He’d showered, dressed in his robe, arrived barefoot at the table in time for Starsky’s sandwich offerings. All seemed easy and relaxed. But Hutch felt confused, too. “I’m at a loss, Starsk.”

Starsky tore his eyes from his reading and shifted them to Hutch. “About what?”

“The bed situation.”

“There is no situation.”

“Then why did you point one out this morning?”

“Because you’re the one who came up with this invisible wall idea—and there you were, the one crossing it. I couldn’t resist pointing that out to you, but I wasn’t serious about fixing anything.”

Hutch understood. That he’d spent time exploring a solution now made him feel foolish. “Okay,” he said, hoping to end the matter. “In the meantime, I’ll try not to violate the border rules again.”

“Besides,” Starsky added with a shrug, “I’m not going to be here much longer anyway, right? This isn’t a long-term plan.” He went back to reading and eating. “There’s no sense fucking with the setup we got now.”

“You keep that in mind when I need a snuggle.”

Starsky laughed. “All the more glad that you shaved off your dumb mustache.”

“It wasn’t that dumb.”

“But you’re the girl between us, know what I mean? It’s best when you look like one.”

“Are you taking pain meds?”

“I feel no pain.”

“Because you’re medicated?”

Starsky looked at him, appearing—or pretending to be—insulted. “How come every stupid thing I say must be from codeine, hm?”

“Is there a connection?”

“No.”

“You’re just saying stupid things?”

“By your definition.”

“C’mon, I’m monitoring your progress; don’t play games with the answers.”

“I’m not taking any medication—and I haven’t popped a pill since the day I got here. You can stop worrying about me getting addicted. I know why you’re concerned.”

Hutch didn’t see that coming. His concern for Starsky hadn’t even considered that Starsky might grow addicted to his medication. Hutch was obviously still hypersensitive to Starsky’s needs; his mood had been consistent since his release from the hospital, and he rarely had moments of surrender. But it finally occurred to Hutch that he could only see Starsky’s silly behavior through the lens of his own trepidations about whether he could sufficiently heal his partner in a timely manner.

“As long as you’re happy, Starsk, I’ll sleep easy.”

“Obviously,” Starsky replied with a snicker. “You rolled right on top of me this morning and didn’t know it until I woke you up.”

“We can drop this conversation right here,” Hutch said; he could feel his frustration growing. He’d already made more of it than he needed to; further dialogue about the bed would only embarrass him. “What’s the plan today—besides your therapy appointments?”

“I’d like to practice more starts-and-stops, if that’s okay with you.” He didn’t sound facetious. “Things will feel normal again when I can drive my car down a city street.”

Hutch smiled at him, pleased to hear they’d moved on from the crowded bed discussion, but also because he appreciated Starsky’s hopes and ambition. “Believe it or not,” he said sincerely, “but things will feel normal for me again, too, when you can drive your car down a city street.”

* * *

“Will you stop moving around already?”

Hutch wanted to point out to Starsky that he seemed to whine a lot, but—in the end—Hutch didn’t really care that he did. He ignored Starsky’s complaint and continued to focus on treating his special needs plants instead.

“I’m trying to read,” Starsky further griped. “If you don’t hold steady so that I can, I’m going to go into the living room.”

Hutch didn’t want him to leave, so he quickly promised Starsky he’d try not to rock the porch swing so much.

They’d found themselves in the greenhouse late that afternoon, side-by-side on the bench, as they often did; Hutch tended to his plants and Starsky read the evening newspaper.

“Maybe if you put that thing down once in a while,” Hutch suggested, spraying one of his struggling succulents with a liquid fertilizer from a plastic bottle, “you might discover the finer things in life—like green and blue and white, all the peaceful colors of Earth from space.”

Starsky dropped the paper to his lap, crumpling it in his hands. “I think you’re right, Hutch,” he said, sounding dismayed. “Every headline is some bad news or another: multiple homicides and fatal car accidents, politicians on the take, kids drowning in pools . . . enough to make one sick for a lifetime, all in the same paper.”

“So stop reading. Breathe. Enjoy the quiet solitude of our oasis on this balcony.”

Starsky seemed to take Hutch’s advice; he closed his eyes and drew a long breath, slowly exhaling as he visibly relaxed.

Hutch barely rocked the swing. “Now, doesn’t that feel better already?”

“It does.”

“Imagine life without the news for a while.”

“Ignorance is bliss?”

“Why not? We’ve had enough violence in our lives for once.”

“I think you’re right about that, too, Hutch.” Starsky opened his eyes as he turned in his seat to face his partner. “So why go back in for more, know what I mean?”

Hutch momentarily sang to his budding succulent, lightly sprayed it again, set it on the table beside the bench, and focused on what he thought Starsky was saying beneath his words. “This isn’t going to be another exploration about us leaving the Force, is it?”

“Humor me.”

“With song—or dance?”

“Think about it, Hutch. If you could be anything besides a cop, what would it be, hm?”

Hutch leaned back, stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed his hands over his belly, only gave Starsky’s question a superficial glance. “A farmer,” he finally said, imagining himself growing his own food—and flowers.

“A farmer?” Starsky asked, incredulously.

“Don’t knock farmers with your mouth full, buddy boy.”

“But, I mean, you have all that talent, Hutch.”

“What do you suggest I do with it?”

“Sing and dance, to quote you earlier.”

“Think about the fruit and vegetables I could provide us: we’d never starve.”

“You singing and dancing would make enough to bring home the butter and bacon.”

“I’ve been reading about that,” Hutch said, sounding the alarm. He looked over at Starsky, into his blue eyes, saw the concern on his partner’s face, and explained, “The future isn’t in meat and dairy.”

“No?”

“Voices on the wind, my friend.”

“Who’s taking pain meds now, I wonder?”

“They’re talking about weather.”

“Who is?”

“The voices on the wind: scientists, meteorologists, those kinds of people.”

“They’re all talking about whether . . . to what?”

“They’re talking about this thing called global warming.”

“You know what your problem is, Hutchinson?”

Hutch laughed; he didn’t dare give Starsky an answer. “You’ll tell me anyway.”

“You read too much,” Starsky finished for him. “If I have to put the paper away, so do you.”

“Let’s try it for a while,” Hutch said, suddenly liking the idea. “Let’s have a week or two of . . . bliss.”

“And then see if we like pain better?”

Hutch laughed again. He did appreciate Starsky’s wisecracks. Oh, who was he kidding? There wasn’t anything about Starsky—anymore—that he didn’t worship. Starsky’s new lease on life had been his own, too. “Yeah, let’s give ourselves two weeks of news-free living, and see if we like pain better after that. But I’m betting on bliss.”

* * *

THE PLACE

“That feels really good, Hutch.”

Hutch could tell it did; Starsky was completely laid back, his eyes were closed, his breathing deeply relaxed. If Hutch didn’t have a hold on him, he feared Starsky may have let himself go and fallen to the floor; he had completely surrendered to the good in Hutch’s hands.

Their news-free two weeks of living had paid off in more ways than the one they anticipated. It had begun without newspapers at the breakfast table and carried through until end of day. Hutch would pick up the paper from inside the Venice Place doorway, carry it up the stairs, and immediately toss it into a fast-filling basket near his piano. Starsky joked that he would read them when their isolation from the news expired, and that the terrible things that happened during those two weeks would be easier to handle if they were ‘past events,’ not current ones.

Hutch bet him that they wouldn’t miss the newspaper by then, and they actually put money on the deal. It seemed harder for Starsky to give up his addiction to the press than it was for Hutch—mainly because Hutch found solace in caring for his greenery and in cooking, in his early morning jogs, and in reading bona fide books. So it didn’t take long before Starsky asked him to read for him.

Their days settled into a lazy routine: Starsky went to physical therapy three times a week, sometimes coupled with swim exercises, other times with deep-tissue massages, and all of the above on special days. When they didn’t have to go to the rehab facility, they used their time to take walks in the park, lengthening the duration of their strolls with each visit, sometimes altering the route itself for further exercise, and in starts-and-stops car practice in the empty Kmart parking lot.

To keep from being bored, they killed time in mid-afternoon movie matinees, at the supermarket for weekly supplies—or in quick shopping jaunts to the corner grocery store—and the occasional dressed-up restaurant dining. They did get Starsky’s television from his apartment one afternoon; Hutch’s had long ago broken and he never had a need to replace it. They set it up in the living room, near Hutch’s piano, but rarely watched it. Starsky, surprisingly, found more interesting things to do than turn on the TV. He preferred to play with his new car model, using the greenhouse table upon which to assemble it.

But most of their personal time together was centered at home around jigsaw puzzles, chess games, listening to music, reading books, and meal-making. As the days passed, the comfort level between them as roommates evolved into a second nature lifestyle. There was little asking each other about what they should cook for dinner, or when to do the laundry, or how to rearrange a room to make it easier to be in at the same time.

Dan the Water Man delivered the five-gallon water jugs to the bottom of the steps; Hutch carried up two over those couple of weeks, and by third delivery, Starsky thought he’d give it an honest try. He insisted he was strong enough to carry the heavy bottle up the stairs—with Hutch just a step below him—and it was true his arms were capable. But his back didn’t handle it as well as he expected or hoped, and he suffered a slight strain early on. Hutch had to finish the job for him.

“Let’s give this Herculean attempt another week,” Hutch suggested. “It’s probably because you’re used to a different kind of exercise,” he explained when he sensed Starsky’s demoralized mood setting in. “You’re going to have to relearn a lot of old movements. But it doesn’t mean you’re regressing—or that you haven’t healed as much as the doctors and radiology scans say you have.”

Starsky took Hutch’s words to heart. He needed to. There was no turning back. “Stiff upper lip,” he’d mumble to himself. Starsky didn’t have to say it, but Hutch knew he appreciated the encouraging words, all of the physical and emotional assistance, and the devoted effort Hutch invested into every day to help Starsky heal better, faster.

Starsky did his part, too. He wasn’t lazy. He’d become the one to clean up the kitchen when they were done eating, regardless of which of them prepared the meal. He was first to do their laundry—and to fold it and put it away. And they let him tackle the minor tasks—because those were the ones he could easily master—such as choosing most of the grocery items at the stores, of putting their purchases into the cupboards and refrigerator when they got home, of being the one to wash the toilet, to dust furniture, to replace the occasional lightbulb, or to clean up an accidental spill.

It was Hutch who reminded him that they’d gone three weeks without reading or watching the news. “So pay up,” he playfully demanded. “You owe me $20.”

They stopped at a bank on one of their outings for a cash withdrawal. That was when Starsky tried to shove $100 into Hutch’s hands, insisting that he should pay his way for utilities and water, for food and wear-and-tear, but Hutch refused to take it. “Save your money,” he advised him. “Do something nice for yourself. You deserve it.”

Starsky found more creative ways to pay Hutch back for his hospitality. He often beat Hutch to the restaurant check and, sometimes, when Hutch was off on a jog, he’d sneak down to the corner market to buy a few things. Hutch would predictably reprimand him about going out on his own, but Starsky would counter the lecture with his rehab results. “Says here,” he’d say, showing off the paperwork, “that I’m making ‘remarkable recovery.’”

On this particular night, the one where Hutch found himself fondly studying Starsky’s total surrender, sprawled out before him on the sofa the way he was, completely lost and immersed in the feel of Hutch’s hands, that Hutch came face-to-face with one startling revelation: he didn’t want Starsky to get so well that he would pack up his things and go home. Hutch had grown accustomed to having him around; more, to sharing life and all of its minor pleasures with him—walking and talking, dining and eating, washing sheets. Hutch’s unnerving thought that night must have translated into his healing hands because it immediately broke through Starsky’s delirium.

“Everything okay, Hutch?”

Hutch realized he’d stopped kneading Starsky’s foot. “All is good,” he said in a soft voice, resuming the task. “Don’t mind me.”

“That is good, Hutch. You give the best . . .”

Starsky apparently got so lost in the pleasure again that he couldn’t finish his sentence. He had returned from their longest walk to date that afternoon with a sore ankle. Hutch only knew that because he noticed Starsky’s slight limp; Starsky was reluctant to tell Hutch he’d hurt himself—admitting that he was afraid Hutch would think he’d had a setback and would therefore shorten his leash.

When they ended up on the sofa after dinner, Hutch insisted Starsky give him his foot—and he didn’t wait for it, either. He’d removed Starsky’s shoe and sock before Starsky could part with a single complaint. “Don’t waste time next time,” Hutch sternly told him. “Tell me when something feels off. We have to nip these things in the bud.”

He massaged Starsky’s ankle, occasionally manipulating it by turning his foot gently in a circular motion to loosen its tightness as he squeezed and kneaded it. Starsky was initially embarrassed, but he lost the battle early on to wash his foot first, and then completely forgot about it when the euphoric feeling of Hutch’s strong squeezes overtook him. “That feels really good, Hutch,” he kept saying, his voice eventually lowering into a whisper.

It was an interesting situation Hutch found himself in. He’d never given anyone a massage, let alone an ankle and foot, least of all his partner’s. Over the years, he’d squeezed Starsky’s shoulders, held him by his arm, held him in his arms, propped him up and shielded him, wrapped him in tourniquets and bandaged his wounds. But this felt different—despite its healing properties.

Maybe it was Starsky’s expression: the way he lay back on the sofa, against the end cushions, his eyes closed, his foot in Hutch’s lap, the other on the floor, his arms to his sides, his breathing relaxed and contented. On second look, it was mostly Starsky’s face that gave Hutch the warm feeling that overcame him. It didn’t unnerve him; he didn’t really even know how to define the emotions he felt. Pure love, maybe. Inexplicable gratitude. Or maybe something as simple as having learned to intimately live with someone, particularly someone who didn’t have demands on him, and especially the one who mattered the most to him.

“Give me your other foot,” he kindly ordered, helping Starsky to lift it into his lap so both of Starsky’s feet were now on his thighs. He removed Starsky’s other shoe and sock and gave his ankle the same massage treatment. He wasn’t as afraid Starsky might fall off the sofa; Hutch had a better hold of him then.

“Maybe I can do your back sometime, too,” he suggested, subconsciously thinking out loud.

“That would be great, Hutch.” Starsky’s eyes were still closed, but a smile had emerged on his mouth and eventually turned into a frown. “You might put me into a deep sleep, though,” he said on second thought and with a light laugh, “and I’ll pee the bed again.”

“Who cares? You’ve got a pad under the sheet.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said in a small voice, folding his hands over his belly, and deeply sighing. He was dressed in jeans and a light sweater, having not yet changed into his denim shorts and night shirt.

The foot massage hadn’t been planned. Hutch wished it had. He’d have turned down the lights, lit some candles, perhaps some incense, put on a record, and immersed himself in the music, not just in the feel of Starsky’s warm skin in his hands—and the satisfaction of making his partner feel good, too. “Tomorrow night,” he said quietly.

“What’d you say?” Starsky asked.

“Nothing,” Hutch explained, realizing his mistake, but still reminiscing. “I’m thinking it’s bedtime.” He gave Starsky’s foot a final compression before stopping. “Maybe we should call it a day.” He patted Starsky’s leg to convince him.

Starsky didn’t move. “Can I sleep here? I don’t think I’ve got the energy to walk to the bed.”

“I’ll carry you.”

Starsky laughed, more like giggled. “Okay, Daddy,” he joked.

Hutch carefully moved Starsky’s legs off of him and helped him to sit up. He rubbed Starsky’s back. “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” Starsky said, dreamily.

“I’ll lock up,” Hutch offered. “You be sure to hit the head before you come to bed.”

“Good plan,” Starsky agreed, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll meet you in the bedroom in five.”

* * *

“Maybe I could try driving home, hm?”

Starsky sat in the driver’s seat of his car, its door open, and squinted up at Hutch, seeming to beg for permission.

Hutch pursed his lips. He didn’t want to disappoint Starsky, but at the same time, he wanted what was best for him, too. It was a choice between Starsky’s physical health and his happiness. Hutch ultimately decided on the former, figuring he could ease the latter with reason. “Why don’t we give it another week, Starsk? Make sure the success holds. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Starsky lowered his eyes, audibly exhaled, dropped his shoulders. “Okay,” he grudgingly agreed. “Whatever you think we should do.”

“I know you’re anxious to get on with it.”

“I don’t want Dobey to give my job away.”

Hutch knelt down inside the car door and reassuringly squeezed Starsky’s knee. “He’s not going to give your job away. For one, he can’t afford to; he’d lose two cops at the same time if he did that.”

Starsky lightly laughed and looked back at Hutch, into his eyes, nodding his appreciation for Hutch’s sentiment. “It would be like losing two Sherlocks, right, Hutch?”

“Give us more credit, buddy boy. It’d be like losing ten.”

“Yeah, okay. But you think I’m doing a lot better, doncha?”

“Leaps and bounds. Have your doctors said anything about when you can start running again?”

“Soon, they said. First on a treadmill.”

“So they can control your speed. Then they’ll start you on a punching bag—so they can ease you into fist fighting again.”

“It won’t be long now, Hutch, I don’t think. I mean, I feel pretty good these days, like I won’t slip back anymore.”

“We’ve been fairly conscientious at keeping the pace.”

Starsky broke eye contact, stared into the realm beyond the dashboard. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. I hope you know that.”

“Me and thee.”

“Yeah. But, I mean, I don’t know how I’m supposed to thank you for everything.”

“Buy me a beer.”

Starsky laughed, despite his effort not to, and kept them on topic. “I’d do the same for you. I hope you know that, too.”

“I do, Starsk. Thee and me.”

They were wordless for a couple of minutes, each lost in his own rumination about their predicament—and their forever bond; at least, Hutch was; he imagined Starsky might be also, given his noticeable silence.

“How about we clear out of this parking lot,” Hutch suggested, “and you buy me that beer? Then you can be all paid up.” He stood and moved out of Starsky’s way while Starsky got out of the car, aiding him by being the brace Starsky needed for balance.

“Do they sell 500-gallon bottles of beer, Hutch?”

“I’ll gladly take it in 12-ounce infusions over the years.”

“That works,” Starsky said, chuckling. He walked to the passenger side of the car, around its front, and got in—all while Hutch stood inside the driver’s door and watched him. When Starsky was finally seated, Hutch joined him. He was about to turn the ignition when Starsky said the next provocative thing.

“I don’t think Dobey wants me back on the Force.”

“Of course he does, but why would you think that?”

“Because he hasn’t found us a case; he said he’d look for us, but keeps saying he doesn’t have any.”

Hutch started the car. “You know what I think?”

“That I’m paranoid?”

“That he wants you to focus on you. If you knew how shattered he was when you got shot, you’d never doubt his loyalty . . . it was a tough time for him, too.”

“Yeah, I know,” Starsky said reluctantly. “And you’re right about me: I’m just anxious to get on with it.”

Hutch drove them out of the parking lot and onto a surface street. “Next week this time, you can drive home. That’ll give you confidence you haven’t had in a while. We just want to be sure that your quick reflexes during practice will hold out here in the real world.”

“I know you’re right; I wish you weren’t.”

“Maybe we can think of something on our own to occupy our minds beyond jigsaw puzzles and chopping onions.”

“Like what?”

“Ten Sherlock Holmes’ minds should be able to come up with something.”

They rode in silence for a while before Starsky proffered an idea. “What if we go somewhere? Leave on a Friday after therapy, come back on a Monday before therapy. Go do something special. See things from a different angle.”

“A weekend at Dobey’s cabin?”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

Hutch laughed, kept his eyes on the road, but he could see Starsky’s snarl even without looking. “Let’s do that, Starsk. Let’s do something special. It’d be good for us both.”

“Cool. Now let’s go drink some beer—and throw around some ideas.”

* * *

“Where’s your partner?”

“He’s . . .”

Hutch was about to tell Dobey that Starsky was right there in their proximity, but a quick glance stopped his words in their tracks, and he had to finish his sentence by saying, “… around here somewhere.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Good,” Hutch replied, scouting the immediate area for Starsky, and dismayed that he couldn’t locate him. “Climbing the walls a bit, but doing good.”

Dobey ate a pig-in-a-blanket that he’d snatched from a passing tray, and asked his next question. “Climbing the walls yourself?”

“Not really.”

“He hasn’t gotten on your nerves?”

Hutch didn’t have the courage to tell Dobey that Starsky had only irritated him at that very minute: by disappearing from sight without fair warning. “We’re getting along just fine,” he said instead. It was true, but he wasn’t feeling terribly generous in that moment. He stood at the edge of the patio with Dobey that early evening, surrounded by dozens of other party guests, in the backyard of a Beverly Hills mansion, and should have predicted that Starsky would be swept away by the opulence. But to where?

“I suppose you’ve worked out the kinks by now—ten years on,” Dobey noted, chewing, “but there’s nothing like living together 24/7. You must be tired of sleeping on the sofa, I imagine.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said under his breath. To keep from lying to his superior, and to a man he respected, he said truthfully, “I’ve gotten used to our arrangement.”

“It’ll be good to see him go, though—for his sake; it would mean he’s recovered enough to be on his own.”

“I do look forward to his being recovered enough,” Hutch agreed. He still couldn’t find Starsky in the vicinity because the crowd was rather packed. “He might even be better than I think he is, given that he’s vanished into thin air inside of two minutes.”

“He probably feels born-again.”

“He’s been working hard in therapy—mainly, I think, because he’s afraid you’re going to give his job away.”

“Nonsense,” Dobey firmly replied, “and lose two detectives at once?”

“That’s what I told him, but maybe you could drop that same fact in his ear when you get a chance.”

“More than happy to,” Dobey said, looking over Hutch’s shoulder. “And you can stop worrying about him; he’s at two o’clock, talking to a couple of kids.”

Relieved, Hutch was able to think about something other than his partner even though he still couldn’t see him, but he didn’t imagine children had been invited to the police department fundraiser. “Kids?”

“Twenty-somethings,” Dobey said with a smiling wink. “Kids to you and me. Starsky is probably over there embellishing his life story to impress the youngsters.”

“I’m not sure he’d have to,” Hutch said with a sad laugh.

“No, I suppose not,” Dobey replied, his tone taking a downward turn. “My fear is that Starsky will want to lose his job once he’s back on it and realizes how vulnerable he is again—and I can’t say I’d blame him, or you along with him, for that matter.”

“Detecting is what we do, Captain. It’s in our blood. But maybe we can take safer cases—ones where we don’t need to rely on our guns.”

“That might be the trick, Hutch. When you guys are ready to come back, we’ll talk about parameters.”

“I’ll let Starsky know.”

“In the meantime, I’ll reassure him that his job is safe. I may even have the perfect thing to say.”

Hutch was about to ask Dobey what he planned to tell Starsky, but they were interrupted by the hosts of the fundraiser, a wealthy, bejeweled, well-dressed couple who had long supported police work. Hutch did his best to be interested in the small talk, to follow Dobey’s lead and thank them for their support over the years, and to be gracious, but what he wanted was to lay eyes on Starsky.

He finally got that chance when the crowd dispersed in such a way that he could see straight through to ‘two o’clock’—and Starsky came into view. He looked so happy and in his element, telling stories to what was now a captive crowd of nearly a dozen listeners.

Starsky also looked quite dapper in jeans, a shirt, and blazer—with tie; that, and he seemed to glow: his neatly combed dark hair, clean-shaven face, bright, blue eyes, ones Hutch could easily see even from that distance. Starsky frequently laughed, spoke as well with his hands, and made Hutch worry that he’d never unwind after the excitement of the socially intense day.

Caught up in dialogue with Dobey and the event hosts, and letting his guard down, Hutch lost sight of Starsky again after a few minutes. But the funders eventually moved on, and Dobey with them, and Hutch was left to fend for himself. He used it as an excuse—or an opportunity—to join Starsky’s private party in the area near the French doors that led into the house, but Starsky wasn’t there when Hutch emerged from the maze of partygoers, nor was Starsky’s former audience. Had they all gone somewhere together? Spying a few of the ‘youngsters’ mingling elsewhere, and no Starsky in the picture, gave Hutch his answer. To calm his apprehension, he accepted another glass of champagne when it was offered to him by the wait staff, and drank a long swallow.

“Hey, Hutch!” he unexpectedly heard Starsky say behind him. Hutch spun around, relieved and elated to be reunited with Starsky again. Starsky was animated with excitement; he wore that awestruck expression Hutch had seen on his face at black-tie events and, sure enough, Starsky confirmed his hunch.

“There’s seven bathrooms in that house!” Starsky exclaimed, marveling over his unearthed fact as if only he was privileged to know it. “Seven! Have you been in there?”

“That’s why it’s called a mansion, Starsk,” Hutch told him, pleased with himself for hiding his earlier concern. “Two bedrooms and a bath would make it a single-family dwelling.” He shoved the champagne glass into Starsky’s hands. “Drink. Calm yourself.” A calmer Starsky would ease Hutch’s restlessness, too.

“There’s a phone by the toilet!” Starsky said with a laugh. “A phone, Hutch, by the toilet!”

“I heard you the first time.”

“I’d have called you, but you didn’t have a phone.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. The dumb things Starsky sometimes said.

“Can you imagine that?” Starsky continued, after taking a swallow from the glass. “Sitting on the john, taking a shit, and talking on the phone?”

“I’d rather not picture it.”

“These rich people . . .” Starsky said, glancing around. He was apparently amused or impressed or overwhelmed by them. “But I guess they keep us employed, hm?” He looked back at Hutch with that ‘What do you think?’ question on his face.

“Taxpayers keep us employed,” Hutch corrected him. “The fundraiser is for programs.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“And lawsuits.”

“Hmm.”

“And to make the rich feel useful.”

“You’re such a cynic.”

Hutch smirked at him.

“Did I use the right word?” Starsky asked, sounding reprimanded. He drank more champagne and handed the glass back to Hutch. “Or are you just being sarcastic?”

Hutch couldn’t help but laugh. “You used the right word, both times,” he confessed. “You had me worried when you took off—and I’m not happy about it.”

“I only went to the bathroom.”

“I meant I’m not happy about being worried.”

Hutch’s confession seemed to unintentionally knock the excitement out of Starsky; his entire demeanor changed in that moment, and the serious, deep-thinking, down-to-earth man he knew Starsky to be emerged in a moment’s notice. “You don’t have to worry about me, Hutch. I’m not being careless, despite how it seems.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Hutch said, despite his reservations to keep his impulsive thoughts to himself. He looked around the patio and yard, realizing how stupid he must have sounded under the circumstances—and knowing Starsky knew it, too. But, in his defense, Hutch had believed the police station parking lot was also safe that day.

Starsky did seem to sense Hutch’s deeper thoughts because he offered a solution. “How about, after we get back to work, we go through all the files and figure out who’s getting out and might be holding a grudge . . . keep a record of them all, know what I mean? We can know ahead of time what the odds are for pulling our weapons.”

Hutch nodded, feeling shy and somewhat embarrassed. It was he, in the end, who was paranoid. “It’s a good idea, Starsk,” he said just beneath the cacophony of voices. “A real good one.”

Starsky squeezed Hutch’s elbow and forced him into mutually heartfelt eye contact—for which Hutch was grateful. Their momentarily wordless dialogue about understanding the other’s feelings, and accepting his insecurities, calmed Hutch’s nerves more than any amount of alcohol could ever be relied upon to do.

“In the meantime,” Starsky said hopefully, breaking the silence between them as party guests closed in, “let’s enjoy this rich lifestyle, okay? It’s not every day we get to drink champagne and pee in marble floor bathrooms with telephones in them, right?”

* * *

“What are you doing in there?”

Hutch asked the question because he knew Starsky had gotten out of bed, gone first into the living room to turn on a light, and then went into the kitchen to make himself a late night snack. But all Hutch heard was grunt noise and all he could see was Starsky’s back to him at the counter beside the refrigerator—fussing with something.

He had to ask his question twice. “What are you doing in there?”

“Making shorts,” Starsky finally answered.

“Making shorts?”

Hutch couldn’t even imagine what that meant. Starsky had worn his denim shorts to bed that night, with no shirt, and slipped under the covers, having left on the nightstand lamp, for a lazy conversation with Hutch about the other amazing things he’d seen at the Beverly Hills mansion earlier that evening. Then, after a couple of restless tosses and turns, and seemingly frustrated about something, Starsky abruptly got out of bed and went to the living room.

Beyond his two-word answer of ‘making shorts,’ he didn’t say anything else, leaving Hutch to unsuccessfully figure it out on his own. He lay on the bed with a direct line of sight to Starsky in the kitchen, somewhat shadowed, and subconsciously became aware again of Starsky’s bullet scars across his bared back. But Hutch was immediately distracted from them when he noticed Starsky unexpectedly lower his denim shorts right there in the kitchen, and fully expose his bare buttocks.

Hutch’s reaction wasn’t emotional, nor was it physical; it was, or so it seemed, purely cerebral: Starsky had a beautiful build, balanced and proportioned, mostly hairless from behind, and muscled. He also had an extremely appealing, shapely ass. Simply a fact. Hutch was given no more than that moment to consider it when Starsky turned sideways to him, bent over slightly, and pulled red shorts over his legs and up to his waist, his privates hidden in the low light.

Hutch understood: Starsky had made a new pair of shorts out of his red pajama bottoms. He then put the scissors away in the drawer, went to the living room to turn off its light, and arrived in the bedroom, to his side of the bed, appearing unburdened and refreshed. “You’re right, Hutch,” he said as he climbed back under the blankets in his new sleepwear, “the less you have on at night, the more comfortable it is.”

Hutch rolled to his right side to face Starsky. “I can’t believe you lasted as long as you did in zippered jeans.”

“Jean shorts—and tight,” Starsky corrected him, bunching his pillow under his head, and making eye contact. “But I’m beginning to think I’ll go sterile if I keep wearing them.”

“Are you planning to have kids?” Hutch joked—not that Starsky wouldn’t want to, but he’d never been so interested in a future with offspring that he cared how tight his pants were.

“Maybe,” Starsky replied, not sounding certain. “But I’m saying I don’t want to lose the ability to . . . you-know-what-I-mean.”

Hutch laughed. “Being sterile doesn’t cause erection problems.”

“Says you.”

“Says science.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” Starsky asked. He lay on the bed beside Hutch and, despite their inevitable exhaustion, seemed willing to change the subject to something serious. “I mean, let’s get this out of the way if you need to tell me more.”

What could Hutch say? He didn’t know himself how he felt, or how to describe what his thoughts had been, and why he couldn’t seem to shake the nervous vulnerability that trailed him that day. His apprehensions hadn’t been overwhelming, but the subtle anxiety did diminish his enjoyment of the evening’s party. In the end, he was happy for Starsky, to see him comfortably interacting with others, to feel his excitement, admire his personable, relaxed, and confident demeanor, even if it was from across a crowded room.

Lying on the bed with him then, the both of them finally dressed for sleep—Starsky in his new shorts, no shirt; Hutch in . . . nothing—and gazing into Starsky’s waiting blue eyes, Hutch knew only one thing: he was where he belonged; he was home. Again.

Did he want to talk about anything that preceded that moment? He didn’t. What he felt compelled to do was touch Starsky’s face, to ease Starsky’s curiosity and the concern that had triggered it, to tell him he needn’t worry about Hutch’s deeper fears; as Starsky overcame his physical disabilities, Hutch would do likewise with his emotions. Of this, he was certain. Time would be his healer.

But he didn’t touch Starsky. He wasn’t even sure why he didn’t in that instance. Perhaps it was because they lay together on a bed, in a kind of intimate setting, within such close reach of each other, in a sort of taboo environment for two straight men, especially two males who were collectively barely dressed. He didn’t think Starsky would get the wrong idea if he touched him, just that it wasn’t appropriate somehow. Nor was it necessary. He was able to convey to Starsky, through just his eyes alone, that he appreciated his partner’s interest in his welfare.

“C’mon,” Starsky said, obviously reading Hutch’s mind—through his eyes, “you can talk to me.” And then he did the one thing Hutch hadn’t the nerve for: he touched the cheek of the man who lay beside him on a bed. “We’re going to get back into that world someday. Let’s go into it armed for battle like never before.”

Hutch pressed Starsky’s hand to his face, closed his eyes and felt its warmth and tenderness. “I can’t lose you,” he impulsively said, softly, and without pretense. After half a minute of silence, of simply feeling and not thinking, of listening to Starsky’s quiet and slow breathing, he opened his eyes, looked deeply into Starsky’s patient blue ones, and bravely said, “Danger seemed more predictable before you were shot—like it had a time and place, and not that it could be so unprovoked or that we’d be so ill-prepared for it.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, accepting Hutch’s notion with a nod; he withdrew his hand to hold Hutch’s to the mattress between them, as if to compel Hutch to listen closely, and leveling his gaze into Hutch’s eyes. “But, even prepared and expecting it, every time we’ve been in a shootout, one of us could have met his maker.”

Starsky’s effort failed. “Spur of the moment moments,” Hutch said, waving him off. “It just seems we should have seen this one coming.”

“Because we could have known that killers were driving a marked car and would shoot me in broad daylight right there at the police station?”

“I know all of this, Starsky,” Hutch said, frustrated, squeezing Starsky’s fingers to drive home the obvious and get them off that well-beaten track. “Should have, could have, wish we had. I know the risks and I know I’m asking for the impossible. But the reality is that you did get shot, you did almost die, that you’re still recovering from that trauma—months later—and that I feel—”

“Skittish,” Starsky finished for him. “I get it. I could be the same, but I can’t live my life like that. Neither should you. We’ll be more careful. We’ll go on the offense. We’ve learned our lesson.”

Starsky was right on all counts, Hutch knew. The only thing he didn’t grasp—and Hutch was no longer sure he’d ever be able to explain himself in light of it—was that Hutch nearly lost Starsky . . . forever. He’d come that close, too close. He knew quite well, perhaps more than Starsky had ever known, the ramifications of that one close call. Starsky was now in his care—and Hutch was all the more aware of their vulnerabilities and the risks they faced.

“Skittish,” Starsky said again, as if he read Hutch’s mind when Hutch didn’t know he’d even had thoughts. “And that’s not the Hutch I know,” Starsky added. “Not for a while, anyway. Maybe we can work on getting you over that, hm?”

Hutch smiled, surrendering to the warmth in Starsky’s voice, to the kindness in his face, to the forgiving feel in the touch of his hand. “Okay,” he said in a whisper. He felt more than loved in that moment. He felt understood, read, accepted, insecurities and all. “I’ll work on the fear while you work on the—”

“—courage to sleep in the nude, right? Well, maybe now’s a good a time as any. It’s been a long day, Hutch, and we have to get some sleep, so let me be the one to lead the way through our phobias.”

And without another word, Starsky got out of bed again, removed his newly made shorts, tossed them to the foot of the mattress, and reached to turn out the lamp.

Hutch didn’t really know how to react beyond his initial laugh—and by then the room had gone dark. But when Starsky had inadvertently given Hutch an unexpected glimpse of his buttocks again, and then a flash of his flaccid penis and sac, his hairy lower belly and groin—just before the light went out and Starsky got back under the covers—Hutch didn’t feel as amused. Instead, he felt suddenly all the more skittish.

* * *

“Have you been ignoring the signs?”

“I said I would—and I have,” Starsky answered him, proudly. “I mean, it was obvious we came over the Grapevine . . . and ended up in Bakersfield for the night, but beyond that, I’ve been doing like we agreed.”

It had been Starsky’s idea that Hutch surprise him with some ‘special’ home-away-from-home for the weekend, but where Hutch took them couldn’t be put under wraps. So Starsky suggested he ignore the more obvious signs along the way, that he would simply enjoy the ride and whatever scenery passed by the car window, all while listening to music, eating snacks, and talking nonsense with his partner.

“I told you it would be a long drive,” Hutch reminded him, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove. “But we stayed in Fresno last night, not Bakersfield.”

“Fresno, Bakersfield. Same difference.”

“Actually, not.”

“But close enough.”

“Except Bakersfield is in the southern part of the state and Fresno is in the Central Valley. Interstate 5 the whole way. You couldn’t have missed those signs.”

“Oh, yeah, well, I remember seeing them, the ones overhead; kind of hard to miss. But the lesser signs, I mean . . . I’ve been good at ignoring those. I do have my hunch about where we’ll land, though.”

“Let’s hear it.”

It was early morning and they’d left the flat valley floor and began the hour-long climb into the mountains—winding their way into heavily forested terrain. There were few, if any, signs and, of those, they simply marked the small, occasional, blink-and-you’ll-miss-them towns they passed through.

“We’re going to Vegas,” Starsky said smugly. “But you’re taking us a different route so I won’t guess.”

“Vegas, huh? You do know east from west, right? You did see the sunset last night. Your unmatched detective skills figured out we drove north for four hours yesterday.”

Starsky didn’t say anything; he kept his gaze outside the window to the trees and the winding road.

Hutch kept at him. “And we’ve been to Vegas before. You know it’s northeast of Los Angeles.”

“Your point?”

“We’ve been headed north. Did you hear me the first time? Not northeast.”

“I figured we would go up and over.”

“Take the long, long way around—is that your logic?”

“So, you’re saying my hunch ain’t worth shit?”

Hutch laughed. “More than that: I’d be happy to tell you where we’re going since you obviously have no idea.”

“I want to be surprised,” Starsky insisted. “But now I can see we’re in the forest, so I’m thinking . . . we’re going to run into the ocean before too long . . . San Francisco.”

“You failed junior high geography, I’m betting.”

Starsky laughed, reluctantly, and made an apparent effort to calculate. “You had us out of bed early . . . in time to see the sunrise.”

“Which also appears in the west by your calculations?”

“Whatever,” Starsky said, giggling at himself, and keeping his eyes on the trees. “I wouldn’t be so turned around if we hadn’t arrived in the dark last night.”

“I know you didn’t miss the highway signs.”

“I let myself not think about them. There was a lot of other things to see on the way, numb nuts.”

“You do know we came up Interstate 5.”

“Well, yeah, but after you exited the freeway. . .”

