Pariah Revisited

Table of Contents

A shooting of a kid bring Starsky and Hutch to a new understanding.

Originally published in Venice Place Chronicles III.

Author’s Note: This story was written as a gift especially for Keri.

Thursday, June 26, 1980

Starsky brought the mug of coffee over to the desk where his partner sat staring into space, his hands hovering inches above the typewriter keys. “Hutch?” Starsky clasped the blond’s shoulder and had to draw on his quick reflexes not to drop the mug when Hutch jumped as if electrically shocked. Starsky set down the mug and brought his warmed hand down on Hutch’s other shoulder. He squeezed tight with both hands until Hutch signaled “enough” by shrugging.

Starsky crossed over to his desk and sat down, mostly to be out of Hutch’s immediate vicinity, recognizing the need to give his partner space, but also for a face-to-face vantage point. “Buddy, it was a clean shoot. You winged him. In the middle of a halfway dark alley, with a gun drawing down on you, you managed to clip his shoulder. Ease up on yourself, ‘kay?”

Hutch stared straight through him. Starsky felt alarm crackle up his spine and lift the hairs on his arms; then, he realized that Hutch was actually staring slightly above him. He shifted in his seat and spotted Dobey, who had opened his office door with barely a sound.

“Yes, Captain?”

Starsky flinched in his chair. The words were the first two Hutch had spoken, outside of police procedural information, since Starsky found him in the alley behind the jewelry store.

“My office, Hutch. Starsky, come on in.”

As if Starsky required prompting.

He rose just as Hutch passed by his chair, and slipped an arm briefly around Hutch’s waist, ignoring the rigidity in Hutch’s posture, usually a barbed wire fence against physical intrusion. Pale and stark in expression, Hutch allowed the touch but didn’t acknowledge it. The captain’s office door closed behind them, and Dobey walked back over to his desk.

“You’re going to hear this soon enough. I wanted it to come from me. I just received word from Memorial. The kid from the jewelry store 2-11 died in the ER about twenty minutes ago.”

The tremor in Hutch’s shoulders seemed to be graduating into a wobble as it moved through his body, and Starsky wasted no time. He lunged at the nearest chair and dragged it directly behind Hutch, guiding the stunned detective down into it with light pressure on his upper arm.

“It was a wing shot, Cap’n,” Starsky said, as soon as Hutch was safely seated.

“I know.” Dobey cleared his throat. “Hutch, as far as IA is concerned, you’re on solid ground. Ballistics matched the kid’s gun with the bullet that killed the jewelry store manager on Eighth last week, and forensics is pretty firm on a fingerprint match, so we have proof that the kid wouldn’t hesitate to use deadly force. Also, your shot shouldn’t have killed him. According to the trauma surgeon, the kid had an undiagnosed heart condition. Even his parents didn’t know about it. His heart just couldn’t take the physical trauma of a gunshot wound, even one in the right shoulder.”

Hutch gripped the chair arms and shot Dobey a look that should have been more dangerous than a bullet. “A fifteen-year-old kid is dead, and you’re talking to me about IA? You think that’s what I’m worried about right now, Captain?”

“Hutch-”

“Stop, Starsky. Just stop. Well, Captain?”

Dobey slapped the desk and stabbed his other fist at Hutch. “Yes, dammit, you should be concerned, Detective. You were alone in that alley, with no witnesses to hear you issue a warning before you fired. You’d be in one hell of a mess if not for the kid’s history of violence. As it is, you can expect some tough questions, but I’ve run interference for you and made sure that neither Simonetti nor Dryden will field your case. There’s a transfer detective in from San Francisco, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“Now?” Starsky shouted. “This can’t keep ’til morning, Cap’n? Hutch’s been on the clock for fourteen hours now.”

“So have you, Starsky,” Hutch said wearily.

“Yeah, but I’m not-”

“Not the one with the deadly trigger finger,” Hutch finished. “Right.”

“Hutchinson, you go up there with that attitude and you’ll be opening the door for trouble, ” Dobey warned. “They’re putting the speed on this one because of the victim’s age. In case his parents kick up a fuss, the Department will be able to show that they took immediate investigative action.”

“Victim? So now we’re calling armed killers victims? Terrific. Any chance I can be in on the gig?” Starsky wondered if the leaden weight in his stomach would allow him to walk out of the office, much less up to Internal Affairs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had carried this kind of paralytic worry for Hutch.

“I know it’s late, Starsky, but you know better than to ask a question like that.” Dobey sighed. “It’s protocol for Hutch to be interviewed alone. You’ll be interviewed separately.”

“I might have to go in separately, but I’ll be right outside the door.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be down here with me until they call for you,” Dobey corrected.

“Is that an order, Cap’n?” Starsky’s voice threatened immediate explosion, and Dobey pushed his chair back from the desk, throwing both arms up in a “shoo” motion.

“No, it’s not an order, Starsky, but if you want what’s best for Hutch, you’ll cool your heels down here. You don’t want to put the new guy’s back up, and it’s no secret that you two have a protective partnership.”

Starsky appealed to Hutch. “Partner?”

Hutch’s answer was to stand and leave the office without a backward glance. Shaken and uncertain, Starsky sank down in the chair still warm from Hutch’s body heat, and cradled his forehead with thumb and middle finger.

“You know what he’s going through, Starsky.”

“Damn right I do,” Starsky said without looking up. Every now and then the ghost of Lonnie Craig haunted his dreams or caught him awake in shadows. No cop lived without ghosts, and the particularly strong specters never succumbed to any form of psychological exorcism. “But what he did for me isn’t working for him.”

“Well, if anyone can figure out what will work, it’s you, and I’m going to give you the time to do it. Did you finish the reports?”

“Yeah, Hutch needed the distraction. We just finished ’em a few minutes ago.”

“Good. Then as soon as IA gets through with you, I want you both off the clock until Monday. It’s a closed case, there’s nothing more you two can do, and I don’t want Hutchinson on the street or trying to work through another case until he shakes this off.”

