Lonely People

His latest break up with his latest girlfriend, and the subsequent bitch-session with Starsky, allows Hutch to witness something he never expected to see. So, what’s he going to do about it?

Originally published in the zine Code 7 #3 in 1984 by PS Press and Bound in Leather Press.

This is for all the lonely people
Thinking that love has left them dry;
Don’t give up until you drink from the silver cup
And ride that highway in the sky.
Don’t give up until you drink from the silver cup,
Never take you down and never give you up;
You never know until you try.
–America

Hands on hips, face kept expressionless with great effort, Ken Hutchinson, LAPD, stood in quiet astonishment while his current girlfriend gave him his walking papers.

“I know he’s your partner and all, Ken, but Dave wasn’t badly hurt; you said all be needed were a couple of stitches in his arm,” Kathy said sharply. “Your captain was there so you didn’t have to wait for him and then take him home, too—we’ve had tickets to this concert for three weeks!”

She was working herself into tears, he realized furiously. “Just a few stitches, yes, and x-rays of his shoulder and ribs. Not to mention the little possibility of concussion or even skull fracture—a Smith & Wesson laid across the back of the head hard enough to put a man out for half an hour is no small deal, lady. And Captain Dobey is a busy man; we’re not the only cops in his command, you know.” Flushed with anger he strode to the door. “And Starsky’s my partner, Kathy—he’s more important than any damned concert.”

“Yeah? Well let me tell you a few things,” she started, and finished with “…the next time you start feeling affectionate, go to him—I don’t want to see you again. You and your damned job and your damned badge and your damned partner!”

Smiling, he bowed gracefully to her. “And it’s been a wonderful evening for me, too; thank you so much.” The door closed gently behind him.

In a shimmering rage he threw himself into his car and took off, not even knowing where he was going until he pulled up outside Starsky’s apartment.

Hutch looked around, thinking ruefully that he’d driven 15 miles, mostly an the freeway, and didn’t remember one fact of it. Hell, the god that watched over idiots and little children must have been driving; he sure hadn’t been.

He sat in the car for a few minutes, working to subdue the fury to the point where he could discuss it rationally. If Starsky was even awake… The doctor had prescribed something for that arm; uh, no, he wouldn’t take sedatives with the possibility of concussion.

Starsky answered the door at the first knock, looking pale and tired. “I take it Kathy got frosted and told you not to darken her doorway again?”

Hutch pitched his jacket in the general direction of the couch. “Did she ever! Seems cops aren’t too high on her list of people she’s willing to be put-out over. She thought I should have left you at the emergency room and let Dobey take you home so I’d have time to take her to dinner before that damned concert.” He stopped short, slammed a hand on the table. “Shit, I still have the tickets here—I meant to give them to her. She could have scraped up a last-minute friend or something and they’d probably only have missed the warm-up band. Besides, she’s seen them before. That’s just terrific.” He threw the tickets down, stomped to the window and glared outside. The window shade was crooked; Hutch tried to straighten it and managed to pull roller and all off the window.

Starsky glanced at the name on the tickets, raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “I don’t think you would’ve liked Aerosmith anyway, Hutch. They’re loud; they’d make that Billy Squire/Queen concert seem fairly quiet and you bitched about that for a month. They’re nowhere near as good, either.”

“Nothing could be louder than Queen, Starsky, nothing. Though they weren’t bad… what are you grinning about?”

“You were the first one in the whole row standing and clapping along with ‘We Will Rock You,’ partner, I’m a witness,” he said cheerfully and took the window shade away from Hutch. “You’re mistreating my birthday present, Hutch. And it’s always been crooked so leave it alone. There, good as new.”

Hutch shook his head at the abstractly colored shade, painted himself one cheerfully drunken evening and smiled. “That was several birthdays back, Starsk; you don’t need to keep the stupid things any more. I promise you; I won’t be sore if you pitch them out.”

“Nope, I like ’em and they stay.”

