Milestone on a Long, Long Trip

Drawing Hutch’s large, fine hands together, Starsky held them between his own… “Hutch, anyone who counts knows you were kidnapped–held down and hurt. They coulda used a club, but instead they had a needle. You aren’t responsible for what was done to you.”

“Not responsible, eh? Then how come we haven’t had a drugs case since my little ‘walk on the wild side‘?” Hutch practically snarled, pulling his hands free.

Story Notes:

This story was originally published in the mixed gen and slash SH zine, “The Lucky and the Strong,” published by Idiot Triplets Press in 1993.

Major thanks to Keri T for scanning and proofing this zine-published story. Special thanks to Keri also for keeping me focused and on track in all things SH, but most especially the archive. Thanks must also go to Kath Moonshine for giving us permission to post her previously published stories.

PROLOGUE

AFTER THE FIX

I am weak as a kitten, Hutch thought, more weary then he’d ever wanted to be. He stood outside the doorway of the squad room and rubbed the grit from his blackened eyes, careful of the bruises that were only just beginning to fade after three days.

“Three days,” he murmured softly. The last three days had been a living hell–he remembered jokingly asking Starsk about a mercy killing, but that had been after the worst of the withdrawal pain. His partner had got him off the street; then he and Huggy had helped him kick the stuff–even Dobey had helped by covering for him during his long absence. Starsk even let me off the hook with the paperwork, Hutch thought, as he slowly, achingly eased into his jacket. I’m damned lucky to have such friends.

Just as he gingerly finished fastening his coat, he distinctly heard Dobey’s deep timbre coming from the squad room.

“How’s that partner of yours?” Dobey asked.

“He’s doin’ great Cap’n–couple of days and he’ll be good as new.”

Hutch felt his heart swell in his chest at the sound of Starsky’s voice. The drugs, beatings, and the heavy scene with Jeannie had left him feeling burned-out, but he could still react to his partner.

“Don’t jive me, Starsky. He looks like death warmed over–for that matter, you don’t look any better,” Dobey answered gruffly. “You two are gonna take some time off, I don’t want to see either of you again ’til Monday. That ought to be enough time for Hutchinson to at least look like less of a train wreck.”

Hutch could actually hear the smile in Starsky’s answer. “That’s great Cap’n!” He began to move away, happy to have the extra days off, time he would use to put this whole experience into perspective, when the tone of Dobey’s next words drew him back.

“And Starsky–”

“Yeah?”

“One of the other teams will be handling the drug ops, for awhile at least–understood?”

Even through the door, Hutch could hear the heaviness of his partner’s reply.

“Yeah, Cap’n… I understand.”

Turning as fast as his battered body would allow, Hutch’s long stride carried him down the hall and away from the conversation he wished he’d never heard. He exited headquarters; his heart, which had been so full of gratitude for his friends, now felt cold and withered in his chest.

“Stuff it,” Hutch muttered as he eased himself down the steps to the street level. Fuck it all.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“Miguel Consuelo was a mixed-up kid, but he didn’t deserve to die like this,” Hutch informed his partner. Starsky nodded in agreement as he stepped back to give the forensics boys room to maneuver. “Damn it, Starsk! That kid was put out with the trash–like he was nothing… just garbage,” Hutch hissed as he turned away, his loping stride carrying him to the fenced end of the narrow alley.

The team from the lab packed up their gear as the ambulance men, morbidly efficient, strapped the awkwardly bent body to the stretcher. Rigor mortis had set and they were unable to encase the slender boy in a slick body bag. A drunk had discovered the corpse during his morning dumpster munch–fetally curled and stuffed into a green Hefty bag. To make matters worse, the bum who had found the boy was giving the hangers-on of the neighborhood a Technicolor description.

“–Werse gawdamned ting I ever saw, lemme tell you! And I’ve seen it all in my time,” Aqualung reported loudly to the milling rubberneckers gathered in the alley mouth.