“Thanks, Cap’n. This is not the kinda thing you shake off in a weekend, but it’ll sure help.”

“Tell me about it, Starsky. You’ll have to go through it all upstairs, but just lay it out for me quickly.”

“What’s to tell?” Starsky asked hollowly, bringing his hand down from his face and tapping on the chair arm. “Kid must’ve triggered the alarm. We got the 2-11 call and responded. We were the first on the scene, so we did our usual split back and front. I took the front this time. By the time I got back to the alley it was all over, and I’ll tell ya, I didn’t care who was lying on that pavement as soon as I knew it wasn’t Hutch. It’s hitting me now that a kid’s dead, but at the time, all I could see was Hutch standing up with no bullet holes in him. Hutch told me what happened. He chased the kid down and warned him to drop the gun, but the kid drew down on him.”

“And Hutch shot to disarm him.”

“Pretty much. Would’ve been justified to use deadly force, but he didn’t.”

Dobey rubbed a hand over his mouth and mustache, nodding. “Yes, I’m hoping IA will focus on that, too. It’s a touchy situation and the kid’s parents-”

“Screw the parents!” Starsky bounded out of the chair and stood, seething. “I know they’re out of their minds with grief. I understand. I sympathize. But this wasn’t a case of a single mother trying to raise a son in a bad neighborhood and fightin’ a losing battle. That kid’s outfit could’ve paid half my monthly car payment easy, and he’s out knocking over jewelry stores at night alone?! What right have they got to say anything? They need to be taking a good hard look at themselves.”

“That’s precisely why they’re the kind who kick up fusses, Starsky. To divert attention from their own negligence.”

Two hours later, Starsky led a visibly wilting Hutch out of the squad room and toward the elevator. “We’re going home, buddy. Fast as I can get us there.”

“Sounds good.” Hutch’s voice was as wooden as his face.

“Hutch-” The elevator door opening cut off Starsky’s remark, as he focused on guiding Hutch into the elevator.

“They said I risked my life to avoid using deadly force,” Hutch said, staring unseeing at the elevator door.

“You did, partner. You tried to save his life at risk to your own. You amaze me.”

“I’m sick.” Hutch thrust a hand over his mouth and did indeed appear to be turning a pasty gray green color, during his wobble back against the elevator wall. Starsky reached for him immediately, and held him in a close embrace that didn’t end upon the elevator’s opening on the garage level. Two uniformed cops paused outside the elevator, gaping.

“Are we interrupting something, Starsky?”

Starsky silenced the cop with a “cruising for a bruising” glare and led Hutch past the two men. Snickers continued behind them, and Starsky whirled on the uniforms without releasing Hutch. “You keep your foul minds in your pants. It’s a sad thing if you can’t depend on each other like Hutch and me.”

The cops fell silent and wore serious, anxious masks for faces into the elevator.

Hutch attempted to pull away from the arm around his shoulder and the hand clasping his forearm. “Let me go, Starsky.”

“Hutch, don’t let two assholes-”

“I’m gonna be sick!” Hutch shouted.

Starsky let him go, and Hutch promptly dived headfirst toward a convenient garbage can. He hung over the side and shook in his sudden illness. Starsky only allowed a moment to pass before he rushed up behind Hutch and held his partner’s shoulders through the worst of the trembling. When Hutch looked ready to stand upright, Starsky fished in Hutch’s jacket pocket and withdrew his handkerchief, handing it to the pale blond.

Hutch wiped his face and mouth and nodded. “I can make it now.”

“Are you all right? Do you feel like you’re coming down with something?”

“No, it’s just-” Hutch shook his head weakly.

“Stress. Right. Come on, Hutch. Home.” He kept the pressure of his hand lightly behind Hutch’s elbow all the way to the Torino, and he resisted Hutch’s independent streak, helping his shaken partner into the car and covering the shivering detective with his own light jacket.

Though tempted to make use of the Mars light and siren, Starsky decided Hutch would rake him over hot coals for unnecessary breach of protocol. Instead, he used his considerable driving skills to speedily navigate the areas of the city still congested despite the late hour. He eased the punishment on the accelerator only when the city streets and freeway progressed to quieter suburban roads.

Unable to engage his passenger in conversation, Starsky’s worry for Hutch led him to reflect on how much Hutch’s concern for him had changed his own life. After Starsky’s release from the hospital last August, Hutch had insisted on using his previously untouched trust fund to purchase a house where he could suitably care for Starsky, who required continuous home medical assistance. Hutch would not hear of Starsky’s admission to a transitional care institution. He had vowed that he, Ken Hutchinson, cop and partner, could do much more for Starsky than yet another group of strangers, regardless of their medical degrees and sterilized facilities.

Hutch had packed up the contents of both their apartments with the help of Huggy, Dobey, and a group of volunteering officers and detectives, and personally supervised the move to a three – bedroom split-ranch home an hour from Metro, where the real estate market made a sufficiently sized home affordable.

One room had been designated to Starsky’s home health care, and Hutch had thrown himself relentlessly into assisting the home health nurse, the physical therapist, and, eventually, the occupational therapist, who outlined the final steps toward Starsky’s reinstatement to the police force.

Starsky’s hard won reinstatement was joyously celebrated by every cop at Metro, and each employee of the Department, from the commissioner to janitor, knew that Ken Hutchinson deserved a fair share of the credit. No one commented unfavorably about the partners’ decision to remain in the suburban house. Any raised eyebrows and questions in IA’s office could not argue the logic and propriety of a cop helping his long-time partner climb out of the massive debt incurred by a three-month hospital stay and equally lengthy at-home transitional care services.

Some narrow-minded cops, like the two they had encountered at the garage elevator, still snickered and made off-color remarks about the partners’ closeness, but that was nothing new. Starsky shrugged it all off as the jealousy of men who had no blessing of unconditional love and friendship in their own lives.

Now, the third bedroom housed Hutch’s new plants and Starsky’s growing number of hobbies, fads, and books. The physical therapy and home health equipment had vanished, erasing some of the painful memories associated with the assassination attempt. Some scars, Starsky knew, would last for both of them, but they had made their home into the happiest shelter and safe harbor possible, and it was more than worth the commute.