“Yeah, well, at least there’s one person that appreciates me occasionally.” Hutch’s voice was thick with depression. Starsky glanced up at him, concern in his face. Hutch rubbed a hand across his eyes.

“I dunno, Starsk, Kathy wasn’t the first that told me the same thing—at first I’m fun but then I gather I get boring real fast. That, and my job.” He sank cross-legged to the rug, resting elbows on knees and his chin on fists.

“I used to think it was their lack, that they just couldn’t understand, but it’s happened too many times. It’s got to be me that’s at fault; you can’t be out of step with the whole goddamned world!”

Starsky stood with his back to him, apparently looking out the window but Hutch knew he was listening, his quiet concentration some measure of comfort.

“What’s wrong with me, Starsk? I don’t believe that I’m empty, that there’s nothing here, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re right and I have nothing to offer; maybe there is nothing in me to love.”

Speaking mostly to himself and not expecting an answer, he glanced up at Starsky anyway. The black night beyond the window made a mirror of the glass, clearly revealing a Starsky Hutch had never seen; haunted and anguished, eyes dark with hunger and hopeless longing. Puzzled, Hutch watched while Starsky’s lips formed silent words to the darkness outside: “Not true—I love you.” He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass for a moment, then his shoulders straightened and he turned back to look at Hutch, face composed and quiet.

No sign whatever of the gut-wrenching agony that had filled him a second earlier. “No Hutch. They’re wrong. It’s just that not many people are willing to look below the surface. You’ve got lots of levels and layers and most people are scared away by that. And there is a hell of a lot of ’em too mother-fuckin’ dumb to even know there are different levels. Kathy wasn’t exactly a heavyweight in the brain department, y’know.”

“Well, maybe, but…” Hutch said absently, still too boggled by what he’d glimpsed to really be listening. So fast a switch—had he really seen it? Really read what he thought he’d seen on Starsky’s lips?

He studied his partner, noting the almost imperceptible tension in him. Starsky moved away from the window and propped himself casually against the sofa, a coffee mug held loosely in his hand. And the shoulder muscles tight as bowstrings, throat muscles like cords—even as Hutch noticed it, the shoulders eased, the throat relaxed.

Starsky grinned at him, the slow crooked smile that always warmed Hutch. “No maybes, Hutch; she had about as many brains as my guinea pig, Louise, had.” He took a sip of coffee. “Guinea pigs are real dumb, Hutch.”

He laid a comforting hand on Hutch’s shoulder, a long-time familiar gesture. As always, Hutch felt his pain lessen, if only for a moment. Who do you turn to if not your partner? he thought. Just me and thee…

“Still, I can see why you liked her,” Starsky continued. “She was gorgeous, cheerful, sweet—a real contrast to what we see on the streets every day. You cared and she hurt you—I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I wish you happy, you know that.” As if embarrassed at saying too much, Starsky studied the bottom of his cup.

Hutch covered Starsky’s hand with his own for a moment. “Yeah, I know you do; thanks. Even if I do pick airheads, huh?”

“I spoke outta turn, forget it. And you said airheads, I didn’t,” he added piously,

Starsky’s hand still lay on Hutch’s shoulder, a source of strength. For an instant Hutch rested his head against Starsky’s arm, then stood up. “You’re supposed to be resting; I had no right to lay all this on you, Starsky—sometimes I wonder why you put up with me.” His tone was casually off-handed and even as he said it, Hutch wondered if Starsky would know he was probing.

Starsky grinned wickedly. “I thought you knew—you’re the only one I can beat at chess. Besides, Dobey assigned you to me and I’m too modest and unassuming to disagree with my commanding officer.”

The dark blue eyes were alight with humor, but in counterpoint, Hutch saw again Starsky’s anguished face, speaking to the darkness of his love.

“Better not let Dobey hear how modest you are; he’d be sure your brains got scrambled tonight and you’d be back in the hospital at light speed.” He collected his jacket, pausing at the door to smile at his partner. “G’night, Starsk. I’ll call in the morning to see if you feel like work tomorrow. Dobey said you could take the day off if you thought you needed it.”

