Planes, Trains, & Torinos

421

After the events of the story, I Remember L.A., Starsky and Hutch learn what it’s like being together again following a separation of five long years. This story begins immediately after I Remember L.A. ends.

 

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, Barely Legal, in 2006.

Author’s Note: With many thanks to Kath Moonshine for the wonderful title.

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Hutch shifted his hips on the lumpy mattress, attempting to find a more comfortable position to rest in. The heavy warmth next to him moved closer in response, bumping him, sending a draft of sleepy body scent wafting over him and the blankets. It was nearly noon and his stomach was reminding him that he was more hungry than tired. Nevertheless, he closed his heavy lids once more arid turned, grumbling quietly about the spring that was stabbing into his rib cage. No matter how he tossed, it just found a different spot to jab him in.

“Hey, blondie, settle down,” said a familiar voice to his right, slurred with sleep. “This ain’t the roller derby.”

Hutch’s eyes opened wide. What? Where the hell am I?

And then memory returned.

Only last night they had finally captured the serial killer that had been targeting the kids at Starsky’s school. Unfortunately, Hutch had been grazed by another bullet, they’d lost another child, a tough little black girl that Starsky had been particularly fond of, and they’d found out their madman was a madwoman, who not so unfortunately, was also dead.

Which left them here, in Starsky’s apartment, the place where Hutch had learned his partner was still in love with him. And while that thought shot through his body like heat lightning, both bullet wounds hurt now, stridently reminding him of their presence. Tossing like a whirling dervish hadn’t actually been one of his smarter ideas, but Starsky’s bed had some unusual lumps in it, which concealed springs that would have worked better on his car.

He gingerly moved his arms about, wincing at the pain, but well aware that the stiffer he allowed himself to become, the worse it would be in the end. To distract himself, he looked over at his partner—his once, future, always, partner.

Starsky’s shortened curls lay flattened against his head, pushing them straight up. Well aware that the style could have looked ridiculous on anyone else, Hutch just smiled. He didn’t have enough hair these days to have to worry too much about bed-head, but he ruffled his fingers through the blond strands anyway, willing them to flatten properly. He watched Starsky sleep, one of his favorite things to do in the time before they had come apart at the seams in ’79, Starsky moving to New York, Hutch to Virginia.

There had been more changes than that. He was an official FBI behavioral analyst now, and even if he wasn’t in any hurry to return to work, and as much as Howard, his boss, believed he wouldn’t be returning to Virginia, he had his qualms. He and Starsky had kind of talked about their future, but not enough to make him feeling rock-solid certain of their plans. And right now, he needed that certainty.

And that worried him. Now that the immediate need for sleep was done, anxiety returned full force. What if Starsky changed his mind and decided he really wanted to stay in New York? He got the idea that Starsky’s mom was going to marry her beau, and Nicky was in Vegas. Only his job held him here, and Hutch wondered if he would want to stay at the school where so many children had been killed because of one woman’s misplaced rage at him. Even if the parents wanted him to stay, which Hutch sort of doubted, the memories alone surely would be enough to force Starsky to move on.

They’d talked last night about going back to L.A., but Hutch wasn’t so sure whether that idea would still be on the table in the cold light of day. There was so much he didn’t know about their future, and the most important part of that was whether they would have a future together. All of a sudden, he had to get out of bed and get dressed.

Rising quietly, he found his way to the bathroom, took care of some morning necessities, and took a shower, doing his best not to wet his bandages or pull sore wounds and muscles. His ass ached, but then it had been a long time since he’d been screwed, even though Starsky had tried to be careful. His arm was still pretty useless and it hurt.

Wiping away condensation from the bathroom mirror, he took a long look at the man he saw there. Hutch had no delusions about his looks; he was a handsome man and if some of that had been worn away by the years and the cases, the guns and danger, he took the wrinkles that came with them as marks of survival. One night of sleep couldn’t take away the stress and strain of months and years, but his eyes no longer contained the grieving expression that life without Starsky had engendered. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was going to be a temporary reprieve, and that he would have to learn again how to survive without the love of his life.

Grimacing at the blood-stained shirt on the floor, Hutch casually opened Starsky’s closet and removed one of his shirts, a plain white oxford that he’d probably worn last to one of the kid’s funerals. Gingerly slipping it on, the behaviorist smiled, remembering other times when they’d worn each other’s clothes as easily as their own until neither knew what belonged to whom. He managed to get his pants on, though his body ached from the motion.

His gray suit jacket was dirty and sorely needed a pressing, but it would have to do until he got back to his hotel where another ubiquitous fed suit was waiting. He realized that he was rationalizing his running away, but he didn’t know what else to do.

“You’re thinking so loud, blintz, I can hear you in my dreams.”

Hutch froze, caught in picking up his holster and the Magnum. He turned and gave a completely insincere grin. “You couldn’t have possibly heard me over your snoring. Talk about bears in hibernation.”

Starsky sat up, a smile widening his mobile lips, one hand rising to rub over his hair. “Bears? Let me tell you something, Hutch, you’d scare moose off with the sounds you make. Luckily, I’m immune to you.”

Hutch’s brow wrinkled. “Immune? Don’t you mean impervious?”

“Pervious?” Starsky asked him, cobalt blue eyes sparkling with life and light. “You calling me a perv?”

The fed just rolled his eyes. “Im-pervious, you idiot. You’re unaffected by my snoring, just like I am to yours, which by the way, has gotten a lot louder living in New York. Must be the exhaust fumes from all the buses.”

“Uh-huh,” Starsky said, unconvinced, and Hutch realized he was talking too much, showing his nervousness. “So, if you’re so unaffected, where you going? I thought we were gonna talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, blintz. About how we’re gonna get home.”

Home. The word meant a great deal to Hutch. “L.A.’s just a place, Starsk. It was always us.”

“You think I don’t know that? We need time, babe, time to get back into the groove.” He patted the bed. “Though we were grooving pretty good between the sheets.”

Hutch flushed. “Can’t argue with that.” His ass gave a pleasant throb at the memory of being filled.

“So what’re you doing all the way over there with all those clothes on?” There was a teasing smile on Starsky’s face, one that should have gotten him back into bed in no time at all.

“Sorry. My arm’s hurting.”

That brought a recognizable frown of worry, which wiped away the teasing imp. “Want to go back to the hospital?”

“Not that bad,” he argued, knowing from experience what an overprotective hen his partner could be upon occasion. And there had been a few of those. “Just… sore.”

“If you’d just learn how to get out of the way, these things wouldn’t happen,” his partner commented gently on his way into the bathroom.

“What can I tell you,” he said to Starsky, as he moved out to the kitchen. Thinking required coffee.

“It’s that hair. I keep telling you: it’s a beacon to the bad guys.”

“Not enough of it there to be a beacon to anything, Starsk,” Hutch countered, self-consciously raking his hand through the thinning thatch as he set up the coffee pot.

With the newly re-born comfort of two men who had lived inside each other’s skins, they made a light breakfast, Hutch wanting nothing more than toast and coffee, while Starsky chose a ham and cheese omelet. They settled down around Starsky’s small dining table, a round, wooden affair, that had been hurriedly wiped clear of current issues of Hot Rod and Car and Driver. Reminded, Hutch asked, “Where’s the Torino?”

“In storage,” Starsky replied through a mouth full of food. “Too big to drive through Manhattan, and, well… I didn’t feel like driving it anymore.”

Though Hutch had the Torino repaired after Starsky’s near-fatal shooting, Starsk complained that she didn’t move like she should, that she’d lost her aero-dynamic feel, was butt-heavy, the transmission stuck, any one of a hundred things each day. Now that Hutch thought about it, that had been a leading indicator of Starsky’s need to move on with his life. And the first way to do that was to let go of the car that symbolized who they were as cops. Sometimes flamboyant, but usually strong, steady, and dependable, the tomato had created a lot of excitement when the moment was right.

“I’m not driving to California in a Mustang, Starsk,” he warned. “I’d never walk again after a couple of days.”

His partner grinned at him. “Who said anything about driving? Let’s fly, or take a train, or walk. I don’t care. I’m just itchin’ to go.”

Hutch stared into his coffee cup, wanting it to be true, needing it to be real. Reality intruded its big head. “I need to talk to Howard.”

