Protect and Serve

169

After recovering from Gunther’s hit, Starsky is denied clearance back to the force, so he and Hutch move to Minnesota to start their lives anew, together. Hutch has a hard time adjusting to the changes in their lives. Will their relationship be able to handle the stress and change?

 

Originally published in the zine Nightlight a slash Starsky and Hutch anthology edited by April Valentine in 1986.

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Part One

Starsky sighed in his sleep and snuggled closer to Hutch’s body. Hutch lay holding him, tired but not sleepy, feeling more restless than relaxed. It wasn’t that the loving had not been good for him too. Starsky was a passionate lover, always an eager lover, and the nights they shared were some of the most perfect in Hutch’s life. Those first nights back in L.A. when they discovered that they could share not only a friendship but physical love as well were forever imprinted in Hutch’s memory. The best partnership in the city had suddenly become the romance of the century. Out of the dirty back alleys, out of the horror of drugs and death and loss came the beauty of a love that would change his life forever.

Yet just as they had found their love, they had nearly lost it. Hutch still had nightmares that replayed the vision of Starsky lying next to the Torino, bleeding. When they learned Starsky would never work the streets again, he realized they could escape together from the combined pressures of their jobs and keep their new relationship secret. Six months after the shooting, they had left their badges behind and headed for Minnesota.

Now they shared a comfortable old residential house on a shady street in Minneapolis. They had painted and sanded, wallpapered and repaired until the place suited both of them. Choosing a mix of modern and antique furniture agreed with both their tastes. Hutch had filled the place with plants. They were on shelves along the windows in the kitchen and dining area, creating curtains of green foliage. Starsky’s antique pie safe stood by the bookcase in the living room. Upstairs there were two rooms, one a master bedroom for the two of them, the other a small den where seldom used belongings were stored. The house already felt like home.

Hutch sighed deeply. He had so much to be thankful for. His arms drew the sleep-heavy weight of his lover nearer, but even this close, this secure, he could not drift off. His eyes went to the window where the soft breeze rustled the curtains, where the friendly starlight beckoned. Carefully, he edged out from under Starsky and went to sit in the wide window seat. He leaned back against the ledge, his eyes on the starfield.

It was so good to have a clear sky above him again. After years in smog-bound L.A., he had nearly forgotten the majesty. As a young man in Duluth, he had spent many nights stargazing, always finding his peace of mind in the universe’s unchanging constancy.

Tonight though, the immenseness of it hit him, making him feel small, insignificant. He was not a worthy portion of the vast universal plan. Instead, he was at odds with the cosmos, a representative of the unthinking humanity that used the green earth and left it polluted, that made war instead of peace. His troubled heart was not cheered by the sparkling starlight and he sat feeling more confused than he had been before. Why, when he had everything he had ever wanted, should he be so restless and uncomfortable?

Hutch leaned his head to brace it against the window frame thinking back over their months in Minneapolis. Things had worked well for them. His Uncle Richard had helped him find a position at a financial consulting firm with which he had dealings. The job was the farthest thing removed from police work that he could find. Hutch had settled into the routine of corporate business quickly. Summers spent working at odd jobs in the firm owned by his father and Richard in Duluth had given him some experience and in his first two years of college he had majored in business. The firm of Halper and Moore in Minneapolis was small and Hutch welcomed the opportunity to work with a different segment of the population for a change. Instead of dealing mainly with the criminal element, these days he was helping normal, middle, and upper class people organize their financial affairs.

Yet, there were inevitable overtones of dullness. Now that he had been with Halper and Moore for six months, the thrill of handling thousands of dollars at a time, of investing money not his own, the novelty was beginning to wear off. Still, he rather welcomed the boredom of his new job—it was better than risking his life on the street every day.

Hutch smiled at the memory of Starsky pouring over the want ads every Sunday for the first month they were in Minneapolis. The man who had been shot to pieces and suffered a cardiac arrest half a year earlier had had to be selective about what he applied for. For a couple of weeks, he had tried cab driving, something he had done before entering the policy academy, years ago. But he found he could not ride in a car for long hours anymore. He needed to keep active, to keep up a program of light exercise. When he was forced to sit still too long, his body cramped up, abused muscles spasmed and he spent nights tossing in pain. He quit the driving, but knew he could not take on a more strenuous job, either. Anything requiring heavy lifting was beyond him, at least for the present, and he could not afford to get over-tired.

At last, after another Sunday’s perusal of the want ads, another Sunday of cursing and paper crumpling, Starsky had found an item which piqued his interest. It was an ad for a sales cleric in a toy store located in a shopping center not far from their home. Starsky still had a fondness for old train sets and had developed a passion for video games; he loved children and had an easy rapport with them. He had hit it off with the store owner, Fred Allbright, who was known as Pop to all the local kids, by virtue of the sign designating the store as Pop’s Toys. Starsky had been just what Fred was looking for, a responsible adult who could do everything that needed doing around the store and with the customers, one who wouldn’t get tired putting the toys back on the shelves after the kids had tried them out and quit after only a couple of weeks in his employ. The job had worked out well; after three months, Starsky had been promoted to assistant manager. He was thriving there and he came home with stories of the kids, the new toys and comments on how strong and healthy he was feeling these days. He usually walked the short distance to the store and the exercise had helped build up his stamina.

He was certainly brimming over with vitality. The shooting, it seemed, was a distant memory for Starsky. He was enjoying life, happy and playful in the daylight, amorous and tender after dark.

Hutch loved being wanted every night. Even during his brief marriage to Vanessa, the honeymoon had not lasted this long. She had her mind on other things besides his body and had often used sex as a way to control her young husband. In wonderful contrast, Starsky used sex only to show Hutch how much he loved him and as a way of expressing his joy at being alive. No matter how tired Hutch was from sitting at his desk all day, no matter how his eyes burned and his temples throbbed from going over pages and pages of figures, he gladly turned to Starsky’s embrace each night, finding both comfort and renewal in the pleasure they shared.

Yet sometimes, even after giving and receiving the most beautiful love he had ever known, the nightmares would come back. He would lie next to Starsky’s warm, sated body and suffer again the anguish of nearly losing him. He conjured Gunther’s hit men most often, but also relived other bad dreams of the streets, sudden danger, blown covers, cases they had nearly lost. It was not that he missed the police work, Hutch was sure of that. Yet he could not determine the reason for his subconscious re-creation of some of their most harrowing escapades. Maybe, he decided as he sat in the window now, chilled from the night air on his bare skin, it was just taking him a while to get it all out of his system. He knew men back from combat had similar problems and certainly their last four years as cops could be described as work in combat zone.

The shrill clatter of the bedside alarm startled him. He turned toward the bed, his stiff back telling him he had spent too many hours at the window, half the long, sleepless night. He was cold and achy and felt like an idiot. His gaze focused on Starsky emerging from the covers under which he had burrowed. Warm, drowsy eyes peered over at him questioningly.

“You’re up early,” a sleepy voice observed. “Everything okay?”

Hutch cleared his throat, moving slowly as his cramped body protested. “Yeah. I was just restless, I guess.” He shivered abruptly as a gust of morning breeze hit his back.

Starsky moved over in the bed, opening the covers in invitation. “You look cold. C’mere and I’ll take the chills away.”

Hutch slid into the warm spot where Starsky had lain sleeping and began to relax as he was drawn close by the muscular arms. Starsky ‘s hands rubbed soothingly over his back and he rested his cheek against the furry solidity of the man’s chest.

“You’re like ice, babe.” Starsky sounded worried. “How long have you been sitting up there?”

Hutch mumbled a non-committal reply. He felt so good cuddled up like this, all his philosophical confusion seemed far away and inconsequential.

Starsky was still making concerned noises. Hutch knew he’d sound weird trying to explain when he didn’t understand himself. “Just… just couldn’t sleep, love. Didn’t want to disturb you with my tossing around.”

Starsky pressed his lips to the top of Hutch’s head. “That wouldn’t disturb me.”

“I know—you sleep so soundly nothing wakes you up.”

“You know what I mean,” Starsky resisted the teasing. “Don’t try joking, Hutch. What does disturb me is the thought that something might be wrong and you’re not telling me, not sharing… ”

“Hey.” Hutch reached up to capture the protesting mouth in a kiss he needed very much. “Nothing’s wrong; he sighed afterward. “You know I have moods sometimes. I’m all right, especially now… here… with you.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. But this ‘nothing’ is causing dark circles under your beautiful blue eyes, lover-boy.”

The first kiss of the day had tasted good. Hutch wanted more. Starsky responded and within moments they were very involved with each other. Hutch felt his undefined tension coalesce into a burning need to love Starsky, be loved by him. Beautiful hands eased his unnamed worries, soothed his restless mind, took his body flying. Hutch came to earth feeling at ease and content, tired but happy.

He wished he could lie there basking in Starsky’s love, but the alarm jangled again, reminding them that they both had jobs to get to. With a groan, Hutch struggled out from under the combined tangles of the sheets and Starsky’s legs. In the shower, he stood under the needle-fine spray, feeling refreshed. Sex and a hot shower weren’t good enough to make up for a sleepless night on a regular basis, but he figured he could manage to get through the day all right. All those years of working in stressful situations with too little sleep might prove beneficial yet.

When he emerged from the shower, he found that Starsky had brought his coffee into the bathroom for him. He drank it while he shaved, listening to his partner’s rousing rendition of “Cracklin’ Rosie,” the old Neil Diamond hit, a favorite of Starsky’s for mornings.

Dressed and ready to leave, they kissed behind the closed front door. Though not being cops anymore had eased a certain amount of the pressure they would have felt if their relationship were generally known, they didn’t display their affair publicly either. Hutch figured the neighbors speculated about them, but there had been no problems, no questions. Both Starsky and Hutch found living this way convenient and comfortable. They left the house together and as Hutch drove away, he was smiling, looking forward to the day ahead, but anticipating the night to come even more.

When he arrived at the office, Hutch headed straight for the coffee machine. Driving downtown, his eyes had felt heavy as the morning sun beat on the windshield and he was beginning to feel stupid for not having managed to get any sleep. He drew a big Styrofoam cup of coffee, dropped in a packet of sweetener and stood leaning against a file cabinet as he waited for the caffeine to take effect. He was in the middle of another long sip of the strong drink when a lightly teasing voice spoke up behind him.

“Rough night, Ken?”

He turned and smiled at Leslie Rogers, another relative newcomer to the firm. “Guess I’m getting too old for that sort of thing after all.”

Leslie giggled, reaching for a cup. “You and me both.” She peered at her eyes reflected in the shiny chrome of the coffee pot she held. “My circles have circles.” After downing half her cup of coffee, she looked up at Hutch. “You, on the other hand, show few ill effects at all. How do you manage it, Ken?”

Hutch laughed. “I have this painting I keep in the attic.”

“Oh, God. Do you know where I can get one? Think of the nights I could have?”

“I don’t know. These things have a way of catching up with us no matter what we do.”

Leslie sighed and dropped her empty cup in the trash can. “I guess you’re right. You don’t suppose the answer is clean living, regular hours?”

Hutch winced. “Bite your tongue.” He picked up his briefcase. “At least we can ease our consciences by putting in a good day’s work.”

“Back to the proverbial salt mines, huh?” A glance at her watch made the blonde woman grimace. “I’m late for my nine-fifteen. Talk to you later.”

She swirled away and Hutch watched as she headed for the office cubicle. Leslie managed to look feminine despite the conservative dress required by Halper and Moore. With a wry smile, he thought that in some other life he might have taken a more than friendly interest in her. Blonde, willowy, self-possessed, she was the type that he usually found himself attracted to. Now, he looked, he kidded around—maybe flirted a little—with her, but that was all. Leslie had no idea of his situation. She obviously assumed his late night had been caused by a lady friend. Hutch saw no reason to disabuse here of the notion. He and Starsky were not openly announcing their lifestyle. As he turned toward his own office cubicle, Mr. Halper nodded a curt good morning to him. No, Hutch thought, it was just as well that his private life remain private. Something told him that Halper and Moore would not understand.

* * * * *

By five o’clock that afternoon, Hutch was more than ready to get out of the office. He had started the day feeling tired, now he was completely exhausted and in an irritable frame of mind. One of his clients had been unusually difficult to deal with, questioning his experience and knowledge. Tired as he was, Hutch’s first impulse had been to throw the man out of his office after pointedly telling him that if he doubted Hutch’s abilities, he could handle his own affairs. Instead, Hutch had held back, knowing he was no longer working the L.A. streets where he could snarl his disapproval of people he had to deal with if he felt like it. At Halper and Moore, ‘the customer was always right.’ Hutch had smiled at the client, reassured him, and the meeting had ended on a better note than the one on which it had begun. Mr. Halper had stopped by later, praising Hutch on his handling of the client. Despite the points he had earned with his employer, Hutch wasn’t pleased. He felt like a fool being cordial to the wealthy client who treated him like an ill-educated servant.

Sighing, Hutch crammed papers into his briefcase. He was exhausted but he had work to take home with him nevertheless.

A soft tap at his door caught his attention. Leslie Rogers flashed him a brilliant smile. “Done for the day?”

He nodded. “Finally. I didn’t think I was going to make it through this one.”

“Gotta cut out that night life.” She waggled a finger at him.

Hutch shrugged into his jacket. “The only nightlife I’ll be participating in tonight is reading tax law.”

“Ah, my favorite book to curl up with,” Leslie laughed, following him out of the office. “Too bad the only thing on my agenda is laundry.”

“Sounds like fun.” Hutch didn’t feel much like participating in the usual banter with Leslie.

“I’ll try to remember that when I’m pressing and folding, all by myself.” She affected a pretty pout.

Hutch recognized the not-too-subtle hint that she was available. He smothered a smile, knowing that at one time he might have been susceptible to her come-on.

They had reached the parking lot. “See you tomorrow.” Hutch bid Leslie good-bye with a jaunty wave. She didn’t know it, but he had plans for this evening—and all his evenings for that matter.

* * * * *

Starsky stretched as he climbed up off the couch and scratched his hands through his hair. He crossed to the TV set and switched off the news broadcast. The weather report didn’t interest him—it was halfway through April and still cold in Minnesota. He was tired from unloading a shipment of new toys all day and he suspected Hutch was even more tired. Starsky looked across the room to where Hutch was bent over the desk with books and papers scattered before him.

“Hutch.” No response. He spoke louder. “Hutch. Do you know what time it is?”

“Hmmm?” Hutch did not look up from his work.

Starsky ambled over and stood regarding the blond head bent over the books. Hutch’s brow was deeply furrowed in concentration. The circles under his eyes would be darker in the morning if the man didn’t get some sleep. Starsky moved closer. Standing behind Hutch’s chair he bent to clasp the bowed shoulders in an embrace, his mouth finding the ridge of an ear hidden under warm blond silk.

“Hmmm.” More definite this time. Starsky traced down to the earlobe with his tongue. Hutch shivered, turning in Starsky’s arms, offering his mouth.

The kiss was moist and deep and lingering. Starsky ended it with a gentle little smooch and pulled back just enough to look into the cornflower blue eyes.

“You ready to call it a night?”

Hutch sighed. “I wish. No, I’ve got to finish reading this so I can figure out what to tell Mr. Palmer tomorrow morning. He’s looking for a way to reduce his taxes.”

“You didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Yeah. I’m almost through. You go on up. I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

“Okay.” Hutch was already turning back to the book on tax law. Starsky squeezed his shoulder briefly. “Don’t be too long. I get lonely, ya know.”

“Night, Starsk.” He sounded very preoccupied. Starsky left him to his work and headed upstairs.

* * * * *

Rolling over in bed, Starsky awakened out of his doze. He reached out but all he felt was a wide expanse of cool, empty sheet. No Hutch. He looked around the dark room, feeling groggy. What time… ? It took a moment for his eyes to focus on the lighted digital clock; as he read the figures he was surprised into complete alertness. Four-fifteen. “Damnit, Hutch.” Starsky sighed into his pillow thinking that the same man who had worried and nagged and cajoled him into good habits during his convalescence could just as effectively ignore his own health. “Guess it’s my turn to play mother-hen.” He slipped out of bed and pulled a robe on in the chilly bedroom.

The lights were still burning in the living room. Starsky squinted, yawning, as he made his way downstairs. “Hutch, you ever coming up to bed?” he asked as he arrived on the bottom step.

For the second time that night, he received no answer. Hutch was still bent over the desk, but by this time he lay sprawled across it, having fallen asleep while still working. Starsky stood looking at him for a moment, feeling a strong rush of tenderness. Hutch had never made half-way efforts when he was a cop and he still hadn’t learned to leave his job back at the office.

Before Starsky could walk to the desk to awaken him, Hutch seemed to flinch, his upper body jerking abruptly. Starsky thought for an instant that he was waking, but the deep moan that followed the spasm of movement disproved that idea.

A second utterance, ending as a sobbing gasp, came as Starsky reached the desk. Hutch lay across it, trembling now, his voice a quaking plea. “No, please. Not again… Starsk…”

Bending to crouch beside the desk chair, Starsky spoke softly. “Wake up, Hutch. Come on.”

“Please don’t… ” Hutch was still oblivious to all but his nightmare.

Starsky took hold of him at shoulder and forearm, shaking him a bit. “Come on Hutch. Wake up.”

A shudder rippled through the long body and another groan—this one of pure anguish—made Starsky more concerned. He gripped Hutch’s arm hard, pulling at him, trying to lift him up into a sitting position.

“Starsky… ?” Hutch reached out, encircling him in arms that tightened in desperation.

“Come on, babe. You’re still dreaming. Wake up now.” Starsky hugged him equally tight, one hand stroking the side of Hutch’s face, fingers sliding through tangled strands of blond.

Hutch’s trembling lessened, his breath calming from shaky gasps. Starsky pulled him up out of the chair, supporting his weight. “Come on, Hutch. Let’s get you up to bed.”

“Starsk?” Fully awake now, Hutch looked Starsky over with eyes that seemed confused, nearly frantic. As Starsky looked into them, they misted over, their blue brightening to an incredible hue, intense, worried, loving.

“I’m okay. You were just dreaming.” Starsky clamped down on his own emotions. Seeing Hutch this upset brought back hazy memories of his own, images that were clear only in their feelings of anxiety and impending loss. Hutch went kinda went crazy when I was shot, Dobey said. Starsky had known it was true, not only because he knew how Hutch felt about him, how Hutch would have reacted to the shooting following their becoming lovers, but because he possessed a deep and chilling certainty that he had witnessed Hutch’s reaction. Though he had been unconscious, somehow Starsky had felt, heard, known, and shared the feelings of terror and anguish. As always, they had been in sync emotionally. Now, he held his lover close in supportive arms, trying to convey calmness and caring.

“Starsky, I’m so tired.” Hutch heaved a sigh that spoke more of exhaustion than nightmares now.

“I know. Come on upstairs. That’s it.” Starsky snapped off the light at the wall switch as he steered Hutch toward the staircase.

Reaching the second floor, Hutch appeared to have regained his equilibrium. He slipped away from Starsky’s guiding arm and headed into the bathroom.

“You all right?” Starsky kept a watchful eye on him.

“Yeah. I… I’ll be coming to bed in a minute. You go on.”

“Okay.” The bathroom door closed and Starsky entered their bedroom alone. Guess he needs a couple minutes to get himself together. Hutch is always better at giving comfort than receiving it. Sighing, Starsky dropped his robe and crawled back in on his side of the double bed.

After a few minutes Hutch came in, moving quietly, not bothering to turn on the light while he undressed. As he slipped cautiously under the covers, Starsky moved near. “I’m not sleeping yet.”

“Oh.” He shifted, seeking a comfortable position and Starsky sensed a tension in the long body. “God, I’m tired.”

“You should have come on up to bed instead of sleepin’ in that desk chair,” Starsky chided. “You trying to turn your back into a pretzel twist?”

“Looks that way.” Hutch’s laugh was short and self-deprecating. “I’d been reading so long, I guess I just conked out.” He paused for a moment. “Why’d you come down?”

Starsky stroked the shoulder nearest him, then pulled the blue blanket up over it. “Woke up and missed you.”

“Checking up on me, huh? Did you think I’d slipped out to go cruising or something?”

Starsky wasn’t sure he appreciated that kind of teasing, but at least Hutch seemed to have shaken off the effects of the nightmare. “No. I know you, Hutchinson. You’re a workhorse, not a party animal. Somebody’s gotta make sure you get a little rest if you won’t see to it yourself.”

Hutch groaned. “Okay. Point taken. I just wish I’d really gotten finished. I still wanted to read a couple of chapters.”

“Hutch, it’s almost four a.m.”

“I know.” Hutch shifted again, still not settled. He leaned close to Starsky. “Good night kiss?”

“More like good morning.” Starsky brushed Hutch’s lips with his own and felt himself once again captured by strong arms and hands that stroked seductively. “Come on. Go to sleep for crying out loud, will ya?” There was a limit to the amount of stamina they possessed.

Another heavy sigh. Hutch moved back to his own side of the bed. “Okay. I am pretty beat.” There was something else left unspoken, a tightness in the voice, as if Hutch felt but couldn’t say anything more.

Starsky pulled the covers up and around him once more. “‘Night, babe.”

* * * * *

When the alarm went off at seven-thirty, Starsky rolled over and quieted it with a slap of his hand. He didn’t have to be at the store this morning until nine-thirty and Hutch didn’t have to be at his office until nine. There was no reason to get up at what felt like an ungodly hour after the broken night they both had spent.

Lying with his eyes closed, still deeply burrowed under his covers, Starsky tried to go back to sleep. A sound caught at his attention, though, and then it abruptly stopped. The shower? “Hutch?” He rolled over as Hutch, towel-wrapped and with water droplets beading his chest and shoulders, came back into the bedroom. “What are you doing up already?”

Hutch shrugged. “I have to finish reading so I can prepare that prospectus. The client’s coming in at eleven.”

“When did you get up?” Starsky rubbed his own tired eyes, wondering how Hutch had managed to awaken so early.

“I don’t know. Before seven I guess.” Hutch draped his towel over the doorknob and reached into the closet for a clean shirt. “I was lying there thinking about what I’d been reading, what I’ve got to do today… ”

Starsky looked at him closely. As he had anticipated, the circles under the blue eyes were more noticeable today, but Hutch seemed wide awake, most likely moving on nervous energy. “You’re going to crash tonight, lover.”

“Maybe.” Hutch sank into the chair after pulling on his trousers. He sat there putting on his socks and shoes, but Starsky saw that his movements were slowing, that he lifted his legs as if they each weighed a ton. Finished dressing, he sat back in the chair for a moment. “Yeah. Guess I’ll run out of steam by the end of the day.” He hesitated, then went on. “Thought I would have last evening.” He sat as if pondering his restless nights, then shrugged dismissively. He met Starsky’s eyes. “You going to sleep in a while?”

Starsky looked back at the clock. It was still before eight, but he was now wide awake. “I guess I’ll get up, too.” He threw back the covers and sat up, stretching and scratching. When he turned to head for the shower, he found Hutch had already gone downstairs.

* * * * *

Hutch took a look at himself in the men’s room mirror as he dried his hands on a paper towel. I look like hell. The appraisal did not surprise him; he felt as bad as he knew he looked. His eyes, their blue looking dull and gray, were rimmed in red and there were dark smudges, circles that wouldn’t go away, beneath each of them. His face was haggard, his expression drawn.

He tossed the paper towel in the trash and combed at his hair with his fingers. He straightened his tie and tried to put on a more alert expression. It was no use. He was exhausted and it showed.

Hutch had not slept soundly through a single night in nearly two weeks. The occasional night of restlessness had escalated into an inability to sleep a decent length of time. He woke up every hour or so, nervous and tense, feeling like he had forgotten something he was supposed to do or shaking from another nightmare.

At first, he had thought he was having difficulty getting used to his new life; now he wasn’t sure what was causing the insomnia. He worked a long day, his evenings consisted of more paperwork and dull reading, the kind that usually was certain to make him sleepy. Yet when he felt most drowsy and got into bed, his mind began worrying some aspect of either the day gone by or the one to come and he would lie awake for hours. Sometimes, toward morning, he would doze off and have a couple of hours rest, but never really enough.

At work, he found he was too tired to think as clearly as he should, at home he was too tired for conversation. He knew he was becoming difficult for Starsky to put up with; when Starsky wanted to spend some quiet time together, Hutch often felt unresponsive and irritable, yet he was just as likely to wake Starsky for a middle of the night love session, finding sex the only way to relax himself for a little sleep.

Sometimes, he would wake from a dream, his heart pounding from the sensation of reliving Starsky being shot and all he wanted to do was roll his lover over, to possess him, to pound the pain and terror out of his mind and replace it with physical release. It had been that way last week when he had fallen asleep at the desk and Starsky came down to wake him from another nightmare. It had been embarrassing to realize he was feeling a strange arousal as he and Starsky made their way upstairs. It was late, they both needed their rest, so he didn’t say anything, but after Starsky dozed off, Hutch had lain awake most of the remaining hours of the night, the tension in his body, arousal charged by adrenaline flow, keeping him awake.

Exiting the men’s room, Hutch passed by Leslie’s office. She looked up and called to him. He stepped inside.

“You ought to leave early today Ken, if you don’t have any more appointments.”

“Yeah. I was just going to pack up my briefcase and get out of here. Mr. Halper said he thought I looked tired.” Hutch leaned against the door jamb.

“You do. What’s wrong? Are you coming down with something?”

Hutch felt a little embarrassed by her frank scrutiny. “Maybe I have caught a bug of some kind, I don’t know. I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping too well.”  She nodded, looking sympathetic. “I used to have insomnia every so often back when I was a cop. It’ll pass.”

“You were a cop? Oh, yes, I’d forgotten you told me that. Let’s see—L.A., wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, about as far from Minneapolis as you can get.” There were times when he felt he missed it. Almost. “It’s hard getting used to the different routine, working here. Right now, I think I remember the good things about being a cop, more than the bad times.”

“Oh?” She lay her pen down, looking sincerely interested.

“There were times when we made a difference. We saved lives, brought criminals to justice… ” His voice trailed off as he became lost in memory. “And then there were times when we blew it. When no matter how hard we tried, with the system, despite the system, we lost. It didn’t matter how honest we were, how fair, how decent—” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “It didn’t help to care, to give. After a while we learned we couldn’t care enough, we didn’t have any more to give.”

Leslie’s voice was soft. “We?”

Hutch hadn’t even realized he had used the plural. It came to him naturally. “My partner and I. We worked together for nine years and when we couldn’t take it any more, we left together.”

She smiled. “Sounds nice. The ‘partner’ bit, I mean. And now you’re working and he’s… ?”

“Toy store. Assistant manager.” Hutch said it with a grin.

Leslie giggled. “Oh, brother. Sounds like he really wanted to get away from it all.”

“He’s got less hassles there than I do here,” Hutch stressed. Why am I telling all this to her? Why not? The most important aspect of my life…

“That’s probably true.” Leslie’s smile was genuine. “Well, listen. You may be through for the day, but I have work to do. So go on home and get some rest.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow, Leslie.” He nodded goodbye and made his way back to his own office to collect his belongings.

* * * * *

By the time Hutch reached their neighborhood, he found himself longing for Starsky’s presence. He stopped at the shopping center where Pop’s Toys was located, figuring he could give him a lift home, but Pop told him that Starsky had left at four o’clock. Wondering why Starsky had been anxious to leave early, Hutch returned to his car and headed for their house.

We, he thought, turning into the shrub-lined driveway. I said ‘we’ when I was telling Leslie about being a cop. Maybe that’s what’s bothering me—I can’t get used to not working with Starsky.

His key slipped into the lock and the door opened to admit him. Our house... Feeling immediately at ease as he hadn’t all day, Hutch dropped his briefcase beside the desk and headed for the kitchen. The sound of banging pots and pans out there told him that Starsky was doing his usual inimitable job of demolishing the kitchen—what he called ‘fixing dinner.’

He hung his jacket over the back of a dining room chair. Loosening his tie, he entered the kitchen. Starsky was at the stove. Hutch spoke softly. “Hey, partner. I’m home.”

Starsky’s response to the silky tone was to dazzle Hutch with his most brilliant smile. They moved together, and Starsky’s arms wrapped around him. “Ah… ” He sighed as hands massaged at his nape and the small of his back.