Starsky shook his head. “An offer like that from the cap’n—wonder if he’s okay.”

***

Hutch had barely driven two blocks before he realized he wasn’t paying any more attention to the roads now than he had on the trip over. Too much on his mind. Better to find someplace where he could think without risking his neck and that of everyone else on the road with him.

A small restaurant seemed the perfect solution. Hutch found a quiet booth at the back and ordered coffee and toast to pay rent on the table. The coffee was superb and the toast was homemade, but for all that Hutch noticed they could have been stump water and roof shingles.

Someone in the next booth fed the jukebox At least five bucks in quarters and rock music filled the place, making an oddly soothing backdrop, random lyrics threading Hutch’s thoughts.

One basic fact to be faced—by chance he’d seen his partner unguarded, learned what Starsky evidently never intended him to learn.

Starsky loved him. Wanted him. How long had he felt that way? “It happens all the time, this crazy love of mine wraps around my heart, refusing to unwind.” Obviously there should have been a change in Starsky’s attitude towards him when he realized how he felt, but try as he would, Hutch couldn’t remember one.

Starsky had always been the same—warmly cheerful, fiercely supportive, as willing to defend him as to bicker with him. Hutch’s truest friend, the person he trusted most in the world. Which suggested that the attachment went back a long time.

Hutch ran a hand through his hair. They’d been partners for years! “I’ve done everything I know to try and make you mine, and I think I’m going to love you for a long, long time.” Had Starsky loved him all the while? The idea was staggering. And very humbling.

The waitress wandered by, refilled his coffee and gave him a dazzling smile. He didn’t notice. All he could think of was the loneliness he’d seen on Starsky’s face.

To work day in, day out beside someone you loved and not dare tell him—torture indeed. Hutch could guess why Starsky had never spoken; he was probably convinced that Hutch would be shocked, appalled, and revolted.

Well, shocked, true—dumbstruck. Severely surprised.

Appalled? Yes—at himself. Appalled at his own insensitivity to Starsky’s feelings over the years.

Revolted? No. Not in the slightest. More like… honored. And flattered.

The next question was, how did he deal with this? Pretend he didn’t know? That wasn’t possible. Knowing how Starsky felt, he couldn’t continue playing just good buddy; that would be deliberate, unconscionable cruelty. What then? Split up the partnership? He could just see explaining it to Dobey! And he’d have to tell Starsky why—he’d never yet been able to lie to him and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

Hutch stared into his coffee and thought tentatively about working with someone else. “You can go your own way, go your own way.” It would be more than just having a different partner, he realized, shocked at the thought. It would have to be a complete break. Say ‘fare-thee-well’ and not see him again.

Maybe forever.

The thought brought an astounding jolt of pain. Leave Starsky? No way in hell! The vehemence of his reaction brought Hutch up short. Would it really be so impossible? Yes, totally impossible.

He remembered Starsky’s hand on his shoulder, not an hour past, recalled the strength he’d drawn from the contact. Had always drawn from Starsky. No matter how tired, discouraged, disheartened he became, Starsky was his shield against the dark. Support ever-present and never failing, no matter how tired Starsky himself was. “You’re my only one and I love the things that you do. You’re my best friend.”

Occasionally, Hutch had wondered what inner well-spring Starsky drew his courage from, where his own strength lay. “I forget all my sorrows, forget all my pain; I relinquish all doubts at the sound of your name.” If Starsky was his strength—and he was, Hutch knew—then he was Starsky’s. QED.

That felt remarkably good to Hutch. It had a rightness, a balance. The depression that had ridden him since leaving Kathy’s place lifted.

Brakes screeched in the parking lot and Hutch looked out, hoping there were no new dents in his car. His third LTD, and almost as battered as the first two so a few more dents probably wouldn’t show, but it was the principle of the thing. A large red car bounced to a halt next to Hutch’s car and for an instant he thought it was Starsky.

No, a Dodge Charger, not the Torino.