“Yeah, and it would be a good idea to give Kirsten a call, let her know I’m leaving.”

Surprised, Hutch murmured, “Just like that?”

“What?”

“You’re willing to leave New York, that fast?”

Starsky reached across the table and grasped his hand. “Like you said, it’s just a place. But if you’re going, then I’m goin’ too.”

“But what… what if we don’t make it?”

The dark gaze widened, the cobalt color drawing Hutch in as it had so often done. “There’s no ‘if,’ babe. Not with us.”

A heavy weight seemed to lift from Ken Hutchinson for what felt like the first time in years. Even before he had left L.A., he hadn’t been whole, and his life had slowly been draining away. But now they were going to make their future together and he was ready for it.

“Plane? You want to fly back?”

“I hate flying, you know that. How ’bout a train?”

“Trains are okay, as long as we get a sleeper car. Need to check that out. What about your apartment and your stuff?”

“What about yours?”

Hutch thought about that as he chomped his toast, his appetite returning. “Well, since we’re talking about making this a vacation, let’s keep them for now. We can always come back and close them up, once we figure out just what we’re doing.”

Starsky nodded in agreement. “Sounds good. Let’s go make those phone calls. Toss ya.” He reached down, realized he was only wearing his robe and made a gesture toward his partner. Hutch sighed. “If I ever got all those quarters back,” he began, only to be cut short by Starsky’s, “Heads or tails?”

He thought it for a long moment before he said it. “I’m a tail man, I guess.”

That made Starsky chuckle lewdly. “Yeah. My tail.”

Hutch lifted an eyebrow, grinning widely. “Or mine.”

“Don’t distract me,” Starsky demanded. “I guess I’d take… heads.”

“You sure will.”

The brunette rolled his eyes but tossed the coin. He sighed as it landed. “Darn. Tails.”

“Yeah, like dealing with Howard is such a walk in the clouds,” Hutch reminded.

Starsky shrugged. “At least he wants you back, blondie. I don’t think Kirsten is gonna be beggin’ me to rejoin the staff any time soon.”

“Do you want to?”

He hesitated. “I dunno. I love the kids, but I feel kinda sick inside when I think about what Donna did. Because of me and her dad.”

“Because she was nuts, Starsk.”

“Is that a behavioral diagnosis, Mr. Federal Officer, sir?”

“Yes.” Hutch knelt down in front of his lover, willing the starry blueness to meet his own gaze. His voice lowered. “You’re as much of a victim as the kids were, babe. You’ve got to know that, believe it. Just like the old days; we were just doing our job, putting the bad guys away.”

One of Starsky’s hands brushed against his cheek. “I know it in my head, Hutch; it’s my heart that’s arguing with me.”

“Leave your heart to me,” Hutch murmured, pressing a gentle kiss on Starsky’s mouth.

“I can do that,” Starsky replied, his eyes soft and calm. “Now go call Howie.”

“Howie.” Hutch chuckled. “He hates that, you know.”

“Yup.”

Hutch smiled and moved into the kitchen to pick up the extension there. He glanced at his watch. It was habitual before he made a phone call, so that he could note it. It was afternoon, and he knew that Howard would be back in Quantico by now. He could have even left last night.

It was picked up on the first ring. “Tarsa.”

“Quiet morning, I see. Picking up your own phone, Howard?”

He could see Howard in his mind’s eye, a wry grin on his blocky face. “Hutchinson! Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Thinking of taking a vacation for a few weeks, Howard. Need to get some things… organized.”

“Good, kid. We can handle that. You’ll keep in touch?”

“How? And how much ‘in touch’?”

“Depends. How are you traveling?”

“By train, probably. Starsk hates flying.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied noncommittally. “Not in any hurry then, huh? Where do you plan on landing?”

“At the end? California.”

“Home turf?”

“More like old turf, Howard. There’s no going back.”

“Glad you realize that, kid. You’re one of mine now, and I’m not letting go. Got that?”

“Thought you couldn’t handle my, uhm, different life style?” Hutch replied, referring to his relationship with Starsky.

“I can think on my feet, Hutchinson. Figured from the beginning that you two weren’t going to be separated by anything less than dynamite, though I did hope. Truth is, the thing that makes you good is your head, but what makes you great is your heart. He’s your heart.”

There wasn’t any argument that Hutch could give to that. “Yeah.”

“Okay. But he’s not one of my guys, Hutchinson, and he rubs me the wrong way. Keep us apart and it should work out just fine.”

“So how am I supposed to keep in touch?”

“Let me know when you stop for a couple of days. Show up at the local office, see if you can help out with a case or two. Talk the talk with a couple of the guys, schmooze for the BAU.”

“And why would you want me to do that?”

“To keep your hand in, kid. To keep you interested. Involved.”

Hutch thought about that for a long moment, continuing the silence until he was ready to break it.

“Kid?”

“All right, sarge.”

Howard chuckled and hung up.

“Your turn, Starsk.”

His partner hesitated and then shambled over to the phone, his terrycloth robe tucked loosely around his waist, exposing the muscular chest and the silky fur of his hair.

Distracted, Hutch hesitated handing over the phone.

“You can’t be hurting that bad.” Starsky smirked, and Hutch came out of his daze and flushed slightly.

“I’ll be dead when the sight of you in a robe and nothing else doesn’t work for me, Starsk.”

His lover laughed and took the phone, leaning sensually against the kitchen table and sending a sultry smile Hutch’s way.

Suddenly his suit pants felt a lot tighter than they had five minutes ago and he stumbled a few steps backwards until he was able to pivot into the living room, Starsky’s laughter following him.

* * *

As expected, Starsky’s phone call did not go well.

While Kirsten definitely wanted him to return, the parents couldn’t help but worry that someone else from the former cop’s past would come back and attempt to take their revenge on him, using their kids to do it. Starsk understood and accepted it just a little too easily for Hutch’s peace of mind. It bothered him, but every time he brought it up, Starsky started talking about their train trip, which really was turning into a vacation.

But before they did anything else, Starsky wanted to go to the school and get the few things he had in his locker there.

“Okay,” Hutch murmured. “Can we get my clothes and files first?”

“Yeah, sure. You got anything other than a suit?”

“Sorry, didn’t plan on going to the beach while I was here.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Then I’ll go with you to get your stuff.”

“Nah, you don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t want you to go by yourself.”

“I’m a big boy, Hutch.”

“I noticed,” he snapped back, then whispered, “You don’t want to go alone.”

Starsky stared at him. “I don’t?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Oh. I thought I did.”

“No, you didn’t. Or you would’ve realized I’d be there with you.”

His partner grinned. “Yeah, guess so.”

Even though it was a Saturday, the school was open for half a day. They arrived after lunch recess, so all the kids were in classes, which made it much easier for Starsk to get his things. He went into Kirsten’s office to talk with her before they left, and the bell rang. Hutch quickly stood to the side while young children rocketed from one room to another, the younger ones with an aide and the older ones trusted to get to their classes without assistance. He smiled at the happiness that lit some faces, even through the physical difficulties, and the high energy they exuded. Apparently, the principle had already announced this morning that the gym teacher was leaving for when Starsky left Kirsten’s office, a group of kids came up to him, giving their everyday hugs, asking questions a dozen at a time, and wanting to know when he was coming back.

True to himself and to the honest relationships he had with the kids, Starsky never lied to them. “I don’t know, guys. Hutch and I are gonna go on vacation, and then we’ll decide what we want to do next.”

“Come back!”

“You GOTTA come back!”

“Please? We need you.”

Starsky’s eyes were starting to well up. Surreptitiously, Hutch came up beside him, grasped his partner’s arm and directed him towards the entrance. “We’ll come back and see you, okay? Bye. Bye!”

Starsky’s Mustang was small by Hutch’s standards, but he managed to get himself inside of it and drive off. While he hated driving in New York, Starsky wasn’t in any shape to do it himself, and it was similar enough to L.A. traffic that he was able to move around the taxis, slow turners, sightseers, and jaywalkers with ease.

After a few minutes, Starsky wiped his eyes and looked around. “Get off of Madison, Hutch, or we won’t get to midtown before midnight.”