They’d left Los Angeles after Starsky’s late Friday afternoon therapy. Hutch had insisted they rent a medium-sized car for the trip to keep wear-and-tear from depreciating his beloved Striped Tomato, and they packed it prior to Starsky’s session so they could leave straight from the rehab facility.

Stopping at a diner in Bakersfield for dinner after the two-hour drive out of the City of Angels—over the scenic Grapevine—and a short rest later, and they were on the road again. Fresno was less than half the distance they’d already driven, but they arrived in the dark, bought a room for the night at a roadside Motel 6, and slept in separate beds for the first time in weeks.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Hutch said early that next morning, about their destination. They’d bought a fast-food breakfast, had already scarfed it down, but Starsky still nursed his coffee—and did appear to appreciate the scenery, the forest and the creeks, only glimpses of which Hutch could see as he maneuvered the mountain road. “Ahwahnee,” he said, to whet Starsky’s appetite, at least to spark interesting conversation. They’d arrive in an hour, so there was no point in expecting Starsky not to figure it out. The landscape itself would tell him long before then.

“Ahwahnee?” Starsky repeated. “Is that Japanese?”

“Seriously, Starsk?”

“You don’t think it sounds Japanese?”

“It’s Indian.”

“We’re going to India?”

“Are you this stupid?”

A silent pause ensued as they drove around several curves in the road. The sky was crystal blue overhead, what they could see of it beyond the tree canopy, and the ambiance of the air itself was a typical California summer dry, despite the greenery.

Finally, Starsky said, “You mean . . . like American Indian?”

“Give the man a Gold Star.”

“Oh my knee?”

“Ahwahnee. Land of the Ahwahneechee.”

“You’re making this up.”

“If you pay close attention, you might see some of them in the trees.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“There are still seven tribes of them in existence.”

“I’m not buying any of this.”

“They specialized in black oak acorn harvesting.”

Starsky stopped encouraging him.

“I’m not saying they still live in teepees,” Hutch told him. He did love baiting Starsky, but Starsky had genuinely given up arguing with him. Hutch glanced over at him several times, in those moments when he could safely take his eyes off the road, and soon discovered that Starsky had become mesmerized by the coniferous forest they had almost immediately entered after leaving northern Fresno.

The evergreen trees were a mix of California black oaks, Douglas firs, and Ponderosa pines—among more than two dozen other species—all reaching tall toward the cloudless sky from their broad trunks. Their uniqueness had obviously caught the attention of the former New York City boy, and he got lost in their splendor.

So Hutch gave Starsky quiet time to immerse himself. Only the sound of tire treads on asphalt hummed along for their ride. There was sparse traffic on the highway, a two-lane road that wound around the serpentine bends in the granite mountain, which grew taller itself with every passing mile.

“That’s some impressive rock,” Starsky commented after minutes of silence. “I’m going to guess we’re headed into . . . the Rockies?”

Hutch smiled at him.

“Did I guess right?” Starsky asked, sounding hopeful.

“If we were a couple of states over.”

“I’m not as bad at this as you think I am.”

“You’re worse.”

“C’mon, don’t make fun of me. I’ve only been out of Los Angeles twice: both times with you—to Las Vegas and to San Francisco.”

“And in New York?”

“Never left the city.”

“But you did go to school.”

“Big Sur,” Starsky blurted. “I’ve seen pictures of the land around there. But why would you come all this way for ocean when we could see it right there in L.A., hm?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said dryly, “why would I?” He did love the look of Starsky, dressed in jeans and untucked shirt, and wearing hiking boots and sunglasses; he’d at least followed Hutch’s instructions to plan for the wilderness. But mostly he enjoyed the curious expression on Starsky’s face, coupled with his confusion and annoyance, and tinged with enthusiasm for the upcoming weekend stay—wherever he imagined it.

“Wine country?” Starsky guessed again. “We could drink at home, you know.”

“Your idea of a vacation is staying home? No wonder you haven’t seen much of the world.”

The only sign they encountered after nearly an hour of driving the winding mountain road—with a cliff side edge on the left, visible from the trees only on rare occasion—was an alert for the upcoming tunnel.

“Tunnel?” Starsky asked, unable to avoid seeing the sign, out of place among the natural scenery. “It’s not a long one, is it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hutch said, pushing his sunglasses back on his head as they entered the overhead-lit throughway under the mountain. “I haven’t been on this road before.”

Upon the Wawona Tunnel’s entrance, it was obvious it would be a long one: they could barely see its other end. Starsky squirmed in his seat, something Hutch never expected he’d do. “What’s the matter?” he asked him. “Are you afraid of tunnels?”

“I don’t like them,” Starsky admitted.

“Take your sunglasses off; it won’t be so dark in here for you.”

Starsky did as instructed, but continued to complain. “I don’t like thinking there’s all that rock over us.”

“Key word, Starsk: rock. It won’t be moving.”

“Ever hear of rockslides, moron?”

Hutch laughed. “This tunnel has been here for almost fifty years.”

“First time for everything.”

“But not necessarily in your lifetime.”

The nearly mile-long tunnel gently sloped downward toward the approaching light.

“There it is,” Hutch said about the pending end to Starsky’s ordeal. “We’re going to live after all.”

“It ain’t over until we’re out,” Starsky argued.

“Didn’t you have tunnels in the Big Apple?”

“I didn’t like them, either. Didn’t like thinking there was all that water over me.”

“Those tunnels still stand today, too.”

Starsky didn’t comment; he seemed to be more focused on gripping the door handle, as if he’d leap out of the car at the first sign of collapse overhead and somehow be able to outrun an entire Sierra Nevada mountain falling on him. As they neared the tunnel’s exit, Starsky gave Hutch a warning. “This trip better not turn into another nightmare like the last camping one we took—or so help you, God.”

“We’re here,” Hutch told him, slowing the car considerably when traffic began to back up as it emerged from the tunnel and into a lookout.

“We’re where?”

“Ahwahnee,” Hutch said, “land of the Ahwahneechee.”

They left the tunnel into bright sunshine, blue sky, tall pines and firs and oaks, and the granite mountain grandeur that came immediately into view.

“Don’t say I didn’t bring you to anything less than special,” Hutch said, laying his eyes on the magnificent landscape before them. As he pulled the car into the parking lot to the left side of the road so they could get out and soak it all in at once, he looked over at Starsky. “What do you think?” he asked, but he realized in an instant that he wouldn’t get a verbal answer.

There were tears in Starsky’s eyes and he was absolutely speechless: the unparalleled majesty of Yosemite had literally taken his breath away.

 

* * *

“Your reservation was for two beds, yes?”

“One,” Hutch said—just as Starsky said, “Yeah, two.”

An awkward pause intercepted them.

Based on Starsky’s apparent wishes, Hutch quickly corrected his answer by saying, “Two”—just as Starsky then said, “One,” and they both laughed, uncomfortably.

The middle-aged woman on the other side of the check-in counter mocked amusement and looked from one man to the other, first Hutch and then Starsky, waiting for a final answer—while Hutch felt flushed.

Starsky turned his back to the counter, leaned his butt against it, crossed his arms, and made it obvious by his posture that he planned to stay out of the conversation from that point forward.

“Two beds,” Hutch said, smiling shyly at the clerk and trying not to sound as unsettled as he felt. “I thought you were asking us how many cottages we wanted,” he lied, receiving Starsky’s painful jab in his side.

“That’s what I thought,” she said affably, resuming the paperwork process, “but I wanted to be sure because yours is the last room with two beds.”

Hutch ground his teeth, averted eye contact, signed the intake form when instructed, and was then given back his credit card and driver’s license when she handed him two keys to the cottage. He wasn’t rattled by what he may have implied to the woman, but by what he imagined Starsky must have thought to hear him say that he wanted one bed for them—when there was obviously another option.

Hutch braced himself for the razzing when they left the lobby and headed out the door to the back of the property, but Starsky never said a word about it. He was too busy feasting his eyes on their unmatched surroundings—the granite mountain walls, the tall trees, the seemingly ever-blue sky.

Once inside the small, cozy cabin, they dropped their bags onto the beds, and took turns using the bathroom, first Starsky, then Hutch. When Hutch was finished, he joined Starsky at the window that faced the mountain.

“Anything out there worth looking at?” he joked.

Starsky laughed from sheer disbelief. “There’s water coming down right there,” he pointed out—not realizing that he was that close to the cascade that flowed over the iconic Royal Arches, an exfoliation of carved rock that graced the lower face of North Dome.

Hutch hit Starsky’s arm as he turned toward the door. “C’mon,” he said, without needing to pry Starsky from the window with more than his words, “let’s go see it outside—and don’t forget to bring your camera.”

They’d already used Starsky’s camera outside the Tunnel View, taking each other’s pictures with the vast panorama of Yosemite Valley in the background. A nearby tourist offered to take a photo of them together and they were quick to accept the gift, posing with their arms around each other’s shoulders—and with big smiles.

Twenty minutes later, following a leisurely, rather scenic drive from Tunnel View down to the valley floor, and they were at the Ahwahnee Hotel—where Starsky had to come to terms with Hutch’s earlier comments. “You’re right,” he admitted when they got to the cottage. “This place really was home to the Ohmyknees.”

“And still is,” Hutch told him, ignoring Starsky’s butchered word.

“But, I mean, you’re a regular tour guide, you know that?”

“I read.”

“I read, too.”

“Newspapers, tabloids, vampire books, and—”

“—wall plaques,” Starsky said with a laugh, his way of telling Hutch how he’d come to believe what Hutch had told him regarding the Ahwahneechee. “Maybe I should have said I appreciate how much you know.”

“That’s my boy,” Hutch replied, affectionately tousling Starsky’s hair. “It was never too late for you to acknowledge and celebrate my finer traits.”

But soon after their pit stop in the room, they were off on that easy walk to the back of the hotel for a better look at the cascade. The cluttered, broken granite base of the mountain made it impossible for them to get too close, but they were able to admire the beauty of the water’s reflection in the sunshine and the way it colored the grooved, 7500-foot mountain from which it overflowed.

The mid-morning air was cool, promising a very comfortable afternoon, but not so much that they needed jackets. They wore jeans, tee-shirts, and hiking shoes. Hutch wouldn’t let Starsky embark on anything remotely strenuous, but he did want him to be sure-footed; the pathways and terrain were uneven at best. Walking, however, was the order of the day—mostly to satisfy Starsky’s therapy needs—so they wandered off across the parking lot and followed a well-worn trail into Yosemite Village.

“I had no idea all of this was here,” Starsky told Hutch when they happened upon the grocery store, having already passed the Post Office and the Museum. The shop sold more than food and spirits; there were the predictable souvenirs, but also toiletries, games, and camping gear. Starsky immediately bought two tee-shirts, a blue one that read TAKE A HIKE, and another, forest green, that simply read YOSEMITE. He gave the latter to Hutch outside after his purchase. “This one seems more like you,” he said, momentarily holding it up to Hutch’s chest so they could see how the graphic of Half Dome displayed across him.

Hutch loved the gift, but he’d taken inventory inside the store while looking for an experience to have later. “Let’s be sure to stop by after dinner and pick up a bottle of wine before bedtime. I think it’s going to be cool enough to have a fire tonight,” he imagined, having remembered the fireplace. “I didn’t notice if the room came with wood, but if it didn’t, we know where to get some.”

“Chop down a tree or two?” Starsky snickered, aimlessly leading Hutch along the roadway with his camera strapped to one shoulder and their new tee-shirts draped over the other. “I think there are laws against that around here.”

“Your brilliance is as stunning as—”

“Look at that!” Starsky exclaimed, pointing upward toward a waterfall he’d just spied. They’d seen Bridalveil Fall in the distance from Tunnel View—and passed it on the way from there to the hotel—but this one was much closer, and accessible where it splashed to the ground. Another well-traveled pathway, rather wide, invited them to follow it toward Yosemite Falls.

They maneuvered through light pedestrian traffic until they reached the landing, crowded with other tourists, and took more pictures of each other there, too. Starsky was obviously enjoying his unexpected journey in Yosemite; Hutch could tell how happy he was from his easy, natural smiles. He might just turn Starsky into a Nature Boy, after all. He’d simply needed a much bigger incentive.

* * *

“How are you holding up?”

“Tired in a good way,” Starsky said. He sat across the small table from Hutch, a corner one near the massive fireplace and a large picture window to the spectacular outside. It was early evening and they had decided to dine at the more prestigious Yosemite Valley Lodge Restaurant. “Let’s live it up,” Starsky had said, “and this time, I’ll buy.”

They’d had an overall nice day: a nearly two-hour walk in a loop around the valley—one that took them through the Museum where they spent half an hour. They followed that visit with lunch on the outside patio of the Village Grill, relaxing and exchanging few words—to simply immerse themselves in nature’s host instead. Starsky then wanted to see the Valley as a whole, so they drove up to Glacier Point for a seat at the edge of the world. Starsky had little to say there; he sat on the cliff—as close as was safe to do—and gazed for considerable time over the spectacular vista of mountain, water, and trees.

“If a person didn’t believe in God,” he told Hutch after Hutch joined him, “then this would definitely make them believe.”

Hutch silently mulled Starsky’s observation from his partner’s point-of-view, and understood how he’d come to it: there were simply no words to describe the immense beauty and magnificence of the scenery that stretched out as far as they could see. But Hutch had a slightly different perspective. He wasn’t sure he would feel as overwhelmed by the splendor were Starsky not sitting beside him on that rock, sharing the moment and, with its specialness, life itself.

High up on that overlook, the light breeze was tangible, slightly cooling, but mostly it added ambiance, giving aliveness to the otherwise picturesque landscape. In all their years together, Hutch had never imagined, let alone dreamed, that he and Starsky would sit side-by-side overlooking the iconic valley below. Just a few short months earlier, he’d been terrified to think for a second that he would forever lose Starsky. They’d come that close. But there they were, leaning against each other, joined at the shoulder, each lost in his thoughts as he admired the replenishing context that only nature herself could afford them.

They’d found themselves a private spot at Glacier Point, a rocky outcropping that shielded them from most tourists’ view as well as one that gave them a sense of aloneness together. Even Starsky understood the magical significance of the moment. “There are no words, Hutch,” he said, sounding as if even those had been a waste of effort. After a silent, reflective pause between them, he added, “Except for the part where I’m glad I’m alive to see this . . . with you.”

“It wouldn’t be the same with anyone else,” Hutch quietly agreed.

“I think it’s partly because we do the work we do. I mean, we know what it means to be . . . alive,” Starsky figured, “and this just puts it all into perspective.”

“That, it does.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer than I do right here.”

“He says—as he sits on the precipice of a 3,000-foot-high rock.”

“That’s my point: this is real in a whole other way. It’s a natural kind of—”

“Danger?”

“Not like that,” Starsky argued, not perplexed, “but like . . . this is how life is supposed to go, not by dodging bullets.”

“Next vacation, Starsk, let’s visit The Grand Canyon. It makes this look like a romp in a city park.”

“I can’t even fathom what you just said,” Starsky managed to say, sounding dumbfounded by Hutch’s comparison. “I’d be afraid I’d die from the sheer wow of it.”

Hutch grunted. “Maybe.” He gazed over the valley and made a mental note to schedule a trip to Arizona before too long. He liked this new side to his partner, a man finding the soul of his soul in real time. “We all need to connect like this,” Hutch speculated, inferring that every human being on Earth should indulge, and promising himself to do more of it. “‘Perspective’ was the word you used; you said something more profound there than you know.”

“I read about that guy who helped to save this place,” Starsky recalled—from their Museum visit. “You know the one.” It wasn’t a question; he apparently believed Hutch was knowledgeable enough to know who he’d meant.

Hutch did, but he wanted to be sure Starsky had the right ‘guy’ in mind. “John Muir?”

“Yeah, him. Talk about a life, hm? To be that in love with some place, to devote yourself to knowing it as well as he did, and to spend just about your entire existence protecting it? He’d be one of those guys you’d want to just hang out with, using all that wisdom and ‘perspective’ to tell you what really matters.”

Hutch was moved by Starsky’s vision. He’d come a long way from hating the wilderness—unless he was fishing—to wanting to learn about nature and life from one of the world’s greatest conservationists.

“How long do think he’s been dead, Hutch?”

Hutch guessed. “Sixty, maybe seventy years.”

“And what he did will be here for everyone to see and be moved by until the end of time. That’s some legacy; there’s nothing we can say or do to even come close to matching that.”

“We save lives, more than we can count,” Hutch reminded him, trying to find the bigger redeeming value of their work, “and that’s no chump change, either. Besides, you can never know what any of those people will end up doing with their lives in the long run.”

Starsky didn’t sound convinced. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Or—because they lived to have them—what their children may do,” Hutch added. “I’m fairly sure, while changing his diapers, that Mrs. Muir had no idea what her son would accomplish in his lifetime.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Starsky replied, sounding more hopeful. “But, anyway, when we have dinner tonight, let’s have a toast to him.”

“And his mother.”

Starsky lightly laughed. “Yeah, and his mother, too.”

Hutch gave his focus back to the valley, and slowly inhaled the fresh air, breathing deeply. His conversation with Starsky on that cliff edge wasn’t anything he ever entertained he’d have with him, and he liked the difference. Maybe it was time Hutch began to find the silver lining behind the violent attack his partner had barely lived through—in order that he free himself from the fear of losing him again. Theirs might be a slightly different life from the one they’d led together over the past decade—and the change would be the best thing to happen to them. Who was he to judge it?

He heard Starsky take a similar deep breath; its beautiful sound gave Hutch that privileged feeling all over again. The gift of his life was Starsky’s life. Had they grown equally closer? Or was it just Hutch who’d come to feel that way? They seemed to be kinder in the banter between them; perhaps they even had more patience with each other, more comfort and security.

Hutch had those thoughts again at dinner that night, sitting at the corner table near the fireplace and the picture window, watching Starsky browse the menu, appearing tired—“in a good way.” When Starsky apparently decided on what to eat, he lifted his wine glass toward Hutch. “To John,” he said, as if pleased not to have forgotten his toast.

“And to his mother,” Hutch replied, touching Starsky’s glass with his own before they each took a pleasing swallow.

* * *

“Give me your foot.”

Starsky obliged.

Hutch figured if he massaged Starsky’s feet and ankles before bedtime that they wouldn’t be sore by morning; they had more hiking on the agenda. A glass of wine each at dinner—and another afterward when they returned from the store for a nightcap in their cottage—and they were relaxed enough to indulge each other.

Starsky had already changed into his red, makeshift pajama shorts and his new, blue TAKE A HIKE tee-shirt. He lay back on the narrower-width sofa in front of the active fireplace and willingly propped his left leg on Hutch’s lap. “Go for it,” he said, settling into the cushions as he anticipated the pleasure the massage would give him. “We sure did a lot of walking today. Doc would be proud.”

Hutch had made the fire while Starsky lit a few candles and strategically placed them around the sitting area of their small room. Hutch dimmed the lights while Starsky popped the cork on the wine bottle. Hutch found the wine glasses in a high cupboard while Starsky turned on the radio—classical music, down low—which was actually piped in from the hotel office.

Then there they were, sitting on the sofa together, Hutch’s feet on the coffee table beside Starsky’s, the two of them drinking and reminiscing about their day, when Hutch noticed Starsky’s hairy legs and recently clipped toenails—and the desire to give him a foot message drove him to asking Starsky for the goods. Starsky’s immediate melt into expectancy made Hutch smile at him, so Hutch set aside his glass and took Starsky’s foot in his hands.

“I may have to start charging you for these,” Hutch teased him. He first squeezed and rubbed Starsky’s calf.

Starsky held his wine glass on his belly and briefly closed his eyes. “Name any price—and it can’t be more beer.”

“Fine, because you still owe me a few hundred pints.”

“That feels good, Hutch.”

It felt good to Hutch, too. He kneaded Starsky’s ankle, his foot, took his time, and enjoyed the feel of Starsky’s warm skin and muscle as much as he did the exercising of his hands. “We had a good day,” he said matter-of-factly, reflecting on the trip so far.

“I like this being lazy thing, too,” Starsky admitted with a light laugh. “I mean, I can get used to this.”

Hutch could see the smile on Starsky’s face, lit as it was in the amber light of fire and candles, and reminding him of all things familiar that made Starsky the most important person in the world to him. Maybe he should take that intimate, quiet, calm moment and ask Starsky to consider not moving out of the apartment. Maybe if he promised him foot massages every night, Starsky would give it serious consideration. Or maybe Hutch was just realizing, all over again, how much he never wanted to lose the man.

Not even the sight of him.

* * *

“I spy . . . with my little eye . . .”

Hutch laughed at Starsky’s silly comment; he lay on his back in the grass in Cook’s Meadow beside Starsky, his arm bent over his eyes, his legs crossed at the ankles. They were both dressed in jeans and hiking boots—and their new tee-shirts. The sun was warm, the temperature couldn’t have been more perfect, and the long shadows of the late afternoon had cast a beautiful glow over the valley. But Starsky was apparently alert and still awestruck by their surroundings.

“I said, Hutch . . .”

“I heard you.”

“I spy . . . with my little eye. . .” Starsky repeated, that time in a singsong voice. “That’d make a fun song, Hutch, but don’t you want to know what my little eye spies?”

Hutch took the bait, trying not to laugh. “I’m dying to hear it.”

“A moose!”

Hutch couldn’t repress his reaction—and laughed again. “You’re weird.”

“What’s so funny?”

“You don’t see a moose.”

“I sure damn do.”

“Beg to differ, buddy.”

“Beg all you want. I’m looking at a bona fide moose across the way. There’s people over there taking its picture.”

“It’s not a moose.”

“How would you know? You haven’t even looked at it.”

“And yet I still know it’s not a moose.”

“It’s got giant horns, Hutch.”

“It’s not a moose.”

“Well, if it ain’t a moose, then what is it, hm? It’s huge.”

Hutch finally caved and rolled to his side—into Starsky—to look off across the meadow to where Starsky pointed. Hutch saw the grazing ungulate right away, surrounded by a few people and their cameras, and then he rolled to his back again. “It’s not a moose.”

“You keep saying that, but you don’t say what it is.”

“A bull elk.”

“You sure about that?”

“Moose aren’t found this far south—and that elk doesn’t have horns; it has antlers.”

“Antlers. Horns. Elk. Moose. Same difference.”

“Yet again, Starsk,” Hutch said, laughing, “you’re wrong on all points.”

“There’s a bunch of them over there now.”

“It’s called a herd.”

“Smart ass.”

“It never ceases to amaze me just how little you know about the world around you.”

Starsky poked Hutch in his side. “Ask me about guns and cars.”

“I’d rather not.”

Starsky grunted, and didn’t say another word about his worldly knowledge—or lack of it.

“Ready to head back?” Hutch asked him.

“No.”

Neither was Hutch. It was such a perfect day, an absolutely, stunningly beautiful afternoon. Now in the company of a wild herd of elk, they lay not far from the Merced River which was fed by Yosemite Falls—the waterfall they could see from their central position in the meadow. In fact, most of North Dome and Sentinel Point finished off the breathtaking granite rock-filled view from Cook’s Meadow. The grass was lush and tall enough to be cushioning beneath them and the trees around the meadow’s perimeter were filled with a variety of birds and their songs. It was the most peaceful place on Earth that they’d ever been to together.

They’d bought lunch from the grocery store, an eclectic assortment of snacks and sandwiches, bottled water and juice, as well as another bottle of wine, which they shared straight from its source. Olives and crackers, cheese and fruit, egg salad sandwiches and dill pickles. But also chips and cookies, peanut butter and sourdough bread, nuts and candy—figuring it would save them time from buying food in the early morning when they had to leave for Los Angeles. They had to be back the next day in time for Starsky’s late-afternoon therapy session.

They ate their fill and then dozed, Hutch on his back, Starsky on his belly, propped for a while on his elbows because he couldn’t get enough of the picture of nature before him. That’s around the time he saw the ‘moose.’”

“Hey, Hutch.”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Hutch stayed behind his bent arm, his eyes closed, bathing in the gentle silence—and Starsky’s masculine voice, low and relaxed. “I’m listening.”

“I was going to tell you last week, but then I thought it’d be more fun to tell you on our trip.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I was going to tell you at dinner last night, but then you said we should make a fire at the cottage and have ourselves a bedtime toast.”

“But?”

“I was going to tell you then,” Starsky explained, “but then I fell asleep.”

Hutch remembered. He’d massaged Starsky’s feet, both of them, his calves, too, and his legs as far as the hem of his shorts. Starsky spent the entire massage moaning his pleasure with his eyes closed. It was when he no longer made those low-level, contented sounds that Hutch happened to look over just in time to grab the wine glass out of Starsky’s hand before he dropped it in his sleep. Hutch slipped it from Starsky’s fingers without waking him and set it on the coffee table. He then slouched into the sofa cushions, hugged Starsky’s legs more snugly in his lap, closed his eyes, and listened to the softly playing music—and Starsky’s deep-sleep breathing.

“Tell me now,” Hutch said, assuming that’s what Starsky wanted to do, and dismissing his previous night’s memory for the present moment. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“Why would I be?”

“For not telling you sooner.”

“It’s getting later by the minute,” Hutch said with a light laugh. “Just say it.”

“At that fundraiser last week, the one at the mansion, you know? Dobey said he was afraid I was going to quit my job.”

Hutch smiled; he was pleased to learn that Dobey had made a mention of the job to Starsky. “And you told him, what?”

“That I had no plans to quit the job. I said it’s in my blood—like it’s in yours—but that we were going to be smarter from here on out.”

There had to be more to Starsky’s conversation with Dobey—or why would he wait until their trip to tell Hutch so little? “What else, Starsk?”

“He said the Department is going to pay all my medical bills.”

That was news Hutch hadn’t known until then, and it enormously pleased him. “As it should,” he commented.

“More than that, Hutch.”

“They’ll pay your leave of absence?”

“They’re going to pay for all my therapy, too.”

“Great news, buddy.”

Another minute of silence passed. Hutch almost fell asleep in the warm sun and the quiet solitude in one of the nation’s most iconic parks, but Starsky poked him in the ribs again.

“There’s more, Hutch.”

Hutch waited. When Starsky didn’t say anything, he understood that Starsky wanted his attention, so he lowered his arm, opened his eyes, and looked over into Starsky’s blue ones. “You were promoted,” he assumed. His heart actually raced on that notion. He never wanted Starsky to outrank him while, at the same time, he would be proud of his advancements. But losing Starsky wasn’t just a physical threat, and the look of sheepishness on Starsky’s face didn’t help Hutch’s suspicions, either.

“They’re going to compensate me for all the grief,” Starsky said.

“Compensate you, how?”

“With six hundred and seventy point five.”

Hutch had to figure out what he just heard and its context. “Are we talking money here or a new badge number?”

Starsky frowned at him, his eyes momentarily narrowing. “New badge number?”

“I was guessing a promotion.”

“No, you idiot. I gave you a money number.”

Hutch had to calculate it then, not certain he’d heard the amount correctly. Starsky couldn’t have meant $670.50—not for what he’d been through. “Are you saying thousands?”

Starsky pursed his lips, as if he was embarrassed to admit it, but it was written all over his face.

“Dollars?” Hutch asked, incredulously.

Starsky lifted his eyebrows as if to say, “Can you believe it?”

Hutch couldn’t. He had no choice but to fully awaken so he could better decipher this unexpected news. “You’re telling me that the Department—on top of paying your medical and therapy bills—is compensating you with $670,500?”

“After taxes,” Starsky said, trying to repress his smile, “and give or take a few hundred dollars.”

“You’re not serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

Hutch stared at him, waiting for the punchline, but none came. Starsky was obviously quite sincere; the monumental news explained why he waited for someplace special to tell it. “I don’t even know what so say,” Hutch said, letting out his breath, not realizing he’d been holding it until then. His heart stopped racing and he was filled with enormous empathy instead. “I’m speechless.” All he could do was feel.

“You’re not mad at me for waiting all this time to tell you?”

“Hell, no,” Hutch said, laughing with disbelief as the facts sank in. “Your reasons are sound.”

“Great,” Starsky said with relief, but then his voice went somber again. “Now I have to tell you something that might really make you mad.”

Hutch couldn’t imagine a single thing that would anger him; besides, Cook’s Meadow wouldn’t allow it: everything in context and perspective. “You spent it already?”

Starsky didn’t laugh. “I don’t even have it yet.”

“What then?”

“Promise me you’ll hear me out before you say anything?”

“I promise.”

“I mean, hear me out so you won’t take this the wrong way, okay?”

“Starsk, how long have we known each other?”

“So you’ll hear me out and not take what I’m going to say the wrong way, right?”

Hutch squinted at him. He could tell Starsky was nervous about what he planned to disclose and Hutch didn’t want him to feel that way, but he also wanted to know sooner than later what troubled him. “C’mon, just tell me; if I take it the wrong way, you can set me straight.”

Starsky braced himself before he spoke. “So . . . I’m thinking . . . I’m going to take some of that money and buy a big house.”

Hutch’s heart sank. There was no hearing it wrong. Starsky had been worried Hutch would think he was unhappy living in Hutch’s tiny apartment—hence his comments about needing a bigger bed. Hutch knew it was a pipe dream of his—and maybe even overly sentimental—that he and Starsky live together. Starsky finally had the means and opportunity to buy a house, set down his roots, get ahead in life in a way he hadn’t before. But Hutch closed his mouth to keep from showing his disappointment while he expressed his appreciation for Starsky’s happiness through the warmth in his eyes.

Starsky waited for something. For what? For Hutch to ask him whether he’d been unhappy with their recent living arrangement? But then it hit Hutch, hard. “You’re thinking about buying a house someplace else? some other town? some other state?” The ‘state’ part of Hutch’s question didn’t make sense to him, either, because Starsky said he’d told Dobey he didn’t plan to quit his job—even though he obviously could afford to.

“I’m not leaving the area,” Starsky insisted.

“Then what aren’t you telling me?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

“I’m happy for you, partner.”

“I want a big house,” Starsky repeated himself, seeming to start over. “I’m thinking about getting a three- or four-bed-room, two- or three-bath house . . . with a huge backyard, a swimming pool, and an outdoor hot tub.”

Hutch listened to Starsky’s dream and was truly happy for him, despite the disappointment he felt for himself. “Why would you think I’d take any of that the wrong way?”

Starsky drew a breath, seemed to steel himself, and then braved his answer. “Because I want you to live there with me.”

Hutch choked. “What?”

“Now, c’mon, don’t take that the wrong way, okay? I’m not saying we’re going to sleep together; you’ll have your room and bathroom, and I’ll have mine, and then we have another bedroom or two for guests or whatever.”

Hutch blinked back his sudden tears, and bit his lip, but he failed to keep the swell of surprise and joy from leap-frogging throughout his heart.

Starsky noticed Hutch’s unrepressed emotional reaction and quickly said, “Well, don’t you think we get along all right? I mean, we’ve spent the past few weeks practically living on top of each other . . . and we’ve done good, maybe even better than we thought we would ourselves, don’t you think?”

Hutch touched Starsky’s cheek, hoping to calm him down, but it didn’t translate because he was still visibly speechless.

Starsky frowned, not understanding Hutch’s silence, and still apparently feeling he needed to explain himself. “Think about it, Hutch: we can keep having meals together, you know? We can watch TV and do puzzles and fold the clothes and wash dishes. We do so much together already at work and outside work. We might make life easier if we live together, too. Pool our resources.”

Hutch finally smiled past the well of tears in his eyes. “Okay,” he said softly. He could barely say that much.

“Okay, as in, yes, you’ll live with me?”

“Okay, as in, yes, I’ll live with you.”

Starsky broke free of his apprehension with a laugh. “Well,” he said, finally smiling, and sounding palpably surprised, “that was a lot easier than I thought it’d be.”

* * *

THE JOB

Hutch woke just before dawn—when the arriving light had begun to ease the darkness—and he immediately sensed he was alone on the bed. The apartment was as still as midnight. But when he turned his head toward the window, he discovered that Starsky was beside him on the mattress, and that he was asleep. His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and slow; his arms were folded to his chest, and his hands were tucked under his chin, as if he hoped to never leave dreamland.

It was the first time Hutch had a minute to himself just to bathe in the miracle of Starsky’s presence. They had literally dodged a bullet a few months earlier; a quarter-inch either direction into his spine and Starsky might not be lying there with him on that quiet Tuesday morning. He may have been buried instead under a headstone that would loom over his remains for all eternity. But there he was: audibly inhaling, slowly . . . a breath that was followed by a pause in which he seemed not to move . . . and then the inevitable exhale, long and deep.

Hutch studied the shape of Starsky’s nose, his closed and relaxed lips, the birthmark beneath his right eye. Thick, black eyelashes. Dark brown, naturally wavy, but mussed hair, recently cut, falling over his forehead. Emerging black whiskers over his cheeks, chin, around his mouth, under his nose. The dark hair on his forearms, his tanner skin, the muscled bicep beneath the short sleeve of the green YOSEMITE tee-shirt. His perfect fingers. The ever-so-slight pulsing skin in his neck, signifying his life blood.

Hutch was tempted to touch him, to feel Starsky’s warmth and aliveness at his fingertips, but he didn’t want to wake him, either. Theirs had been a long day, the one before: they had awakened at sunrise in Yosemite Valley, quickly showered and dressed, bypassed their shaves, made coffee, poured it into paper travel cups, loaded up the car, and hit the road. The first ninety minutes of the ride was over scenic, winding mountain roads, driving past views they were sorry they had to leave behind, but once they reached Fresno, the desert highway straightened into a direct southern run to Los Angeles. They only stopped in Bakersfield for a quick lunch to fill in where their snacks couldn’t, and later for fuel in the small truck stop in Grapevine—before climbing over it and into the City of Angels—arriving in plenty of time for Starsky’s therapy session.

They then returned the rental car, swapped it out for the Torino, transferred their gear from one vehicle to the other, and Hutch drove them to Venice Place. After they unpacked the back seat, Starsky ordered a pizza and set the table for dinner while Hutch put their clothes into the washer and the leftover Yosemite food in the refrigerator and pantry. They were exhausted by the time the pizza was delivered and they could sit down to eat—with few words between them.

“It’ll be an easier day tomorrow,” Hutch promised, pushing the pizza box toward Starsky when he finished his fill. “All we have planned is a walk in the park.” After Starsky raised his eyebrows at Hutch—in a way Hutch couldn’t read him, but he recognized as mischievous—Hutch had to ask, “What? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I’m pretty sure I know a shit load of stuff that you don’t know,” Starsky said with a snicker.

“You couldn’t prove that by me, Mr. Moose Man.”

Starsky laughed, sort of despite himself. “We’re to meet with Dobey in the morning,” he explained.

“When did you learn that?”

“At the fundraiser last week; we made an appointment.”

“And is that what you knew that I didn’t?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Hutch repressed his smile. He was too tired to outsmart the instigator between them; he couldn’t even keep up with him. “But what’s your point, Nostradamus?”

“That we have more planned than just a walk in the park.”

“I see you missed my point.”

“Which was?”

“That we’ll have an easier day tomorrow from the long one we had today—with or without our Dobey appointment.”

Hutch had settled that debate without more argument and waited for Starsky to finish the last piece of pizza, drink it down with half a glass of water, and then figured they didn’t have any other reason to not leave the table. Still, Hutch reluctantly got out of his chair; he could have slept where he sat. “I’m going to crash solid tonight,” he predicted, glad to be done with driving.

Starsky agreed. “But I have to say, Hutch: I slept great in Yosie Might. That was a kind of quiet I wasn’t used to and I sure did like it.”

“Yosie Might.” Hutch didn’t even have the energy to give Starsky the satisfaction of being annoyed by its butchering, except to note it.

Wordlessly, they each used the bathroom, locked the doors and turned out the living room and kitchen lights, and eventually met in the bedroom. Starsky had already changed into his red pajama shorts and a green tee-shirt, and was sitting at the edge of the mattress when Hutch came into the room.

“When we get that house,” Starsky dreamed, not looking at Hutch as he swung his legs over and slipped them under the sheet and light blanket, “we can each get a king-sized bed.”

“A good idea,” Hutch said, briefly considering it. He was too tired to think about it further. As he stripped out of his jeans and black tee-shirt and tossed them to the nearby chair, he noticed that Starsky was actually wearing a green YOSEMITE tee. “Did you buy one of those for yourself, too?” He couldn’t remember when Starsky would have done so.

“It’s yours,” Starsky admitted. “I’ll wash it tomorrow.”

Hutch found the abduction of his clothes, especially by his partner, somewhat charming—maybe even a wee bit sentimental. “Do me a favor,” he said, pulling the sheet and blanket over himself, and blissfully dropping his head into his pillow with sweet relief.

“Name it,” Starsky cheerfully replied, turning back to shut off the bedroom lamp.

“Promise me you won’t wake me in the morning. Sleeping in is the only way I’m going to have survived this . . .” Hutch could barely keep his eyes open, let alone finish his sentence.

“This what, Hutch?”

“. . . trip,” Hutch finally said—and that was the last word he spoke before sleep mercilessly overtook him.

Life without Starsky. Hutch would never survive it—not then, not ever. As he lay on the bed early that morning, he was once more reminded just how monumentally fortunate he was to still have Starsky with him. Perhaps he would never take the man for granted again; nearly losing him would see to that. And it wasn’t despite the sometimes fighting between them—or even the constant, daily banter—but because of it, that Hutch knew where he stood with Starsky. There wasn’t anyone with whom he’d ever been as safe, as sure of, as comfortable with in his own skin.

The reaffirming reminder of their special relationship—from the escape Starsky barely made—may have been a kind of blessing in disguise. Hutch would never have dreamed he’d sleep with Starsky in the same bed, warm beneath the covers beside him, feeling liberated in his nudity, listening to Starsky’s precious sleep-driven breathing . . . and Hutch knowing—in his heart-of-hearts and in the deepest parts of his soul—that no one could replace Starsky, that life wouldn’t be worth living without him, and that he didn’t want nor need anything or anyone else for as long as he himself was alive.

