Milestone

111

Hutch hits a milestone birthday and asks Starsky not to make a fuss. Can Starsky respect Hutch’s wishes and if so, is that what Hutch really wants?

 

Originally published in the zine Blue Eyes and Blue Jeans in 1995 by Linda McGee.

---

Hutch woke up slowly, enjoying—even in his semiconscious state—the happy knowledge that it was Sunday and that he didn’t have to go to work.

Then his pleasant mood ended abruptly as he remembered, with a jolt, what day it was. With a muffled groan, he buried his face in the pillow as if to shut out the unhappy realization.

When he’d been a kid, forty had sounded ancient. Hell, even yesterday, when he’d still been in his thirties, forty had sounded ancient. But now—on this hot August morning in 1983, despite all his secret hopes that he would stay young forever—he had turned forty.

Come on, he tried to cheer himself. Okay, so you’re forty, but you have a good life, don’t you? In fact, he had a better life now than he’d ever had before: a good job, working as a therapist for the LAPD’s Task Force for Abused Children; good health, with no bullet wounds or stress-related ulcers to worry about; this house—so okay, it was owned mostly by the bank, but he and Starsky owned a good part of it, too. And he had Starsky—although sometimes he wondered if that was a blessing or a curse…

Hutch’s eyes opened at the thought of his lover, but, to his surprise, the space next to him was empty. Usually when he woke up, Starsky was still sleeping beside him, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He glanced at his pocket watch on the nightstand; it was a little before eight. He frowned. Starsky, getting up before eight on a Sunday, that’s not Christmas?

Dark suspicions niggled his mind. Maybe Starsky had arisen early to plan an elaborate party for Hutch’s birthday—but no, that couldn’t be. Hutch’s mind went back to a conversation they’d had several days before, at dinner.

“Hey, your birthday’s comin’ up next Sunday,” Starsky said, liberally filling a potato skin with butter. It had been Starsky’s night to cook, so—predictably, they’d had hamburgers and potatoes again. “How d’you want to celebrate?”

Hutch resisted an urge to sigh. The last thing he wanted to think about was his birthday; he’d been pushing its imminent arrival out of his mind for weeks now. “Starsky, I really don’t want to celebrate my birthday at all.”

“Okay,” Starsky said amiably. “No big deal. We’ll just have a few friends over and a small cake…”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Hutch interrupted. “I don’t want to celebrate. The last thing I want to think about is turning…” He couldn’t say the fatal number forty. “…a year older.”

Starsky, reading his mind as always, gave him a grin. “Hey,” he said cheerfully, “what’s so awful about bein’ forty? I’ve been forty for five months now, and it ain’t so bad.”

“It ain’t so good, either.”

Candid blue eyes gazed into his. “You ‘re not worried about losin’ your looks, are ya? ‘Cause let me tell you, you could lose half your looks and still be more gorgeous than anybody else around.”

“You’re a little prejudiced. But no, I’m not worried about losing my looks, as you put it.”

“Then what is it?” Starsky wanted to know. “You usually like to celebrate birthdays.”

“Starsky, you’re confusing me with you,” Hutch snapped. “I’ve never liked celebrating birthdays. Now can’t we change the subject?”

Starsky, of course, didn’t take the hint. He never did. “You’re not afraid of dying or anything, are you?” he persisted. “I mean, I know lots of guys start thinkin’ about that stuff when they turn forty…”

Hutch shook his head. “No. In fact, I’m less afraid of death now than I was when we were still on the streets.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Hutch hesitated, not sure he could explain, even to himself, why he didn’t want to think about turning forty. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s that… forty is a kind of a halfway mark, a milestone. A time to look back at your life and see what you’ve done. And I haven’t done nearly as much as I’ve wanted to.”

“Well, you still have time to do them. Forty isn’t old…”

“No, it’s middle-aged, which is worse. Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore, all right? Can’t we just forget my birthday without a ten-hour discussion?”

“Okay,” Starsky agreed. “But I still don’t see why we can’t have a couple of friends over, with just a little cake and maybe some ice cream and balloons and…”

“No!” Hutch burst out. “Dammit, haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I don’t want to celebrate turning forty, because I don’t think turning forty is anything to celebrate! Okay?”

Starsky held up both hands in mock surrender. “Okay. Don’t shoot,” he said meekly. “I promise we’ll just forget about your turnin’ forty if that’s what you really want. How’s that?”

Hutch was mollified. For Starsky, who loved celebrations of all kinds, this was a big concession. “Thanks, Starsk,” he said sincerely.

“You’re welcome.” Starsky stood up from the table. “Now, y’want some dessert? I think there’s some Twinkies left from a couple of weeks ago…”

* * * *

Hutch knew Starsky, of course. He knew his friend’s promise to forget Hutch’s birthday would be kept for about two minutes at the most. But at least, he thought hopefully, his promise might make Starsky tone down whatever he had planned, not give him too elaborate a party or too expensive a gift He hoped so, anyway.

He pulled himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

* * * *

Freshly shaved and showered, and dressed in white shorts and a cotton shirt, Hutch walked into the kitchen and found Starsky busily turning pancakes on a sizzling griddle. Since he was bending over the stove, Hutch couldn’t help but notice that his partner’s jeans fit him like a second skin.

Forty years old, he thought affectionately, and he still has the firm, round butt of a guy in his twenties. Impulsively he grabbed his lover from behind and, pulling him against him, gave him a tight hug.

Starsky reached up with his free hand—the one not holding the spatula—to squeeze Hutch’s arm. Then he turned around, and they kissed.