Hutch shifted gears, and furiously revved the engine as he made the left turn.

Starsky just laughed. “Yeah, blintz, that’s more like it. Missed the speed.”

“Can’t get any speed in this city, Gordo. Only a crawl.”

Hutch hurried into the hotel, up to his room, and grabbed his stuff. Howard had packed him up before he left, probably not wanting to leave the case files lying around and uncertain when Hutch would be back to get his things.

Starsky then took over the wheel and headed them back downtown, dragging him into a travel agency where his third cousin (once removed) worked. He went through at least a dozen possible timetables for different routes, getting information about the trains to California, and places to sightsee along the way. Hutch thought it was his way of dealing with everything that had taken place in the past few months and let him decide on the details, agreeing with whatever he wanted to do. Actually, he wasn’t listening to great deal of it. Seeing Starsky so animated, laughing and smiling, brought back a great many memories and he sat back and enjoyed them.

From the travel agency, with tickets in hand, the two men went to get some dinner, returning to the apartment about nine that night. Hutch still hadn’t mentioned his conversation with Howard and wondered if now would be the best time. He wandered around the apartment, grasping his throbbing left arm.

“Don’t you think one of those pain pills the doc at the ER gave you might be a good idea?” Starsky asked, shucking off his shirt and heading for the bathroom.

“I hate drugs,” the blond grumbled grumpily.

“A pill so you can sleep isn’t heroin, Hutch.”

He continued to grumble and when Starsky came out, Hutch took a shower, needing to feel clean again. He hated walking around in dirty clothes.

“Hey, listen,” Starsky yelled from the living room. “We’ll start at Penn Station, which is a great building, one you really need to see. It’s got stars painted overhead, and constellations. And then we’ll take the train to Washington—”

“Washington?” Hutch squawked, nearly drowning in the wash of hot water pouring down on his head as he yelled.

“What’s the matter with Washington? I haven’t been there in years. Want to see the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Monument. Maybe the FBI Building!”

Starsky kept on talking. He knew what Starsky’s idea of a vacation consisted of; he should, he’d barely managed to survive a few of them.

Flashes of vacations that had been so far from relaxing that hospitals were required caused a cold chill to drift over his skin, and then he pushed the memories away, returning them to the closet containing the moments of terror that he needed kept far away from the present.

“And then back to Union Station, L.A. How’s that sound?”

Considering Hutch had lost most of the states between D.C. and California, he’d have to look at the itinerary later. “Great,” he yelled back, turning off the water, and gratefully getting into a pair of clean underwear once he was dry.

If they were going into Washington, Hutch would have to stop at the Federal Building while Starsky was sightseeing. That meant he needed to tell him about his phone call with Howard sooner rather than later.

He pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms from a small luggage bag and went back into the living room. Starsky was sitting on the love seat opposite the television, the coffee table in front of him strewn with pamphlets and fliers for attractions and places to visit on their route. Hutch leaned against the wall on his right, his left arm held in the sling, throbbing angrily. But he waited there, quietly, watching Starsky… just watching him. His heart banged around in his chest as he once again realized that he wouldn’t be leaving without Starsky, wouldn’t be going back to his sterile apartment, his soul-destroying job, without the light of his life, the beacon that kept him from straying over any lines in the road.

His world had finally realigned itself, and if it seemed sometimes that he couldn’t quite come to terms with it, he knew that it was because it had been an intense dream of his for so long that he feared turning over and finding it gone. That would surely kill him.

At that moment, Starsky looked up, straight into his eyes. The cobalt gaze didn’t waiver, didn’t turn away—it just pushed all the love he felt into Hutch like a spear to the skull.

“Come here,” Starsky said, his voice husky, and Hutch silently obeyed, coming to sit next to him on the well-cushioned love seat. He didn’t get the chance to say anything before Starsky kissed him, a soft, gentle touch that spoke more of his love than of any baser emotion. They kissed for a long time, letting their lips communicate the words that their souls were afraid to say yet. Words like need, desire, loneliness, and desperation, and most importantly, love, forever. One night of fabulous, soul-confirming sex wouldn’t be enough to put the pieces of them back together, but it sure did help.

“What were you thinking?” Starsky asked when they finally separated. “You looked so… sad, I couldn’t stand it.”

Hutch tried to look away but Starsky wouldn’t let him. One warm hand cupped his cheek and held him still. “I’m terrified that this is all some kind of fever dream, that I’m going to wake up in my bed in Virginia, alone. I don’t think I could stand it again, Starsk.” He waved a free hand, trying to explain. “I’d like for this to be light and easy, just all fun and games. But I can’t do that. I can’t help that the pain seeps in sometimes.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, babe? 1 can see it ever time you hesitate to touch me, or don’t look in my eyes. I feel it, too, and I’m ashamed I started this dumbshit separation. I can’t lose you again either.”

That was the first time that Starsky had said that, and Hutch couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips. They kissed again, soft, sweet, letting the heat build, in no hurry for it to rise and overwhelm them.

“Needed to hear that,” Hutch whispered, lips grazing Starsky’s cheek, nuzzling his ear. “I know you love me, but I have to feel it, know it’s real.”

“I knew when Donna shot you the first time. Thought I was going to die right then and there. And all I could do was get mad at myself for being that half-second slower, that half-second late.” He pulled back and shook Hutch slightly. “Didn’t Howard ever warn you about open windows?”

“That’s your job, partner,” Hutch reminded, his good hand trembling as it slipped through Starsky’s hair, admiring its shine, the way it curled around his fingers, capturing them. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

“I won’t,” Starsky muttered. “Hey, what did Howard have to say today? You kinda pushed that aside with everything else that we did today. You trying to hide something, Gordo?”

Hutch sighed and pulled back. “I was wondering how to tell you, when to tell you.”

“Now’s good. Just say it.”

That sounded like the tough guy his partner was, and Hutch was reminded that even though he wasn’t a cop any longer, the cop mentality never left you. It was engrained, implicit, a part of Starsky that he very possibly wasn’t even aware of anymore. An idea started brewing in the back of Hutch’s mind and he decided to let it percolate until it was ready to be a real thought. Instead, he tried to figure out how to say what he needed to.

“Hu-utch! Stop stalling.”

He sighed. “Howard wants me to keep in touch on vacation. Show up at a few offices on the way and see if they need any help from the BAU.”

Starsky blinked and looked away towards the pamphlets. “It’s supposed to be a vacation.”

“It will be, I swear,” Hutch insisted, though he had his doubts if a case came up that they needed him on.

“Don’t try to play the shell-game on me, Hutch. I learned a long time ago what happens to the pea.”

“Starsky, please, don’t get mad. I’ll tell him to take a flying leap before losing you again.”

“Yeah?”

If he was being tested, there was only one way to ace it. “You know I would.”

Silence reigned for a few minutes, and then Starsky mumbled, “But it’s your job and they might need you.”

“It’s possible. Let’s just see what happens, okay? Howard’s pushy, but he’s not stupid. He knows how these cards are going to fall.”

His partner nodded and stood up, moving to Hutch’s long black coat. He removed the medication from the right pocket and popped the tab, bringing the pills and a glass of water back to the chair. “All right, tough guy. Down the hatch.”

Hutch looked at the innocuous white pills. His fear of getting hooked again was always with him, a demon that leaned on his shoulder and murmured in his ear during weak moments.

“I won’t let you.”

Hutch looked up. Starsky’s face was handsome, strong and sculpted, the long lean face near grim. “Reading my mind again?”

“Like that’s hard. You wear your thoughts on your face, babe. Always did, always will. Makes you a lousy poker player, but scares the crap out of the bad guys. They see the hardness in you, the easy violence, and know you’ll do what you say you will.”

“Doesn’t scare you.”

“Only that someday you’re gonna turn it on yourself. Now stop dillydallying and take your medicine like a good boy.”

“It’ll make me sleep.”

“So? You got a date I don’t know about?”

He still hesitated and Starsky let out an exasperated sigh. “Do I have to force these things into you? I can see you’re in pain, Hutch. You’ll never sleep without them, which means that I won’t get any either.”

“If you’re interested in ‘getting any’ Starsk, those pills are not the way to do it.”