The surge of joy, followed quickly by wild disappointment was a revelation. He sat back slowly, bemusement filling his mind. He still felt the edges of the soaring delight that had hit him when he’d seen the red car. Hutch could remember precious few times when the mere arrival of someone set his heart pounding, caught his breath in his throat. As had just happened.

It had been absurd to think it might have been Starsky; why would he be looking for him anywhere but at his own apartment? No, he had wanted it to be Starsky, because he wanted to be with Starsky now. He grinned at the Dodge, delighted at the sheer silliness of the idea and at the realization of what had caused it. “Make a promise, take a vow. Trust your feelings, it’s easy now.”

I love you, babe, he thought in quiet happiness. And I never knew what it was. Sorry I’m so dim, Starsky, but I do tend to be slow on the uptake sometimes. I need to be hit over the head with something before I can see it.

So, that was one decision made. He did love Starsky; could he, then, be his lover? Hutch had never seriously thought about it. Well, could there be a better time to consider it? True, he’d never had a male lover; not since early explorations as a kid in Minnesota, that is. Hutch raised an eyebrow, smiling sardonically to himself. Funny how everyone seemed to think farm kids are so innocent! Long before adolescence he and all the other kids knew about the birds and bees, or at least about the cattle, horses, and various other livestock. It didn’t take all that much thought to extrapolate from there to people! No, innocence of the sexual side of life wasn’t really a country trait. He’d done his fair share of playing doctor and knew from experience that he preferred women.

On the other hand, homosexuality didn’t repulse him; he’d simply never cared for a man enough to want to love him.

Until now. The idea of going back to Starsky’s apartment was definitely alluring—but definitely.

Confusion gone, he scooped up the check. anxious to leave. Feeling like he’d been drinking champagne, he blithely left the waitress an outrageously large tip. Suddenly his world was bright and glorious.

As he passed it to reach his own car, Hutch patted the fender of the red Charger. “Thanks, friend. You jogged a few things loose in my head!” he told it with a grin. And if anyone saw him talking to a car, who cared!

***

Hutch tapped impatiently on the door, then, too jittery to wait for Starsky to answer, used his own key to open it.

“Starsky?” Well, at least his voice didn’t quaver, that was something. He couldn’t remember being this nervous in years. Nervous as a bridegroom, he thought, and felt the butterflies in his stomach jump. Not too far from the actual case, was it? “Starsky?”

No answer. If Starsky was sleeping, well, he’d wake him up. Hutch had a notion he’d not mind too much. He grinned. Or perhaps he’d just climb in beside him; explaining his presence to a vastly surprised Starsky tomorrow morning would be wonderful. Either way, things would work out fine.

Starsky wasn’t asleep. He was sitting on the sofa, his back against the arm rest, legs stretched out before him on the couch. Hutch stopped in the doorway, a puzzled frown on his face. Why hadn’t Starsky answered him?

Starsky was wearing the heavy velour bathrobe Hutch had given him the Christmas before over his clothing, the collar clutched tightly to his throat as if he were freezing, The dark blue robe, chosen because Hutch thought it matched Starsky’s eyes, only emphasized his pallor. His other hand was clenched ground a rock glass tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. A whiskey bottle on the table next to him held only two fingers or so of liquor; Hutch was sure there’d been ever half a bottle left before.

Starsky looked up slowly, the unhappiness in his face stabbing Hutch hard in the gut. Unhappiness that was soul-deep. An old adversary, Hutch realized. How many nights had Starsky sat like this and fought it off so that the next morning his partner never noticed?

Some partner I am, Hutch thought bitterly.

Suddenly Starsky’s eyes widened; he dropped the glass and tried to stand up. “Omigod, it is you. Go away, Hutch, go away, I don’t want you to see me like this!”

“Relax, Starsk, I’ve seen you plastered before, plenty of times,” Hutch said comfortingly, his hand on Starsky’s shoulder keeping him seated.