“You taste good,” Starsky said.

“So do you. Up early, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I had some paperwork I wanted to get caught up on. D’you sleep well?”

“Perfect.” Hutch released him. “Making breakfast?”

“Yep. Pancakes with blueberries. I know you like ’em.”

Hutch waited for him to add, “By the way, Happy Birthday,” but, to his surprise, he didn’t. After waiting a few more seconds and still not hearing the expected words, Hutch sat down at the kitchen table.

“You have to work today?” he asked as he poured coffee. Starsky worked as an investigator for a big Hollywood law firm, and he often had to work on weekends.

“Nope,” Starsky said cheerily. “All I had was some paperwork, and that’s done already.” He scooped the pancakes off the griddle with his spatula and slid them onto two plates; then he dropped one plate in front of Hutch and one at his own place and sat down.

Hutch looked down at his plate warily, anticipating a candle stuck in the middle of the pancakes or maybe even “Happy Birthday” spelled out in blueberries—something with typical Starsky flamboyance. But the pancakes looked as ordinary as Aunt Jemima’s.

Starsky started snowing his pancakes under with huge spoonful’s of powdered sugar—an act that gave Hutch the cold shivers; even after four years of living with him he could not get used to his partner’s bizarre eating habits. “So,” Starsky said, “what d’you want to do today?”

Lord, I don’t believe him, Hutch thought. Acting as if today’s just any other day! Then it hit him that Starsky’s innocent act was calculated; that he had something devious plotted—probably an elaborate surprise party, despite his promise—and was just not mentioning Hutch’s birthday to get him off guard. Well, two could play at that game.

Deliberately delaying answering the question, he sipped coffee. Then he said, “Well, I thought I’d fertilize and water the orange trees. And the drain in the bathroom has been sluggish—I thought I’d check that out.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Starsky complained. “I got up early to finish my paperwork just so we could have the whole day free to do somethin’ fun. How about if we go play some miniature golf?”

Hutch almost laughed at the offhand tone of Starsky’s voice. Of course—they would go out, then while on the road Starsky would suggest casually that they stop in on some friend or another, and the second they walked inside the front door of the friend’s house, everyone would yell, “Surprise!” Starsky was so transparent at times it wasn’t even funny.

“Nah, let’s stay home,” he said, unable to resist this opportunity to tease Starsky a little. “It’s probably going to be too hot to play golf.”

To his surprise, Starsky didn’t push it. “Okay, whatever you want,” he said with a shrug. He started eating his pancakes.

Hutch waited for the other shoe to drop—for Starsky to burst out with some kind of suggestion meant to sound spontaneous but that was really part of some diabolical scheme to lure Hutch to wherever his surprise party was being held. But Starsky just went on eating with his usual enthusiasm—saying nothing.

Hutch turned his attention to his own meal, even though his curiosity had taken away most of his appetite. There were times when Starsky was really too aggravating to be borne.

* * * *

After breakfast was over Hutch went out to the back yard with a twenty-pound bag of Bandini Citrus Food and a shovel. As he spread the white powder around the trunks of the two orange trees and then turned on the hose to water them, he wondered, once again, what Starsky was up to.

Well, it was obvious he had some really big wheels in motion—otherwise he wouldn’t be acting so innocent. Hutch wondered how elaborate the party would be. Maybe it would be as elaborate as the fortieth birthday party he had given Starsky last March. That had been a real extravaganza—lots of people, a hired band, a catered smorgasbord, games, and many presents. Hutch still remembered how Starsky’s face had lit up when Hutch had brought out his present: a brand-new 350cc Harley. Huggy had been keeping it in his storage room for three weeks and had brought it to the party in the back of a borrowed pickup truck. Starsky’s yell of joy had been loud enough to measure 8.0 on the Richter scale. Hutch smiled at the memory.

He finished watering the orange trees and then moved to the tomato plants. The tomatoes hadn’t been that good that year—small and tasteless—but still, he didn’t want them to wither in the August heat.

His thoughts went back to Starsky again. Dammit, what was that curly-headed demon planning?

He had no idea. And the realization of the fact that after all these years he couldn’t read his partner as well as he’d thought he could irritated the hell out of him.

* * * *

Starsky, in the living room watching a video tape of cartoons, looked up when Hutch came in. “Hot out?” he asked.

Hutch, not in a good mood to start with, felt even more annoyed by the moronic question. Since Starsky must have noticed Hutch’s t-shirt and shorts were streaked with sweat, it should’ve been obvious to him that it was a hot day. “No, it’s nice and brisk,” he said sarcastically. “As a matter of fact, it’s snowing. Want to go make a snowman?”

Starsky just grinned at him like a parent indulging a temperamental child and went back to watching Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner.

Hutch, peeling off his damp t-shirt, stalked off to the bathroom. He had been planning to ask Starsky to take his shower with him, but damned if he would now, with Starsky in the mood he was in.

Once in the shower, however, the cool water sluicing down his body and washing away all the heat and sweat made Hutch feel a little more cheerful. What the hell, he thought as he scrubbed shampoo into his scalp, he’d turned forty, but it wasn’t so bad, was it? There were some things that were worse—the time Diana Harmon had stabbed him, for example; that had been worse. The time Vanessa had been killed and he’d been a suspect; that had been worse. And…

He felt his heart turn to ice as he thought: When Starsky was shot. Even four years later, that memory could freeze his blood—Starsky lying there on the concrete, barely breathing, bleeding from three bullet wounds. And he knew that memory would freeze his blood until the day he died.