Taking note of Aqualung’s matted dreadlocks, gruesome pantomime and rapt audience, Starsky scanned the officers present and waved a familiar face over. Snagging a well worn-wallet from the tight pocket of his equally worn jeans, Starsky peeled off two tens from the bills within and pressed them into the palm of the Sergeant who had responded to his beckoning gesture.

“Sarge, do me and Hutch a favor–take Aqualung downtown and get his statement,” Starsky asked quietly. “If he plays ball and gives you a straight story, you can pay him off and tell him it’s from me… otherwise throw him in the drunk tank and I’ll shake him down myself after we check the kid’s hangout.”

“Sure, Starsky, no problem,” the sergeant answered.

“Thanks.” Turning back toward his partner, he could hear the sounds of the crowd breaking up and moving along. Starsky selectively ignored Aqualung’s hoarse protests as the Rastafarian reject was hustled into a cruiser.

Masking the concern that motivated his actions, Starsky dodged vegetable crates and other assorted refuse and stalked down the polluted alley to rejoin his partner. Hutch knew Miguel through Kiko, his “little brother” in the Big Brother Program, and the boy’s death was bound to affect his darkly moody partner.

We see kids like this almost every week, Starsky thought sadly. Strung out and on the run from their families, but you never think it’ll be someone you know.

Hutch stood with his back to the crime scene, long artistic fingers laced through the chain link fence, seemingly absorbed with the view of the adjacent weed-choked lot. The harsh morning sunlight caused him to squint unattractively, washing out his creamy coloration and casting dark shadows beneath his pale eyes.

With a touch meant to soothe, the he parted Hutch’s collar-length hair and palmed the lean neck beneath. Starsky said softly, “Hey partner–it’s okay to hurt on this one.”

Not shrugging off the touch, but refusing to be gentled into a better mood, Hutch answered harshly, “What do you think is the cause of death?”

“Overdose,” he answered simply, looking directly into haunted eyes.

“Did you learn that in cop school or was the needle in his thigh your first clue?”

“I’m not the bad guy here,” Starsky breathed in a low voice.

Responding to that tone, Hutch finally relented and sagged momentarily under the firm grip. “Yeah, I know, buddy.”

“Let’s go,” Starsky answered, releasing his hold.

Side by side, the detectives exited the alley, Hutch striding with grim purpose and Starsky moving with a natural glide and bounce that more than enabled him to match pace with his taller partner. Bypassing the Torino, they continued the small distance to the condemned apartment building Miguel had called home after leaving home.

***

Starsky had already filed the paperwork necessary in the case of the shooting death involving armed resistance from the suspect–in this case one Manfried “Manny” Fadden. A scumbag with a record as long as my arm, Starsky thought bitingly as he finished up the last of his two-fingered typewritten reports. Only five hours before, he and Hutch had been fighting for their lives against the whacked-out, machine-gun toting maniac. Now Fadden was toe-tagged, in the morgue, and waiting for the last of this world’s paperwork to catch up with his earthly remains.

It had been a simple case. We’re good, he thought, but it’s not every day that we crack a case in ten hours. Tugging the now completed sheet free from the battered manual, he quickly studied the information recorded there:

NAME: Consuelo, Miguel Valentine

AGE: 12

CAUSE OF DEATH: Suspected heroin overdose

Something in that last caused a mental bell to ring, but it was midnight at the end of a long day and Starsky’s only desire was to finish proofing the form before leaving it in Captain Dobey’s tray.

Shuffling through the stack of papers, Starsky mentally recreated the chain of events that led to the boy’s death. The gist of the report was achingly familiar to someone who’d been a cop as long as he; Consuelo had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd and had run away from home only the month before. According to the director of Patch Work–an inner city youth shelter–the boy had seemed on the verge of contacting his mother. Instead, a fifteen-year-old street friend named Carlo Santino had turned him on to the joys of shooting up. Carlo’s pusher, Manny Fadden, had insisted that Miguel become his newest customer.