Starsky hoped the safe haven would help Hutch through this crisis as well. In the two months of street work following Starsky’s clearance for active duty, this was the first time that Hutch had used his Magnum against a human being. For it to be a fifteen-year-old child… Starsky shook his head, glancing over at his silent partner, whose profile in the dim lighting held rigid, stony, and without the cleansing movement of facial expression.

He had never been happier to pull the Torino into their driveway. Once more, he reflected briefly on their good fortune. The neighbors had shown quiet acceptance of their living arrangements as well. Thanks to the media, they had known the story of the famous police detective’s miraculous recovery. By virtue of neighborhood vicinity, they had watched Hutch’s never -ending efforts as coach, nurse, and therapist, and no one raised a question about the two cops sharing a home.

Starsky knew as time passed and neither detective moved out to resume a “separate” life, the neighborhood’s total acceptance might fade, but he had never been one to borrow trouble and he refused to worry about what-ifs.

He killed the engine and yanked the keys from the ignition. “We’re home, partner. Until Monday. No more questions, IA suits, or reports to type. Just you and me.”

Hutch sat silent and unmoving.

“Hutch, I won’t lie to you; you’re starting to really scare me. Do you think you can manage the walk to the house?”

The implication that he needed help walking, snapped Hutch out of his funk. His chin lifted and he nodded. “I’m…yeah.” He opened the car door, and his suddenly rapid movement forced Starsky to scramble to catch up. Hutch reached the front door several strides ahead of his partner.

Safely inside, Starsky locked the door behind them and then devoted himself to removing Hutch’s jacket and holster. His alarm increased when Hutch allowed the ministrations without complaint, or the snippy remark more common to Hutch in this mood. After hanging the jacket and holster in their proper places beside his in the foyer’s coat closet, Starsky guided Hutch into the living room and pressed him softly down on the sofa.

“Sit there and I’ll rustle up something to eat. It’s been probably ten hours since either of us had a bite. Are you feeling like you can hold down food?”

Hutch nodded.

Possessed by an impulse he couldn’t ignore, Starsky leaned over and sandwiched Hutch’s face in his hands, sliding his palms slowly back through the long blond hair before he drew his hands away. Hutch’s eyes had closed during the comforting touch and his respiration had visibly slowed. Buoyed by a sense of relief and an emotion he couldn’t identify, Starsky left to raid their fridge for a quick, suitable meal.

He bustled around the spacious kitchen with determined efficiency, until he had a tray laden with leftover roast chicken, tossed salad, and buttered toast. Although not Starsky’s idea of the perfect late-night meal, the menu would certainly press the right Hutch buttons. He toyed with the idea of setting up the food properly on their kitchen table. The table’s light-colored wood gleamed almost silver in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the large window. No, Starsky decided, a tray in the living room was best. He knew his partner was too wrapped up in the day’s events to appreciate a moonlit table, and it wasn’t worth asking him to relinquish the comfort of the sofa. Comfort and a satisfied stomach might encourage sleep, something Hutch desperately needed.

Starsky yawned from the mere thought of sleep. Gone were the days when sixteen-hour shifts meant nothing more than an aggravating delay in getting to the nightlife. Starsky knew if he didn’t crash in the vicinity of a bed soon, he’d be feeling the effects for days. Still, that was a risk he’d gladly take in exchange for a meal with Hutch, who needed nothing less than to feel alone.

Worry seized Starsky as soon as he reached the end of the small hallway between the kitchen and living room. At first glance, it appeared that Hutch hadn’t budged more than two inches. He still wore his boots and hadn’t bothered to un-tuck his shirt or open the top two buttons. Normally, he’d be stretched out, with his long legs dangling over the opposite sofa arm and his blond head nestled on two end cushions at the perfect angle for reading the newspaper in comfort.

“Dinner is served,” Starsky announced in what he hoped didn’t sound like a false cheerful voice. He carefully arranged the tray on the large round coffee table, and Hutch moved, but only to accommodate Starsky, who sat down beside him.

“Looks good, Starsk,” Hutch said.

Starsky heard the surprise and laughed. “You thought I’d open a can of Boyardee and put a little heat to it?”

Hutch actually smiled. “Something like that.”

“Aw, man, you wound me. Don’t I take better care of you than that?”

Hutch’s smile softened. “You have to ask?”

Starsky grinned. “All right, then.”

Hutch patted his partner’s knee, and Starsky felt the touch intensely through the patch of denim that stretched nearly threadbare when his legs were bent. Unaccountably warmed, Starsky faced the balanced meal with more enthusiasm, sliding several smiles Hutch’s way. Too busy attacking the roast chicken, Hutch didn’t acknowledge the fond glances, but his appetite was gratitude enough.

As soon as Hutch had packed away a respectable amount of food, he voiced his compliments to the chef and announced his intention to try for sleep.

“Go ahead. I’ll clean up and turn in, too. Hutch-”

Hutch rose and shrugged as if shedding a burden. “Starsky, thanks, but I’m done in. Maybe tomorrow you can play amateur shrink, but not tonight.”

Starsky grimaced. Hutch was farther gone than he appeared, to make a remark like that. “Idiot. I was gonna tell you to holler if you need me.”

Hutch bent and placed strong hands on Starsky’s shoulders, staring into his face with solemnity, and the wounds of the day dimming his eyes. “I always need you. Never doubt it.” He smiled pathetically, the last vestige of humanity shining through, and then he walked in an unsteady gait across the room and into the hall that led to his bedroom.

Times like these, Starsky resented the split-bedroom design of their home. He hated his room’s placement, clear on the other side of the long house. He didn’t fear for Hutch’s safety, so much as he yearned to be closer at hand if needed. Then he reminded himself that he used to be miles away from Hutch at night, and he felt a rush of contentment in their present situation.