But then, bad as that time had been, it had ultimately led to his and Starsky’s realization that they loved each other—and that life was too short to worry about conventional rules. Shortly after Starsky’s release from the hospital they had bought this house together and had made a commitment to each other, and these last four years had been, without a doubt, the happiest of Hutch’s life.

After his shower he pulled on jeans and a cotton shirt and walked back into the living room—to find Starsky talking on the telephone in a low, secretive voice. Hutch suppressed a self-satisfied smirk.

Aha, caught in the act, buddy. Now you’re going to hang up quick, pretending the call was a wrong number or something when I know it’s somebody about my surprise party. And then, ten -to-one, you ‘ll make up a perfectly logical excuse for us to go wherever the party’s being held. Real subtle, Starsk, but you should know by now I can always see through your tricks.

Blithely Hutch sat down on the sofa and picked up “People.” Starsky shot a look at him, then said into the phone, “I gotta go now. Bye, see ya later, okay?” and hung up hastily.

Hutch somehow managed to keep a straight face. “Phone survey?” he asked with, he thought, just the right amount of polite interest.

“Nope—Merle. About the Torino.” This Torino was, of course, not the original Torino—that had croaked long ago—but another Gran Torino, which Starsky had found several months before through an ad in one of his sleazy car fancier magazines. The trouble was, this Torino was in such bad shape it spent more time in the repair shop than it did on the freeway. “He says it’s all fixed and ready to be picked up.”

“Merle’s getting dedicated in his old age, attending to shop business on a Sunday,” Hutch remarked, finding it harder and harder to keep from laughing. Of course, the party was at Merle’s garage—why hadn’t he thought of that before? It was a perfect place: nice and roomy and centrally located, too. “And you have to go get the car right now, right?” he added, playing along.

Starsky shook his head. “Nah—it’s too hot to go all the way out there today. Maybe, if you don’t mind, you could drop me off there on your way to work tomorrow morning, though. Would that be okay?”

“Sure, that would be fine,” Hutch said, hoping his surprise didn’t show on his face. Was it possible that phone call hadn’t been about his surprise party after all? And where the hell was Starsky planning on having that surprise party anyway?

He wished that Starsky would hurry up and get this over with. All this suspense was driving him nuts.

“Almost time for lunch,” Starsky remarked, looking at his watch. “Whose turn is it to cook?”

“Yours.”

Starsky sighed—then brightened. “Hey—why don’t we go to a restaurant somewhere?” he suggested. “‘S too hot to cook anyway.”

Aha! Hutch felt a surge of triumph. Of course—Starsky had Hutch’s surprise party waiting for him at some restaurant or other. He’d probably rented a whole banquet room and spent a small fortune. “Where do you have in mind?” he asked.

“I don’t know, someplace cool. Hey, I’ve got an idea. We could pack a picnic lunch and go to the beach. It should be nice and cool there.”

The beach? My surprise party’s going to be on the beach? Hutch hadn’t been to a party on the beach since his year at Pepperdine Law School. “Starsky, it’ll be crowded as hell at the beach,” he protested. “After all, it’s Sunday.”

“Not if we go up north—to Point Magu or La Jolla.”

Hutch stifled further protests. The idea of having his party on the beach didn’t exactly thrill him, but he supposed he had little choice; he couldn’t leave all their friends stranded there, after all. “Okay,” he said reluctantly.

“Mind if I drive?” Starsky asked.

Hutch shook his head, suppressing a smile. Naturally Starsky would have to drive, since Starsky knew where the party was. “Not at all,” he said, tossing his friend the car keys. “I’m in your hands, partner.”

Starsky flashed him a grin as he caught the keys and pocketed them. “I’ll remember that when we get home,” he said, impishly wriggling his eyebrows as he headed for the kitchen. “I’ll go get the picnic basket, and then we can go, okay?”

* * * *

“Here we are,” Starsky announced, turning off the ignition.

Hutch stared out at the beach. Except for a few gulls hanging out on some driftwood, and some sandpipers pecking in the sand, it was completely deserted. Where the hell’s my party?

“Where are we?” he wanted to know.

“Point Magu.” Starsky bent over the back seat to grab the picnic basket, giving Hutch a delicious—and tantalizing—view of his butt in his tight jeans. “I told you there wouldn’t be a crowd if we came far enough north—we’ll have the whole place to ourselves. Great, huh?”

“Yeah, great,” Hutch muttered. Climbing out of his LTD he followed Starsky down the beach, still wondering where his party was. Dammit, he’d never known Starsky to be this devious. He really was being a pain in the ass!

After some critical assessment, Starsky found a spot that he obviously decided was suitable and spread out the blanket. “Hope we’ve got enough food,” he said, opening the picnic basket and pulling out ajar of pickles, a package of chocolate chip cookies, a sixpack of Coors, a greasy bag of onion rings, and four sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

“I think there’s enough here to feed the Chinese army,” Hutch said drily, sitting down next to him. Maybe everyone’s arriving later, he thought. Yeah, that would make sense—catch me really off guard. But how are they going to spring a surprise party on me out here, where you can see for miles in every direction?

Still wondering, he unwrapped one of the sandwiches and saw it was chicken and avocado salad—his favorite. “Starsky, where’d you get these sandwiches?” he asked. “You didn’t have time to make them before we left, and I know we didn’t have any avocados in the crisper anyway.”

Starsky grinned. “What are you, a detective or somethin’? Okay, I confess. I bought these sandwiches at a deli this morning when you were workin’ on the orange trees, ’cause I thought it’d be fun to go on a picnic—if I could talk you into it, that is. I bought the onion rings there too. And the pickles and cookies.” He held up a red plastic squeeze bottle. “I even bought some ketchup for the onion rings.”