Thinking back to this morning, Starsky could keenly picture Miguel’s last days. Carlo and Miguel would shoot up in their shared warren, a dank condemned apartment decorated with castoff furniture, kung fu posters, and the stubby remains of burnt candles. Carlo had freaked when he discovered Miguel dead and had crudely attempted to hide the body. While searching the apartment for clues, Hutch had spotted the frightened kid on the fire escape; it had been easy following him to his pusher.

No regrets on that one, the tired detective thought. The only thing that’s a damn shame is that sleaze Fadden died before we could dig out his dope connection. He and Hutch had recently begun to hear a certain high-roller name on the streets–Amboy. Both detectives suspected that Fadden was moving “stuff” for him, but had not been able to pin down the supplier who catered to teens. Any connection to Amboy had died with Fadden during this evening’s gunfight, when Hutch had maneuvered around for the final shot.

Before exiting Headquarters, Starsky remembered to phone down to the tank and make arrangements for Aqualung to be freed in the morning. At last, he dropped off the report and made the decision to swing by his partner’s place before calling it a night. Much to his surprise, Hutch had accepted his offer to finish the paper work. I don’t mind, though, Starsky thought during the drive to Venice, the cool night wind ruffling his jacket collar and tousled curls. Hutch has been tired lately.

***

Hutch’s hands trembled as he tried to unlock his front door.

“FUCK!” He’d dropped his keys once already, and was tired of fucking with this door. Finally, the key slid home and he could enter his “house of horrors” as he’d come to think of the place since Monk and his cronies had kidnapped him. Quickly, efficiently, Hutch swept the room, his hand on the Magnum. This room cleared, he moved to secure the entire area. Satisfied that he was indeed alone, Hutch then–and only then–unbuckled the shoulder harness and removed his gun.

Now that he knew he was alone, he collapsed on the couch, his face in his hands. Try as he might, he couldn’t get this evening’s events sorted out and neatly tucked away. He’d gone to express his sorrow to Mrs. Consuelo, but her grief was so fresh, so intense, he had been drained by the experience. Kiko’s mom was sitting with the distraught woman and she had beseeched the police office to talk to her son–to drive home the message of drugs and death while it was still fresh. Hutch had gone out and cruised the neighborhood until he found his “little brother.”

Wordless, he’d merely opened the door and Kiko had climbed in. As they’d driven around aimlessly, Kiko had pointed out favorite hangouts that Miguel had liked. Finally, Kiko had asked the question that had blown Hutch away.

“You killed the man that sold the drugs, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he’d replied neutrally, but he had wanted to deny the act. Death didn’t have to be met with death, but that was the prevalent gang philosophy that permeated Kiko’s world. Hutch wanted to teach the boy about some of life’s finer things, how to reach for a better world–not to kill because someone you know was killed.

“Can I see your gun?” Kiko had asked earnestly.

He’d pulled the weapon from its sheath, resting the big handgun on his thigh. The heavy bulk and blackness had fascinated the boy and he’d gently stroked its hard, shiny finish. Unable to explain to himself, much less to Kiko, Hutch’s eyes had filled with unshed tears. He’d blinked, trying to absorb them before they could overflow, but he was certain that Kiko had seen. The boy had then slid over on the LTD’s long bench seat and asked to be taken home.

Dry-eyed, he sat on the couch as twilight slowly consumed the room. Mustering what he suspected was his last reserve of energy, he stumbled to the bathroom; the imagined smell of this morning’s alley combined with the real odor of cordite was nauseating. He showered on auto-pilot and didn’t bother to dress when through–he merely crossed to the kitchen and the liquor kept there. Hutch poured one glass of Crown Royal, all he permitted himself, and returned to the couch, more shocky then he realized. Slowly sipping the fiery liquid, not to savor the taste but to make it last, Hutch sat and greeted the gathering darkness.