“Feel good?” Starsky’s whisper tickled his ear.

“Yeah. Relaxing… ”

“That’s the idea, babe. I’m gonna get you all relaxed and mellowed out so you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep.”

“That sounds good. Know what?” Hutch nuzzled the tender skin under Starsky’s earlobe. “I missed you today.”

The man in his arms shivered a bit. “That’s what I like to hear.” They shared a kiss that, to Hutch, felt all too brief. “You hungry?”

He squeezed Starsky hard. “That’s a dangerous question to ask at a moment like this.” A hand ran up Hutch’s side, finding the vulnerable spot where he was most ticklish. He flinched a little, laughing. “Okay. What’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti with meatballs, garlic bread, and tossed salad.”

Hutch was impressed. “You made spaghetti and meatballs?”

“Hey, I know how to cook.” Starsky pretended offense, moving to stir the pot of thick, bubbling sauce. “Besides,” he went on, looking at Hutch over his shoulder, “the market had a few packaged items that helped me out.”

“Just as I thought.” Hutch came over to inspect the contents of the pot. Starsky offered the spoon and Hutch licked off a bit of the robust sauce. “Not bad,” he assessed. Then he grinned maliciously. “At least it isn’t Hamburger Helper. Again.”

Starsky took back his spoon as Hutch attempted to get another taste. “You better cut the comedy if you want to get fed tonight.”

Hutch wrapped both arms around Starsky, distracting him from the stove. “Yeah, babe. I want fed…”

* * * * *

After dinner, Starsky and Hutch sat at the table, lingering over a glass of wine. Hutch leaned back in his chair, feeling full and content. “Not bad. Not bad at all, Starsk. What’s for dessert?”

“You’ll find out, when I decide it’s time.” Starsky’s smile was seductive.

A thought occurred to Hutch. “I almost forgot. I stopped by the toy store on my way home. I thought I’d pick you up but Pop said you’d already left. How come you came home early?”

“I wanted to stop at the grocery store and get the stuff for dinner. I knew if you got home ahead of me you’d start puttering in the kitchen and I just wanted you to relax tonight.”

Hutch felt warmed. “You were thinking of me,” he said lightly.

Starsky drained his wine glass. “Yeah. Bad habit I’ve gotten into.”

“Don’t think of breaking it.”

Their eye contact lingered and Hutch sensed a subtle tautening along the thread of feeling between them, desire creating a tension that would build gradually. They both liked to play off that tension; it was one of their favorite games, teasing each other to the point of aching so that when they came together the result was magic and fireworks.

The anticipation sent a tingle skittering up and down Hutch’s spine. He finished his wine and set down the glass. “What’s next one the agenda, partner?”

“Partner… that’s the second time you’ve said that tonight. Sounds good.”

“Guess I was feeling nostalgic.” Hutch wasn’t sure why he felt that way and he didn’t know how to ask Starsky if he experienced the same ambivalence, without bringing up uncomfortable memories of when he’d been shot and that his disabilities were the final reason they had left.

Starsky, however, was as perceptive as always. “Sometimes I miss it, too, Hutch. Not the streets so much… I remember the rough times and it had gotten so they outweighed the good… it’s that seventy-five percent of the time we used to spend together I miss.”

“More like ninety to a hundred percent, some days at least.” Hutch couldn’t keep a certain amount of longing out of his voice.

That longing was reflected in the depths of Starsky’s eyes, pools of blue so dark and seemingly fathomless that Hutch thought he could look into them forever and still not know all their secrets. The longing was there, but it was tempered by contentment as Starsky spoke.

“I know, babe. We see less of each other now than we used to. But don’t you think we make a little bit better use of our time?”

He couldn’t help smiling as Starsky’s voice lingered over his last words with a sound like silk sliding over skin. His lover noticed.

“That’s better, Hutch. Now you look like yourself.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. Lately, you’ve looked like that nervous, haggard guy who merely resembles my partner.”

Hutch shrugged ruefully. “What do we do about that?”

Starsky pushed back his chair and rose, sauntering around to Hutch’s side of the table. “That’s my plan. I told you I want to get you all relaxed tonight.”

Hutch turned to look up into his eyes. “So tell me about it.”

He was embraced, pulled up to stand secure in a circle of loving arms. “Come on upstairs. My prescription begins with a hot bath followed by a rubdown.”

“Followed by what?” Hutch rubbed his face against Starsky’s cheek; it felt sandy and warm and familiar. The sheer delight of having this man in his arms transmitted to the thread binding them together, sending another jolt to Hutch’s nervous system. He shivered against Starsky, wanting him, wrapping his arms around him possessively, his lips nipping along his lover’s unshaven jaw.

Hands that felt both soothing and strong stroked up and down his back. “Easy does it. This isn’t gonna be the fourth of July. Slow and easy tonight, babe. You’re gonna be so mellow you’ll fall right to sleep.”

He knew he could wait; with Starsky as the promise before him, he could wait as long as necessary. The anticipation was half the pleasure. “With a smile on my face, I hope.”

“Absolutely.”

* * * * *

The hot bath consisted of a deep tubful of scented water and bubbles. Starsky had added a combination of herbal bath crystals and what seemed like half a box of Mr. Bubble. Hutch had rolled his eyes and made a couple of pointed remarks about his being too old for bubble baths, but once he had sunk into the foamy water, the luxury of unwinding that way made him drop all pretense of scorn. Starsky, as always, had taken what seemed essentially absurd and made Hutch see it as a brilliant idea.

After a long soak, Hutch had emerged feeling warm and lethargic. Now he lay sprawled in the middle of the bed while Starsky’s skilled hands explored every muscle in his body and worked to eliminate all traces of hidden tension.

At first his partner’s hands seemed anything but gentle, seeking and finding knots of tightness and pressing and pounding at them until they yielded. Gradually though, the knowing fingers began skimming lightly and newly relaxed nerves started awakening to the tender stimulation. Going down his spine, chasing shivers, then authoritatively molding the contours of his buttocks, they moved to delight him now. Starsky’s hands slipped down his thighs and calves, then up across his ribs and over his shoulders again. The slender fingers traveled up under the hair on his nape, erasing a last bit of lingering tightness. Hutch sighed, stretching like a cat. Starsky was petting; he was purring.

A thumb slid down his spine and a warm voice whispered close to his ear. “You like this, huh?”

“Ummm.” Hutch could only sigh his response.

“Turn over then.” Hands on his shoulders urged his compliance with the suggestion, then they went to work on his front, smoothing and stroking and becoming more intimate, teasing.

Hutch wriggled, a sigh escaping his parted lips. He opened languid eyes to watch Starsky. The nude body bent over him, slim and supple, glowing with life in the muted light of the bedside lamp. Hutch reached out, his fingers trailing lightly along Starsky’s side, down across his ribcage. The skin was fine textured, satiny, with firm muscle underneath. Hutch reached further, his hand curving over the contours of Starsky’s chest, the dark, silky-crisp hairs tickling his palm.

Starsky looked up, meeting Hutch’s eyes and capturing the hand now pressed over his heart. He lifted the hand, his lips going to the palm to deliver an admonishing kiss, then replaced it at Hutch’s side.

“No, babe. This is for you tonight.”

“I can’t participate?”

Starsky’s hands closed over his shoulders, then began a slow sliding stroke down the length of his torso. “Oh, you’ll participate.”

Hutch knew he was as Starsky’s hands continued down his body. He could feel each finger as they pressed into his thighs and skimmed down his calves and back up. This time, the fingers ran up the inner sides of Hutch’s legs and he sighed his need and expectation as they neared his cock.

Starsky’s hands urged his legs apart and he knelt between the spread thighs. Hutch’s eyes were drawn to the figure facing him. So beautiful. Starsky’s elemental strength and vitality remained, despite the pain and injuries he had endured. He was thinner now, but the slender body looked more youthful that way. And he could do almost everything he used to, within limits. ‘ … he’s lucky to be alive… ‘ Dobey’s voice came unbidden from Hutch’s memory and he flinched away from the feelings it generated.

“What, babe?” Gentle hands caressed his face, deep, sparkling eyes looked into his own.

“Nothing… Kiss me.” Hutch’s arms came up as Starsky’s lips descended. He folded the man close, his embrace tightening spasmodically as images of the intensive care unit erupted behind his closed eyes. Hutch’s hands roved over Starsky’s back, desperate to feel the living essence of him, but his fingers encountered the harsh evidence of the bullets’ passage through the fragile, human body. Hutch trembled, reacting to the fear and loss of that time, his mind reliving the shooting itself.

Morning sunshine, fresh breeze… and sudden terror. Adrenalin pumping through me… Hutch remembered the screech of tires, the crushing sound of fenders crumpling, the gun in his hand. His shouting, ‘Starsky, get down!’ It happened so fast—one moment of simple togetherness shattered by bullets and broken glass and dreams become nightmares. He was left standing alone, surrounded by silence, looking down on the fallen body. The blood, everywhere…

“Starsky … Starsky… ” His kisses were urgent, fear-driven. One hand came up to cradle the dark head, the other slipped low, squeezing pliant flesh. With his mouth still drinking demanding kisses from Starsky’s, he began to roll the man over on his back.

He was shaking so badly that his movements were clumsy. Starsky pulled back a moment, taking hold of Hutch’s hands as they released him. He kissed them gently, but Hutch felt the calm outside himself only; within, he was a raging storm of need and anxiety.

“Take it slow, babe,” Starsky’s whisper held him, made him wish the tumult in his heart would subside. A soothing hand caressed his brow. “What’s going on inside that crazy, blond head, huh?”

Hutch couldn’t answer. He looked away from the inquisitive eyes, trying to escape their probing, and let his gaze travel down the length of the vigorous body. Yet even there he was faced with his memories. The scars weren’t ugly, no part of Starsky was less than beautiful to him, but they were permanent. Scars made by the lead that had ripped through him, scars made by the doctors who had hastened to save his life, they were all one to Hutch. They weren’t as red and angry looking now as they had been at first. Hutch hated them anyway. They reminded him of all the pain Starsky had felt, of how fragile was this most precious of human lives.

Most of the time, he kept them in that perspective. Yet sometimes, as now, seeing the scars frightened him deep down in a way that was as difficult for Hutch to face as it was for him to explain. The sight of the jagged marks on Starsky’s chest and stomach and back made his heart constrict in terror. He knew he could never deal with Starsky coming so close to death again. His own actions from that time still haunted him.

Hutch knew he had been half crazed with murderous anger. Sometimes he thought, as he woke shaking from reliving the whole incident in a dream, he had truly gone over the edge, that he had really been insane. The stress on his mind still affected him. Why else would his subconscious worry the subject like a dog worried a bone, he wondered? Why else would his sleeping mind conjure the memories with an almost fascinated obsession?

“Hutch?” The concern in Starsky’s voice drew his gaze away from the terrible reminders.

He opened his arms, wanting to hold Starsky, needing to be held by him. Starsky came to him, his presence soothing as nothing else could.

His partner understood everything, Hutch saw, as soft words were whispered into his ear. “It’s all right, love. I’m okay. You know that. Come on. We’re here together. Everything’s okay.”

Hutch nodded, his arms tightening around Starsky’s back, his trembling gradually quieting. It seemed strangely as if he had been dreaming wide awake. He felt overpowered by confusion—and a measure of guilt. It was wrong of him to dwell on the past when he had Starsky right here in his arms, safe, alive, loving.

The whispering lips ceased their calming litany, then began soothing through touch. They closed over the lobe of his ear, then traveled down the side of his neck, opening to taste the dew of sweat that began breaking out on his skin.

Trying to focus all his attention on his lover’s touch, Hutch was able to let go of his agitation. He began responding, his body shivering under the erotic stimulation of lips and hands.

Starsky’s mouth was finding every sensitive spot on his chest, tasting and exploring, with his lips and tongue, nipping gently with his teeth. Lower, down Hutch’s belly and abdomen, the mouth continued its questing path, while Starsky’s hands reached to massage the open thighs. Hutch arched under the combined assault, his whole being open to the love Starsky gave. When the mouth engulfed his rigid flesh, he sighed his pleasure and relief, feeling free of all his guilt and fears.

Starsky sucked him slowly, letting the sensation build. One hand encircled the base of his shaft, the other caressed and rubbed Hutch’s abdomen and thighs in turn. Hutch parted his legs wider, craving more, yet he was too aroused to speak, to ask for what he wanted. He didn’t need to. Starsky’s fingers snuggled against him, his touch finding nerve endings that blazed in reaction.

All feeling centered, then built to engulf Hutch, body and mind. He opened glazed eyes to look down his body, watching as Starsky bent over him. Dark, tousled curls tickled Hutch’s belly as the mouth descended on him. Starsky… doing this for me, giving so much love… Hutch was nearing completion with every breath, every heartbeat. The adoring mouth savored him and he thrust his aching flesh deep. The release was a catharsis; he was crying with his whole body, sweat breaking from every pore, tears springing to his eyes.

Then he was being held, soothed, wrapped up in cuddling warmth that brought him back from oblivion. Starsky was all over him, silky and rough, gentle and strong, smug and just a bit anxious. His lips nuzzled Hutch’s throat. “How do you feel now?”

Hutch didn’t think he could even speak, let alone find very eloquent words. “Good,” he sighed. “Very good.” He opened his eyes to look at his lover. Starsky’s eyes were bright and his body seemed to vibrate with tension. Hutch’s had slipped down the flat abdomen to grasp the engorged sex. “Hey. Come on.”

Starsky grinned like a kid invited to the party, then his smile turned definitely adult, devastatingly sexy. His hands stroked Hutch’s sated body, turning him to his stomach, positioning his legs. Massage oil warmed as fingers spread it and Hutch felt sensations of rising heat deep within his body. Then Starsky was there, pressing into him, stroking, going deeper to fill Hutch with himself and his love.

Hutch could not help but respond, even though minutes before he had thought himself totally drained. Pounded by the rapid rhythm he met Starsky’s thrusts, groaning with the dual delight of Starsky inside him and Starsky’s building pleasure. His lover had been so close; in seconds they were sinking into peace as one.

They parted, then fell back together, arms and legs twining in utter relaxation. Hutch stroked Starsky’s back, gathering him even closer. He felt blessed by his partner’s generous love, a joy so sweet it was almost a wound, the way it made his heart ache.

In complete accord, they turned to share a prolonged kiss. Hutch couldn’t remember it ending. He drifted off to sleep knowing nothing but complete bliss.

* * * * *

The Torino tore through the city streets, siren shrieking. Starsky was at the wheel, intent on the traffic, all his skill and experience serving to keep them from crashing. Hutch sat in the passenger seat, bracing himself as the car swerved around corners. He could feel his excitement level increasing as they flew along, building his anticipation and readiness.

As the red and white car lurched to a stop, Hutch yanked open his door and threw himself out, feet hitting the sidewalk at a run. He could see the perpetrator up ahead. He dived down the alley in pursuit.

He knew the man was armed, the certainty as much a part of him as the bitterness his years on the streets had also taught him. He drew his own gun; the heavy Magnum fit in his hand more precisely than his guitar, and its music was more profound. Hutch spared a glance at the weapon in his hand, saw its metal seemingly glow with the power it possessed. Did that power come from the gun or did his hand and will impart the power to the revolver? He didn’t care; he knew only that when he fired, he and the gun, instinct and power, were all one.

Hutch felt the adrenalin surging through his system. He was ready, all senses straining to seize any advantage. Pushing himself to the limit, going into another life and death situation… and Hutch wanted it.

Behind him, he could hear more running footsteps and breathing that was not yet labored, but was harsh. Starsky, straining with him in the never-ending game. They were partners, one and yet still separate. It seemed to Hutch that the separateness hurt more than the oneness gave him joy. That he could not perfect their oneness gave him more cause to doubt himself, to challenge everything in the world about him, even Starsky. Hutch knew the futility of his seeking, but he could not stop. It might lead him to his own destruction, but he couldn’t stop.

With one part of his soul, he struggled, with the other, he sought to protect. A part of him desired the thrill of the danger, reached for it so that its pain might fall upon his head rather than Starsky’s.

He knew he was running full out, as fast as he could go, yet the internal quandary made everything outside of him slow down. He glanced back. Starsky was several yards away and directly behind him. Safe. Hutch looked back toward the man they were pursing. He had stopped in the alley and stood still, raising his gun. Hutch paused, taking aim with his own.

He saw the bullet leap toward him. The image sent a thrill leaping down his spine. The bullet sped on, visible in surreal clarity, slow to his eyes yet fast enough to reach his body, which was sluggish in its relative reaction. It came directly for him and he knew there was no time to get out of its way. The bullet struck him in the middle of his chest. He felt it tear through his body, rending him in two along the line of his confusion. One side of him exalted in the finish of the game; one despaired, in a panic that he would not be left to protect Starsky any longer.

He was still standing, hands clutched to his bloody wound. He was turned in a slow spin by the impact of the bullet and his craving to see his partner before it was too late.

Starsky was down, sprawled in the alley behind him. How? Hutch suddenly knew—the bullet had passed through his own body and struck Starsky, its deadly force only increased by its passage through Hutch’s chest.

He got to Starsky’s side, grabbed him up into his arms. Their blood mingled until he could see neither wound. Deep blue eyes opened, wide with entreaty, bright with pain. Starsky spoke, his voice soft with depletion.

“Why, Hutch? We… quit the force… why’d you make us take the risk?”

* * * * *

The piercing cry jolted Starsky from sleep. Disoriented, it took him a few seconds to realize it was Hutch, in the grip of yet another nightmare. Starsky reached for him, calling his name, but Hutch was oblivious and a shriek, torn as if in agony from the man’s soul, made his lover recoil. Worse this time…

“Hutch! God, Hutch, please.” Starsky’s grabbing hands were thrust aside as Hutch flung himself off  the bed and fled to a corner of the room. His own pulse beginning to race in reaction, Starsky went after him, still calling out, trying to get through to him.

When he touched one bare shoulder, Hutch jerked back, his eyes wide in unseeing terror. “No! Please, Starsky, I didn’t mean it!” His voice wavered, strained by desperation.

He doesn’t really see me, Starsky realized.

“David, forgive me?”

The words cut straight to his pounding heart. Somehow, he had to break through the nightmare-inspired hysteria. Hutch was gasping for breath, hyperventilating, shaking from head to foot.

“It’s all right. I’m here.” Starsky spoke calmly but his heart seemed to be beating at the same rate as Hutch’s accelerated breathing. He reached out again, this time with both hands. He got hold of him by the shoulders and Hutch did not flinch away. Instead he pressed further back into the corner in panic.

“It’s my fault. I know it. Just… forgive me… ”

Scared, and yet desperate for some kind of absolution, Starsky interpreted. “‘Course, babe. I forgive you. It’s all right. Come on—”

“No… ” The single syllable was a breathy moan. Hutch drew away, holding his head in his hands, speaking in a low, quavering voice to himself. “What made me do it? My fault… did it on purpose. Had to play the game… Do you love me enough… ?”

Starsky didn’t want to hear any more, couldn’t let Hutch sink further into the fantasy. He got a firmer grip on him and shook his shoulders, speaking sternly. “Hutch. Look at me, Hutch. Come on and wake up.”

The big body wrenched against his securing hold but Starsky clung tight, begging Hutch to hear him, to wake up and know him. Desperate to escape his agony, long legs and arms struggled against unseen terrors, the hysteria taking full control. Starsky leaped forward, falling on Hutch, pinning the thrashing limbs. “Hutch!” He shook him, fingers pressing hard into straining biceps. “Hutch, damnit!” He lashed out, striking Hutch’s face as hard as he could.

The sudden silence was as shattering in its way as the harsh cries had been. Hutch lay still, his eyes closed, his face slack. A tremor ran through the long frame, followed by another. Starsky sat up and gathered him into his arms, so that Hutch lay across his lap.

His hand had left a bright red mark on the fair cheek. Didn’t mean to hit you so hard. Starsky stroked the cheek and jaw in remorse. Hutch pressed against his hand, like a cat asking to be petted again. Starsky repeated the gesture, watching the expression on Hutch’s face grow peaceful.

“Loves me,” the exhausted blond murmured, sighing.

Starsky went cold all over. He didn’t want to analyze that last comment, but his mind couldn’t help it. Hutch seemed to know Starsky was there and that he cared, but whether his relief and gratitude came from the reality of the offered comfort or from the forgiveness he’d been begging for when in the spell of the nightmare, Starsky could not say. The slap that had cut through the hysteria almost seemed to be perceived as the punishment Hutch had felt he deserved for whatever he imagined he had done. The retribution and forgiveness seem the same to him… Starsky broke off that line of thinking.

The quiescent man in his arms lay shivering now and Starsky tried to get him up, knowing it would be warmer under the covers in bed. Hutch stirred and he spoke again, and this time Starsky knew he was awake and becoming more coherent.

“No… stay here and hold me.” It wasn’t often Hutch let go that way, showed himself defenseless. Everything in Starsky responded to that plea. He leaned toward the bed and caught hold of a corner of the comforter. He dragged it off and wrapped its thick folds around himself and Hutch where they were.

“Can’t stay here all night, babe,” he whispered, though he shifted, getting comfortable. He stroked a bare arm, then pulled the cover up more snugly. He dropped a kiss on Hutch’s temple where the pulse, still racing, showed that the after-effects of the nightmare were still with him.

“Feels good.” Hutch settled against him, sighing. “Dreamed you—never mind.”

“Don’t want to talk about it?” Starsky asked gently.

Hutch shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

“Wanna get back in bed?”

Hutch looked around, a little bewildered, as if just realizing where they were. “Huh? What—Starsk?”

“Shhh.” Starsky soothed him, rocking a little with him in his arms. “Don’t think about anything. Just relax. It’s okay.”

The sad blue eyes closed, then popped open again in a moment. “I… I think I’m afraid to fall asleep again.”

“Okay. What do you wanna do instead? Monopoly? TV? ” Starsky tried a smile and the blond responded, managing a weak one in return.

“Pretty late, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Starsky looked toward the nightstand. The beside clock read two-thirty-five. “Just rest here awhile. You’ll be okay now.”

Hutch acquiesced, his eyes drifting closed once more. Starsky felt the long body begin to relax. Feeling wrung out himself, he shut his eyes, too. At peace, he knew he was falling asleep and gave in.

A sharp gasp brought him out of it sometime later. Hutch had been jolted awake by a dream. Starsky murmured to him automatically. His legs felt cramped and a glance at the clock showed they had nodded off forty-five minutes ago.

“Come on, you big lug. Let’s get in bed, okay? You’re squashing me.”

“Sorry.” Hutch sat up right away, rubbing at his forehead. Starsky kept an arm around him and he could feel the man trembling. He helped Hutch up and got him into the bed, then gathered up the comforter and replaced it and crawled in beside him.

Hutch wriggled into his arms at once and Starsky, still feeling the quaking, rubbed his hands in long strokes over the broad back. Hutch began to relax again, but his irregular breathing showed he wasn’t falling back to sleep. Starsky found himself trying to stay alert too, still watchful lest another nightmare disturbed Hutch yet again.

This is is getting serious, Starsky thought, more worried now than ever. It was no longer a matter of insomnia caused by bad dreams. Hutch had been completely out of control. Never saw him hysterical before, not like that—totally vulnerable and just from a nightmare. Guess it was worse than ‘just a nightmare.’ He brought up a hand to stroke the tangled blond hair. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, babe? Whatever it was, it was too complicated to be solved by the method Starsky had tried tonight. Yet he couldn’t let things continue this way. Hutch couldn’t go on much longer getting little or no sleep and the emotional strain was beginning to show as well. If his condition didn’t improve he’d probably end up in the hospital.

Maybe there is a physical reason for the sleeplessness, Starsky thought suddenly. He considered suggesting that Hutch see the doctor he had been going to for check-ups here in Minneapolis. If there was something organic causing it all, it might be relatively easy to solve. Knowing how Hutch felt about doctors and medical tests, though, Starsky had a feeling he knew how his suggestion would be greeted. Guess it’s still up to me, at least for a while. We’ll deal with this the way we do everything else—together.

The rest of the night passed slowly, Hutch tossing and turning, unable or unwilling to sleep again and Starsky, alert to his partner’s discomfort, wanting to help him but powerless. By morning, Starsky had made a decision. When the alarm sounded, he punched it off at once, then turned toward Hutch.

The blond was already rolling out of bed. Starsky put out a hand to restrain him. “Stay right where you are.”

Hutch looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “I gotta get to work.”

“No way. Hutch, this is ridiculous. You can’t go to work again after not sleeping all night. And I know I can’t. We’re both taking the day off.” He pushed Hutch back down and pulled the covers up over his shoulders, planted a kiss on his cheek and then got out on his own side of the bed.

“So where are you going?” Hutch’s voice was rough with exhaustion.

“To call Pop and tell him I won’t be in today—or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“I know. I was supposed to go in for half a day. But we’re going to be out of town.”

“Huh?” He rubbed a hand over his forehead tiredly. “I don’t follow you.”

“We’re gonna get in the car and go off somewhere. You need trees and sunshine and fresh air and time away from that office. I think a complete change of scenery is what you need to break this routine you’ve worked yourself into.”

“Come on, Starsk. We’ve got jobs to go to. We can’t just take off.”

“Since when?” Starsky sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “What’s more important than your health, huh? If we were back on the force, we’d tell Dobey we needed the time and take off. We owed him more loyalty than we do the jobs we got now.”

Hutch groaned, looking away. “If we were on the force… Too many risks…”

“What?” Starsky touched his cheek urging him to meet his eyes.

“Starsk, I’m sorry. So sorry. I wouldn’t get you hurt again for anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

Hutch shrugged, sighing. “Nothing. I dreamed—I got us into a bad situation, couldn’t protect you… ”

“Come on. Stop with the ‘sorrys.’ You’re the only guy I know who can feel guilty over something he dreamed.”

Hutch blushed, looking embarrassed. “When you mentioned Dobey, guess I started thinking… ” He swallowed hard. “Don’t mind me. You oughta know by now I get crazy sometimes.”

“Yeah. I know,” Starsky said smiling. He ruffled the light hair. “Now try to get some rest, crazy man.” He kissed the parted lips. “I’ll be downstairs. Call if you need me.” Shrugging into his robe, Starsky slipped out of the room.

Using the phone in the living room, he reached his employer at home. “Mornin’, Pop.”

“Dave?” The toy store manager sounded surprised.

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I’m sorry to do this to you at the last minute, but I’ve gotta have today and Saturday off. It’s important. Kind of an emergency.”

The man obviously could hear the upset in Starsky’s voice. “Something wrong at home, son?”

“It’s Hutch, Pop,” Starsky told him without hesitating. There wasn’t much the older man missed. Starsky had told him he and Hutch lived together and he figured Pop had surmised the rest. “He’s not sleeping at night. It’s getting pretty bad. I want to get him out of town for a couple of days, you know, for a rest and a change of scenery. He likes it out in the country.”

“Where are you headed?”

“It’s okay? You sure you can handle things this weekend without me?”

Pop chuckled. “Just be back on Monday. Where did you have in mind to go?”

“I don’t know yet. Just thought we’d get in the car and drive.”

“Head north. There’s some nice resorts up around Brainerd—boating, fishing, nature trails, cross country skiing. It’s about a three or four hour drive up Route 371.”

“Skiing this time of year? Pop, it’s April already.”

“It’s not just a ski resort. There’s lots to do in the lake area. There are good restaurants and beautiful scenery. Just what the doctor ordered.”

“Thanks, Pop.” Starsky smiled into the phone. The older man was the closest thing to a friend he had made in the six months he and Hutch had lived in Minneapolis. His employer’s kindness made him feel better. “See you Monday.”

Hanging up, Starsky went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He wasn’t really hungry but he figured eating something would make him feel more awake. He took out a pitcher of orange juice and poured himself a glass. Overhead, he could hear the bed creak; Hutch still tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Starsky replaced the pitcher and got out the milk carton. He poured some into a pan and set it on the stove to heat, then rummaged for the cocoa mix.

A few minutes later, he was heading back upstairs. He opened the bedroom door softly. Hutch rolled over as he came in.

“Brought you some hot chocolate.” Starsky resumed his seat on the edge of the bed and Hutch sat up against a couple of propped pillows.

He took the steaming cup and sniffed appreciatively. “Smells good. Thanks, buddy.” He took a small sip.