“You’re such a gourmet,” Hutch remarked, only half-hearing his own words as another thought hit him. Maybe Starsky had brought him here to the beach so that their friends could set up his surprise party back at the house. But if he had, why had he brought so much food? Neither of them would have any room for the cake…

Starsky unwrapped his own sandwich. “Cmon, eat up,” he urged, when Hutch didn’t join him. “The food’s gonna get cold.”

“Starsky, picnic food is supposed to be cold.”

“Ah, stop arguin’ and eat.” Starsky bit into his sandwich. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”

It appears so, Hutch thought gloomily.

“C’mon, dig in. You know how cranky you get when you skip meals.”

Hutch glared at him, but, realizing that a sharp comeback would only prove Starsky’s statement, bit into his sandwich in silence. He found, to his surprise, that it was quite good. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, after all the work he’d done that morning. He took several more bites, then uncapped a beer.

“You know, I’ve been thinkin’.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“Very funny. You want to hear this or not?”

“Sure.” Hutch helped himself to a cookie.

“Well, I was thinkin’ about what you said the other day, about milestones. And you know, I think it’s all in the way you look at it.”

“What?”

“I mean like—well, take turnin’ forty. That sounds like it’s kinda old, doesn’t it? But it’s just in the way you look at it I mean, look at Peter Falk.”

Peter Falk? “What about him?” Hutch asked.

Starsky shrugged. “Well, I was readin’ one time about him and how he got the part of Columbo for all those TV movies. Y’know, the guys who put together ‘Columbo’ almost didn’t hire him at first because they said he was too young for the part when he first auditioned.” Pause. “He was forty.”

Hutch went back to munching on his sandwich, hoping Starsky would get the message and shut up. But of course, he didn’t.

“And you know George Bernard Shaw?”

“Of course. One of the greatest playwrights who ever lived, besides Shakespeare and Ibsen.”

“Yep. Well, he was forty-seven when he wrote Man and Superman. Lots of people think that was his greatest play. That and Saint Joan—which he wrote twenty years after that, when he was in his sixties.”

Hutch kept control of himself with an effort. “And what about Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?” he asked coldly. “How old was he when he wrote his first symphony—five or six?”

Starsky made a dismissing gesture. “Mozart also died when he was thirty-five. Who knows what he would’ve done if he’d lived past forty? Look at Humphrey Bogart—he wasn’t even a star until his early forties, when he did High Sierra and The Maltese Falcon; until then nobody had heard of him. An’ he didn’t get his Oscar until he was in his fifties, for The African Queen. And look at Harlan Sanders—Colonel Sanders—y’know when he started Kentucky Fried Chicken, Hutch? When he got his first Social Security check. Grandma Moses was in her eighties before she painted for the first time. You get what I’m sayin’? All of these were milestones—important events in these people’s lives. And they happened at all different ages. So see,” he ended triumphantly, “age doesn’t mean anythin’.”

“You’re telling me life begins at forty, right?” Hutch said, with heavy sarcasm.

“Sure,” Starsky said enthusiastically. “Now you’re getting’ it!”

Abruptly Hutch had had enough. He grabbed the squeeze bottle of ketchup and let Starsky have it right in the face. Starsky yelped like a scalded cat and grabbed the bottle from Hutch’s hand—which made even more ketchup squirt all over him.

“Hutcchhhhh!” he wailed. “Look at what you did!”

Hutch grinned. “Yeah. You’ve never looked better.”

“You creepy shit!” Starsky flew at him, and Hutch quickly reacted by grabbing both Starsky’s fists and pushing him down on the sand on his back, pinning his arms above his head and climbing on top of him. Starsky tried to struggle up—and couldn’t.

“Let me up, dammit!”

“Nope.”

Starsky glared, but he was helpless and he knew it. “Come on, let me go,” he begged. “The ketchup is starting to itch.”

Hutch grinned wider. “Yeah? I’ll fix that.” Moving down, he licked some of the ketchup off Starsky’s face.

“Cut it out!” Starsky wriggled under him.

Hutch licked again. “Mmm. You taste good.” He went on licking. And licking. There wasn’t any more ketchup on Starsky’s face, but this definitely felt too good to stop. Of course, he hadn’t planned on this happening when he’d squirted Starsky, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of it.

Starsky moaned. “Cmon, Hutch—let me up!”

“And give you a chance to get away? Not a chance.”

“This is cruel and inhuman treatment That’s grounds for divorce.”

“We’re not married.”

“Sure we are. We live together, don’t we? Common law marriage. Come on, let go.”

Reluctantly Hutch realized he probably should do as Starsky asked. They were in public, after all, and even though the beach was deserted they could be seen from the road—and the two of them getting busted on an L&L would be damned embarrassing. He released Starsky.

The next second Starsky’s arms were around him and he was kissing Hutch thoroughly.

Hutch was annoyed by his partner’s abrupt turnaround—but not too annoyed to kiss him back. He explored Starsky’s mouth leisurely with his tongue, and felt a tight, delicious pressure in his balls in reaction.

“Hey, let’s have a quickie,” Starsky whispered.

Hutch was astonished at himself to realize that he was almost tempted to acquiesce. But he shook his head. “Starsky, we can’t. We’re in public. Now c’mon, let’s finish our meal.”

Starsky gave him a plaintive, puppy-dog look, but when that engendered no response, he sighed in resignation and let go of him. “Okay, okay. But I think you’re really a shit,” he said.