***

The night air was even cooler down by the canals where Starsky parked the Torino. Disdaining to zip his jacket, he crossed over to the darkened cottage. Hope that means Hutch is asleep. Starsky fumbled for a second over the lintel, before he remembered that now the extra key was kept on his ring and let himself in without knocking.

Heeling off his shoes, Starsky was suddenly certain that he wasn’t alone in the living room–that sixth sense that all good cops have was sounding an alarm in his skull. His left hand blurred to his gun, but he relaxed his grip on the handle at the sound of Hutch’s voice.

“Starsky, what are you doing here?”

Feeling a little foolish and a bit off balance–not to mention startled half out of his skin–Starsky’s voice broke as he answered hotly, “What do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing, lurking around in the dark like Lon Chaney?”

“I live here, which explains me–now what about you?” Hutch answered tersely.

“It’s late Hutch, I just thought I’d–”

“Check on me,” Hutch interrupted.

Starsky paused, calming his tone, hoping to diffuse Hutch’s obvious temper. “Yeah, well… I thought I’d crash here, your place being closer,” Starsky replied reasonably as he reached for the lamp switch.

He’d expected a natty bathrobe; instead Hutch was sitting nude in a half-lotus position on his sofa. They’d seen each other unclothed many times–at the gym, in the shower room at the station, and several times during hospital stays, but Starsky felt himself flush a deep red at suddenly catching his partner so… bare.

Dropping his hand and his eyes at the same time, Starsky reached for the heavy glass tumbler that sat empty at Hutch’s elbow. “Want a refill?”

“Sure,” came the clipped reply.

Crossing the room to enter the kitchen area, Starsky sniffed the glass to determine what Hutch had been drinking. The smell of whiskey tallied with the clearly evident bottle of Crown Royal sitting on the lip of the sink. Noting that only a small amount of the golden liquor was missing, Starsky retrieved a jelly jar from the drain board for himself and poured a shot for them both.

“Here you go, buddy,” he said, depositing Hutch’s glass back on the end table with a light-hearted flourish he didn’t feel. “I’ll be right back,” Starsky continued as he headed for the bathroom, glad to retreat in the face his partner’s cool stare. Normally, Starsky felt he knew what his partner would do or say even before Hutch quite knew–but tonight was different. In his nakedness, Hutch was fully armored.

Jus’ need a minute to think, Starsky mused disjointedly as he closed the bathroom door, allowing his weight to sag against the wooden barrier separating himself and the almost stranger in the next room. Starsky considered his next course of action, noting that the living room light had been extinguished as he entered the john. Unable to imagine what he could say to the man in the next room that wouldn’t be rebuffed, he went with his gut feeling and made to a swift decision: If you can’t beat ’em–join ’em.

Quickly removing his jacket and shoulder harness, Starsky observed himself in the mirror as he efficiently stripped–exposing his long, leanly-muscled torso. He draped the jacket, gun, and baseball jersey over the back of the toilet tank with a smooth movement reminiscent of the bathroom’s matador print. Popping his belt buckle, Starsky peeled off soft, faded jeans.

Underwear being optional due to his no-love-lost affair with the laundromat, Starsky tried to imagine how silly he must look standing in the John clad only in socks–but failed. His partner was in the next room, hurting and unwilling (unable?) to share the weight of his pain–a pain Starsky didn’t quite understand. If sitting buck naked in a dark room would make Hutch feel safer and in control of his environment, then Starsky was willing to reveal more than just his body. Taking the final plunge, he removed his socks, too.

Opening the bathroom door softly, Starsky could feel the myriad hairs of his body rising as though lifted by a thousand invisible ants–reacting to the slight decrease in temperature. Starsky tried to ignore the sensation of his testicles contracting towards his body’s heat and the gentle sway of his cock against his thighs as he padded over to the unoccupied end of the couch.