“Thought it would help relax you.” Starsky got up and crossed to the other side of the room, drawing the window shades.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t get to sleep with the sun in your eyes.” Starsky turned back to him. “You’re not going in to work today, remember?”

“Starsk—”

“I called Pop. He not only gave me today and Saturday, he also recommended a place for us to go. Said we should drive up to Brainerd. They have ski places up there.”

Hutch took another drink of cocoa. “I don’t feel like skiing.”

“Who said we have to ski? It’s pretty late in the year anyway for that. We’ll get us a nice cabin, sit by the fire, go for walks in the woods. And you’ll sleep at night.”

The wide blue eyes looked luminous in the dim room. Hutch’s voice was soft, tired. “Sounds good.” He blinked, shaking his head. “But I don’t know if I can get off today.” He turned to peer at the clock. “I won’t be able to call the office until eight-thirty.”

“Finish your cocoa,” Starsky said, coming to sit beside him again. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you in sick.”

Hutch shook his head. “No. I better do it myself.”

Starsky sighed. Hutch and his stubborn, independent streak… “Okay. But lay back down for awhile. Relax until time to make the call.”

Hutch finished the hot chocolate slowly and Starsky sat with him while he drank it. By the time the mug was empty, he was yawning and said he felt drowsy at last. Starsky took the cup from his hand as Hutch settled down under the covers. He slipped out of the room quietly and made his way back downstairs.

His glass of juice still sat on the kitchen counter. Starsky drank it and rinsed both the glass and Hutch’s cup. He was too tired to eat, he decided, and went to lie down on the couch. There, he dozed off, still aware that Hutch wanted to call his office at eight-thirty. That knowledge interrupted his light doze and a glance at his watch showed it was time Hutch made his call. Starsky rolled off the couch and dragged himself up the stairs.

He looked in the open bedroom door. Hutch was asleep, finally, sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the bed. Starsky just couldn’t wake him, not after his sleepless night. He went downstairs and picked up the phone, dialing information to get the number of Halper and Moore.

* * * * *

Hutch’s eyes squinted in the sunshine glinting off the hood of his new silver-gray Granada. Starsky was at the wheel, having insisted on driving because he had had at least a few hours more sleep than Hutch. He glanced at his watch. It was ten after one. They had been on the road for nearly an hour.

For most of the time they had ridden quietly, not feeling much like conversation. The radio was on, tuned to a light rock FM station and turned low. The easy music was having a relaxing effect on Hutch. His partner’s eyes, shaded by his wire-framed sunglasses, remained steadfastly on the road.

They had gotten into an argument while trying to get ready to leave the house and now Hutch was beginning to feel it had all been his own fault. When he had awakened from his morning doze, it was ten o’clock. Learning that Starsky had telephoned the office for him, he had complained for quite awhile. Starsky should have wakened him so that he could have made the call himself. The reaction seemed childish now, but it had been rather embarrassing to think of Starsky making his excuses. Hutch hadn’t realized how self-conscious he was about people in his office knowing about his lifestyle.

He still felt like a newcomer at Halper and Moore, like he had very little in common with the rest of the staff. He also had the uncomfortable memory of being helplessly upset during the night, and that his condition had made Starsky think it was necessary to do everything for him. That, combined with his fatigue, had made him testy and he had taken it out on Starsky.

He knew Starsky was willing to put up with him when he became untractable this way. Why should he have to, though? Hutch thought back over the other broken love affairs in his life. He had done his share to cause the many bumps in his personal road of love. Don’t blow it this time, he told himself sternly. He turned his gaze toward Starsky, wishing he had the man in his arms right now. Not this time. I’d like to still believe in happy endings. I love him so much…

“Starsk?” Hutch said the name quietly. His partner’s eyes flicked his way and then returned to watch the road. He slid closer on the seat so he could be closer to Starsky. “Still mad at me?” He tried a little smile, feeling sheepish.

“Nah—you’re always bitchy when you haven’t had enough sleep.”

Hutch shrugged in apology. “Guess I’ve been that way a lot lately.”

“Sure have.”

Hutch looked at his partner closely, not certain if the voice were teasing or serious. “I know.” Depression seemed to settle over him.

“Come on. Don’t start getting down on yourself now.” A hand reached to clasp his own. Hutch held on tight, feeling like Starsky was his lifeline, the only one who could save him from drowning in the confusion that seemed to be swamping him lately. He drew a deep breath, trying to get himself together.

Starsky did not release his hand, though. “Hutch… listen to me. You’ve been there for me, all those times last year when I thought I wasn’t going to get better. Don’t think you’ve got to get through whatever’s going on all on your own.”

“Me and thee, is that it?” Hutch lay his head against Starsky’s leather-clad shoulder. He felt the light caress of silky curls moving across his brow as his partner leaned close and nodded.

They rode in more comfortable silence for a few more miles. Still reclining against his partner, Hutch asked, “Where did you say we’re headed?”

“Brainerd. I made reservations while you were sleeping. I think you’ll like the place.”

Hutch heard the sound of delicious anticipation in Starsky’s voice. “Oh, yeah? What’s it like?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Surprisin’ me?” Hutch pressed a kiss on his lover’s shoulder.

“That’s right.” Starsky sounded smug.

Hutch sighed, letting the contentment of being close seep into him. He closed his eyes, letting the motion of the car lull him to sleep.

* * * * *

A hand on his thigh nudged him awake sometime later. “Look, Hutch!” The Granada pulled to the shoulder of the road and stopped.

“What?” Hutch felt a stiffness in his neck and his mind was fuzzy with sleep.

“Over there.” Starsky was pointing toward two huge statues farther back from the road.

“Oh. yeah. It’s been years since I’ve seen those.” Hutch remembered enjoying the sight of the tourist attraction when he was a kid. “In the summertime, you can go up in them. The view is fabulous.”

“Paul Bunyan, right?” Starsky was grinning from ear to ear. “I didn’t realize he was supposed to have lived in Minnesota. And the blue ox… what was his name?”

Hutch couldn’t believe Starsky didn’t remember. He turned to look his partner in the eye. “Babe.”

Starsky cracked up. “That’ll give me a whole new image when I call you that—ya big ox.” His arms squeezed tight around Hutch.

It felt good to laugh together again. Last night’s terrors seemed far away now and Hutch was able to stop worrying about what his emotional ups and downs might mean.

“We almost there?”

“Yep.” Starsky was consulting a map. “Couple more miles.” He started the car again and pulled back on to the road.

Hutch stretched, yawning. “Feels good to be here and not in that stuffy office.”

“You’re not real crazy about the job, are ya, Hutch?”

The casual question took the blond by surprise. “I don’t know. I don’t think much about it.”

“Do you like it?” Starsky glanced toward him.

“Yeah. I guess so. I figure it beats my last job.” Hutch had a strong desire to change the subject. He didn’t feel like analyzing his form of employment just now.

“That’s one way to put it.” Starsky’s voice was quiet.

“What do you mean by that?” Hutch spoke more sharply than he intended.

“I was just thinking—it’s a whole different routine. I mean, we didn’t even actually have a routine when we were on the force. Maybe you’re taking some time getting used to it.”

Hutch chewed at his bottom lip. “What I don’t enjoy getting used to is not working with you, partner.”

“I’m not too great with figures, Hutch,” Starsky chuckled. “Maybe you’d like to come work at the toy store.”

“That’s not what I mean. You have a right to do the job you enjoy. And I do what I can…” He let the words trail off.

There was a long silence from the car’s driver. “Are you very dissatisfied there?”

Hutch wasn’t exactly dissatisfied, but he couldn’t say he loved it at Halper and Moore, either. “I don’t know. I’m good at the work. It’s not always terribly interesting, but that’s what I wanted in the first place, wasn’t it? To get away from the stuff we’d faced on the streets?”

“Was it?”

“Starsky, I don’t know. Don’t push it right now, okay?” Hutch tried to sound patient. Starsky meant well; he was just in no mood to discuss things so seriously. “I just want to look at the sunshine and scenery, not dwell on all the problems back in Minneapolis. That is why you suggested this trip, isn’t it?”

The smile that turned toward him was as bright as the sunlight reflecting off the car and twice as warm. “Okay. This is our weekend to get away from it all. It’ll be fun after that long, northern winter we just survived.”

Hutch grinned back. “You sure don’t have much pioneer spirit, Starsk. You would never have been the kind of lumberjack they tell tall tales about like Paul Bunyan.”

“Sure, I would. They’d remember a cute, curly-haired lumberjack —and his partner.” Starsky’s mouth twitched with a devilish grin and his voice took on the raspy intonation of an old storyteller. “Yessir, the way I hear tell it, Starsky’s babe’s feet were so big and clumsy, he made more lakes than Paul Bunyan’s ox did with his hooves.”

“One of these days, buddy.” Hutch glanced at him in mock annoyance, then slid down in his seat, resting his head against the upholstery. “Hurry up and get us where we’re going, huh? Or I’ll stomp all over your ass with my so-called big feet.”

* * * * *

Starsky watched as Hutch explored the cabin he had rented for the weekend. He had found the Lake View Lodge in the Minnesota tour guide book and had been certain it would be perfect from the description. He wasn’t disappointed. The small A-frame sat nestled between tall Minnesota pines just at the edge of the lake. Inside, the feeling was all coziness; a combined living room and kitchen area decorated with heavy pine furnishings and fabrics printed in shades of rust and orange and green. At one side was a fireplace built of natural granite with the wood already laid and a good supply in a nearby log carrier. The main wall was all windows, letting in streaks of afternoon sun. A ladder of wood strips nailed into the wall led up to the loft where a king-size bed was swathed in a generous layer of plaid quilts. They could lay in bed and watch the moonlight over the lake or make love in front of the fire. Maybe they’d do both.

“Starsk…” Hutch’s voice was soft with wonder. “It’s perfect.”

“I like it, too. Kinda fancy compared to Dobey’s place…” Starsky admitted to himself that he felt a lot more secure in the more modern construction than their old Captain’s log cabin.

“And it’s all ours.” Hutch sank down on the huge couch and put his feet up on the pine coffee table.

“Hey, nature boy—don’t ya wanna go exploring? There’s all kinds of nature paths and stuff around here, the guy at the office says.”

“You want to go roaming around in the open?” With Hutch teasing him, Starsky noted that some of the haunted look left over from the night before was finally leaving his friend’s eyes.

“I brought my camera,” he said in his own defense. “Look, here’s the folder the guy gave me when I registered. I’ll take our stuff upstairs while you decide what you’d like to do this afternoon.”

* * * * *

They ended up renting a canoe and spent a couple of hours paddling around the lake. The air was brisk in the early spring sunlight, but they were comfortable with wool sweaters under their heavy jackets. They worked up an appetite and had dinner in the lodge’s restaurant. After a feast that consisted of stuffed mushrooms, pasta salad, prime rib, and cheese cake, they walked back to their cabin.

Hutch got the fire going while Starsky uncorked a bottle of wine. He came to sit next to his partner on the couch. The Langenbach Libfraumilch tasted crisp and cold and Starsky pressed close to Hutch so that they touched, shoulders to thighs, and stretched his legs next to the long ones already occupying the coffee table.

“Feel better now, Hutch?” he asked quietly.

Hutch was studiously watching the bright, leaping flames. He nodded slowly, then turned to meet Starsky’s eyes. “I’m sorry about last night, babe. I must have really been a mess. I… don’t know how…”

A little color had risen to tint Hutch’s cheeks faintly pink and it wasn’t from the fire. Starsky chose his words carefully. “It’s okay. You didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t, I guess. You… wanna talk about it?”

Hutch’s eyes went back to the mesmerizing flames. He sat looking into them for a long moment as if he could somehow find his answers there. Instead of commenting on Starsky’s question directly, though, he finally whispered, “It’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the reliving of what it was like on the streets. I can’t figure out why I keep seeing it all when I’m really glad we got out.” He glanced back to Starsky, his eyes wide with confusion. “Do you miss it a lot, partner?”

The question took Starsky by surprise, but he realized it made a strange kind of Hutchinson sense. His lover had probably figured out away to blame himself for Starsky having to give up being a cop. He couldn’t answer him that way, though. Putting the realization into words would only reinforce it for the guilt-seeking blond.

Starsky took hold of Hutch’s hand as he answered with his heart. “Yeah, I miss it sometimes. It was so much a part of my life, of our life. But I’m not unhappy now, Hutch. I’d be unhappy if I couldn’t work at all, if I had to take physical therapy all the time and couldn’t make a living. I was a good cop and I liked working the streets, but it was time to move on. Nobody said something like a job lasts forever.”

He had watched Hutch’s eyes while he spoke. So trusting, they had hung on his every word. He had thought what he said was helping until they clouded over at the last. Hutch broke the eye contact and drained his wine glass. His voice was soft as a sigh. “No. Nothing lasts forever.”

You trust me, why can you trust yourself? Starsky wanted to shake him, wanted to hold him in his arms so tight the pain in Hutch would be smothered out of him. Instead he stroked the side of his face with a gentle hand, trying tenderness instead of force. His index finger drew a line around the wide, down-turned mouth. “We do,” Starsky whispered.

The golden head turned, eyes aching to believe. “We do, love,” Starsky told him again, more firmly. “Doesn’t matter what changes. None of that’s important that’s outside. Inside, where it counts, we last.”

Hutch reached out for him, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other hand pausing to take the wine glass and set it safely on the table. Enfolded close against the man, Starsky felt the anxious beating of Hutch’s heart, heard the need in the tremulous voice. “Always?”

“Yes, lover.” The words were tasted in the kiss Hutch gave him in answer.

“Tell me.” The hungry lips parted from his a second, then returned.

“Love you.” Starsky let himself be kissed, craving the melting sensation as his mouth was explored by a warm, invading tongue.

“No matter what?” Hutch sounded breathless.

Starsky could only nod, raising his arms to wrap them around Hutch’s neck. They were content to stay that way for a long time, mouths sealing the commitment of their love. They took their time, savoring each other’s taste like long-desired wine, making slow love with lingering kisses that were somehow all the more intimate. Hutch’s wet mouth pressed close, working against Starsky’s, feeling hot and ardent. Starsky parted the thirsty lips with his tongue, their taste making him tingle deep down. He pressed Hutch back, leaning until the blond lay beneath him on the couch.

His turn to take command now, Starsky kissed him firmly, moving slower, gentling desire. He felt the full lips as a sweet softness under his own and for a long, endless moment just pressed against them in an almost chaste affirmation of his promise.

Their kisses grew more lazy. Hutch, sighing deeply, relaxed under him, and Starsky could feel the fatigue behind the man’s desire. He drew back, moving just to hold Hutch in the circle of his arms while he rested his head against the strong shoulder.

He was tired, too, from driving and fresh air and lack of sleep. It was so comfortable and warm together that they drifted for a time, lips meeting now only occasionally. After a while, Starsky heard Hutch’s deepened breathing and realized his lover was going to sleep.

“Come on, ya big ox o’ mine. We’ve got that big bed upstairs, just waiting…” He nudged him to semi-wakefulness and somehow, shoving and coaxing, got the uncoordinated blond up the make-shift ladder. Then Starsky took care of the fire and the lights and followed him up.

Hutch was asleep, only half-undressed. Starsky pulled off the jeans and covered the still form with a thick quilt, then dropped his own clothes and crawled under the covers. Hutch moved blindly into his embrace, tired lips trying to respond to one last kiss.

“Go back to sleep, lover,” Starsky admonished in a whisper. “We’re for always… got plenty of other nights.”

* * * * *

The morning air was cold and a grey mist of fog hung over the quiet lake. Hutch stood on the deck of the A-frame, wrapped in a long velour robe, looking out over the surface of unbroken water. He felt rested, for a change, but that good feeling was somewhat at variance with the embarrassing memory of having fallen asleep while lying on the couch kissing Starsky. It certainly hadn’t been because he wasn’t interested. The spirit was willing, a mocking voice whispered inside his head. Still, at least he had actually slept soundly through the night. Maybe he could make up his lapse to Starsky later.

Gotta get my head together. Hutch tried to make it a conscious decision. He knew he had a tendency to worry an issue to death, sometimes making a simple problem worse by trying to find hidden meanings and psychological ramifications.

Right now, he wanted to forget all about his bad dreams and sleepless nights and the hysteria of the worst nightmare that had left him feeling humiliated and confused. Starsky’s reassurances were working their old magic on him and in the light of the fresh new day, Hutch believed everything was indeed going to be fine.

He turned, looking up along the window wall of the A-frame. He could just make out the top fringe of black curls on the pillow of the rumpled bed. Most of Starsky was obscured by the layers of quilting. Hutch smiled, thinking about climbing back up to the loft to wake his partner and take up where they had left off the night before.

That would be nice, but Starsky needed his sleep, too. Hutch glanced back up at the sky, noting that the sun was coming out, beginning to burn off the fog. He went inside to get dressed, then came back out and got in the car, figuring he had plenty of time to pick up provisions at the grocery store they had passed yesterday and start breakfast for himself and his partner before Starsky woke up.

* * * * *

An hour later, as Hutch flipped sizzling slices of bacon, he heard Starsky beginning to emerge. In a few minutes his partner made his way down from the loft, wearing only his jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, his long hair tousled in loose ringlets that stuck up in back. Hutch put down his spatula and reached out to smooth the springy strands back into place. His hand ended up around the back of the curl-dusted nape and pulled, bringing Starsky close for a good morning kiss.

“Don’t let the bacon burn.” The low voice was teasing, the eyes twinkling.

“Oh, yeah!” Smothering a smile, Hutch turned back to his skillet. “Hungry, Starsk? I’ve got scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and fresh squeezed orange juice.” He grinned at the evidence that food was indeed on his partner’s mind this morning. Starsky was already halfway through a slice of toast Hutch had cut from a freshly baked loaf of wheat bread he’d bought.

They sat down to enjoy Hutch’s cooking and made plans for the day. It was still early enough for fishing and Hutch had made arrangements to rent a boat and some equipment when he’d gone out for the groceries.

“I thought you might want to start the day where we ended last night. You know—neckin’ on the couch.” Starsky licked his lips, then finished off his second glass of juice.

Hutch stirred his coffee. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey.” Warm, slim fingers took the spoon from his hand. “Who says we gotta do it all, every time we cuddle up to each other? That’s half the fun of living together, Hutch. We don’t have to always be in such a hurry.”

Hutch smiled. “Okay. We’ll try tonight and see how far we get.”

“It’s a date.” Starsky’s grin made Hutch look forward to their being together already. Not breaking eye contact, Starsky went on. “So after we catch all the fish in that lake out there, what next?

“How about going exploring?” Hutch suggested, figuring that today Starsky wouldn’t be so excited at the prospect of wandering around in the woods.

He wasn’t surprised when Starsky spent a few extra minutes chewing a bite of toast. “Exploring? You mean—the wilderness? Hutch…”

“Hey, partner. It was your idea to come here.”

“I know. But I was thinking, what about bears—and snakes?”

“It’s pretty cold for snakes. But I think bears start waking up around April first.”

Starsky gulped, his Adam’s apple jumping. Hutch chuckled. “I think you’ll be safe. After all, I’ll be with you.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Deep blue eyes rolled as Starsky gave a sarcastic intonation to the comment.

Hutch just laughed.

* * * * *

The fishing was good. By noon, they had caught enough trout for a couple of meals. Hutch was looking forward to cooking them; he had picked up lemons, almonds, fresh parsley, and other ingredients at the store in anticipation of trying out his culinary skills with fresh trout.

He grabbed the oars and headed back toward the boat dock. Starsky held up the string of fish, grinning proudly. “Hey, we did pretty good. We ought to come up here more often. I think the regular relaxation would be good for both of us.”

Hutch nodded, liking the look of Starsky’s glossy curls tossed by the breeze. The sun reflected off the water had been caught in the deep blue of his partner’s laughing eyes. Yes, Hutch thought, spending days like this together is the best. “Just what we’ve needed,” he agreed.

* * * * *

After returning their rented boat, Starsky and Hutch grabbed a hearty lunch at the lodge coffee shop, then walked back to their cabin to get Starsky’s camera equipment.

They set out on one of the many meandering nature trails surrounding the lodge. Lilies of the Valley were already in bloom and Starsky lay on his stomach to get pictures of the tiny white blossoms. Everywhere, the pine forest seemed lush and green and ready to erupt into blooming life.

“We’ll have to come up here in the summer and pick blackberries and raspberries,” Hutch said, bending to inspect some bushes that wouldn’t bear fruit for another month or more.

Starsky watched him through his camera lens, snapping a couple of candid photos. Hutch, with the sun in his hair. Hutch, grinning so much when he spotted a white-tailed deer that his eyes sparkled.

God, he looks so much better today, Starsky reflected as he watched him climb up on a rocky outcropping and stand staring up at the cloudless sky.

“Come on up, Starsk. You can see all the way out to the lake.” Hutch shaded his eyes with his hand and looked down to motion for his partner to join him. The breeze caught at the fine strands of his hair, blowing it out to frame his head like a wispy halo. He looked irresistible and Starsky, who normally preferred to stay on solid ground, found himself climbing up the jagged rock face to join him.

Eager hands reached out to help him clamber to a standing position on the big rock. Hutch wrapped an arm around his shoulders protectively and together they admired the view. Starsky was having such a good time that he realized he didn’t mind being up so high and he decided to take some pictures with a longer lens.

“I think this is what they call ‘Fox Rock.'” Hutch was consulting his nature map. “It does sort of look like a fox’s head, doesn’t it?”

Starsky mumbled in agreement, intent on photographing the lake as it lay still and serene surrounded by a fringe of Minnesota pines. He edged a few steps away, trying to get the best possible angle for the picture.

“Be careful, Starsky.”

He heard what Hutch said just as he took another step while still looking through the lens of his camera. His foot came down on the jutting curve of the rock where it angled down sharply. He lost his balance and slipped, felt himself falling.

“Hutch!” He tried to protect his camera and held it tightly with one hand while trying to break his fall with the other. He struck hard against a neighboring rock face, sliding down into the narrow crevice separating them.

“Starsky?” Hutch scrambled down over the edge of Fox Rock and on to the craggy surface of the lower ledge next to it. He lay down on his stomach and reached for Starsky, getting hold of him by the shoulder of his jacket. His voice shook when he spoke. “Starsk? You okay, babe?”

“I… I think so.” Starsky noted that his own voice was none too steady. The wind had been knocked out of him. “Get me outta here.”

Hutch grasped him under the arms and heaved. Starsky tried helping, but when he put pressure on his left leg, he grunted in pain.

“I gotcha. Take it easy,” Hutch directed, tugging on him. “That’s it.”

“Careful… of my camera,” Starsky reminded through gritted teeth.

Finally, he was up on the rock ledge, leaning heavily against his partner. He tried to look at his Nikon, but his right hand was so scraped by the rough rock he could hardly flex his fingers. Taking inventory, Starsky decided he was mainly shaken and bruised. Then he tried to move his leg.

Hutch noticed his grimace of pain and turned immediately to examine the limb. He pushed up the wide leg of Starsky’s jeans and felt along the scraped calf gently.

“Looks like a bad brush burn.” His fingers worked the sock down to feel his ankle and Starsky gave a yelp.

“You think it’s broken? Maybe it’s just sprained,” he wondered, swallowing another groan as Hutch probed the tender area.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just wrenched or something. But I want to get you to a doctor.”

Before Starsky could answer, Hutch climbed down from the rock and reached up to help him to the ground. With one arm thrown around Hutch’s shoulders, Starsky steadied himself and tried gingerly to put his weight on his leg. It felt like it would support him, but it still hurt badly.

Staggering and wincing, leaning on Hutch, he made it back up the trail to the lodge. He started sweating with exertion and grew short of breath, but Hutch wouldn’t let him rest for too long, fearing the ankle would swell if he didn’t get medical attention soon.

They were told that the medical center in Brainerd had a well-equipped emergency facility and Hutch brought the car up to the lodge while Starsky sat on the porch waiting for him. After only a short wait at the emergency room, Starsky was examined. His ankle was only sprained, having been twisted between the rocks, and he was instructed to soak the foot in cold water for the pain and swelling. A nurse washed out the scrapes on his hand and leg. While she worked, Starsky could see his partner pacing outside the curtained area, nervous as a skittish bobcat.

Driving back to the lodge, Hutch was quiet and white-faced. Starsky leaned back against the seat, feeling every bump in the road through his aching body. He was annoyed with himself for being so clumsy. He could see that Hutch was upset and that bothered him, too. He didn’t want his accident to undo the therapeutic effects of their weekend.

When they returned to their cabin, Hutch helped Starsky inside, then went to fill a pan with water for a foot bath. He got Starsky settled on the couch, took off his shoe and sock and immersed his foot. The water felt cold but it eased the bone-deep ache. Starsky leaned back, watching his partner as he lit the kindling in the fireplace.

“You want something to eat now?” Hutch asked, returning to kneel in front of Starsky.

“Nah. I’m not really hungry yet. I just want to relax for a while.”

Hutch’s hands clenched on his thighs. “Okay. You know—if you don’t think you can make it up to the loft, we can sleep down here tonight.”

“Whatever.” Starsky was watching the tense blond closely. “Hutch, I’m okay. Really.”

Blue eyes raised to meet his. There was a deep sparkle in Hutch’s eyes, a guarded emotion that Starsky was not able to fully define at first. Then Hutch moved closer, his hands reaching for Starsky’s waist.

“Starsk… babe… it scared me when you fell.”

Starsky placed one hand alongside Hutch’s cheek. “Take it easy, Hutch. It was just a little accident.”

Hutch’s voice broke on a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan and he leaned forward, arms going around Starsky’s back, one cheek pressed against his chest.

Starsky stroked his hair, let his fingers comb through the mussed strands at the tense nape. Hutch’s breathing was ragged and Starsky could feel the pounding of his heart.

“Hutch?” His whisper went unanswered as Hutch began to rub his face over Starsky’s chest and stomach. The hands that had been clenched behind the seated man came around to his front, stroking over his chest pressing Starsky back against the cushions.

Trembling fingers reached to undo Starsky’s buttons, to push aside the fabric of his checked shirt. He continued to rub his face over bare skin now, and Starsky could feel the slight stubble that roughened Hutch’s cheeks and caught in the dark hairs of his own chest.

He could feel Hutch’s breath, too, warm and tickly as Hutch sighed again, in half anguish, half bliss. Hands that were even warmer cupped the contours of Starsky’s pectorals and skimmed his ribs. His skin rapidly sensitizing to his lover’s touch, Starsky sighed, too, and Hutch looked up, his eyes wide, his mouth a curve of desire. He reached up, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Starsky’s throat. A wet lick followed the light touch and then a soft murmur. “Always loved you here… so beautiful.” The tongue trailed a meandering line down Starsky’s chest, wiggled into the almost hidden navel, chin nudging the interfering belt buckle.

The fingers pulled open the belt and unsnapped the jeans waistband. Hutch kissed the little bit of belly now exposed and the sensation zoomed right to Starsky’s gut. Hutch began easing down his zipper, careful not to catch cotton fabric or skin in the metal teeth. Starsky could feel himself stiffening as the loosened fabric gave him his freedom. He kept his eyes on Hutch’s fingers reaching inside for him, each touch as they pulled and prodded a separate seduction.

At last his erection stood held in Hutch’s hand, dark rose surrounded by pale sand. Hutch bent his mouth to it, rubbing the cock head over his closed lips, letting it part them to find their inner softness. As the moist tongue tip caressed him, Starsky’s eyes closed. Then he was engulfed by gentle sucking accompanied by the tightening grip of sure fingers. They pumped him, causing conflicting hot sensations to throb up and down his length.

Hutch’s mouth worked on him, bringing him to fevered readiness, giving him pleasure with the most intimate of gifts. Starsky knew he was losing control; he spared a wild thought for the pan of water—hoped he wouldn’t kick it over. His back arched and, trying to thrust himself deeper into Hutch’s mouth, his ass lifted of the couch. Hutch brought one hand under him, squeezing, urging.

Almost before he expected it, Starsky felt himself exploding. Hutch held him tight, drank all he had, released and kissed his softening flesh, cradled Starsky’s relaxing body in welcoming arms. Warm lips moved against his ear and he felt a whisper roughed with emotion and need. “I want your ass now, babe.”