Hutch flashed him a smile. “Being a shit is part of my nature,” he said, helping himself to an onion ring. “And you wouldn’t want me to go against my basic nature, would you? I might start to stutter.”

Starsky snorted. “You already stutter. But okay. Have your fun. But I warn you—you’ll get yours later. Believe it.”

“Maybe,” Hutch said blandly. “But before you plan on attacking me again, partner, remember—I’m five months younger than you.”

* * * *

They arrived back in Tarzana by mid-afternoon. Hutch, sure that he would be attacked on all sides by hearty cries of, “Surprise!” the moment he stepped over the threshold, was stunned when he walked into their house and found it exactly the way they’d left it. No balloons, no streamers, no huge cake with gobs of icing, no big banner saying, “HAPPY 40TH, HUTCH.” Except for a few flies buzzing at a window, the house was as silent and devoid of life as a tomb.

Starsky dropped the picnic basket on the kitchen counter. “Home sweet home,” he said brightly, grinning at Hutch.

Damn him, he’s actually enjoying knowing that I’m going crazy wondering when I’m going to get my party. I swear one of these days I’m going to murder him.

Not knowing what else to do, just knowing he was damned if he was going to ask Starsky what was going on, Hutch said, “I’m going to go fix the drain in the bathroom.”

Starsky nodded. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “Guess I’ll play with the Atari.”

* * * *

Hutch spent a long, frustrating time working under the bathroom sink, several times having to use all his self-control to keep from pounding the uncooperative pipe with the wrench. What the hell is he up to? If I’m not ready for Cabrillo State by the end of the day, it’s going to be a miracle.

Then, abruptly, he heard the grandfather clock in the den chime five p.m. He looked up with a frown; he hadn’t realized it was getting that late. At this rate the day would be all over with before his party even got started…

Reattaching the pipe without any major catastrophes, he walked back into the living room to find Starsky sprawled on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, reading the LA. Times and looking as innocent as a newly-laid egg. Hutch wondered if his party was going to be combined with some fancy dinner somewhere. But if it was, wouldn’t Starsky have suggested, by now, that they go out someplace? Of course, he could’ve planned the party for after dinner—but no, that didn’t make sense. Starsky wouldn’t plan a party without a huge amount of food—and who would want to eat party food after already having had dinner?

Unless—Hutch thought with some horror—there wasn’t going to be any surprise party after all. Was it possible that Starsky had, for the first time in his life, taken Hutch at his word? That he really was going to forget Hutch’s birthday after all?

God! You work with a guy, you’re friends with him, you sleep with him, you live with him and you think you know him!

“‘House of Wax’ is on channel 13 tonight,” Starsky said, interrupting Hutch’s morose thoughts. “Starts at seven. Want to watch it?”

Hutch looked up at the ceiling and counted to ten.

“Hutch? You hear me?”

“I heard you,” Hutch snapped. “I haven’t gone deaf yet, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Starsky said, his voice soothing. “Well? Y’want to watch it or not?”

Hutch thought it over. Over the years, he had become used to watching horror movies with Starsky—and had even learned to enjoy them a little. And he supposed there were worse ways to spend an evening. Especially since Starsky loved to snuggle while watching a good horror flick. “Is that the movie where Vincent Price kills people and turns them into wax dummies for his museum?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” Hutch said. He attempted a smile. “As long as you promise to hold my hand during the scary parts.”

Starsky grinned. “You got a deal.”

Hutch suppressed a sigh. I was right—there’s no party, he thought miserably. Starsky wouldn’t miss a Vincent Price movie for all the birthdays in the world.

He sat down on the couch next to Starsky and, grabbing the newspaper section on top of the pile, tried to read—but his heart wasn’t in it. How could Starsky do this to him? His fortieth birthday—one of the biggest birthdays of anybody’s life, and Starsky was treating it like it was nothing!

Then on the wake of that thought came another—even worse—one. Maybe Starsky hadn’t even bought him a present!

It was entirely possible. The day before, when Starsky had been at Merle’s, Hutch had ransacked the whole house to find his birthday gift—searching more thoroughly than he’d ever searched a room for clues during his days as an LA cop—but had found nothing. He’d thought at the time that Starsky had just hidden his present in a very good place, or maybe that he was keeping it somewhere other than their house—as Hutch had done with Starsky’s present. But now it occurred to him that maybe Starsky had just decided, since Hutch had said he wanted his birthday forgotten, not to give him anything at all.

It was almost impossible to believe—but at this point Hutch wouldn’t have put anything past Starsky.

Again, he looked at his partner, who had left the comics and was now reading Dear Abby. This was too much. Not getting his party had been bad enough, but not getting a present for his birthday was more than any mortal man should have to bear.

“Starsky, where’s my present?” he blurted.

Starsky looked up at him, blue eyes innocent “What present?”

“My birthday present, dammit!” Hutch didn’t even care that he was raising his voice. “Or didn’t you get me one because you’re mad at me for telling you to forget my birthday?”

Starsky looked hurt. “Hey, why should I be mad? I mean, you’ve got a right to have your birthday exactly the way you want it. An’ haven’t I gone along with you? Did I even say Happy Birthday once?”

“No, you didn’t, and I’ve really appreciated it,” Hutch gritted out. “But I know you—you’d never miss the chance to give a birthday present, no matter what I said. Now where is it?”

Starsky lowered the paper. “You really want it now?” he asked.