There was no greater love for Hutch than the one he felt for the man sleeping on the bed beside him that morning; the recognition again in that belief brought irrepressible tears to his eyes. What had he done so right to have been given something so wonderfully beautiful?

It was at that exact moment—the one where Hutch silently reaffirmed those facts about his life and his one real love—that Starsky opened his eyes. Their light-filled blue made contact with Hutch, not precipitously, not with alarm or startle, but as if Starsky had heard or felt or sensed Hutch’s sentimental emotions, and he was stirred out of sleep.

Hutch smiled at him—a shy, gentle, inviting smile, welcoming Starsky into the next day of their lives. “Good morning,” he said in a soft voice. He was tempted again to touch Starsky, to ease the look of sudden epiphany from his face, but something in that inexplicable expression, and something about their proximity on that bed, their still-unprecedented closeness, and in Hutch’s naked vulnerability, prevented him from lifting his hand.

Starsky rose to his elbow. He never used words to greet Hutch. Instead, he pushed the sheet and blanket to Hutch’s waist and leaned into him, effectively pushing Hutch into passiveness. On an inhale, Starsky bent over him, placed his lips against the middle of Hutch’s chest, and gently kissed his bare skin, with softness and at length.

There was no confusion in that instance for Hutch, no misunderstanding on his part, no misread of Starsky’s intentions: Starsky had seen the fleeting look of love in Hutch’s tear-filled eyes when he woke up, coupled by that warming smile, and the only way he knew how to respond to the magnitude of that moment was to kiss Hutch’s heart in reply.

Hutch closed his eyes and lightly laughed. He was amused and yet touched by Starsky’s unexpected kiss, and loved him all the more for his playful affection. “Be careful,” he kindly warned, joking with Starsky about how that kiss could be misused.

Starsky ended the intimate contact, pushed the sheet further down on Hutch, to the middle of his thighs, and purposefully exposed him to the cool morning air, to the dawning light, and to obvious further play. In an impulsive reaction, Hutch grabbed Starsky by his tee-shirt sleeve; he barely got Starsky’s name past his lips, let alone the words he actually needed to stop Starsky from whatever it was he may have otherwise intended—but Hutch was too late. With a soft moan, Starsky quite tenderly kissed the crown of Hutch’s already tumescent penis.

* * *

“Don’t,” Hutch said as his head spun. He could barely speak the word. He wasn’t even sure he spoke it out loud. He also didn’t know what to feel. He wasn’t certain he should be angry or elated or embarrassed—or feel some other emotion he couldn’t seem to isolate. But he did know he’d been immediately held captive to the tantalizing sensations Starsky’s lips created on his swelling penis.

“Starsk,” he tried again when his first order was disobeyed. It wasn’t too late to keep Starsky from making an irreversible mistake. “C’mon.” He gently pulled Starsky’s hair to end his soft kisses after his few words and the tug on Starsky’s tee-shirt had failed—to at least get Starsky’s attention. But all Starsky did was moan in aimless reply—and apparently not to express dissatisfaction, but to suggest the opposite: he enjoyed what he did.

Despite lifting his head, Hutch couldn’t see Starsky’s face because Starsky was bent over him—but he could feel Starsky’s intimate touch and the warmth of his breath. After half a minute of reluctantly enjoying the sensual kisses, Hutch dropped his head back into his pillow and stared blankly at the ceiling, bathed in morning light. He tried to concentrate on the shadows overhead instead of on what was happening between his legs, but he failed at that, too. When he opened his mouth in a pant to ease his anxiety more than to cool his internal heat, he felt his heart noticeably pounding.

Perhaps he should just wait it out, this whatever Starsky had planned or pretended to unleash. Was Hutch being dared? Could he repress the teasing, orgasmic ache that slowly built from deep inside him?

Starsky’s playful kisses left Hutch’s crown and became sensual sucks along the length of his stiffening shaft, their sensuous wetness creating an entirely different kind of pleasure for Hutch, one that heightened his excitement—or maybe it was his need—for something more satisfying.

But it still wasn’t too late. “Starsky,” he said again, with firmer intentions that time. “What . . . are you. . . do-?” Once more, his words were interrupted by the demands on his flesh; Starsky unexpectedly cupped his sac and carefully massaged his testes—as if he was completely aware of that fine line between threatening harm and pleasuring them—adding a new titillation to the bliss of his caressing lips. He bathed Hutch’s erection from base to tip in loving strokes of his tongue while his hand slid up the shaft and pulled Hutch’s penis away from his now heaving belly.

His thumb tantalized and pleasured Hutch’s frenulum, that hypersensitive, sweet spot on the underside of his penis where the shaft met the head. The sensation was slippery, too—Starsky’s saliva and Hutch’s pre-cum together created a special kind of viscosity, and it heightened Hutch’s want for orgasm.

This much Hutch understood at that moment: he’d finally surrendered to the compelling invitation. It was now too late to turn back. He wanted more. He needed it. The anticipation was everything. “Oh, yes,” he softly begged, finding Starsky’s head and his hair with his fingers and guiding him down. “Starsk . . . suck my cock.”

Starsky released him and shifted on the bed; Hutch didn’t know specifically how Starsky moved, beyond what he sensed, because his eyes were closed—as if he could somehow pretend that what was happening to him wasn’t actually happening if he didn’t see it. The truth was, just as Hutch suspected, Starsky needed a better angle to fellate him. As he pushed the covers further back, he nudged the inside of Hutch’s thigh, encouraging Hutch to open his legs so he could kneel between them.

It had been a long time since Hutch had enjoyed the ecstasy of an orgasm; he hadn’t dated in months prior to the shooting, and he hadn’t felt the urge for it since. But the animal in him had been awakened that early morning, and Starsky didn’t hold back; it was as if he knew, too. He swallowed Hutch’s hardened penis deep into his mouth, tickling his hypersensitive skin with his tongue on its way in, and adding the firming stroke of his open, saliva-lubricated fist on its way out.

Propped on his right hand and using his left, he sucked and he licked and he kissed and he stroked Hutch from one glorious end of his sizable erection to its other, never losing ground in its smooth glide nor stalling its inevitable build. The longer he sucked, the faster he stroked—yet he seemed to know, or at least appreciate, that he could do both without pushing Hutch over his crest too soon. There was something profoundly innate in Starsky’s delivery: it was beautifully timed, impeccably lubricated, and uninhibitedly given—all with the exact degree of pressure and tightness, as if his hand and mouth, especially together in tandem, had been made specifically for bringing Ken Hutchinson to ejaculation in the most sensual and sexy act of love Hutch had ever experienced.

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered, speaking between labored pants, his entire body quivering, “. . . that feels . . . so . . . good.”

It was Starsky’s deep inhales, Starsky’s low moans of pleasure, Starsky’s exuberance and his enthusiasm in pleasuring Hutch, that inevitably put Hutch over the line. In a panic, he gripped Starsky’s arm and tried to pull him off. “I’m going to come,” he breathlessly said—but Starsky didn’t comply with Hutch’s wishes.

Hutch had no choice, but to completely surrender. The wave of pure ecstasy that overtook him mercilessly overwhelmed him, too, pushing cries of intensely blissful expression out of him with each expulsion of semen, all while emptying the warm, convulsive content of his sac into the warmer wet desire of Starsky’s devouring mouth.

Sweat drenched Hutch’s bared skin, his heart wildly pounded in his chest, and his head uncontrollably spun. Only when time gave him permission to climb down from the euphoria to some level of normalcy was he able to cover his face in his hands—and momentarily cry. Something had gone terribly wrong and yet it couldn’t have been more perfect.

* * *

Hutch reluctantly opened his eyes when he heard flatware rattle in a kitchen drawer, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted into the bedroom. He stared momentarily at the ceiling, failed to get his focus, and then rubbed the sleep from his face. Perhaps he was still in his dream. When he exhaled and dropped his arms to his sides, he realized that only the sheet covered him to his waist, that he lay on his back toward the middle of the mattress, and that Starsky was clearly no longer on the bed.

As was sometimes the case in their mornings, Starsky was making breakfast for them—and Hutch had apparently overslept. Despite the lateness, he closed his eyes, hoping for a few more minutes of peaceful dozing, when he abruptly opened them again. The sudden notion that his dream may have been a reality bolted him awake.

The fellatio he experienced had been too vivid and gloriously satisfying to have been a figment of his imagination; the unparalleled intensity of that orgasm couldn’t possibly have been a romp through dreamland. But the implications of its reality terrified him, too.

He explored his chest and belly for signs of dried or caked semen, and felt none. Thinking maybe he had dreamed it after all, his heart sank when an isolated stickiness in his pubic hair at the base of his penis lent itself to the irrefutable evidence that he had ejaculated—and obviously not by his own hand. No dream, Starsky’s mouth on him; no dream, Starsky’s kissing and sucking; no dream, that Hutch had fully erupted in Starsky’s mouth, despite his effort to derail the action—and Starsky had either cleaned up the semen or . . . eaten it.

Hutch looked into the kitchen and saw Starsky at the sink, his back to the bedroom, washing a dish or something. He was dressed in a tucked shirt and belted jeans. Quickly rising and dressing in his robe, Hutch figured he could get into the bathroom before he was seen—and he succeeded, carefully closing the door once in, and leaning against it . . . while he trembled. What was he to make of this unprecedented event in their lives? How was he supposed to rationalize it? He hated himself for his inability to land on a single emotion long enough to guide his jumbled mind in any particular direction.

No doubt the sound of the shower alerted Starsky to Hutch’s escape; after all, he didn’t say a word to Starsky as he passed through the room. Hutch wasn’t sure why he felt so shaken. He couldn’t even remember if he had completely bathed himself, and may have washed parts of his body twice, absentmindedly. The idea of facing Starsky made him shudder with distraction. If he could just figure out how he wanted to assimilate what had happened to him, he might know what to say at that moment of truth. But there was no lead he could follow.

He finished his shower, towel-dried himself, didn’t shave, redressed in his robe, and entered the living area of his apartment. Luckily for him, Starsky was then at the toaster, buttering bread or something, so Hutch slipped into the bedroom and rooted around in his dresser for proper clothes; they would keep him from being as vulnerable as he felt.

“You okay in there?” Starsky called out to him.

Trying to sound convincing, Hutch replied, “Yeah, fine.”

“What did ya say?”

“Fine,” Hutch repeated himself, raising his voice. He slowly exhaled so Starsky wouldn’t hear his follow-up. By the time he finished tying his shoes and joined Starsky in the kitchen, his partner was seated at the table—reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee and a plate of peanut butter sandwiches. Hutch sat in his usual chair, avoiding eye contact, even if there had been any—but Starsky didn’t look up, at least not for a minute. A cup of hot coffee had been placed at Hutch’s table setting. He picked up a half of sandwich and bit into it, barely chewing it, let alone tasting it.

“Good morning,” Starsky said. He’d inwardly bent the upper right edge of the newspaper to peer over it at Hutch; that much Hutch could tell from the corner of his eye; it hadn’t been the first time Starsky had looked at him in such a way. “I was just about to wake you when you beat me to it.”

Hutch grunted and drank hot coffee to wash down the sandwich while he ground his teeth.

“You okay?” Starsky asked.

“I said I was fine.”

“Yeah . . . but I said ‘good morning,’ and you said nuthin’.”

“I’m eating.”

“Those are two words, too, you know? Like ‘good morning’ is two words.”

“Leave me alone,” Hutch finally said, speaking impulsively, and certainly not the ‘thing to say’ that he’d hoped he could manage when examining his options in the shower. Predictably, he heard Starsky crumble the newspaper and set it aside on the table.

“Do you want to tell me what the problem is?” Starsky asked, his voice taking a somber turn.

Hutch could only be honest. “I don’t know.”

“Did you hurt yourself in the shower?”

Hutch didn’t answer. He ate another bite of sandwich and drank coffee instead. He didn’t want to believe Starsky was then placating him, patronizing him, baiting him.

“Can you look at me?”

Hutch braved it; he lifted his eyes to Starsky’s—and saw the shimmer in their beautiful blue, but also that they were noticeably concerned and maybe even . . . confused. At least he shared that in common with his partner that morning. But Starsky also appeared showered, shaved, energized—and that unbelievable aliveness oozed out of his pores.

“Did I do the wrong thing?” Starsky asked, not sounding intimidated.

“I don’t know.”

Starsky sat back against his chair. “Oh,” he said in a quiet voice. “So that means maybe I did.”

If Starsky wasn’t sure, perhaps it was because the fellatio had been a dream—an extremely vivid, maybe even a wet dream, but a dream nonetheless. There was only one way to find out, and Hutch didn’t have the right words for it. He unfortunately went with his gut. “How can you be so blasé this morning, huh?”

Starsky slowly raised his head and then dropped his chin—to say, without words, that he understood the question, despite not having an answer. But it was a confirming gesture and it served its purpose to finally give Hutch direction. He could then pinpoint at least one thing he was feeling.

“What ever possessed you?” he angrily asked.

Starsky’s mouth fell open; he was speechless, and seemed to blink back his innermost reaction—or so it appeared to Hutch. Then, in what definitely sounded like a controlled voice, Starsky said, “We can talk about this in the car if you want. We’ve got less than 15 minutes before we have to leave—”

“For where?”

“Our appointment with Dobey. We can talk on the way. Or . . . you can hold it until after the meeting . . . when we can get something substantial to eat afterward and talk about it without being interrupted.”

Hutch was visibly shaking. He also had to repress the urge to cry. He had no appreciation or understanding for his emotions, and Starsky’s postponement of dealing with them only fueled them. He put the barely eaten half-sandwich back on the plate and drank coffee from the cup in his trembling hands.

“I toasted those,” Starsky said, pushing the plate in front of Hutch as he sought levity in the moment—but he would get none. “You have to eat something.”

“What did you do with it?” Hutch shot at him, making firm eye contact, his pulse racing, and using Starsky’s words as a cue.

“What did I do with what?”

“My cum, Starsk. What did you do with it?”

Starsky tried a laugh of disbelief, plainly felt cornered, and then confessed. “I swallowed it. What was I supposed to do with it?”

Hutch couldn’t look at him then; he stared at the plate of sandwiches instead. His blood boiled. So many questions pole-vaulted through his mind, and there was no time to settle on a single one.

Silence blanketed them until Starsky pushed back his chair, grabbed the sandwiches from the plate, and stood. Before departing the table, he gave Hutch his orders: “C’mon, let’s go,” he said, not mincing words. “You can eat in the car. You’re in no shape; I’ll drive this time.”

* * *

“I promise I’ll stay on surface streets,” Starsky had stipulated. He was behind the wheel of his beloved car in public for the first time in months.

For Hutch, it felt as if they hadn’t missed a day. The sound of the Torino’s wheels on the asphalt was familiar and comforting; it differed in volume and speed from the way he drove the car over the many weeks Starsky couldn’t. Perhaps that was part of its appeal: Starsky’s unique driving style was the one thing that had finally returned their lives to normal.

And yet, it wasn’t a typical day. The tension Hutch felt as he rode in the passenger seat and stared out the window that morning wasn’t the result of a romantic relationship gone bad—like the one he barely survived when knife-wielding Diana Harmon attacked him in his shower. Or even the weight of grief, such as the experience and the shootout he survived after losing Gillian, that had emotionally buried him. This time, the gravity of the moment had been caused by his partner.

What was Hutch to do with such a notion? Starsky’s wet kisses, his stimulating tongue and his gentle, sometimes fervent sucking, his warm mouth and his lubricated hand—taking Hutch’s hardening penis in increasingly rapid strokes all the way to his ejaculation, and then eating his semen. How could Hutch ever possibly process that? The vivid memory made him shift uncomfortably in his seat as he continued to gaze out the window, but he didn’t see much because the explicit pictures in his mind took precedence.

On the flip side, in fleeting moments, he was haunted by another reality: what was so wrong about Starsky pleasuring him? Wasn’t the fellatio simply a generous gift from the person Hutch loved most in the world—and ever would? What about that seemed so inappropriate?

Nearly halfway to police headquarters, Starsky broke the silence and inadvertently into Hutch’s private thoughts. He didn’t sound intimidated, but his voice hinted at his apparent concern. At a stoplight, and after a lengthy sigh, he asked, “Can we at least clear something up before we get to Dobey?”

Hutch didn’t have the strength to placate Starsky, not even for himself, so he cracked his window for fresh air—mostly to cool his emotional sweat—and didn’t say a word.

Starsky persisted. “Answer me this: Did I do something against your will?”

Hutch could only be honest. “Maybe.”

“I mean, did I rape you?”

The absurdity of Starsky’s question forced Hutch to look over at him. He could tell right away that Starsky wasn’t playing around. “No, Starsk,” he quickly replied, especially to put an end to Starsky’s worry about his perceptions. “It was nothing like that.”

Appearing visibly relieved, Starsky kept his eyes on the road and accelerated through the intersection. “Did I molest you?”

“No.”

“Did I assault you in any way?”

“Stop with it, Starsk. It wasn’t that kind of wrong.”

“Are you saying we can agree that I didn’t commit a crime?”

Hutch knew Starsky didn’t mince words that morning; there wasn’t any sarcasm or facetiousness in his tone. He sincerely meant to define his actions and wanted to be cleared of criminal intent or malfeasance. “There wasn’t anything illegal in what you did,” Hutch assured him. He went back to looking out the window. “I don’t feel violated in those ways.”

“Then what kind of wrong was it?” Starsky wondered, sounding demoralized about what he’d done and how it had been received. “Religious like?”

“You took advantage of me,” Hutch said on impulse. He didn’t know any other way to describe it; maybe if he’d had more time to think, to analyze, to decipher the clues, he could make better sense of it for himself—at least for Starsky. “It was early morning,” Hutch recalled, feeling his way along, “and we were barely awake . . . I was there for the taking . . . and you took.”

“Why’d you let me?”

Defensively, Hutch replied, “C’mon, man, I’d have let anybody blow me in that instance.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. In the dark, a mouth is a mouth.”

Starsky grunted. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll let anyone blow me in daylight, too,” Hutch added. “Same as you.”

“No, you wouldn’t and neither would I—and you know it, so why are you being a dick about this?”

“I’d let a moose go down on me,” Hutch furthered, mainly because he’d been offended by Starsky’s assessment.

“You’re being stupid now—on purpose.”

“Weren’t you the one who’s said you’d fuck a snake if someone held its head?”

Starsky huffed and closed his mouth. They didn’t speak to each other for several minutes—while Hutch wished he hadn’t been as quick to respond to Starsky’s questions—nor as defensive. He needed more time. Didn’t Starsky offer to let him talk about it later, after the meeting with Dobey, and wasn’t Hutch trying to push it off until then? It was Starsky who’d broached the subject in the car.

“Okay,” Starsky eventually said, easing back into the conversation when they were less than a block from headquarters. “So, here’s where we are: I didn’t commit any crimes, I took advantage of you and a situation, you’re pissed as hell about it—and rightly so from your point-of-view—and I’m . . .”

“You’re, what?”

“Really sorry, Hutch. I really am sorry. So let’s end it here, okay? I’ll never do anything like that to you again. On my word.” He turned the car into the parking lot and backed it into an open space against the building. “If you can forgive me,” he said as he shifted the gear into park and turned off the engine, “we can put this behind us here and now. Clean slate.”

Hutch sat in the passenger seat and stared out the windshield for half a minute while Starsky waited behind the wheel for his answer. Hutch didn’t have one even then, try as he might, except to say what was in his gut. He opened the car door, but before he exited, he paused and said over his shoulder, “I can forgive you, buddy, but—for the record—this is far from behind us.”

* * *

Hutch had to wait at the bottom of the stairs for a couple of minutes after he realized Starsky was no longer behind him; his partner had been hijacked by several uniformed police officers—three young women, in fact—who apparently were quite happy to see him alive, at least to have him back in the office. If Starsky had waited a couple of hours longer, he could have had a woman instead of the male body lying beside him in bed that morning.

When Starsky finally broke away from the officers and approached Hutch, Hutch watched the women head in the opposite direction and, without making eye contact with Starsky, impatiently said, “They couldn’t get enough of you at the fundraiser last week?”

“Not everybody was there,” Starsky replied with a palpable snarl. He walked past Hutch and led them up the stairs.

It wasn’t their usual way of walking through office corridors; typically they walked side-by-side, but on this day, it was one or the other trailing behind. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for them to climb the steps in single file. While Hutch followed Starsky that morning, he remembered a particular time Starsky followed him, lagging behind because he’d been sickened by a deadly poison. Hutch really did want to let it go—the sexual experience he’d earlier permitted—especially in light of the times he’d almost lost Starsky, the most recent to a near-fatal shooting.

But what had transpired between them that morning wasn’t anything Hutch could just slough off. Too many conflicting thoughts and feelings haunted him over it, not the least of which was why Starsky would even think to behave in such a manner with him. Had those bullets to his back also affected his brain?

On the staircase landing as they ascended the steps, and for no particular reason, Hutch noticed Starsky’s butt; not that he hadn’t seen it over the years: he did know what his partner looked like from head to foot—but mostly dressed. He didn’t view it in that instance through any sexual lens, either. It was more of a memory, a flashback, to seeing Starsky’s bared buttocks in the kitchen the night Starsky made shorts out of his pajama bottoms—and again when Starsky removed them before getting into bed. Visualizing the shape and look of Starsky’s naked cheeks wasn’t a reflection Hutch appreciated having just then.

He was still feeling embarrassed about it when he and Starsky entered Dobey’s office, presumably right on time for their appointment. Dobey immediately rose from his desk and took Starsky in his arms—as if he hadn’t seen him in months. He admitted that he was near tears to see Starsky come through a door he once feared he’d never do again.

Hutch sat in the second empty chair in front of Dobey’s desk as Starsky took the other, and only then realized Dobey had expected they would shake hands. He apologized to the captain, but didn’t make the effort to indulge him because Dobey went back to his seat.

Once there, Dobey gave both men the once-over. “One of us was running late,” he joked, smiling at them. It was apparent which of the detectives he referenced: Starsky was dressed in jeans and shirt, Hutch in sweats and running shoes.

“I forgot about the appointment,” Hutch submissively admitted. “I did take time to brush my teeth—if that helps.” Starsky had actually waited for him in the car while he did so. But Hutch wasn’t on his game. He felt discombobulated. And Starsky didn’t seem to be much better. He hadn’t said anything beyond his greeting.

Dobey was interested in small talk at first, asking Starsky how his therapy was going, whether he needed anything beyond what was already obvious, and when he thought he might return to work. “No pressure,” Dobey promised.

Starsky told him he thought the doctors would end his rehab sessions in the next few weeks.

“Where did you boys go for the weekend?”

“Yosemite,” Starsky was quick to say. “Hutch had been there before, but it was my first time.”

“What did you think?”

“Life-changing,” Starsky said, sounding as humbled then as he had felt in the shadow of Yosemite’s splendor. He then got to his feet. “I’m going to get some coffee. Can I get you some, Cap’n?” When Dobey said he’d love a cup, Starsky asked Hutch the same.

“No,” Hutch said, not looking at him. He only raised his eyes from the floor when Dobey cleared his throat after Starsky left the room.

“Are you mad at him about something?” Dobey asked, crossing his arms on his desk and leaning forward. “Are you guys in a fight?”

“We’re okay.”

“Something tells me you’re not. I’ve known you too long not to know that much.”

“Just a misunderstanding,” Hutch conceded.

“What did he do now?” Dobey wondered, sounding lighthearted, but Hutch sensed the seriousness in his question. Dobey didn’t like it when his two favorite detectives locked horns, and always made an effort to get to the root of the problem.

But Hutch didn’t dare tell him what Starsky had done. “Just a living arrangement conflict of interest.”

“Deal breaker?”

“No,” Hutch said after a pause, not realizing how contradictory he sounded because of it.

“Is it the money?” Dobey asked. His tone was quite sober then.

“The money?”

“The arrangement,” Dobey tried again to clarify. “I mean, I told him last week that he could probably get more from the city, but he said he didn’t want the legal battle.”

Hutch was wordlessly grateful for Starsky’s decision. Perhaps the last thing they needed was the stress of a dragged-out lawsuit. “It’s quite a chunk of change just the same.”

“You must understand that I wanted it to go down the way it will, but I didn’t want to stir anything up, either. Starsky had been through so much.”

“He has,” Hutch agreed. He broke eye contact from Dobey’s empathetic expression to summon his own, once he got past his rattle of the morning’s memories.

“So have you.”

Hutch looked up at Dobey again, into his wise eyes, into the face of a paternal superior, a man he’d grown to respect more than his own father. He quietly nodded his appreciation of Dobey’s observation. Starsky could have died, but Hutch would have gone on to live an empty shell of a life.

“I was so pleased that Starsky wanted to handle it the way he does. The Department backs him on it—and so do I. This feels good from every which way, don’t you think?”

Hutch heard Starsky thank the person who held the door open for him when he returned to the room, a ceramic cup in each hand. He set one on the desk in front of Dobey as Dobey lit up with excitement—over coffee—and then Starsky sat in the chair beside Hutch again. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not of consequence,” Dobey replied. He and Starsky then talked briefly about how they liked their coffees, and Hutch’s mind wandered back into his abyss until he sensed their conversation eventually turn from coffee beans to contracts—or something along those lines. Only when he heard Dobey speak his name for what felt like the third time did Hutch snap out of his trance.

“Sir?” he impulsively asked.

“Are you with us today?”

“I need more sleep,” Hutch lied.

“I said, are you okay with the split?”

“The split?”

“You agree that fifty-fifty is fair, don’t you?”

“Um . . . Captain,” Starsky injected, sounding sheepish and drawing both men’s attention. “I didn’t exactly tell him about this part yet.”

Dobey shifted his eyes from Starsky to Hutch and back again. “Why not?”

“Because if I told him before right now, he’d shoot it down.”

“He’d be a fool.”

“Yeah, but . . . I mean, thinking about it in hindsight, maybe I’ve done something against his . . . wishes—again.”

“Again?”

Hutch knew why Starsky had used that word—and there’d be no way he’d explain it, would he? In a flash of panic, Hutch recognized one thing about how he’d been feeling: Starsky giving another man fellatio was a Starsky he didn’t know, so perhaps he was also a Starsky who’d tell Dobey what he’d done to Hutch that morning.

“I mean, sometimes I take liberties,” Starsky explained to Dobey. “This was something I wanted to do—it was the right thing to do—but maybe he won’t see it that way, whether you and I think he should.”

“No one turns this down,” Dobey asserted.

“You’d be surprised what someone will turn down,” Starsky said, obviously feeding innuendos over to Hutch.

“Keep this up, Starsk,” Hutch retaliated, “and I’m leaving the room.”

“I’m just telling the Captain . . . I mean, I’m preparing him for—”

“How about we just proceed?” Dobey suggested. He drew their focus to the paperwork on the desk before him. “The Department has signed off on the agreement. All we need now is your signature, Starsky, to approve the deposits.”

As if he’d just remembered, Starsky removed a couple of small pieces of folded paper out of his back jeans pocket and gave them to Dobey. “I think that’s all they need for those, right?”

Dobey briefly scanned them and then handed one slip to Hutch. “Look that over and make sure it has the correct information on it.”

He’d handed Hutch a deposit slip—from Hutch’s own bank account. Hutch abruptly looked at Dobey, dumbstruck. When Dobey simply raised an eyebrow at him, as if to convey that he was completely the innocent party, Hutch looked over at Starsky, to his profile, to what was Starsky sitting forward, sipping coffee, and seeming to steel himself against what he imagined Hutch’s reaction would be. But all Hutch could think to ask was, “What have you done, Starsk?”

“Same as you’d do if the tables were turned.”

“He’s right,” Dobey agreed, “and you know he is, Hutch. So, verify that information and let’s get on with this.”

* * *

“You did that way too well, Starsk.”

“The money split,” Starsky asked, “or the sneaking a deposit slip out of your checkbook?”

“The going down on me,” Hutch said, irritated because Starsky had misread him—or played him.

“Oh,” Starsky mumbled under his breath. He lowered his eyes to the opened menu on the table and browsed its content. They had already each ordered a beer. “Do you want to share some fries?”

Hutch squinted at him as he tried to figure out if Starsky really was more interested in his stomach than in discussing the delicate circumstances between them. When he was convinced Starsky was truly immersed in the former, he kicked Starsky’s foot. “Did you hear me?”

Starsky quickly looked up, locked eyes with Hutch, pursed his lips, and raised an eyebrow. His nonverbal reply spoke volumes. It seemed he had no interest in talking about the fellatio he’d performed that morning. His sights were obviously aimed on a different target, as if he and Hutch had already settled the sex matter and he simply needed confirmation about its long-term outcome. “Do you still want to be partners with me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hutch replied with a growl.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’?”

“Where did you learn to give head like that?”

Starsky’s facade, his sarcastic, bold appearance, his apparent resolve, melted away in an instant. “I didn’t learn it anywhere,” he defensively said.

“You just happened to give the best blow job a man could ever get because . . . Casanova’s your middle name?”

“Whoever that is,” Starsky snarked, as if he didn’t know.

Hutch glared at him in silent reply, picking up his menu only when Starsky went back to reading his, and stared at its text until it blurred his vision. There was no way Starsky would let it lie that he’d provided Hutch with the most pleasurable fellatio he’d ever experienced—the way Starsky seemed to do in that instance—unless Starsky had something deeper to hide.

The implication of that truth unnerved Hutch, again, except this time he was able to consciously identify it. “You told me some years ago,” he recalled, dropping his menu and looking up at Starsky, “that I couldn’t possibly be ‘sophisticated’ enough to handle Blaine ‘preferring’ a man—and, all along, you were living a double life yourself?”

“I’m going to have a turkey sandwich,” Starsky decided, sounding nonchalant as he closed his menu, “with fries.” He slowly—or maybe it was reluctantly—made eye contact with Hutch, seemed to pretend to notice Hutch’s perplexed expression, and then flat-out asked, “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

“Experience, for one.”

“With what, I mean, specifically?”

“You know what.”

“Refresh my memory.”

Irritated, Hutch said, “Sucking cock. Practice makes perfect?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Tell me where you think I’m joking.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not gay.”

“Explain your mouth on my dick this morning.”

“Explain your dick in my mouth,” Starsky snapped back. They spoke quietly so they wouldn’t be overheard, but the hostility in their voices was palpable. “It works both ways.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I didn’t put a gun to your head.”

“Worse. You put your hand on my balls and your mouth on my dick.”

“You said it wasn’t against your will.”

Hutch didn’t back down. If he could force the truth on Starsky from the look in his eyes alone, he’d prefer the nonverbal message to keep from saying anything too impulsive out loud, but Starsky was being pig-headed—and perhaps on purpose. “I beg to differ,” Hutch argued. “I said it was definitely against my will, but that it wasn’t rape.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Not everything has a legal definition—nor is it necessarily black-and-white.”

“I didn’t victimize you.”

“You took advantage of my nature, my feelings, and my DNA.”

“Let’s start with that DNA part.”

Hutch’s first reaction was to ridicule Starsky for his ignorance; his next to berate him for baiting him, but Hutch took a second look before he spoke. Was he dealing with a gay man, a repressed homosexual who’d only hours earlier emerged from the proverbial closet? It wasn’t possible. Not the Starsky Hutch knew in his heart-of-hearts.

Or was it? On the one hand, there Starsky was in all of his glorious masculinity—his dark hair and unshaven face, his deep voice and his male clothes; black curls of man-hair peaked over his shirt collar—coupled with a history rich in alpha formidable-ness. Starsky’s beloved, albeit stolen, Playboy collection. The girl-chasing they’d done together—and the competition behind it. Starsky’s sincere—or so it seemed at the time—dismay when he learned John Blaine was gay. His repeated, respective broken hearts when he lost Terry, Rosey, and Kira.

But then there was also that little matter of fellatio.

Turning it again on its side, Hutch couldn’t imagine that any straight man’s DNA would allow him to pleasure another man sexually. He knew his own wouldn’t. How did Starsky get past his hard-wiring if it weren’t already compromised?

But that wasn’t the question Starsky wanted answered. Hutch tried to explain it, keeping his cool until he knew the score. “I can’t speak for yours, but my dick has a mind of its own.”

The waitress interrupted them at that moment, setting down their beer bottles and asking them if they had decided what to have for lunch. Embarrassed, because he wasn’t sure how much she had heard him say as she walked up to the table, Hutch stared unseeing at his menu again.

“Turkey sandwich with the works,” Starsky told the waitress, “and fries on the side.” After a short pause, he added, “He’ll have the same.” He then thanked the waitress, didn’t even watch her leave, and instead looked Hutch in the eye. “You were saying?”

“Every man’s weakness is his dick,” Hutch calmly replied, picking up where he’d left off. “Am I wrong?”

“Let’s say it is. But your point?”

“That I caved for no other reason than my dick was long overdue for a good wank. I’d have let—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’d let a moose blow you, but the truth is you don’t want to be responsible for your part in what we did this morning.”

Hutch’s hackles rose, but he successfully bit down on what he might say, ground his teeth, and didn’t leave firm eye contact until the seemingly deepening blue in those eyes looking back at him made him break. What about Starsky’s accusation felt so demoralizing? Hutch said what first came to his mind. “No man is that good at head unless he’s—”

“I’m not gay. I’ll keep saying it until you hear me.”

Hutch wanted to believe; the last thing he could handle was learning Starsky had lived all those years in a lie. “I don’t understand it then,” he said, feeling defeated, and looking back at Starsky. “Were you sleep walking?” He almost said ‘sleep sucking,’ but he wasn’t in the mood for plays on words, nor Starsky’s snickers, assuming there’d have been some. This was no game Hutch played.

“I woke up,” Starsky began, “feeling close to you . . . and I thought—”

“I was feeling close to you, too, buddy, but not so much that I’d suck your cock.”

Starsky nodded, as if he understood, and in a quiet voice, he said, apologetically, “Okay.”

“What did you expect in return?” Hutch blurted. He didn’t even know the question existed until it surfaced in that impulsive moment, pushed there by his irritation and frustration. “Was I supposed to suck you off, too?”

“Did I ask you to?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t expect anything in return.”

“Then what did you plan to get out of it?”

“The pleasure of giving.”

Hutch couldn’t fathom that idea, either; of course, he appreciated it when applying it to sex with women, but he didn’t fully understand it in this situation. Why would Starsky enjoy pleasuring Hutch in that way? “Come clean with me,” he insisted. “How long have you been thinking about sucking my cock?”

“I’ve never thought about it before.”

“Until this morning?”

“I didn’t even think about it then. I just did it. That’s all.”

“And got nothing but the joy of giving from it, huh?”

Starsky’s momentary falter made Hutch realize there was, indeed, more than what lay on the surface. He waited for Starsky to do as he had asked and to explain himself on that deeper level.

But when the silence threatened to linger, Starsky shrugged. “Are you asking me if it turned me on to do it?”

That was another question Hutch hadn’t anticipated, but he rolled with it in search of answers. “Did it?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, it was sex, wasn’t it?”

Hutch sat bluntly against the bench seat and felt bewilderment rush over him again. He didn’t know what else to ask except what immediately came to mind. “You got a hard-on out of it?”

As if he could read Hutch’s follow-up question, Starsky replied, “I took care of it in the bathroom when you went back to sleep afterward.”

Hutch felt the breath get knocked out of him. He was speechless. It had been enough to process the reality that Starsky had fellated him; it was more disarming to learn it had also given Starsky a means for masturbation.

“C’mon, Hutch,” Starsky complained, reading Hutch’s nonverbal reaction. “What’d you expect?”

Hutch laughed in disbelief. “None of this, Starsk. None of it.” He was too frustrated, angry, and confused to even speak more about it, despite how baffled he felt. Instead, and more flippant than he intended, he said, “But thank you for the money.”

It was Starsky’s turn to sit back against his seat. He closed his mouth, didn’t leave eye contact, slumped in posture and in demeanor, too. He shrugged, appearing sheepish and helpless at once.

“Just help me understand this, Starsk.”

“I’ve got nothing more to say. I did what I did because . . . but, anyway, what’s the point of this conversation? I fucked up. I’ve apologized and I’m doing it here again. But I’m not gay.”

“What then?”

“Think of it as an accident.”

“How can you be that perfect at something you’ve only done once?”

“So you’re beating me up for making you feel good?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? How about you simply explain your skill . . . and convince me of your motive?”

“Can we just forget this, please? I’m sorry I did it. I’ll never do it again. You have my word.”

Their sandwiches were delivered, but neither of them noticed at first, nor did they say anything to the waitress, not even to thank her for the delivery. Starsky picked at a French fry, but didn’t eat. Eventually, reluctantly, and not sarcastically, he added, “You’re welcome for the money. You deserve it as much as me.” When Hutch didn’t reply, not even to debate him, Starsky asked, “Can we at least put that to rest between us?” They had briefly debated the money split in the car. “We have to start this repair somewhere, don’t we?”

Starsky was right; there’d be no peace between them if Hutch couldn’t first acknowledge that his pain had been no less great than Starsky’s; it had simply been different. But, more than that, neither of them were going anywhere without the other. It wasn’t as if half of Starsky’s money in Hutch’s bank account diminished Starsky’s financial well-being; they were in that together, equally, as two hearts, one life. If Hutch had learned anything while lying in Yosemite’s grassy meadow, it was that Starsky was the only thing Hutch—had ever—needed. He couldn’t imagine life without him.

An abrupt wave of grief overcame Hutch with that notion and he had to look out the window to the street to distract himself from its debilitating weight, to not expose the sudden weakness that consumed him. He hadn’t gotten any revealing answers from Starsky, not really, not ones that mattered. Hutch had spent the morning trying to corner him, but realized he’d only punished the man instead, made him defensive, pushed him into a shut down. That’s not what Hutch wanted. None of that morning had been what Hutch wanted.