Starsky nodded, embracing Hutch around the shoulders. “‘M all yours.”

He was lifted by arms under his knees and around his back and carried to lie on the rug before the fire. Hutch pulled of his shirt, and used it to dry Starsky’s dripping foot, bent to kiss the injured ankle. Then he stripped his partner and rolled him to his stomach. The sound of a belt buckle unclasping made Starsky shiver in anticipation.

What would touch him first? Hands gripping in demanding strength? Instead, he felt the delight of Hutch’s lips, beginning at the small of his back, moving to explore every inch of his bottom. They were joined by pressing fingertips that molded and caressed. Then came a cheek resting on the cushion of his flesh and a gentle palm smoothing his curves.

A tongue sought to know him intimately, fingers rotated, made him ache with yearning. Hands positioned him, gripped and pulled, and hard, wet steel pressed at his center, sliding deep in full joining. Hutch groaned, one short sob that was relief and passion combined. Then he was moving, bringing himself and Starsky into more perfect union, using all his considerable strength, his rhythm fast and hard.

Starsky cried out, but he wanted it. The slight pain didn’t matter, Hutch unleashed was love incarnate.

Just as he thought his lover could last no longer, Hutch pulled out, rolling him over and repositioning him in one motion. Then they were together again. Hutch’s hands finding Starsky’s new hardness, his face an anguished mask of desperation and desire. His body was frantic, his wide open eyes fixed on the image of their joined flesh, his hands grasping and pumping, his cock driving hard, fast, deep. Groans wrenched from him were in tempo with his thrusting. Deep inside, he held himself frozen for a beat, then the spasms shook both him and Starsky and all rhythms broke down in clumsy, dizzying shudders of completion.

Trembling, weak, Hutch fell over into Starsky’s embrace, his anxious whispers like sobs, half gratitude, half overwrought concern for is lover’s well-being.

“Sorry, sorry, babe. Just needed you so much. Didn’t hurt you…? How’s your leg? Your ankle hurt? God, I love you…”

Starsky brought his arms up to enfold the shaking shoulders. “Hey, I’m fine. Couldn’t be better, love. Take it easy.”

Hutch drew a deep breath and snuggled in complete relaxation into the welcoming clasp. His lips nuzzled at Starsky’s shoulder. They lay together for a long, quiet time, the fire keeping them warm, the afterglow leaving them content.

Starsky felt the lips moving against his shoulder once more as Hutch began to stir. Starsky tried to shift a little under him, his leg and ankle beginning to ache again. Hutch perked up right away and rolled a little distance from him, sitting up and bending to caress the bruised ankle with his palm.

“It’s not too bad,” Starsky assured him.

The blue eyes that looked back at him were large. “You sure? You want to have dinner now?”

Starsky couldn’t help grinning. Hutch in his solicitous mode was always endearing. He acknowledged that he was getting hungry and his partner rose to gather their scattered clothes. In a few minutes, Starsky was again settled on the couch, watching as Hutch bustled around in the kitchen area preparing their meal with the trout they had caught themselves.

* * * * *

Hutch lay on his side, watching his lover sleep. Starsky was dreaming, his eyes darted behind pale lids and the shadows cast by his long lashes wavered. His mouth curved in a smile as if he carried a special secret. The dreams were pleasant. Settling for sleep himself, Hutch dropped a kiss on his temple and Starsky only sighed. He stretched a little, carefully, not wishing to disturb the sleeper who lay so near. He felt good, relaxed, well loved, content. Yet he was exhilarated, too. The events of the day had seemed to recharge his batteries. For the first time in… how long —weeks?… he felt like himself.

The thought drew Hutch back from the brink of sleep. He felt normal as he hadn’t in so long. It had been more than weeks, was actually more like months. The way he felt now was like he had back in L.A. when he and Starsky were on the force. Or like he did now in some of his dreams.

He realized with some surprise that not all of his dreams could actually be labeled nightmares. They did interrupt his sleep, but not because they frightened him. They carried him into stressful situations and when he was jolted awake, it was with the kick of adrenalin running through his system.

Even the bad one Thursday night… Although many had been vivid and memorable, some of the dreams had been too vague for him to recall; he had only interpreted them as disquieting, making him relive bad moments on the streets. Now, he looked at them from another point of view and the idea chilled him. It was almost as though I craved being in those situations. Being in danger, shooting and being shot at, worrying about Starsky, needing to protect him… Oh, God, what’s the matter with me.

He lay back, not wanting to think, unable to think about anything else. It sounded insane—to actually miss the danger they had faced on the street. When he and Starsky had left L.A. for Minnesota, his relief that their live wouldn’t be put on the line anymore had been genuine. He had thought he would never miss any aspect of those years, save working in partnership with Starsky. Yet he supposed it was possible to miss that part of it. He did not miss the danger, precisely. It was the tension from being ready for it and the kick when he managed despite it that he was missing. It had to take time to get used to new schedules, to adapt to a more ordinary routine. It might also require a period of adjustment to stop expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. Hutch had lived for ten years being ready for anything. Now, living a peaceful, non-stressful life was causing its own kind of stress.

Thinking about it in those terms made Hutch feel a little better. He wasn’t crazy, just adjusting. The problem had begun to affect him only in the last couple of weeks because he had been busy establishing a new life. Now that he and Starsky had settled into a routine with their new jobs and in the house together, the lack of stress was making him restless.

At least now I understand the problem, he told himself. It shouldn’t be so hard to deal with… Hutch turned back to Starsky and reached to place one arm across his chest in a protective gesture. This afternoon, when he fell… it was like old times. Something happened suddenly and I felt the adrenalin kick in.

He remembered hurrying Starsky to get him out of the woods, even though his partner was having trouble keeping up with the pace he had set. Hutch hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that there was more danger back there in the forest, even though he knew that there was nothing after them. He was keyed up, acting on impulse, needing to protect Starsky. At the emergency room, he hadn’t been able to keep still. Pacing outside Starsky’s cubicle, he had watched the nurse clean the scrapes and cuts on his hand and leg.  I wanted to be the one doing that. Not because I resented someone else touching him; it was more like I felt I had to be doing something to keep him safe. His arm tightened around his lover and Starsky shifted closer, his bare thigh rubbing against Hutch’s still sensitive cock. Back here, I had to make love to him. I was on fire, needing him so bad…

Hutch didn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking. He tried to get back to the easy rationalization he had thought of earlier. Just getting used to the routine of the way we live now… it’s strange, not having stress and tension on me constantly. I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop… all the time. He drifted to sleep, hanging on to the conviction that his problem was just a phase, that now that he realized what was wrong, it wouldn’t affect him so much anymore.

* * * * *

Starsky hobbled out of the A-frame, carrying the last of their luggage. It had been a great weekend despite his mishap yesterday afternoon. His ankle felt a lot better now, anyway. Soaking it had helped, and the passionate interlude with Hutch in front of the fire had certainly taken his mind off it for the duration.

He glanced at his partner as Hutch straightened from stowing their gear in the Granada’s trunk. His faced looked happy, not strained, and rested, without the lines or exhaustion. Can’t wait to tell Pop, Starsky chuckled to himself; it was a great suggestion to come here.

“What are you snickering at?” Hutch took the green duffle bag from Starsky’s out-stretched hand.

“Just happy, babe.” Starsky grabbed Hutch around the waist and leaned in for a quick kiss.

“Hey—” Hutch pulled back in surprise and glanced around as if he thought someone might be observing them. Noting that they were alone, he relented, returning both the embrace and the kiss. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You were demonstrative enough last night—and this morning.”

“What about this afternoon?” Hutch demanded archly.

“That was good, too.” Starsky smiled in recollection. They had lazed around all day, taking advantage of his sore ankle to get in plenty of rest and lots of loving. Now, as the sun was setting, they were reluctantly heading back toward Minneapolis. “In fact,” he went on, “you’ve worn me out so much that you can do the driving on the way home.”

“Okay.” Hutch closed the trunk and, with a last glance at their cabin, fished the keys to the Granada out of his pocket. Starsky hadn’t expected him to go along with the suggestion. He slid in to the passenger’s seat and adjusted his safety belt. “After all,” Hutch continued, “you drove us here.” He reached out and drew Starsky to him, finding his mouth with his own. Their lips clung and the world slipped away. Starsky wouldn’t have cared if they were doing this before a sold-out crowd at Dodger Stadium and he sensed that Hutch wouldn’t, either.

The kiss ended but the close embrace did not. “Thanks for this weekend, Starsk. I feel so much better.” The light in the pale blue eyes proved Hutch’s statement to Starsky more than hearing the words.

“Then it was worth me nearly breakin’ my leg?”

“Don’t tease.” Hutch kissed him again. “Yes, it was.”

“You think you’re gonna sleep better at night now?”

Hutch nodded, stroking the side of Starsky’s face, holding his lover’s gaze with his own.

“Good.” The look held a few minutes longer. “Then can we head back home now? It’s gonna be dark soon and I don’t want you to haveta be up too late.”

“Okay.” Hutch captured his lips once more, then turned to start the car. “You want to stop for dinner up the road?”

Starsky checked his watch. It was almost six. “Yeah. We might as well have one more meal in a good restaurant before getting back to the old routine tomorrow.”

“What?” Hutch was looking at him with an odd expression.

“I said, we might as well eat out tonight, because it’s back to the same old routine Monday morning.”

Hutch’s lips compressed in a down-curving line. “That’s what I thought you said.”

Starsky rubbed his shoulder. “We’ll do this again, babe.” Hutch turned, backing the car out of its parking space. “I thought you were the guy who was so into the work ethic. What’s the matter, Hutch, you suddenly prefer bumming around?”

“Not exactly.” The voice was low, the inflection enigmatic.

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll make our nights so exciting you won’t mind going back to the salt mines every morning.”

That brought a grin. “You stay as hot as you were this weekend, and I’ll never leave for the salt mines.”

* * * * *

Starsky shifted on the front seat of the Granada, not waking, not precisely asleep, either. He could hear the rhythm of the tires on the pavement, the swoosh that signaled passing cars and Hutch’s voice, singing softly along with the Paul Simon tape he’d put in the player. The background noises colored his dreams, becoming a part of them. The sounds were rhythmic, comforting; they made him feel safe. He settled more comfortably, his head pillowed by his bunched windbreaker against the window. Nowhere else I’d rather be, he thought as, hearing Hutch’s light tenor, he drifted back into deeper sleep.

He was on a roller coaster and his car was breaking loose as they rounded a particularly treacherous curve. He couldn’t hold on, he was sliding out of the seat. The screeching of brakes was followed by an immediate switch in direction. Starsky’s head slid over, hitting hard against the window glass. The impact brought him fully awake.

He looked around, feeling disoriented. “What’s goin’ on?”

Hutch didn’t answer. He was sitting up straight in his seat, hands clenched on the steering wheel in a grip that turned his knuckles white. His eyes were bright with a gleam that was positively lethal.

“What’s going on?” Starsky demanded again, more coherently, though he recognized that shrill tone in his voice.

Hutch’s eyes flicked up toward the rearview mirror. “Come on, baby, just try it.” His voice was low, taunting, gruff. His foot pressed down on the accelerator and the Granada leaped forward like a silver streak.

Starsky’s eyes flew to the speedometer. “Eighty? Hutch, what’re you doin’?”

His partner ignored him, swinging the car into the left lane. Starsky glanced out the back window and saw a huge semi truck bearing down on them and trying to pass. Just as Hutch got into the left lane, the trucker cut his own wheels to the right.

They had come to a downgrade and the semi picked up speed. It passed the Granada and pulled in front, just missing the right fender of the car. Hutch tried to get around it from the left, but the truck crossed over the line and forced him back. As an upgrade was reached, both vehicles slowed.

“What’re you tryin’ to do, Hutch? Have you gone crazy—playin’ tag with a semi?” Starsky thought his words were being tuned out, but Hutch answered in a voice his partner had heard many times before, one reserved for exchanging a few words from behind cover on the street.

“He started it.”

“He’s liable to finish it, too.” Starsky eyed the huge bulk of the truck in front of the Granada with a wary eye. It towered over them like some farcical obelisk out of a spoof of “2001.”

“He tried to pass me awhile back,” Hutch went on in the same clipped tone. “There was a wet patch in the road—it rained while you were sleeping. I didn’t want to get splashed—we’re out of washer fluid. So I sped up.”

“And he didn’t like it.”

“Right.” Hutch accelerated, again pulled to the left of the trailer. He got into the left lane and started to pass.

The road curved around to the right and the truck moved over, crowding Hutch’s car toward the shoulder on the left. Starsky heard the clatter of tires catching gravel. Hutch was forced to slow down to stay on the road.

“Come on, Hutch, take it easy. The guy’s gotta be on speed or something to take chances like that. He won’t give up.”

“Neither will I.”

“What’re you going to do—pull him over and write him a ticket?”

Hutch laughed in response, his eyes still glittering in feral enjoyment of the game. He waited until the truck had a downshift to negotiate another curve and then sped up to pass him on the right.

The semi kept up, cutting off his attempt once more and breaking down, nearly causing Hutch to run into the rear end of the trailer.

The Granada skidded but Hutch kept control, turning the maneuver into a swerve to the left. He pulled out of the skid, gunned his motor and managed to pull in front of the truck.

“Come one, let’s lose him.” Starsky was beginning to feel sick, both from the motion of the constantly swerving car—it had been along time since he had ridden in a chase like this—and with worry for his partner’s sanity.

The trucker wasn’t ready to stop playing, though, and neither was Hutch. The semi caught up with them again and moved up close, pushing them down the highway. Both vehicles had to make sharp cuts to the left to pass a slower moving car in the right lane. The trucker rode down the center line and forced Hutch to stay in the left lane while he kept pouring on the speed.

This is like something out of a Spielberg movie I saw one time, Starsky thought, bracing himself in the seat. The safety harness had tightened across his chest when Hutch had hit the brakes and he could feel it holding him as his straining lungs heaved, but it didn’t make him feel very safe.

Hutch was breathing hard, too, still determined to outrun the truck. Starsky wasn’t sure whether the game was cat and mouse or tag, but it was deadlier than either. Hutch pulled to the right, but the truck stayed on top of him, edging to the left as if to try to pass. Hutch cut back in the left lane as a right hand curve came up.

The trucker knew the road and he waited until the last second, then pulled back to the right. His feint had worked; he’d managed to pass the Granada.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Hutch growled. The car leaped after the semi, sliding around the curve, loosing traction, skidding first left, then right. Hutch gained control and sped on.

“Hutch.” Starsky spoke in his own low street tones, a voice he had used to warn or command. He saw his partner’s eyes blink. “Hutch, forget it. Get us out of this.”

Hutch shook his head once and blinked again, as if in confusion. The truck was slowing down and he stepped on the gas.

Starsky pressed the seat belt release and slid toward his partner in the same motion. One hand grabbed the wheel and the other settled on Hutch’s shoulder. “Hutch, listen to me. You’ll get us killed!”

The truck had sped up, too, and was pulling ahead as Hutch’s concentration wavered. He drew in a shaky breath and eased up on the gas pedal slightly.

Starsky spotted a sign up ahead. “There’s a rest stop. Pullover.”

Hutch didn’t answer. He was still running fairly close to the trailer, but as he came to the exit ramp, he cut to the right. The Granada was off the highway before the trucker had a chance to react.

Starsky held the wheel as Hutch took the ramp at too fast a speed. “Slow it down, babe.” Hutch began braking gently. “That’s it. You’re doin’ fine.”

They settled to a stop at the end of a broad parking area. Only one other car was at the rest stop, down by the restrooms. There was no restaurant, just a lighted bank of soda machines flanked by a big map of Minnesota. Wooden picnic tables and the bathrooms completed the rest stop. Trees hid the place from the roadway.

Hutch’s hands were still clenched on the steering wheel, so Starsky slipped the car into park. He sat back, expelling a long sigh of pure relief. Then he turned to face Hutch.

“Would you mind telling me why you just tried to get us both killed?” He couldn’t keep the shock and anger out of his voice and didn’t much care to try. “Is that your idea of a Sunday drive, or do you just have a death wish?”

At those words, the big hands let go of the wheel. Hutch unbuckled his seat belt, unlocked the door and before Starsky could say anything more, he was out of the car and disappearing into the woods.

“Ah, Christ,” Starsky muttered, figuring he’d better follow him. He slid under the steering wheel and out into the night.

He didn’t have far to go. Hutch was standing against at all pine twenty feet into the wooded area, his hair easily visible by the diffuse light from the parking area. As Starsky approached, he could see the man had wrapped his arms around the trunk of the tree, clinging to it. His taut shoulders were visible under the thin pullover he wore, and the close fitting sleeves brought out the corded muscles in his arms. Hutch looked carved with tension, like he had back on the road, a man chased more by the thoughts spinning around in his head than any speed-freaking trucker.

Starsky approached him warily. He could hear Hutch’s jumpy breathing, louder than the night sounds of crickets and rustling branches and the occasional car zipping by on the distant road. The man was hanging on to the tree like a prisoner to his cell door, poised for flight, yet held in custody.

When Starsky was almost close enough to touch him, he stopped. He’d been careful to make no sudden sounds as he approached, but it seemed Hutch sensed his movement. The blond flinched, looking even more spooked than before.

“Easy, babe,” Starsky began in a whisper. “Come on. Let’s go back to the car. We’ve still got a few miles to go before we hit home.”

Hutch didn’t release his grasp on the tree trunk, but he didn’t shy away, either. Encouraged, Starsky took another step, his hand closing on the bunched shoulder muscles.

“It’s okay, Hutch. We’ll just forget it. Everything’s all right.” The words sounded painfully inadequate to his own ears. Starsky had always felt he didn’t know the right thing to say when his partner was hurt; with Hutch in his current emotional turmoil, it was even more difficult to find the best words.

A wavering sigh was the first sign of response. Hutch shook his head, bright hair dancing in the light.

“No? No, what, babe?” Starsky kept hold of the shoulder he’d gripped.

“It’s not… all right. I…” Hutch’s voice sounded strangled. At first, Starsky couldn’t tell if it was fear or desolation that had choked him off, then Hutch turned, letting go of the tree.

His right hand fell to his side, coming to rest at the front of his thigh. Hutch shifted his weight, stroking the hand up to cup the bulge straining the front of his jeans.

His eyes met Starsky’s, in entreaty, then flicked away as if humiliated. Starsky understood. He’s hot. Playing tag with that trucker turned him on. “Hutch?” He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice, knowing Hutch would hear it as being judgmental. He lifted his free hand, ready to clasp the man to him.

He was pulled into a hard embrace and his mouth captured by the most demanding kiss he and Hutch had ever shared. The body twisted against him, seeking relief and imprisoned in misery. Burning lips released his and a strained whisper grated out one word. “Please.”

Anything, babe. Starsky couldn’t speak either, though. The same spell of taut, aching silence seemed to fall over him as well as Hutch. Emotions and needs spoke louder than words. Hutch needed him and that was enough. We’re away from the parking area, hidden by the trees. Safe…

He had time for no further considerations. Hands at his shoulders urged him to his knees in rough grass. Starsky shivered, the night air was cold in Minnesota in April. But the flesh he exposed as his hands unzipped the jeans was heated, ready for him.

Hutch staggered back a step, leaning against the tree for support. Starsky pulled down the denim slightly and took the throbbing hardness in his hand. Hutch gave a cry like something was hurting that was arrested as soon as Starsky’s mouth found him.

Starsky had never tasted such heat before, or known such desperate urgency. Hands tangled harshly in his hair and pushed as hips thrust forward. He took all of Hutch that he could, choking at the almost instant climax, waiting out the shuddering spasms that brought Hutch relief and release.

The shaking orgasm took all of Hutch’s strength. The tree and Starsky’s hands held him up and he leaned against the trunk, head lolling, eyes unfocused. Starsky held him with a shoulder to his chest while he refastened the loosened pants. Then, getting the same shoulder under Hutch’s armpit, he pulled an unresisting arm across his back and helped the exhausted man back to the car.

He opened the passenger door and Hutch crawled inside, leaning with his head against the back of the seat. Starsky went around to get in on the driver’s side.

He pulled his door closed and turned to look at his lover. Hutch’s eyes were half-closed, his breathing deep and even. Despite the chill outside, sweat made his hair cling at his forehead and temples. Starsky reached to wipe beads of moisture from above the upper lip.

A shaky hand came up to take his as the softened mouth pressed kisses first to his fingertips then his palm.

“You feel okay now?” Starsky asked, his voice sounding brittle in the quiet provided by the closed car.

Hutch only nodded in response. “Can I get you anything? How about a can of soda?”

The blond head shook once, no. Hutch drew his long legs up, folding them under him on the seat. He looked ready to fall asleep.

Starsky decided he needed a cold drink even if Hutch didn’t want one. He started the car and drove the short distance to the pop machines. He climbed out and dug in his pocket for change. Inserting the coins in the slot, he heard footsteps. A man came out of the restroom and headed for the other car in the lot, nodding at Starsky as he went by.

Starsky swallowed, thinking that it was a good thing it was so dark and deserted in the area, or he and Hutch might be in a little trouble by now. The vending machine delivered a can of ginger ale and he popped the tab, draining half the can in one gulp before going back to the car.

Hutch was in the same position as before. Starsky didn’t like the near-comatose look of him. “Come on, drink some of this. You’ll feel better.”

Hutch blinked and sat up. He took the cold can from Starsky and sipped. His eyes met his partner’s and Starsky saw the bright color high on the man’s cheeks. “Thanks.” The voice was low, the meaning obscure. Hutch handed the drink back to Starsky and stared out the opposite window.

Starsky drained the last of the fizzing drink and tossed the can in the back seat, then turned the ignition key again. He looked back toward Hutch. The man looked both embarrassed and uncomfortable cramped in the seat. Starsky had thought maybe they could talk, but he figured what Hutch needed now was rest. What can be said about what just happened, anyway? It’s pretty obvious.

“Come on over here,” he said, urging softly. “Lay down.” He tugged at Hutch’s shoulder and waited while his partner slid down on the bench seat. Drawing up one leg and letting the other remain dangling, he settled into a more comfortable, almost stretched out position. With his head resting against Starsky’s thigh, there was more room for the Hutch to relax in the front seat. Starsky would have suggested that he crawl in the back, but he wanted Hutch close to him. There wasn’t much that could be said right now; the only thing to do was to share the silence. Starsky drove the rest of the way back to Minneapolis with his hand resting on his sleeping lover’s shoulder.

 

Part Two

“Starsky, will you just get off my back? There’s nothing to talk about, I said.”

“I guess I agree with you there, buddy. Okay, I’ve had it. You can do anything you want, just don’t expect me to wait around to watch you destroy yourself.” Throwing down his napkin and pushing his chair back from the dinner table, Starsky watched as the angry blue eyes turned defensive once more.

In the month since their trip to Brainerd, Hutch had become more and more unpredictable. Moodiness and depression, Starsky could put up with—lately Hutch had seemed like a man who was trying to throw away everything good and positive in his life. Some of the behavior he was exhibiting was familiar to Starsky, practical jokes with a tinge of cruelty, nasty moods that erupted in arguments blown all out of proportion. His lover hadn’t seen that side of Hutch in more than a year and he didn’t like the reminders of how difficult it had been being his partner during their last, trying months on the force.

Starsky had been patient during the weeks of nightmares and insomnia and depression. His patience had run out as days went by and Hutch came home more and more frustrated, less able to talk about the tensions affecting him and seemingly more and more determined to reject Starsky’s attempts to suggest reasonable solutions to his problems.

“It was bad enough having to work with you when you’d get like this,” he told the glowering blond. “I don’t have to live this way now that we’ve moved in together.”

“‘Moved in together.'” Hutch sounded shocked. “That’s a pretty cavalier way of describing our relationship.”

“Lately, that’s how you’ve treated us. You don’t confide in me, you can hardly hold a civil conversation with me, but just get you angry enough or scared enough and you’re ready to fuck me through the floor.” Starsky referred to an incident that had happened a week ago when Hutch had gone jogging in a dangerous neighborhood in the inner city after work. He’d been pursued by a gang of teenagers and nearly mugged by them. Arriving home, he had admitted his fear and then took Starsky to bed, trying to obliterate his emotion in a storm of passion.

“I’m sick of being used, Hutch. We said we’d be together in everything, equal partners through the good and the bad. You’re abusing what we have together, taking and never giving. You’ve been going back to your old games, playing by new rules you made up without consulting me. You doing that when we were just partners and best friends was painful enough. Now it hurts even more.”

“Starsky.” Hutch started toward him. “You know I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Starsky held up a hand as if to deflect an embrace. “It’s not what you try to do, Hutch, it’s what you do without thinking at all that hurts.”

“I know.” The blond sounded miserable. “Starsky, you’ve just got to understand that I have to work this out on my own. It’s not something that I can ask for help with.”

“Fine.” Starsky made a dismissive gesture. “Do it on your own. Just don’t step on me in the process.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean don’t bring your idiocy home anymore. I can’t take it. You feel like being crazy, taking fool chances, going where there’s some action, go find it somewhere else. This is a big city. God knows you ought to be able to find something new and exciting. I don’t want to know where you’re going for your adrenalin fix.”

“Starsky, it’s not that—”

“Isn’t it?” Starsky laughed bitterly. “Well, don’t worry. I won’t try to convince you, since you’ve already said you don’t want to discuss it. What I mean is—if you want to spend time away from here, looking for whatever it is you think you need, go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

“What are you telling me to do, Starsky?”

He shrugged. “I tried spending more time with you and that didn’t seem to work. Maybe part of the problem comes from the fact that we don’t get out, we don’t have any kind of social life. There’s nothing but our jobs and each other.”

Hutch’s eyes widened. “That’s supposed to be enough.”

The thought that it wasn’t was intensely painful to Starsky, too. “Maybe for right now, we have to look for something else.”

“We?”

I never need anyone but you, Starsky wanted to say, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “Yeah. Both of us. Maybe we’re just plain getting on each other’s nerves lately.” The attempt at lightness sound hollow and unconvincing.

“Maybe.” Hutch looked as if he wanted to say more. He got up from the table and stood looking out the kitchen window. After a long moment of silence he turned and met Starsky’s eyes. “I guess… I’ll go out for a while.”

Starsky returned the gaze steadily. “Okay. I was thinking of going down to the gym for a workout this evening. It’s been a couple of weeks and the doc wants me to get regular exercise.”

“Okay.” Hutch hesitated again. “I won’t be late.”

“Fine. See you whenever.”

“Yeah.”

Starsky watched Hutch leave the kitchen, and heard his footsteps as they carried him up the stairs. Starsky busied himself with picking up the remains of dinner until he heard Hutch come back down. The front door opened and then closed again.

Starsky left the dirty dishes in the sink and went to get his gym bag from the hall closet. His doctor did want him to follow a schedule of twice weekly workouts, but his enthusiasm had been flagging lately. He wasn’t in the mood tonight, either, but it was as good a way as any of passing the time alone. He hoped he was doing the right thing. Hutch sometimes struggled against love that tried to hold him too tightly. Starsky hadn’t been able to comfort his lover during his current depression; maybe he had to let him find his answers on his own in order to hold on to him. If he stopped badgering Hutch and didn’t try to discuss the things the blond felt he couldn’t talk about, he’d also save himself some of the frustration he had been feeling lately.

We’ve lived in each other’s pockets so long it’s hard to realize that may be exactly the problem. I can’t smother him. He’s driving me crazy, but I’ve got to let him handle this himself. Starsky knew he had run out of patience regarding his partner’s moods anyway. If he didn’t let go a little now, he might not be able to contain his temper somewhere down the line. I just hope he’s not gonna go too far in testing our limits…

* * * * *

Hutch sat at the bar stool sipping a beer that had gone flat and warm twenty minutes ago. The smoke filling the place was beginning to irritate his throat and the music was too loud. Most of the customers were at least ten years younger than he. The place was called “The Giraffe,’ and the patrons represented a mixed crowd of straight couples as well as gay men and women. What am I doing here? he asked himself for the tenth time. Starsky seemed to want him to get out of his sight and so Hutch had gone. He felt strange, as if he were looking for something but didn’t know what, exactly. I know I’ve been hell to live with lately. Guess he does need a break from me.