Starsky just shook his head and pushed the pills past his lips, following it with the water. “Were you always this stubborn? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. I know you were, and if anything, you’ve only gotten worse, Federal Agent Man.”

Hutch wiped his mouth with his hand. “You make it sound like some sort of superhero name.”

“You’re my superhero, babe,” he replied, punctuating it with a kiss. “Now get into bed before they start to work. I don’t think I’m up to carrying you.”

“But you would.” Now Hutch was testing and he knew it.

Starsky apparently did too. “Nope. I’d leave you on the floor with a pillow and a blanket. Floors are good for your back; that’s what you always used to say.”

Hutch snorted. “I was young then.”

The brunette laughed, a rich, real sound. “I’m not getting old, Hutch, and neither are you. Too much life left for that. Besides, age is all in your head. I mean, look at Jack LaLanne; the guy can still swim the Channel at fifty….”

Starsky kept on talking until all the lights were out, doors were locked and they were tucked into his bed. “Maybe we can stop by your place and get some clothes that aren’t federal issue?”

Hutch had to smile at his partner’s ability to change topic midstream. It was a characteristic that had driven a lot of people to consider murder, but Hutch had been so used to it he was always able to keep up with Starsky’s quicksilver mind. He pretended to snore.

“Come on! You’re supposed to be on vacation. I don’t care what Howie says.”

The idea of keeping Howard and Starsky apart was going to be more problematic than he thought. Of course, he could always bring Starsky….

He fell asleep before that idea could go any further down the road to insanity.

* * *

“Stop! Thief!”

Hutch spun about, one hand on his briefcase, while Starsky juggled both their bags. Starsky was closer to the kid the two transit officers were chasing, and he calmly slid one leg out, neatly tripping the fleeing man and sending him face-first into the polished marble floor of Penn Station, the train hub of New York City. The place was packed; it was nearly the time for their train to leave the station and here they were preventing a pickpocket from getting away.

Brushing away the officer’s thanks, Starsky led Hutch downstairs to the correct track, the right train, and the correct coach section. Hutch would be hurling by the time they got to Jersey if he had to ride backwards, so they shuffled on to the next section of the train, and finally found seats that would work. They were facing into the rest of the train from the rear, which was fine, since it gave Hutch more room to stretch his legs, and for Starsky to move if he got antsy. They were running late, as usual, and it had been a race to get here on time.

Hutch had snuck a look at their itinerary and it looked like Washington would be their first stop. They’d pick up the next train on its way to Chicago, a butt-jarring trip of 17 hours. But that didn’t come close to the last leg of their trip: 43 hours to L.A. He started humming some odd tune about “500 Miles Away from Home.”

Starsky quickly stowed their luggage and settled into the window seat. Like a child, he wanted to see the countryside going by, and Hutch didn’t much care one way or the other. He’d been reminded by a phone call this morning from Tarsa that he hadn’t finished the five cases that he’d promised to work on, and since he had the files, no one else had been able to analyze the crimes either. A little shamefaced that he’d forgotten, well aware that the people the BAU sought were normally repeat offenders and that they were probably sizing up another victim, dependent on their particular timeframe, he settled down in the seat and pulled out the files.

Making sure that the photos weren’t face up, he wrote profiles for the cases he’d already reviewed, while Starsky alternately looked out the window as the train sped on, and looked over his shoulder at the reports. He commented on one or two, and then, before Hutch knew it, they were working them together, reviewing the crime stats, the photos (carefully), incident reports, witness statements and the locals’ list of suspects.

“They’re kidding. This guy’s a geriatric, can’t even get out of bed. And this one, a local ‘retard.’ What, because the guy’s a little slow, he’s automatically a rapist?” Starsky snapped when they managed to get to the bottom of the pile. Thankfully, his voice hadn’t carried, and the passengers around them were oblivious of their reading material.

“They’re scared, Starsk. Nobody’s very happy when college girls are raped, but when he escalates to rape/murder so quickly, it’s a nightmare. Now they’ve got six cases and no answers.”

“All these girls are from out of state?”

“Yeah. It’s the major state college, the University of Maryland. Not what you’d call it a small population base. College Park has approximately 144,000 and 40+ thousand are students, living in dorms, apartments, and houses all around there. If everybody’s a suspect, they really need to winnow down the pool and that’s where I hopefully come in.”

Starsky looked over the pictures and his face became drawn and dark. “They’re so young. What’s he see when he looks at them? Someone he can’t have? Someone he wants to kill, but can’t for whatever reason? Does he pick them because of that? They all look alike: dark brown hair, hazel eyes, pretty in an open, small-town kind of way. Why?”

Hutch let him go on. Hutch knew he was a good profiler, but Starsky… his partner understood people in a way that was almost scary. It was just part of what made him such a natural as a cop. He could see motivations with little evidence, not just in an academic sense, but as though the unsub was standing right next to him and they were having a conversation about the why and wherefores of his actions.

“There’s a lot of anger here,” Hutch reminded softly. “Rape is a game of power, of control. Rape-murder is anger out of control. Mutilation, rape, and murder and this guy is hitting right out of the ballpark. The last four girls were cut with the same knife before they died.”

Starsky moved through the photos. “But only their faces, liking he was trying to destroy them, take away who they were.” He started reading the rest of the reports showing how and where the girls had been found, and in what condition; autopsy findings; witness statements of where they had been found and by whom, etc.

Hutch had thought the same about their unsub. “But why the eyes?” All the girl’s eyes were deliberately closed, though there were no prints on the lids. He must have used gloves.

“He wants to be the last thing they see? Or does he not want to remember their dead eyes staring at him?”

“If you were looking at this loser, who do you think you’d see?” Hutch asked, more to himself than his partner.

Starsky shrugged and looked away, as if bored, but Hutch knew he was anything but. “A white guy, maybe late twenties. Good-looking, easy to talk to, approachable. All-American, somebody no one would suspect would hurt them.”

“Okay,” Hutch said as he scribbled furiously. He and Starsky were in sync on this animal. “What else?”

Starsky closed his eyes and one hand drew into a fist. “This is all a guess, Hutch, you know?”

“I know, Starsk, but our guesses are ones drawn from years of real experience and education. Come on, what else?”

“I just got the feeling that this guy’s mad at somebody else and taking it out on these girls. Like they’re not the ones he wants to hurt.”

Hutch tapped his pen against his lip. “All the girls were found in wide-open places on campus. First, Tara Blondell, raped, murdered, found naked, spread-eagled on the raised ‘M’ mound just off the main entrance. Next, Lisa Beddingfield, also rape-murder, found draped on the stairs of the administration building. For each, security had made a sweep at three a.m. and they were clear. But when they came around again at six that morning, they came upon the bodies. It’s apparent from the evidence that they hadn’t been killed there, but elsewhere, and their bodies moved.”

“Why dump them in such obvious places?” Starsky muttered.

“Uh-hmm. Third girl, Sharon Francisco, was the first one mutilated and she was found lying at the base of the statue of the college mascot.” Hutch shuffled pages. “Testudo the terrapin.”

“The what?”

Hutch smiled. “Terrapin. A water-turtle.”

“Their mascot’s a turtle? Must be great advertising for the track team.”

The agent shook his head. “Anyway, the fourth victim, Anna Velazquez, was found outside the Student Union. The fifth, Cheryl Fiedl, behind the library, and the sixth, Agatha Turwell, again at the administration building.”

“Jeez, Hutch, the cops must be frantic. And parents must be pulling kids out of school right, left, and sideways.”

“That’s another question—could this just be an attack against the college?”

“Nobody does,” Starsky pointed at the pictures, “horrible stuff like this just to get back at a school. No, this is personal. Very, very personal. But why go back to the administration building? There must be dozens of places to display a body.”

As usual, he and Starsky were thinking on the same lines. “Hundreds, including a barn.”

“A barn? You’re kidding, right?”

“No. They have veterinary students. Plus, the college has one of the largest land-grant lawns east of the Mississippi.”

“So, why there? What’s in the administration building that’s bringing this guy back again? It had to be more dangerous to drop her there; the campus cops must be combing each piece of grass to find this guy.”

“Perhaps there’s someone in the offices? Could he be trying to get their attention?” Now Hutch had a line of inquiry, placing the administration staff in that building against records of student admissions.