Shaking himself clear of the thoughts, Starsky carted the messy tray back into the kitchen, set it on the counter beside the sink with no desire or energy to clean it, and turned off the lights on his way to his bedroom. Greeted warmly by the comfort of his room, he bothered only with the necessities-toeing off his sneakers and flopping on the bed.

Sometime in the night, he dreamed that a door closed and a car engine rumbled to life. Shrugging in his half-sleep, he mentally brushed aside the strange sounds and turned over in bed.

Friday, June 27, 1980

Morning arrived in a splash of gold sun on the wall beside Starsky’s bed and he sleepily cussed at having forgotten to pull the shade on his easterly window. He rolled over in bed and had little time to think before the telephone blared, the shrill sound reverberating through his whole body.

He grabbed the phone out of cop’s instinct and yelled, “Starsky! Whoever you are, make it fast and good.”

“It’s O’Connor. I thought you might want to know that your partner is currently inhabiting the alley behind my pub and won’t let me lift a hand to help him out of it.”

Starsky shot upright in bed and stared at the plastic receiver in his hand as though he held a new secret nuclear weapon. “O’Connor, I don’t know what your game is, but you won’t stay a friend for very long if you-”

“He’s wearing khaki pants, brown leather boots, and a green-and-beige plaid shirt. And he’s drunk off his ass. Or, by now, I should say he’s hung over-”

The significance of the dream’s door slam and car engine exploded in Starsky’s mind and he trembled. “When? How?”

“He showed up at my place about two in the morning. Stayed until I closed at three. I thought he’d called a cab, but I guess I was wrong. Just glad the fool didn’t try to drive home.”

“You didn’t see him out there when you left? Check to make sure he’d gotten off okay?” Starsky tried to control his developing rage, but it seeped into his voice.

O’Connor reacted immediately, his own tone clipped and defensive, “I parked out front. He parked out back. You know I mind my own business, Starsky. The man tells me he’s called a cab, I believe him. I found him when I came in to work on the books this morning. Called you right away when he wouldn’t let me help him inside.”

“Jesus, O’Connor. Minding your own business cost my partner half a night in a damn alley.”

“Sorry, Starsky, I-”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes, less if possible.”

“From where you live? You’d have to strap a jet engine to that Torino.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do. You look out for him ’til I get there.”

Starsky made good on his promise. Mars light in place and siren screaming, the Torino turned into a bolt of red and white lightning under Starsky’s expert hands. He banged the steering wheel with one fist, while he controlled it with the other. He had known Hutch was hurting, but he had chosen to accept Hutch’s silent pleas for space and time to bring the pain to a manageable level before intruding on the misery.

Chet O’Connor was a former cop in Robbery, who had quit after a bullet injury in the knee refused to heal well. He had opened a traditional Irish pub and encouraged members of the force to consider it a safe haven. Starsky slapped the steering wheel again and played a brief game of chicken with a garbage truck, until the garbage truck yielded realistic space for the Torino to go around.

Frustration tightened Starsky’s chest as truth dawned.

Hutch wanted to hurt alone and had chosen O’Connor’s as the place to do it, well aware that Huggy would never let him get sloshed solo without dropping a dime on his partner.

In deference to O’Connor’s reputation for never requiring a professional police presence, Starsky yanked the Mars light and shut off the siren prior to turning the corner onto the pub’s street. He knew that he left rubber skid marks slamming to a halt two buildings down from the bar. Hopping out of the car, he didn’t waste time locking it. He ran the sidewalk like a track at a championship meet and burst through O’Connor’s double doors, rattling glass and calling Hutch’s name on his way to the back room and the alley door.

“Out here!” O’Connor’s voice yelled back.

Starsky reached the alley, and the scene stopped him short just outside the door. Wearing the rumpled clothes of the previous day, and looking more an ill street bum than a policeman, Hutch languished against the wall of the building across the alley. He sat about six feet from the third beat-up LTD that had claimed his affection.

“Didn’t even make it to his car.” The tall dark-haired Irishman clucked his tongue and shook his head.

Starsky flung himself across the alley at that point and knelt at Hutch’s side. “Aw, buddy, what’d you need to do this for?” He took his friend’s rough morning face in his hands and coaxed Hutch’s eyes open by murmuring his name repeatedly.

“Starsky?” It was the sound of a soul who has had the first glimpse of heaven.

Starsky choked out, “It’s me. You’re a sight.”

Hutch coughed and promptly leaned across Starsky’s thigh, as he had years before in a different alley. The sounds of retching made Starsky wince in shared pain. He looked over his shoulder at O’Connor, whose uncomfortable expression sharpened Starsky’s voice in anger. “You have something you can whip up? Help him ’til I can get him home?”

O’Connor sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I got something. He must’ve screwed up big time to need this kind of absolution.”

Stroking Hutch’s back non-stop but maintaining eye contact with the bar owner, Starsky hoped his face looked as murderous as he felt. “Been a long time since you carried the shield, huh, O’Connor? You’re forgetting what the job is like already? How many fifteen -year-old kids did you have to shoot during your career?”

The older man flinched. “Sorry, Starsky.”

“You’re saying that a lot lately.” Starsky waved a hand. “Go, throw some hangover relief into a glass and let me have it.”

O’Connor ducked back into the bar, and Starsky focused on Hutch, who had stilled and ceased trying to empty the contents of his offended stomach. Bracing Hutch as best he could, Starsky shrugged out of his over-shirt, spit on the comer of one shirttail, and used it to wipe Hutch’s mouth and face.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. Should’ve found a way to help you last night. You might’ve been killed in this alley overnight, you big blond numbskull.”

Hutch moaned and leaned his head back against the dingy brick of the building. “I. ..I had to get…away…from you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Starsky demanded, alarm and fury having a potent effect on his nerves. But Hutch’s head had lolled to the side, drunk-induced sleep robbing him of any reply he might have made.

O’Connor appeared a couple minutes later, bearing a tall glass of revolting inky-colored liquid that had a matching vile odor. Starsky didn’t question the contents. He wrestled Hutch sufficiently awake to swallow the gunk, and prepared to hold Hutch over his legs in case the drink produced violent vomiting instead of the stomach settling it promised. To Starsky’s overwhelming relief, Hutch managed the elixir and closed his eyes, resting back against the wall.