Hutch took another swig of the warm beer. The bad taste echoed his mood. Don’t know why I have to keep acting like something’s missing. Back in that house is everything I ever wanted. And how do I treat him? Like I don’t give a damn. I must be nuts… Back up in Brainerd, he told me we were for always, that we’ll last when everything else is gone. Why can’t I hold on to that?

He had thought that understanding the problem—that he was still adjusting to life without the sudden dangers and excitement of the streets—would solve it. But it hadn’t been that easy. That night on the road he hadn’t been thinking at all. He was crazy, reacting by instinct, taking stupid chances with his life, and worse, with Starsky’s. And then, needing the sexual release so urgently had been deeply humiliating. It had made him feel sick, perverted, and he couldn’t talk about it, not even with Starsky. All he wanted to do was handle the problem, stop needing kicks the way a junkie needed dope.

Thought I wanted to get as far away from the kind of action we’d faced on the streets as I could. Guess I can’t throw it all away as easily as we did our badges.

Shaking his head, Hutch pushed the beer glass away and stood to reach in his pocket for change. Someone brushed against him as the stool next to him was taken and he found himself staring into dark brown eyes that suggested smoldering sexuality.

“Hi. Can I buy you another?” the newcomer asked, indicating Hutch’s near-empty glass.

“Okay.” Hutch shrugged. It was early yet. The man ordering the two beers was dressed in tight jeans and a black leather jacket, with no shirt. Of all the people in the bar, why had this guy singled Hutch out, the blond wondered, looking at him. He had a hairless, muscular chest, deep salon tan, short-cropped brown hair, and appeared to be about twenty-five. He looked Hutch over in an obvious cruise.

Hutch resisted the grin that wanted to twitch at his lips. It had been like asking for trouble to come to this place. But Starsky did, in effect, tell me to go out looking for what I wanted. Is this it? He had never in his life picked up another man and the idea was vaguely titillating.

“I’m Steve,” the younger man said as he dropped coins on the bar for the beers. “How ’bout it?” He nodded toward the men’s room to the left.

“You get right to the point, Steve,” Hutch observed.

A big-boned hand moved to squeeze his thigh. “Why the hell not? I’m up for it.” Steve’s other hand rubbed the bulge in his own jeans.

Hutch stood at the same time as Steve, but when the man slipped an arm around his waist he knew he couldn’t take the guy up on this invitation. I may be crazy, but not that crazy. I have a feeling that what goes on in that john is too dangerous even for my taste.

“Thanks for the beer, but I’ve got to be going.” He patted Steve on the ass and slipped through the crowd of dancers on the floor to find the exit.

* * * * *

He drove aimlessly around the city for another hour before heading home. The drive had relaxed him, he thought, but as he unlocked the front door of the house, Hutch felt familiar tension slide over him once more. If he found Starsky awake, he knew they’d be arguing within five minutes.

He saw with relief that, except for the small desk lamp, the lights downstairs were all out. Starsky was already in bed. Hutch put his jacket in the closet and climbed the stairs.

Entering the bedroom, he found Starsky asleep near the center of the bed, his pillow clutched in his arms. Moonlight streaming through the parted curtains highlighted the contours of his shoulders and back, yet left his face in shadow. Hutch couldn’t make out his expression.

Not wishing to disturb him, Hutch moved to the window seat, leaning back to watch Starsky sleep. How come I keep hurting you when the only thing I ever wanted was to make you safe and happy? Thought I was doing just that when we left L.A. Hutch damned himself for always wanting what he didn’t need, for never being content. He was scared to death he’d ruin his relationship with Starsky in his confusion, but for the life of him, he didn’t know how to prevent it.

It was so easy back there. We played by our own rules. Us against them. Me and thee versus the bad guys. Here, there are no bad guys—just me and thee. Why isn’t that enough? Shaken, Hutch confronted the possibility that not working together had changed the dynamics of their relationship too much. That’s what Starsky must think. That I won’t love him without all the life and death situations.

No. We’ve always had more than that. Perfect understanding. That sense of completing each other. We shared more than just the front seat of that car all those years.

Starsky rolled over and the moonlight’s diffuse beams touched his face. He lay there like a pensive philosopher, face serious in repose, presenting to Hutch yet another aspect of his always changing countenance. I’ll never know all of you, he thought in defeat. Sometimes you seem so vulnerable. That part of you cries out to me. And I can’t resist you when you’re playing the romantic fool or charming me with playful enthusiasm or seducing me with your tempting body. And when you get mad and demand the best of me, I love you even more. You’ll never be routine and that ought to be all the stimulation I need. But just when I think I finally have all of you wrapped up just for me to love, I learn there’s another you down under the layers I’ve already met. And that’s what scares me, never being enough for all the yous there are.

The part of Hutch that he knew would never measure up cringed away from the realization. He’d never be everything Starsky needed and someday his own insufficiencies could drive Starsky away. I know I asked for time to try to get through this on my own. But just because I’m too weak to admit how scared I am of myself right now.

His flaws seemed insurmountable. What did Starsky call it—my adrenalin fix? He shivered, remembering the craving for being high that Ben Forrest had taught him. I’m no better now than I was then. I couldn’t pull myself together without Starsky that time, either.

That’s what we always had as partners, he realized with a pang of regret. We were there for each other, filling every need. Why can’t we do that now? Doesn’t he need me anymore? Don’t I need him? God, I want it to be that way again. We were living every day with the intensity that came from knowing each moment could be our last. Has security made me so discontented?

Hutch suppressed a groan, raking his hair back off his face. He had grown more and more confused the longer he sat there watching Starsky sleep. He waited it out with me when Forrest tried to put me in the gutter for good. And our last year on the force when I was so burned out, he stayed patient. But once or twice, I thought he was going to throw in the towel. If he gives up on me now, when we can have so much, nothing that has gone before will mean anything. He can’t do this to us.

No, it’s not that he doesn’t need me or that I don’t need him. That’s just my current excuse for the way I’m ruining this relationship, the same way I’ve spoiled every other important one in my life.

He had to find away out of the hole he was digging for himself, but right now he felt as worn out as if he had been shoveling out a six foot deep trench. Yeah, digging my own grave, all right. Do I want it to hide in or just to bury the remains of the love I’m gonna kill?

Mentally exhausted, Hutch couldn’t think anymore, knew continuing would only further his insecurities. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into bed beside Starsky, needing the solid reality of the man by his side. I always feel better close to you, babe. As he settled under the blanket, Starsky shifted position again, moving away from Hutch to the edge of his own side of the bed. It had been an unconscious gesture, yet Hutch was left feeling empty and inadequate. Don’t do this to me, Starsk. You’ll push until I shove, and then where will we be?

* * * * *

Hutch tapped his pencil absently on the receiver of his desk phone as he read over the prospectus he was trying to complete. He glanced at his watch. Ten to five, and still he didn’t have enough information on the various annuities his customer was interested in to complete the prospectus before their meeting at ten tomorrow morning. He had more trouble recommending annuity purchases than with any other aspect of his job; it was in that area that he was least experienced. By ten tomorrow, he needed to gain quite a bit more knowledge than he had currently.

A light tap at his open office door signaled a solution to the minor problem. He looked up to find Leslie smiling at him.

“You’re not done for the day, yet?” she asked.

“Just about. I’ve done about all I can with this prospectus. Guess I’ll just have to hope for the best with the client tomorrow. He’s interested in these annuities and I’m not sure I’ve researched them thoroughly enough.”

Leslie walked over to look at the sheet spread over his desk. “Oh. I have some charts that are really good at clarifying the issue on these.” She hesitated, then went on. “You can borrow them, but they’re at my apartment. If you need this finished by tomorrow, maybe you could stop by on your way home.”

Hutch met her steady green-eyed gaze. She had been dropping hints like this one for months and he had been pretending not to notice. He did need the information… “Okay. Do you want me to follow you?”

She smiled. “Actually, I took the bus to work this morning since my car’s in the shop.”

Hutch grinned. “I see. You don’t really want to help a fellow employee out; you just want a ride home.”

“You’ve got me pegged,” Leslie answered, mock serious.

“Okay. Go grab your stuff and let’s get out of here.” He gathered papers as he spoke and watched Leslie as she turned to leave for her own office.

When she was gone, he hesitated, looking toward the phone on his desk. For a moment, he considered calling Starsky to let him know he would be late, then he changed his mind. The atmosphere between them had been tense for the last few days, ever since the argument over dinner when Starsky had told Hutch he was out of patience with him. Hutch remembered their most recent conversation as they had left for work this morning. Starsky had grabbed his arm as Hutch reached to open the front door.

“Hey. Things have been kind of quiet around here lately.” The look in his eyes confused Hutch; he didn’t know if Starsky was accusing or complaining.

“I thought that was the way you wanted it,” Hutch answered tentatively.

“Is that what you think I said? Hutch—”

“Look, I’m running late.” Hutch didn’t feel like arguing semantics right now, and he didn’t intend to take the blame for causing another problem. Starsky was the one who had been turning away, starting that night when Hutch had come back home late and in the two succeeding nights he had done nothing to make Hutch think he wanted to make love. He had accused Hutch of shutting him out. Without sharing their bodies, another line of communication between them was closed off. Maybe Starsky was using the barrier he had put up between them as a way of letting Hutch know that he could be shut out, too.

“All right. Have it your way.” Starsky turned away, going out the door.

“You said you wanted to have things your way, Starsk.” Hutch’s words hadn’t been answered.

He told me to go out and find something new and exciting on my own. Hutch thought, deciding there was no need to let Starsky know his whereabouts or plans for the evening. He closed his briefcase and locked his desk, then went to meet Leslie at the door to the building.

* * * * *

“There. You see how the charts help?” Leslie asked an hour later, smiling at Hutch from her seat next to him on her living room couch.

“Yeah. I feel like I know what I’m talking about now. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem.” She glanced at her watch. “God, I’m starved. Listen, would you like to stay for dinner? I have a homemade lasagna in the freezer.”

“That sounds tempting.” He let himself smile back. It was a tempting idea, being here with her and he suddenly felt as if he were taking himself up on a dare.

“Good. I can pop the lasagna in the microwave and toss a salad. I think I may even have a bottle of Chianti.”

“You’re all prepared, I see.” He followed her to the kitchen, eyes on the slim, curvy hips in the straight, white skirt.

“I’ve found it pays to be prepared,” she answered, opening the freezer, “both on the job and off.”

* * * * *

The lasagna proved to be delicious and Hutch relaxed in Leslie’s company. There was nothing wrong with him being here and it was better than sitting at his own dinner table and arguing with Starsky. He talked about us establishing a social life apart from each other. I should have thought of Leslie before. It can’t hurt to make a new friend… He enjoyed talking with her and found it easier than he had thought to be charming.

After stacking the dishes, Leslie made a pot of coffee and they settled in the living room with their cups, sitting once more on the couch. There was a brief lull in the conversation, then Leslie spoke again.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any dessert to offer you.” She looked up at him through lush, down-cast lashes.

“Oh, the company is enough. I don’t need any more calories after that great lasagna.” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s nice to eat somebody else’s cooking for a change.”

She laughed lightly. “That’s right. Male chauvinist bachelors always like female cooking after suffering with their own.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said in mock offense. “Besides, I’m an excellent cook.”

“Sure. You can have me over to your place for dinner sometime and prove it.” Leslie’s eyes danced in challenge.

Hutch didn’t see how he could ever follow up on the asked-for invitation, but he didn’t have to let on now. “I just might do that.”

The next thing she said was even more difficult to answer. “Then is it your roommate who’s the bad cook?”

“My roommate? Starsky?” He swallowed hard. “It’s not so much his cooking, it’s his choice of menu.”

Leslie laughed again. “Don’t ask, is that it?”

Hutch nodded, agreeing the subject of the person Leslie referred to as his roommate should be dropped. All at once, the last thing he wanted to think about was Starsky.

He leaned toward the smiling blonde and touched her lips with his own. Her eyes changed, from twinkling with mirth they went soft, her expression intrigued.

“I’ve been wanting you to do that for a long time, Ken.” She lay a light hand on his arm and moved closer.

He kissed her again, his lips lingering, noticing nuances of lipstick and femininity. It was easy to put his arms around her and pull her close. Easy, because she obviously wanted him to, and because deep inside he felt the illicit thrill of following through on Starsky’s suggestion. This is wrong; this isn’t what he meant, a voice of reason insisted inside his head. But another, more salacious part of Hutch jumped up and down in glee, just as the Professor had described it would when he knowingly ‘broke the rules.’

Then he stopped thinking, letting feelings take over as Leslie pressed tight against him. Warmth generated between them and he responded to its seduction. She drew him off the couch and into her bedroom, pulling him down to yielding curves and eager sighs. She curled around him, pliant and sensuous. Filled with tenderness, Hutch called on everything he knew about making love to a woman to satisfy her.

She felt so good, smelled so good… He hadn’t thought it would excite him that much, but it did. She was new and fresh and very desirable. Their union was stormy, passionate, all fire and light. There was no need to speak of love or promises; they were two people reaching out to do what came naturally when there was chemistry between them.

When it was over. Leslie lay on her side, cuddled up against him. One slim finger traced a line over his brows, down his nose, and across his lips. Then she stroked, again with just the one fingertip, down his bare chest.

“Ken,” she whispered, “ummm, that was pretty wonderful.” The compliment made him blush a little.

“Takes two.”

“You’re sweet.” Leslie touched his shoulder in a brief kiss.

He turned to meet her eyes, not knowing what to say. There had been other occasions when a similar awkwardness following first-time sex had assailed him; this time he felt more uncomfortable by the minute. He wondered suddenly what time it was. Shifting position, he hoped to get a surreptitious glance at his watch.

“Something wrong?” Leslie was perceptive.

“I —uh… not really.” It would be inconceivably rude to ask the time. He closed his eyes, sighing.

The finger traced his mouth again. “You look sad.”

He blinked. “You think men don’t get ‘post-coital tristesse’?”

Leslie stroked his chest. “Ken?” She touched his chin. “It was good for me.” There was a question in her voice.

“Me, too,” he insisted quickly, reaching to embrace the woman. All wrong. I’m doing this all wrong. He felt a sweeping sense of an emotion quite like pain, very hot, as if sunbaked sand were eroding out from under him. Part of it was guilt, both a guilt from taking his pleasure and the instant and terrible guilty certainty that loving and living with Starsky made sleeping with anyone else wrong. The rest was more diffuse, difficult to define. The sense of expectancy, of waiting for danger, the feeling that he was primed to act at any given moment had been fulfilled, for now, and because of that part of it, he felt good. It was wrong, being here like this with Leslie, but in a way it made him feel better than he had in weeks.

He hugged Leslie a little tighter, stroking the long fall of blonde hair. He felt himself going hot all over, and then cold again, as his emotions dived and lifted in confusing cycles. His eyes found her bedside clock. It was eight fifty-six.

Leslie, I… I hate to say this but I think I should be going home.”

“You’re welcome to stay the night, Ken.” She returned his hug, then slipped out of his embrace. “But, I understand.”

He was dressed and standing by her front door within five minutes. Feeling awkward about his abrupt departure, he kissed her deeply. “Leslie. I probably should explain… ” His voice trailed off. What was I going to tell her That I’m involved with someone else?

“Hey, I didn’t ask for explanations. We’re all free agents. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow. And… any way you want to play it is okay with me. I’m a big girl, a liberated woman.” Her hands tickled his ribs playfully.

He brushed a wispy strand of her hair back from her face. “Thanks, Leslie. For dinner and the annuities charts and—”

“And everything,” she sighed, grabbing one more quick kiss as she let him out the door.

* * * * *

Hutch drove straight home. His feelings of guilt were beginning to get the better of him, yet he clung to them, holding on to the unsettling situation as if grabbing handfuls of wet sand being sucked out from under him by a retreating tide. If Starsky ever finds out… He couldn’t complete the thought. He knew that his actions would be considered far worse than playing tag with a semi. I’d deserve whatever he said. Hutch had craved the feel of adrenalin flowing through him; sleeping with Leslie had given him that kind of kick. It was a high that could be just as detrimental to his health as injecting heroin into his veins and, deep down, it made Hutch feel just as dirty.

But what can I do? Confess everything the minute I see him? What will that do but hurt him? Hutch turned into his own street, his heart beginning to pound.

He’ll know. As soon as he looks at me, he’ll know. I’ll walk in and he’ll come close and the look on my face and the scent of her body clinging to mine…

He pulled into the driveway of their house, noting with surprise that the Torino was not there. Hutch locked his car and hurried up the walk.

Opening the door, he found a light on in the living room, but the house was quiet. Starsky wasn’t home. Hutch’s feeling of relief quickly gave way to annoyance. Starsky apparently did not indeed care how Hutch spent his time, if he too were out ‘socializing.’ He let go of the guilt feelings as he showered away any remaining sensory evidence of his escapade. Hutch climbed into bed and fell asleep before his lover returned home.

* * * * *

He rolled over in bed and opened his eyes. Last night he had lain awake and alone for a long time and when he woke he was surprised to see Starsky there next to him.

“Morning.” Cobalt blue eyes popped open and Starsky smiled. Hutch wanted to reach for him but the unsettled feeling deep in the pit of his stomach distracted him. For the first time in a long time, Hutch felt uncomfortable with Starsky.

The alarm shrilled and Starsky rolled over to cut off the jarring sound. He turned back toward Hutch, smiling again.

“Where were you last night?” Hutch just wanted something to say, but the question came out sounding a bit sharp? The best defense is a good offense?

“I thought maybe you’d be asking me that.” Starsky’s smile faded and he climbed out of bed.

“Well?” Hutch pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side.

“I wanted you to go with me, but you didn’t come home in time.”

Starsky had a way of saying things without malice or the slightest hint of accusation that still managed to get under Hutch’s skin.

“Yeah.” He pulled on his robe and tied the belt. “I had to work late.”

“Uh-huh.” Starsky disappeared into the bathroom. There was a subtle undertone of doubt in his voice.

There he goes again. Hutch heard the shower come on. He couldn’t decide if Starsky were suspicious or just peeved that he had stayed out last night.

Hutch opened the bathroom door, speaking over the sound of the shower. “I had to get some information on annuities for a client I’m seeing this morning. You still haven’t said where you were.”

Starsky pushed the shower curtain aside, his hair wet and hanging in his eyes. “Tennis match.”

“What?” Hutch couldn’t help grinning. Starsky looked adorable in black ringlets that didn’t lose their spring even under the stream of water.

The wet head ducked back into the shower. “Tennis match, I said. Down at the club. It was fun. They have teams and they were playing matches against some other neighborhood tennis clubs.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It was really great, Hutch.” The shower stopped and Starsky stepped out, reaching for a towel. Hutch noted the water beading the slender body, but his eyes were drawn to the thin scars crossing the winter pale skin.

Starsky straightened, rubbing his chest with the towel. “It looked like fun, y’know?” I sure miss playin’ tennis, doin’ stuff like that.”

“I know, babe.” Hutch moved on impulse, pulling Starsky into his arms, kissing a damp, unshaven cheek.

Starsky grinned. “You know, I’ve been feelin’ really good lately. I don’t get as tired working out as I used to right after I was shot. I feel pretty strong.”

“Yeah?” Hutch held him tightly. I want you just like you used to be… Yet he knew things would never be like they were before Gunther’s bullets cut Starsky down. Starsky had lost youth and the stamina it took to be a cop. Hutch had lost the last of his emotional resilience. Don’t think I’ll ever recover.

“Yeah. I was thinking about playing a little.”

With Starsky’s supple body pressed up against him, it took a moment for the words to register for Hutch. “What? Playing tennis? Starsk—”

“I could do it. I really could. It’s not like I’d be trying to play it professionally or anything. Just an easy little game every now and them.” He smiled but the words were determined, insistent.

“Starsky, there’s too much running in a sport like tennis,” he began.

“Not in doubles…”

“Too much upper body movement. Stopping and starting… you’d put too much strain on your lungs…”

“Not if you played with me, partner.”

“What? And watch you try to kill yourself? No way.” Hutch pulled out of the embrace, shrugging out of his damp robe, and headed for the shower.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice was reasonable. “I work a job full time. I walk to work every day. I’ve taken good care of myself. I’m practically in better shape now than I was before.”

Hutch whirled, his hands gripping Starsky’s shoulders hard. “God, Starsky, you’re kidding yourself if you think nothing happened to you!”

“Okay. Take it easy.” Perceptive eyes searched Hutch’s face.

His anger was misplaced, Hutch knew. Seeing Gunther and his organization destroyed hadn’t assuaged it all for him. He knew Starsky wanted to do everything he had before, but Hutch couldn’t help wanting to protect him. His guilt over what he had done last night was still with him, too, causing the rest of his misdirected hostility. Starsky had attended that ridiculous tennis match last night and now was interested in participating in the sport. If Hutch had come home, or been with him…

“I mean, I don’t want you taking chances, over-extending yourself.” He knew he was being stubborn, clinging to his annoyance, but he couldn’t help himself.

Starsky’s eyes turned taunting. “Okay. Guess I’ll just find myself another tennis partner.”

The flippant answer struck a nerve.

“That’s what all this is really about, isn’t it?”

“What? Hutch—”

“You started out by insisting that you were sick of watching me deal with my problems, then you mentioned that we should develop independent social lives. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? You complained that what we have isn’t enough for me—what you really mean is that it’s not enough for you.” Without waiting for an answer, Hutch climbed into the shower and turned the water on hard.

He heard Starsky’s voice over the sound of the spray. “I know you, Hutchinson. You always get mad when you’ve got something you’re trying to avoid thinking about.”

The bathroom door closed and he was left alone with his seething emotions. Starsky had hit close enough to the truth; there was nothing more Hutch could say without making that even more obvious.

* * * * *

Hutch pulled into his driveway and was annoyed to find Starsky’s car gone again. They couldn’t make any headway in getting through the current problems if they never saw each other. Hutch hoped that Starsky wasn’t overdoing it at the gym, but he supposed that was exactly where his partner was.

Maybe I should go over there looking for him. He didn’t want to seem like he was hounding Starsky, but he was concerned. And Starsky had wanted him to take an interest in the tennis with him.

He loosened his tie, but before he could get upstairs to change his clothes, there was a knock at the front door. Hutch opened it and found Leslie standing there.

“I’m sorry to come barging in on you like this,” she smiled. He could tell she meant not one word of the statement. She had sat with him in the building’s coffee shop at lunch that afternoon, and Hutch had been distinctly uncomfortable the entire time. She was making too much out of what had happened between them, wanting a relationship, and he knew that could cause nothing but trouble eventually. “You left this file in Mr. Halper’s office,” she went on. “He tried to catch you, but you’d already left.”

Leslie stood there, holding the manila folder, an expectant look on her face. What a fortunate coincidence that I left that file in Halper’s office, for her anyway.

“I could have picked it up in the morning,” Hutch pointed out reasonably.

“I told Mr. Halper that. But he thought you might need it this evening.”

“Okay. Come on in.” Hutch felt less uncomfortable after she had entered and he had closed the door.

“What a beautiful place. You’ve done a great job with this old house.”

“Thanks. Starsky and I had fun fixing it up.”

“I’d like to meet him. He’s not home yet?” She had walked to the bookcase and was looking over the titles.

“No. He’s not home yet.”

She turned and came to stand in front of him. “Good. Then we’re alone.” She reached to put her arms around his neck.

The situation was ludicrous, dangerous. Hutch found himself caught between guilt and temptation. He wanted to have nothing to do with her. Instead, he bent his head and kissed her.

What am I doing? He broke the kiss. “Leslie… I’m not looking to get involved.”

“Me either. Ken. I can’t deny that I like you, but if a purely physical relationship is what you want, that’s okay with me.”

A purely physical relationship… It might answer one of his needs, and it wouldn’t be a first for him. He looked down at her, noting aspects of the attractive face. Leslie had beautiful creamy skin, long silky hair, bright eyes and a kissable mouth. In bed she had been responsive. Yet, Hutch knew she wasn’t what he wanted. There had been a few women like Leslie in his life. He’d not really had relationships with them, just basic, no-strings sex. But since he and Starsky had become lovers, everything about his life had changed. Starsky had answered deep-seated needs Hutch had never known he had. He’d thought he’d never need anyone but Starsky ever again. It had been easy to maintain fidelity, until just recently… Why am I tempted to keep fooling around with her?

Leslie spoke again, her voice sweetly seductive. “Here we are, alone and wondering what to do. Why don’t you show me the rest of the house—beginning with your bedroom?”

Hutch nearly laughed. Just how much of a chance am I thinking of taking? He moved out of Leslie’s light embrace. “No, Leslie. Not here. Not now.”

“Why?” She was obviously surprised and curious to know his reason.

“Starsky might come home,” he blurted.

“Well? He’s over twenty-one, isn’t he? And I presume your door closes and locks. Don’t you single guys have signals to let each other know about situations like this? A tie on the door knob or something?”

Despite his predicament, Hutch chuckled. “I haven’t thought about that since college.”

“Well, he might get a kick out of it.”

Hutch looked into the dancing green eyes. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “Starsky never went to college.”

He drew a deep breath, trying to capture one shred of common sense and hang on to it. I think I’m losing my mind. One thing leading to another last night at Leslie’s apartment was a far different story than chancing taking her to bed under his own roof. Far different even than his being here in the living room with her. If Starsky showed up… his heart started pounding suddenly, imagining Leslie meeting his partner. She’d probably put her arms around me or try to kiss me in front of him.

He had to get the woman out of the house. Now. He didn’t want her, didn’t need her cluttering up his life and he certainly did not want Starsky finding out about her by walking in on them. Yet he still wanted to be diplomatic about it, couldn’t—after last night—be rude to her and just throw her out.

“Listen, Leslie, I appreciate your bringing the file over, but I’m going to have to ask you to excuse me this evening. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be with you. I just… have other plans.” The lamest thing I’ve ever said.

“There’s someone else.” She said it as a statement, a tiny shade of disappointment in her voice. Hutch heard it like an echo from his past and he had a sudden and unsettling recollection of Diana Harmon. How many crazy women did I get involved with? Diana… Kira… oh God, Starsky….

Leslie was still speaking and he attempted to focus his attention on her words. “Either that or there’s just some reason you don’t want me to meet the famous Starsky—is that his whole name, by the way?”

“It’s Dave, Dave Starsky,” he stammered. “And yeah, I don’t want you to meet him.” God, how does that sound?

“Why not? How gorgeous is this guy?” She sounded like she was teasing and a little intrigued.

Sudden inspiration dawned. Hutch began speaking blithely, improving a story only marginally based on truth.

“Yeah—he’s gorgeous, all right. Women fall all over him. We’ve been rivals over the same woman lots of times. There was this female detective our last year on the force, and Starsky was going with her. I started seeing her, too. We had a big fight about her and he swore that he’d get me back someday, by taking some beautiful blonde away from me.” Leslie was laughing, feeling complimented, he could tell. “So get out of here, huh? Give me a break.”

“God, this guy must be irresistible. Okay, I’m going.” She gave in gracefully. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Sure. Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Feeling like a heel, he touched her hand as she came near. The clasp of their fingers was brief.

“See you tomorrow,” she repeated, letting go of Hutch’s hand to hurry down the path to her car.

He stood watching as she backed her little Mustang out of the driveway and headed up the street. His mind was blank, all thoughts shoved aside, not confronted. He didn’t want to think, couldn’t face appraising and analyzing his behavior and feelings. The incident with Leslie had left him almost high. Telling her the Kira story, embellishing it as he had, had been stimulating. It was wrong, just as wrong as it had been to lie to people and use them when he was working undercover. But he did it anyway; he was still as good at it as he used to be, and it still felt illicitly exciting. Despite his attempt to block out his reasoning power, he knew that was the real motivation he felt where Leslie was concerned. He needed to play those kinds of games and she seemed willing and available.

Seconds after Leslie’s car disappeared from sight, the well-known red and white Torino came down the street from the opposite direction. Hutch’s heart started pounding as hard as it had before Leslie had gone.

The Torino rocked to a stop and its striped door swung open. Starsky, wearing a royal blue warm-up suit with white piping and familiar blue Adidas, hopped out. Reaching in the car for his gym bag, he noticed Hutch at the door. He waved and Hutch lifted his hand in response.

“Whatcha doin’ standing there?” Starsky said as he approached the open door Hutch held for him. “Waitin’ for me to come home, by any chance?”