But why did he feel so inexplicably overwhelmed by it? In the scheme of what was their forever-bonded lives, he could have handled it differently, better, wiser. Anger ruled, but it wasn’t alone. What else lurked beneath the surface that he still couldn’t quite put his finger on—besides heartbreak?

“Are you crying?” he heard Starsky gently ask him.

Only then did Hutch realize a tear had come to his eye, and he wiped it away. He didn’t explain it—not because he hoped to hide its trigger, but because he couldn’t verbalize what he didn’t understand.

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky coaxed him, subtlety tapping the table to encourage Hutch’s compliance. He appeared genuinely concerned and upset by Hutch’s visible pain. “C’mon, buddy, what’s the matter?”

Hutch gazed into Starsky’s patient blue eyes and shrugged; the person he needed most in that moment felt so far away. “Honestly, pal?” Hutch asked, having never felt more helpless, “for the life of me, I don’t know.”

* * *

“It breaks my heart that you don’t trust me,” Starsky lamented. He was around the corner in the bedroom but, despite its subdued tone, his voice carried plainly into the living room.

“I need time alone,” Hutch explained as he unfolded a flat sheet and spread it lengthwise over the sofa cushions. “I’m only a few feet away.”

“You can be just as alone in here as you are in there,” Starsky informed him, still sounding plaintive. “C’mon, Hutch, sleep in the bed.”

Hutch next unfolded the blanket and tucked its edges into the feet corners of the sofa. He was immeasurably tired, and not from any physical feat or exercise, but from emotional exhaustion. He couldn’t wait until his head hit the pillow, mostly to shut off his mind for a few hours rather than to sleep. Maybe Starsky could just leave him to it. But after a lengthy, audible exhale, he heard Starsky’s promise.

“Can you just come in here tonight? I won’t touch you.”

Hutch spun where he stood, then sat on the sofa, elbows on knees, and wrung his hands. Hearing the heartfelt cry in Starsky’s voice stalled him from going into the bedroom for that longed-for pillow. He’d been a wreck all day and figured he could use the by-himself time to work things out.

“Hutch? Do you hear me?”

“I have to think, Starsk,” Hutch said. He would have reassured Starsky that it wasn’t personal, but he realized how lame it could have sounded, and that it would only lead to further debate.

“I said I won’t lay a hand on you, Hutch. You have my word. You have to know it’s good.”

Those minutes Hutch wanted just to think passed in silence—without a single tangible thought in his head—and coupled by a stillness that was broken only by Starsky’s renewed effort.

“Please, Hutch? You can still trust me. You know that, doncha? I won’t hurt you like that again. You have to believe me.”

Hutch finally rose to his feet and went to the bedroom; Starsky didn’t hear him enter because he was lying flat on his back on the bed, wearing his red pajama shorts and Hutch’s green YOSEMITE tee-shirt—his face covered in his hands. Hutch may have broken Starsky’s heart by planning to sleep on the sofa, but his own melted when he laid eyes on Starsky’s pain. “Okay,” he said, surrendering, his voice alerting Starsky to his presence. Hutch was willing to endure the hurt for them both rather than see Starsky be distraught.

“You’ll sleep in here?” Starsky asked after he dropped his hands, made eager eye contact with Hutch—and sounding guarded in his hope. “You believe me, right? I won’t—”

“Yeah, Starsk, I believe you.”

Starsky appeared immediately relieved—not just innocently and beautifully lit in the amber light.

Hutch let him know he’d only be a minute, that he had to turn off the living room lights and lock the doors. When he returned to the bedroom, Starsky had his back to the doorway, was facing the outside wall, and had pulled the sheet to his hip, covering his legs.

Without rolling over, and when he obviously sensed Hutch’s presence, he said, “I’ll leave you to be alone, Hutch.” His voice was heavy with gratitude and the relief he apparently felt to have Hutch join him for the night. “Let me know when you want me to turn the light off.” The lamp was on his side of the bed. “I won’t bother you, okay?”

Hutch sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to Starsky; he stared at the floor and deeply sighed. How had things gone from such closeness and gratitude to his feeling isolated and abused? What real wrong had been done to him that he should be so unhappy? When he recalled details of the fellatio—Starsky’s warm, wet, sucking mouth, his stroking hand, his mutual moans of pleasure—Hutch felt aroused, but also angry again. Why the latter? Maybe it was as simple as the obvious, that no straight man should want to fellate another, or that he was never asked permission to engage, or that Starsky could be as nonchalant about it as it appeared he was?

Or maybe Hutch was angry at himself for allowing the sexual encounter to have gone all the way. He could have easily stopped Starsky. Why didn’t he?

On closer examination, Hutch did know he had been put off by the idea that Starsky masturbated afterward, no doubt with thoughts and memories of the fellatio he’d performed only minutes before—or worse, that he’d eaten Hutch’s semen as if it had been an everyday thing for him.

At the restaurant earlier, after Hutch admitted to Starsky that he didn’t know why the sex between them had brought him to tears, they ate in relative silence—at Starsky’s encouragement. “C’mon,” he’d said, “let’s eat so we can get out of here.”

Hutch barely finished his meal. He ate slowly, stared blankly, answered Starsky’s superficial comments with wordless nods and the occasional small talk. “That car is the same color as mine,” Starsky had said, noticing a vehicle parked on the street outside the restaurant window. “Yeah,” Hutch said. “Maybe we should stop at the market on the way back and get some apples,” Starsky said. “Good idea,” Hutch replied. And so their aimless, mindless lunch had gone—until they had finished eating. Hutch paid the bill; Starsky left the tip. He also drove them, first to the market.

They walked the aisles together, picking a few things off the shelves and putting them into the basket Starsky carried. They didn’t talk much inside the store. Hutch trailed Starsky from aisle to aisle, sometimes distracted by an item he thought they should buy, but mostly aware of Starsky’s presence—his familiar walk and his clothes, his masculine voice and his overall build.

On occasion, Hutch would remember the fellatio. How could he ever forget it? Starsky’s loving tongue on his hardening shaft, licking him into orgasmic heights that would inevitably end in his ejaculation inside Starsky’s snug, warm, wet, inviting mouth. Following Starsky in the store, and recalling such moments, Hutch quickly felt the arousal again, immediately displaced by anger, resentment, and that inexplicable grief. He stalled behind Starsky, let a distance grow between them, gave himself a minute to climb down from his physical sensations, and allowed his mind to take control instead.

“Any particular cereal sound good?” Starsky asked, stopping them in the aisle to let Hutch catch up to him. “I think we’re almost out of Cheerios.”

Hutch avoided eye contact, pretended to care about cereal brands, and shrugged. “Whatever you want is fine by me.”

Starsky chose a box of Grape Nuts and put them in the basket. He then turned on his heel and led Hutch to the next aisle.

That’s when Hutch unintentionally noticed Starsky’s butt again. He slowed his pace considerably at that moment because, unlike the time at the police station earlier that morning, he feared his reaction wouldn’t have been so benign. He confessed to himself that he was incensed to have such thoughts—after ten years of following Starsky on many an occasion without once actually admiring his ass—and he resented the man for the trigger.

At the produce entryway, Hutch nearly bumped into Starsky when he turned the corner, grateful not to have collided at the last second, but also not making eye contact.

“Bananas, maybe?” Starsky asked, as if they hadn’t nearly collided.

‘Bananas, naturally,’ Hutch silently cussed. He ended up excusing himself from the store completely, telling Starsky he would wait in the car. When Starsky eventually joined him there, a paper bag in each of his arms, Hutch helped him by moving the seat forward so Starsky could put the groceries in the back.

He then got behind the wheel. “Let’s go home,” Starsky cheerfully said.

Home.

For then, home was Hutch’s small apartment—and to a shared bed. Had that been Starsky’s reason for wanting to return to it?

Closer still in his assessment and Hutch realized he was wrong about that; Starsky was definitely on the bed with him that night, having eaten cereal for dinner, but he promised to keep to his own side and to leave Hutch to his musings. Starsky just wanted to be . . . home.

In the end, wherever they were together was home. That’s what Hutch had come to realize in Cook’s Meadow. It wasn’t the first time he’d believed that about his bond with Starsky, but it was the most clear to him that day. Perhaps nearly losing Starsky, coupled with Yosemite’s grandeur of time and space, made Hutch reaffirm his notions in an indelible way.

He and Starsky had even planned to buy a house together—if Hutch could get past whatever it was that troubled him so.

* * *

“I thought time would make things easier for you,” Starsky quietly said, “but you’re still so sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Hutch defensively replied, as if it were true—when it wasn’t.

They sat at the table, finishing breakfast, when Starsky made the notation. He didn’t seem willing to abandon his position, either.

“I understand why you’ve been mad at me,” he furthered, easing into his words, making genuinely connecting eye contact, and sounding empathetic, too, “but this sad thing has been going on longer than that. Being mad at me has only made it last, I think.”

Hutch’s initial reaction to Starsky’s observation was to deny everything, continue to pretend he felt better than he did, and buy himself more time to navigate his feelings—an endeavor that had, so far, proven useless. But they’d been partners too long to play those kinds of games. Hutch just didn’t know what he felt—or why. So he said nothing, except with his eyes, which was more of an appreciation for Starsky’s concern than it was anything else.

“My therapy is up next week,” Starsky reminded him. He’d pushed away his plate, but pulled his coffee cup closer, as if it might protect him or give him courage he didn’t otherwise have. And he never broke the eye contact between them; Hutch couldn’t help but notice his blue eyes. “I’m driving now, too,” Starsky continued. “Walking every day. Feeling strong again.”

Hutch didn’t want to be placated; he needed Starsky to say what he meant. “What’s your point, Starsk?”

“That I can move back to my place sooner if it helps.”

Hutch dropped his eyes, stared into his nearly empty cup, bit down on his impulsive desire to react, rather than to respond, and succeeded in hiding his deeper feelings. “If that’s what you want . . .” It’s not what Hutch wanted.

“I said, if it helps.”

Relieved, Hutch tried again to hide himself. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not. You’re pissed and you’re defensive and you’re . . . sad.”

Hutch’s effort to keep things on a superficial level had failed; he subtlety nodded instead; there’d be no getting around it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The few days following the fellatio had become a matter of routine for him. It’s where he found his solace: in the mundane, familiar, and predictable pattern of every twenty-four hours.

His mornings began with his usual practice of waking before Starsky. He was out of bed by a quarter past six, and quickly dressed in his sweats and running shoes—not out of fear that Starsky might catch him in the nude, but to get on the road sooner with his thoughts. A pot of brewed coffee and a cup later, and he was out the door for his daily mile-long run.

Before his departure from the apartment, he prepared breakfast: collecting the items for an omelette or oatmeal or toast and fruit, laying them out on the counter, setting the table with the necessary utensils, plates, glasses, and napkins, all the condiments he assumed they’d need, and sometimes had time to squeeze out a pitcher full of fresh orange juice. When he would return after his run, he expectedly found that Starsky had already showered and shaved, dressed and made the bed, and had either begun or finished making the meal for them. If he hadn’t yet completed the task, he had breakfast served on the table when Hutch emerged from his shower.

That morning had been no different, and they were about to leave for Starsky’s therapy session when he seemed compelled to mention Hutch’s state of ‘sadness.’

“I’m not mad at you, either, Starsk,” Hutch assured him. How could he be? He’d do anything for Starsky; anything within reason, anyway—and the fellatio had seemed beyond logic.

“What then?”

“Bewildered.”

“You believe I’m not gay, doncha?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Hutch confessed. He noticed how comfortable Starsky seemed, dressed in jeans and a clean tee-shirt, having showered, shaved, combed his hair, appearing fresh and ready to greet the day with an enthusiasm Hutch didn’t have. He envied his partner, but couldn’t look at him for too long, fearing he might find himself admiring him in other ways again.

Starsky wouldn’t let it go. “I mean, you can imagine someone showing someone else how much he loves him, can’t you?”

Hutch closed his mouth. He’d been able to finally put those details behind him, despite that they had created a vacuum in which he’d lived his life afterward. A chasm had opened between him and Starsky, an abyss that Hutch had dared not look too long into—and he didn’t want to be reminded of it, as if it had become a distant past when, in fact, it haunted him every minute of each day just beneath the surface.

“I’m not gay, Hutch,” Starsky reiterated for the umpteenth time. His stare was penetrating. “Believe that much, will ya?”

“It doesn’t explain your actions.”

“I’ve explained it; you just don’t want to hear it.”

“I love you back, buddy, but not enough to. . .”

“To, what? Show it?”

“Not in that way.”

“Okay, so that’s you. We’re talking about me now. I can show it in that way—as I obviously did. But it doesn’t make me gay.”

Hutch understood Starsky’s argument—he really did—in the scheme of things, but not in their specific lives, not after all those years, not given who they’d been together. That wasn’t the Starsky Hutch had grown to know and respect. He could handle ‘gay’; he accepted it as who some men were, but this wasn’t ‘some man.’

Starsky seemed to read his mind. “So what if I came to this later in life than sooner, hm?”

“Yosemite warped your brain,” Hutch said, dryly. He didn’t mean to shut Starsky down that cruelly, but he realized he had done just that when he made the wisecrack because Starsky broke eye contact and sat back in his chair.

After a pause of obvious reflection, he looked at Hutch and asked, “Are we going to talk about it, get it figured out, or are you just going to hold it against me for the rest of my life?”

“I told you I don’t have anything to say.”

“Then let it go.”

“I can’t.”

“Then figure out what to say—but you can’t have it both ways. It’s not working for us, and I’m tired of walking on eggshells.”

* * *

Without giving Hutch advanced warning or even asking for his permission, Starsky invited Huggy to dinner that evening and told their comrade to bring a couple bottles of his best house wine; Starsky would make dinner if Hutch would buy the groceries. Reluctantly, Hutch went to the corner store for the ingredients they didn’t already have and, true to his promise, Starsky began the meal preparation half an hour before Huggy arrived.

In a playful, but seemingly snide crack, Starsky told Hutch he wanted someone around that night who’d actually have an adult conversation with him. It was for that reason, and none other, that Hutch pouted about the impromptu party. Despite that, he was still happy to see Huggy, especially as a guest in his home, something he rarely did, but particularly because Huggy had helped him track down Gunther to pay the man his dues.

Starsky made spaghetti without meatballs—saying he didn’t want to take the time—but coupled it with steamed broccoli and tasty garlic toast, along with a fresh garden salad, so no one missed the more elaborate dish. The red wine Huggy brought capped off a fulfilling meal as the three sat at the small table and dined among the small talk. Huggy and Hutch gave Starsky the blow-by-blow of the first few days after Starsky’s attack, right down to telling him how little Dobey ate during that time because he had been so sick with worry.

“Hutch sure has changed,” Starsky joked. “He didn’t arrest you for stealing that call sheet.”

“He answered to a higher calling,” Huggy said with a sort of sad laugh. “I think he’d have trashed the entire city to extract revenge.”

“It was sweet,” Hutch cheerfully remembered. He didn’t want to give those feelings much weight that night, either. They seemed to lend themselves to deeper notions he’d been trying to avoid. Maybe Starsky was right: Hutch was sad. But why? He had everything he ever wanted or could possibly need right there beside him at his kitchen’s vintage table. He knew it with utmost certainty when Starsky opened his eyes after he emerged from the coma. He knew it again when Starsky finally left the hospital and arrived at Venice Place. Grief had been the order of the day for Hutch, but why? Why be sad to have Starsky alive and well and home?

That was the thing to trouble him the most. He could understand his own feelings of anger and dismay, of bewilderment and confusion, but the melancholy seemed inexplicable. It wasn’t like him to wallow in it, let alone for as long as he did. Did he think it punished Starsky for a wrongdoing, or was it leverage to keep Starsky from repeating the . . . assault, was it? No, it hadn’t been that; maybe more to repress Starsky’s . . . aggression? Not that, either. His straying behavior, perhaps? Whatever it was, however it could be defined, it didn’t explain Hutch’s . . . sad.

Huggy did seem to lighten the mood for them. He was able to make Hutch forget, even for just a little while, that there’d been a strain between him and Starsky. They ended up laughing like the two buddies they’d been, matching the silly laughter they shared in Starsky’s hospital bed the night Huggy hung the lantern on the overhead fire sprinkler and subsequently drenched them all. They told stories and jokes—from the serious to the inane—while they ate and drank and reminisced.

“There was no way I was going to die,” Starsky concluded when the subject turned back to the past few months. “I mean, how could I break my partner’s heart, hm?” He looked at Hutch over the rim of his wine glass when he spoke, catching Hutch’s return gaze. “I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy,” he said to Huggy, but he winked at Hutch.

There was a softness in Starsky’s blue eyes even in the stark light of the kitchen florescence—and the pause between his words and his subsequent sip of wine didn’t go unnoticed by Hutch. He couldn’t help but think Starsky told him more than what lay on the surface. The man played with him, seemed to coax him, encouraged him to linger in bonding eye contact—which Hutch did, and not by choice, but by compulsion.

It was Huggy who inadvertently broke it. “You guys getting along all right? Small place for a coupla hot heads.”

“We get along good,” Starsky said, setting down his glass after he looked over at Huggy. “But we might need a bigger place.”

It was the first Hutch had heard Starsky mention their tentative plan to buy a house together since their visit with Dobey a few days earlier. Hutch leaned back in his chair to wait for whatever else Starsky might divulge about that venture.

“Oh, yeah?” Huggy said, sounding intrigued. He was dressed in comfortable street clothes, not his sometimes usual flair, and sounded relaxed and comfortable—even with the hint that his two favorite cops might bunk together permanently.

“Save on the bills,” Starsky explained. “Save on fuel, too.”

“You do everything else cheek by jowl,” Huggy said.

A strained pause—at least one Hutch noted—before Starsky replied to Huggy’s observation.

“But we’ll need a bigger bed.”

Hutch didn’t expect that comment.

“A bigger bed?” Huggy wondered.

“I mean, a house with bigger bedrooms,” Starsky pretended to correct himself, mainly to keep from embarrassing them, or so Hutch believed. “And a pool.”

Huggy and Starsky then excitedly talked about the must-haves for such a place while Hutch twirled his wine glass on the table and stared into what was left in it. He was relieved, but also anxious, to know Starsky still wanted to live with him. But Starsky had been right about one thing: they would have to deal with the fellatio experience before Hutch could commit to a house. He didn’t want Starsky ‘walking on eggshells’ any more than he did himself. He’d come to one conclusion that night: he didn’t trust his weakness for fellatio while he was in Starsky’s immediate reach. No man could reject such an offer, no matter its source. Perhaps what saddened Hutch was the notion that he’d been taken advantage of by the one person who was supposed to have his back. In all things.

After some minutes passed wherein Hutch listened to the other two men talk about living arrangements and the price of gas, Hutch got up from the table and cleaned the kitchen, put away the leftover food and washed the dishes. When he finished, Starsky went to the bathroom and Huggy to the living room with the last glass of wine. Hutch joined him at the opposite end of the sofa.

“So what does the other half have to say?” Huggy asked; he sounded more sincere than he did playful, although there was a touch of that in his voice, too. “You getting along as good as he claims?”

“Sure,” Hutch said, trying to sound convincing. He didn’t succeed.

“You don’t seem as excited by this house idea.”

“I haven’t told him yet that I hope we’re able to find a house with two master bedrooms.” Such a place would be difficult, even in the City of Angels.

“I see,” Huggy said with a chuckle, as if he could predict the outcome of such a conversation. “Well, maybe just break it to him gently. Neither one of you guys is gonna be able to take a guest room.”

“Those are the details we haven’t discussed yet, but I think sharing a place would be like he said: save us money, make life simpler.”

“Is he doing as okay as he says?”

“Other than putting the wrong forks out for the salad, he’s his usual self.”

“Sounds like the wrong forks is his usual self.”

Hutch laughed. “You might be right, Hug.”

“It’s been a long few months and I imagine it’s taken its toll.”

“But worth the outcome.”

Starsky emerged from the bathroom and turned on the sofa lamp before he turned off the kitchen lights. “You guys need anything else?”

They declined, so Starsky joined them in the living room, and pushed Huggy’s knee with his own. “Move over, Middle Man. Make room for me.”

“You sit in the middle,” Huggy argued, but he moved nonetheless to the center of the sofa, up against Hutch.

The positioning made Hutch wary, suspecting Starsky didn’t want to cause him any uncomfortable feelings by being the one to sit beside him; it was enough to be nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in bed each night. Maybe Hutch wasn’t alone in his sensitivities since the fellatio; maybe that talk with Starsky, as painful as it might be, was a necessary evil, after all—for them both equally.

“You guys have to come down to The Pits sometime,” Huggy encouraged them, passing the single wine glass to Hutch. “I’ve got new pinball machines.”

“Next time we leave the rehab facility,” Starsky promised. He slouched into the sofa, relaxed and comfortable, and set his foot on the coffee table. “I have to get back in practice.”

“A different kind of rehab,” Huggy observed. After Hutch drank from the glass, Huggy did, too, and then he passed it to Starsky. “You have to get your hand-to-eye coordination back in sync again.”

They then rested in a minute’s silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Hutch’s went immediately to the ramifications of Starsky’s skilled ‘hand-to-eye’ practice, viewing it through the lens of the perfect fellatio he’d ever received, and almost told Huggy that Starsky was already primed. He didn’t amuse himself. The slip would have embarrassed him for a lifetime. But, on second thought, who else did Hutch have to talk to about it?

As they savored each sip of wine and slowly devoured what was left in the glass, the night aged and grew quieter, more serene, under the blanket of silence that was occasionally broken by each man’s verbalized thoughts about nothing in particular and everything in general.

Only when the wine was gone did Starsky push himself to a seated position and lazily say, “Well, friends, a man has to get his beauty sleep.”

It was Huggy’s cue to leave, but he didn’t, not even after Starsky left him and Hutch, and climbed onto the bed behind the room divider without even turning on the nightstand lamp. They didn’t hear a word from him for several minutes.

Huggy chuckled again. “That’s some host, huh, Hutch? Invites me to dinner, goes to bed early?” It was close to ten by then, but for the night owl in Huggy Bear, the day was still young. “More interesting than that,” he added, leaning forward to set the empty glass on the coffee table, “he gets the bed and I’m sitting on yours?”

Hutch hoped Starsky was actually awake and would answer the question, but he obviously wasn’t; Hutch was on his own. “We’ve been sharing the same mattress,” he confessed. Why he did, he didn’t know. Huggy wasn’t anyone he wanted to lie to, but perhaps he did want someone to talk to about the event that had transpired in that bed only a few days earlier. Could he bring himself to confide such a thing in anyone?

“Is there more to that story?” Huggy asked, as if he could read Hutch’s mind. “You guys sharing the same bed?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Okay, I didn’t really mean anything by that, but what you’re telling me is that I’m not sitting on your bed?”

“You’re not.”

“So I don’t have to leave right now?”

“You don’t.”

“I can stay a few more minutes?”

“Stay as long as you like.”

“Sleep over, maybe? Sober up before driving home?”

“If you need to.”

“I might take you up on that, Hutch.”

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

Despite saying it, Hutch was in no mood, energy-wise, to get that blanket, but he was glad to give Huggy a place to crash if he felt he should. Or maybe he should suggest that Huggy take the bed that night and give Hutch a one-night reprieve from his anxieties.

“I don’t know you as well as he does,” Huggy said, his voice quiet, calming, sincere, “but you don’t seem like your old self. I won’t pry, but is he getting on your nerves?”

Were it not so bewildering, Hutch may have found humor in Huggy’s question, but he didn’t. He stared at the wall across the room, hearing the answer pass through his mind and realizing he could never tell anyone, not even someone as precious as Huggy had become to him. He might have gotten away with explaining Starsky’s actions that morning, but how could he explain his own?

Huggy leaned over the empty end of the sofa, where Starsky had been sitting, and turned off the lone lamp, bringing the room to an even more settling quiet with only the bathroom light to break the darkness. “No answer is an answer,” he gently said, sitting against Hutch again, that time closer. “Playing nursemaid can be exhausting, I would think.”

Hutch hadn’t minded, but he could no longer make out the far wall; his focus had to come inward. “I wouldn’t have let anyone else take care of him.”

“A blind man could see that.”

“Time will smooth out the wrinkles,” Hutch decided, appreciating that he’d been confronted by those reflections and could partly assimilate what he’d been unable to navigate for days. The reality was that there had only been the one bump in the road, albeit a big one. The rest of his time as ‘nursemaid’ had been a privilege. Maybe he should find a way to talk to Huggy about the grief—without giving the details of the fellatio. Was there a way to separate the two?

Hutch never got the chance to broach the subject. Huggy had turned toward him, pressed against him, knee to Hutch’s knee, his shoulder gently nudging Hutch into . . . compliance? Huggy’s words then gave away his startling intentions. “Maybe a man just needs a good release?” he suggested. His hand brushed Hutch’s outside thigh to his hip. “I can take away the pressure. How long has it been for you?”

When Hutch felt Huggy tug at the button on his pants’ waistband, he impulsively slapped Huggy’s hand and then punched him with his shoulder, essentially pushing Huggy off of him and onto his elbow on the end cushion. “What the fuck, Hug?” he cussed, raising his voice, and feeling immediately shaken and enraged. “What is with you guys?” Two in one week was more than Hutch could handle.

“You guys?” Huggy asked, sounding confused. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“I don’t need that kind of help,” Hutch growled, sitting forward on the sofa so he was no longer in a submissive position, and running his hands through his hair to recompose himself.

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Hutch angrily asked. He didn’t know any longer what sort of cues he was emitting that would make other men want to sexually pleasure him. “I’m sitting here minding my own business.”

“You said you and Starsky share the same bed, but it’s not what it sounded like. You were saying it’s what you wanted from him, but weren’t getting.”

“No,” Hutch said, sharply, still confused and angry. “That’s nothing close to what I was saying.” He couldn’t think straight or fast enough to remember his exact words, but apparently they were the wrong ones. He’d been misread twice and in very significant ways.

“Okay, okay, let’s just calm down,” Huggy coaxed him. “No harm, no foul, right? But take a minute, Hutch. Think about this. I’m offering you a good come, no strings attached, to ease your burden.”

“Stop with this.”

“Take a breath. Let go of your prejudices, man.”

“I said stop it.”

“Clear your mind, know what I mean? Reset yourself.”

The only thought Hutch had that was clear to him then was that he was relieved he hadn’t told Huggy about his dilemma with Starsky. Both men were apparently out of their minds. “I think you need to leave, Hug,” he said, not unkindly, but definitely with a palpable bluntness.

“You won’t change your mind?”

“I’m sorry if I misled you.”

“How we got there isn’t important. Your buddy’s asleep in the other room, so the question is whether you want to take what I’m more than happy to give? And nobody has to know.”

“What’s possessed you to even suggest such a thing?”

“I’m just trying to help out a friend.”

Hutch finally looked over at him, dumbfounded by what he heard. “You can’t be serious.”

Huggy didn’t reply; he held eye contact with Hutch, his dark eyes more relaxed than a man making an invitation like that should have been. Hutch didn’t know how to process it—nor Starsky’s earlier action, the one he actually carried through on—but Hutch knew he needed an escape. “You should leave, Hug. If you can’t drive, I’ll call you a cab.”

The bedroom light came on and shattered the darkness of the living room. Huggy nonchalantly repositioned himself, sitting at the end of the sofa as if he had been there all along, and saying a meek hello to Starsky when Starsky came into the room. The two men made firm eye contact. They weren’t outwardly amused by what they’d done, but it appeared they needed a wrap-up just the same.

“You were right that he didn’t try to kill me,” Huggy said to Starsky, “but for a minute there I really wanted to be proven wrong.”

“If I thought there was even a chance of that, I’d never have asked,” Starsky replied. He was still fully dressed, including his shoes—proving he’d never gone to sleep. “You can go. I’ll bring you the cash on Friday after my physical therapy session.”

Hutch dropped his face in his hands while he listened to the men say their ‘good nights,’ hugging each other farewell as they exchanged words. Huggy patted Hutch on the back as he passed him on the way out the door and said, “We’ll all laugh about this some day, but I’m sorry I scared you. Not sure now it was worth the $500, but that’ll probably change, too.”

Hutch had never felt more played, despite how relieved he was to learn Huggy hadn’t seriously solicited him.

When the door closed and he and Starsky were alone in the room, Starsky sat on the sofa, close but not touching him. Hutch heard him slowly exhale.

“I had to make progress on this,” Starsky explained. “I mean, now that we know for a fact that you won’t let just anybody go down on you, we can start talking about why you let me do it.”

* * *

THE LUNCH

“How about this idea, hm? Get some food and have a picnic in a park somewhere around here.”

Despite being nudged, Hutch didn’t immediately answer. He had to think about how they’d gone from Starsky cleverly setting him up to prove a point—using Huggy Bear—to expecting he and Starsky would lie in the grass together.

Starsky read his mind. “When we get there, I’ll tell you why I want to talk outside.”

And that was how they ended up in a private location in the heart of Griffith Park that next day, in a small turnout off a less-traveled road, complete with a picnic table, two benches, and a lone tree. Starsky had driven them to the spot as if he knew it existed; Hutch kept his eye on the scenery, got lost in his thoughts, and simply enjoyed the ride.

They bought food at a market along the way. Starsky had packed the car with a cooler and a picnic basket, and they filled the two containers with ice and beverages from the store, food and dining ware, respectively. Hutch couldn’t help but think Starsky planned to be in conversation for at least a couple of hours: he’d brought enough to eat and drink for a weekend, an eclectic collection of edibles that was reminiscent of their spread in Cook’s Meadow. And it would turn out that Hutch’s hunch wasn’t that far off.

He made himself a sandwich from the bread, cheeses, tomato, and condiments, and then sat on the table in the warming sun, his feet on the bench, and began to eat. He’d also popped open a cold beer. Gazing over the sparsely grassed terrain, he reflected on how relaxed he’d been in the grocery store compared to his previous shopping excursion with Starsky. He hoped Starsky’s planned conversation would lead to his escape from the turmoil he’d lived the past few days. If Starsky couldn’t shed light or direction, then perhaps neither of them could, and the strain between them would continue, so Hutch welcomed the probable repair, despite his apprehensions.

“I wanted us outside,” Starsky explained, taking a seat on the table beside Hutch, resting his arms on his thighs, not touching Hutch—which wouldn’t have bothered Hutch even if he had—“because—like at Yosemite—it’s a neutral place to be.”

“I see,” Hutch mused. “I won’t have the advantage of home turf, is that your reasoning?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Are you going to eat first?” Hutch asked when he noticed Starsky hadn’t chosen anything from the basket nor the cooler, that he seemed more interested in beginning the conversation than in his stomach—which was a surprisingly rare preference on his part. “Or do you just plan to watch me chew?”

“I expected we’d sit across the table from each other and have a heart-to-heart,” Starsky clarified with a deep sigh, “but I can see you’re still avoiding me.”

Hutch looked over at him, his defensive hackles raised. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” He wanted credit for effort. “And we did come to eat, too, didn’t we?”

Starsky momentarily turned away from him and then pushed off the table with a huff. He stormed over to the car, opened its trunk, and rummaged around in it for half a minute, emerging with a small, red-and-black plaid blanket, one Hutch recognized from previous picnics—those they’d spent with women.

“Two can play this game,” Starsky said, not sounding terribly serious as he walked to the tree, sat on his heels in the dirt, and spread the blanket over the ground in the shadiest spot, “but this is my jurisdiction and I make the rules.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Hutch told him, amused by Starsky’s demeanor as he slowly ate his sandwich and washed it down with beer. “Why don’t you come back to the table—and cut to the chase?”

“Now who’s mixing metaphors, hm?” Starsky asked, returning to the car for yet a couple more blankets, these also of the picnic variety. He didn’t look at Hutch as he painstakingly created a pallet inside the only shade in the turnout. “Maybe you should get your ass to where I am instead.”

“You’re the bait?” Hutch joked. He continued to be entertained by Starsky’s preparation and his several trips to the car.

After finally closing the trunk, Starsky returned to the picnic table and grabbed the food basket from it as if Hutch had tried to stop him, flashing a smug grin at Hutch as he did so. He dropped the basket on the blankets under the tree and then did likewise with the cooler.

“It won’t work, Starsk,” Hutch insisted. He already had his sandwich and beer, and he was thoroughly enjoying the sunshine; he didn’t plan to budge any time soon.

“We’ll see,” Starsky mumbled. He sat cross-legged on the bed of blankets he’d made, his profile to Hutch, opened the basket, and poked around in it. “That hard wood under your ass is going to tell a different story after a while.”

“That’s your second reference to my ass,” Hutch noted with a chuckle. “All the more reason that I’ll stay put.”

Starsky ignored him. He whistled while he sloppily made himself a sandwich, spreading mayonnaise and mustard jars and bags of bread and other food every which way over the blanket, as if he didn’t care whether Hutch joined him. “You can run, pal,” he dryly added, his wisecrack giving away his deeper intentions, “but you can’t hide.”

Hutch began to sense a thread: Starsky thought or believed he was being dodged. As Hutch studied Starsky from his less-than-comfortable perch at the table—his partner eating alone in the shade and acting like he didn’t have a care in the world—Hutch began to feel that gnawing timidness in his gut. The revelation struck him only when he became conscious of his study—that he noticed how Starsky was dressed, handsomely in jeans and buttoned shirt, and how he sat, casually and familiar, and how he sounded, male and masculine . . . and alpha.

Hutch stared off toward the road to avoid his uneasiness while he continued to eat, savoring the tasty blend of mustard, cheese, and bread, and even the warmth of the sun, and secretly wishing he’d claimed a bag of potato chips before Starsky absconded with the picnic basket. But there would be no escape from that conversation they both knew they needed to have; Starsky was right: there was simply no way past it except through it.

Hutch broke out of his trance only when he heard movement, but he was too late to stop Starsky from sneaking up and snatching Hutch’s beer can off the table. “Smart ass,” Hutch called him when he had no choice but to then take the bait. He reluctantly got off the table after a few minutes and joined Starsky on the blankets under the tree, sitting on the opposite side of the picnic basket, facing Starsky, and noticing the instant cool of the shade. “Shame on you,” he playfully admonished him, “wanting me to die of thirst in the hot sun.”

Starsky drank from the can. When he finished his fill, he handed what was left in it to Hutch. “I told you I make the rules.” He winked and bit into his sandwich with a Cheshire Cat grin. “The sooner you realize who has the power here,” he asserted, eating while he spoke, “the sooner we can get back to normal.”

Assuming there could be a normal after what had transpired between them on a mattress a few mornings earlier.

“I’d win an arm wrestle,” Hutch bragged, “and you know it.”

“Having said that, Hutch, you’re still skittish. You’re scared I’m going to assault you again.”

“I never thought you ‘assaulted’ me and I’m not afraid that you will.”

“Then how come you’re keeping the basket between us for protection, hm?”

“Not everything is evidence of motive,” Hutch argued with a laugh, “so try again.”

“We’ll see about that, too,” Starsky decided, moving the basket out of the way by setting it beside them. “Now that you don’t have your line of defense anymore, let’s see how brave you are.”

Hutch laughed. “I’m sleeping in the same bed as you, Starsk,” he reminded his partner. “In the nude, mind you. If I was afraid of you, would I be doing that?”

“But now we’re going to deal with this thing—and I know it’s not easy for either of us, but especially for you.”

Hutch appreciated that Starsky may have been as anxious about having a difficult, possibly painful, conversation to the degree Hutch himself felt it, and that eased Hutch’s anxiety somewhat. He did miss feeling close to Starsky, the way he had prior to the fellatio, and hoped they could return to that level of comfort between them. But Starsky was right again: Hutch did feel skittish. He reached into the basket for that bag of potato chips to give himself a moment to relax.

“Look at me,” Starsky said, scooting closer to Hutch, both his knees almost touching both of Hutch’s—but not quite.

Hutch glanced at him as he opened the bag and sensed Starsky’s closing-in proximity. “I’m looking.”

“I mean, really look at me.”

Hutch opened the bag for a few chips, but Starsky firmly grabbed Hutch’s hand, stopping him before he could eat a single one, and forcing him to make eye contact instead.

“Did you hear me?”

Hutch looked deeply into Starsky’s shimmering blue eyes, unable to evade the compelling intensity of Starsky’s expectation, a look that fired back at Hutch and immediately melted his resolve. “What do you need me to know?”

“That I know you’re not stupid,” Starsky replied. “That I know you know this isn’t about if I’m gay or not. You’re smart enough to understand that sometimes a person can be gay for another person without being gay . . . I mean, I’m not attracted to guys, but I am attracted to you.”

Hutch broke eye contact, briefly, not sure he knew what Starsky believed he knew.

“I mean, it’s not about what label you want to put on this,” Starsky tried again. “You’re more sophisticated about this than I used to believe you were. But one of the things that’s bothering you deep down—I mean, besides the act itself—is whether I’ve been lying to you all these years about my sex preference.”

Starsky nailed it. “Yeah,” Hutch said, conceding that point.

“I don’t have any other evidence except my words to tell you I came to this place after I survived the shooting. I haven’t told you a single lie, not one, not ever. What else can I do or say to make you believe that?”

He’d said it. “Nothing, Starsk. I believe you.”

“You do?” Starsky asked, sounding relieved and grateful, but not certain he’d heard Hutch correctly.

“I do.” Hutch said so because he did believe Starsky. “But now you have to tell me why you strayed from who you’ve been all your life. Tell me how you ‘came to this.’”

“Okay, so, will you hear me out or are you going to ask stupid questions and make snide remarks like you’ve been doing?”

Hutch broke contact again, that time to momentarily hang his head in shame. “I was wrong to react the way I did,” he admitted, looking deeply into Starsky’s eyes again to drive home his sincerity.