Starsky handed the glass to O’Connor. “Thanks. Mind if we leave his car here a while longer? I need to get him home fast as I can.”

“No problem. I can hardly complain when it’s my fault he spent the night out here.”

“He’s relatively okay, so I forgive you. If he was in worse shape than this, you’d be picking your teeth up off the asphalt.”

“I know.” O’Connor smiled. “You’ll need some help getting him to your car.”

Starsky was already trying to help Hutch to his feet. “No,” he said. “He’s mine.”

A second later, it occurred to him how the words might be construed, but he didn’t care. His attention centered on Hutch, who simply could not manage even a half-standing hobble. Not surprising for a care-worn man who had spent a drunken night sprawled in an alley.

“Let me-” O’Connor set the glass on the pavement and held out his hands. Starsky stopped him with a dark look.

With strength reminiscent of his days before his life changed on a May afternoon, Starsky wrapped one arm around Hutch’s torso, reached down to circle the blond’s knees with his other, and miraculously hoisted him, grunting and straining, into his arms. Hutch opened his eyes and muttered a feeble protest, but his eyes closed immediately afterward.

O’Connor picked up the glass and led the way into the bar. He accompanied Starsky, opening the front door for him. Starsky made no comment when O’Connor followed him to the Torino. Once more offering assistance, O’Connor backed off at Starsky’s silent refusal, and stood on the sidewalk while Starsky labored to situate Hutch in the front seat.

“I really am sorry. Feel a proper bleeding fool. He didn’t tell me what had happened, Starsky, or I’d have known to look out for him. The cops who come in my place don’t want to be coddled… even by an ex-cop. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why Hutch chose your place. Huggy would’ve called me after the third drink.” Starsky had no interest in salving the pub owner’s conscience. He left O’Connor standing on the sidewalk, looking soundly rebuked.

Torn between seeking maximum speed and wanting to keep the ride as smooth as possible for Hutch’s sake, Starsky paid more attention to traffic than to the man who tossed and groaned at his side. Still, he kept his hand on Hutch’s left knee, offering silent support, and he felt the first happiness of the morning from the touch of Hutch’s hand over his, the long and graceful fingers actively clasping.

Starsky had managed high-speed chases one-handed. Maneuvering through Friday morning traffic with his right hand commandeered posed no challenge. He worried about how much support Hutch would allow once they reached home-safe territory, and his partner had his bearings. Hutch’s words in the alley echoed in Starsky’s head, throbbing like a migraine.

At first, Hutch confirmed Starsky’s fears. He insisted on attempting to walk from the car to the front door, reluctantly accepted Starsky’s balancing arm around his shoulders, and shrugged away from even that support upon reaching the living room.

“Hutch-”

“I’ll-” Hutch breathed deeply, exhaling a pained sigh. “I can get out of these clothes. Sleep, that’s what I want.” He stumbled toward the hall, and Starsky flopped down on the sofa feeling useless and more like a compassionate chauffeur than a best friend.

What else could he do? Force Hutch to let him help with undressing? Keep his exhausted partner awake, in hopes he would talk out his agony when sleep was what he needed most of all? Starsky frowned.

The sound of running water in Hutch’s bathroom startled Starsky, whose first instinct was to bound off the sofa and yell at the idiot not to attempt a shower in his present condition. Remembering the alley’s grime, though, Starsky knew he could not have slid between his own sheets without a thorough cleansing first. He remained on the sofa and listened closely for any sign of distress.

Halfway through a sport’s magazine article about Canadian support of baseball, Starsky noticed Hutch’s reappearance at the end of the hall, where he seemed to be waiting. Dressed only in blue cotton pajama bottoms, he looked a thousand times better than the fully dressed man Starsky found behind the pub. He fingered his jaw in annoyance, and, even across the room, Starsky knew the culprit was a small band-aid, evidence that Hutch had tempted fate by shaving.

Starsky patted the sofa cushion at his side. Hutch showed the hint of a smile and crossed the room. He sat down a foot from Starsky, but that satisfied neither man. Grinning, Starsky glanced significantly down at his own shoulder, and with a grateful, smiling yawn, Hutch inched closer and laid his head on the offered headrest. Starsky maneuvered his arm around the bare back and pressed his partner closer. He felt a surge of irrational joy at the sound of Hutch’s steady breathing and the murmurs that promised immediate sleep for his weary friend.

~*~*~*~

The warmth of the room coaxed Starsky’s eyelids open. He shifted, registered Hutch’s weight against his side, and yawned, realizing that he had nodded off himself. The play of sun on the coffee table marked the time at mid-afternoon. Starsky’s next discovery warmed him more than the sun, for two wide and searching turquoise eyes shone their own light on his face.

Wars have begun in sixty seconds. Babies are born. Dignitaries die. Governments crumble. In the sixty seconds that Starsky returned Hutch’s steady, open gaze, generations of cultural conditioning vanished. The man who had frowned on sexual love between two men quietly slipped away, leaving a mere infant in his place, newborn and naked to emotion.

Hutch’s face moved perhaps a quarter inch, lips opening just enough to glisten, and Starsky went searching for that moisture like a thirsting man in need of oasis. Hutch moved violently in his arms, and Starsky feared in the comer of his mind that his partner had not been silently asking for this new connection. He needn’t have worried-Hutch’s twisting was solely practical, required for him to grab Starsky’s face in sturdy hands and meld them closer together.

The collision of lips, teeth, and tongues slowly transformed from clumsy to deliberate, including the briefest separations for breathing that lasted far too long for Starsky’s taste. He was a student, mentally cataloguing research details: how Hutch’s lips opened wider when Starsky’s fingers caressed his scalp just behind the blond-covered ears, how the tiniest toothy nip of tongue-tip inspired a thrust of Hutch’s hips.