Hutch felt a flash of real temper.  He could be patient if he had to be, but enough was enough. “You want me to beg? Forget it, Starsky. No present from you is worth begging for.” He picked up the L.A. Times again and started reading an article about popular music, noting with part of his mind that the top-selling single just then was a song called “Every Breath You Take” by a group called The Police.

After a minute or so Starsky said: “How do you know it’s not worth beggin’ for until you’ve seen it?”

Hutch looked up from the paper.  Dammit, that boyishly vulnerable tone that Starsky’s voice took on occasionally always made him turn to mush. “I guess I don’t,” he admitted, feeling a little sheepish, now that he’d lost his temper. “So, you did get me a present?”

“Sure I got you a present,” Starsky said. “How could I forget givin’ my own partner a present? I was just savin’ it for bed tonight, that’s all, but if you want it, I’ll give it to you now. I think you’ll like it.” He smiled shyly.

Hutch smiled back in spite of himself. Starsky had always had enough charm for two people. “I would like it now,” he confessed. “My curiosity is really killing me.” Pause. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Starsky jumped up. “I’ll go get it.” Then, when Hutch moved to follow him: “Uh-uh, you stay where you are. I found a really good hidin’ place for this one and I don’t want you to find out what it is. I might want to use it again.” He walked out.

A minute or two later he came back into the living room, grinning proudly and holding out a tiny package—so tiny, in fact, that Hutch could hardly see the box underneath its big red bow. He handed it to Hutch. “Happy birthday, babe.”

Wondering what it could possibly be, Hutch hefted the package. “Not very big, and not very heavy,” he remarked. “Guess it can’t be much.”

Starsky looked offended. “Hey. Ain’t you ever heard good things come in small packages? Go on, open it.”

Hutch almost didn’t want to. He had the feeling that this present was too small to be anything more than one of Starsky’s famous gag gifts—a brochure for a retirement village, maybe, or perhaps a coupon for Great Day Hair Coloring for Men. Something typical of Starsky’s bizarre sense of humor.

“Hutch? Cmon, open it up,” Starsky urged.

Realizing there was no escape, Hutch took off the bright red bow and discarded it. Then he pulled apart the bright red wrapping paper to reveal a small black velvet box. Staring at it, he felt a wave of deja vu. Years ago, when he’d asked Vanessa to marry him, he had given her a box just likethis…

No, it couldn’t be.

He flicked the box open and saw that it was.

Staring down at the gleaming gold circlet nestled in its bed of white crushed velvet, Hutch found himself unable to speak. Then he looked up at Starsky to see his partner looking back at him.

“Is this what I think it is?” Hutch asked.

“Yep. That is,” Starsky added as if an afterthought, “it is if you think it’s a wedding ring.”

Carefully Hutch took the ring out of its case; it felt heavy and cool in his hand. The gift was so unexpected that he was stunned to near speechlessness.

“I had it engraved, too,” Starsky said.

Hutch felt renewed amazement.  Starsky, who hated soapy scenes, not only giving him a ring but having it engraved? “You’re kidding,” he said.

“Would I kid a partner?” Starsky demanded. “Goon, read it. It’s inside.”

Hutch held the ring up to the light. The engraving was small, but by squinting he just managed to make out the inscription.

“‘To Hutch from David,'” he read aloud.  He felt his voice choke on the next words, but somehow he managed to finish, his voice now a whisper. “‘Me and Thee Forever.'”

He looked up at Starsky again, somehow managing to smile through his tears. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

“You really like it?”

“Oh, for… I love it, you moron. Didn’t I tell you it’s beautiful?”

Starsky smiled with relief. “Good. ‘M glad, ’cause since it’s engraved it can’t be returned.” He took the gold band and slipped it onto Hutch’s third finger, left hand. “Perfect fit,” he said.

“We always were,” Hutch said softly.

“Yeah, we were, weren’t we?” Starsky said, his voice soft, too. “Ever since the beginning-even before we were lovers. Hutch?”

“Yeah, Starsk?”

“I know I don’t tell you this very often, but—I love you, y’know? More than I’ve ever loved anybody else. You’re…” Starsky looked a little embarrassed but doggedly finished his thought: “You’re everything.”

Hutch felt a little weak. Starsky had said those words to him before, but never had he believed him more than now. But still he managed to tease, “Getting a little sentimental in your old age, aren’t you?”

“I hope so.” Starsky spoke the words with complete seriousness. “Why not? Now that we’re no longer kids, we don’t have to worry about bein’ macho anymore. Oh, by the way,” he added, “I bought a ring for myself too. But I thought maybe you’d rather pick out one for me, so if you want, we can return it.”

“Really?” Hutch was even more moved by this revelation. Starsky not only wanted him to wear a ring but was willing to wear one himself as well. “Where is it?”

“In the box—underneath.”

Hutch moved the white velvet wadding in the box and saw the ring underneath—a perfect match to his. He took it out.

“No engraving,” Hutch said, after glancing inside the ring.

“No, I thought you’d like to think up for yourself what you want engraved on mine.”

“I’ll try to think up something appropriate,” Hutch promised. He slipped the ring on Starsky’s third finger, left hand; it slid on easily. “You know, Starsk,” he ventured after a moment, “if we wear rings, everyone will know about us. I mean, people suspect already, since the two of us have lived together for four years, but if we wear these rings out in public, they’ll know.”

“So what?” Starsky demanded. “I want people to know, Hutch. I’m proud of us—I’m proud that you love me, and that I love you.”

Hutch reached up and stroked Starsky’s curls, which over the last year or so had become flecked with a few silver strands but were still as abundant as ever. “Hey,” he murmured, “I just thought of something I’d like to engrave on your ring.”