“He’s trying to get somebody’s attention, babe. And I think he’s succeeded.”

“He’s got the Bureau’s attention and that’s not something you really want leaning over your shoulder,” Hutch admitted. “This is great. As soon as we get to the hotel, I’ll fax this mess over to Howard and get it off my mind.”

Starsky snorted, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes again. “Not until they’re caught. Then we can forget them.”

Hutch nodded, but didn’t say anything. That niggling idea was growing stronger in the back of his mind and it was starting to whisper to him.

Howard wasn’t going to like it.

* * *

The hotels that Starsky had wanted to get into were near the Mall, and there was just no way Hutch was going to dish out the big bucks they wanted for a couple of days. So, Starsky’s cousin (once removed) had managed to get them into a big Holiday Inn that would serve their purposes well enough. He had the hotel place them in one of the corner rooms, “Just in case we get loud,” Starsky told him with a grin and an elbow to his ribs. Hutch had flushed then, and he did it again when they opened the door into their room.

There was a large queen-sized bed in the center of the room, the usual desk and chair to the right by the sliding doors, and a comfortable looked couch-thing that probably had more lumps in it than Starsky’s bed. He dropped his briefcase and shucked his coat carefully, while Starsky bounced on the bed.

“Damn, this thing’s hard as rocks,” he complained. “Was it my imagination, or was that desk clerk checking you out when we checked in?”

“I guess I scream ‘fed,’ Starsk. You don’t.”

“And we’re sleeping together in a queen bed,” he said with a leer and a pat to the blue polyester cover.

“Yeah, that was smart of your cousin,” Hutch told him. “Why not just put up a poster that we’re having sex instead?”

Starsky just laughed. “They didn’t have any more doubles, babe. Worried about J. Edgar’s ghost haunting you? Heard all those stories about him not being quite so straight either.”

Hutch just glared at him. “Please, Starsky, don’t say anything like that to anyone at the Bureau. They’ll string us both up. No one dares say anything bad about St. Edgar.”

“St. Edgar? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope. The FBI-wannabes are lectured on his rules by chapter and verse, though the verses have understandably changed over the years.”

Starsky shook his head and fell back against the pillows. “No wonder the justice system’s so screwed up.”

Hutch ignored that. “I’m going downstairs to fax the profiles to Howard. You going to take a nap?”

“I just might,” Starsky agreed. “We’ve been running a little fast lately.”

“Welcome to my life,” Hutch muttered and headed out the door, feeling more tired than he should. Maybe a vacation was a good idea. He might just catch up on some sleep.

He could hear the Fates laughing somewhere over his shoulder.

* * *

“Those goddamn things are more trouble than they’re worth!” Hutch complained as he finally got back to the room two hours later. “First, it said all the pages went through and they didn’t, then the office ran out of fax paper, and the pages were all mixed up. I’ll just drop the hard copies at the federal building tomorrow—!”

Hutch’s rant stopped abruptly as he completely entered the room and took in the view.

Starsky was sound asleep on the bed. Not such an unusual situation, nothing that should insist on Hutch’s throat going dry, or his heart to hammer in his chest like he’d just run a sprint.

But he was naked.

And the sun was coming in the slightly parted curtains just so, highlighting his skin to an olive blush, causing interesting shadows to form on the crease of hip, length of thigh, the hollow of his throat, and the curve of his wrist. He just stared, transfixed, admiring and lustful, all in the same moment.

Hutch was never so glad he was right-handed. He quietly fiddled in his briefcase for a piece of paper and a pencil. He moved softly to the desk, not wanting Starsky to move in response to his presence, being able to see different angles and shades from this side of the room: the lax genitals tucked close against his body, the dark hair trailing from his chest to his pelvis, left leg flung out, while the right was bent at an upward angle. His arms mirrored his legs, the left stretching out to Hutch’s side of the bed, while his right was in close against his chest.

And he was utterly, soul-stirringly beautiful to the man who loved him.

It took a few tries, but Hutch was finally able to sketch the outlines and shading of Starsky’s body. It sounded far too prosaic that way, but as a “Study of Starsky Asleep” it was more like the work of art it intended to convey. Not that he had any plans of anyone seeing it; this was for his own personal enjoyment.

As was the man before him, he reminded himself. With a few sharp twinges from his aching shoulder, he managed to undress and get onto the bed.

Starsky’s eyes opened briefly, and he smiled. “Now that’s a suit I really like.”

Hutch kissed him in response, not wanting words now. He nearly fell on his lover when his left arm collapsed beneath him, unable to sustain any weight on it yet. There was some nerve damage and it would probably be an annoyance on rainy days, but right now, it was just aggravating the hell out of him.

Starsky pushed him onto his back and rose over him, eyes navy-dark with desire. “Let me, babe. Please.”

Irritated that his intentions of seducing Starsky had been frustrated, he pounded one fist into the bed.

“Shh,” Starsky whispered against his mouth. “I know what you want, babe.” And then there were no more words, because any he would have said were stolen by Starsky’s lips gently, searingly, pressing against his own. Their mouths opened at once, and tongues played hungrily, rubbing wetly against its partner, Starsky firmly in control. His body was held down by Starsky’s, and the difference in their height only made the way their flesh rubbed against each other sweeter, the nooks and hollows meeting and catching.

His one good arm moved and his hand gripped Starsky’s ass, loving the feel of it clenching and relaxing as his toes dug into the sheets. They both tried to find some traction to thrust against as their hips fit together, perfectly, like they had been made for one another. Which, Hutch firmly believed, they had, and the way they made love only proved the point.

Starsky sat up, his hips directly above Hutch’s, their cocks appearing to entwine all by themselves, as if they knew that this was their first, best, purpose. He looked down at Hutch, his eyes roaming over him like they’d never seen him before. After a few minutes, the blond started to squirm, never very comfortable with being looked at with frank lust, even if it was by Starsky. That only made his partner grin, and reach down to align their cocks more tightly together, the wet, weeping heads red and distended, reaching for each other.

Hutch had to close his eyes or he was going to lose it. One of Starsky’s hands was already starting to jack their tightly clutched cocks, while the other was pinching his nipples hard, just the way he liked it, until the pain was a pleasure that throbbed down, down, down to his balls, which were closely pressed to the bed by Starsky’s ass.

And then Starsky moved forward, tilting his hips, his mouth coming down, teeth biting at his throat, marking him just beneath where his collar rode all day. Hutch bucked, but Starsky wasn’t letting him go. He knew Hutch’s rhythm as well as his own, knew how the tight grip of his fist mimicked the oft-remembered feel of Starsky’s ass wrapped around him, and how it drove him wild. He was caught, a fly in slowly hardening amber, as Starsky’s lips moved from tormenting his throat to his nipples, which stood in aching memory of his fingers.

For a little while, Starsky was content to merely nuzzle the tender nubs. Too soon that wasn’t enough stimulation and he began to suckle them alternately, which usually drove Hutch through the ceiling. But Starsky wasn’t ready to give him the relief he was burning for, and soon, his teeth came into play, pulling and tugging so sweetly on the raw skin until Hutch cried out.

“Starsk! Please! Please.”

With one final bite, he went back to sucking, drawing hard, demanding all. His cock was in flames, his balls so tight against his ass he thought his head might come off, and then he was moaning his pleasure, loudly, fiercely, in unintelligible words and phrases. Wetness splashed over his belly, and he opened his eyes to see Starsky letting out a low, lush sigh, as he came, still tightly clutched in his own hand, still being pumped to the tempo of their loving.

He fell over Hutch, his body heavy, sweaty and welcome, pinning him to the damp sheets. Hutch was unconscious before he finished coming down from the high, tired and happy.

* * *

A ringing phone woke them both a few hours later. It was near dark, the last rays of the sun fading into violet-gray shadows. Hutch blurrily looked at his watch, while Starsky rolled over and grabbed the phone.

“H’lo?” he mumbled, still thoroughly asleep. He listened for a few seconds and then pulled the phone cord to its max and handed it to Hutch. “Tarsa,” he snapped, the sleepiness gone, irritation having quickly taken its place. “Glad he didn’t call a few hours ago. Talk about interruptus.”

Hutch held the phone tightly in his hand, counted to ten and then said, “Howard?”