How long they kissed, Starsky didn’t know. The rational portion of his brain only picked up a longer separation when Hutch pushed his shirt down and struggled with the obstacle of Starsky’s arms. After some assistance, the shirt fell to the floor, and Hutch’s hands lifted the hem of Starsky’s t-shirt. That article of clothing joined its sibling on the floor, and Hutch straddled his thighs, pressing their bare chests together.

Starsky could have handled that move without falling to pieces, but Hutch squirmed until he’d managed to rub his nipples against Starsky’s. A startled shout, and Starsky bucked upward, rock hard and seeking the mate to his strength. Hutch’s excitement beckoned easily through the thin pajamas. Hardly aware of his own actions, Starsky covered the hard flesh with his hand, stretching his fingers along its length and rubbing the cotton. Hutch arched his neck, head thrown back and eyes closed, and made whimpering noises that played with Starsky’s sanity.

Thrown into the deep end of the pool, offered no life preserver, Starsky resorted to basic instinct. A tiny voice whispered in the shadows of his mind that he should slow down, talk to Hutch, ask what his best friend wanted and needed. Instinct drowned out the voice, demanding that Starsky follow old patterns: lovingly conquer the sexual partner, please that person first, and then take pleasure in return.

So, with trembling fingers, Starsky grasped the waistband of Hutch’s pajama bottoms and tugged. Hutch bit down on his lip and lifted his hips to help with the removal. After a moment of awkward scrambling, Starsky had a naked Hutch straddling him, but he resisted Hutch’s efforts with his own disrobing. Instead, he lifted his face, seeking Hutch’s lips simultaneously with seizing Hutch’s cock in one hand and the downy balls beneath in his other.

Hutch howled into their kiss and clasped Starsky’s shoulders in a bruising grip, no doubt to steady himself as Starsky stroked and fondled the treasures he held. Determined to secure Hutch’s pleasure, Starsky covered Hutch’s down-turned face with kisses, lingering on his mouth, massaging his cheek, sampling neck and throat. His hands never ceased their activity, treating Hutch’s genitals to the most intimate and passionate massage he could deliver.

Face flushed and chest visibly shaking, Hutch pulled sharply away from Starsky’s busy lips. His body’s sudden rigidity heralded a nearly painful cry, and the fluid proof of his desire spilled over Starsky’s hand. The sight, sound, and smell combined to clear Starsky’s brain of any calming thought, and the tiny voice of reason, demanding that he re-evaluate and not make assumptions, fell utterly silent faced with Hutch’s uninhibited orgasm.

Hutch seemed to be exerting all his remaining strength to climb out of Starsky’s lap and stand. Even as he rubbed his hands on his jeans, Starsky hardly noticed the relief his leg muscles screamed at the removal of Hutch’s healthy weight. Energized, heart on fire, and feeling like a descendant of Atlas, Starsky rose and stretched, and promptly hauled Hutch into his arms, just as he had done in the alley.

The old David Starsky expected a protest from his precious cargo any moment. The new one didn’t care, tousling his partner’s hair with fiery lips, all the way down the hall to his bedroom. Old patterns still holding, Starsky carried his conquest to his own bed. He placed Hutch gently in the center of the sleep-rumpled mattress, forced to grip his cock hard through his jeans at the sight of Hutch burying his face in the indentation Starsky’s body had made during the night and moaning softly.

Hormones long reduced to a monk-like existence flooded old channels and overcame Starsky’s patience. He nearly crippled himself shedding his jeans and underwear at the speed of light, and climbed in the bed with Hutch, rolling into the blond’s open arms, and burying him in a landslide of kisses and grabbing, greedy touches.

Hutch gasped, cursed in delirious encouragement, and wriggled underneath Starsky’s passionate assault. Not once did he hold up an emotional or physical stop sign, so Starsky gave no quarter. If faced in cold clarity of thought with making love to his male partner, Starsky would probably have frozen unsure, and not known physically how to proceed. In the middle of the inferno, however, he parked himself between Hutch’s spread legs and engulfed the blond, seemingly blistered cock in his mouth, teasing and massaging it until it was once again fully erect.

The sound of Hutch quietly sobbing gave him pause, but one frantic look at his partner’s face told him that the sounds were strictly sexual-and delighted. Starsky redoubled his efforts.

Swallowing turned out to be the biggest challenge. It was one thing to feel that he wanted Hutch to come in his mouth, it was another to physically manage the reality. Fortunately, Hutch was too euphoric to see the farce Starsky made of it. Equilibrium restored after a bout of choking and frantic swipes at his mouth, Starsky soothed his lover’s heaving chest with gentle hands and helped him over on his stomach.

Gripped firmly in the memories of lovemaking sessions that stretched back to adolescence, Starsky didn’t even question how his partner might feel about penetration. It was David Starsky’s way to give as much of himself as he could in bed before accepting his own release, and the female in his company had always welcomed his conquest of her body, after he’d helped her reach the stars.

Wondering vaguely if KY had an expiration date, Starsky finally located the half-used tube at the far back of his nightstand’s junk drawer. He had a momentary pang of conscience that he couldn’t remember the name or face of the last woman who had benefited from his having the lubricant on hand. He made a conscious effort to burn this moment into his memory, determined that he would never forget even a second spent in bed with Hutch.

Hutch must have sensed the agenda, because he helped by spreading his legs and lifting his lower body for better access. Starsky brought warmed, greased fingers into play and kept an inner dialogue running in his head to hold off his own stampeding climax. The double completion had left Hutch fluidly pliant in Starsky’s hands, and what might have taken an unendurable length of time otherwise was accomplished far quicker now.

His practical mind might be locked in the past, but his heart and cock knew the identity of the person whose body he slowly, cautiously entered-the former beat a dangerous tattoo against the walls of his chest, and the latter was harder than Starsky could ever remember. He read his partner’s body language and knew exactly when to move. Permission silently received, Starsky unleashed his sexual desperation and rode his lover with increasing strength and speed.

Clamping his hands down on the shoulders beneath him, Starsky arched his back, his hips a blur of motion, and he experienced a moment of panic that his heart might burst. Indeed, ripping pain in his chest accompanied the blessed release. He turned tightly closed eyes to the ceiling and screamed-the sound raw and grateful at the same time.