Sitting down gently, as opposed to his normally comfortable flop, he waited for Hutch’s reaction to his opening bid at equal communication. Silence stretched ominously, only to be diffused when the troubled blond exhaled explosively.

“You can crash here,” Hutch said in a more normal tone. “Just don’t expect me to be a gracious host, not tonight.”

“You’ve been dragging lately,” Starsky stated, edging closer to his partner. “Why?”

Hutch attempted to raise himself up from the couch, but his partner had anticipated the move; gently but firmly, Starsky gripped his right shoulder and left arm, allowing his weight to hamper the stronger man’s movement. Hutch’s reaction was to attempt shaking off the contact, only to have his partner throw a muscled, hairy thigh across his lap, effectively pinning him to the sofa. The Hutch could break the hold, but not without a real struggle that would hurt them both–and Starsky knew it. Capitulating to the confinement of his partner’s arms, Hutch settled back down and Starsky retracted his leg.

“I talked to Kiko.”

“How did he take it?” Starsky inquired gently.

“He was tough, Starsk,” Hutch answered with a tremble in his rich voice.

“That’s good,” came the soft answer in the darkness.

“No, it isn’t!” Hutch’s angry hiss from this morning had returned full force. “Is that what I’m teaching Kiko? Your best friend dies and you just sit there and take it?”

“Hutch–”

“NO! Let me finish! Those fat-assed cops at the scene,” Hutch mocked. “The ‘Boys in Blue to the Rescue’–they don’t give a fuck about a Spanish kid dead in a dumpster… I heard them. ‘Just a junkie,’ they said. He’s a junkie…” he whispered.

A sudden chill passed through Starsky as he remembered where and when he had last heard those exact words. It had also been in an alley, over six months ago, when the APB on his missing partner had finally yielded a possible sighting. He’d driven like a maniac and had arrived quickly. But not before the black and white cruiser. Not before Bernie, a twelve-year veteran with the force, who had pronounced the dirty trembling hulk in Starsky’s arms ‘a junkie.’

“The only reason that Miguel’s murderer is in the morgue is because a family friend knows a cop,” Hutch concluded.

Drawing Hutch’s large, fine hands together, Starsky held them between his own, resting them on top of his thigh. In the velvety darkness he could only approximate where his partner’s eyes were, but he spoke evenly and with conviction. “Hutch, anyone who counts knows you were kidnapped–held down and hurt. They coulda used a club, but instead they had a needle. You aren’t responsible for what was done to you.”

“Not responsible, eh? Then how come we haven’t had a drugs case since my little ‘walk on the wild side‘?” Hutch practically snarled, pulling his hands free.

His tone was telling; thinking back, Starsky wondered what his partner might know about Dobey’s reluctance to push Hutchinson too soon. It had been the wise move–better safe than sorry, but it left him with a partner convinced that his superior doubted his abilities. “What are you talking about?”

After a very long pause, Hutch seemed to gather together the frayed ends of his emotions. He mumbled an answer, “I heard you and Dobey talking at Headquarters… I heard him say that another team would be handling the dope deals.”

Sometimes you just can’t be reasonable with Hutch, Starsky thought. “All right, Dobey did say that–do you know what he’d say now? He’d say, ‘What’s wrong with you, Hutchinson? Not enough murder, rape, and extortion for you?'”

“That’s not the point, d-d-damnit,” Hutch answered, his characteristic stress stutter coming to the fore. “Cops have to be ‘unimpeachable’… even a rookie knows that. They got to me, Starsk–dragged me through the mud and filth, made me eat it and come up begging for more.”

“We went through this months ago at Huggy’s,” Starsky murmured soothingly as he reached out to lightly stroke his partner’s silk-soft hair. The touching had always come easy; since the beginning of their friendship an easy acceptance of each other’s strengths and a desire to shore up the other’s weaknesses had developed. “Why didn’t you tell me this was still bothering you?” Just as Starsky had begun to think that his partner wasn’t going to answer, he hoarsely whispered around the knot in his throat.