The sound of affection in his partner’s voice moved Hutch immediately. He reached out for Starsky, needing the solace of his arms.

Starsky was there, dropping the gym bag, supple and warm against him, willing to be held, kissed. Hutch bent his head, seeking his lips.

Starsky seemed to ignite responding instantly to Hutch’s touch. His reaction washed over Hutch, redoubling, answering sparks firing need throughout his body. He wanted Starsky, needed him now, with an immediacy that was a little frightening. If he knew what brought this on… God, if he knew anything brought this on… Hutch tried to calm his insistent desire, remembering how Starsky had complained that Hutch was using him. Totally confused and still absolutely desperate, he moaned, pressing his lips against Starsky’s neck in a brief kiss of remorse and then stepped back, trying to distance himself from his lover and his tumultuous emotions, attempting to blank his mind as he had a few minutes ago.

Knowing Starsky could read him like a printed page, he stood there waiting for his accusations and judgment. Starsky would surmise that taking some risk, chancing some danger, had instigated the burst of passion and he would turn away. I don’t mean to use you, babe, but I do need you. Hutch’s downcast eyes caught sight of the obvious bulge pressing out against his tailored grey slacks. A wave of embarrassment wiped nearly all desire from his mind.

Gentle hands touched him at either side of face, urging him to look up and meet Starsky’s anxious gaze. “Let’s not talk or think or reason, love,” he began as if they had been discussing Hutch’s feelings aloud. “I’ve missed you lately. Let’s let it go at that.”

In a reflexive movement, Hutch pulled Starsky close, wrapping eager arms around the loved body. Starsky, so open, so honest, felt incredibly good against him and Hutch still needed him, whether or not the desire emanated from an adrenalin surge or pure feelings of love. “Starsk… babe. Please hold me.” His plea was answered immediately. Suffused with tenderness, Hutch kissed him again, wanting to love him, to take care of him. Let me make it all up to you, he wanted to say. Let me make love to you because you should always be loved. His hands sliding down the muscled back and lower, he molded the firm curves, pulling him in, fitting their bodies together the way they were meant to be.

“This is for you, Starsk, not for me.” The raw whisper was the last Hutch could manage. He let go of Starsky only enough to turn and start up the stairs, keeping his arm clasped around the narrow waist. Starsky followed suit, a matching hold on Hutch, and they ascended the stairs side by side.

In their room, Hutch hastened to undress his lover, unzipping the soft jacket and slipping it off his shoulders and down his arms, barely breaking a kiss to pull the white t-shirt over Starsky’s head. Insistent fingers tried unbuttoning his shirt, but Hutch ignored them, intent only on Starsky. His hands caressed the warm, smooth skin, noting the definition of well-toned muscle and the soft-crisp brush of dark chest hair. He pulled the man close again, hands settling at either side of a trim waist, fingers going under the elastic waistband of the blue sweatpants. The flesh under there was warmer, fine textured. His hands reached inside, going around to cup the rounded ass, squeezing cushions of muscle with a touch that was possessive yet designed to honor.

He bent, sliding the pants down in one long stroke, urging Starsky to lift first one foot and then the other as he pulled off shoes, socks, and the blue material. Standing, his hands stroked up the legs as they rose, returning to clasp Starsky around the waist to pull him close. They shared another kiss, this one turning more passionate, need and desire becoming one, equal for both. Hutch drew Starsky with him to the bed, they fell together on the cool sheets. They rolled, getting closer, hands eager, grasping, friction generating heat between their bodies.

Hutch was dimly aware of the impedance of his clothes. The tie had come off somewhere, the shirt was unbuttoned—warm palms slid under the crisp white fabric to graze his chest and ribs with flickers of fire—but his pants were still fastened, though the belt had become undone. Kneeling beside Starsky, he released him a moment to take them off, dropping the good slacks in a heap beside the bed. The shirt then joined them. The hands that had continued stroking his chest, stoking his fire, now pulled and Hutch covered Starsky’s body with his own, legs opening to entrap the slim, flexing hips. Their cocks crossed and rubbed, the light contact not nearly enough. Both men struggled to better their awkward position, Hutch rising up a little, Starsky parting his thighs so that Hutch could kneel between.

Hutch ran a moist palm down Starsky’s heaving chest and belly, fingers coming to the base of his hard organ. He stroked the cock once, then with his other hand, brought his own to meet it. The tips brushed, moisture mingling. Hutch lifted his gaze, saw Starsky watching his actions with smoky, anxious eyes.

He moved closer, matching the organs inch for inch, pumping them both in his hand. His hot gaze still held Starsky’s. “What do you want?”

Starsky looked down again, watching for three, four, five rhythmic strokes. His voice was breathy. “I want you… inside me.”

“Oh God, yes.” Hutch felt himself shaking. He wanted that, too, right now, wanted to plunge deep to take all he needed. But he made himself wait, accepting the bottle of oil Starsky found in the nightstand drawer and placed in his hand.

The massage oil was scented with sandalwood, cool first on the skin, then warming. Hutch spread it with broad strokes on his hands, beginning at Starsky’s shoulders and moving down over his chest. The hairs darkened, glistening with oil everywhere he rubbed. Nipples hardened, feeling like slick pearls under his pulling fingers. Starsky lifted up to meet the touch and Hutch indulged him, teasing and circling, bending down to lick the oil-coated buds. Hands came up to cradle his head and Hutch felt the tenderness grow between them like a tangible presence.

He moved on, stroking oil over downy thighs, lifting the hips to spread its warmth under, around curves and into the tight crevice. His moist fingers rolled and circled the tight balls, then up, slickening hairs at the base of the shaft. He hesitated, drawing out the anticipation for both of them, then drew his slippery hand up and around his lover’s cock, pumping it gently. Starsky tossed his head and his oil-sheened legs parted wider, inviting Hutch to come where he wanted.

He reached to put the lubricating oil on his own cock, but Starsky stopped him, taking the bottle from his hand.

“Let me,” he whispered, drizzling the substance over Hutch’s length, anointing him, polishing the hard column with loving hands that sent heat waves up and through Hutch’s body. When it was sleek enough, Starsky again adjusted his position, knees drawing back, one hand opening himself, the other directing Hutch down to find the center he sought.

“Come on, lover.” Starsky was relaxed, open, eyes and hands and words urging as Hutch pressed in, feeling heat and tight smoothness close around him. Despite his lover’s readiness, Hutch still encountered familiar resistance, muscles that had to be coaxed, accustomed to his presence. The sensation was a mirror image of their life together, and their love. They both wanted total openness, both needed mutual completion, but just as it required a certain effort to join physically, it was hard to get together emotionally every time, too. Despite their mutual need for each other, they couldn’t always experience instant and total understanding. But they were willing…

Hutch pushed and Starsky shifted, relaxing more to accommodate him. We’re there together at last, he wanted to say, but he only groaned his relief. It was so right, their beings joined fully this way, worth all the effort to balance emotional and physical needs. He moaned again as swelling pleasure washed over him. Drawing back, he gathered himself for sliding deep once more, wishing he could flow into Starsky, touch his heart and soul.

Starsky was welcoming, eager; now the striving seemed easy. All their struggling set them free, bringing them together in every sense, biologically and emotionally. Starsky’s heart and soul were there to meet him, pulling him in through tight, trembling inner muscles to what seemed a vast open expanse that was Starsky himself. The powerful knowledge that he was inside Starsky flowed through his system. Hutch seemed to feel his essence
washing back over him, as if the man, spirit and mind, was turning inside out as he pushed through, until it seemed that he was within Starsky, totally, swallowed up.

Starsky surrounded and covered and sheltered him with his love, possessing Hutch as fully as he was possessed. It was total intimacy, and Hutch wasn’t sure if the orgasm overtaking them originated in physical sensation or whether it was born of the emotions they shared. That didn’t matter; it was there for them both and they moved faster, harder, seeking more and more of each other. Hutch was diving, or soaring—he couldn’t tell which. He came, shuddering, a mad onslaught tearing through him, his hoarse cry a garbled rendition of his lover’s name.

Starsky’s answer was immediate, as if Hutch’s deep plunging ejaculation set off his own. Hutch took the pulsing cock in his hand, savoring each shuddering burst that echoed his own spasms of satisfaction. Shaken, spent, totally complete, they collapsed together, one exhausted huddle of man.

An incalculable time later, they stirred, shifting to lie side by side. Starsky’s arms went around Hutch, drawing him close to his heart. Hutch felt it throbbing under his cheek as he inhaled the sharp fragrance of mingled sweat and massage oil and love. He cuddled close, needing to feel a part of Starsky yet. He was drowsy, relaxed, at peace. His lover was murmuring to him, low words he really didn’t need to listen to understand.

“That was beautiful,” Starsky told him, hands stroking Hutch over and over from ribs to thigh. “One of the best ever.” Soft lips brushed the top of his head.

I don’t deserve you. He didn’t say the words aloud but their truth made him groan. Unbidden, memory came back of how they had started this afternoon, what had been going on between them, his own confusion… and Leslie. Starsky, unaware of the specifics of his anguish, nevertheless held him soothingly close. Fingers crept around the back of his neck, under the strands of his hair, to rub at undefined tension.

Hutch tried to concentrate on the positive, to forget the negative, if only for a little while. The love was so good between them; it gave him hope. He wanted to hang on, stay this way forever, never let go. But he knew he had to, or this cure would only be temporary. He had to get his head together or soon he was going to drive a wedge between himself and Starsky that could never be removed.

He looked up into limpid eyes. “You want to get up and have dinner, or do you just want to go to sleep for the night?” He tried a little smile.

“I am hungry,” Starsky allowed, “but I want to hold you for a while longer.”

“That sounds fine.” Hutch’s answer was heartfelt.

“See how good it can be, Hutch?” Starsky went on, whispering. “Just about perfect. It was like this for us at the start and it just keeps getting better.” A gentle hand stroked his shoulders. “I remember how we used to try to one-up each other. All the games we used to play, contests, tests of strength, each of us trying to be king of the mountain. How we went after the same women, or were jealous of each other’s ladies from time to time. Did you ever realize it was all leading us here, to this very spot?”

Hutch couldn’t answer. Jealousy, rivalry, the topics brought an intense feeling of dread over him. He remembered so clearly their earliest lovemaking, how he and Starsky had decided they weren’t gay, that each was the only man the other was attracted to. Yet if they weren’t gay, they reasoned, they would still want women. They had found that not to be so; their newly discovered passion was so strong it had obliterated any need for them to look for sexual pleasure elsewhere. If they had stayed in L.A., they might even have kept their separate apartments. They had moved in together only when they’d found the house in Minneapolis.

Still, Hutch knew he was rationalizing. Even though they had never exactly spelled out their relationship as being exclusive, sleeping with Leslie was being unfaithful to Starsky. That detracted from ‘me and thee,’ took away something that couldn’t be put back. Hutch could almost hear what Starsky would say if he knew. He’d be angry at first; there was a side of Starsky that could be very jealous and possessive. But the anger would give way to hurt. Starsky had forgiven him many things, but Hutch thought maybe this was one thing he might not forgive. With his current attitude toward Hutch’s behavior, Starsky was likely to view his infidelity as another game where he was expected to prove he loved Hutch. He might think that Hutch was trying his old game of one-upmanship, by demonstrating that he could still make a hit with the ladies. Hutch shivered, realizing his lover might suspect, even now. He had brought up the subject of jealousy.

“Maybe it didn’t really mean anything at all—all that jealousy stuff,” Starsky was saying. Hutch caught up with the conversation with effort. “Maybe since we love each other, none of that matters. If you love somebody enough, and have their love, whatever else they do can’t hurt you.”

“What do you mean?” Hutch could barely give voice to the question.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me about where you go and what you do. I think you got the wrong impression the other night when I told you to go looking for fun and games. I just meant we don’t need to fight about it. It’s not something we need to analyze and discuss. I know I’ve been bugging you lately and you want to handle things on your own. That’s all I meant. I won’t pick on you, Hutch, and you don’t worry about me playing tennis or whatever down at the health club.”

Hutch’s mine was racing, one part of him weak with relief. Starsky was trying his damndest to be fair, to allow Hutch whatever space he needed. At the same time, he was telling him if he’d done anything wrong, he really didn’t want to know about it, as long as he had Hutch’s love. Yet Hutch also realized Starsky was trying to cover his own bases, not wanting Hutch to protest the physical activity he was yearning to participate in.

“I love you, Starsk. Always.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say that he could get through without his voice shaking, so he remained quiet.

* * * * *

Starsky finished packing the warm earth around the base of the newly planted rose bush. He brushed the dark soil off his hands and sat back in the grass to survey his handiwork. The planting was accomplished, but he felt no pleasure at its completion. Putting in the rosebushes had been an activity he and Hutch had planned to do together. It was getting late in the season, though, and Starsky didn’t want to wait any longer. He’d gone ahead with the project alone and now, instead of he and Hutch sharing the beautification of their yard, Starsky felt only loneliness.

He had been the one to suggest that Hutch go looking for whatever it was that he needed. And, two evenings ago after they had shared a tumultuous hour of lovemaking, he had even told Hutch that he didn’t need to know where he’d been going or what he’d been doing. Starsky had hoped that his attitude of understanding would bring Hutch closer to him, but sitting here alone, he realized it hadn’t.

Hutch hated jealousy and possessiveness. Starsky had hoped that by letting go a little, his restless lover would feel less stifled, more comfortable about their living arrangement. Thought we had a commitment. Starsky felt an ache well up inside him. But now I get the feeling that’s almost too strong a word. It had taken them so long to learn of the physical love that they could share—finding it had made Starsky believe that nothing could ever go wrong between them again.

It had been Hutch’s idea to come to Minnesota and, eager to be out of L.A. and away from the memories the city evoked of the career that could no longer be his, Starsky had agreed. A new start had seemed like the very thing both of them needed, a new life and new love without old problems. Yet with every month they spent in Hutch’s home state, the bigger mess they seemed to be making of their lives. All Starsky’s efforts to cheer Hutch,  to help him, had done no good. Starsky was left feeling responsible for problems he couldn’t solve.

Guess I’m not what he needs to make him happy anymore, he thought morosely. He knew feeling guilty was more Hutch’s game than his own, but failing so many times to make things right, Starsky just couldn’t help it. Maybe it’s not going to work, us living together. Two straight guys fallin’ in love… we didn’t know what we were getting into.

It wasn’t just the bickering, although Hutch’s current moods certainly added to that side of it. He complained about nearly everything Starsky did, from the music he listened to to the way he did his share of the laundry. But they had picked on each other for years, sometimes just out of habit, yet more often than not, the bickering had been just another way of saying ‘I love you,’ as much a part of their private code as ‘me and thee.’

What’s gonna happen to me and thee now, Hutch? If we can’t live together, we can’t go back to being just friends, either. We thought becoming lovers would add to our relationship. Is it taking something away instead?

Starsky was convinced the problem was much more complex than that. Something was hurting Hutch, had been hurting him since Starsky had been shot. Whatever it was, his partner couldn’t seem to let go of it.

I’ve adjusted to all the changes Gunther’s bullets made in my life, why can’t Hutch? Starsky thought about it awhile, unconsciously rubbing a hand across his chest where lingering tightness reminded him of a passage of lead through his body. It was rough, sure, but Hutch was there, all the way. When I was depressed, he cheered me up. When I was hurting, he held me… Hutch had given so much tenderness and care to him. His strength had seemed to come from a bottomless well. Never thought it’d run dry… Starsky remembered, so clearly, the day he had been told he couldn’t be a cop anymore. The possibility had been in the back of his mind, but during all his physical therapy sessions both he and Hutch had talked about him getting strong enough to go back to work as a cop.

The police physician finished his examination and returned to his desk, regarding Starsky thoughtfully. “Sergeant, your reaction time is down, so is your stamina. You don’t have the needed lung capacity for the endurance you’d need on the streets.” Starsky stopped listening as the doctor enumerated his shortcomings, hearing only the final statement. “I’m afraid your days as a homicide detective are over.”

The shock hit hard. Starsky didn’t care that he could take a desk job, that he wouldn’t be considered disabled. He wanted everything to go back to being the way it was before Gunther had tried to take everything away from him. He left the doctor’s office and stumbled into Hutch’s arms, heedless of other cops passing by in the hall.

The world narrowed down to the tight embrace in which Hutch held him. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay,” Hutch repeated over and over. “We quit once and maybe that was the right decision. We’ll go away, make a new life…”

Starsky clung to the words, to the promise and hope they offered. Hutch got him out of the building and drove him home and made love to him all night. The reassurance of Hutch’s touch had burned the disappointment from his mind, the unstinting love his partner gave made him feel worthy and strong and able-bodied once again, despite the doctor’s negative decree.

Never thought about what that cost him, Starsky mused now. Hutch must’ve wanted me back whole as much as—maybe more—than I did. It must have been hard seeing me like I was then. He’d had his heart as set on me passing the review board as much as I did.

With his support, I adjusted to all the changes. He gave me all his strength, no wonder he’s feeling lost now.

One thought still nagged at Starsky. He looked up, squinting into the fading sun as evening approached. How come I’m not able to give him the help he needs?

He doesn’t want to burden me. The answer seemed plausible enough. He always did need his own space. Much as I want to help him, I’d better let him be on his own if that’s what he wants for a while. Starsky stood, suddenly determined to let Hutch know that his own physical recovery was better than either of them had thought it would be. He doesn’t need to worry about me, to fear what not being on the streets is doing to both of us. I’m strong, and even if we’re not cops any more, we’re still young and we’ve got our whole lives together. He gathered his gardening tools and put them away in the shed, then went inside to change and head for the health club.

* * * * *

Hutch rolled over in the empty bed and peered at the lighted dial of the digital alarm. It was eleven-thirty and Starsky still wasn’t in. He supposed that his lover was staying out rather than waiting alone for Hutch to come home. I’m here, and he doesn’t even know it. Hutch hadn’t wanted to go out, no matter that Starsky had been urging him to and had not wanted to know about his activities. Starsky was trying to be fair, but all Hutch felt was the ache of being without him. With a wry sense of powerlessness, he realized how easily they could hurt each other, despite their trying to do just the opposite.

He settled in the center of the bed and attempted to fall asleep. I’ll know when Starsky comes home. He’ll get in bed right here next to me. Feeling closer to him already, Hutch felt himself drifting off.

He was halfway into a deep slumber when a noise startled him fully awake again. He lay still, listening, wondering what it was that had disturbed him. At first he thought it was Starsky coming into the house, and he waited, glad that the rest of the night wouldn’t be spent alone.

There was another noise, a sound like a heavy tread on the back porch. That’s not Starsky… Hutch felt a prickle run down his back, alerting him to the presence of danger. He rolled over in bed, holding his breath, every sense attuned to catch the indistinct sound should it be repeated.

Again. Hutch was up now, stalking silently toward the small back bedroom to sneak a look out its window. A wind had picked up and in the darkness he could just make out the swaying of thick tree branches. They scraped the side of the house. Could be what I heard… Yet he wasn’t sure; it had sounded like someone trying to break in.

He had the gun case out of the filing cabinet drawer before he even thought about what he was doing. It took only a moment to slip bullets into the empty chambers, and he was back at the window, his eyes searching the yard below. He heard a definite scraping noise, as if someone were forcing the back screen door.

He hurried to descend the stairs, leaving the lights off. His bare feet made no sound on the carpeted floors and he kept his tense, brief-clad body against the wall as he headed for the kitchen.

The scraping was more distinct now. Hutch ducked into the kitchen, gun hand first. Crouched low, he sped to the door, keeping his back against it while he quietly turned the knob. In one motion he pulled the door open, cocked the gun and took aim at the intruder.

He stopped himself an instant before blowing away the large tabby cat that had been pawing at the screen. Starsky usually put food out for the neighborhood stray and the animal was apparently hungry.

Heart pounding, he lowered the gun and opened the door to admit the cat. It rubbed against his ankles, oblivious to the fact that it had narrowly escaped being killed. Hutch searched, his efforts hampered by his racing pulse and shaking hands, and finally found an open bag of cat food in the broom closet. He poured some in a bowl and set it on the porch for the tabby. He stood, breathing heavily, watching as the cat ate. He closed the door, heart still thumping like a frantic pendulum. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.

His hands were shaking and he lay the heavy Magnum on the table top, covering it with both his sweaty palms. There was a hard knot in his stomach and his muscles were tight from tension and nervous reaction. Where’s Starsky…? He didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry that his partner hadn’t yet returned.

Don’t think I’d want him to see me this way. His fingers gripped the Magnum tightly. I used to be able to handle anything. Now, here I am, coming apart at the seams, imagining the house is being burglarized from just hearing a few noises. God, am I that crazy that I have to imagine danger—do I want kicks so badly that I was hoping there was an intruder out there?

The burden of his flaws seemed to settle over Hutch. He felt lower than he could ever remember feeling before. In the moment of extreme distress, his life seemed so futile. He saw himself as utterly useless to Starsky, and to himself.

Starsky’s recovered. He’s doing fine and instead of enjoying what we could have together, I’m falling apart a little more every day. He’d be so much better off without me…

He realized he was slowly stroking the barrel of the gun. He picked it up, cradling the weight of the weapon in his right hand. It had been a long time since he had fired it, a long time since he had looked at or carried it, yet it was as familiar to him as an old friend. There had been a certain amount of security knowing it was in his holster, despite the deadly force of the .357. One shot could not only kill, at close enough range, it could obliterate.

He traced the long barrel with his forefinger, curled his palm around the stock and pressed the hammer back with his thumb. The gesture felt so natural, as easy as the sunrise and just as inevitable.

So easy to stop the pain, take away all the mistakes…

He sat there contemplating the way the shot would sound, knowing that if he used the gun, he wouldn’t be left to hear it or to see the flash. Coward’s way out… maybe that’s all I am, after all.

He knew he had exhibited bravery while working the streets. He had stood before hit men and desperate felons, stared down the barrels of guns held by men more insane than he. Yet that had been false bravado, or so it seemed to him now. There had been an out, he’d always thought, or some slim hope born of the recklessness of youth. Or a reason, a strong need to try to go on living. That reason, more often than not, had been Starsky.

Unbidden, the memory came of an Italian restaurant as midnight neared. ‘I’m going back there and you’re not going to stop me.’ His finger pointing at the hit man with determination. My partner needs me… to get him and all the rest of these people out of this alive. The rest of the people were gone now, and it wasn’t their lives that had mattered to him, after all. But Starsky had lain in that back room, hurt and frightened for Hutch’s safety, and it had been for him that Hutch had summoned every ounce of fortitude he could muster. For Starsky, he’d had to win.

Wish it was a matter of winning or losing now, babe. I thought part of my fearlessness came from being determined that the bad guys couldn’t have us. Looks like they won after all, though, if they’ve left only this empty, useless shell of me for you. Hutch closed his eyes, picturing his lover’s return to the house. What if he found me out here, a bloody corpse across the table? That would hurt him even more than I already have.

Hutch put the gun down. He owed Starsky too much to escape his own pain that way. And despite his feelings of uselessness and depression, he couldn’t bear the thought of never being with Starsky again. He would have to try harder, summon more courage from the tapped-out well, go on living and try to forget his trespasses against the dearest love he had ever known. Starsky didn’t need him for his life and health right now, but he also didn’t need him suicidal and insane.

Shaking, Hutch stood and replaced the safety on the gun, then carried it loosely in his right hand as he ascended the stairs. He unloaded it quickly and put it away in the locking drawer of the file cabinet in the spare room, wanting the sight of it and its temptation away where it could not bother him anymore. He went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, sparing a glance at the wild-eyed man in the mirror, then he hurried back to bed. Starsky would come home, find him fast asleep, and never know what he had almost done.

* * * * *

Starsky settled the last miniature tree beside the finished railroad depot in his train display, proud of his finally finished creation. The railroad was mammoth, covering a platform ten feet long that ran the width of the back of the store. Pop was running a sale on electric train sets and Starsky figured giving the kids something to see and providing some nostalgia for their parents would bring in more business. It had taken him three weeks to set it up, working during lulls. In the last few days, he had stayed quite late after work, too, last night until past midnight. He’d had to repaint and repair some of the antique buildings and props he was using. Putting the finishing touches on the train display had kept his mind off his adult problems.

The locomotive was ready. Starsky perched himself on a stool beside the transformer and threw the switch. The antique engine lit up and slowly began to move. The train ran along the valley between two mountains, then through a tunnel and emerged at the edge of the town, passing schools, churches, general stores, and houses. Finally the train chugged by farmland inhabited by cows and horses dotted with windmills, chicken coops, and “Chew Mailpouch” signs, even several miniature lakes. His favorites were the replicas of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, like the ones he and Hutch had admired on the way to Brainerd.

He stopped himself from thinking about that weekend, from dwelling on his problems. He thumbed the whistle control and train seemed to signal the next town it was approaching. Starsky smiled. He thoroughly enjoyed his job. If only Hutch could be as happy doing what he’s doing…

The bell over the door to the toy store jangled and Starsky turned to see a father and his son corning in. The boy heard the train and rushed back to stand next to Starsky, marveling at the huge display.

“Can I run it awhile?”

Starsky grinned at the eagerness in the voice. “Sure, kid. Don’t let it go too fast.”

“I won’t. We have one at home… but it’s not this big!”

“Bobby, I thought you came in here to buy walkie-talkies,” said his father.

“Oh, yeah.” The ten-year-old stopped the train and turned to look up at Starsky. “Do you have walkie-talkies that really work?”

“We do. Down that aisle over there.” Starsky pointed and the kid disappeared, looking for the wanted items.

“Hi.” Starsky smiled at the father. About forty years old with dark hair that was greying at the temples and a trim physique with just the hint of paunch around the middle, the man was dressed in warm-up pants and a sweatshirt, and was glancing at his watch, an expensive Rolex, Starsky noted.

“Hi,” he responded, looking up. “Come on, Bobby, decide which ones you want, it’s getting late.” He turned to grin at Starsky. “This is the third store we’ve been in. His mother sent me out with him, said if I wanted to go spend the evening at the club, I should at least take Bobby out first.”

Starsky smiled. He was used to customers telling him snippets about their lives. The atmosphere of Pop’s seemed to promote congeniality. He walked over to the aisle where Bobby was looking and pointed out the several types of walkie-talkies they stocked and helped the youngster make his selection.

“Thanks for your help,” the father said as Starsky rang up the sale. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem. You going to work out?”

“Yeah. I belong to the Midtown Club. I’m trying to get down there a couple nights a week. We over forty types have to keep active.”

“Midtown?” Starsky asked, making change for the customer. “That’s the club I belong to.”

“Really? It’s near my office.” The father pocketed his change and his son took the bag containing his toy.

“Your office?”

“I’m, a doctor. My office is close to the club. I sometimes try to get over there at lunch time, but more often than not I get too busy.”

“I know what you mean. It’s a nice club. I enjoy their indoor tennis courts. With it being so chilly in the spring here, the season lasts longer playing indoors.”

“I like their tennis facilities, too. That’s why I’m in a hurry tonight. I’d like to get over there and find someone to play with before the courts are all taken. Since they’re indoors, they’re crowded all evening long.”

“Really.” Starsky hesitated a moment, then continued. “You say you’re lookin’ for someone to play with? I’m a little out of practice, but we close in half and hour and I was thinking of going over to the club.”

“That sounds great.” The man extended his hand. “Peter Houston.”

“Dave Starsky. Glad to meet you.”

“Listen, I’ll drop my son off at home and then go down and reserve a court. I’ll meet you in the snack bar.”

“Great. I’ll see you in a while.” Starsky returned Bobby’s wave as he and his father left the store. His spirits lifted at the prospect of a friendly game of tennis with his new acquaintance.

* * * * *

The courts, as Peter had predicted, were crowded and he and Starsky ended up playing doubles against another two men . He and Houston had won the match and, after grabbing a quick shower, they went back to the club’s snack bar to celebrate.

Starsky found Peter easy to talk to. Playing tennis with a guy was a good way to get to know him, and they spent the beginning portion of their conversation discussing the match and they way their styles had meshed to give them the advantage over the other team.

“I haven’t played doubles in years,” Peter said, stirring his coffee.

“I enjoy it.” Starsky was spreading mustard on his club sandwich. “Actually, it’s easier for me. I don’t run out of steam so fast when I don’t have to cover the whole court by myself.”