“Yeah? What?”

“‘Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.'”

“Elizabeth Browning, right?”

“Close, but no cigar. Robert.”

Starsky shrugged. “Oh, well, I got the Browning part right.” Pulling Hutch close, he kissed him, and abruptly Hutch felt his excitement, which had been lying dormant since their adventure on the beach, flare back to life.

Starsky nuzzled his hair. “I told you on the beach you’d get yours later,” he murmured. “You want it now?”

Hutch smiled, even as he felt his body tremble with anticipation. “Yes, please,” he whispered huskily.

Starsky kissed him hard then, probing his lips with his tongue. Hutch clung to him, kissing him back.

“You feel so good,” he murmured. Already his voice was breathless, laden with desire.

Starsky unbuttoned Hutch’s shirt, tugged it off. “You do too,” he said. He pulled off Hutch’s shoes and socks, then climbed on top of him and kissed him again. “Real good,” he muttered. Deftly his fingers found a nipple and pinched—almost, but not quite, hard enough to hurt.

“Starsk…” Hutch hissed, and squirmed under Starsky’s hand, his excitement building.

Starsky moved his lips from Hutch’s to lick down his neck. Hutch gave himself up to the sensations, turning his head, encouraging the roaming lips to continue.

“You’re mine, blondie,” Starsky growled softly as his mouth reached a nipple and ever so gently bit down.

Hutch stifled an urge to giggle. He loved Starsky’s macho stud act—and Starsky knew it turned him on. Then he shivered as Starsky licked and bit, first one nipple, then the other. The pain/pleasure was almost too much.

“Starsky…” he moaned as he tried to push his throbbing erection against him. Starsky, with a feral smile, left Hutch’s nipple and teasingly licked down the sweaty blond’s chest and abdomen. “I love it when you lose control,” he whispered. “When all you can think of is how much you need me.”

Hutch moaned once more and clutched Starsky’s hair, thinking he would die if Starsky stopped his gentle ministrations.

“Tell me you need me, Hutch.” Starsky teased his belly button.

Hutch squirmed again, trying to rub his aching cock, now almost bursting in his pants, against Starsky’s chest.

“Tell me!” Starsky laid his hand on the top button of Hutch’s 501 jeans, but didn’t unfasten it—teasing Hutch even further.

“I need you,” Hutch whispered.

Starsky’s smile widened to a grin as he unbuttoned the top button of Hutch’s jeans, then licked the bared skin. “Tell me how you need me,” he whispered. His words blew hot air on Hutch’s already-feverish flesh, exciting him to a near frenzy.

“Lots.” The word came out on a breath of air.

Starsky unbuttoned the next button, once again licking bared skin.  “Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he murmured.

Hutch closed his eyes with the delicious sensations, feeling as if he was going to implode any minute. “Touch me,” he begged.

He felt Starsky unbutton the next two buttons of his fly, felt Starsky pull down his shorts a few inches.

“How do you want me to touch you?” Starsky continued, his voice a purr now.

“Starsky!” Hutch cried. He pushed up hard, frantic with need. What had started as just a game was now becoming almost unbearable torture.

“How do you want me to touch you?” Starsky repeated. This time the words were said slowly, very softly—and right against the straining bulge in Hutch’s half-unbuttoned jeans.

“With your mouth,” Hutch whispered. “With your hands. With your body. Starsk… please!”

Starsky, obeying Hutch’s plea, undid the last button on his jeans and slid them down his body. “Lift your hips, babe, so that I can get these off,” he whispered. When Hutch did, Starsky pulled his jeans and shorts off the entire way and then—to Hutch’s dismay—started to move off the couch.

“Hey…” Hutch tried to grab for him, to stop him. “Where’re you going?”

Starsky flashed a grin.  “Be right back, blintz. Don’t start without me.” He disappeared into the bedroom.

Hutch sank back against the pillows again, too weak to move. He marveled at the man who could take him to such heights with a touch, a look, a kiss. There was no denying Starsky loved him more than anyone ever had, and Hutch felt humbled by the thought.

His balls were starting to ache, and without thinking he reached down and rubbed himself soothingly. As he did, he heard the voice of his lover.

“I told you not to start without me!” Roughly, Starsky brushed Hutch’s hand away. Then he lay on top of him and took him into his mouth.

Instantly Hutch felt the flames rise in him again.

“David!” Once more he moved his hands into his lover’s curls, urging him on. Starsky was sucking, then licking, then sucking again. It felt so damned good Hutch felt all control leave his body.

He wasn’t even aware of the finger that moved up the crease in his ass until it rimmed the outer edge of the opening to his body. He realized then why Starsky had gone to the bedroom: to get the KY jelly.

“Oh, God!” he cried. He couldn’t decide whether to push up against the mouth, or back against the finger that waited at the entrance to his body.

“Easy, lover,” Starsky cooed. “You’ll get what you need.” The tongue left his cock and followed the finger up the crease. There it licked and probed.

Hutch could no longer think or speak. He moaned in wordless supplication as Starsky’s tongue worked its spell on him.

“Shhh.” Starsky stopped licking and squeezed his arm gently, giving him a moment to calm down. When Hutch’s moans lessened to breathless gasps, he felt a light touch on his face. Groggily he opened his eyes and tried to focus on his lover.

“You okay?” Starsky asked and was obviously reassured when Hutch managed to nod. “Good. Are you ready?”

Hutch somehow found his voice. “Yes, please,” he whispered.

Starsky knelt between his legs, and Hutch realized for the first time that Starsky was naked. “When did you get undressed?” he asked. His voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.