“Ken,” the rough voice greeted him. “That work you did on the Maryland murders was inspired. The locals just contacted me; they’ve got a guy in the tank who meets your profile almost exactly.”

Hutch shook his head. Damn, that was fast.

“The dean’s son, Allan Benson. Quarterback for the school’s football team, 6’3″, smart, strong, and likes to fight from what his rap sheet says. He broke up with his girlfriend a couple of months ago. Actually, his father broke them up—seems he didn’t want his son going out with a Spanish girl, preferred Midwest farmer’s daughters, or at least someone in the social register. The girl was pretty broken up about it and transferred out. Allan, from what his father says, didn’t react all that much.”

“Instead, he vented his anger on the kind of girls his father wanted him to date,” Hutch muttered.

“Looks like. He’s not talking to the locals, his father’s screaming about lawsuits for false arrest, and I was hoping you could have a conversation with him and the son.”

Hutch looked towards the ceiling. His arm ached, he had the sheet stuck to fuzzy skin in places that you really didn’t want to pull, and his partner was in the bathroom in a patented David Starsky snit. “Howard, does the word ‘vacation’ mean anything to you?” he snarled. So much for counting to ten.

“Come on, Hutchinson! A quick sit-down meeting with the guy to see if your radar goes off like the locals’ does. I’m not asking for a hell of a lot here. You’re already in D.C.”

Hutch blew out a long breath. Starsky was going to get seriously miffed. But he did have a duty to the women who had been killed, and any possible victims if he got off somehow. He sighed. “What kind of evidence do they have? Oh, and Howard, just so you know: I don’t come alone, and I don’t come cheap.”

* * *

When his call was finished, Starsky stalked out of the bathroom, a towel around his lean hips, having taken the time to take a quick shower. He didn’t say anything at first, just stomped around what little free space could be found in most hotel rooms these days. He didn’t look happy.

“So, is this the way it’s gonna be? Me and Howie fighting for your time?” he finally snapped, still pacing.

Doesn’t sound happy, either, Hutch thought.

“And if it was you in my shoes?” Hutch murmured softly. “If you were the one who had a way to catch the son of a bitch in Maryland? Then what would you do?”

Starsky had been stalking in front of the desk, but Hutch’s words froze him in place. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is. Because you understand.” He waited for a long moment, and then dropped the bomb he’d already unleashed on Tarsa. “And besides, you’re coming with me.”

The astonished eyes were so wide, Hutch wondered if they’d fall out of Starsky’s head like big blue marbles. “Hutch, are you outta your tree? Tarsa hates me! He thought I was the one killing our kids!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He thrust one hand outward, remembering just in time not to do the same with the left. “Howard did his job, just like you would have done. And he doesn’t… hate… you. You just get under his skin, Starsk. You know, two bulls butting heads.”

“I don’t know, Hutch. I don’t know.” He was pacing again. His hip caught the edge of Hutch’s briefcase, knocking it from the desk to the floor, papers sent flying.

Seeing Starsky bend to pick them up, Hutch panicked. “Wait. Just leave it.”

But it was too late. Starsky rose, a lone piece of paper in his hand, his jaw agape. Hutch didn’t need to be a detective to know which sheet of paper it was. Fearful that Starsky was going to think he was some kind of spying deviant, or at the very least an overly obsessed lover—which maybe he was—Hutch hastened to explain. “Babe, listen, let me tell you why—”

“Did you draw this?” Starsky sounded funny, far away even.

“Yes,” Hutch answered, heart sinking.

He held his breath as Starsky walked slowly toward the bed, his steps hesitant and weaving; his eyes never leaving the paper in his hand, as if he were somehow mesmerized by it. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Starsky finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “Is this how you see me?”

“If you mean beautiful, then yes,” he responded softly.

Starsky was quiet again for a long while before setting the paper down on the nightstand, exclaiming only, “Wow.” His features were soft, dewy even, when he turned to Hutch. “I can barely draw stick people.”

“Does this mean you’re not pissed at me anymore?” Hutch dared to ask, Starsky’s demeanor indicating that he had been forgiven for taking Howard’s call.

“You don’t play fair.” Starsky’s head shook, but he looked amused, not miffed. “That drawing… wow.”

“You like it?”

“The fact that you see me like that,” his chin gestured toward the paper. “What’s not to like?”

Relief washing over him, Hutch smiled. “Good. Then if you’re done being pissed at me, you’ll agree to come with me on this case.”

“You’re loco, partner. Completely. Utterly. Out of your gorgeous blond mind.”

That wasn’t a no.

“I mean it, Starsk. If I’ve got to go to the office tomorrow and talk with this guy, you’re going to be right there with me. Half that profile is yours and you’re at least as good as me at reading people. So stuff the ‘Who me?’ humility, put on your cop shoes, and let’s get ready to deal with the bad guy!”

“I bet you ten bucks they won’t let me in the door.”

“You’re on.”

Starsky canted his head, different questions now written across his face, but a sweet and humble light in his gaze, too. “You just think that I’ll buy dinner for a sexy, starving artist, don’t you?”

He lowered his head and looked up through his lashes, giving his lover a sultry, devilish smile. “Of course you will.”

“Hmm. You’re right. But I expect something for my money, sweets.”

“I think an equitable arrangement can be worked out,” Hutch teased, liking the way Starsky was looking at him—as though he were prime rib and Starsky were a starving man. “But, Starsk? Can we peel me out of these sheets before we go?”

His lover laughed before yanking up the sheets, and peeling them from Hutch’s sticky body. Then, with a salacious grin, Starsky tunneled beneath them in his own bizarre hunt for buried treasure.

And did he find some.

* * *

The J. Edgar Hoover Building had been the home of the FBI since 1974. It was an imposing edifice of concrete and glass that took up the entire block and rose eight stories high.

That Tuesday, as Hutch went in through the glass doors, he enjoyed watching Starsky, who was looking around like any tourist. His lover was dressed conservatively in black pants and a button-down white shirt, covered by his black leather jacket. Hutch was in his navy suit, his FBI pin on his lapel, black coat and hat taking the chill out of the late fall air. After Starsky had gawked a little, staring down at the circular symbols of the FBI on the marble floor, he led him over to the Security Desk and had him sign in. A visitors’ pass was waiting for him, and he tucked that into his shirt pocket, keeping his jacket open so anyone who needed to would see it.

Hutch showed his badge and signed in. They were directed to a third floor “interview” room, though it looked like a fancier version of an interrogation room, minus the bad overhead lighting and barred windows. If someone could get out of the tiny thing that masqueraded as a window in here, then Hutch thought they deserved to be free.

Starsky took one of the hard plastic chairs and placed it in the corner. He settled himself into it with the air of a man who was going to be spending a lot of time in it and with a creak of protesting leather, crossed his arms. His face was hard and determined, the kind of expression that had sent quite a few perps crying to their attorneys afterwards.

Hutch sat down, opened the file, spread out the pictures and waited. They had spent years perfecting their interrogation techniques; they didn’t need to discuss it anymore. If they still felt a little awkward, their roles not quite ironed out, Hutch knew they’d fall into it soon enough. They were way past any games of one-upmanship; Kira and bubonic plague had cured them of that for good. Sure, they’d probably be playing little games on each other until the old folks’ home, but not about anything more important than whose wheelchair was faster or who needed more fiber in their diet.

The idea of them living in an old folks’ home made him smile secretively. Starsky never planned on getting old, and he hoped they never did. There was a difference between aging and getting old; one was just creaking joints and graying hair (if it didn’t fall out first) and the other was a stiffness of attitude, something he was certain his partner would never fall prey to.

And then Allan Benson and his attorney were led in, and the smile slid off his face with a silent crash.

Benson was tall and well-built, his handsome face containing an element of superior aloofness that set off warning bells in Hutch’s head. Starsky didn’t move, but Hutch saw him straighten infinitesimally in his chair, confirming the concerns that he held. Whatever Starsky saw in the guy, he didn’t like it either.

Benson’s attorney introduced himself, but there was very little that he would have to say today. There was, what district attorneys called, “a preponderance of evidence,” against this man. But one of the BAU’s main reasons for being was to not only find serial offenders and contain them, but to understand why they did what they did.