A moment of silence passed between them: the long-overdue apology and its inevitable acceptance, and the slate was wiped clean again.

“So now that we have that out of the way,” Starsky continued, eating and talking at the same time, and sounding lighter in his tone, but no less serious, “let me begin by asking if you remember the day we met?”

As if Hutch could ever forget it . . .

* * *

“Are you the professor?”

Hutch had opened the classroom door and immediately discovered two things: one, that the room was empty—sans chairs and desks and unshuttered windows—and the other, a late twenty-something Caucasian male in profile standing at the bulletin board just inside the door. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and an untucked, short-sleeved, red tee-shirt, Navy blue with white-striped Adidas sneakers, and a look of surprise, confusion, and genuine curiosity rolled into a single expression on his face.

Hutch also noticed his relative height and his athletic build, his dark wavy hair and striking blue eyes. On a split second’s reevaluation, he realized the man wasn’t the professor—an observation based purely on the man’s age and appearance—but quite possibly a student who’d also arrived early for the opening day of class. Hutch himself was dressed in belted, corduroy pants and a lightweight crew neck sweater; he would have been the one more likely to be confused for the teacher.

“Ken Hutchinson,” he said, stepping inside the room as he extended his hand in greeting, and allowing the door to slowly close behind him. “Hutch.”

“David Starsky,” Starsky replied, the ensuing handshake as warm as his apparent demeanor and tone of voice; there was no passiveness in its firmness by either man. There was also a friendly smile in Starsky’s quiet eyes as he said, “Not the professor.”

Hiding his embarrassment, Hutch noted, “We must be the early birds—or we’ve got the wrong room.”

On cue and in unison, they each pulled the yellow slip of paper from their back pockets and briefly studied its schedule, concluding, without words, that they’d found the right room, but had arrived earlier than even the teacher.

“Anything interesting there?” Hutch asked, nodding toward the bulletin board. It was generously covered in ink-scribbled index cards and tattered, half-page fliers. Starsky appeared to have been standing at it for a while because his weight was shifted to one foot, his hands had been in his front jeans pockets, and he was visibly relaxed. “Or is it just ads for ‘get-rich-quick’ schemes?”

“Babysitting jobs,” Starsky joked. “Are you looking for work?”

“Eventually,” Hutch said, implying that the Academy would promise him a career if he met all of its requirements. “Isn’t that why we’re both here?”

“I didn’t know if you were currently unemployed and needed an income for the class.”

Hutch had been independently teaching music to a host of clients, but despite his love for it, he had long-wanted something more meaningful. His dissatisfaction drove his answer. “Nothing of consequence. You?”

“Cab driver. Shoe salesman. Crossing guard. You name it.”

Hutch repressed his smile; he didn’t want to appear as if he found such endeavors trivial, but he did think his new acquaintance seemed to be lost. “A stretch from there to here, isn’t it?” he asked instead, taking a seat in the front row at the vintage school chair closest to the door and leaning forward on its wooden arm table. The clock on the wall above the teacher’s desk told him they were roughly eight minutes early. Perhaps he and Starkley . . . or was it Starkney? Starsky? . . . were the only two students. And so much for Hutch’s virgin detective skills: he couldn’t remember Danny’s . . . Davey’s? David’s . . . last name, let alone his first.

Starsky sat in the chair to Hutch’s left—choosing it over the thirty others that were available to him in the room. “What are you hoping to get out of this in the end, hm?”

“Investigative policing,” Hutch replied with conviction. He stared straight ahead and patiently waited for the course to commence, anxious to proceed with the learning, but his classmate seemed more interested in him.

“Like . . . Sherlock Holmes kind of stuff?” Starsky wondered.

Hutch lightly laughed. “Yeah, like Sherlock Holmes kind of stuff. What about you?”

“I just want to stop bad guys from doing bad things.”

“A patrol job?”

“‘Who is the boss? The cop or the law?’ know what I mean?”

“I don’t.”

“You know . . . from the movie?”

“I still don’t know.”

“‘Touch of Evil.’ Ring a bell now?”

Hutch shook his head; he rarely watched movies, but he ignored the answer for a question of his own. “You don’t aspire to a rank beyond the uniform?”

“Street cop is good enough for me.”

Hutch couldn’t fathom it, not for himself, not for the long run of his life. He wanted to solve crimes, use his intellect to unravel mysteries—a roundabout way of stopping bad guys from doing bad things, but beyond that: to bring closure and justice to the wrongs that were done.

“You married, Hutch?” was Starsky’s next question.

“Two years now.”

“Happily?”

Hutch briefly looked over at Starsky—and noticed right away how seemingly very interested in the answer his compatriot appeared, almost as if he were eager for the knowledge, as if he was entitled to know it. Hutch returned his focus to the front of the room and the slowly ticking clock. “That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve never been married. I wonder if people are as happy as they say they are to be married or if it’s mostly pretend.”

“Are you conducting a survey?”

“Just curious. So . . . are you happily married?”

“Like I said,” Hutch replied, trying not to sound unkind, despite that Starsky’s curiosity about Hutch’s private life only seemed to deepen with every question, “that’s personal.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then—or you’d have said ‘yes.’ How’m I doing?”

“You’re a better detective than you’ve let on.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear about the marriage. How long did you know her before you tied the knot?”

“Long enough.”

“Do you have children?”

“None.”

“Do you want them?”

Hutch looked at him again and laughed, that time with disbelief. “Do we know each other?”

“We’re about to, aren’t we?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether we pass the course.”

“We’re smart guys. I can tell that just by looking at you—and I know I’m a whiz.”

Hutch couldn’t tell if Starsky pulled his leg or just had that kind of confidence in himself. He did notice that the clock struck the top of the hour—and still no teacher or other students. “Maybe he’s late,” Hutch said to himself, repeating his earlier concern, “or we’re in the wrong room.”

“Did you grow up around here?” Starsky asked. “I mean, in the city?”

“Maybe you could write up a questionnaire and I’ll fill it in after class.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Starsky then said, defensively. “We’re killing time is all. You seem opposite of me and I wonder what makes you tick. Maybe I’m destined to fail if you’re the high mark, hm?”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

A moment of silence was followed by Starsky’s unprovoked purge. “I was born in Brooklyn. My dad was a cop there; killed in the line of duty. Mom shipped me out here to live with my aunt when I was just a kid, so I grew up in these parts—but I never left the city behind, know what I mean? I think I can honor my dad by walking in his footsteps.”

Hutch was sorry to hear about Starsky’s young life and the loss of his father at an early age, especially to the very type of work his son had apparently decided to engage. Hutch didn’t know what to say except, “Maybe your dad would be better honored if you did what you wanted with your life, not what you think he’d want.”

When all Hutch heard in reply was silence, he looked over at Starsky—and discovered his acquaintance had withdrawn into deep thought, staring through the surface of the chair’s desk, seeming to give Hutch’s supposition some very serious thought. “You might be right, Hutch,” he said after a minute. “What does your dad think about what you’re doing?”

“He’d rather I did something else.”

“How come?”

“He’s never liked guns.”

“Sherlock Holmes solved crimes without guns.”

“You know something about Sherlock, huh?”

“That he was all brain and—”

“—socially dysfunctional.”

“Oh, so you know him well, too,” Starsky said with a laugh. “But you seem easier to get along with.”

“Easier than. . .?”

“Sherlock.”

“Try me on a bad day.”

Starsky wrinkled his face. “I’ll pass. You’re, like, formaldehyde.”

“Come again?”

“You know: obviously capable of taking anybody down.”

“You mean formidable.”

“What did I say?”

“That I’m a biocide.”

“Whatever that is.”

“I’ll tell you what it isn’t.”

“I like you, Hutch,” Starsky said, laughing, not waiting for Hutch’s punchline. “You definitely have a Sherlock Holmes brain and I admire that. Are you going to use it for mystery cases like . . . dogs in the Baskers and to study . . . pink things?”

Hutch bit his lip to keep from bursting with a laugh. Starsky was entertaining, if he was anything, and Hutch really did begin to wonder if he had the wrong classroom altogether; there was no way this inarticulate, highly curious, yet affable man of his own age would graduate with honors. They were that different.

“How long have you wanted to be a detective?” Starsky asked after his last question didn’t seem to get a response. “Did you watch a lot of mysteries growing up or something?”

“Just deep soul-searching for the past few years about where best to apply my skills to help people and the world at large.”

“That’s profound,” Starsky said, a bit under his breath. “I never thought about what I want to do in that . . .”

“. . . context?”

“Mine is all about stopping the wrongs, you know?”

If Hutch allowed himself, he could read between the lines, decipher the gist, and reformat Starsky’s sentences—into ones he could both respect and appreciate. “I know what you mean,” he said. “Well, whatever got you here, that’s what’s important. If you have the passion for it—and you’re doing it for yourself foremost—then you’ve come to the right place.”

“Maybe you should consider being a shrink instead, hm?”

“I did explore psychology for a while,” Hutch admitted, “but it seems policing incorporates emotional and physical well-being into people’s lives more than the former.”

Starsky was quiet for half a minute, as if he didn’t know what to say—or he was dumbstruck; concepts of psychology and criminology were beyond the scope of his intellect.

Hutch noticed, again, the clock on the wall: this time it read four minutes past the hour. “I don’t think the teacher is coming,” he said, sounding as disappointed as he felt, “or we’re in the wrong room.”

Together, again in unison, they reached into their back pockets and removed the yellow piece of paper that outlined the schedule of the course. Starsky then got out of his chair, walked to the door, and opened it into the room so they could both see the number on it. It matched the schedule. So did the time.

“Wrong building then?” Hutch wondered, figuring it would be embarrassing to enter the right room already in progress—especially together.

“I see the problem,” Starsky said, having studied the paper more closely. He allowed the door to close while he returned to their desks. “It’s all right here,” he explained, leaning on Hutch’s arm table, and pointing to the print. “See?”

Hutch sat back against his chair when Starsky invaded his personal space—and Starsky noticed the sudden change in Hutch’s positioning. He lifted his blue eyes from the paper and looked at Hutch with a mix of dismay and squint. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, feigning comfort he didn’t have. Starsky was so close, he could smell his cologne. “What did you find?”

“This here,” Starsky noted. He pointed to the word TUESDAY. “Today is Monday,” he reminded Hutch. “We’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

Hutch had to look at the print on his own slip of paper and, sure enough, it read TUESDAY. “How’d that get past both of us?”

“It was meant to be.”

“Or a waste of time.”

“Nah,” Starsky said, straightening and tucking the paper back into his pocket. “We probably wouldn’t have met if we’d come in tomorrow; we’d have gotten lost in the crowd, if you see what I’m saying.”

Maybe Starsky didn’t have many friends, Hutch thought. He’d described their chance meeting as something of significance.

“Buy you a beer?” Starsky asked, raising his eyebrows in a way that accentuated his hopefulness. “I mean, now that we got time . . . we can help each other figure out some more stuff.”

Hutch looked up at him, studied Starsky’s expression, his posture, his anticipation, and his perceptions. Purely on impulse, Hutch threw a question back at him. “Why haven’t you ever been married?” He hoped to at least learn that Starsky preferred women.

It was Starsky’s turn to be taken aback, a reaction he expressed with a frown, but he answered without hesitation. “You know . . . relationships,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I mean, tell me something harder than a relationship.”

Hutch gave the challenge a momentary thought and concluded he couldn’t think of anything more difficult.

“Right?” Starsky said, as if reading Hutch’s mind. “It’s like we’re driven to have something that should come to us a lot easier.”

“So, too difficult to marry anyone?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve had long-term relationships. A couple. But nothing so serious as to be marriage-able.”

Hutch continued to fish. “Why didn’t they last?”

“Same reason your marriage is in trouble.”

Hutch didn’t expect such an obnoxious answer and he angrily snapped back. “Those are fighting words, pal.”

“No, no,” Starsky said quickly, not flinching, not outwardly intimidated, “I only mean to say that relationships like that are hard and they can fall apart for all the same reasons—because . . . you know . . . they all have that one thing in common.”

“Compromises?”

“Tits,” Starsky said, snickering. “Or ‘breasts,’ if you prefer.”

“I do prefer tits,” Hutch said, but he meant that he sexually preferred women to men—in case there’d been some doubt. Apparently, his new acquaintance, classmate, compatriot, did likewise. “Do you honestly think we can ‘figure out some more stuff’? What did we figure out so far?”

“Well, for one,” Starsky said, “you have me rethinking Sherlock Holmes.” He sounded confident in his answer and its implied direction. “I mean, it was me who figured out we’re not supposed to be here right now. I thought you’d be the one to unravel that mystery,” he added with a playful smirk. “So, c’mon, partner, how about that beer, hm?”

* * *

“What are you telling me, Starsk? That you were as rude prying into my private life then as you are today?” Hutch said it in a playful voice—and it was received as intended—but it was also Hutch’s way of letting Starsky know that he couldn’t make the connection between the recent fellatio and the first day they met.

“Doncha see, Hutch? I was right about us.”

“That we were . . .?”

“Partners—from the beginning. That we were always meant to be.”

“But not as . . . lovers,” Hutch replied, having to fish for the word. His comment forced Starsky into a pause; did Starsky feel abused by him again? Hutch didn’t want to shut him down; that hadn’t been his intent. “I’m going to be the Devil’s Advocate,” he explained, “so keep up. Don’t let me stop you.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, seemingly relieved by Hutch’s explanation, and sitting taller. “I’m saying that . . . when you opened the door that morning and came into the classroom . . . I knew then, that very minute, that you were different, that you were everything I’ve come to believe about you. I knew in that second that I wanted to partner with you.”

“You were . . . attracted to me?”

“Well, I mean, in a way, yeah—not in a sex way, but in a drawn-to way, that I was compatible with you—especially because we’re opposite in some ways—and that you were somebody I could respect and look up to. I knew we’d be a force to reckon with—together.”

Hutch broke eye contact with him to look back in time, to that fateful day, to imagine it from Starsky’s point-of-view, to try to see himself through Starsky’s eyes. Hutch also had first impressions: that the dark-haired boy was amusingly inarticulate, sympathetically very curious, playfully affable . . . but also admirably comfortable in his own skin, seemingly confident in his words and action, and willing to change his mind if the evidence suggested a different perspective. Hutch had been right about him on that day, too.

“I wasn’t wrong about us,” Starsky reiterated, tapping Hutch’s knee and getting his attention.

Hutch couldn’t deny that, nor did he plan to argue it, but he still didn’t understand the connection, except to make a far-fetched observation. “Love at first sight?”

“Maybe you’re not hearing me. I’m not saying I fell in love with you, that I had sex-desires for you. I’m saying I knew then, and I was right about us, that we were meant to be. Ten years later, and all we’ve been through: here we are, aren’t we?”

Hutch tried not to smile, but he was touched by Starsky’s sentimentality and couldn’t help himself. “Okay. I give you your conclusions.”

“And remember that first time we ended up in a crisis? Second year on the job and I broke my ankle? You got saddled with a temporary partner, remember?”

Hutch would never forget their first ‘crisis.’ He didn’t want another partner, not even temporarily, and he vehemently argued with Dobey about justifiably being excused from work, so he could spend that time helping Starsky recover. The Captain—as was the position of the Department—found Hutch’s appeal ridiculous under the circumstances: it wasn’t as if Starsky had injured himself on duty; he broke his ankle playing basketball on an uneven, outdoor cement court. But Hutch nearly quit the police force over it; it was Starsky who made him promise to endure his less-than-perfect temporary partner until Starsky could get back to work.

So what was Starsky’s point that afternoon as he sat across from Hutch on a picnic blanket in the shade of a lone tree eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? that not even Hutch could handle the idea of another partner, even for a few months—more proof that Starsky had been right about their destiny?

“After Terri died,” Starsky continued, having washed down his last bite of sandwich with the rest of Hutch’s beer, “we tried to change careers, you and me.”

Hutch lightly laughed as he recalled his drunken, middle-of-the-night phone call to the main office of a Canadian football team—only to embarrass himself. “Maybe if we’d called during business hours,” he mused, abandoning his effort to justify it when he realized he’d gotten off topic. He instead opened the lid on the cooler and retrieved another beer from its snug embrace of ice.

“We even threw our badges into the ocean and interviewed for a porn magazine,” Starsky recalled. “Remember that?”

Another embarrassing moment Hutch wouldn’t forget. “What’s your point, partner?”

“That every time you and me made it through a near-death experience, we thought about quitting this job and doing something else.”

“Seems like this last ‘crisis’ should be the nail in that coffin.”

“If that’s what you want: to quit. But I thought we decided to get better at defending ourselves. Or has what I did to you a couple mornings ago made you rethink staying in this job with me?”

Hutch felt that sudden grief again, but still couldn’t isolate it well enough to understand its trigger. He spoke impulsively instead. “No, Starsk, I’m not thinking about quitting—or about breaking up this partnership. In fact, nothing scares me more than that.” He opened his beer and drank from it, watching Starsky eat potato chips for a minute. “Maybe that’s part of what’s bugging me, Starsk. Why would you do something like that to fuck with us?”

“Is that what I did?”

“Isn’t it? You’re wanting to change the nature of who we are together.”

“I wasn’t looking to do anything like that,” Starsky promised, defensively, closing his mouth as he looked at Hutch in bewilderment. When Hutch didn’t immediately reply to his claim, he presumably remembered that Hutch played the Devil’s Advocate, and quietly added, “I was being myself that morning—being me with you.”

They’d returned to the proverbial Square One. If Starsky, being himself, was a man capable of orally pleasuring another man, then what was any of the past days of discussion about? Hutch was frustrated; he abandoned his grief and his apprehension, dropped his head, broke eye contact, stared into the can in his hands.

“I’m trying to tell you something,” Starsky said. He rooted around in the picnic basket for something else to eat and perhaps purposefully gave Hutch the minute he needed to back down from his exasperation. “Why don’t we turn the tables here?” Starsky suggested. “Suppose you get what you need to off your chest?”

Hutch looked up at Starsky to discover that he was determinedly trying to open a glass jar of green olives. He watched for half a minute, and then couldn’t wait a second longer when it seemed Starsky would never succeed. “I’m really not pissed at you, Starsk,” he said, impatiently taking the jar out of Starsky’s hands and applying his own muscle to loosening it. “I’m confused and I’m . . . hurt.” He subconsciously spoke that last word just as he popped the lid.

They both immediately froze and looked abruptly into each other’s eyes. Hutch wasn’t sure if Starsky appeared surprised by how easily he’d opened the jar, or if—like Hutch—he was startled by Hutch’s word choice. It turned out to be the latter.

“Hurt?” Starsky asked, sounding especially gentle in his question. He took the olive jar from Hutch, but didn’t leave eye contact. “I hurt you?”

“Us. You hurt us.” Even Hutch was perplexed by his own admissions. “Let’s go back to my earlier observation,” he decided, looking for a way to ease the blow. “Maybe you didn’t want to change the relationship between us, but by doing what you did, you changed the dynamic.” He noticed the intense blue in Starsky’s eyes, how eagerly he seemed to want to understand, despite the accusations. But, there. Hutch had said it—and it pained him to do so. Starsky had altered the arch of their universe, intentionally or otherwise. Tears emerged in Hutch’s eyes and he pursed his lips as he gave Starsky a raised eyebrow, not knowing what else to say.

Seeing Hutch’s visible helplessness, Starsky’s alarm immediately dissolved into palpable concern. He scooted closer to Hutch, knees to Hutch’s knees, and coaxed Hutch into holding eye contact by squeezing his forearm to drive home his determination. “Hurting us was the last thing I wanted,” he promised, sounding disappointed in himself.

But Hutch couldn’t repress the grief he suddenly felt, despite what he heard. He broke eye contact, stared into his beer can, felt Starsky’s touch, and pressed down on his emotions. “I can’t afford to lose you,” he said impulsively, unable to intercept an audible sob. “We came way too close this last time.” He would never forget the haunting depth of his fear nor the anguish of those frightening days.

Starsky seemed to settle—as if he’d discovered an invaluable clue. “So you think what I did with you a couple of days ago could hurt us in a way that would . . . break us apart?”

That notion overwhelmed Hutch—that notion or something near it. He covered his face in his hand, tightly closed his eyes, and quietly cried—much the way he had in the immediate moments following the fellatio. The heartache threatened to annihilate him, a degree of despair he didn’t understand, let alone feel he’d survive.

Starsky pushed him. “You think me doing that to you would break us up? I mean, I’ve promised I’ll never do it again.”

Hutch followed the pain and spoke without forethought. He dropped his hand to his lap, lifted his eyes, looked deeply into Starsky’s—where he still felt invited—and said, “It feels like it already has.”

Starsky sat back, dismayed. “We’re no longer partners?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Hutch argued. He struggled to find words, but he’d spent days trying to figure out what he felt; how could he possibly explain it on the spur of a moment? Still, he tried again, despite the odds. “You went down on me,” he said, feeling his way along by using the facts. “I let you. We risked everything on a whim. That kind of relationship between us is a death sentence.” That was it. “We’ve been mortally wounded.” Hutch finally knew what he’d been feeling when the familiar, overwhelming grief washed over him: he was in mourning—and had been since he’d allowed himself to be taken.

He shrugged at Starsky and silently pleaded with him through his eyes. It was all he had. Maybe Starsky could fill in the blanks. He seemed to want to try.

“When I woke up that morning,” Starsky began, “I misread how you were looking at me, and I went with what I thought both of us was feeling.” His voice was tempered, and he too seemed on the verge of an emotional breakdown. But he persevered. It was all either of them could do in those delicate moments. “I didn’t think about it; I just went with it. There were no words in my head.”

Hutch had had words. “I tried to stop you.”

“But it was like a first date kiss: you’re all nervous about it, but once you do it and get past it, everything is easy after that.”

“In other words, you didn’t think I meant what I said.”

“I didn’t think anything. For me, it was like your conscience was talking when you used words, not your heart—and I was following your heart.”

Hutch was intrigued and realized he’d heard something a moment earlier that he wanted to explore further. “Back up, Starsk. You misread what I was feeling?”

“We’ve been cozy with each other since I got out of the hospital,” Starsky explained, “and it wasn’t because we were in a bind. This affection seemed different, but I obviously misread it.”

“What specifically was your misread?”

“That we had everything we needed right here with us.”

“And that included sex?”

“Not consciously. Just that we have everything now. Like we did when we were in the Yosemite meadow.”

Starsky must have meant business: he referred to Yosemite with its proper pronunciation. The meadow. The answer lay there. Starsky said he followed Hutch’s heart, not just his own. What message had Hutch relayed to his beloved partner in the grass of that majestic valley?

* * *

“I’m going to take some pictures of the moose,” Starsky said, getting to his feet with his camera, “up close, I mean.”

Hutch wasn’t going to argue with him about the kind of animal they’d seen; Starsky apparently hadn’t listened, or he didn’t want to, or he enjoyed rattling Hutch’s cage—and it was probably the latter. “Be careful,” Hutch warned him. He didn’t budge from his position on his back in the grass, his eyes closed behind the bend in his elbow, his ankles crossed, while he basked in the warmth of that sun-filled mid-afternoon. “Bull elk are nothing to contend with,” he explained. It wasn’t the rutting season, but adult male ungulates could be unpredictable just the same.

“There are other people over there taking pictures,” Starsky replied, as if that would make his risky action justifiable, “and that moose isn’t trying to eat them.”

“Don’t get any closer than they are. In fact, don’t be a stupid tourist. Use your judgement. Remember that they can be easily provoked and outrun you.”

“Such little faith you have in me,” Starsky said with a snicker at his joke. “Of course, I can outrun any of those people.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Be careful, Starsk.”

Starsky walked off without another word and left Hutch in the grass. Having failed to deter him, all Hutch could do was keenly tune into his partner’s footsteps until they eventually faded into the blanketing silence of the meadow.

In the minutes that slowly passed, he imagined how different their lives would have been if they’d never decided to be police officers. Of course, they wouldn’t have met, Hutch quickly realized, abandoning the supposition for a freshly redrawn mental picture: that they’d met at the Academy, the way they did, but had quit the Force at the first sign of serious trouble. They would have remained friends—without the violence and the near-death experiences they’d come to know all too well.

Life may have been just what it was at that moment in Cook’s Meadow: completely without a care, lost in the standstill of time, at peace with the natural world and whatever lay ahead. But despite the liberation Hutch felt in those minutes, and as much as he wanted to fully immerse himself in them, the deeper core of his soul felt tugged. Maybe Starsky had gotten too close to a bull elk.

Hutch couldn’t wait to know; he opened his eyes, rolled to his side, and looked to the far edge of the meadow where he’d last seen the elk herd. He immediately spied Starsky, standing a good few yards behind the crowd that had gathered around the animals with their cameras. Starsky had obviously taken Hutch’s warning to heart, and it made Hutch smile to learn he’d been obeyed. Relieved, Hutch fell to his back in the grass again and covered his eyes. “Silly boy,” he whispered to himself, about Starsky—appreciating that he was just like a kid at the zoo. But, on further reflection, Hutch was impressed that his partner had been fascinated enough to engage nature the way he had. Starsky had marveled at every wondrous moment they experienced in Yosemite.

Life for the two of them without the weight of the police force on their shoulders—or its cynicism—returned Hutch to his aimless musings. Maybe they would have become teachers instead—having found a different way of preventing crime and suffering. Or one of them became a bestselling author, the other an award-winning photographer. Or they won a lottery and took up farming, never to work again except in the garden. Hutch knew he’d enjoy such a life; Starsky, not so much. But he would eat whatever Hutch grew and prepared. And he would help to keep the house clean, especially the toilets and the laundry. He’d make sure the cars were primed and fueled. He’d coil the hoses and sweep the porches.

Hutch amused himself when he realized that, regardless of the finer details, his dream of a future without the life-threatening risks of the police force put Starsky and him together under the same roof—like some housekeeping married couple. The truth was that they rarely had a woman at the same time, so it was probably better that they lived alone until they were too old to care about sex. The last thing Hutch wanted to hear was his sweaty, grunting partner ejaculating in another room while he himself spent its duration in front of a boring television show or alone with his nose in a book on flowers.

Hutch’s thoughts made him chuckle out loud—and then to shake them off for something more immediate. He allowed his mindless wanderings to melt away in the warmth of the valley sun, to lose himself in the quiet of the meadow and its distant faint voices, human and animal alike, and to surrender to the beauty of his contentment—a long overdue and welcomed peacefulness, but one that was still slightly marred by an empty . . .

He opened his eyes and rolled to his side to check on Starsky—only to find him sitting cross-legged in the grass just a few feet from where Hutch lay. He hadn’t even heard Starsky approach, let alone sit down. His closeness took Hutch by surprise, made him speechless, especially when he realized that Starsky had already aimed the camera at him; Hutch heard the shutter release, no doubt capturing his momentary startle.

“It took you long enough,” Starsky said, lowering the camera from his face to make eye contact with Hutch. “I thought you’d never look to see if I’d been run over by a moose.” He flashed a playful smile at Hutch and then pushed off the ground. “I thought you cared about me.”

Hutch didn’t tell Starsky that he’d already once checked on his welfare. “I was hoping for the ride home in silence,” he teasingly said instead. “But I guess you survived the . . . moose, huh?”

Starsky didn’t walk around Hutch; he stepped over him and sat near his hip, his profile on full display, a rather nearby position in the grass between Hutch and Yosemite Falls, but facing away to aim his camera at the timeless scenery. “This place is really amazing, Hutch. I don’t think I’ve ever been in anything like it—in person, I mean. I know now why you love the wild so much.”

“Progress,” Hutch said with satisfaction under his breath, having rolled to his opposite side so he could commune with Starsky when he crossed over him, and pleased to have heard Starsky’s revelation.

“What’d you say?”

“I said it’s nice here in the grass.”

Starsky focused on the spectacular view of Half Dome in the distance and the closer proximity of Yosemite Falls—seeing them interchangeably through the camera lens and without it.

Meanwhile, Hutch propped his temple in his palm, picked lazily at the grass, and imagined the images Starsky saw through the viewfinder when the camera was set to his eye; when it wasn’t, Hutch studied Starsky’s face: his familiar profile—forehead, nose, chin—his thick eyelashes, the relaxed posture of his seat, forearms occasionally on his thighs, the contrast of his dark hair against the purity of the deep blue sky—and how amazed Starsky was by the breathtaking landscape. Hutch didn’t have a camera; his focal plane was left to capture the unique features, romantic images, and intimate impressions that he had to burn forever into his memory.

After several minutes of picture-taking and nature-gazing, Starsky finally set the camera in his lap, and looked over his shoulder at Hutch. “Pictures are never going to do it justice,” he decided. But what other mementos did he have besides a couple of tee-shirt souvenirs?

There was such a light in his blue eyes that Hutch couldn’t help but notice—and it made him smile. “You’ll remember it as grand,” he said softly, no longer interested in baiting Starsky. “That’s what matters.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m pretty sure I am.”

“Do you think the Grand Canyon is as impressive as this?”

“Been there. It is. More—in a different kind of way.”

“How’s that?”

“One looks at the Grand Canyon, marvels at it. Here you’re in grandness.”

“I see,” Starsky said, as if he understood. He lay back with a deep sigh, his legs bent, but set his right ankle on his left knee, and rested his head on Hutch’s thigh. “Let’s go there sometime. I won’t mind looking at it. No rush.”

Hutch sensed there was more to Starsky’s comment. “But?”

“But, for now, I don’t want to be anywhere else except here.”

“In Yosemite?”

“With you.”

“In Yosemite with me?” Hutch asked, seeking clarification, but figuring he already had it, and lovingly tousling Starsky’s hair.

“With you,” Starsky emphasized, “wherever that is—and right now, you’re in Yosemite.”

Hutch appreciated the sentimentalism of Starsky’s affection, including and especially the weight of his head against his leg, his aliveness and closeness, his want to physically connect; nature had obviously liberated him. The romance, too, made Hutch lightly laugh: lying in contact with Starsky in the grass under the sunny blue sky out in the wilderness had never been a wish, let alone a dream he felt privileged to have come true. He squeezed Starsky’s shoulder with all the warmth he felt for him in that moment. “I feel the same,” he said, not having any other words. “The absolute same.”

“The same as me?”

“I prefer to be with you wherever you are, too.”

“We don’t need anything else, Hutch.”

“Except sex,” Hutch said, and he didn’t say it with whimsy, but as matter-of-fact. Wasn’t sex the only thing they couldn’t get from each other? When Starsky didn’t comment, Hutch imagined that sex could be something they’d share—if they were the last two people on earth. They didn’t have far to go to be that comfortable with each other, did they? “What do you think, Starsk?”

In a somewhat distracted voice, Starsky repeated himself. “We don’t need anything else, Hutch.”

What else was there? Other than what they required to physically survive, all else was superficial, shallow, without meaning. For ten years, they’d trusted only themselves, spent most of their time together, depended on no one the way they did each other. More than once, they nearly lost the most important part of their lives. The gravity of that reality had never been more apparent to Hutch than Starsky having been recently gunned down in the police station parking lot, in broad daylight, on what was to be just another regular day on the job, a shooting that almost cost him his life—and Hutch his forever happiness.

He was again awash in tears and sentimentality, in incalculable relief and immeasurable love and privilege. It was Starsky in the grass with him, lying against him, expressing his love and appreciation for Hutch in those sweet ways of his. It was Starsky he saw close his eyes and join him in the tranquility of those special moments in that indescribably divine country.

“We don’t need anything else, Hutch,” Starsky had said. Maybe Hutch should suggest they spend their lives under the same roof, after all; he couldn’t imagine budging from the place they were in at that very peaceful moment in time. He wanted nothing else, needed no one else, would be lost to lose Starsky, would die without him. He wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world. The only exchange Hutch would ever willingly make would be his own tenacious life for his partner’s more precious one.

“You’re right,” he said, reaching past Starsky’s shoulder to tenderly squeeze his hand where he’d rested it on his belly—and feeling his fingers clasped in warm and gentle reply. There wasn’t anywhere Hutch would ever want to be—without him. “We don’t need anything else, Starsk. Not a single . . . thing . . . else.”

* * *

“So, from that, you concluded that we should have sex?” Hutch asked.

“I didn’t make any conclusions.”

“We shared some special moments in the meadow. I give you that. But that’s what made you want to go down on me?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then I don’t understand the connection between what we did and how we felt in Yosemite to what you did a couple of mornings ago.”

“Our feelings were the same, weren’t they? I mean, all but the sex part, right? Can you agree with me about that?”

“Sure,” Hutch said, and he spoke with conviction. They were having ‘some special moments’ right then, too, on that picnic blanket under a lone tree on the side of a canyon road—talking about their more intimate feelings for each other. But none of those affections made Hutch have a desire to fellate Starsky. That’s where they differed. “We’ve always had an unconventional relationship,” he said without pretense.

“What do you mean by that?”

“That we have an uncommon bond—one that’s been rather . . . extraordinary.”

Starsky’s posture relaxed, a sparkle came to his eyes, he seemed to feel safe inside Hutch’s observations again, as if he understood all that Hutch implied, that nothing could break them apart, despite the stumbles. He even ate a few potato chips and drank from Hutch’s beer before he spoke again.

“Do you know where we are?”

Hutch poked around in the picnic basket for the onion dip; he wanted to enjoy some of the chips before Starsky devoured them all. “In the park,” he said with a shrug, as if the specific didn’t matter.

“We were here once before,” Starsky said. He watched Hutch open the tub of dip and set it on his knee. “Do you remember that?”

Hutch only briefly glanced around. Though the landscape was typical of Griffith Park, the road was unfamiliar to him. “We haven’t been in this spot before,” he decided, putting out his hand so Starsky would give him the potato chips bag, but Starsky didn’t let it go. “I know that much.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Where in the park are we, Starsk?” Hutch asked with a huff, purposefully sounding annoyed, but not really feeling it; the banter was a kind of comic relief from their relatively serious conversation, and he wholeheartedly welcomed it. “More importantly, will my remembering where we are change how the food tastes?”

“Maybe.”

Hutch didn’t expect that answer. He immediately looked at Starsky, received a knowing smirk in silent reply, and then had the dip container swiped from his lap before he could stop the steal.

“A couple of years ago,” Starsky said, eagerly scooping creamy onion dip onto his potato chip like that little boy he could sometimes be, “about 500 feet up and as many over. . .”

“Yeah?”

“I found you pinned under your car.”

Hutch hadn’t been prepared for that information. He froze as he mentally searched all the reasons Starsky may have brought them to that specific location, and then he looked above them to the brush-covered canyon wall and its familiar ridges and rock. He’d endured a nightmare in that vicinity, a frightening few days and even scarier two nights, lucky to have only suffered a broken leg. If Starsky hadn’t arrived in time, Hutch would have died by dehydration and shock or been killed by Vic Humphries. After the reality sunk in, he looked back at Starsky. “You knew all of this before we got here,” he assumed.

“Well, yeah,” Starsky replied, as if he was insulted by Hutch’s lack of faith in him. “I wanted to remind you of it for this talk we’re having.”

“Why?”

“Because it was one of those times when it was my turn to be worried sick over you. I couldn’t sleep or eat while you were missing. There were other times I felt that way—like when you were needle-stuck and that other time when you were shot in the shoulder—but this one was all on me.”

“How do you mean?”

“No doctors, no other officers, no real backing from the Department—except by Dobey. It was up to me to find you.”

“You could have just reminded me of it; you didn’t have to bring us here.”

“I want you to remember that fear again, so you know I’m feeling it again, so you know how much I appreciate what you’ve been doing for me since I got shot up a couple months ago.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, acceptingly, shaking off the haunting memories of his ordeal on the side of that canyon. He waited to hear more, having forgotten about enjoying potato chips and onion dip, and instead watched Starsky eat them with abandon.

“When I woke up that morning, the morning of the sex we had,” Starsky said, speaking while he chewed, “you were on the bed, looking at me.”

Hutch remembered that, too. He’d been so grateful—again—for Starsky’s life. Isn’t that the reminder Starsky wanted him to have—despite that he didn’t think he’d ever forget such gratitude?

“There was this look on your face,” Starsky explained, breaking eye contact to search the air for better words to express his thoughts. It took him nearly half a minute to find them, during which he ate chips and half of the dip. His blue eyes abruptly came back to Hutch’s as if he was pleased with what he’d discovered. He handed Hutch a large potato chip with dip on it, and matter-of-factly said, “You looked at me that morning like you were a man in love.”

“A man in love?” Hutch wondered, accepting the snack, but not eating it; he was too intrigued to think about his tastebuds.

“A man in love—like no man has been before or ever will be again.”

“And this unparalleled ‘in love’ phenomenon to which I alone was privy was to be in love with you?”

“Well, who else, hm? I was the only other person in the room.”

“Let me get this straight: when you opened your eyes that morning and found me looking at you, you thought I was . . . in love with you?”

“I don’t know how many ways I can say it, Hutch.”

“I just want to be sure I understand.”

“I’ve never seen you look at me like that before.”

Hutch remembered thinking he’d never been that indebted to the powers-that-be before—nor was there anyone more beautiful to him.

“And I’d been feeling so good about us, too,” Starsky furthered, as if he’d read Hutch’s mind. “That’s why I was trying to tell you about the meadow: that I thought we were on the same page . . . that we both knew we didn’t need anything else, that we have everything we need in life right here with us.”

“Except sex.”

“I wasn’t thinking about sex.”

“Until that morning in the bed?”

“I wasn’t even thinking about it then.”

“You just did it?”

“I followed my heart.”

“You said you followed mine, too.”

“Because I thought you were feeling the same way—not thinking the same, but feeling the same. I got overwhelmed by my feelings that morning.”

“You’re telling me the blowjob was impulsive.” It wasn’t a question; Hutch thought he finally understood what had driven Starsky.