“Not just plastered,” he said despairingly. “Sometimes I-I get to feeling low; it doesn’t hit often. Usually the booze holds off the worst of it but I don’t think it’s gonna work tonight. Please leave!”

Hutch dropped onto the sofa beside him and pulled Starsky to his shoulder. “I’ve never knowingly left you alone when you were hurt or unhappy before and I’m not leaving you now.” Especially when I’m the cause.

Starsky tried to pull away but Hutch tightened his grip. For an instant Starsky sat as rigid as oak in his arms, then resistance left him. He sagged against Hutch, his head resting tiredly in the hollow of Hutch’s shoulder. One arm went around Hutch’s neck, hand tangling in his hair.

Hutch rubbed his cheek against the dark curls, delighting in their silky warmth. He was astounded at how sweet it was just to sit and hold him. He hadn’t expected that.

“Oh damn,” Starsky muttered, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Hutch held him close, his hands rubbing Starsky’s back, trying to soothe away the pain. Every sob echoed through Hutch; he felt scalded by Starsky’s tears. His fault, this misery.

Finally, the tears slowed, then stopped. Hutch pulled a tissue from the box placed prudently next to the whiskey bottle. “This what you’re looking for?”

Starsky nodded, then winced. “Christ, my head’s about to fall off. Maybe if it did it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Hutch rubbed the back of Starsky’s neck, “As tight as these muscles are, I’m not surprised. Plus a crack on the skull, half a bottle of Canadian Club and a crying jag—yeah, I’d say your head has a right to hurt,” he said gently.

Starsky blinked at him, then obeyed the soft pressure on his shoulders and settled back against Hutch.

Now that he was here, Hutch felt suddenly uncertain. What if he’d misread Starsky’s words? He glanced down at the familiar face. Familiar, yes, but subtly altered now in Hutch’s eyes. Beautiful now, and infinitely precious. If I’m wrong, the joke’s on me.

Starsky sighed and shifted a fraction closer. The expression on his face was enigmatic—a puzzling combination of contentment and trepidation. Then Hutch felt like an idiot. Naturally Starsky would enjoy being held by him, at the same time fearing that his current pleasure would be paid for bitterly later.

“I’m never going to leave you, Starsk,” he whispered.

“What?” Quietly said, almost fearful.

“Earlier tonight when I was feeling so sorry for myself, I saw you reflected in the window. I saw what you said, Starsk. Did you mean that?”

Starsky stiffened and tried to pull away but Hutch wouldn’t let him. “This-this evening? I didn’t say anything.”

Hutch cupped his chin, raising his face so Starsky would have to look at him. “Yes, you did, That’s why I came back. I thought about what you said and what it meant for us, our relationship.”

Starsky went ice-white, licked dry lips. “What—what did you decide?” His voice was so low Hutch could barely hear it.

“What could I decide but that we’re partners? Nothing’s ever going to change that. And I realized something else that I should have known a long time ago, Starsk. I love you.”

Starsky looked afraid to believe him.

“I do, babe.” Hutch leaned forward and kissed lips that were warm and softer than he would have thought possible. At first Starsky was tense, rigid, then he leaned closer, his lips clinging desperately. Hutch deepened the kiss for a moment, then sat back. He wanted to look at Starsky, see his face.

The wondering joy he saw filled him with light. A warm melting sensation began under his breastbone and flowed through him until Hutch could barely breathe.

He took Starsky’s face in his hands, kissing the cheekbones, nose, and eyelids, then returning to the waiting mouth. Starsky’s lips parted under his, inviting and welcoming his tongue. When he met it with his own the sensations made Hutch dizzy.

Starsky smiled at him, dark blue eyes glowing, “Y’know, I’m sure glad Garner resisted arrest, Hutch; if he hadn’t walloped me, you’d be at an Aerosmith concert instead of here.”

Hutch laughed and nibbled the nearest earlobe. “I’m glad you were standing in front of that window—I might never have known.” He hugged Starsky close, brushed a kiss through the dark hair. “How long have you felt like this?”