“Mr. Attenborough,” he nodded to the attorney. “Mr. Benson. You know why you’ve been arrested, don’t you? My name is Ken Hutchinson and this is my colleague, Dave Starsky. We just want to ask you a few questions, try to understand what happened to make you so angry, why you attacked these girls. All right?”

Benson didn’t respond, other than to give Hutch a look that said that he wasn’t good enough to be something he would bother to wipe off his shoe.

Hutch nodded and fanned out the pictures a little more. “This is what we’re here to talk about. The knife that we found under your pillow in your bedroom matches the marks on the last four women, here.” He pointed them out, deliberately slowing his fingers over the slashes on their faces. “We even found the clothes that you wore, a pair of black jeans, and black turtleneck. They were stiff with dried blood. You never even bothered to try and hide them. Why?”

Benson looked down at the pictures, but there was no trace of emotion, or horror, or disgust. He didn’t seem to have much of any reaction at all.

“You know what I think? I think you were angry at your father. For telling the girl you loved that she wasn’t good enough for you, that his son would never date, and certainly not marry, a spic.”

A sudden intense gleam flared up in Allan Benson’s green eyes, an anger so internalized that he couldn’t even speak it, flamed in his gaze.

“Hutch,” Starsky chastised from the corner. “You shouldn’t call a lovely girl like Mariana Rivera a spic.”

“I didn’t. His father did.”

“Bet Mariana called her mother to tell her what happened, that her heart was broken. She probably wanted to go home to Spain. Where’d she finally end up?” Starsky asked, as if he didn’t know. They’d received some updated information on Ms. Rivera just this morning.

“To New Hampshire. Some good schools up there,” Hutch replied, pulling out a high school graduation photo of Mariana and leaving it on the table between him and Allan. The kid’s eyes moved to it, tracking it as it was placed on the polished surface. “You didn’t want any of them, did you, Allan? None of the pretty, average girls that your dad thought were right for you.”

“You didn’t ask for much, did you, kid?” Starsky said, standing, moving closer, finally leaning against the table, catching Benson’s gaze with his own.

Mesmerized, Benson just stared mutely at him, pain starting to crack the façade of numbness he had set up around his emotions.

“There was just one special something that you wanted. Out of all the things your father wanted you to do, to have, to be, there was just one person you needed in your life. And he wouldn’t let you have her, would he?” Hutch continued, leading up for Starsky to get him to talk.

“Just her,” Starsky whispered. “She was all you wanted, just Mariana. And he took her away.” He shrugged. “I get it; you wanted to punish him, make him hurt by taking away what he lived for—his job, being dean of the college. Made him a pretty big guy in town, didn’t it? And he wanted you to be like that, too. But you weren’t him. You couldn’t be, didn’t want to be.”

Benson reached out to the photograph of Mariana, stroking it, a small, forlorn smile creasing his mouth. “She was so gentle, so kind. None of them understood why I loved her, but we knew. We knew. I didn’t care that she was Spanish.” He looked up at Starsky and there was a wealth of tragedy in his eyes. “It made her special. She was mine. She loved me. Not the football player or the captain of the track team. Not the son of the dean. Me. Allan.”

A dreadful change came over his features and Hutch hid the shiver that was crawling up his spine. The tears were obliterated by a large hand, and Allan Benson glared at Starsky with a horrible malignancy in his face. “So I killed them. I wanted to hurt them, to make them know that they weren’t good enough, no matter how pretty they were, or how American they looked or talked, they’d never be good enough for me. And I put them all over his beautiful campus, painted the steps with their blood, all over that damned turtle, the ‘M,’ all of it. I hate it! I hate it!”

Starsky didn’t say anything, but he stood straight, a subliminal message that he was collecting himself. It was always alarming when sociopaths showed their true colors. Oh, they could pretend that they were real people with real emotions, but something always broke through to show their narcissism, their need to have the things they wanted, no matter what got in their way.

“But first, you wanted to punish Mariana, didn’t you? You wanted her to pay for leaving you, isn’t that right?” Hutch added.

“Bitch,” Benson snarled and Hutch was glad he was cuffed, even if there were other agents outside the door. The younger man stood up, his fury all the more alarming because now it was cold. “She deserved it. Nobody leaves me.”

“So you killed her. You went to New Hampshire and ran her down with that big Caddy of yours, not once, not twice, but over and over, until there was only a pile of broken bones and her purse to identify her as once having been a human being,” Starsky said softly, right into Benson’s face.

“You can’t prove it,” Benson said, smiling for the first time since they’d met.

“No. But your car can and will,” Hutch told him, putting the pictures back into their place and closing the file. “There isn’t a jury in the country that will believe your ‘poor, pitiful me,’ routine.”

“Or a parole board that’ll consider releasing you back into the general population,” Starsky added. “Mr. Attenborough, you’re going to earn your fee with this clown.”

The defense attorney didn’t say anything, but his pursed lips and furrowed brow told the tale. “Are you finished, Special Agent Hutchinson?”

“We are done,” Hutch said, watching the scary animal that was Allan Benson walk out, Attenborough behind him.

The two men didn’t move for a long moment, the infectious pall that Benson had left slowly dissipating.

“That guy’s completely off his rocker,” Starsky finally said, breaking the silence.

“Narcissistic sociopath,” Hutch said, tucking the file back into his case.

“A few bananas short of a bunch. His cheese is slipping off his cracker. He’s a couple of beers short of a six-pack, few bricks shy of a load….”

Hutch chuckled as Starsky continued to find less than scientific methods to describe Allan Benson’s damaged psyche as they made their way out of the Hoover building.

“So where now?”

“Well, since we’re here… how about the Capitol Building?”

Starsky let out a whoop and he clapped Hutch on the back. “Let’s go!”

* * *

They spent the next two days walking through every, single, tourist spot in all of Washington. And they had a great time. Hutch was actually glad they’d gone to D.C. by the time it was done, even though he felt like he had walked his feet off.

That Friday Hutch borrowed a car from the nearby Washington Bureau office and they headed off to his apartment to get some clothes. He was damned tired of the two suits that he had been alternating for the past three weeks, and his underwear was starting to turn to rags from the constant washing. If he put on a tie one more day in a row, he just might garrote himself with it.

Starsky was snoozing beside him, turned sideways towards him, so Hutch could watch him sleep to his heart’s content. He’d always liked that sense of being this close to his partner back in the days when they practically lived in the Torino, and he enjoyed it now.

The drive wasn’t too long and they arrived at his apartment complex early enough that they wouldn’t have to worry about missing their four o’clock train. Starsky had been regaling him with the wonders of sleeper cars and “spacious” accommodations when they first got on the road, and Hutch hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed. Though, he had to admit, Starsky had the genuine ability to see the best part of life and make gold out of straw; perhaps, he’d just think it was cool and go with it. How they were going to manage being in each other’s pockets for the next 60+ hours in a room the size of a broom closet was going to be an interesting test of their relationship. Thankfully, most of these trains had their version of a dining car and a club car, so they could separate if the need to kill each other became too great.

Love and proximity had nothing to do with each other; sometimes they just needed some alone time and they had always managed to know when it was required and obeyed the silent necessity.

Though, in the past, he had occasionally wondered if he was ever going to get tired of being around Starsky. Oh, sure, they could get on each other’s nerves, but really and truly tired of him?

Nah.

Hutch had known life without Starsky now and there was no way he could ever go back to that existence. He’d sooner be locked together forever in a sleeper car on the train to nowhere than live that lonely life again.

He pulled up in front of his apartment, putting the car in park before using his good hand to shake the warm leg beside him. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. I’m not carrying you over the threshold.”

“Not if you want to be able to walk, you won’t,” Starsky agreed, sitting up and rubbing a hand through his hair. Hutch had gotten used to the shorter cut and thought that it suited him very well. If there were a few more silver strands, who cared? He was losing his own hair too fast to worry about silver.

The two men made their way into Hutch’s place. As soon as he opened the door, he was struck by the realization that Starsky would learn exactly who he had been these past five years, just by looking around. Hell, his place was practically a shrine to his partner and their days together. The drawing Starsky spied in the hotel room paled in comparison to what he was about to see when he walked through the door to Hutch’s apartment.