“Well, I don’t know what you mean by ‘impulsive,’ but I didn’t have a conscious thought about it. I woke up and you were looking at me like that and I went with how it made me feel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner that this was how it happened?” Hutch finally ate the potato chip Starsky had handed him, mostly to get rid of it so he could purely focus on the conversation.

“At first, I thought we were in the same groove,” Starsky said. “I got up to make breakfast and you took a shower and then you came to the table.”

Hutch remembered how shaken he’d been that morning.

“But after you sat down and snapped at me, I realized that you were really pissed off about it.”

“You thought all was good up until then?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Because?”

“Because you came in the bed. I mean, you came . . . in my mouth.”

“All was well that ended well?”

“Why would I think different, hm?”

Why would he? Hutch realized he was being unreasonable in that moment, but it was because he felt embarrassed. “You knew something was really wrong, Starsk, or why did you keep apologizing?”

“I obviously misread you, Hutch, and did you wrong. I figured there was no point in explaining myself. I would just apologize, promise to never do it again, and move on.”

A piece of the puzzle was missing. It had to be. “So, you went down on me on a kind of—”

“Instinct,” Starsky blurted, but Hutch figured he meant impulse.

“—and not because you had a thought that you would?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all during that—”

“Did you think I wanted it?”

“I said I wasn’t think—”

“Did I give you any indication that I wanted you to suck my dick?”

“Well, no, not at—”

“You just assumed we were having the same feelings about each other?”

“Yeah.”

“So, if you figured I was looking at you like a man in love . . . what did that make you, Starsk? The same?”

Starsky sat back, appearing confounded by the question, as if the tables had just been turned on him, and then he willingly confessed. “Well, I mean, I love everything about you. I always have—since the day we met. As recent as debating the moose elk, I realized I even love arguing with you.”

“Love me enough to be sexually attracted to me?”

“I can’t lie: you’re a great looking guy; that’s just a fact, but I like looking at you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Since when?”

“I guess since I got out of the hospital—and I got to thinking about how much you really love me to take me into your place the way you did, to take care of me the way you do, to still believe in me.”

Not facetiously, Hutch continued to debate him. “Those things have nothing to do with my good looks.”

“I was seeing you different.”

“I’ll ask this again then: are you telling me you’re in love with me?”

Starsky went off on a tangent as he spontaneously explored his mind. “It’s like these other relationships we had, you know? Terri. Rosey. Gillian. Those relationships were all about romance and sex and getting to know somebody, about dreaming of a future with them.”

“And ours?”

“Ours is different—like you said a minute ago. Way different. I’ve known you for a decade. The new stuff is just that; it’s on top of what we already have.”

“The new stuff?”

“The thing the other morning.”

“The sucking my dick thing?”

“Yeah, that.”

“How did that feel?”

“How did your dick feel?”

“Yeah, Starsk, my dick in your mouth; how did that feel?”

Hutch meant to offend him enough that Starsky would blurt out the deepest part of his intentions, but Hutch’s effort uncovered more than he expected.

“It felt like you,” Starsky said with a shrug, as if it should have been obvious how it felt to have given Hutch such a uniquely satisfying orgasm. “I didn’t put words on my actions. I just followed what I thought was in both of our hearts.”

Hutch had been bested without intent. He silently apologized by dropping his eyes, purposefully conveying how disappointed he was in himself. He knew Starsky better than he let on. His partner had gifted him a deeply loving experience, and Hutch had belittled it.

“Play that morning over, Hutch,” Starsky suggested, tapping Hutch’s knee to get eye contact again. “Knowing what you know now, play it over in your mind. Then answer me this: did you want me to go down on you—but you’re too afraid to admit it?”

“I tried to stop you,” Hutch reminded him, defensively. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“But you let me do it anyway.”

Hutch had no defense, not after the Huggy Bear experiment had laid that bare, and they both knew it.

“So, it’s your turn, Hutch; you tell me: why did you let me take you that morning?”

* * *

Hutch had awakened before dawn and at first sensed he was alone on the bed. But he soon discovered that Starsky was still asleep beside him. His partner faced him, eyes closed, arms folded to his chest, his hands tucked under his chin, and his breathing a slow and dreamy rhythm.

It was the first time Hutch had a minute to himself just to bathe in the miracle of Starsky’s presence. He leisurely studied the familiar shape of Starsky’s nose, his thinner lips, closed and relaxed, the birthmark beneath his right eye. Thick, black eyelashes. Dark brown, naturally wavy, but mussed hair, recently cut, falling over his forehead. Emerging black whiskers shadowed his cheeks, chin, around his mouth, and under his nose. Hutch noticed the dark hair on Starsky’s forearms, the deeper color of his naturally tanned skin, the muscled bicep beneath the short sleeve of the green YOSEMITE tee-shirt he wore. Starsky’s perfect fingers. And the ever-so-slight pulsing skin in his neck, his precious, beating heart.

Hutch would never have survived losing Starsky. As he lay on the bed early that morning, he was once more reminded just how monumentally fortunate he was to still have Starsky with him. Perhaps he would never take the man for granted again; there wasn’t anyone with whom Hutch had ever been as safe, as sure of, as comfortable with in his own skin.

Hutch had never even dreamed he’d sleep with Starsky in the same bed, warm beneath the covers beside him, feeling liberated in his own nudity, listening to Starsky’s reassuring, sleep-driven breathing . . . and Hutch knowing—in his heart-of-hearts and in the deepest parts of his soul—that no one could replace Starsky, that life wouldn’t be worth living without him, and that he didn’t want nor need anything or anyone else for as long as he himself was alive.

There was no greater love for Hutch than the one he felt for the man sleeping on the bed beside him that morning; the recognition again in that belief brought irrepressible tears to his eyes. What had he done so right to have been given something so wonderfully beautiful? It was at that exact moment—the one where Hutch silently reaffirmed those facts about his life and his one real love—that Starsky opened his eyes. Their light-filled blue made contact with Hutch, not precipitously, not with alarm or startle, but as if Starsky had heard or felt or sensed Hutch’s sentimental emotions, and he was stirred out of sleep.

Hutch smiled at him—a shy, gentle, inviting smile, welcoming Starsky into the next day of their lives. “Good morning,” he said in a soft voice. He was tempted to touch Starsky, to ease the look of sudden epiphany from his face, but something in that inexplicable expression, and something about their proximity on that bed, their still-unprecedented closeness, and in Hutch’s naked vulnerability, prevented him from lifting his hand.

Starsky rose to his elbow. He never used words to greet Hutch. Instead, he pushed the sheet and blanket to Hutch’s waist and leaned into him, effectively pushing Hutch into passiveness. On an inhale, Starsky bent over him, placed his lips against the middle of Hutch’s chest, and gently kissed his bare skin, with softness and at length.

There was no confusion in that instance for Hutch, no misunderstanding on his part, no misread of Starsky’s intentions: Starsky had seen the fleeting look of love in Hutch’s tear-filled eyes when he woke up, coupled by that warming smile, and the only way he knew how to respond to the magnitude of that moment was to kiss Hutch’s heart in reply.

Hutch closed his eyes and lightly laughed. He was amused and yet touched by Starsky’s unexpected kiss, and loved him all the more for his playful affection, too. “Be careful,” he kindly warned, joking with Starsky about how that kiss could be misused.

In hindsight, perhaps that’s where Hutch had strayed: suggesting a behavior Starsky may not have considered on his own had Hutch not alluded to it—because it was at that moment that Starsky ended the intimate contact, pushed the sheet further down on Hutch, to the middle of his thighs, and purposefully exposed him to the cool morning air. It was obvious that he planned further play.

Impulsively, Hutch grabbed Starsky by his tee-shirt sleeve; he barely got Starsky’s name past his lips, let alone the words he actually needed to stop Starsky from whatever it was he may have otherwise intended—but he was too late. With a soft moan, Starsky quite tenderly kissed the crown of Hutch’s already unsheathing penis.

That was the moment: on that brief touch alone, Hutch immediately felt aroused, long before his thoughts kicked in, and definitely before he spoke a word to Starsky about whether he thought the engagement was a wise idea.

“Don’t,” was what Hutch said as his head spun. He could barely speak the word—because he wasn’t certain how he should feel—angry, elated, or embarrassed—despite what his body already told them both. What he did know was that he clearly enjoyed the tantalizing sensations Starsky’s lips created on his swelling penis.

“Starsk,” he tried again. It wasn’t too late to keep Starsky from making an irreversible mistake—or to convince him that it was okay to proceed. Should he go purely by their physical contact? Shouldn’t their thoughts be of one mind? “C’mon.” He gently pulled Starsky’s hair to at least get Starsky’s attention. But all Starsky did was moan in aimless reply—and apparently not to express dissatisfaction, but to suggest the opposite: he enjoyed what he did. Shouldn’t Hutch follow his lead?

Maybe a visual inventory would help him decide, but despite lifting his head, Hutch couldn’t see Starsky’s face because Starsky was bent over him. He could feel Starsky’s intimate touch and the warmth of his breath. After half a minute of reluctantly enjoying the sensual kisses, Hutch dropped his head back into his pillow and stared blankly at the ceiling bathed in morning light. He tried to concentrate on the shadows overhead instead of on what was happening between his legs, but he failed at that, too. When he opened his mouth in a pant to ease his anxiety more than to cool his internal heat, he felt his heart noticeably pounding.

Perhaps he should just wait it out, this whatever Starsky had planned or pretended to unleash. Was Hutch being dared? Could he repress the teasing, orgasmic ache that slowly built from deep inside him?

Starsky’s playful kisses abandoned Hutch’s crown and became sensual sucks along the length of his stiffening shaft, their sensuous wetness creating an entirely different kind of pleasure for Hutch, one that heightened his excitement—or maybe it was his need—for something more satisfying.

But it still wasn’t too late to know for sure whether they should indulge such behavior. “Starsky,” he said again, with firmer intentions that time. “What . . . are you. . . do-?” Once more, his words were interrupted by the demands on his flesh; Starsky cupped his sac and carefully massaged his testes—as if he was completely aware of that fine line between threatening harm and pleasuring them—and adding a new titillation to the bliss of his caressing lips. He bathed Hutch’s erection from base to tip in loving strokes of his tongue while his hand slid up the shaft and pulled Hutch’s penis away from his now heaving belly.

That was it, the moment when he knew it: the pleasure he was given had been born of love, and no greater love at that; taking his body to its ultimate ecstasy was merely Starsky’s way of expressing it.

His thumb tantalized and pleasured Hutch’s frenulum, that hypersensitive, sweet spot on the underside of his penis where the shaft met the head. The sensation was slippery, too—Starsky’s saliva and Hutch’s pre-cum together created a special kind of viscosity, and it heightened Hutch’s want for orgasm.

This much Hutch understood at that moment: he’d finally surrendered to the compelling invitation. He felt greedy, wanted more, needed it. The anticipation was everything. “Oh, yes,” he softly begged, finding Starsky’s head and his hair with his fingers and guiding him down. “Starsk . . . suck my cock.”

Permission had been given; there was no guessing.

Starsky released him and shifted on the bed; Hutch didn’t know specifically how Starsky moved, beyond what he sensed, because his eyes were closed—as if he could somehow pretend that what was happening to him wasn’t if he didn’t actually see it. The truth was, just as Hutch suspected, Starsky needed a better angle to fellate him. As he pushed the covers further back, Starsky nudged the inside of Hutch’s thigh, encouraging Hutch to open his legs so he could kneel between them.

It had been a long time since Hutch had enjoyed the euphoria of an orgasm; it was as if Starsky knew, too. He swallowed Hutch’s hardened penis deep into his mouth, tickling his hypersensitive skin with his tongue on its way in, and adding the firming stroke of his open, saliva-lubricated fist on its way out.

Propped on his right hand and using his left, he sucked and he licked and he kissed and he stroked Hutch from one glorious end of his sizable erection to its other, never losing ground in its smooth glide nor stalling its inevitable build. The longer he sucked, the faster he stroked—yet he seemed to know, or at least appreciate, that he could do both without pushing Hutch over his crest too soon. There was something profoundly innate in Starsky’s delivery: it was beautifully timed, impeccably lubricated, and uninhibitedly given—all with the exact degree of pressure and tightness, as if his hand and mouth, especially together in tandem, had been made specifically for bringing Ken Hutchinson to ejaculation in the most sensual and sexy act of love Hutch had ever experienced.

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered, speaking between labored pants, his entire body quivering, “. . . that feels . . . so . . . good.”

He spoke those words because they were true; he didn’t have the fortitude to embellish them with the further truth that the sexual good he felt was greater than any other he’d experienced in his entire lifetime.

It was Starsky’s deep inhales, Starsky’s low moans of pleasure, Starsky’s exuberance and his enthusiasm in pleasuring Hutch, that inevitably put Hutch over the line. In a panic, he gripped Starsky’s arm and tried to pull him off. “I’m going to come,” he breathlessly said—purely to keep Starsky from having to endure something as unpleasant as a mouthful of cum—but Starsky didn’t comply with the interruption. It was as if he expected the creamy deposit, as if he planned it, had waited for it, wanted it.

Hutch had no choice, but to completely surrender. The wave of pure joy that overtook him mercilessly overwhelmed him, too, pushing cries of intensely blissful expression out of him with each expulsion of semen, all while emptying the warm, convulsive content of his sac into the warmer wet desire of Starsky’s devouring mouth.

Sweat drenched Hutch’s bared skin, his heart wildly pounded in his chest, and his head uncontrollably spun. Only when time gave him permission to climb down from the rapture to some level of normalcy was he able to cover his face in his hands—and momentarily cry. Something had gone terribly wrong and yet it couldn’t have been more perfect.

In hindsight, Hutch knew what that ‘something’ was: sex between them had been the only missing ingredient in an otherwise completely fulfilling human relationship, one so unlike any other he’d ever had before—or ever would. This he doubtlessly believed. But romance was a doomed endeavor in his experience; that kind of intimacy was the final nail in a coffin—and he had just hammered it, crossing that line with Starsky—the most precious part of him—dissolving what was only a moment ago impenetrable to what had suddenly become imperiled.

Did Hutch wish it weren’t so? Would he have given anything to be wrong?

Absolutely.

* * *

“You wanted me to do it, didn’t you, Hutch?”

Hutch couldn’t lie. “At the time, I did. Of course, I did. Wasn’t it obvious?”

“But when it came down to the actual thing, you changed your mind and tried to stop me.”

“I tried to stop you because I didn’t know what to think. The thought of you sucking me off never crossed my mind. Not once. But when you started it and, by the time you ended it, yeah, I wanted it.”

“And not because you’d let anybody go down on you, right?”

Hutch took a handful of popcorn out of the bag when Starsky held it toward him. “I think you proved that point,” Hutch admittedly said, eating the popped kernels while they made gentle eye contact.

“I want to hear you say it,” Starsky implored him.

Hutch obliged. “I wouldn’t let just anybody go down on me.”

“You let me do it because—”

“—because it was you.”

Starsky closed his mouth—as if he wanted to savor Hutch’s concession and how pleased he was to do it. The little boy in him surfaced and a satisfied twinkle danced in his eyes.

Hutch tossed a piece of popcorn at him to wipe the look from his face. He didn’t know whether they’d ever have a discussion as intimately adult as the one they were having, so he was willing to make a full confession—but only if Starsky stopped acting like a smug child who’d just won a game of Scrabble against a better-educated opponent.

“I trust you,” Hutch said, acquiescing. “I admire you and respect you. I love you. And I feel safe to be myself, safe to have secrets. Maybe more than all of that, I’d . . .”

Starsky fished around in the folds of his shirt until he found the popcorn Hutch had thrown at him. He made eye contact after he succeeded. “You’d what, Hutch?”

“I’d die for you.”

Starsky’s expression softened. He was obviously moved by Hutch’s words, even though he already knew them to be a truth they each held sacred for the other.

“And I’m just so goddamned grateful that you’re still with me,” Hutch swore. “I couldn’t be luckier in life if I tried.”

“I know what you mean,” Starsky said quietly. His tone was sincere, but he was obviously on a different mission, finally eating the popcorn Hutch had tossed at him. “You liked it.”

“The popcorn or the blowjob?” Hutch playfully asked, allowing himself to be redirected.

“The blowjob.”

“I did.”

Starsky didn’t sound as if he wanted a pat on the back, but to inventory the facts. “A lot. You liked it a lot.”

“An understatement.”

“How come?”

“How come an understatement?”

“How come you liked it so much?”

“It was perfect.”

“How could it be? I mean, I’d never done anything like that before. How could it possibly be perfect?”

Hutch realized the answer—the one Starsky already knew. He also appreciated that Starsky needed to hear it in Hutch’s words—especially because Hutch’s initial reaction to the fellatio had been so hostile—at least, disappointing.

To answer Starsky’s question, Hutch had to relive the specifics in his mind, the visuals of which unexpectedly caused him a subtle arousal. He ate more salty popcorn from the bag to focus on its taste and to avoid the physical sensations those memories of sexual pleasure evoked in him; he did his best to express them in words instead. “I’m telling you this on the fly,” he warned. “I haven’t given your skill any thought until now—and I’m only telling you these things because you’re asking.”

Starsky was probably eager for answers, but he didn’t act like it. He apparently understood that patience was in order. He sat in front of Hutch, held the popcorn bag in his lap, gave Hutch a kind of ‘I’m willing to wait’ sheepish expression, but didn’t eat—nor leave eye contact.

“I think, like the kiss to my chest that morning,” Hutch said, reflecting on that rather sweet moment, “I was subconsciously aware of the closeness between us in a way we hadn’t been before.”

Starsky nodded, like he knew. It was only then he began to eat popcorn, slowly, in a kind of distracted way, as if each mouthful would give Hutch more incentive to dig deeper into his psyche.

“My body had already begun to respond, long before my mind did,” Hutch conceded, watching Starsky closely. “By the time you got to my dick, it was ready to roll.”

“I’m going to have to argue with you here,” Starsky said, sounding as determined as he appeared. “I mean, the time between the kiss and the lick was only seconds. When I woke up that morning, you were looking at me like you believed as I did: that with sex, we would have everything in life we ever wanted or needed.”

“So you think my dick started to harden the second you opened your eyes; is that your opinion?”

“I’m pretty sure I felt its heat even before I touched you.”

Maybe Starsky was right. Perhaps there was some truth to his assessment that Hutch’s erection had already begun to form in time for that initial contact with Starsky’s warm lips. In fact, Hutch shouldn’t even debate it; Starsky was the one more in tune with his feelings; Hutch’s experience had been pure reaction.

“None of that answers the question about why my suck job was as perfect as you say it was.”

“For just that reason,” Hutch replied, as if he couldn’t state the obvious clearly enough. “It began with a love-filled kiss, and that fondness for me carried through in all the ways you touched me.”

“So, I didn’t need skill.”

“I suppose you had some notion about how to deliver the goods, based on your receiving experience over the years.”

“I like how you said that,” Starsky replied, closing the popcorn bag and tossing it into the picnic basket. “I am fond of you.”

Hutch knew what Starsky meant, and was willing to give it to him in the words he’d hoped for. “I believe you’ve never gone down on a man before, but your love and admiration for me enabled you to deliver the perfect technique.”

“Because all I feel for you is love.”

Hutch warmly smiled at him. “I’ve never felt more loved than I did then.”

Starsky leaned back, appearing taken aback. “Then you’ve made my point, Hutch. I mean, you’re making my case for me. I did it for no other reason than that—and I now believe you believe me.”

“How’d it feel?”

“To love you?”

“To pleasure me—aside from the love. It had to be somewhat of an alternate reality.”

“Just new territory—like finding a mountain instead of a valley.” He wasn’t facetious.

Regardless, Hutch didn’t want to dilute the love, but he was also curious about the specifics. “A dick, Starsk.”

“Your dick, Hutch.”

“A dick just the same.”

Starsky leaned forward again, momentarily searched the air, seemed to have understood Hutch’s curiosity without its judgement, and wanted to answer honestly. “I remember thinking how nice it was that I didn’t have to guess whether you were turned on or not.” He looked Hutch in the eye. “I didn’t have to figure anything out.”

“Everybody’s different, even those of us who are the same.”

“But not so different that you can confuse a hard-on with any other signal.”

Hutch shrugged because he had no comeback to such a truth.

“But what you’re wanting to know,” Starsky said, licking mustard off the used table knife, “is how did it feel to have your cock in my mouth, hm, to suck it all the way into giving up its cum?” He dug the peanut butter out of the picnic basket, along with a small box of Ritz crackers.

Hutch lightly laughed, having been caught, but mostly from Starsky’s purposeful effort to corner him. He grabbed the crackers box and opened it while he pointedly asked, “Did you notice I wasn’t circumcised?”

“I knew you weren’t cut; we’ve talked about it over the years and I’ve seen it accidentally now and then—not to mention that you got undressed beside the bed a few times just in the past couple of weeks.”

“And?”

“And I couldn’t have told you there was anything different. I mean, I’d never given head before, but even so, you not being cut didn’t have any bearing on it.” He opened the jar, swirled the knife into its contents, and then spread peanut butter on a cracker after Hutch handed him one. “Besides, none of what I did was with thinking.” He gave Hutch the topped cracker in exchange for a fresh one. “I went with my feelings—and all of those felt good.”

They’d felt good to Hutch, too. “I hadn’t showered in twenty-four hours,” he told Starsky, eating the peanut butter cracker he’d been given and tossing Starsky the Ritz box. Would Starsky be honest with him about matters that delicate?

“You smelled good,” Starsky insisted. “Sexy. I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. You did: you smelled really sexy. If you’d had a shower, you’d have smelled like soap.” He too ate a peanut butter cracker and grinned at Hutch, briefly flashing the food in his mouth. “I liked the way you smelled. I wouldn’t lie to you about something like that.”

Hutch ignored Starsky’s attempt to gross him out and used his rude eating behavior for his next question. “Taste?”

“The sucking or the eating?”

“Either. Both.”

Starsky searched the air again for his answer. He wore a thoughtful expression, a sincere one, and didn’t waver in his steadfast look at Hutch. The questions hadn’t fazed him. “A real kind of light sweetness. I mean, not a bad taste, just different . . . and kind of sweet.”

“Which part?”

“Both parts.”

“Must be my diet,” Hutch said, aiming for a joke, but Starsky didn’t laugh. He obviously wanted to be serious about what had been a very meaningful experience between them. Hutch tried a different kind of question. “Any regrets?”

“You’re bigger than me.”

“What?”

“Probably by an inch—and bigger around, too—but it didn’t make me jealous. Besides, I could handle it. I did, didn’t I?”

Hutch didn’t understand Starsky’s statements until he realized Starsky had misunderstood him. “I wasn’t asking if you were disappointed in my size. I was wondering if you’ve had second thoughts about what you’d done since then.”

Starsky briefly bit his lip, shrugged in embarrassment, as if he’d given something away without meaning to. It was such a familiar expression of pure innocence that Hutch couldn’t help but be warmed by it. He did love that blue-eyed boy.

“Oh,” Starsky said, sheepishly.

Hutch didn’t laugh, despite his first urge to razz his partner. “Just answer the question.”

“No regrets,” Starsky promised, filling his mouth with peanut butter crackers and speaking past them. “I mean, I’m sorry I upset you that morning. I’m sorry it’s been an issue for us. I’m sorry you got hurt—especially because I only wanted to please you.”

“Apology accepted. I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“Okay, but—for the record—I’m not sorry for the act of having done what I did. I don’t think it will ever bother me, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“I’m not ashamed of myself.”

Despite it all, Hutch was relieved to know Starsky wouldn’t beat himself up for his actions; they’d definitely been born from love. How could Hutch ever fault him? “I just can’t imagine we’d survive a sexual relationship. There are ramifications you haven’t considered.”

“Does that mean you’ve been considering a sexual relationship with me?”

“It means that kind of thing would kill us in the long run.”

“So, is that what basically stops you? Because every other romantic relationship we’ve had with somebody ended in disaster, you’re afraid ours would, too?”

“We have a romantic relationship and this picnic proves it; I’m talking about a sexual relationship—assuming we had one of those.”

“Assuming, okay, but, I mean, that’s the reason you were pissed?”

“I was hurt, not pissed—or pissed because you hurt me.”

“Hurt . . . because you think a relationship like that would end us, right? I know you said it feels like we’ve already ended—because of what I did—but you’ve also said you think we can be saved.”

Hutch graciously accepted every cracker Starsky handed him—about one to every four Starsky ate. “That’s true. I do think we can be saved. I had a knee-jerk reaction at first, but I’m past that.”

“Just the same . . . these other relationships . . . you know what made them interesting?”

“Tits?”

“We were looking for what we’ve been taught to want.”

“It’s how we’re wired, Starsk.”

“Whatever. We get smitten, start dating, feel all romantic and sexy, you know? Makes it exciting. But it’s never worked out for either of us.”

“Some of those relationships ended because lives were ended.”

“Or the women got scared,” Starsky recalled. He closed the peanut butter jar and licked the knife clean. “Or she went back to her daddy, or she couldn’t make up her mind which one of us she wanted. We have a list of reasons those ended. And none of those reasons could end our relationship. None of them.”

“Except one of us dying.”

“Okay, but I’m talking about the everyday reasons. We’re never going to decide to leave each other.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right—and you know it. But is that your reasoning, Detective, that the past predicts the future?”

Hutch didn’t laugh. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“I can’t do it, Starsk.”

“Do what?”

Hutch shrugged, feeling embarrassed and reluctant to hurt Starsky’s sensibilities, but he said it anyway. “I can’t go down on you.”

Starsky didn’t seem fazed. “I’m not asking you to, but is it because you don’t feel that way for me or because you’re turned off by the idea of going down on a dick?”

“If I may be honest. . .”

“Isn’t that who we are? Honest with each other?”

“It’s both those things, Starsk: I guess I don’t feel that way for you, and the idea of going down on a dick repulses me.”

“It makes me sick, too, I mean, if I step back and think about sucking cock.”

“And yet . . .”

“That was different. That was you.”

Hutch could no longer argue that specific point. “I think I understand it, Starsk, but it’s not who I am. I couldn’t act on those feelings, even if I felt them.”

“I’m not trying to talk you into anything. I’m just curious about your reasons. Do you want anything else to eat?”

“I can’t believe I’ve eaten this much. Don’t tempt me.”

“Good,” Starsky said, sounding glad to be done with the food basket. He closed it and opened the cooler for another beer instead. “So . . . am I ugly to look at?”

Hutch didn’t laugh then, either. “No.”

“How would you rank me on a scale of good looks, hm?”

“Fairly high. But sexual desire is a lot more complicated than you’re implying. It’s not in my DNA to sexually pleasure you.”

“You know I was never asking you to, right?”

“You don’t have to keep telling me that.”

“I mean, I did what was in me to do and I never expected you to do the same.”

“I believe that.” The evidence was there, after all. Starsky had left the bed before Hutch could even open his eyes, let alone lay a hand on him. He shared the beer with Starsky and tossed him a wink. “What else do you have to say for yourself?”

“Well, I mean, if it’s in me to do that to you, but not in you to do that to me, do you think we could have a relationship like that?”

Hutch blinked. “Where you suck my dick, but I don’t return the favor?”

“It wouldn’t be a favor; it would be a . . . desire I have.”

“All give and no take?”

“I’d still get something.”

“Even though I wouldn’t provide you with that pleasure, you would still want to provide it for me?”

“Well, I mean, just thinking about making you feel good turns me on. I’m saying it wouldn’t be one-sided. I could get off on doing that to you—by my own hand, I mean. No strings attached.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear that I’m telling someone I love—someone I love more than anyone else on earth—that I’d like to continue making his cock feel good if he’d let me; he wouldn’t have to do anything but lay back and enjoy it.”

“And you get off on your own hand job—”

“As long as I could lay on the bed next to you after you came and make myself come, I’d be happy. I mean, I’d appreciate being able to look at you during a jacking off rather than a bathroom wall.”

Hutch was dismayed, if he was anything. More mixed feelings. “You’re appealing to my weaknesses again, Starsk, but it wouldn’t work.”

“What if we tried it for a while? See how we feel about it?”

“I can already predict that you’d end up feeling resentful and frustrated, maybe even angry at me.”

“What if we check in with each other every day to make sure that isn’t happening and, if it is, we call it quits?”

“Think about what you’re saying, buddy. I get all the pleasure and you get none—”

“I’ll think about what I’m saying if you’ll listen to what I’m telling you: I’d get a good come out of it, too, just by a different means is all.”

“You’re not going to go your whole life sucking me off without getting any of that for yourself.”

“If I was sucking you off every day and night, and getting off on it—”

“Every day and night?”

“—I wouldn’t be wanting anything else.”

“Maybe not sexually, but certainly emotionally.”

“How many times do I have to tell you this, hm? What I did the other morning, I did out of emotion, not out of need for sex.”

Hutch looked off, that time toward the top of the canyon, to where his car had gone over the cliff. It should be him arguing for performing fellatio, not the other way around: it was Starsky who’d saved his life that day. But he just couldn’t imagine any man’s penis in his mouth, not even his best friend’s. It wasn’t possible for them to have a lasting relationship the way Starsky envisioned it.

At the same time, Hutch could barely imagine disappointing his partner by immediately brushing off his desires, so he eased into it. “Let me think about it,” he said, using the suggestion to give them both a temporary escape from the conversation and its impossible promises.

“Okay,” Starsky said, sounding a bit hopeful. “But . . . having told you all that, does it make you uncomfortable? Are you running right now or will you really think about it?”

Hutch made a determined decision to not hurt Starsky—that time with a white lie; it wasn’t that he wouldn’t consider Starsky’s offer, but that he already knew his decision. “I really will think about it.”

“Does it make sense to you how I got to this place in my feelings?”

“Perfect sense.”

“Can you see that we’re already so bonded that nothing can break us?”

“Almost nothing.”

“Even if we experimented and it failed, we wouldn’t break.”

“I agree with that.”

“It’s possible that those other relationships ended because they weren’t us.”

“Possible.”

“What kind of percentage would you give me is the difference between what you feel and what I feel?”

“Percentage?”

“I’m only talking feelings here: love, trust, respect, all that. Do you feel for me 50% of how I feel about you? 68? 33?”

“I’d say . . . a hundred—all but the cock-sucking.”

“Great. Thank you. Now . . . if you can forgive me and trust that I won’t do anything like that to you again—unless you decide I can—do you think we can still buy a house together?”

“I do forgive you—and I’ll always trust you. And I never thought we wouldn’t still buy a house together.”

Starsky sat back and appeared to tear-up. “You’re beautiful, Hutch.”

“Are you crying?” Hutch wondered, unnerved by how emotional Starsky had become.

“No,” Starsky said, wiping his face, and laughing at himself. “My eyes are sweating.” He then pushed off the ground. “I’ve got to take a piss. All that beer is headed down the pipeline.”

Hutch was left to his reflections, first realizing that he’d broken a sweat during that conversation. He wasn’t sure what to think and feel, but he was glad they’d finally had a sane conversation about it—one they could have had sooner had he not been so rattled. He exhaled his previous anxiety and rummaged around in the picnic basket until he found the fresh fruit, laughing at how much food Starsky had packed, more than they would be able to consume in a single afternoon.

He bit into an apple and savored the taste—and its stimulation somehow brought him right back to the fellatio Starsky had provided for him a few mornings earlier. Could Hutch live a lifestyle like that? It simply wasn’t in him: he was no taker. He could never entertain the one-sided sex-making Starsky hoped for, but he appreciated his partner’s desire for it. It was rather sentimental, too.

One thing Hutch did know: nothing would break them apart—except the complications and complexities of such a relationship. There would be too much animosity and resentment, jealousy and neediness, on Starsky’s part, a mix of hostility and hurt that neither of them would be able to endure.

Hutch leaned back on his elbow, crossed his ankles, stared off into Starsky’s direction, and munched his apple, and he was at least grateful all over again that he could lay eyes on his partner: alive and well—and urinating beside a bush. The man stood with his back to the road and leisurely peed in the outdoors, causing Hutch to lightly laugh at how comfortable Starsky had become in the wilderness.

Hutch was also fairly sure that Starsky’s want to play with his partner in that specific relation would run its course—probably ending as soon as Starsky returned to their night-crawling public outings. One trip to a local bar after work, and even accidentally laying eyes on the first sweet young woman who passed his gaze, and he’d forget about pleasuring Hutch. They were simply going through a phase—caused by a recent near-death experience they both shared—and one that would dissolve on its own natural, but ill-fated pass.

Find a house, move both of them into it, get comfortable with their new lifestyle routine, and be back to work like the good cops they were, and their lives would even out. Time had a way of healing those kinds of wounds. In the meantime, Hutch would just have to wean Starsky away from his peculiar ambitions. He would do it kindly; Starsky was owed that much.

When Starsky returned to the picnic blanket, he bent over and presented Hutch with a dandelion he’d apparently picked. “Peace?”

“That’s a weed,” Hutch said, graciously accepting it nonetheless. “A weed, Starsk,” he playfully added. “I’m beginning to think you don’t love me as much as I thought you did.”

Starsky wasn’t fazed, proving it in his sentimental follow-up comment. “You see a weed,” he replied with a warm and friendly smile. “I see a pretty yellow flower.”

* * *

THE FALL

Starsky unceremoniously set the picnic basket on the kitchen table. “Hungry?” he quipped, as if there’d never be another meal served if Hutch didn’t have an appetite.

“I can make room,” Hutch said, unable to repress his laugh at the way Starsky had presented the food. At least there’d be no guessing about what to have for dinner. He joined Starsky at the table after getting two beers out of the still-iced cooler. “What haven’t we eaten?”

“Potato salad,” Starsky replied, retrieving the round, plastic container from the basket and dropping it on the table’s wooden surface. He rummaged some more. “Bean dip and corn chips. Oreo cookies. Dill pickles.” He placed those out as well. “I’ll make us  sandwiches, if you want.” He proceeded to find the condiments, cheeses, lettuce and tomato, and the unopened package of cold cuts. Once he had a spread on the table, he put the basket on the floor. “Pick your poison, pal.”

“Make me a sandwich.”

“Your wish is my command, O King Ken. I’ll make you one like no other you’ve had before.”

Hutch couldn’t help but think Starsky referenced fellatio, specifically a recall of that perfect oral pleasing Hutch had experienced, but he wasn’t sure; perhaps he was overly sensitive to the topic. As he watched Starsky lay two slices of bread on a clean plate and then dress them with condiments and content, he couldn’t help but remember Starsky’s offer. All Hutch had to do was ask for sex and the deeply satisfying pleasure would be his. The thought alone aroused him.

“No mayonnaise,” he said, mostly to distract himself from his thoughts. “Just mustard.”

Starsky had already scooped mayonnaise out of the jar with the table knife, so he paused in mid-action. He then apparently had a practical idea—and licked the knife clean, just the way he’d done during the picnic when he removed mustard from the utensil and then peanut butter—with his tongue. He grinned at Hutch, as if caught in a moment of private behavior, and pretended to be innocent. “What?”

“Keep licking that thing and—”

“It’ll make you hard?” Starsky asked with a seductive raise of his eyebrow. He smacked his lips.

“—you’ll cut your tongue on it,” Hutch warned him and—knowing his previous hunch about Starsky’s intentions were accurate after all—tried to sound reprimanding. He grabbed the plate with the half-finished sandwich and told Starsky he’d take care of it from there.

None of their subsequent conversation was pocked with innuendo; in fact, it had turned mostly to their daydreaming about the house they hoped to one day own. Before arriving at Venice Place that evening, they bought a newspaper and collected a few real estate pamphlets and fliers from several outlets along the route home. Leisurely eating a late evening dinner at the small kitchen table—crowded with food and newsprint—Starsky read off house descriptions between bites of sandwich, potato salad, bean dip and chips, Oreo cookies and dill pickles.

“Maybe if we find the right floor plan,” he suggested, “we could knock a wall out between a couple of the bedrooms to turn them into a single big one.”

“So, we’ll each have a master?”

“Yeah. And we can make that bathroom bigger, too. I mean, ideally, it would be great if we found a place with two master suites, but that’s not seeming likely.”

They had been on that same page together, too.

“We haven’t even begun to look at houses,” Hutch reminded him.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now? Beginning?”

“On paper—but we haven’t actually been to a house. It might even be better if we work with a realtor.”

“So, what’s the point in this tonight?”

“Fun?”

Hutch hadn’t meant to dampen Starsky’s mood; he just didn’t think they’d find much to whet their appetites given that they had a specific idea for a house in mind: two master bedrooms, two master bathrooms, the pool Starsky wanted, the garden area Hutch would require, and the list of amenities they bounced back-and-forth between them that night. “I want a red front door,” Starsky insisted, while Hutch said they would need a patio big enough for an outside hot tub.

And so their dreaming traversed until they had eaten more than they planned.

“We ate too much today,” Starsky whined, folding the last pamphlet and dropping it to the floor. He pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair, intently studying Hutch as if he needed agreement.

“That’s because we’re a couple of pigs,” Hutch casually replied, on cue.

When they realized the play on words, they busted up laughing.

“That’s a badge I’ll wear any day,” Starsky concluded after the humor wore off.

“Except for the time we threw our badges into the ocean.”

“I forgot about that. On second thought, maybe we wouldn’t be where we are in this situation—me getting shot in the back, I mean—if we had left those badges at the bottom of the sea.”

“You remember that they gave us new ones, right?”

“I meant it euphorically.”

“You meant it figuratively.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “Let’s call it a day, hm? We have to refresh ourselves—”

“Replenish.”

“—because we’re running out of vacation.”

“Is that what this has been?”

“I mean, we have limited time to go house-hunting. My last therapy session is tomorrow, if all goes according to plan.”

Hutch felt the pang he’d come to recognize: that he didn’t want Starsky to finish therapy, for no other reason than he didn’t want Starsky to move back to his apartment. He would miss the man in his bed. There’d been something uniquely comforting in Starsky’s closeness, an intimacy and security Hutch was sure to long for in his absence.