“Long, long time, Hutch. I think I wanted you the first time I saw you. I never wanted a man before and didn’t realize that’s what it was, at first. By the end of the first week I didn’t just want you, I loved you.” He ran a hand over Hutch’s face, fingers barely touching the skin. “I never thought you’d ever want me,” he added simply.

“How about I show you how much you’re wanted?” Hutch murmured, and kissed his throat, slipping his hands beneath Starsky’s shirt, wanting the feel of his skin.

Starsky sighed blissfully, wrapped his arms around Hutch, and laid his head on his shoulders.

“Your skin feels like satin, you know. Feels wonderful.” Hutch closed his eyes, letting his other senses take ever. Silken skin beneath his fingers, hard muscles and the strong curve of ribs. “Wonderful,” he repeated.

A black curl brushed his nose and he buried his face in Starsky’s hair. It was redolent of the English birch-scented shampoo Starsky liked; mingled with Starsky’s favorite sandalwood cologne, a tang of whiskey, and the warm scent of the man himself. A marvelous distillation.

Did the light bronze skin taste as good as it felt, he wondered? Hutch ran his tongue slowly along a cheekbone, and Starsky shivered.

“Hmm, that feels good,” he murmured.

“So do you; you feel good, smell good, taste good.”

Starsky looked dazedly at him, grinning in a silly way. “Do I? That’s good. Why’m I so dizzy, Hutch? Everything’s all nice ‘n fuzzy.”

Fuzzy? Hutch looked at him for a moment, perplexed, then chuckled ruefully. All that alcohol. “I don’t suppose you had dinner?”

Starsky considered it, then shook his head. “Don’t think so. Are you hungry?”

Hutch kissed his forehead, a sudden irrational amusement filling him. Somehow it seemed apropos; who else would try to make love to a man who was so drunk he couldn’t stand up? It was surprising Starsky hadn’t passed out by now.

“Yeah, but it’ll wait. I think you need sleep more than anything right now. Stand up.”

Starsky looked at him bemusedly and didn’t move.

“C’mon, up. On your feet, David; you’re half out already and I’m not going to carry you.”

“You’ve never called me by my name before,” he said softly, and the quiet pleasure in his voice rippled through Hutch’s heart. He coaxed Starsky to his rather unsteady feet and held him, loving the weight of him in his arms. “Let’s get you to bed, love.”

Hutch got him undressed and under the covers, and bent to kiss the hopeful lips.

“Love you go much, Hutch—you don’t want me to start calling you Ken, do you? I don’t like it; doesn’t fit you.” It was spoken with the heart-deep sincerity of the well-pickled.

Hutch grinned and ran a finger down the bridge of Starsky’s nose. “‘I don’t like it either. And you’re the first one that ever called me Hutch, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Hutch?”

“Just a second, let me join you.” His clothes thrown over a chair, he slid under the covers and gathered Starsky into his arms. “Now, love, what?”

Starsky snuggled closer. “Don’t use my name at work, okay? Just when we’re together…” He looked at Hutch, eyes worried. “This isn’t just for tonight, is it?”

“Tonight, and every other night of my life, Starsk.”

Starsky considered that for a moment, his eyes never leaving Hutch’s face. “That sounds almost like it could be a proposal, Hutch.”

Hutch smiled, turned his head to kiss the fingers that were stroking his face. “Probably because it is. Do you accept? Please accept it, David.”

“I accept.” The voice was a bare whisper, filled with a sleepy happiness.

“I’m glad. Go to sleep, love,” Hutch said softly. Starsky settled against him, his lips brushing Hutch’s throat as he fell asleep.

Contentment greater than Hutch had ever dared hope was possible filled him. All he needed in the world to be happy was asleep in his arms now. All his days at Starsky’s side, all his nights in his arms. “Always going to be with you,” he murmured. He could feel drowsiness overtaking him and he smiled, welcoming it.

Chapter End Notes: Suggested by “The Boxer” by Jane Aumerle, printed in the zine 10-13/ii.