This is a mistake, he thought wildly. Idiot! You didn’t think this through.

But it was too late for second thoughts now. Starsky was already bounding into the apartment with his usual enthusiastic bounce.

“Hey, Hutch, I hope you’ve got something to eat in here because I’m….”

The remaining words slipped away unsaid, Starsky standing now in the center of the living room, glancing around with a stunned, wide-eyed gape that looked to have taken his breath along with his ability to speak.

“There’s no place like home,” Hutch quipped, his stomach tight.

Starsky didn’t appear to even hear him, not responding when Hutch called his name in a last-ditch effort to distract him. With a sigh, Hutch gave up, quietly watching as his partner took in the all of his apartment.

On the mantle of the fireplace were a number of pictures of the two of them together in earlier times, as well as a few of Hutch’s seascapes, painted from memory. In the cabinet by the corner, near the patio doors, was a miniature Matchbox Torino and beside that, his police badge, along with various commendations that they had received over the years.

Starsky’s tennis shoes shuffled softly against the carpet as he moved from place to place, his head going this way and that, his attention as riveted and amazed as a country boy just seeing the wonder of a big city for the first time.

Hutch followed as Starsky headed into the kitchen. Ollie sat on the windowsill in there, looking down into the courtyard below, his rumpled ears and tattered coat a poignant reminder of love that had been so bright once. Finding him there seemed to freeze Starsky to the spot as he stood staring at the bear for long, silent minutes. Finally, with unsteady hands, he reached out and clasped the little stuffed bear, pressing it close to his chest.

Ollie in tow, Hutch close behind him, Starsky made his way to the bedroom next. Hutch’s guitar was stowed away in the closet, and in its place was a small easel. A few of his landscapes hung around the apartment, but it was in here that he kept the pieces of his lover, the artwork closest to his heart, kept safe and unseen by the world at large. All done in charcoal, they emphasized various aspects of Starsky: the sculpted jaw, the curly hair blowing in the wind, eyes as blue as the Mediterranean Sea, pensive expressions, or wide crooked smiles—each haunting reminders of the man he knew so intimately and loved so well.

Hutch waited, drowning in anxiety and trepidation, wondering if that dream of his really was about to shatter. Was Starsky going to think he was nuts? Would he want to run as fast and as far as he could from a man who was clearly so obsessed with him that he had to surround himself with reminders of better times just to be able to get up in the morning? Starsky had been through so many changes, so much upheaval in such a short time. He didn’t need this… didn’t need to deal with Hutch’s baggage.

But just when Hutch had worked himself up to believe that Starsky was about to cut ties and run from him once more, his partner sank to the bed, his arms wrapped around Ollie, clutching desperately to the bear as he rocked himself back and forth.

“Oh god, Hutch. What a mess I made of it all.”

His lover’s voice was utterly shattered, rough and haunted with traces of pain that he had managed to hide for so long. Hutch went to him, carefully easing down on the bed beside him as he flattened his palm to Starsky’s thigh, stunned to find how hard his partner was shivering.

“We made, Starsk. We made.”

“You tried,” he disagreed, his head shaking back and forth like he was trying to tune out Hutch’s comfort. “I kept sending you away!”

“That’s all over, babe. We’re together now.” Gesturing with his hand at the room full of pictures, he waved as if doing so could make them all disappear. “I can put these away and start fresh again. I loved him, but he’s the past. The man I love now is even stronger and more beautiful.”

“Your pictures are what’s beautiful.” Pressing Ollie closer, Starsky continued to rock, though his head lifted and he looked around again. “I don’t even feel worthy of this kind of devotion and yet at the same time… hell, Hutch, it’s beyond words.”

His love swelled so big in this moment that Hutch felt sure he would explode from it. He ached to wrap Starsky in his arms and never let go. But the more practical side of him knew he had to give his partner space. Starsky had so much to deal with and this was only the tip of that iceberg. As painful as it was to watch, Starsky had to start getting some of this out or it was going to destroy him.

Keeping his hand upon the trembling thigh, smoothing calming circles there, he assured, “You are worthy, babe, of everything I have to give you.”

“But it’s all my fault!”

“Love isn’t about fault. Love understands. Love forgives. But it can’t until you start forgiving yourself. And not just about this.”

Starsky sprang up from the bed like he had been shot from a canon, his entire body going rigid. “I don’t want to talk about the kids. I can’t go there.”

“I know.”

Starsky paced the room like a caged animal, as if somehow, if he walked fast enough, he could find a way to escape the hell in his mind. But then he stopped in front the easel, his shoulders slumping, voice barely a whisper. “I destroyed us… and those kids. If I hadn’t run from you… gone there….”

“What happened to those kids was not your fault,” he objected vehemently. “And I’m going to keep reminding you of that until it finally sinks in.” He stood and walked to his partner, putting his good hand on Starsky’s slouched shoulder. “But you’ve got a lot of pain inside that needs to be grieved. That won’t happen today and not tomorrow either.”

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You’ll do it. We’ll both do it. We’re together now and I’ll be dead and dust before I ever let you go again. Do you hear me?”

Starsky nodded, leaning his head back until it rested upon Hutch’s shoulder, his fingers carding agitatedly through Ollie’s fur. “Just hang in with me, okay?”

“Not going anywhere.”

Hutch could feel the pain and guilt and confusion and exhaustion all strangling his partner, weakening his spirit. Using the hand upon Starsky’s shoulder, he turned him and guided him toward the bed, grateful when his lover followed. When he’d gotten them both lying down, he pulled Starsky to him, holding him as best he could with only one working arm.

Emotionally wrung out, Starsky sounded so small when he spoke again, tucking the bear under his chin as he let his head rest against Hutch’s chest. “You took good care of Ollie.”

Kissing the curls, Hutch whispered, “That was my job, remember? Take care of you and Ollie. You’re just a little more stubborn than he is. But I’m back on the job now, and there’s nothing you’re going to do to push me away again.”

“Don’t wanna push you anywhere,” Starsky murmured, sounding closer to asleep than awake. “Love you, Hutch.”

“And I love you, Starsk. Always.”

* * *

It wasn’t until he woke up that Hutch realized he’d been asleep. He jerked himself upright and cast a worried glance at his watch, before relaxing against the pillows with a sigh. They had plenty of time to get back to D.C.

It was another half second before he shook off the vestiges of sleep enough to realize that only Ollie was lying on the pillow beside him. Sitting up, his worry shifted quickly to relief when Starsky entered the room carrying Hutch’s travel bag. His face wore traces of his emotional upheaval, but there was a sparkle in the cerulean depths that Hutch hadn’t realized had been missing until now.

“You’re all packed,” he told Hutch, dumping the case on the bed with a thump. “I emptied the fridge, but you should know that there is a rather large green moldy thing in it that I had to fight off with your broom. Be warned.”

Hutch chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Your green leafy things didn’t used to live in the refrigerator.”

He grasped Starsky’s hand to maneuver himself off the bed. “No, that’s true.” He picked up the luggage, hefted it for weight, and asked, “Where’s my suit carrier?”

“No suits!”

“Okay, okay, no suits,” Hutch happily agreed and moved to the bureau.

It was a relief to finally change clothes. A pair of loose jeans, a light blue shirt and deck shoes were all he wanted, and he tossed the well-used suits into the bottom of his closet to be worried about when they returned. A long tan suede jacket would keep him warm until they arrived in L.A. and then could be used for cool evenings.

He was finally starting to get excited about this vacation, but he was even more buoyed by the renewed closeness he and Starsky had been sharing. Hutch dared to allow himself the hope that everything really was going to be all right.

Turning around, he saw Starsky delicately tucking Ollie beneath the bed covers in a much more comfortable position than the one he’d been in by the window.

“I think it’s time we got Ollie some company, babe,” Starsky told him, a gentle smile crossing his handsome face. “Everybody needs a partner.”

“We’ll look for one while we’re on vacation,” Hutch assured him, opening his arms to his lover’s advance.

Starsky slipped into them comfortably, placing a quick kiss on Hutch’s lips. His face brightened with twinkling enthusiasm then, making him look far more beautiful than any of Hutch’s portraits ever did. “Come on, Hutch. Let’s go. We’ve got a train to catch!”