“I know what you mean. None of us is getting any younger. But, Dave, I’ve got to be a few years older than you. What are you—about thirty-five?”

“Thanks. Thirty-seven my next birthday.” Starsky smiled self-consciously. “I… uh, had some injuries that slowed me down a little, about a year ago. That’s why I’m so out of shape. I actually just started going to the club regularly.”

“Injuries? What happened—car accident?” Houston was quietly curious.

Starsky shook his head. “No,” It wasn’t hard for him to talk about, though speaking of the shooting made him think achingly of Hutch. “I was shot.”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly, but the look in them remained kindly encouraging.

Starsky went on. “I used to be a cop, back in L.A. My partner and I were detectives; we did a lot of undercover work. A big crime boss didn’t like the chunks we’d taken out of his operation so… I ended up taking three slugs from a machine gun.” His new acquaintance nodded as if he knew people this happened to all the time. “You remember James Gunther?”

“James Gunther? Yeah—I read about that. He had involvements all over the country. You had a part in bringing him to justice?”

“Don’t sound so impressed. We didn’t set out to get him. We came in by way of another case linked to his organization. Didn’t even know he was the top man until he ordered the hit on me. My partner put it all together while I was lying in the hospital. He gathered enough evidence so Gunther took a heavy fall.”

Houston nodded, his words congratulatory. “You stopped one of the biggest crime syndicates in the nation. And I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.”

“Yeah. I’ve recovered,” Starsky answered, his voice flat.

Peter hesitated, then probed gently. “You… can’t be a cop anymore?”

Starsky shook his head. “I see. That’s why you’re working at Pops. How’d you come to move to Minneapolis? I detect a bit of New York in your voice.”

“My partner’s from Duluth, originally. He has family here. An uncle got him some interviews and he got a new job here, too.”

“Your partner?”

“Yeah.” Starsky couldn’t help smiling, letting his love show. “Hutch. He was sick of the streets by then, too. So we both packed it in. Moved here… seven months ago now.”

“Does he miss being a cop as much as you do?”

Starsky took a long sip of his Coke. “Funny you should ask that. I think he misses it more than I do—and being a cop was all I ever wanted since I was a kid. My dad was a cop from New York. But Hutch wanted to quit, even before I was shot. Did, in fact, after he got fed up with the system. I did, too, but we took our badges back—as a result of the case that led us to Gunther.” His words slowed as he focused on a point far away across the room. “I thought he’d be fine once he got it out of his system, once we got settled in here, but…” Abruptly, he decided to drop the subject, “Oh well, I don’t mean to bore you with all that.”

“No. It’s fine, Dave. I’m interested.” Peter stabbed a tomato in his salad. “I may have mentioned I’m a doctor. I’m an internist, but my background is in psychology. I have a couple of patients who’ve made career changes in their mid-to-late thirties. It’s not as uncommon as you’d think that such a move causes problems.”

Starsky fidgeted in his seat. “I believe there’s more to Hutch’s problem than just a job change. I do think he hates what he’s doing, but that’s just a symptom. God—” he stopped himself again. “I act like I’m askin’ for free advice or something. Sorry, Peter.”

“That’s all right. I wouldn’t have reminded you that I’m a doctor if I thought that. I don’t mean to pry—”

“You’re not.” Starsky was certain the interest was honest.

“I just got the impression you might want to talk.”

Starsky swallowed; it was a bit unsettling to find he could be so transparent. He hesitated, feeling a need to talk to someone after having to deal with problems alone for so long, yet he was reticent. Though he and Peter had hit it off well, Starsky didn’t think he could unburden himself about such personal problems with a new acquaintance.

“I don’t know,” he hedged. “There’s so much… you might not be able to get me stopped once I got started. It’s a long story.”

Peter smiled. “I understand. But if you ever do feel like talking…”

“Thanks. I’m, not even sure how to express most of it. There’ve been so many changes in my life in the last year. Hutch was always there, always strong… everything a partner could be. Lately… I guess it’s just finally catching up with him. He’s gone through changes, too.” He trailed off, suddenly sensing that, not through his words alone but in the way he said them, he had revealed the depth of his feelings for Hutch. That wasn’t wrong and he wasn’t trying to hide it, but it seemed like more than Peter might want to know.

“You love him, don’t you?” Peter asked quietly.

“Hey, I…”

“It’s okay, Dave. I understand, believe me. I have a lot of patients who are gay.”

“No, it’s not… well, we are living together, but…” He felt foolish equivocating when what the man had deduced was in fact the simple truth. Houston couldn’t know his situation wasn’t as cut and dried as it seemed.

“It’s not like you might think,” Starsky went on, needed to add perspective. “Neither of us… we always liked women, you know? We were partners, best friends. I guess it’s kinda unusual, two straight—formerly straight—guys fallin’ in love, changin’ their whole lives around. No wonder we’re both a little mixed up.”

Peter smiled. “Everybody’s unique. Changes take awhile to get used to. But, if it’s right for you and Hutch, it will work out.”

Starsky knew the doctor was right. He and Hutch had weathered many emotional storms; they would come through this one, too. “Thanks, Peter. It will. I’m sure of that.”

They finished their meal and the conversation drifted to other, less sensitive topics. Peter mentioned that an inter-club tournament was being held for charity and was scheduled to begin the following week.

“I was thinking about entering. I used to play on my college team.” He seemed to get a sudden inspiration. “Listen, Dave. How about we enter in the doubles division? We played pretty well tonight.”

Starsky was nodding assent before he really considered the idea fully. It seemed like a good one, though. He needed something that would distract him from constantly worrying about Hutch. “Okay. If you think, two over-the-hill guys stand a chance.”

“The tournament is broken down into age brackets, Dave.” Peter grinned. “Maybe we can pass for the forty-five to fifty set.”

“Hey, you said I looked thirty-five!” Starsky pretended to be insulted.

“Being a doctor made me prematurely grey,” Peter responded with dignity.

They shared a laugh and made plans to get in some practice before the tournament. Starsky left the club feeling relaxed and more positive than he had in weeks.

* * * * *

Hutch closed the client file he had been attempting to work on and shut his eyes. It was useless to try to work; he couldn’t concentrate, had no desire to accomplish anything. Infinitely tired, he wondered if he would ever feel anything but the profound sense of hopelessness again.

The guilt was driving him crazy. He lay his head on his folded arms, trying to purge the image of holding Leslie Rogers in his arms from his mind. It wouldn’t leave him alone. Not only was being with her wrong because it was cheating on Starsky, it wasn’t fair to the woman herself, either. He had used her to get his own sick satisfaction and though he had been intimate with her just the one time, he knew she thought there would be more between them. If only I didn’t have to see her every day… He had not wanted to be rude, but being nice was giving her false hope.

“Ken?” A soft voice spoke, a soft hand touched his shoulder.

He felt so revolted by his own behavior toward Leslie that the emotion spilled over as he looked up to meet her eyes. “What do you want?”

Hearing the snappish tone of his voice, she backed up a step. “I’m sorry. I just noticed your door was open as I was leaving.”

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was after five. “Oh.” Hastily gathering papers, he picked up and opened his briefcase. “Guess I’d better be getting out of here.”

“Ken?” He didn’t look up. “We haven’t… been able to talk much lately. I was wondering, could we get together tonight?”

Hutch closed his eyes, slowly counting to ten in his head, trying to hang onto the little patience he had left. He only got as far as five. “I’m afraid not, Leslie. Not tonight or any night coming up.”

She just blinked, her eyes going from curious to angry. “You don’t have to snap at me. I just thought that you might need a friend.”

“I’m sure you did.” He meant it, but the words carried an undertone of both defeat and sarcasm. Leslie couldn’t know the negative feelings were directed toward Hutch himself.

“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” She turned to go.

“Leslie!” The call brought her around, and Hutch saw the hope flare in the green eyes. He damned himself for causing it, for being less to everyone he came in contact with than they deserved. His self-hatred came out in his voice. “I misled you into thinking we could have a relationship. It can’t happen. There…” he faltered, then went on, “there is someone else.”

“Ken.” Leslie seemed to have recovered her poise and self-assurance. She moved back toward him, her smile the sweet one that had worked on him before. “I don’t mind sharing you. I don’t want a… relationship. We were good together. You can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t. But I love someone else. I can’t see you any more.” He picked up his briefcase and reached for his sports coat.

“Is she pretty?” Leslie’s voice broke on the petulant note, then she covered the emotional response by adding. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

He had to tell her the whole truth. Without it, she would still persist with him. “Yes, you did, Leslie. You want to know who the competition is. Okay. I’ll tell you. It isn’t another woman. I love David Starsky. The man who was my partner—who still is.”

Her mouth dropped open with a little gasp of astonishment. “You’re gay?” She shook her head, blonde hair swaying. “No—I don’t believe it. I don’t understand. How could you?”

“How could I what? Be with you when I live with him?”

“No.” She spat out the word, looking appalled. “How could you do it with a man?” Hutch watched the obvious battle between disgust and curiosity that crossed her face. “Have you always been gay… or bi… or what?”

“It’s really none of your business, Leslie.” Instead of embarrassment, he felt a strong sense of liberation. He could see that going into details would only exacerbate the situation. She didn’t need to think that there might be hope—that a woman’s love could ‘cure’ him of the aberration—and his feelings for Starsky were too special and private to dissect for her. “I’m sorry. Let’s just say that being with Starsky is very easy… because I love him.”

She stared at him, looking aghast.

“I am sorry,” he went on. “I didn’t mean to complicate things so much when I went home with you that night. It just happened. You’ve said you didn’t mind a one-night stand. Just let this be something you can chalk up to modern living.” He strode past her and went into the hall, heading for the door. On his way to the exit, he passed Courtney Michaelson, a friend of Leslie’s at Halper and Moore. The woman called a greeting to him, but he didn’t respond.

* * * * *

In his car, Hutch shook with reaction. He didn’t feel unburdened by the act of telling Leslie the truth. Doing that hadn’t been enough. It was good, being himself, showing her what and who he truly was, but it was just a first step. A more frightening had yet to be attempted. He had to tell Starsky now. Admit everything, no matter what.

It was the only way. Hutch wasn’t by nature duplicitous and though he knew telling Starsky might end up hurting him, he felt concealing the truth was far worse. Their relationship had always been based on trust and openness. It was keeping his transgression a secret that was causing the most harm.

But God, what’s he going to say when he knows? Hutch was confronted with the memory of other misdeeds from his past. That ridiculous amnesia charade… the pain in Starsky’s eyes when I told him I was faking. What I’d done as a lark was turning far more serious than I ever intended and I couldn’t’ go on hiding it from him. And Kira… I didn’t want him to love her. I was desperate… Insecurity had always haunted Hutch and it rose up to torment him now. With Starsky, making up was easy; forgiveness was second nature to his partner. Is that why I always push my luck with him? Am I so self-destructive that I keep looking for something that will finally push him too far?

A cold knot of fear settled in his stomach, growing tighter the closer he got to their neighborhood. He slowed for a stop light at the intersection across from the shopping center where Pop’s Toys was located. Hutch glanced to the right, wondering if he might see Starsky heading down the street on his way home.

Red revolving lights caught his attention. Police cars. Ambulance… The parking lot was filled with blinking signals that told of danger. Hutch sat, just staring at them during the seconds it took for the light to turn green. The vehicles were all pulled up in front of the entrance to the toy store.

He pulled on the steering wheel, pressing hard on the horn and gave the car a jolt of gas, shooting across two lanes of traffic to turn right. The Granada lurched into the shopping center driveway, tires protesting as the heavy car bounced over a speed bump. He pulled up to Pop’s Toys and pushed the gear shift toward park, unsnapping his seat belt and throwing himself out the opened car door.

Paramedics appeared in the doorway, lifting a gurney. Hutch pushed past the accumulated onlookers and bent over the figure on the stretcher. His heart didn’t start beating until he realized the wounded man wasn’t Starsky.

“Mr. Allbright.” Hutch gasped. “Pop?”

Weary brown eyes opened as a fleeting expression of pain crossed the older man’s craggy face. “‘M okay, Hutch. Takes more than a bullet to get this old geezer down for long.”

Hutch patted the man’s shoulder. “What happened. Pop? Where’s Starsky?”

“He’s inside. He got the drop on ’em.” Pop grinned, wincing. “That partner of yours musta been a damn fine cop.”

“Okay, sir.” A medic interrupted, speaking to Pop Allbright. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Hutch turned as soon as the gurney was carried past and stepped into the store. His worried eyes found Starsky right away. His partner was seated on the counter by the cash register, holding a handkerchief over his fist. Hutch crossed to him, appropriating the injured hand with  gentle touch. He moved the handkerchief and inspected the bloodied knuckles. “Hi.”

Starsky looked up at the soft greeting.

“What happened, partner? You try to take the bad guys on without me?” He tried to keep his tone light, despite the surge of fear that had come over him when he’d first realized something had gone down at Pop’s. But lightness in these situations had been di rigeur while they were on the force, and he attempted to play the scene that way.

Starsky cocked his head, his grin crooked. “Yeah, well, I wanted to wait but they started the party without you.”

He actually looked pleased with himself. Hutch suddenly felt like shaking him . “Pop’s hurt. You could’ve been, too.”

“They were teenagers, Hutch. They only had a little .22 handgun. I got the kid with the gun with one punch while he was lookin’ the other way.”

“Twenty-twos can kill just as easily as forty-fives buddy. You know that.” Hutch felt the tension drain out of him, replaced with burning anger.

“What was I supposed to do—let ’em take the cash?” Starsky’s eyes flashed blue determination.

Hutch ignored the warning sign.

“Yes—it’d beat getting yourself or Pop killed for a few lousy hundred dollars. You’re not on the force anymore, you can’t just—”

“Shut up.” Starsky only said it once, and very low. Hutch swallowed his hot words, seeing that a uniformed cop was waiting with his notebook to take a statement from Starsky.

“I’ll wait over here,” he said, stalking to the entrance of the toy store. He stood there, seething, while the police completed their business and told Starsky he could go. The assistant manager swept up broken glass and straightened a knocked-over display rack before he decided the store was ready to be closed. Then, he produced his set of keys and locked the register, and finally the door behind himself and Hutch.

“Want a lift?” Hutch asked grudgingly, striding to the Granada.

Starsky climbed in on the passenger side. Hutch ignored his glare as he backed up and pulled around to exit the parking lot.

Neither man spoke until the Granada braked to  a halt in front of their house. Hutch sat, trying to master his emotions. He had been too easily angered when he learned how close Starsky had come to being hurt. His real feeling had been fear—adrenalin-fed terror that he could have lost Starsky before he had made things right between them. Things might not ever be right again.

Starsky turned to look at him. “You gonna tell me what’s really eating you?”

“Let’s go inside, all right?” Hutch pulled his keys from the ignition and, without waiting for Starsky, headed for the house.

Once within the confines of the home they shared, Hutch went directly upstairs. Starsky followed behind him, his presence paradoxically irritating Hutch despite his gladness that his partner was safe with him. In the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet and looked for antiseptic and gauze.

“Hutch—”

He took hold of Starsky’s wrist and proceeded to cleanse the broken skin over the knuckles.

“Hey, I could do that myself. Ow—”

Hutch abruptly released the hand. Hurting Starsky now seemed like too much. “Sorry. Thought I’d help. It is your left hand.”

“Yeah.” Starsky eyed the abrasions ruefully, then looked back up, his gaze acutely probing Hutch’s expression. “Go ahead.”

Hutch finished his first aid measures, hiding behind the simple gestures. He’d made Starsky angry with him earlier, now his partner was trying to alleviate the tension. It didn’t help; the need to confess loomed large before him, yet it wasn’t easy, no matter how Starsky was acting. Here I am, getting possessive and protective… do I still have the right after what I’ve done?

“I’m okay, babe.” Starsky leaned close, made Hutch meet his eyes.

“I know.” Hutch found a catch in his throat that made it impossible to say more.

“It all happened pretty fast. I just acted on instinct. You know…”

“Yeah. I know. Can’t help worrying though, can I?”

“Not you.” Starsky moved in to kiss him. “Now you gonna tell me what else is wrong?”

Hutch shoved his hands into his pockets and raised his eyebrows. “I’m pretty obvious, huh? How about we forget it for tonight?”

“No. I know you too well and something’s on your mind. You’re not going to let it go until you get it off your chest.”

“On my mind, off my chest—you’re mixing your metaphors, Starsk.”

“And you’re throwing up smoke screens.”

Hutch backed out of the bathroom and into the hall. “You don’t make it easy.” He turned and entered the bedroom, pulling off his jacket and slipping it on a hanger. His fingers fumbled with the knot of his tie. He was scared, panicked in fact. Starsky was looking at him with a blend of love and curiosity and Hutch couldn’t bear the thought of that expression changing to hostility. He had to speak, but he didn’t know where to begin.

“I love you, Starsk,” he whispered finally.

“Yeah… but?”

“But? What do you mean, ‘but’?”

“When you say it like that, I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

Hutch rubbed his aching forehead. “Okay. I love you, Starsky, but… sometimes I make mistakes anyway. I love you, but that doesn’t mean everything’s always going to be perfect.”

“Stop with the generalities, Hutch. Get specific, willya?”

Hutch’s tension again snapped at the tenuous control he had. “Okay. I’ll be specific. What would you say if I told you I’d slept with someone else?”

Starsky seemed to freeze, blue eyes darkening to obsidian as they regarded him. “Who? When?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. You know how I’ve been lately… needing—something—and not knowing how to find it or what it was. My adrenalin fix, you called it…”

“Did it give you the thrill you were looking for? Huh?”

“Starsk, wait. You said to stop burdening you with my problems, to go out and look for something on my own—”

“And I said I didn’t want to know about what you were doing. Who are you trying to punish, me or yourself?”

“Me, I guess. Not you. But it happened and I can’t pretend it didn’t anymore.”

“So you didn’t get a big enough kick out of just doing it—you want more from telling me. Well, you can forget it. I don’t want to play your sick games any more.” Starsky turned to go.

Hutch grabbed his shoulder and Starsky turned to face him. “Yeah. I’m sick. I’m sick of being this way. I’m sick of never living up to what you want and need. Would you have preferred not to know at all?”

“That’s not the point. If you think I’m gonna forgive so you can walk around with a clear conscience, you’re wrong. All I want to know is one thing—when is this going to stop? When are you going to accept what we can have and stop blaming yourself for what’s changed?”

“Blaming… I don’t understand.”

“You’re telling me you miss the thrill of the chase, the adrenalin highs on the street. That’s bull, man. You’re lyin’ to yourself if you think that’s all it is. You’re trying to justify breaking the commitment we made to each other. I don’t give a damn what your problems are, what you think I want you to do, you don’t turn to someone else!”

“I know. I know.” Hutch was breathing heavily, his head spinning. “I just want you, Starsk. I want everything to be like it used to be.”

“Right now those two things are mutually exclusive. What do you think will make things like they were—going back to L.A., going back on the force? Okay. I can get back up to street strength. I’ll work hard. It’s been a year now. I bet I can convince the doctors and the review board. I could do it right now. And I will, if that’s what you want. Because you’re not going back alone. You want the thrills, you gotta want ’em with me.”

“No! My God, Starsky. I thought you’d been killed today! When I saw those police cars and that ambulance…”

“Then make up your mind. Cause, buddy, that’s what commitment is all about. That’s what it means to me, anyway. I don’t think you know what it means to you.”

“I know it means I love you,” Hutch said with passion. “Touching someone else doesn’t change that. I thought I was using you, doing the crazy things I was and needing you to get off afterwards. That’s what you said. So maybe she was the danger and the release all at the same time. Don’t you see? I want to be honest. I don’t want to use you. I don’t want to lie.”

“But you do want to be able to do whatever you want when you want to, don’t you?”

“No. I mean, not now. Not anymore. I… I already told her about us.” This was worse than Hutch had imagined. Even though he knew he deserved Starsky’s wrath, the words came at him like blows for which he had no defense.

“How many times?” Starsky said it low, very clearly.

“Once. Swear to God. And never again.”

Starsky stood facing him, then turned to go.

“Starsk? Babe, please… believe me.” The anguish in his own voice felt so demeaning.

Starsky stopped, spoke without turning. “I do.” He walked out of the room, leaving Hutch with his confusion and guilt.

He stood there for a moment, too stunned to think. Then he called out Starsky’s name.

After a few seconds the answer came. “I’m going out for awhile. The tennis tournament I told you about—it starts tonight.”

How can you just go? Now, after this? Hutch wanted to ask, but he kept his silence, hearing Starsky retrieve his gym bag from the hall closest. Then the front door opened and closed and the Torino’s engine was gunned to a start. Hutch sank down on the edge of the bed, the sound of the departing automobile leaving him feeling utterly alone.

* * * * *

Starsky crammed his jeans and jacket into the locker, not caring that the clothes would end up wrinkled. He wanted to get out of the locker room and out on the court, hoping that expending some energy would help drain the pain and anger from his heart.

“Hey, Dave—what’s with you?”

Starsky turned at the sound of the voice and met Peter Houston’s eyes.

“Just… irritable, I guess. It’s been one of those days.” Putting it mildly, he thought.

“Looks that way.” Peter caught at his wrist, noting the bandage covering his knuckles. “What happened?”

“Robbery at the store,” he explained shortly. That incident seemed like a year in the past. Starsky suddenly remembered how so many times on the force, heated words between he and Hutch could make whatever had gone down on the job retreat into the distance that way. How good moments between the partners had worked the same kind of magic. Damn… anger, love, sometimes they both feel the same.

He realized Peter was staring at him. “It’s nothing. My hand’s fine. Come on. Let’s play tennis.”

The doctor didn’t move. “Dave—are you sure you can play? You look awful. What’s really wrong?”

Starsky sighed. He sank down on a bench, eyeing Peter squarely. “I’m okay. Really. Just call it domestic trouble.”

There was a second’s hesitation. “Hutch?” Peter said the name softly.

“You have a good memory. Yeah, Hutch.” Rubbing his hands together, Starsky glanced away from the probing brown eyes.

“Dave.” The voice was pitched low, gentle. “Remember, I said if you’d like to talk, I’m good at listening.”

Starsky met the friendly gaze. “I remember. Maybe later.” He rose, hearing a bell that signaled it was almost time for the first round of play to begin. He grabbed up his racket and, with Peter, headed out to the courts.

* * * * *

Things went well in the first match in which he and Peter were entered. His tension lent a slight edge to Starsky’s play and during the first game, they held on to an early advantage. Starsky intercepted a badly placed lob and smashed a winner down the line, and as he ran toward the net, his gaze was drawn to a blond man sitting high up in the bleachers.

Hutch had come to watch him play. A little ache ran through Starsky’s soul at the sight of him up there, alone, sitting straight, quiet among the noisy spectators. His hands came up to applaud and all Starsky could think about was their gentleness as they’d tended his abraded knuckles that afternoon.

He shook hands with the losing team, distracted for a moment, almost grateful for that distraction. Why am I surprised he’s here? he thought, heading with Peter toward a jug of Gatorade on a court-side bench. Where’d I think he’d end up tonight—with… whatever her name is? He swallowed hard, fighting thoughts of Hutch’s gentle hands loving someone else. The anguished voice came back clearly to him. ‘Once. Swear to God. And never again.’ Hutch was being truthful; the man didn’t lie. But he couldn’t keep their commitment.

The thought brought fresh anger, then tempered it with another memory, Hutch saying, ‘I already told her about us.’ Starsky had barely heard that, he’d been so caught up in his stunned reaction to Hutch’s confession. Now the words struck a chord. He told her about us… Hutch hadn’t wanted to openly demonstrate their lifestyle to anyone since moving to Minneapolis. He’d tensed up on numerous occasions when Starsky had wanted to touch him in public. Like that kiss as we were leaving the lodge up in Brainerd. And no one at Halper and Moore knew, of that Starsky was certain. Hutch telling the woman he’d been with was significant. An expression of commitment, however awkward, showed Starsky that Hutch was trying. God, what are we doing here, babe? He wanted to rush across the court and shake the man; or take him in his arms, he didn’t know which. But he did neither, just swallowed half a quart of chilled Gatorade and took his place for the next game of tennis.

* * * * *

Peter and Starsky won their match and both men were pleased—and somewhat surprised that they were still in the tournament. As he replaced his sweaty clothes in his bag after showering and changing, Starsky told Peter that he hadn’t expected to make it past the first round.

“Feel like celebrating?” the doctor grinned. “Let’s go out for a drink.”

Starsky was torn, wanting to celebrate the victory, yet uncertain about going back home to Hutch. He was tired, but learning for himself that he was capable of sustained physical exertion, he felt proud. He’d been half exaggerating when he had taunted Hutch about convincing the review board he could go back on the streets. He wondered how his troubled partner would feel about his improved condition.

“I don’t know. Hutch was out there, watching the match…”

“Yeah? Good. Both of you come along, then.”

Starsky shrugged. “Wait a minute. I’ll go check.” He left the locker room and headed back into the gym.

Gazing around, he noted only a few straggling spectators still in the area of the stands, no Hutch. Starsky went to the door leading to the parking lot. Most of the cars had gone. He saw no silver grey Granada, no tall blond waiting for him.

Did he go home… or out, with someone else? Starsky didn’t want to go straight home and find out. He decided he would instead go out for a celebratory drink with Peter.

* * * * *

His new companion seemed to understand Starsky’s mood. Peter’s friendliness was soothing and Starsky found himself more able to talk, now that he knew the man a little better. He let Peter draw him out and gradually he began describing the difficulties between himself and Hutch. He talked about Hutch’s past history of broken love affairs and rejections, how he tended to blame and hurt himself. Starsky told about the nightmares, the moodiness, the need Hutch seemed to have to get into dangerous situations. Peter listened, asking questions that probed without prying. The act of talking to a concerned friend helped more than Starsky could have imagined.

“Hutch must have taken it pretty hard when you were shot,” Peter observed.

“Yeah. He had always been protective of me, but I was hurt worse than ever before this time. I… didn’t regain consciousness for a couple of days; I had a cardiac arrest. Hutch was really upset, almost crazy, I guess. He thought I was gonna die…” The emotion made his voice waver.

“It’s hard to let go of something like that.” Peter’s comment was quiet, his words carrying the weight of knowledge. “Hutch seems to feel a certain amount of guilt, and you’re not really equipped to deal with how everything’s affected him, because it happened to you, too. Insomnia, mood swings, unpredictable behavior, those are all signs of acute depression. It’s no wonder Hutch is hostile sometimes, wild and a little crazed others. He’s torn up inside. That doesn’t just go away after the obvious wounds heal. I have patients still feeling the effects of trauma four and fives years following the incident.”

I can’t go on this way for four more years, Starsky thought in anguish. “What do you do for them?” he asked, feeling helpless. “I’ve tried…”

“Of course you have. But the vacations and other kindnesses and all the understanding you can muster never seem to be enough, do they?”

Starsky shook his head, lifting his glass to swallow more of his warming beer. “Lately, I’ve been getting mad at him.” He left it at that, not wanting to go into Hutch’s confession of cheating. The sting of that humiliation was still fresh and he forcibly quelled his still smoldering anger.

“No wonder,” Peter was continuing. “It isn’t easy living with someone who’s depressed. When your help can’t be accepted, naturally you’re going to feel rejected.”

He was absolutely right. Starsky finished the beer, needing a moment before he could speak. When he did, it was to voice the same question he had asked before. “But what do you do?”

“You hang on. Obviously, your commitment means something to both of you or you wouldn’t have made it this far.”

Starsky closed his eyes, the word commitment making him feel dizzy, unbalanced. Peter was correct, though. He would hang on, and he knew Hutch was willing to do the same. After all the years together, they would. But that was what hurt so much. If anyone else had dumped on him the way Hutch had, Starsky would have walked away without regret. Commitment… that’s what it’s all about. Still, he had hoped for more specific advice.

“If things don’t get better,” the doctor went on, “you could turn to professional help. I don’t know how you and Hutch feel about counseling…” Starsky shook his head, dreading the idea of even mentioning that Hutch see a psychologist. “I do a little of that with my patients, on an informal basis. And there’s also medication. If I could see him, there are a couple of drugs I could prescribe.”

“Tranquilizers? Never.” Starsky was vehement. “Hutch would never touch anything of the sort.” And I wouldn’t let him, either. The repercussions of that ‘solution’ would probably just add to the problem.