~*~*~*~

Starsky woke with a heavenly creature asleep in his arms. For the first time since waking on the sofa, he looked at Hutch. He caressed the blond’s strong shoulder, felt the tiny, nearly invisible hairs on the muscular arm, and drew his hand down the smooth sweaty chest. The long and winding road to post-Gunther recovery had taken its toll on Hutch as well, but the self-appointed long-term care coordinator had chosen to get in shape to face the battle rather than let Starsky down. In consequence, Hutch was healthier than he had been in years. His face, clean-shaven and peaceful in sleep, looked five years younger.

He was unique, masculine, and painfully beautiful. He was Hutch. And Starsky had used him like a 5’5″ blonde, nameless bar conquest.

That self-recrimination propelled Starsky out of bed. Surprisingly, Hutch didn’t wake. Instead, he rolled over and, even in sleep, stroked the space Starsky had vacated, a small smile dancing across the full pink lips.

“I love you,” Starsky croaked out, gripped with shame. He stumbled out of the room, made a quick detour by the bathroom to wash himself and grab his robe, and, knowing he was in no shape to drive even if he had felt like dressing, he settled on their fenced-in backyard as the most convenient escape.

Hutch had ensured the privacy of their backyard, knowing that Starsky wouldn’t want prying eyes invading his outdoor physical therapy exercises-especially the curious eyes of children far too young to handle well the explanation of the massive scarring and trauma Starsky’s body showed well into the recovery.

Shaking his head at the love Hutch had been showing continuously over the past year, Starsky sat down on their bench-swing just off the patio and winced as even the gentle motion reminded him that his body would never be quite the same. He had carried his partner twice and engaged in vigorous sex the day after a sixteen -hour shift. He’d have to hide his discomfort, or Hutch would be trying to force-feed him a gentle pain reliever.

Sunset. The smoky mauve sky urged romance and candlelight. Starsky thought briefly that he and Hutch might have dinner on the patio table and-

If Hutch didn’t pack his bags and board the next flight bound for Miami.

The soft click of the sliding glass door sounded like a gunshot in Starsky’s ears, and he almost fell out of the swing, turning to the sound. Hutch stood on the low step and seemed to be waiting. He didn’t linger until Starsky made a welcoming move this time. Knotting the belt on his robe, he walked over to the swing, sat down with a barely noticeable wince, and took Starsky in his arms.

A moment of breathless insanity elapsed before Starsky realized that he was being French kissed with loving expertise. Right in their backyard.

“Hutch-” Starsky gasped against the lips setting his body on fire.

“Love ’em and leave ’em, babe? Would’ve been nice to wake up in your arms,” Hutch scolded with an incongruous smile.

“Sorry, I-” Starsky shrugged out of Hutch’s embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Didn’t mind tracking you down-”

“No, I mean, I’m sorry.”

Hutch’s entire face changed. Guarded, shadowed, he wore the same expression he’d carried through the hours following the shooting in the alley. “What exactly are you sorry for?”

“I-” Starsky brushed a hand over his hair and worked his jaw, wondering why his mouth didn’t want to work. “I treated you like some chick I’d picked up in a club. Took advantage of you when you were vulnerable. Hell, Hutch, just hours before, you’d been sacked out and hung over behind O’Connor’s, and I-I just went hormonal and-”

Hutch burst out laughing. Free, uninhibited, joyous laughter. “You’re not sorry we made love?”

Starsky turned wide eyes on him. ”No! But is that what we did, Hutch? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, it feels like I-”

“Gave me exactly what I wanted but couldn’t ask for,” Hutch finished, grinning. He stroked fingertips down Starsky’s bristly cheek, and Starsky felt his eyes close under the sensation.

“I don’t understand.”

“I wanted nothing more than for you to take control and screw me through the bed, Starsk, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask you for that. Couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. I needed that from you… with you. As soon as we kissed, I realized I needed that. All I could do was count on our telepathy, believe that if I held back and let your instincts take over, you’d assume control.”

“Why? It’s not like you to accept control of any kind.”

“I know,” Hutch said joyously. “But I’ve never been in love like this, either.”

“In love?”

The shadows were back, laughter gone from the eyes, smile faded. “Aren’t you-? Oh, God. Are you trying to say w-we just had sex? I heard you in the alley… you told O’Connor that I’m yours. You didn’t mean-?”

Starsky barely concealed a groan. He’s mine. This was the time for total honesty, Starsky knew, but he would prefer walking barefoot across hot coals all the way to Metro to hurting Hutch. He took one of Hutch’s large, smooth hands in his and squeezed.

“Hutch, I am in love with you, but I think I realized it later than you did. When I said that in the alley, I didn’t consciously mean it that way. When we kissed, I wanted you more than anyone ever, but my body took over. I haven’t been laid in so long, my brain had no chance keeping control of my dick. You understand? That’s why I’m sitting here feeling like a class ape.”

“How do you feel about me right now?”

Starsky brought the hand to his lips and kissed the palm warmly. “I feel I could build you a castle with my bare hands. I wanna go out and find a dragon to slay in your name.”

Hutch’s grin replaced the light lost to the setting sun. “That’s okay, then.”

“No, it’s not,” Starsky insisted. “Don’t you see, Hutch? I didn’t even bother with your feelings. Didn’t ask if you wanted-”

“Don’t twist this into some kind of rape scenario,” Hutch interrupted fiercely. “You’re not like that. Even acting on instinct, as you say you did, you made gentle, passionate love to me. How you held your own needs back long enough to make me come twice before you took me, I’ll never know. It was amazing. No one’s ever touched me like you did. All I needed to be happy was to feel you inside me, but you gave me paradise. If I hadn’t wanted something you were doing, I’d have damn well opened my mouth and told you so, and you’d have stopped instantly. Right?”

“Right,” Starsky admitted. “Yes, I would have. I’d die before I’d hurt you, Hutch.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. In fact, I bet you were watching for signs that I liked what was happening. I caught you looking at me a couple times to make sure I was with the program.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, smiling.