“The job, Starsk. It’s always the job–I didn’t want what happened to affect the job more than it has. You… deserve better,” Hutch added more quietly. “I didn’t want to… I didn’t want you to…”

“Just say it,” Starsky said, dropping his hand to his partner’s neck, tightening his grip for emphasis. Hutch bowed his head, acknowledging the weight of his partner’s firm hand.

“Starsk–you, Bernie, Monk and his creeps–you all thought I was out of my skull. But I heard everything around me–was just crashing too hard to react.” He faltered and Starsky could tell that he was weighing his next words, “You said, ‘Bernie, this never happened.’ Ever since then we haven’t mentioned that whole scene… it’s like it never happened, except here.” The big blond pulled the lean hand from his neck and pressed it to his chest. “I know it happened, Starsk… ’cause I hurt–I’m so afraid you’ll ask for a new partner. Someone who won’t–”

Unable to continue listening to the painful discourse pouring so brokenly from his partner, Starsky pulled him down to rest against his chest. Burying his face in Hutch’s clean hair, he caressingly petted his partner’s tense back.

“Shhh,” Starsky murmured, attempting to soothe his partner, but Hutch wrenched away. Jerking out of his partner’s grasp, he landed heavily on the floor between the couch and the wooden sea chest used for a coffee table. Starsky reached out to again establish contact with his friend, only to have his hands cradle a face contorted with silent tears–a grotesque parody of the theater’s ‘tragedy’ mask.

“Oh buddy, oh babe, please–please,” Starsky said softly, his fingers gently roving over twisted features, as if they really were clay that could be refashioned into a happier visage. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

When Hutch finally spoke, it came out a keening, anguished cry, “Starsk, what if it had been you they wanted? I would have told them anything to get the fix–”

“What if? What if nothing! What if you’d died! How do you think that makes me feel?” Starsky raked his fingers through shaggy blond tresses, gripping tightly, almost hurting the man in his grasp. “I kept lookin’ and lookin’ for you. But in the end, you didn’t need me–you got away on your own.” At the thought of how close he’d come to losing his partner, Starsky’s hands convulsively clutched the silk soft hair; his grip tightened further, bending Hutch’s neck back sharply. Staring into the darkness only inches away from Hutch, Starsky felt the contorted face and voice relax–and was stunned by his partner’s words.

“I need you. Without you… I’d still be on the junk.” It was his turn to offer comfort to a too rigid body, Hutch locked his arms around Starsky’s hips. “You’re all that keeps me from going back, babe… back to the needle.”

“That’s not true. You’re the strongest man I know,” Starsky mumbled as the two men moved to embrace, satisfying their raw need for contact. Starsky pulled Hutch off the floor onto the couch, but it was Hutch who ended up cradling his partner. After many minutes, their breathing slowed, but Starsky continued to stroke his partner’s hair. In the due time, Hutch was the first to speak in the comforting dark, his voice factual and soothing, as if relating a bedtime fairy tale.

“As a kid, I read this story, Starsk. I can’t remember who wrote it, but I think it was called Sorrow Rides a Swift Horse. It was about this woman and her young son who traveled all over the world during Victorian times–you know, primitive steam ships, trains, and horseback–‘Dr. Livingston I presume’ kind of situation.” Hutch paused to stroke his partner’s hair.

“It was told from the little boy’s point of view… you see, his mother had a death wish. Her husband had died and she didn’t want to go on–but suicide was out of the question in those days.” Hutch’s emotion-rough voice deepened and seemed to wrap itself around the word ‘suicide.’ Clutching his partner tighter, Hutch continued the story.

“So she went to the most dangerous parts of the world–places you wouldn’t want to visit today, much less a hundred years ago. One day, the boy and his mother were in the mountains of Afghanistan–stopped by bandits.” Hutch broke off suddenly, exasperated. “God, why am I telling you this?”