“Just now, when I went to the bedroom.” Starsky ran his hands lightly up Hutch’s inner thighs. “Want it this way, or on your stomach?”

“This way. Then I can see your face.”

“And I can see yours.” Starsky lubricated himself, then lifted one long leg to his shoulder. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you look when you lose control?” He turned his head and kissed inside one knee.

Hutch shivered a little at the caress. “I… don’t know.”

“How your eyes close… how you gasp for air… how you scream my name.” Starsky’s voice was a purr again as he moved the other leg up, kissed the other knee.

Hutch, panting, lifted himself so that he could feel the velvet steel that was his beloved’s throbbing cock.

“…How you claw at me and beg for more.” Starsky pushed the tip of his penis against the opening.

Then Starsky entered him.

Hutch gasped as the initial pain spread through his body, but he held onto Starsky tightly. After a few seconds Starsky, his voice coming out raspy, whispered: “Okay?”

Hutch nodded, and Starsky moved again, pushing farther into him. At first the movement was slow, with kisses and murmured endearments punctuating each thrust, but soon, as Hutch’s discomfort lessened, the tempo speeded up.

“Hutch… Hutch…”

“David…” Hutch clung to his partner’s shoulders, as if trying to pull Starsky deeper inside. “Harder! More! Don’t stop!” The words came in gasps as he felt his balls pull tighter and tighter against him, orgasm inching closer and closer.

“So hot, so tight… an’ all mine.” Starsky’s words were almost inaudible as he pounded harder. “Gonna come, gonna fill you with my love…”

“David!” Hutch arched his back and screamed his lover’s name one last time as his body exploded, as he felt the hot lava of Starsky’s come enter his body.

The spasms went on and on until Hutch thought they would never stop—but, gradually, they did. Hutch collapsed, panting, and Starsky collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath.

He moaned softly as Starsky withdrew. “No…” he protested.

“Shhh.” Starsky kissed his sweat-damp forehead. “I’ll go back in whenever you want me to.” He kissed him again. “Was that nice?” he asked, almost shyly.

“It was… wonderful.” Hutch was slightly amused to discover that his voice was raspy and his throat sore.

Starsky grinned at him, a little shakily. “Had you goin’ there, didn’t I, lover?”

Hutch returned the smile. “A little,” he admitted weakly.

“A little?” Starsky was indignant. “You were screamin’ for me! Admit it, blintz—you loved it.”

Hutch felt his smile soften. “I loved it,” he admitted. He kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Starsky gave him a hug, and their bodies, sweaty and sticky, seemed to mold together.

Hutch didn’t want to ask, but his curiosity urged him on. “Starsky?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Why did you—give me the wedding ring? I mean, we’ve been together for four years—why now? Was it just because it’s my birthday?”

Starsky looked pensive. “No, it wasn’t. It’s just that… your turnin’ forty… did something to me, I guess. I mean, I guess I always knew I was goin’ to get older, but I never knew you would. And one morning I just looked at you, across from me at the breakfast table, and realized that we didn’t have forever. And I knew then I wanted to be committed to you. I wanted us to feel like we belonged to each other.”

“We do.”

“I know we do, but I wanted us to feel like we do. Ah, hell, I guess I’m not makin’ any sense.”

Hutch gave him a reassuring squeeze. “You’re making perfect sense,” he told him. He stroked Starsky’s curls, which were rumpled and damp with sweat. “Hey, what do you say we take a shower, and then have our dinner in bed?”

Starsky pulled away a little, looking decidedly guilty.

“Starsky? What’s wrong?”

Sheepishly: “Ah, well, I was hopin’ we could go to Huggy’s for dinner. Yknow, to kinda celebrate your birthday.”

“Come on,” Hutch protested. “Pm wiped out. Aren’t you? And we can always go to Huggy’s tomorrow.”

Starsky shook his head. “I want to go now,” he said, almost plaintively.

Hutch was exasperated. “Starsky, are you telling me you’d honestly rather go to the Pits and have one of Huggy’s greasy meals than celebrate my birthday here alone with me?”

“Well, not exactly,” Starsky admitted. “But I told Huggy we were cornin’ by at seven, and you know he’ll be disappointed if we don’t.”

Hutch heard an alarm bell sound in his head. He felt his eyes narrow with suspicion as he stared at his partner. “Oh, no,” he said.

Shamefacedly, Starsky nodded.

In spite of the fact that he had suspected something like this was coming all day, Hutch was still outraged by his partner’s duplicity. “Starsky, you promised…”

Defiantly: “Hey, I promised I wouldn’t give you a party. I didn’t say anything about Huggy. And it won’t be so bad, Hutch. Everybody’s invited—all the guys from our days at Metro, Dobey and Edith and the kids, even some of our snitches. And Minnie baked a huge chocolate cake in the shape of a giant ’40’…”

“Starsky, I don’t want a birthday party!” Hutch wailed.

“Sure you do. You’ve been itchin’ for one all day—I could tell. An’ it’s too late to cancel now; everybody’s already there.” Starsky gave Hutch a puckish kiss, then bounced up. “Now c’mon, let’s take a shower, get our clothes on, and get goin’. I’m starvin’, and you know Huggy doesn’t like to be kept waitin’.”

* * * *

Need by Leah Starsky

I used to think
You didn’t need me,
That I was the dependent one.
Always needing you.
Too blind to see the little things.

Through the years I’ve seen
You shyly reaching out.
Staying close,
Hiding behind a wall of feigned aloofness.
You don’t have to hide anymore.
I know you need
Me.
I’m here.