Starsky read his mind. “I don’t have to go right away,” he carefully said, his blue eyes shining with a certain hopefulness. “I mean, I can stay until we find a house. That way we can brainstorm when the mood strikes.”

“Like tonight,” Hutch noted, relieved to know Starsky felt likewise. “We can slowly pack up your place while we hunt, so it’s not on us all at once—and save on the rent money.”

“I’m thinking we might want to start fresh with a lot of things—like furniture and appliances and dishes. I’ll just keep the stuff that means something to me.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Sometimes I have them.”

“But not often enough,” Hutch teased, easing away from his more vulnerable feelings. One was that he was also timid about being in bed with Starsky on that first night of Starsky’s offer for one-sided sex pleasure. Afraid he might be caught with such unkind thoughts, Hutch pursed his lips and helplessly shrugged at his partner.

Starsky read his mind then, too. “I said I wouldn’t lay on a hand on you—unless you decide I can.”

“That’s what scares me,” Hutch admitted.

“That you’ll say I can?”

“And then regret it.”

Seeming to steel himself, Starsky nodded that he understood, and then said, “Let’s make this easy. If you have a weak moment, I promise I won’t act on it until we’ve had a chance to talk about it first.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, feeling relieved. But what Starsky couldn’t know was that promises like the one he had just made only deepened Hutch’s love for him.

* * *

Hutch lay on his belly facing Starsky, hugging his pillow, the sheet pulled up over his hip, covering his buttocks. He was mesmerized by the room’s serene ambiance—a welcoming one enhanced by Starsky’s warm voice.

“‘On half an acre,’” Starsky read from the newspaper in his lap. He sat outside the blankets on his side of the mattress, up against the headboard, pillows at his back, with his knees bent, dressed in his red pajama shorts and a navy blue tee-shirt.

The lamp on the table beside him was the only light in the room; they’d shut down the apartment—locked the doors, turned out the lights, dressed or undressed for bed, respectively—and were together in the bedroom an hour before midnight. Starsky was apparently still wired from the day’s activities—or still very excited about a new house—and obviously wasn’t prepared to sleep right away. “‘This beautiful residence consists of a 4-bedroom 2-bathroom home,’” he continued reading, “‘2200 square feet, a 2-car attached garage, and a stand-alone workshop.’”

Hutch barely heard the words; he instead enjoyed the soothing sound of his partner’s voice—despite whatever he said—as well as the amber glow in the room, and the precious time devoted solely to themselves. He couldn’t close his eyes. Maybe he would never tire of looking at Starsky. Almost losing him had given new meaning to Starsky’s very existence.

“‘Expansive lawn and treed-perimeter of this one-of-a-kind property,’” he emphasized. “‘Original hardwood floors throughout.’”

Starsky’s profile, his dark wavy hair, thick eyelashes.

“‘Indoor laundry room. Dual pane windows.’”

The black hair on his darker skinned arms, the muscle in his biceps, the shapes of his fingers. Clean, manicured nails. Starsky’s hygiene was impeccable; Hutch could still smell his alluring cologne.

Starsky was well-groomed and still rather pleasant to look at—having dressed for the occasion of his last therapy session—and keeping his winsome appearance throughout the rest of the day. He had to know he was a handsome man. Why would he have ever asked Hutch to rank his looks?

“‘New deck off the living room. Brick fireplace. Ceiling fans’—ceiling fans, Hutch. Imagine that.” Even Starsky’s excitement was hypnotic.

Hutch had to admit, if only to himself, that Starsky was the most masculine one between them—his manly features were more prominent: his muscled calves, hairy legs, deeper male voice.

“Listen to this: it has a ‘family orchard and wild berries flourish along the privacy-fenced boundaries.’ A built-in garden already, Hutch—and it’s ‘flourishing.’”

Everything about Starsky: so familiar and reliably attractive. If he lived a thousand years, he’d grow old gracefully—of this, Hutch was certain.

“You could have gotten laid tonight,” Hutch reminded him, speaking somewhat absent-mindedly; vague thoughts of Starsky’s penis having entered his mind. “Why didn’t you go for it?”

“‘Water-independent’; it has its own domestic well, but is still connected to city natural gas. Talk about perfect, hm?”

“Didn’t you find those women good-looking enough?”

“We should see this place tomorrow,” Starsky suggested, folding the newspaper and tossing it to the floor on his side of the bed. “It’s even within our price range.” Without undressing, he scooted down on the mattress, rolled to his side, hugged his own pillow, and faced Hutch. “Sounds like it’s got room for a hot tub and I can paint the front door if it isn’t already red.”

Hutch admired the light in Starsky’s blue, sultry eyes. He appeared relaxed and contented, but measurably awake, despite the late hour.

“I’ll call on it in the morning,” Starsky said.

“Were they unattractive?”

Starsky closed his mouth, unreadably studied Hutch’s eyes, didn’t reply.

“They were friendly, too,” Hutch remembered.

Starsky pushed the sheet away from his knees and almost exposed Hutch; neither of them made an effort to correct the shift, but Starsky didn’t leave eye contact just the same.

“Is there some reason you don’t want to talk to me about this?” Hutch asked, his voice as soft as the room’s gentle light. “Were they ugly?”

“No.”

“Pretty?”

“Plenty pretty.”

“Then what?”

Starsky didn’t answer.

“Were they too friendly?”

“No.”

“But you didn’t take them up on their offer.”

“They didn’t make one.”

“It was implied.”

In fact, Hutch was fairly sure he hadn’t misread the women’s intentions. He and Starsky had stopped by The Pits after Starsky’s therapy session—and a leisurely, light lunch, followed by a late afternoon movie. They sat at the end of the bar farthest from the door and let Huggy serve them whatever he felt best—including the beer.

Hutch was glad to catch up with their pal—in person; he wanted to lay to rest the awkwardness of a few nights earlier—when Huggy and Starsky had set him up to make Starsky’s point. He and Huggy didn’t need to discuss it; their wordless understanding that the past was the past was confirmed with a warm and friendly handshake—and beers on the house.

Huggy also served them hamburgers, fries, and pickles, a bowl of peanuts, and sides of fresh, peeled oranges. He leaned forearms on the bar for a while in front of the men to make certain his guests were happy with their food—and to catch up on Starsky’s news about ending his regular therapy. It was not long afterward that a couple of young women entered the bar—and sat on the two empty stools to Starsky’s left.

It was Huggy who broke the ice for them. He gave each of the women a drink and said it was from the gentlemen seated to their right. Hutch thought he saw a subtle snarl in Starsky’s expression, but he himself gave Huggy a wink. Starsky had no choice but to engage their guests.

“Welcome to the heart of the City of Angels,” Hutch said in a singsong voice as he leaned on the bar and looked around Starsky to make eye contact with the women. One was a blonde, the other a brunette—both appearing to be in their mid- to late-twenties, both quite pretty, both with long hair and friendly eyes, both shapely and attractively dressed. They thanked Starsky and Hutch for the drinks, smiled as they gave the men a toast, and introduced themselves: Nadine, the blonde; Jenny, the brunette.

Hutch couldn’t have chosen one over the other if they’d put a gun to his head; both women were very attractive and each in her own way. Maybe Starsky would loosen up and suggest a foursome to further celebrate his release from therapy. But Starsky, as friendly as he was, kept his eyes on his plate while he ate his meal. It was as if he was afraid to make eye contact with Jenny and Nadine, lest he weaken under the spell of femininity and the possibility of long overdue sex. Maybe he feared he’d forgotten how to perform.

“York, a small town in Pennsylvania,” Jenny replied when Starsky asked her where they were from; he’d obviously picked up on the same clues Hutch had: that the women were from out-of-state, visiting Hollywood—as tourists. “We’ve never been west of the Mississippi River. Our trip has been quite a thrill, but you boys probably take all of these famous people in stride?”

Starsky lightly laughed. “I’ve been here about twenty-five years and I can’t think of a single time we’ve run into famous people.”

“Short memory,” Hutch said, nudging Starsky’s knee with his own to let him know he needed to come up with better answers if they were going to score. “We were even cast in a movie or two,” he told the ladies, “as part of our jobs.”

“You’re actors?”

“They’re police officers,” Huggy interjected. “They work the streets and back alleys where the real drama is, not so much the sets.”

“Police officers!” Nadine exclaimed, turning toward Hutch and Starsky with excitement oozing from her posture. “Big City cops!”

“Are we seeing the thin blue line in action,” Jenny curiously wondered, “or are you just having dinner together?”

Hutch left the reply to Starsky, but Starsky gave them a vague answer.

“We’re undercover detectives—off-duty.”

“Are you armed?”

“Why? Do you need a bodyguard?” he playfully asked.

“If that would get you both to join us on our romp through La-La Land, then of course!”

That was Flirt Number One.

The more the women drank, the friendlier they became. Over the course of a couple of hours, the foursome was engaged in conversations of getting to know each other, discussing politics and stardom and cooking—to just about everything else—and genuinely enjoying themselves. The body language changed during that time—all but Starsky’s. As the out-of-towners seemed to crowd him, Starsky remained steadfast to sitting as he had been since he arrived in the bar, turning only his head to talk to Nadine and Jenny or to Hutch on his other side. It was Hutch who leaned on the bar to look around Starsky or backwards to see behind him.

Starsky didn’t dance with either woman, even though he was asked. Hutch was the one to do the honors, first with Nadine and then with Jenny. He would have enjoyed it more if his partner had joined the festivities, but nothing seemed to budge Starsky onto the dance floor.

He also turned down a game of pool, even one he and Hutch would have played for money—while they were to be cheered on by the women. Huggy kept the beer and wine flowing and the bowls filled with peanuts and pretzels and did his part to encourage Starsky into moving off the stool—but to no avail.

Starsky wasn’t unfriendly; far from it; still, he didn’t participate in the fun, nor the flirting, even as it became more obvious that Nadine and Jenny hoped to spend time outside of The Pits with the handsome men who entertained them.

It was so obvious the women were attracted to them that Hutch had to apologize to the ladies for having to turn down any further activity as the evening drew to a close and it became apparent that Starsky wasn’t interested. He complained of being overly tired, truthfully explaining to them that he’d survived a shooting some months prior and wasn’t yet up to promised excitement. He wrote down a few places they should be sure to visit while on tour in the city, and the four eventually said their goodnights.

* * *

“Were you cock-blocking me?” Hutch gently asked, searching Starsky’s eyes for the truth as they lay on the bed that night and finally dedicated themselves to the conversation.

“No,” Starsky replied, both defensively and emphatically.

“When you rejected them, you shut down my chances, too.”

“No, I didn’t. You danced with the girls. You could’ve asked one of them out. You could’ve asked both of them. Why didn’t you?”

“They’re married.”

“They weren’t wearing rings.”

“They’re married.”

“How would you know that?”

“They’re friends of Huggy’s.”

Starsky flinched, searched Hutch’s face with his eyes, and carefully asked, “What are you telling me?”

“That when I went out for my run this morning, I called Hug and told him he owed me a favor. I guess you never realized it was a setup?”

Starsky frowned. “How could I? It was my idea to go to The Pits.”

“If you hadn’t suggested it, I would have insisted.”

“You think you could have won that debate?”

“I’d have told you it was important to me that Huggy and I buried the hatchet after you guys set me up.”

“Okay,” Starsky reluctantly acquiesced. “And we went there just so you and Hug could have those girls hit on us?”

“I was sure you’d figure it out: two absolutely gorgeous women, both a sure thing. What were the odds?”

Starsky’s brow furrowed with a touch of anger. “Why would you and Hug do that?”

“He was repaying a debt and I needed his help to settle a bet.”

“Which was?”

“Well, what I told him was that I had bet you that you prefer blondes over brunettes.”

“What was it really?”

“I was trying to figure out where your interests lay.”

“What did you learn?”

“That I need more information.”

Starsky pondered the conversation for half a minute, studying Hutch’s face and his eyes, looking for clues, or maybe even biting his tongue to keep from expressing his dismay. But then he invited the next round of questions. “What do you still need to know?”

“If you’re in a hurry to buy a house because you’re afraid I’ll change my mind?”

“I want to get on with my life—with our lives. That’s why I’m anxious. I believe it’s what you want, too, isn’t it?”

It was.

Hutch allowed the ensuing silence to ease them both off their apprehensions and to serve as his answer. But he’d struck out in knowing why Starsky had been so guarded at the bar. “Are you waiting for me?”

“Waiting for you?”

“To decide what I’m going to do about . . . your generous offer?”

“Well, I mean, I’m waiting to know what you’ll do—of course, I am—but it’s not a reason I’m in this bed instead of one of theirs.”

“Is it just that you’re not ready for the Big Leagues yet?”

Starsky tried to repress his smile, but didn’t succeed. He’d obviously remembered what Hutch had hoped he would: the playfully special moment between them in the airport when Dr. Kaufman left Hutch behind for her flight, and Starsky tugged on his arm, telling him he would take him home and put him to bed. The tables had just been turned.

“I guess I want more time,” Starsky admitted. “I want to be settled, anyway. Since we’ve decided to get a house together, there’s a lot to be done.”

Neither spoke for a minute; they gazed into each other’s eyes, basked in the relaxing warmth of the intimacy between them, and the closeness of their circumstances—until Hutch found that loophole he wasn’t even looking for.

“No time even for a one-night stand?”

Starsky didn’t answer. He simply squinted back into Hutch’s eyes and remained silent. But there was something brewing beneath the surface, an expression of . . . fondness? a kind of reservation, a sort of hiding in the shadows of his affection for Hutch?

Hutch’s question was as impulsive as it was startling—for them both. “Are you in love with me, Starsk?”

Starsky visibly swallowed; his resolve had obviously been broken.

“The you I know would have taken the bait tonight,” Hutch explained. “Maybe you wouldn’t have bedded one of them, but you would have, at least, turned on the Starsky charm.”

Starsky appeared subtlety shaken, as if Hutch’s detective skills had exposed him.

“It wasn’t because they weren’t pretty enough,” Hutch concluded. “It wasn’t because they were too friendly. It wasn’t because you didn’t have opportunity or time and place. It’s not because you’re waiting for me. It isn’t that you don’t think you’re ready. So, what is it, Starsk? I’ll ask you again: are you in love with me?” The fellatio finally made sense in that context; he just needed to hear Starsky confirm it.

Starsky’s deliverance slowed. He was careful—and that, by itself, was telling. “C’mon, you know I love you.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Are you asking me if I—”

“I’m asking you if you’re in love with me.”

“Do you mean, am I feeling—”

“It’s a simple question, Starsk. You are or you aren’t.”

“Can you tell me what you mean by ‘in love’ before I answer that question?”

“You know what it means,” Hutch said, not unkindly, but still hoping to corner him.

“Well, if you want to know if I think you’re my one-and-only. . .”

“Am I?”

Starsky pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” but Hutch was in no frivolous mood.

“Starsk.”

“Hardwood floors throughout,” Starsky finally replied, and with an audible exhale that proved he’d say no more about his deeper feelings. “Throughout, Hutch. Easy cleaning, I figure.”

* * *

“We have an appointment at 1:30 to see that house,” Starsky said when Hutch came into the living room after his shower the following morning. “Does that time work for you?”

Hutch had dressed, but carried his shoes to the sofa, where he sat to put them on. Starsky’s question stalled him. How his partner could sometimes be so casual in light of the tension Hutch felt between them, he’d never know. He avoided answering Starsky and set each foot on the coffee table to tie his laces.

“Did you hear me?” Starsky asked, standing by the kitchen table, drinking his morning coffee, barefoot, still clothed in his red pajama shorts and a navy blue tee-shirt. “I got an appointment—”

“I heard you.”

The predictable pause ensued before Starsky carefully asked, “Does that time work for you?”

“It’s fine.”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up about it—”

“Yeah, don’t.”

Another strained moment between them hung in the room—during which Hutch could hear Starsky nervously sip his coffee. It wasn’t what Hutch intended; he didn’t like the feelings he knew he caused that morning. He stood. Without making eye contact, he snatched his car keys off the coffee table and grabbed his light jacket from the coatrack to the right of the door.

“Where are you going?” Starsky expectedly wondered—sounding as curious as he probably was. “For a run?”

“For a drive,” Hutch replied, reluctantly facing Starsky. “I need some fresh air.”

“You can’t get that on a run?”

“I don’t feel like exerting myself.”

Starsky palpably tried to sound playful. “Where are you driving to then? Yosemite?”

“Griffith Park.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Hutch broke eye contact. “I’ll be back in time to see the house,” he promised, hearing Starsky plaintively say, “Oh,” as Hutch left the apartment.

By the time Hutch reached his car, his hands were trembling; he had a clumsy time unlocking the driver’s door. Maybe it was Starsky’s car, familiarly parked behind Hutch’s Galaxie, that reminded him of his partner’s heart-of-hearts. All the more reason Hutch needed to get away. He didn’t want to inflict further injury; they’d made progress—why tamper with it? That, and Starsky was . . . alive.

But Hutch only got a couple of blocks from home before he turned right onto a side street, parked the car alongside the curb, and killed its engine. He was too shaken to drive, overly tired—having not slept well the night before—and overwhelmed again with emotions he couldn’t decipher, let alone control.

Consciously drawing deep breaths and slowly exhaling, he eventually laid down on the bench seat and covered his head in his arms. Perhaps all he needed was some away-from-home sleep, slumber without distractions, a disconnect to reset his center. It didn’t matter whether Starsky was in love with him or he wasn’t; that Starsky wouldn’t tell the truth about it—when they both knew its veracity—only degraded Hutch’s ability to find direction.

Fifteen minutes later, a tap on the passenger side window startled him. He lowered his arms, opened his eyes, tilted back his head, and made eye contact with the man outside the car.

“Are you okay?” the dark-haired, uniformed police officer asked through the glass.

Hutch removed his wallet from a back pocket and unfolded it to show the cop his badge. “I’m fine,” he swore in a raised voice. “Just needed a rest.”

The officer saluted him with a single finger and then left.

Maybe Hutch should have gone to the park; he’d have found more peace there. He sat up, started the car, pulled out into traffic again, and continued heading away from home. He could use a drink—even one before noon, or maybe especially. That was how he detoured to The Pits, fortunate enough to find Huggy at work cleaning up the bar to prepare for opening hours.

“Where’s your better half?” Huggy asked, unlocking and opening the door for Hutch after he’d heard the loud knocking. He even looked into the street as if expecting to see Starsky. “Did he run you out of the house?”

Hutch made a beeline for a bar stool. “He’s enjoying his solitude.”

“While you’re unraveling,” Huggy noted, taking up his usual residence behind the bar. “It’s not even brunch-time, Hutch.”

“Just a little something,” Hutch begged him. “Enough to take the edge off.”

“On the condition you talk to me.”

Hutch nodded as he motioned for Huggy to hurry up and pour him a drink. “I needed some space.”

“What did he do now?”

“Nothing.” It wasn’t a lie; it’s what Starsky wouldn’t do, not what he’d done. They were past that part. “He’s a good boy.”

“A good boy who’s getting on your nerves?”

“Not even that,” Hutch lamented. In the end, it wasn’t really Starsky anyway, was it? He watched Huggy mix him a drink, filling a glass to less than a third of its volume. “You could have given it to me straight from the bottle,” Hutch argued, having noticed there was juice in the mix.

“We’ll see what you do with this much,” Huggy told him, sliding the glass in front of Hutch. He leaned against the bar, dressed in comfortable clothes, not his usual work ones, crossed his arms, and insisted. “Talk to me.”

“He didn’t take the bait last night,” Hutch complained. “What’s wrong with a man who wouldn’t hit on either of those fine ladies?”

“He caught on to your scheme?”

“I had to tell him it was a setup.”

Huggy seemed to ponder the situation, but didn’t comment. At a glance, his dark eyes spoke more to his concern about Hutch’s condition than Starsky’s. “What’s really bothering you, Hutch?”

Exactly. What difference did Starsky’s preferences make anyway? Hutch would give him the world. He drank long from the glass at first and hoped the drink would soon calm his nerves.

“You’re here for a reason,” Huggy said, perceptively, “and it ain’t the booze.”

The alcohol was simply the treatment. “He wants something I don’t want to give him,” Hutch impulsively said, wiping his mouth with his hand and momentarily rubbing his eyes. He then twirled the nearly empty glass on the bar and stared into it. “He’s put me in an awful position.”

Huggy didn’t say anything for a minute—and neither did Hutch. Perhaps he assumed time—coupled with the vodka—would do the job to relax Hutch, and only then could they have a coherent conversation. But Huggy’s instinct was finely tuned. “He wanting sex from you?”

Hutch looked sharply up at him. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I can’t think of anything else you wouldn’t give him.”

Hutch lowered his gaze again, stopped spinning the glass, felt his heart noticeably beating, and realized he’d exposed more of himself than he intended.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

“We don’t have these kinds of conversations, Hug.”

“You mean, not until Starsky nearly died. You forget how it changed us all.”

Huggy was right; even he had grown immeasurably since then. He’d straightened up his own act, was finally making a success out of his business, and seemed to have steered off the aimless path he’d traveled for so long. But could Hutch talk to him about such delicate matters as Starsky’s deeper feelings for him?

“I’m going to assume that’s what Starsky wants from you,” Huggy furthered observed, “or you’d have answered the question by now.”

Hutch grunted. “You’d have made a good detective.”

“Hell, man, I’m making a good one this minute.”

“Pour me some more.”

Huggy pushed off the bar, removed a refrigerated bottle from behind it, and poured orange juice into the glass. “You can come back at noon for the other stuff,” he promised, “but I get the feeling you haven’t had breakfast yet, either.”

He opened a bread box along the rear wall while he continued to explain why he wasn’t surprised by Starsky’s feelings. “You guys have been super close since before I met you both. When he was in that hospital fighting for his life, I saw a side to you I’d never seen before—and I’ve seen most of your angles.”

He then pushed a piece of apple pie on a small plate in front of Hutch and handed him a fork. “I feared we’d lose both of you if we lost one of you.”

That was no joke. Even Hutch realized he wouldn’t have wanted to live without Starsky. He never let on during that time just how often he considered taking himself out if Starsky had died. “I get that we’re inseparable.”

“Jelly is nothing without peanut butter.”

“Neither is orange juice without the vodka,” Hutch said with a light laugh. He had begun to relax—drink, food, conversation, space. “You don’t think there’s anything odd about his wanting sex with me, did I hear you right?”

“Look, Hutch, you know my story, where I come from, how I got here. I’ve seen more in half a lifetime than most people might see in a thousand. People come from every walk of life. You can’t judge.”

Hutch finally began to eat the pie, speaking between bites. “Do you think he’s hard-wired for this new feeling of his, or he’s made a conscious choice?”

“You’re asking me if I think he’s gay?”

“In your opinion.”

“If he is, he’s only got eyes for you.”

Huggy didn’t say it with even a hint of humor. He did appreciate the seriousness of Hutch’s dilemma.

“I don’t want him to get hurt,” Hutch said without forethought. In the end, it was his greatest concern. “Least of all, by me.”

“He’ll never be so hurt that he’d leave this partnership.”

“No, huh?”

“Not from what I’ve seen over the years.”

Hutch had betrayed Starsky—once—and all for a woman. He couldn’t imagine anything else he’d ever do to wrong his partner, and Starsky had stayed beside him despite Hutch’s misdeed. Still, he didn’t want to break Starsky’s heart. He also wasn’t looking for Huggy’s approval; he simply needed the sounding board through a trusted friend, and wasn’t that what Huggy had truly become?

“Everything changed for me . . .” Huggy said, trailing off.

Hutch looked up at him again—in time to see the irrepressible emotion on Huggy’s face, but still he had to ask. “When, Hug?”

“When you and me rode together in the hospital elevator.”

While Starsky barely held on to life.

“Everything that I knew and believed—about you, about him, about you two together, but also about my own life and what mattered—was right there in your eyes. Nothing has been the same since.”

Hutch had stopped eating to listen—and heard more than were spoken in Huggy’s words. He nodded to let his friend know he understood: other than what is in a person’s heart, the rest is pure vanity. “I don’t want to hurt him,” Hutch reiterated. “He’s. . .”

“Peanut butter.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re jelly—nothing without him.”

“That, too,” Hutch said with a sad laugh.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you see yourself giving him what he wants?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he come right out and told you this is what he wants?”

“Yeah.”

“With words or a pass?”

“Both.”

Huggy seemed to give the answers deeper consideration. “I don’t know about these kinds of matters, Hutch. I mean, I’ve met people who’ve traveled many paths in life . . . and gay people . . . and people who are lost and find their way or never do . . . so I’m no judge. But if you asked me for advice—”

“I’m asking.”

“Give him time. Look how long it took for him just to learn to walk again. The heart is more complicated. Give him time. Give yourself time.”

Hutch never really expected answers from either the vodka or the words of a kind friend, but Huggy’s suggestion had serious merit. Where was Hutch going anyway? Wherever it was, it wasn’t far from Starsky. He finished his pie, thanked Huggy for the food and drink, and went home—to keep his partner from worrying any more than he already had.

But despite the Torino still parked in front of Venice Place, Starsky wasn’t in the apartment when Hutch returned. The door may not even have been locked; there was no note, no evidence that Starsky had stepped out for a minute or an hour—except that his car remained on the street.

Hutch sat at the kitchen table and ate the sandwich Starsky had left on a plate by Hutch’s chair. Peanut butter and jelly, no less, Hutch realized after biting into it and inwardly laughing. He drank it down with cold coffee and waited as long as he could before he surrendered to removing his shoes and climbing onto the bed, fully dressed. If Starsky wasn’t back in half an hour, Hutch would go look for him.

But he had no idea how long he’d slept before Starsky returned. The front door opened and familiar footsteps entered the apartment, bringing Hutch to his senses. When he opened his eyes, he saw Starsky walk into the kitchen with a paper grocery bag in his arms. Relief overcame Hutch; he had no reason to move, so he didn’t. He spent those waking minutes simply watching his partner from the bedroom.

Starsky had to have known Hutch was in the house; his Galaxie was parked right in front of the Venice Place door. But he didn’t seem to notice Hutch—or so Hutch thought—until Starsky said over his shoulder, his back to the bedroom, “You didn’t get very far.” He must have heard a change in Hutch’s breathing to know he was awake. That’s how tuned into each other they’d become.

“I stopped at The Pits,” Hutch confessed.

Starsky removed canned goods from the paper bag and set them on the counter. “Did he feed you?”

“Apple pie.”

“And you ate the sandwich I made.”

Starsky had noticed that, too. He emptied the bags of their contents: fresh produce and fruit, cereal boxes and eggs, other things Hutch couldn’t tell from that distance.

He was relaxed on the bed, relieved to lay eyes on Starsky, sorry he’d left in the first place. The time-out hadn’t gotten him anywhere—except it kept him from saying the wrong thing, and that had value. “I’m not hungry if that’s what you’re asking,” he said. “The sandwich hit the spot.”

“I was thinking we could make soup for dinner,” Starsky replied, storing away the groceries—into cupboards and refrigerator. “I got all kinds of things to put it in. Fresh Italian bread, too.”

“I’m impressed by how many of our meals you’ve been making.”

“Not much else to do, really.”

“Therapy sessions, walks in the park, stops-and-starts practice, movies, puzzles, chess games . . . nah, not much else to do.”

Starsky lightly laughed. “Well, when you put it like that.” He folded the paper bags and tucked them between the counter and the stove. “But, I mean, it’s good for me to pull weight around here. Did you see what I did?”

Hutch had no clue to that answer.

Starsky turned and came into the bedroom doorway. “I bet you didn’t notice that I carried the water bottle up the stairs.”

Hutch hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t a priority that morning. “Congratulations, but I can’t say I’m happy you did it without supervision.”

“That was the point,” Starsky explained, leaning on the wall frame and crossing his arms. He’d dressed that day in a denim blue shirt and his usual jeans, belted, was groomed and shaven. “You don’t have to coddle me anymore.”

“Is that what I was doing?”

“You know what I mean.”

“You mean I don’t have to worry about you anymore. You can take care of yourself.”

Starsky winked at him. “Right you are, but there’s something else, Hutch.”

Hutch waited, realizing after a wordless minute that the silence was meant to give seriousness to Starsky’s next disclosure—and he was to listen carefully.

“I’m taking back my offer,” Starsky said, bluntly. “You were right: it couldn’t have gone anywhere good in the long run.”

Hutch felt the weight lift off him—more than he expected would disperse. He made concerted eye contact and was about to ask Starsky why he’d changed his mind, but Starsky beat him to it.

“It’s not in you to be in that kind of place with somebody, not even with me. I was wrong to ask you.”

It seemed so simple: the near-deadly shooting, the sometimes barely surviving, the almost inevitable sex—but it was still so very complicated, too. Hutch didn’t know how to respond; nothing he could think to say would land the way he hoped. That was part of the complexity.

“Let’s just let it go,” Starsky suggested. “Forget it ever happened. Can we do that? I want us to move forward, not drown in all of this quicksand.”

Starsky didn’t have the most appropriate metaphors, but he always came close. Hutch tried a soft smile to let him know he’d been heard, was appreciated, forever loved and respected. Still, Hutch would never be able to convey how completely grateful he was—for Starsky’s life, his friendship, his understanding and empathy, his intuition, his very existence in that moment. Maybe it came through in his eyes—he did notice how intently they looked at each other—but Hutch doubted it; there were simply no words to put on the enormous feelings he felt.

“Do you still want to see that house?” Starsky asked, as if ending all the difficulties of their past—despite that he could never erase them.

“Yeah,” Hutch said. Some things hadn’t changed. “When do we have to leave?”

“Say . . . ten minutes.”

Hutch had obviously slept much longer than he realized he had. “I can be ready in five.”

* * *

The house on that half-acre lived up to its description in the paper, but it was much roomier than they expected, having separately lived alone in a small apartment for most of their adult lives. They joked about losing contact with each other in the house for days, that’s how big it was. Still, the premises were gorgeous—manicured lawns, fruit trees and flowers, room for a hot tub under the covered patio, fairly good-sized bedrooms—and two that could be turned into one. A mansion compared to what they’d experienced.

“We’ll flip a coin to see which of us gets which room,” Hutch playfully suggested. The property was for sale by its owner, but he allowed Starsky and Hutch to explore it on their own. Police badges opened doors everywhere. “I call heads.”

“It won’t matter to me,” Starsky replied, more seriously. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“No arm-wrestling over which end of the hall you’ll live on?”

“I’ll take your scraps. This whole place is perfect.”

Maybe it was too perfect. Even the front door was red.

It was the master bedroom that stalled Hutch. He pictured a much bigger bed in the room than the one he had at home—with nightstands on either side and, for a minute, he even imagined why that mattered to him: he still wanted Starsky in his bed every night. But what kind of message did that send if he asked for more than he deserved while giving Starsky less than he craved?

There was a split-level living room, a dining area off the large kitchen, and a window and a picture window over the farmhouse sink. Hutch dreamed about the meals they would make together in that well-lit room, the wine they’d drink, the lazy conversations they’d share . . . and he was lost again in his feelings.

“There’s nothing wrong with this place,” Starsky told him when they stood beside each other and gazed into the backyard from the sliding glass doors. “I mean, except that it’s further from work than we’re used to, it has everything we want, doesn’t it?”

Two bedrooms turned into one left another bedroom, which they would use for guests. Hutch couldn’t even say it was too big of a house. But one thing they hadn’t discussed was probably in order: “What happens if one of us wants to sell?”

“Why would we want that?”

“One of us gets married?”

“You think that’s going to happen after all these years?”

“I’m saying, what if it does?”

“Burn that bridge when we get to it?”

Hutch laughed; he didn’t intend to. “I think you mean we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Or turn the page when—”

“I understood you the first time. Now shut up.”

What Hutch really feared was Starsky having second thoughts about the house—if they were to buy it—because their relationship wouldn’t go the way he may be hoping it would when they lived together.

“If you think we’re doing this too fast, let me know,” Starsky said, as if he’d read Hutch’s mind. He turned to walk back through the house, admiring its custom touches along the way. “But whatever obstacles we hit, Hutch, I know we can work them out.”

Without realizing it, those were the words Hutch had longed to hear. “You’re right, buddy. There isn’t anything we can’t resolve if we put our minds to it.” That reminder enabled Hutch to look more closely at the house—and to feel better about his own conflicted thoughts. “Shall we make an offer?”

“How about we wait until tomorrow, hm? Give us time to consider it before we jump. I want to think about the commute first.”

It had been a wise plan. When they got home late that afternoon and began preparations for a hearty soup—along with toasted Italian bread—they thoroughly discussed the pros and cons of the property. As the soup slowly cooked and filled the apartment with a tasty aroma, they soon realized that the positives of buying the house outweighed the negatives.

They bounced every single consideration back-and-forth between them—throughout the meal, while washing dishes afterward, and as they fussed with a jigsaw puzzle, even carrying the debate into bed that night.

Starsky thought it might be a good idea if he read more house descriptions from their collection of newspapers and fliers. If nothing sounded as good as the house on the half-acre, then they would make an offer on it the following day. So he sat against the headboard again in his red pajama shorts and his navy blue tee-shirt, outside the blankets, and read off as many different property listings as he could manage.

Hutch lay on his back beside him, his eyes covered in the bend of his arm, nude under the sheet and blanket, and listened—mainly to Starsky’s familiar and masculine voice, but also to the house sales that seemed to excite Starsky the most. Starsky ended up finding two he thought they should visit in the morning and, based on the comparisons, make a decision then about extending an offer on the half-acre.

Hutch didn’t care, not really. Like Starsky had said to him earlier, he mostly wanted his partner to be happy. The one thing Hutch did know was how much he was going to miss Starsky in the bed beside him.

“It’s kind of strange, isn’t it, Hutch?” Starsky asked when he tired of the reading and tossed the papers to the floor. “I mean, if it hadn’t been for me getting shot to pieces and nearly dying, we’d never have the money for something like this.”

“And never missed it,” Hutch said to counter him. He wouldn’t have made that trade for anything. Of course, it also meant that Starsky wouldn’t have been sleeping with him every night, either.

“But, I mean, how life turns out,” Starsky said, lying down beside Hutch and—Hutch only sensing it—faced him with his temple propped in his hand. “Maybe this was the silver lining, know what I mean?”

“The silver lining is you lived.”

Starsky didn’t argue. He didn’t even comment. Several minutes passed before Hutch heard him again.

“Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I want to tell you.”

Hutch waited. Half a minute passed. He lowered his arm, opened his eyes, turned his head to look at Starsky, expecting to see that his partner had fallen asleep mid-thought.

But Starsky gazed back into his eyes, pursed his lips, raised an eyebrow, as if to say, “Ready for some gossip?”

Hutch rolled to his side to better absorb him.

“I’m glad you took off on me today,” Starsky said, not sounding antagonistic. “It gave me time, too, to do some thinking.”

“I figured as much when you got home and recalled your offer.”

“Did you want it back?” Starsky replied, sounding hopeful.

The ease with which Hutch could reconsider it startled him. He believed the offer to be off the table, but there it was again, sort of. The idea of its promise caused him to feel immediately aroused, which was the last thing he wanted to be while they were in the middle of a profound moment. He pushed back against the stirring in his penis. “Just tell me what you want to tell me.”

“Okay . . . I did more thinking about things, I mean. Lots of thinking. I can answer your question now—in my words and not with some simple ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ know what I mean?”

“What question?”

“When you opened the door that first day, remember? Well, I had this—”

“What day was that?”

“The day we met.”

“Oh, we’re going back to that, huh?”

“I don’t know what it was, Hutch, but it was something—some something about you—that I felt or sensed right from the beginning. We had this instant. . .” He searched the air for the right word—and failed to find one, but just as Hutch said, “Chemistry”—to help him out—Starsky locked eyes again and said, “Magic.”

Magic.

Wasn’t that so? Hadn’t the last ten years proven Starsky’s claim? What they had was . . . magical. Hutch could even see it in the shine of Starsky’s blue eyes.

“I look back and wonder if it was because I needed what you had,” Starsky continued. His voice was warm, soothing in its sound, kind of soft, yet compelling. “I’d lost my dad, you know, and I guess I was looking for somebody to—”

“Lead the way?”

“—look up to . . . respect and be respected by . . . make me feel like—”

“You had what it takes?”

“—I belonged somewhere.”

Hutch studied Starsky’s candid demeanor, his eyes and dark lashes, his distinctive birthmarks, lips, nose, mussed hair. There wasn’t anything more familiar to Hutch than Starsky’s face. In it, Hutch understood again just how much they ‘belonged’ with each other. A decade of devotion had confirmed it.

“I don’t think I ever told you this, Hutch, but you were the first man to ever lay a hand on me.”

Hutch felt guilty for and regretted those actions, but he couldn’t remember ever hitting Starsky in their earliest days; had he fast-forwarded his story? “Which time?”

“I don’t mean the fistfights. I’m saying what I mean: the first guy to ever lay a hand on me, to touch me, you know, out of kindness.”

Hutch didn’t have but the obvious reason for Starsky’s observation. “I care about you.”

“From the beginning, you have,” Starsky agreed.

“I guess so.”

“You have, I’m saying. You have to know that. You touched me in the classroom. We got there on the wrong day, and we talked about . . . stuff, but you apparently don’t remember touching me.”

“Where and how?”

“My arm. You did it to calm me down, I think. I was worried that we’d fucked up by getting our days confused, and you said it would be all right.”

Hutch smiled, a bit shyly. “Just my nature, I guess.”

“That’s my point: your nature is what I saw that day. It wasn’t a sexual thing. I wasn’t looking for anything from you, but I definitely felt an immediate connection to you—and I just knew right then that it would last a lifetime.”

Hutch smiled at him, consoled by their mutual understanding of the bond between them. “So far, so good.”

“Without knowing it, you taught me how to be kinder, to be gentler, to physically touch people when they need comfort. I didn’t have that in me before I met you—and now it’s second nature to me.”