Reaching up, Starsky gently cupped the smooth chin. “No, please go on. I’m interested,” he said, releasing his grip.

Breathing deeply, Hutch resumed, “They were going to rob and rape her, Starsk, but she wasn’t afraid of death; she was able to convince the leader that she was ‘bad luck’ and if he listened closely, he could hear sorrow riding behind her, clattering up the hills. Every minute they delayed her travels brought sorrow one step closer. So they let her and the boy go. There’s more to the story, but what I remember is that feeling–that sorrow is close to me, too.”

“But–” Starsky began, only to be cut off.

“Starsky, in my whole life the only time I’ve ever been able to totally escape that feeling was when Monk shot me up with the stuff. It was such a good thing–no pain, no worries, no fear… only sweet dreams.” Hutch amended his statement. “That’s not entirely true. When I’m on the job with you–a really tough case–and we’re doing some good, I lose that feeling.”

The two men were quiet for some time, one stroking midnight curls and the other snugged against a long muscular thigh. The darkness clothed them well; their nudity was not an issue until Hutch finally spoke again.

“I haven’t slept with anyone since Jeannie Walten.”

From the warmth of his position Starsky asked, “Why?”

“This might sound like a cop-out, but I’ve tried to be honest with myself. The issue is lack of trust. Who do I trust? Who do I really trust? Only you… I left early tonight ’cause I needed to talk to Kiko–and to get away from you, Starsk. I didn’t want to be around you tonight. Tomorrow, the day after, I’ll be okay again. But tonight…”

“What do you want, Hutch?” Starsky whispered.

A light brushing of soft lips caressed Starsky’s temple–invisible in the night. Gently, they trailed across his brow and eyelids, bypassing his mouth to suckle his throat at the jawline. Turning to speak, Starsky opened his mouth, only to feel those incredible lips close on his, sucking his breath and his thoughts away.

“I’ll tell you what I want,” Hutch said minutes later when he broke the kiss. “I want a new apartment–I can’t stand this one anymore. I want to get back in the saddle completely–Dobey clears us for any case, starting tomorrow. I don’t care if it takes six months or six years, I want to bust Amboy… no more Miguels.” Unsaid, but evident from that fabulous kiss, was the thought, And I want to take you to bed.

“You don’t want much, do ya?” Starsky answered breathlessly.

“I want everything you’re willing to give, Starsk…”

It wasn’t a difficult decision–the touching, the love, had always come easy. “I’d do anything for you,” Starsky said as he sat up. “Just like you’d do anything for me.

“We’ll look for your new place tomorrow, after we talk to Dobey,” he continued. “You know the Cap’n–we just have to lay it out straight to him. As far as Amboy goes–that’s a big nut. It’s gonna take time to crack him.” Standing, Starsky took Hutch’s hand and pulled him up; with a gentle tug, he led him across the open living space to the double bed. “We’re both tired–” he finished, but it was his turn for an unspoken thought. Let’s see what happens.

All that happened was an hour-long embrace that eventually melted into a healing, healthy sleep for Hutch. After gentling the big blond down, Starsky lay awake with his partner’s head cradled in the crook of his neck. Hutch’s long, golden leg came up to lie across his thighs–casually trapping them. Though wrung out, his mind was too worked up to drift off–even after he knew Hutch was firmly asleep.

Like the good detective he was, Starsky replayed this night’s conversation, reviewing and weighing the context of their words and actions–only to come again and again to the same conclusion. He’d meant what he’d said. I really would do anything for Hutch, he admitted to himself.

Somewhere along the way, unlooked for and just as unexpected, Starsky knew they had passed a milestone in their friendship… and as the first fingers of dawn touched the windows of the little yellow cottage, Starsky owned up to another home truth.

I’d even make love with my partner.

Chapter End Notes:

To be continued in “The Last Mile on a Long, Long Trip” from the zine, “Turned to Fire.”