“And don’t get the guilts about me being vulnerable. I sure as hell wasn’t still drunk. By the time I woke up on that sofa with you, I felt pretty lousy from the hangover, but I was perfectly sober and in my right mind. Yeah, I had a rough day yesterday, but you and I’ve both had worse.”

Starsky tugged on the hand and kissed Hutch the second the blond leaned closer. The kiss started sweet and light but ended fiery and deep. The men broke apart breathlessly minutes later, each bemoaning the separation.

“One thing I don’t get,” Starsky said. “What did you mean in the alley? When you said you were there because you needed to get away from me?”

Hutch flushed and pulled Starsky against him, sheltering him in a one -armed hug. “I’m sorry. That was stupid for me to say. It’s just that-it bothered me that I realized I’d fallen in love with you right after I’d squeezed the trigger on a fifteen -year-old kid.”

Starsky jerked in the embrace, but Hutch held tight. “You’ve gotta explain that one, buddy.”

“I know.” Hutch sighed. “It was different than… than Lonnie. You know, if I remember correctly, no one ever reminded you that you had no idea he was a kid at the time. He was wearing a ski mask, for crying out loud. I know it bothers both of us when we have to pull the trigger on anyone, but you were beating yourself up more because you’d shot a kid. Hell, Starsky, you didn’t know. I did. I looked right into the face of a kid, even younger than Lonnie, and shot him.”

“And I’m glad you did. I’m sorry it had to happen, I hate like hell that he’s dead, but I’m glad you didn’t take a bullet for him. The last time you let a teenager get away with pulling a gun on you, you ended up with a slug inches from your heart. I’m sure that was running through your subconscious, too. Self-preservation made you pull that trigger, Hutch-”

“No! Maybe at some level. Perhaps. But consciously, I shot because I knew I wanted to see you again. When he aimed the gun at me after I warned him, and I could tell his finger was on the trigger, I had this flash of thought that I’d never see your face again, and the pain was so god awful that I had no problem putting a bullet into a kid. I – I couldn’t handle that. When he was lying on the pavement and you were there, I-”

“You decided you needed to lose yourself at the bottom of a bottle?”

“Not immediately. It was after we got home. After I went to bed, I lay awake, thinking. I realized I wanted to talk to you, so I walked down the hall to your room. You were sleeping all sprawled over the bed in your clothes. And you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I wanted to get in bed with you and hold you against me. Just hold you close and let you sleep in my arms. I got hard just standing there looking at you.”

“So you had to get away from me.”

“Yeah. It was more than I could take right then. You know me, Starsk. I couldn’t think of the beauty of what I felt for you. I couldn’t be grateful we were both alive and still together. All I could do was focus on what happened in the alley, and before long, I’d convinced myself I’m some low-down, dirty-”

“Aw, Hutch!” Starsky reversed their position, cradling Hutch in his arms, and rocking his new lover. “My precious Hutch. Ain’t a thing dirty or low-down about you, and there never was. You gave the kid a chance to drop his weapon. You winged him. And that moment might’ve made you look closer at what you feel about me, but I think it’s true that both of us have been feeling this for a long time now.”

“God knows just how long these feelings might have been there unrecognized,” Hutch agreed, voice sounding awed. “Even when I think about it, I can’t come up with a definite beginning.”

“What made you change your mind about getting away from me?”

Hutch nuzzled Starsky’s neck and slipped a hand beneath the robe’s lapel to toy with the chest hair around his right nipple. Starsky hissed and Hutch grinned. “When you showed up in the alley, Starsk, I realized I can’t-don’t want to ever live without you. And when I heard you tell O’Connor that I’m yours-not ‘he’s my partner’ or any other qualifiers…. Man, if I could’ve managed it, I’d have kissed you right there. I decided if you wanted this, too, who am I to deprive you?”

Starsky lowered his head and kissed the nearest wispy blond hair. “Then you know what, Hutch?”

“What?”

“Those are the two best words I ever said in my whole life.”

“I got three words that top them, Starsk.”

“Yeah?”

“You and me.” Hutch lifted his head for an eye-level stare and picked up Starsky’s left hand, kissing each finger from base to fingernail.

Starsky gasped at the delicious sensation. “Just you and me?”

“So we’re up to four words,” Hutch laughed.

“Answer me, tease.”

“You want five words?” Hutch smiled wickedly. “Greedy, aren’t you?”

“When it comes to you, Blondie, yes,” Starsky countered.

Hutch looked smug. “Just you and me, always. There, five words. Satisfied? If you want six, I’m fresh out.”

Starsky answered with the most insane kiss he had ever orchestrated. The swing rocked crazily under the passionate movement. Only a non-sexual, restrained groan shattered the moment.

Hutch pulled away and massaged his hurting partner’s shoulders. “Can’t hide it from me, buddy. I know what you’ve put your body through in the last twenty-four hours. You’ve got two choices — a full-body massage with heated oil, or a pain pill. What’s it gonna be?”

Starsky laughed. Some things hadn’t changed. He was strangely relieved at the thought. “You have to ask?”

Hutch kissed his forehead. “Hoped you say that.”

“Hutch, this need you had for me to take control. Are you gonna need that all the time? In bed, I mean.”

Laughter preceded another sloppy kiss on Starsky’s forehead. “No, I give as good as I get, Starsk.”

“Glad to hear it. Just as long as we’re still partners-that’s everything to me.”

“As I said, always.”

Starsky massaged Hutch’s lower back through the robe and noticed that Hutch twitched with carefully concealed discomfort. With a kiss on Hutch’s cheek, he asked, “Then you’ll let me run you a nice soaking bath? You can’t hide anything from me either, buddy.”

Hutch grinned. “I do feel a bit like a thoroughbred ridden the last leg of the Derby.”

Arm in arm, they rose from the swing, surveyed their backyard as a couple rather than roommates sharing living expenses, and turned back to the house, already focused on their mission to pamper each other.