Hutch was humbled by Starsky’s sentiment. He’d never given thought to the evolution of their physical contact—other than simply to know it was there and he loved it. But he had no idea he’d affected Starsky’s life in that way or that degree. “No second about it,” he said, not to argue the point, but to show Starsky how much he believed in him. “Your kindness and empathy, your physical affection, all of that is first nature.”

“Then I got to know you,” Starsky said sweetly. A peaceful smile emerged on his lips. “We don’t always see eye-to-eye on things, but on the stuff that matters, we have the same mind, and we’re unmovable in the things we believe in like that.”

Convictions of the heart. Together.

Hutch understood that their differences were far greater than the ‘things’ they didn’t agree on: religion, politics, food, art—the list seemed endless. But he appreciated the overall: they had always been of one mind on empathy, compassion, justice, kindness. ‘The stuff that matters.’ Those were the elements that had forever bonded them.

“Even our looks are different,” Starsky said, as if he’d read Hutch’s mind—in fact, he had. “It’s kind of obvious that it’s the things that make us different—and the things that make us the same—that we’ve been through what we’ve been through all these years . . . because here we are.”

On that bed together, somewhere in the night, facing each other, looking into each other’s blue eyes and Hutch, at least, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that he never wanted to lose sight of that handsome face, Starsky’s voice, his affection, the unprecedented sentimentality between them. What had bonded them was, in some ways, the world itself. They found refuge in each other, just the way they seemed to on that night, too.

“Ten years is a long time,” Starsky said, furthering Hutch’s thoughts for him, as if he knew, or at least suspected, what his partner was thinking. “Remember everything you did in life ten years before we met. You see then what a lifetime it was—and what a lifetime it’s been since then.”

“I’d argue we’ve lived a thousand lifetimes together.” Hutch would never forget the laughs, the tears, the fights and the fury, the near-death experiences, the heartbreaks and the losses, or their commitment to each other through it all.

“A thousand lifetimes,” Starsky said in a low voice, mulling the truth in it. “You made me a better man than I set out to be.”

Hutch couldn’t take credit; the maturation was mutual. “Never think that’s been one-sided.”

“I can put my hand on you,” Starsky explained, caressing Hutch’s cheek, warm touch to warmer skin, “and it’s never had to say more than what you know it means.”

A profound truth, Hutch knew. He reveled in the aliveness of Starsky’s tenderness. Months earlier and it may have been lost forever. He would have returned the affection just then, but Starsky had a point to make; Hutch let it lie, waited instead.

“I touch you because you matter to me, because I care about you,” Starsky said, his brow slightly furrowed by his convictions, “because I’ve needed you even before I knew I did. I don’t want a time to come that I wished I had and didn’t let you know how important you are to me: you’re the best friend I’ve got in the whole world.”

Hutch couldn’t repress his smile; so much significance behind Starsky’s words: the hurt and the healing. He did his best to keep from showing his deeper feelings. The rising moment wasn’t his; it belonged to Starsky’s revelations.

“It says something about us that we can lay here on this bed together—in this way,” Starsky added, audibly exhaling, sounding contented and relaxed, as if he knew he was safe to bare his soul, “and it only has to mean what it is in this moment.”

Them against the world.

“Yeah,” Starsky said, reading Hutch’s mind. “Me and thee. Nobody else looks after us the way we do for each other. Not Huggy. Not Dobey. Not our moms. No woman.” He dropped his hand, continued to hold eye contact, seemed to appreciate Hutch’s unspoken replies beneath the surface. “It’s okay for me to care this much for you.”

It was, indeed—and likewise.

“It’s okay for you to care this much for me, too,” Starsky decided.

Just as Hutch had thought. “I know no other way,” he said.

“Yeah, me neither. In some ways, Hutch, we’re alone in this together.”

They relied on no one else, were devoted to no one else, respected and needed no one else. ‘Alone in this together.’ Another profound perspective, especially for Starsky. It could only have come from his heart.

“It wouldn’t matter to me what anybody thought about us,” Starsky said. “I’ve never cared about what other people think when they see us . . . you know . . . like that time in the office when maybe I might have died from that poison and we—”

“—held hands.”

“That time,” Starsky echoed, recalling it as fondly. “You felt it then, too, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Hutch also felt it a moment ago—when Starsky stroked his cheek. “We have our own ways of reaffirming ourselves.”

“Yeah, so, you see . . . that morning last week . . . I wasn’t looking for anything from you. I just wanted to ‘reaffirm us.’” Starsky didn’t speak those words with frivolity or facetiousness. “You’re my pal, Hutch, and I wanted nothing more than to make you feel good, to let you know in the only way I could—to the degree that I could—how much you matter to me.”

To say he didn’t understand would have been to lie to Starsky. Hutch had always appreciated the spirit of the giving; hadn’t he accepted the gift in the end—that is, until his mind got in the way of his heart? Never had Hutch felt so loved—because love was all there was in those sensual, intimate, gentle, tender moments.

He wouldn’t be taking from Starsky; he would be giving.

“It’s just that I made a mistake,” Starsky said apologetically. “I thought you were thinking and feeling as me, that we didn’t want anything or anyone else, that we have everything we need right here in each other.”

How was he wrong? Hutch had known that fact for a long time, most recently in the lush grass of sun-drenched Cook’s Meadow beneath the magnificence of Yosemite Falls.

“But I took it too far,” Starsky explained, sounding sorry.

“No mistake.”

“I still took it too far.”

“I was wrong to react the way I did.”

“You were scared,” Starsky reminded him. “You were afraid of losing us. Maybe you were afraid of what it meant that you would let me do something like that to you: all the religion and the upbringing and the pressure in society.”

“I was still wrong. All of those things matter least when it comes to you.”

“It’s just important to me that you know I wasn’t looking for more than I was doing then. I’d never take from you, if I was aware that’s what I was doing.”

Hutch wasn’t taking; he was giving. He realized that then. “If you ever have, it hasn’t been important enough to remember.”

“We have something special here.”

“You’re right: we always have.”

“So, you see, Hutch, the thing is—and I’ll say this much and no more because I’ve said enough already—but nobody else matters to me as much as you do. No one ever has. You are what makes my life worth living.”

To hide behind his humility, Hutch said, “We’re peanut butter and jelly.”

Starsky smiled; he wasn’t completely done with his seriousness. “So . . . to answer your question in one word now that you have context: yes.”

Hutch was confused. “What was my question?”

“You wanted to know if I’m in love with you.”

Hutch was speechless when he made the connection between his question and Starsky’s answer. It was so monumental, he didn’t know what to initially feel.

“How could I not be in love with you, hm?” Starsky asked. “You know I’d die for you.”

When Hutch spoke, his voice broke with emotion in several places. “In some ways you have—and the feeling is mutual.”

“I know that, too. But something else, Hutch.”

“What else?”

“I’d also die . . . without you.”

Hutch choked back the unexpected and enormous warmth he felt lest he shed a visible tear. Starsky had struck a nerve in his heart: reminding him how much he’d felt likewise about dying if Starsky had succumbed to those bullets in his back.

“Don’t you see, Hutch? I’m not asking you for anything. I just want to be with you as much as I can—and be as close to you as you’ll let me. I want to be with you . . . until . . .”

“Until?”

Starsky shrugged as if the answer should have been obvious. “. . .until the world blows up.”

Forever, he meant. As if nothing and no one else was more important to him than the man lying beside him on the bed. “Same,” was all Hutch could manage to say past his deepening warmth.

“So,” Starsky said, as if easing into his closing, “I think this house was meant for us. I don’t care which end of it you want to sleep in . . . as long as we’re together.”

Hutch possessed the same want.

“Thank you for hearing me out,” Starsky finished, gently smiling. “I know it’s late and this is some heavy stuff. I didn’t say any of that to put pressure on you, okay? I wanted you to know why I did what I did because of how I felt all this time. But it doesn’t change anything.”

On that note, Hutch thought, Starsky was dead wrong. It had changed everything.

He was aware all over again how close Starsky was to him—physically, emotionally, permanently. Starsky’s recent brush with death continued to keep Hutch sharply tuned to his partner’s overall look, to his deeper identity and his life-altering journey, to notice the subtle to the not-so: a small movement on the bed, the aging wrinkles around Starsky’s eyes—appearing when he spoke without words—Starsky’s visible muscle and undeniable maleness, his same desire to be lying in the night on the same bed with a man he’d give anything for—and had. Hutch would not be taking; he could only be giving. He’d die for and without Starsky in a heartbeat.

But he was too moved to speak a single word to any of it—or even to touch Starsky, which was his first impulse. His heart pounded and he felt flush with a cooling sweat. Deciphering his feelings would have to wait; all he could see through his blurring vision was Starsky’s beautiful face—and his only thought was to beg Starsky to never leave him.

“Let’s go to sleep and make an offer on the half-acre first thing tomorrow,” Starsky said, lightly hitting the end of Hutch’s nose—as if he could altar the irrepressible expression of paralysis on Hutch’s face. When that failed, he pursed his lips, seemed to wait as long as he could for a reply, and then—perhaps intentionally—reprieved Hutch by rolling over and turning off the bedside lamp. “Ceiling fans,” he sleepily said as the dark overtook them and just his calming voice pierced it. “Imagine that, Hutch—in every room, no less.”

But unbeknownst to Starsky, Hutch was left to blink back his silent and unstoppable tears. The inescapable revelation for him was monumental: every single word Starsky had spoken that night about who they were and had always been together—and not loosely, but verbatim—were ones Hutch realized he could have said in kind. The truth was upon him: he, too, was in love.

* * *

Hutch woke just before dawn—when the arriving light had begun to ease the darkness and the apartment was as still as midnight. While he lay on the bed early that morning, he was once again reminded of how monumentally fortunate he was to still have Starsky beside him—so much that he could barely wait to tell him how privileged he felt. “Starsk?”

Starsky lay on his side, his back to Hutch, the sheet and blanket pulled to his hip, still wearing his navy blue tee-shirt and presumably his red pajama shorts. He had experimented with sleeping in the nude, but apparently changed his mind about such a free lifestyle—or he hadn’t wanted Hutch to misunderstand his intentions after the sexual debacle of some mornings earlier.

“Starsky?” Hutch said, not nearly as low that time, his voice nudging him without physical contact.

Starsky stirred; his breathing broke out of its deep rhythm and he slightly shifted, bumping the bed. “Hm?” he eventually grunted.

“Are you awake?”

“Who wants to know?” Starsky asked with a light laugh, as if tickled by his own wisecrack.

“I have something to tell you.”

But only silence answered him.

“Starsk?”

“Hm?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yep.”

“Look at me.”

Starsky lazily rolled over—his eyes meeting Hutch’s with a soft look of acceptance, despite his overall sleepy demeanor, as if he expected Hutch might reprimand him for his purge the night before, but he wasn’t afraid to face it.

“I can’t stop thinking about what you said last night,” Hutch carefully told him when he realized Starsky genuinely waited for him to say something profound. He had never been as vulnerable with Starsky as he was about to be that morning—and that was saying a lot.

But where to begin?

Should he tell Starsky some of his thoughts from the day they met, how he was drawn to the dark-haired boy as if Starsky were his kid brother and not a future colleague? Would that offend Starsky to know he thought so little of him at first? Hutch didn’t have a younger brother—the way Starsky did—and his initial vibe in the classroom that fateful Monday intrigued him to think he could treat someone to his so-called vast experience, to his age-old wisdom, to show him the way through life as if Hutch had all the answers. It was because of Starsky’s little boy innocence, and his more obvious naivety, that Hutch hoped they’d meet again the following day—when class actually did commence—so he could take Starsky under his wing. Had he been arrogant to wish for such a thing? Would Starsky see it any other way?

Hutch wasn’t sure. Perhaps he should skip his reflections on their first meeting and fast forward to their Academy days, to their friendship with John Colby, to their lessons and graduation, and to Hutch’s hope that he and Starsky, not he and Colby or Starsky and Colby, would end up partners—let alone detectives with well-deserved honors.

Who cares? Hutch dryly thought; none of that time included experiences that would forever bond them. There was no real love then, not any of serious substance, no real respect, no real trust, no real loyalty—not like there became a few years into their jobs when they had to actually lay down their lives for the other. That’s when they knew. That’s when they came to believe it was them against the world. But why tell Starsky something he already understood?

On the flip side of that argument, Hutch could say he’d already known Starsky loved him, worshipped him, admired and respected him—being in love with Hutch was simply a matter of degree. Was he surprised by Starsky’s confession the night before? Except for its scale, nothing Starsky had told him wasn’t anything Hutch didn’t already know—and felt as strongly in return.

Maybe Hutch should limit what he wanted to say to the past few months—a time punctuated by his almost losing Starsky and his realization of how little he valued his own life without Starsky in it. He was secretly excited when the doctors suggested Starsky be supervised, that maybe he should go home with Hutch so Hutch could take care of his partner around the clock, help him to acclimate into his life after it had been feared he’d never walk again. The doctors had witnessed the dedication and loyalty Hutch and Starsky felt for each other from the moment Starsky had arrived in the hospital that terrible day. And, truth be told, Hutch was relieved and rather comforted by Starsky’s insistence that they share the same bed during Starsky’s recovery. Something about having Starsky that close, perhaps that safe, meant everything to Hutch at the time. And still did.

But their lives had taken an unexpected turn. Without knowing the private journey the other had traveled, they’d come to the same conclusion: that they would die for each other and die without. Not in a million lifetimes could Hutch imagine ever finding another human soul with whom he would feel as indebted and as attached. Starsky was right: they had everything they needed right there in each other. Well, almost everything. It was Starsky who imagined closing that last bit of difference. Had he been right about that, too?

It was there in his blue eyes: love, admiration, respect. Although he also seemed curious about what Hutch wanted to tell him, he appeared guarded, perhaps because Hutch hesitated. Still, there was patience in his kind expression and an almost knowing what he was about to hear—inviting Hutch to take his time.

A woman beside Hutch on the bed would have sent Hutch a different message. Perhaps he wasn’t capable of being himself, completely himself, in the presence of a woman because of the nature of women, not so much his own. But Starsky gave him permissions he didn’t even have to ask for: the freedom to be male. He envied Starsky for having come to those conclusions sooner than he did. Looking back, it was Starsky who was the big brother; it was Starsky who took Hutch under his wing.

Hutch had no words for gratitude of that depth. No words for love to that degree. No words for trust or loyalty or friendship or desire. What good were they? In Starsky’s eyes, there in the growing light of dawn, Hutch could see all that had come before that morning, all that was in that moment, and all that would forever be between them. Giving was not a sacrifice. It never had been.

He rose to his elbow; the position gave him courage he didn’t otherwise have to confront himself—but he unintentionally pushed Starsky back on his shoulder without even touching him. Hutch didn’t mean to pursue him; his sentiments weren’t antagonistic. He pulled the blankets back and pressed into Starsky to keep him close, his nude body alongside Starsky’s clothed one, feeling the warmth of his skin as he draped a leg over Starsky’s legs. Words tugged at Hutch to be spoken. Emotion welled in his heart. He stroked Starsky’s hair, gazed into his eyes, finally found his voice. “Don’t ever leave me,” he impulsively said, softly, and with great restraint to hold back his deeper fears.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Starsky replied, appearing confused, as if he couldn’t believe Hutch would ever think he’d be abandoned. He held Hutch’s arm, perhaps to be heard more succinctly. Masculine, familiar voice. “Wherever you are, I am.”

That wasn’t what Hutch meant to say. He tried again, running his fingers through Starsky’s hair, an intimate caress, mostly to ease Starsky’s bewilderment, but also to show his appreciation for the promise. “I don’t want to sleep in separate rooms in our new house,” Hutch said, unable to keep his voice from breaking that time.

Starsky’s expression softened; he definitely understood Hutch’s conclusion. “It’s okay. We won’t.” He soothingly stroked Hutch’s arm. “We’ll just get a bigger bed, hm?”

But that’s not what Hutch meant to say, either. Oh, he intended to let Starsky know he never wanted to lose him, and that he hoped they would continue to share a bed even after their move, but he had something much more important to tell him—only to realize in that moment of clarity that he simply didn’t have the words.

So he followed his heart instead—bent over as he closed his eyes, and kissed Starsky on the lips—a lover’s kiss, tender and sensual, long-lasting, too, mainly because Starsky immediately responded in kind, but also because the feel was so precious and necessary, Hutch didn’t want it to end. But end, it did. The urge to hug Starsky had overtaken him, a desire for more of him. He held the man close, buried his face in Starsky’s warm neck, heavily sighed. Not in a decade had he been as bonded to Starsky as he was then—and that, too, was saying something.

“Hey,” Starsky whispered between audible breaths. He stroked Hutch’s head, embraced him in kind, and playfully wiggled in his arms. “Do that again.”

Hutch leaned back on his elbow to gaze on Starsky’s face. The line had been crossed—not the one Starsky had breached a few mornings earlier, but one Hutch had begun to explore. That first kiss had been a sort of impulsive touch, a mindless feel. His thoughts caught up with him; he hadn’t been rejected, misunderstood, or even obliged. Starsky had been right there with him.

He cradled Starsky’s chin in his trembling fingers, cautiously excited as he kissed Starsky again, that time tentatively sucking Starsky’s lips, exploring his receptive and inviting mouth with his tongue, sucking gently on its softness and allowing the wetness to initiate his sexual arousal. Their kisses were intimate and sensual, sexy and mutually giving, fluid and perfect, as if they’d been made for each other all along.

Starsky’s tongue-sucking was also a vivid reminder of the fellatio he’d performed—and Hutch’s desire ratcheted up with its memory; his erection began to form. Their tandem deep breathing was itself a union: soft sounds of lips touching, gentle moans, skin against warm skin.

When Hutch eventually broke them apart, leaned back, and opened his eyes, he was suddenly aware of his own beating heart and how desperately he’d needed to catch his breath. The man beneath him was beautiful to behold, appearing as wild as Hutch felt in his soul.

Starsky blinked at him in the new morning light and smiled before he spoke. “That was some kiss, partner.” His blue eyes shined and he seemed to have melted into an untroubled contentment. “You really do like me.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow at him as if to say, “Well, that was something, wasn’t it?” He licked his lips, tasting Starsky’s kisses still on his mouth—and relished the unprecedented flavor. He couldn’t wait; his pressing arousal spurred him. Their lips touched again, more longingly that next time, each kiss as sensual and as arousing as the last, each kiss unfamiliarly natural to Hutch, each kiss a kiss he’d only dreamed of experiencing: romantic, wet, tenderly intimate, sexy, full of absolute love. Kisses for the sake of kisses.

Starsky smelled male and manly—his skin and his cologne—and the sound of his deep breathing as he kissed Hutch in earnest reply aroused Hutch more deeply, in a way he hadn’t felt with anyone before, a kind of urgency he wasn’t used to. He gently pushed his stiffening penis into Starsky’s bared leg, enjoying its firmness and warmth. It slipped inside Starsky’s shorts under the hem and against Starsky’s hip. Hutch was sure neither of them could pretend it wasn’t there, and he lightly laughed as he paused the kissing. He didn’t feel embarrassed, but he wanted to acknowledge how far things had gone for him and just how quickly. “I think you turn me on.”

“Do you want me to do something for you?” Starsky asked, gazing intently at Hutch, wantingly, his eyes seeming filled with the hope that he’d be invited further into the dance—but asking that time, not assuming. He held onto Hutch’s arm at his wrist, as if he feared Hutch might bolt from the bed before he could get an answer.

“Yeah, if you would,” Hutch replied in a soft voice. His penis ached for more fulfillment, his heart for something beyond whatever it could provide.

Starsky didn’t hesitate to indulge him, but despite his best effort to move out from under Hutch, he was solidly pinned.

“No, no, not that,” Hutch gently corrected him, blocking Starsky’s advance by refusing to get out of his way; he realized Starsky planned to fellate him again.

“What then?” Starsky asked, sounding bewildered and timid, maybe even terrified that he’d made an unforgivable mistake.

Hutch cupped Starsky’s groin and discovered what he hoped: the hardening bulge in Starsky’s red pajama shorts. He gently stroked Starsky’s obvious erection from base to tip through its cloth. “Take these off,” he said, tugging at the waistband when his hand reached the crown of Starsky’s penis.

There was nothing left to misunderstand. Despite that he seemed to immediately relax, to realize he hadn’t done the wrong thing, Starsky was overwhelmed. “Oh, Hutch,” he said, barely audibly. His eyes remained fixed on Hutch’s face, perhaps searching it for Hutch’s authenticity. “Are you sure about this?” but he didn’t wait for an answer before he lifted his hips and lowered his shorts.

Hutch couldn’t help but notice Starsky’s rigid phallus: its shape and size, its arousal and want. He would have touched it then, too, but Starsky sat all the way up to remove his tee-shirt and inadvertently intercepted Hutch, taking his time to carefully toss his clothes onto the floor beside the bed when he finished undressing.

“I’m not as big as you,” he said as he lay back down, his self-deprecating words explaining his brief stall.

“It’s beautiful,” Hutch replied with a gentle smile, breaking eye contact to look at Starsky’s penis again, and licking his lips as he anticipated its taste. Comparatively, they were roughly the same circumference; Starsky’s may have been an inch—an inch-and-a-half?—shorter in length, but they were similar in girth. Starsky had no reason to be defensive. “Yours is more . . . man,” Hutch said, not thinking before he spoke.

“More man?”

“The overall package,” Hutch said, laughing at his own distracted comments. He admired the shape of Starsky’s engorging penis as it lay toward his left hip, nestled against his black belly hair; his darker-colored scrotum snug to his legs. Hutch fondled himself, enjoying the sensation while he immersed himself in the exciting visuals of Starsky’s sexiness. “I’m as hairless as a newborn baby.”

Starsky tried to keep from smiling, but barely succeeded. “The hair thing, hm?” he observed. “That’s what makes me ‘more man’?” He stretched and locked his arms above his head, wiggled his hips to show off his lightly bouncing penis, and kept his eyes on Hutch. “Kiss me.”

Hutch shifted on the bed. He couldn’t wait to taste Starsky, to fill himself with Starsky’s—

“Up here,” Starsky said, tugging on Hutch’s arm. He wanted a kiss kiss.

When Hutch’s nude body snugged up against Starsky’s nakedness, he felt a shot of titillating warmth wash over him. Their lips met again, that time without a hint of timidity, as if the newness has already worn off and they could simply indulge the pleasures of their mouths. New moans, soft, sometimes playful, were buried under the sound of their heavy breaths, coupled with lips and sucking, encouraging each other. Hutch’s heart noticeably pounded; his penis ached. He slid his shaft along Starsky’s and was immediately amazed by the reality.

Starsky giggled, lightly, and pushed into Hutch, causing them both to slide their erections against each other and deepen the penetrations of their tongues, spurring the intensity of their sucking. Hutch was certain in that brief moment that he’d never heard Starsky make such a sound, not in that particular way: it was one of pure . . . delight. They had found a paradise together that they’d never known existed before that morning.

But Hutch was too deliberate to feel such levity. His investment was so overwhelming, it overshadowed his sexual urges, and he couldn’t get enough of kissing Starsky: his mouth, his cheeks, the sides of his head, his neck and shoulders. Softer kisses, gentle licks, tender sucks, inhaling Starsky’s smell as well as his taste as he showered him with kisses. If Starsky hadn’t interrupted them when he did, Hutch may have even shed some tears. He never felt more in love in his lifetime.

“You don’t have to do this,” Starsky said, seeming to prevent Hutch from going any lower on his body than he had already had, holding him close by his upper arms, and ceasing to grind against him.

Hutch sat back toward his heels—not on them, but back toward them, separating their bodies, keeping the intimacy between them. He looked longingly into Starsky’s loving eyes. “I’ve never wanted anything more, Starsk. I was wrong to throw a tantrum when you crossed that line for us. I’m ashamed of myself for punishing you for the greatest gift a person could ever dream to have: your heart and your soul, your desire and your love. I’ll never forgive myself for holding us back, for arguing the stupid position, for making you feel less than you ever deserve to feel when it comes to following your heart. I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope you’ll never think again that I have second thoughts about returning that love—especially in the ways I want to pleasure you.”

None of what Hutch told him then was in verbal words; he conveyed it all through this eyes. They’d spoken volumes to each other in such silent discussions over the years. A memorable moment was a dialogue they had when Starsky hunted the cop killer and nearly shot him to death in cold blood right there in the alley of that abandoned zoo. Another was Starsky’s desperation and conviction when Hutch got sick with the plague and nurses prepared to move him in a wheelchair to isolation. So many wordless conversations had passed between them. Uncountable ones. This was simply another one of those intensely special exchanges for the memory banks.

Starsky did hear him: his expression softened, he loosened his grip on Hutch’s arms, his eyes relaxed, he no longer appeared anxious, but he also wanted to be verbally heard—perhaps as backup, because he felt so overwhelmed emotionally that he wasn’t sure he conveyed his sentiments in the quiet. “Okay,” was all he said, a whisper on an exhale—and he let Hutch go.

They were finally in agreement.

When Hutch’s lips made contact with Starsky’s penis, two things immediately struck him: one was the measurable heat radiating from Starsky’s skin, and the other was how much harder Starsky had become since Hutch had fondled him through his shorts. The man was fully aroused. Fellatio was completely new for Hutch; he’d never performed it, but he trusted Starsky to tell him if he didn’t like the way he was touched—as much as he trusted Starsky to tell him what pleased him. Hutch simply followed his own heart.

It was Starsky’s moans and his sighs, his whispered, “holy shit,” and his direct instructions of “oh, Hutch, that feels so good” and “don’t stop” that gave Hutch the motivation to shower Starsky’s engorged penis with long strokes, sensual licks, viscous sucks, tender kisses. It was Starsky’s deeper moans that guided Hutch into teasing Starsky’s frenulum with his warm and wet tongue. It was Starsky’s hands in Hutch’s hair, holding him in place, that inspired Hutch to teasingly caress Starsky’s thighs and his hairy belly with his fingers to ratchet up his ache for more contact with his erection. And it was Starsky’s, “oh, Hutch, oh, Hutch,” whispers that encouraged Hutch’s longer durations to repeatedly swallow Starsky’s crown and his shaft in both his hand and his mouth—from tip to base and back again.

Hutch didn’t need direction. He’d found his rhythm; it was the one that most pleased Starsky, and he knew that because Starsky whimpered and hissed, moaned and writhed, while his penis and his testicles were meticulously and uninhibitedly pleasured. His legs opened in total relaxation as he gave himself up to the man who indulged him. If Starsky felt even a fraction of the desire and sexual titillation Hutch felt giving as he did receiving, then Hutch knew how fiercely he was satisfying his partner.

The faster pace and tighter squeeze Hutch slowly developed for Starsky was fueled, in part, by his own enjoyment of Starsky’s unencumbered joy. But Hutch was in no hurry as he pumped his man, noisily sucking him into and out of his mouth, past his wet lips, using pre-cum to slicken the experience for them both. The musky smell alone of Starsky’s patch of pubic hair each time Hutch drank him in gave Hutch more incentive to bring Starsky closer to his orgasm. But the taste of Starsky’s skin also drove Hutch. When his boy’s moans evolved into a cadence of, “oh, oh, oh,” Hutch knew he was close—and felt the crest rising in himself at the same time.

He opened his eyes only once, just briefly, just to see Starsky’s face, to know he read him as well as he felt he did in those final moments—and he realized he’d never seen that expression on Starsky’s face in all the years he’d known him. And yet Hutch knew exactly what it read: pure, unadulterated joy on the threshold of orgasmic bliss.

“I’m gonna come,” Starsky blurted. He didn’t try to stop Hutch. When he erupted, his voice rose in volume, but no words emerged. He gripped Hutch’s head to keep him positioned and loudly moaned as the ejaculation overtook him, thrusting his hips against Hutch’s face, thereby driving his stiffened penis deeper into Hutch’s mouth.

Hutch barely knew he’d received those spasms of creamy deposits; mounds of semen were shot into the back of his throat and he instinctively swallowed, letting Starsky know how much he appreciated the gift by the soft gulps of his devouring. He could feel Starsky’s heart forcefully pounding inside his mouth, through Starsky’s swollen penis, and inside Hutch’s hand where he gripped its base. The aftermath was wet and noisy—heavy breathing, fading moans, the subsequent deep sighs—because they both knew how unprecedented their relationship had just become.

Hutch released him and sat up, scooted between Starsky’s legs, closer to his groin, bent over him propped on one hand, and savored the look of his man lying beneath him. Starsky was visibly perspiring, his penis—though abandoned—was still visually erect despite its obvious spent. Hutch’s hungry gaze also swept over Starsky’s hairy naked chest and belly, as he thirstily drank in the overall appeal of his nude body. There was a smile of deep satisfaction on Starsky’s handsome face; his eyes were closed in blissful abandon. Hutch’s arousal and ache, Starsky’s beauty and sexiness, Hutch’s love and desire—the physical and the emotional sensations together—pushed him toward the edge.

But it was Starsky, opening his eyes when Hutch’s moans became more fervent, making firm and knowing eye contact, who inadvertently released the trigger on Hutch’s orgasm. There was no time for Starsky to help him. Neither man left the intended look between them while Hutch furiously pumped his own shaft, teased its head with the wet from his saliva, and purposely aimed his deposits all over Starsky’s fading erection and his bulging sac. Hutch did not ejaculate on him in an act of defiance or dominance, but solely to share in the ecstasy he relished in his own surrender—and all while knowing Starsky keenly watched him in the growing morning light.

Out of breath and weak from exhaustion, Hutch slumped alongside Starsky on the mattress, realizing that he was sweating himself, and that his heart was also banging away in his chest. He smothered Starsky’s warm skin with kisses of gratitude between his heavy breaths while Starsky held his hand and caressed his arm, his shoulder, and his pliable fingers. Hutch had no words for his feelings of euphoria and didn’t even try to find them, the two of them eventually devolving into giggles like junior high boys—much the way they’d done the night Hutch showed up drunk and crawled under the blanket beside Starsky in his hospital bed.

As Hutch peacefully drifted into a light doze, Starsky rolled into him and tightly wrapped him in legs and arms. “Come back to me soon,” he gently whispered. “We’ve got lots more to do where that came from.”

* * *

EPILOGUE

Hutch had no idea how much time had passed when he came to his senses. He woke to Starsky’s touch—a light caress of his cheek—and the sound of his masculine voice.

“Are you going to sleep all day?” were the words that sifted through the haze and brought Hutch to full consciousness. But he rather liked the petting and didn’t want to interrupt the man.

Luckily for him, the gentle caress didn’t stop, but the question was repeated. “Hm? Are you going to sleep all day?”

“Maybe,” Hutch replied in a lazy voice. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before and then he’d thoroughly spent himself that morning.

“I need you to tell me,” Starsky said, dropping his hand. He apparently figured out how to get Hutch’s undivided attention: stop touching him.

Hutch opened one eye. “You need me to tell you?” he asked, squinting in the soft light.

“Yeah.”

“The time?”

Hutch was simply playing with him, but Starsky didn’t seem to see it that way. He smirked and ruffled Hutch’s hair. “C’mon. Snap out of it.”

They lay on their sides, facing each other, entangled in legs and arms, belly to belly, their flaccid penises snug to the other’s, and with just enough space between their faces to focus on his partner’s eyes looking back at him.

“I’ll make you pancakes,” Hutch promised, hoping it would stall Starsky long enough to give him a few more minutes of undisturbed drifting.

“I’m holding you to that, but we have to shower first. There’s cum everywhere.”

Hutch chuckled and closed his eyes again. “Except for the stuff I ate.”

“And brush your teeth,” Starsky added. “You should do that before pancakes, too.” He nudged Hutch’s shoulder.

Hutch opened his eyes, smiled at him. They were obviously more content than drained, but Starsky’s stomach had apparently begun to gnaw at him—except, didn’t he say he wanted Hutch to tell him something? “What?”

“What?”

“What, what?”

“We’re losing our minds,” Starsky playfully complained.

“Speak for yourself—and ask me the question.”

“I don’t have a question.”

“What is it you wanted to know?”

“Oh, that question.”

It was Hutch’s turn to tousle Starsky’s hair. “Spit it out.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Hutch licked his lips as he tasted the memory of Starsky’s semen. “You like that I ate it,” he noted.

“Didn’t you like it when I ate yours?”

“It is a fairly intimate thing,” Hutch said, as if that was all there was to it.

“You think so?”

“I’m saying the knowing you ate it proves how much you love me.”

“Same,” Starsky said.

“You feel the same as you did before?”

“I feel the same as you—that you eating my cum tells me all I need to know about how you feel about me.”

“Well,” Hutch laughed, “I didn’t exactly get a choice in the matter. You nearly choked me with it.”

Starsky frowned. “So, what are you saying? That you don’t love me as much as I thought you did when you did that?”

Hutch quickly stroked Starsky’s cheek to ease his alarm. “I’m giving you a bad time, buddy boy. Don’t mind me.”

Starsky rolled with it. “Don’t mind you? How can I not, hm? You’re stark naked on the bed with me. It’s kind of hard not to notice the Big Blond Blintz and his huge cock pressed up against me, know what I mean?”

“It shrank since the last time you looked.”

“And it’ll grow back the next time I do, too.”

Hutch began to wonder if mutual orgasms were going to drain their brains as much as these had and they’d be forever ineffective as detectives. He laughed, not meaning to, but couldn’t help himself. “Talk to me,” he said when he noticed Starsky’s continuing frown.

“I don’t have anything to say.”

“You had a question for me.”

“I’ll wait until you’re serious.”

“I’m serious,” Hutch insisted—and he was; he didn’t want to bait the man, especially when he felt as close to him as he did that morning. “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you no lies.”

The uneasy expression in Starsky’s sexy blue eyes relaxed. “How did that feel?”

“How did what feel?”

“You know.”

“Be specific so I don’t misunderstand.”

“How’d it feel to suck my cock? I can’t get more specific than that.”

Hutch laughed, enjoying Starsky’s feistiness. “It felt okay.”

Dismayed, Starsky protested. “Just okay?”

“It felt good, Starsk. Couldn’t you tell? I came hard from having done it.”

Those words seemed to comfort his partner. He lightly hit the end of Hutch’s nose. “But, c’mon, you know what I mean. Same question you asked me afterward . . . the one I answered in Yosie Might.”

Starsky obviously wanted to know how it felt for Hutch to pleasure a penis, and Hutch wasn’t sure he could answer that question until he reenergized. There’d been so much to it: its physical feel, its taste, its smell, its size. But the acts of licking and sucking had also been mesmerizing—and irrefutably stimulating for them both.

Hutch broke eye contact with Starsky to search the air for a more succinct description of his experience. The physical was coupled with—or maybe even overtaken by—the emotional: enormous love, insatiable desire to please, bountiful joy in giving. It had thrilled him to pleasure Starsky, to hear his moans of ecstasy and his labored breathing and his sexy words and to feel his heart beating and to hear his giggles.

Hutch brought his gaze back to Starsky’s eyes. In the end, there was only one answer to Starsky’s question. “It felt like . . . you.”

Starsky couldn’t repress his smile; closed-lipped, wide grin, shining outwardly from his big heart. “We’ve got everything we need, Hutch, right here with us.” He more tightly wrapped Hutch in his legs and arms, kissed his forehead. “Don’t ever doubt me again.”

He smelled good: an aromatic blend of sex and sweat and cologne. Hutch nuzzled into him, kissed his skin, licked its now familiar taste, slowly exhaled any remaining apprehensions he had. He was right where he was supposed to be. Somehow Starsky had known that ten years earlier. They were meant to be partners—and everything that came with such a special and significant relationship.

Hutch mellowed into himself, closed his eyes in the morning’s quiet and its soothing shadows, and mindfully exhaled, not wanting to disturb Starsky. He stretched onto his back beside him on the bed, feeling Starsky’s warmth and closeness, and keeping Starsky in his arms as Starsky snugged into him.

Hutch could never be that comfortable with another living soul, not even if he lived a thousand years. To be where they were in that moment was possible only because of the decade they’d spent in each other’s lives—implicitly trusting the other, respecting and admiring the other, unconditionally loving each other. Their mutual experiences made it possible, but also their distinct personalities, aside from their differences—or maybe because of them. The unprecedented uniqueness of their relationship had also been destined by the simple fact that they were both male, despite their propensity for sexually indulging each other.

There had never been—nor would there ever be—anyone Hutch could be as comfortable with, feel as bonded to, be as grateful for, trust as much, respect as fully, need or love as deeply. Starsky had been right about everything: from the day they met to the moment on that mattress in the soft morning light. They had everything they needed—or could possibly ever want—right there in each other.

Starsky rose slightly and kissed the tip of Hutch’s nose, forcing Hutch to open his eyes and look at him. With a slight cock of his head, he carefully asked, “You’re not going to have any second thoughts now, are you, Blondie?”

If he’d only known what Hutch had been second-thinking.

He trailed a fingertip over Starsky’s lips to abate his doubts. “I’m going to the ends of the world with you,” he said softly—and meaning every word, including his next ones. “I want nothing more out of life than us and, if we only die once, I want to die with you, too.” His voice cracked when he spoke and tears emerged, despite his best effort to hide them.

Starsky frowned at the same time his eyes smiled, as if he was pleased Hutch was emotional, but sorry to have agitated him. “Are you crying?”

Hutch laughed and wiped the wet from his face. “Don’t flatter yourself, tough guy. You should know by now it’s just . . . how did you put it? . . . my eyes are sweating.”

Starsky laughed. “You win.” He squeezed Hutch close, briefly kissing his lips before he wrapped them in themselves again. “But before you make me some pancakes, tell me how this feels—you and me like this.”

The unwavering strength in Starsky’s arms, his profound affection and his enduring love—everything they could only have together—and Hutch knew exactly how it felt. “It feels like . . . home.”

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Next: The Man in the Middle
(Book Two from Dandelion Series 2).