“Not tranquilizers. Anti-depressants. But I wouldn’t recommend them without a thorough examination of him. Why don’t you see if he’s open to discussing the idea of medical help? I’m here.”

The doctor’s easy manner was reassuring even though Starsky thought it would take quite some time before he and Hutch could talk about that. He smiled, though, grateful for Peter’s friendship. “You’ve helped me put things in perspective, doc. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome, Dave.” Houston glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s getting late, and we have another match tomorrow night.”

“That’s right.” Starsky picked up the check. “I’ll get this, Peter. It’s the least I can do after bending your ear all evening.”

* * * * *

When he pulled into his own driveway, Starsky was relieved to see Hutch’s car parked in its usual place. He could see that most of the house lights were off, except for the one small lamp on the desk, the one they each left on until the absent partner returned home. Its soft glow warmed Starsky; familiar as Hutch, its gentle light made him feel hope. Yet as he unlocked the front door, his hands shook with awkwardness and nerve.

The house was quiet. Starsky locked up and headed upstairs. He saw that the bedroom door was ajar. Moonlight filtering through the window shades silvered strand of his partner’s hair that fanned out on the pillow. Hutch seemed to be asleep, yet his face looked as tense in dreams as it had been the last time Starsky had stood with him in this room. Tense and depressed, Starsky thought, trying to fit Peter’s analysis of Hutch’s condition into the scheme of things. It was hard getting past his own hurt and disappointment to see Hutch’s pain.

He undressed, making as little noise as possible. He’d rather not talk right now. Both he and Hutch needed time.

When he slipped under the covers, the other man stirred. The blond head raised and Starsky could sense the shadowed eyes regarding him.

“Starsk.” Hutch acknowledged his presence.

“Yeah. I’m home.”

“You won tonight. Congratulations. I… was there… ”

Starsky spoke up, hearing the hesitation in the soft voice. “Yeah. I saw you up there. Looked for you after the match.”

Hutch shifted, moving awkwardly, very tense. “I came on home. Didn’t know if… thought maybe you’d rather celebrate with your… partner.”

‘Didn’t know if you wanted me.’ Starsky heard the unspoken anguish, the fear of being rejected. Calling Peter my partner. Guess now we both know how being rejected feels… He kept his voice neutral with an effort.

“I went out for a drink with Peter.” He paused, not knowing if he should let on that he had discussed their private life with the doctor.

“It’s okay. Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah.” He decided not to tell Hutch what he and Peter had discussed. He didn’t know how the blond would take it and he hated to shatter the tenuous truce that had settled over them.

Hutch seemed about to say more. He shifted position again, drawing in a breath as if he were very nervous. “You… looked pretty good out there.”

Starsky couldn’t hold back a smile. “Felt pretty good. I did it, Hutch. Told you…” He broke off, not wanting to step into deep waters.

Hutch cleared his throat, obviously wishing to also avoid saying too much. “Yeah.” There was a note of something unfinished in the one syllable response, as if Hutch longed to continue, but was searching for the best words.

“Good night,” Starsky said abruptly. He was beginning to feel the effects of the hectic day. It had been both physically and emotionally draining and he didn’t think he was up to taking on any more. All he wanted to do at the moment was sleep, to fall into a deep, dark place where no words, or thoughts, and no straining muscles could disturb him.

Hutch accepted Starsky’s bringing the conversation to an end. “Good night.”

They settled themselves for sleep, lying on opposite sides of the shared bed. Starsky felt the distance between them as a vast, empty valley between two chilly mountain peaks. He would stay on his own, cold summit and Hutch would stay on his. Maybe in the morning we’ll feel warmer…

* * * * *

Hutch woke to a glare of sunlight in his eyes. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. He wanted to share the sunshine with Starsky and started to slide close to his lover, already feeling how it would be to mold his body tight against the other’s. Then he stopped, remembering abruptly the cold distance that had separated them last night.

What did Mom and Dad always say? Something about… never go to bed angry… He and Starsky hadn’t had angry words last night, but it was too soon for forgiveness or warmth. At least he came home, slept beside me in our bed. And I know how that hurt him… to be close to me when I’ve done what I did.

Hutch got up to take his shower and get ready for work, trying not to think, only to busy himself with his morning activities. Returning to the bedroom to dress, he found Starsky still asleep.

The man look exhausted, a little pale against the white sheets. The thick crescents of black lashes cast wavering shadows on his cheekbones and his mouth held a vulnerable looking pout. It made Hutch want to kiss him awake, but instead he stayed where he was, at the foot of the bed, and called his name a couple of times before Starsky stirred.

Watching him slowly stretch the kinks out of his body, Hutch was concerned that he had overdone it yesterday. But, much as he wanted to massage away the obvious stiffness in his back and arms and legs, or at least ask how Starsky felt, he kept silent. With his confession, he had effectively trapped himself in a place where he sensed he wasn’t allowed to reach out or to even request that Starsky take care of himself.

Going to the match last night, he admitted now as he went to comb his hair in the bathroom mirror, had  been an exercise in self-flagellation. He had enjoyed seeing Starsky’s agility and stamina, but thinking he detected an occasional grimace of pain or slight shortness of breath, he had worried. Hutch had had to restrain himself from going to him.

And seeing Starsky play with his new friend, Peter Houston had been infuriating. He asked me to play, but I couldn’t say yes. Instead, I made a crack about his condition—like he’s weak or something. He’s no less since the shooting; if anything, he’s more precious to me. My own fears have been holding him back and now I have no right to be jealous.

* * * * *

Hutch found he had difficulty concentrating at work, but he stayed in his office, trying to get some needed paperwork done. He emerged at lunch time and was glad he didn’t bump into Leslie. He did see her friend Courtney in the coffee shop, and the woman stared at him so pointed that he concluded Leslie must have told her. The idea made him feel uncomfortable, but it didn’t bother him as much as he would have thought. There were more important concerns on his mind.

After eating lunch, he didn’t make it back to his own desk. He was summoned into the office of Mr. Halper, instead. The head of the company just looked at him for a long moment before speaking.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” Halper began, “as you know, we’re rather a conservative company. We have to be, in our business. And it’s recently come to my attention that you may have misrepresented yourself when you applied for a position here. We can’t have our clients finding out that they can’t trust our consultant.”

“I… don’t know what you mean,” Hutch said slowly. “There’s nothing in my record that would make me untrustworthy. I was a cop for ten years… surely that indicates my honesty.”

“Perhaps I should speak bluntly,” Halper interjected. “It’s not that we wish to discriminate… or delve into matters considered private, but Mr. Hutchinson… are you homosexual?”

The question stunned Hutch. The look in the questioner’s eyes told him exactly how he would feel about an affirmative answer. He started to respond that it was none of Halper’s business, but something inside him made him want to speak the truth. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Mr. Hutchinson—your… preference does not interest me.” Halper looked as if he had been propositioned, and the thought obviously shocked him. “But it will trouble many of our clients. Don’t you think it would make you feel uncomfortable to know they do not approve of such a lifestyle?”

Again, Hutch was determined to answer with honesty. “It hasn’t so far. Mr. Halper, surely you know that if you try to terminate my job on these grounds, I could sue you.”

“I’m certainly not asking you to leave, Kenneth. Please, if you’ll just remain calm…”

“I see nothing to remain calm about.” Hutch’s voiced turned cutting, but stayed level. He felt cold as he regarded Halper. He stood looking at the man, ready to make an issue of the conversation, wanting to stand up for his right, when suddenly utter exhaustion flooded him. It was just too much to deal with. All he felt about the job at Halper and Moore was total apathy. With everything else going wrong in his life, he couldn’t muster the determination it would take to fight to keep it. Deep down, he knew giving in would make him feel incompetent, but he didn’t care. One more thing to knock down his self-esteem didn’t seem to matter much.

He drew in a deep breath. “Don’t worry, Mr. Halper. I haven’t been fulfilling my potential working here anyway. I think we’d both be better off if I just resign now.”

He walked out of the office, feeling dazed. When the brass and the men in suits used to try to tell him how to do his job, he had never taken their advice, never put up with their meddling. Why now? he wondered. Because I don’t care. This job isn’t worth it. Will I ever believe in myself enough to do a job I care about again?

He was carrying personal items from his office to his car, when he ran into Leslie. She followed him to the parking lot, even though he didn’t speak to her despite her repeated attempts. “Ken, please,” she insisted, touching his arm.

Hutch turned in the act of unlocking his car door. “Haven’t you done enough?” He didn’t try to hide his bitterness.

“I’m sorry, Ken. When I told Courtney, I never thought she’d run to Halper with what I said. The only reason I said anything to her was because I was just upset. Whatever my personal feelings are about what you told me, I’d never want you to lose your job over it.”

“I quit. I wasn’t fired, if that’s what you think. I don’t want to work where people are so prejudiced.” He put the box of things from his desk on the back set.

“I still feel it’s my fault. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t understand yesterday. But I’ve thought a lot about what you said, what all this must cost you, living the way you do.”

He sighed. The pain was beginning to set in, and he didn’t think he could deal with it. “It’s okay, Leslie. You didn’t know what you were getting into. I didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”

* * * * *

Hutch pulled into the parking lot of the Midtown Club and turned off the ignition key of the Granada. He checked his watch; there was still at least a half hour before Starsky would show up for the tennis tournament. Hutch had positioned his car where he could watch the arrival of other automobiles into the lot. He intended to intercept Peter Houston when he arrived.

He drew a deep breath. There seemed to be a wide space of emptiness in the center of his chest, where his heart should be. The general ache he had been feeling since telling Starsky yesterday had gradually intensified until he felt it consumed by the blank space. It had begun in this heart and was spreading to take over his entire being. Underneath that malaise there existed another feeling, raw nerves tightening a little with every tick of the clock. What he was intending to do was crazy, and the way his day had been going, there was no certainty that it would work.

Finally, he saw a blue Volvo pulling into the parking lot. The car slid into a space near his own and Hutch saw the occupant was Starsky’s tennis partner. He grabbed the sports bag and racket he had dug out of the upstairs closet after arriving home, and hurried toward the club entrance.

Houston walked down a row of lockers and Hutch followed. When they reached the end of the row, Hutch moved closer, clearing his throat to get the man’s attention.

Houston looked up and Hutch thought for an instant that he read recognition in the man’s eyes. Then the expression coalesced into not unfriendly scrutiny.

“Peter Houston?” he asked with the smile he used to use when relaxing witnesses. “I’m Ken Hutchinson, Dave Starsky’s friend.”

The other’s smile seemed genuine. “Yes. Hutch, isn’t it? It’s nice to meet you. Dave’s talked about you.”

He has? Hutch almost blurted, not really knowing why that should surprise him.

“Did you come to watch the match tonight?” Houston was asking as he began getting tennis clothes out of his own bag.

“Well,” Hutch hesitated, then dropped his gear on the bench beside Houston, seeing the man take note of what he’d been carrying. “I’d rather not just watch. How interested in playing in this tournament are you, Dr. Houston?”

If the man felt the determination in the gaze Hutch bestowed on him, he did not seem cowed by it. He responded with a question of his own. “How interested in taking part are you?”

“Very interested.” Hutch had the immediate certainty that Houston knew all about his relationship to Starsky, and he wasn’t too surprised to find that he didn’t mind the stranger’s knowing. “I guess it’s kind of irregular in tournaments to have a… last minute substitution, but I did check the club rules this afternoon and since this event is purely for fun and charity…”

“The officials would be willing to allow a substitute player in a doubles match?” There seemed to be a smile tugging at the comer of Houston’s mouth.

Hutch swallowed, then spoke without hiding his honest emotion. “David asked me, but I was worried about him being able to handle the exertion. Now that I’ve seen him… I mean, seen that I don’t need to worry so much… I want very much to play in the tournament with him.”

The brown eyes that met Hutch’s were thoughtful and unblinking for along moment. Then Houston began replacing his clothes in the nylon bag he carried.

“I think you should play. Hutch. Dave deserves to have his real partner out there with him. And you might find that you’ll enjoy the game, too.”

Hutch let out a long breath in relief. It was more than he had hoped for that Houston understood. He didn’t know how, didn’t care what the man knew about him and Starsky, didn’t wonder at the seemingly astute intuition. He accepted it all graciously and with gratitude.

“Thank you, Peter. Very much.” Hutch held out a hand. It was shaken in a firm, warm grip.

“Tell Dave I had to go to the hospital on some emergency with a patient. That’ll probably satisfy the officials, too.” Houston paused, gave Hutch an encouraging smile. “Good luck.”

He headed out of the locker room, leaving a flabbergasted Hutch to sink down to a bench to absorb the realization that his idea had worked. It seemed his partner’s friend was gracious enough to step aside in the name of… what? True love. Hutch blushed. Starsky had obviously told Houston much about their relationship, but Hutch didn’t mind. In fact, it was getting so he felt increasingly good about letting the truth about them be known. Pretensions had never mattered much to him, neither had labels. He didn’t want to be known by a label, but neither did he wish to try to hide behind a facade.

Now all I have to do is get myself signed up for the match in Peter’s place… and hope Starsky doesn’t blow a gasket when he finds out. Feeling very jittery, he went to speak to the tournament judges.

* * * * *

Starsky hurried into the locker room ten minutes before the match was to start. Hutch saw him come in from his vantage point near the doors leading to the tennis courts. He had probably gone to the hospital to check on Pop after closing the store, as he had mentioned he planned to do before leaving the house that morning.

It was good he was running late, Hutch realized, figuring that the less time his partner had to object to the substitution before the match, the better.

Starsky was yanking off his shirt, sitting down on the bench to untie his shoes, all the while glancing around the locker room as if looking for Peter. His searching eyes found Hutch instead.

There was a suspended moment of hesitation while their gazes held. Hutch felt the locker room around him, with its many sights and sounds, fading away until he was in a silent space containing only Starsky and himself. It was a long corridor and he’d been trying to find it through a maze of complicated pathways for so long.

He started moving, compelled by eyes of deepest navy blue that questioned his presence. Until he stood before Starsky, the locker room and its jostling, joking group of tennis players stayed far away and unreal to him.

“What’s goin’ on?” The sound of annoyance and suspicion in Starsky’s voice brought the real world back with disconcerting suddenness. “What are you doin’ here, dressed like that? And where’s Peter?”

“He had an emergency,” Hutch said with lips that felt numb with panic. “Had to go to the hospital to see a patient. He didn’t think he’d be back in time for your match.”

“Uh-huh,” Starsky’s look said clearly that he didn’t believe one word.

“You won’t have to forfeit, though.” Hutch smiled weakly. “If you’ll let me be your partner. Partner”

He couldn’t help the questioning note that crept into his last words.

A bell sounded and players started heading for the courts. Starsky and Hutch still stood frozen, regarding each other warily.

“That doesn’t explain how you came to be here. What was it—coincidence, or did Peter call you?” Starsky’s eyes were shrewd, challenging Hutch to make him believe.

Hutch didn’t want to fight, not against Starsky anyway. He did want to fight for their relationship. Yet there was nothing he could say. He had never known how to make up for wrong doings. He only knew how to go on. That’s what he hoped would happen now. If they could just forget everything for a while, play tennis, perhaps they could both get over what had happened.

His mouth pulled into a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I’m here. I know the tournament is important to you. Isn’t it worth taking a chance on me?”

He held his breath. Starsky had taken chances on him before, and he had gotten burned. Am I asking too much?

Starsky looked him over, heaved a sigh that lifted his shoulders. Another bell sounded. Time was running out.

“Okay.” He continued to favor Hutch with a probing look, gauging feelings and intentions. Hutch had seen that look before, the Starsky microscope. Being examined so closely made him feel terribly vulnerable. Starsky had said love could make up for shortcomings. Hutch wanted to believe there was enough love between them to carry them through this time, too.

“But I swear something fishy’s goin’ on,” Starsky muttered finally. The words were unexpectedly mild. He finished pulling on his tennis clothes, white shorts topped with a shirt striped in white and pale blue, high-pulled crew socks and white sneakers. He adjusted pale blue terry wrist bands and a sweat band that would keep his hair out of his eyes, then tossed his gear into his locker. Hutch walked at his side to the tennis courts.

He was beginning to get more nervous about playing. He heard himself speaking in rapid, tense sentences. “I know it’s been a long time since I’ve played any tennis, Starsk. And we’ve never played doubles, but…”

Starsky grasped his forearm and turned to look directly at Hutch. There was a world of things unspoken in his eyes, but all he said aloud was, “Cool it. We’ll be fine.”

Hutch felt like he was prowling down an alley with a gun in his hand as they headed toward their court. Instead, he was carrying his racket and his clothes were neat tennis whites rather than faded jeans and a leather jacket. Yet he felt his nerves steadying down, the low-pitched hum of anticipation holding him ready to act, sharpening all his senses.

Drawing a deep breath, Hutch served the first ball. It felt good, his body responding to the physical activity like he’d never been away from the sport. He had always done well at most athletics and it seemed easy to put the ball where he wanted it. A couple of early mistakes annoyed him, though, showed him not to be too complacent.

Hutch immediately saw an advantage to having a left-handed partner. Starsky could answer an opponent’s backhand with his own forehand. Watching him, Hutch remembered the way he’d always used his backhand, holding the racket two-handed until midway through the shot. He felt a strange sense of deja-vu, a mix of past and present that left him a little bit unsettled, a little bit scared. He couldn’t stop time from changing their relationship.

They’d played tennis on a case together, long ago, and from time to time had played together for fun. Lately they weren’t playing any more. Hutch noticed that Starsky wasn’t playing as smoothly tonight as he had seemed to in the previous match with Peter Houston. It was as if he were uncomfortable with Hutch, playing with him because he had no choice, as if, had there been a choice, he would have chosen not to play at all. You’ve always accused me of playing games with our love, Hutch thought in torment. Now, I’m afraid of losing you, so here I am, back in a game I don’t know if we can win.

He missed another shot, sending it back over the net so that his opponent couldn’t possibly get at it. He tried to shake the confusion out of his head, the twists semantics, words like ‘playing games’ were making of his concentration. Like any time they’d ever worked together on the street, he had to be clear-headed now. Starsky wanted to win in this tournament, Hutch could see it in his eyes. And, realizing how reciprocal their feelings truly were, he wanted Starsky to be able to rely on him, as he’d always been able to on the job, to help him win. Hutch knew, in an instant of sharp clarity, that he could rely on Starsky. Gunther’s hit men had damaged him, to be sure, but the man’s body had healed, and his spirit had learned to compensate for anything the doctors couldn’t fix.

Seeing Starsky move so well, taut muscles playing beautifully in his thighs and back, made an impression on Hutch that living with the man everyday had not accomplished. He’d been afraid Starsky would never come all the way back. Witnessing his strength now began healing the soul-deep pain that had been with Hutch ever since the bullets had cut his partner down.

Acknowledging that made him almost light-headed with relief. He was able to put all of his concentration on the game now, to work with Starsky, knowing instinctively where he would be and how he would attack the ball in play.

Hutch served again, this time to opponent Bill Withers’ backhand. The ball came back across the net to his forehand. Just catching it, Hutch returned the ball to Withers’ backhand.

Withers crossed him up, though, and ran around his backhand, hitting the ball with his forehand, down the alley and past Starsky.

Realizing where the ball was headed, Hutch ran the width of the court to his left and hit along, cross-court lob. Withers’ partner, Alan Nemser, sent it back. Starsky got to it with a strong over-hand smash, which both opponents missed. Hutch grinned with pride at this performance as they evened the score to thirty all, deuce.

His next serve started a rapid-fire exchange. With his forehand, Withers returned the ball across the center of the net. Starsky lunged and just got his racket on it, dropping the ball back across the net.

Nemser returned the bass with a light stroke that dropped it into the forecourt. Charging forward, Hutch met it with his outstretched racket, lifting it back over the net. Catching the ball in flight, Nemser smashed a forehand volley designed to go between Starsky and Hutch.

There was no time to think, only to react. Starsky and Hutch were both at the net, separated by a mere few feet, both playing aggressively, not willing to lose the point. They had their opponent in a bad position, two against one. Both were able to use their strong forehand shots, Starsky on the right using the racket in his left hand, Hutch’s pose a mirror reflection. Nemser was forced to return their volleys with his weaker backhand.

Nemser dived after a shot Starsky returned, barely catching it with his flailing racket. It came to Hutch. He drove the ball into the right-hand alley where neither Withers nor Nemser could get to it, winning the point.

It had taken only seconds for the sizzling exchange to occur. The score was now forty-thirty.

“Advantage to the good guys!” Starsky’s shout sounded gleeful. Hutch responded with a jubilant laugh. Their eyes met, and in another flip-flop of time, Hutch was back in a place where nothing mattered outside the partnership. As so many times in the past, differences were put aside to present a united front to their opponents. Hutch wished the warm feelings that engendered would last. He feared that for him and Starsky, as in the Olympics, the cold war would be on again as soon as the games ended.

He was still looking at Starsky, and the intense blue eyes seemed to reach right down into his heart, encouraging him. Charged with the excitement in his partner’s gaze, Hutch took his position to serve. He drew a deep breath and sent one off with a fiery stroke that came at Nemser hard and fast. The man hadn’t expected it, couldn’t get to the ball. He watched it come down, hitting the line, out of play.

“That’s an ace!” Starsky’s yell caught at Hutch’s attention.

It had happened so fast it took Hutch an extra second to realize his shot had won them the game.

Starsky threw his arms around him, pounding his back in a brotherly hug. He released Hutch, then headed with him to the net where they shook hands with the opposing team.

“Good playing,” Bill Withers smiled. “But we’ll get you in the next game.”

Hutch turned to Starsky. They had only won the first game and had the rest of the match to go. Starsky’s face was flushed with heat, his shirt sticking to his back. His hair was amass of dark-glossed, tangled curls. He looked, not as if he were at the limits of his endurance, but more like he was thriving on the exertion.

“Think we can handle them?” Hutch asked, feeling on positive emotion for a change.

“Between you and me, partner—yeah. I think we’ll return whatever shots they send our way.”

* * * * *

Hutch followed Starsky to the restaurant of his partner’s choice after the tournament. It had been close, but he and Starsky had won their match and would proceed to the next level of the competition the following evening. After a quick shower at the club, Hutch had suggested they eat dinner out, his treat. Starsky had agreed, though he hadn’t had much to say. The repercussions were bound to start now, Hutch thought as they pulled into the lot. He tried to accept the pace Starsky set, no mater how anxious he was to talk, to see if he could make things right between them again.

They found side by side parking spaces in the restaurant parking lot. Starsky climbed out of the Torino first and came around to the driver’s side of Hutch’s car.

“This place okay with you?”

Hutch looked up at the sign. “Blackstone’s.” It was a good steak house. “Yeah. It’s fine.” Starsky seemed as uncomfortable as he did, but not as if he were forcing cordiality when he’d rather rant and rave. There was a tentative quality to their togetherness, as each felt his way through the painful situation.

They walked in and were taken to a corner table by the hostess. The restaurant wasn’t crowded at this hour. She pointed out the salad bar and left them with their menus.

Starsky rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. He glanced at the menu for a moment, then shrugged and closed it, laying it to one side of the table.

“Guess I’ll just have the Delmonico and a baked potato. I’m too bushed to read this thing.”

“That sounds good to me, too.” Hutch refrained from commenting on Starsky’s fatigue. He was just as tired and knew he’d probably wake up tomorrow morning with aches and pains from the unaccustomed exertion. “We can get the salad bar, and do you want to order a bottle of wine? Or maybe beer?”

“Beer, I guess. Lite.” Starsky laughed, rubbing a hand over his midriff.

He was trim there, abdominal muscles firm and rippled. “You look fine to me.” Hutch said the words low, out of deference to the awkwardness between them, feeling a little shy.

Starsky’s eyes were lowered under thick lashes. He glanced up and then back down in a look that Hutch would have described as modesty if he had been sitting with anyone else. “You looked pretty good out there, yourself.”

The soft reply warmed Hutch. “Starsk…” he began. The waitress came up to them just then, and the next few minutes were spent ordering the meal. After that, both men walked over to choose items from the salad bar.

When they returned to the table, Hutch speared a cherry tomato on his plate and sat chewing it thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll have to get back into healthier foods like this… and start running regularly again, too, if I’m going to get back in shape. I’ll feel that tennis match in the morning.”

“You thinking of coming down to the club more often, Hutch?” Starsky seemed surprised.

He hadn’t, not until that very moment. He had paid for a membership, just so he could enter the tournament. Now it seemed like a convenient coincidence. “Yeah. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed that kind of thing.”

Starsky’s comment was illustrated with an enigmatic motion of his eyebrows. “Had a good time, then, playing tennis tonight, didya?”

Hutch nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he answered with building certainty, surprised at himself. “I felt good out there, great in fact. It was like it used to be on the streets—sort of throwing all your concentration and physical strength into winning. And we worked together so well, we could each be sure, without even thinking, how the other would react to the shots from the other team. Even though we’ve never played doubles together, it was like we always have.” He broke off, embarrassed by his own enthusiasm.

Starsky sat looking at him for an extended moment. Hutch didn’t know what to make of the scrutiny, but it didn’t seem negative so he sat without squirming under his partner’s gaze. Finally, Starsky spoke in a low voice.

“You got kind of a charge out of it, didn’t you?”

Hutch wasn’t sure right away what he meant. “Yeah…”

“Like backing each other up on the street?”

“Kind of.”

“Heart starts pounding, tension builds, adrenalin starts pumping…”

Hutch realized his mouth was hanging open. He shook his head. “You don’t think… it’s not the same thing…” Couldn’t be… could it?

Starsky canted his head to one side. “In all the ways that count, it is. Seams to me like a harmless, positive way to use up that energy or whatever you’ve been needing to burn off.”

Could it really be that simple? Maybe an adrenalin fix could be obtained from an athletic challenge as well as from something dangerous. Hutch thought about it for a moment. He had felt good out there, winning with Starsky. With Starsky, that was the difference. What he’d been missing was fighting for something with Starsky.

The waitress brought their steaks over and Hutch watched as Starsky attacked his meal. Part of the kick he had derived from the game had been in seeing the evidence of his partner’s fitness on the court. That had done more for Hutch than any expenditure of his own energy.

He cut into his juicy steak, but though he was ravenous, it seemed more important at the moment to talk rather than eat. “Starsk.” His voice was earnest. “You don’t know how good it was to see you out there playing like you did. Last night, you seemed to do well, but tonight, close to you, I could really tell. You’ve come so far…” Emotion choked his voice. “I thought at first maybe you didn’t want to be out there with me…” He hadn’t meant to say that, it just slipped out.

Starsky’s mouth curved up at one corner. “I was just worried that you were too out of practice to hold up your end of the court, Blondie.” He sighed, then spoke more seriously. “I knew why you were there. And that meant something to me.” He reached across the table to take Hutch’s hand.

Hutch held still, not caring that they might be observed, not even glancing around to see how many people were there. Their hands clasped each other tight, fingers intertwining, eyes holding in a look of aching intensity. One more time, Hutch felt himself experiencing the present as a little slice of the past. How many times, before becoming lovers, had he and Starsky openly touched this way, he asked himself. They’d held each other in more than one tight embrace in public, not caring who saw them or what they made of their actions. It had been love between them then, too. A healing emotional love, that had opened their spirits to the physical love to come.

All his life, he’d looked for a perfect friend, a perfect lover. Hutch looked into Starsky’s eyes now, feeling his soul enmeshed with the other’s, fresh and pure like the old days, bright and new from having come through a purifying flame just now. He felt very lucky. And very humble. Maybe there could be a happy ending for him, the wounded romantic, after all.

“Starsk…” he breathed, “maybe I can let go of it, after all this time.” He shook his head, trying to put the words together. “I was always able to fix whatever happened. It seemed like I couldn’t this time. So many changes… I got confused, thinking they were wrong. That not working together, we weren’t the same anymore. That needing… kicks or adrenalin bursts or whatever, I’d really gone crazy. That was what had messed us up in the first place, that was what we left L.A. to get away from. But on the tennis court tonight, I saw that we were still the same. Still partners.”

“I know. I didn’t understand, either. At least, not until recently. I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t help you, the way you’d helped me. I talked to Peter, Hutch. I guess I told you he’s a doctor.” Starsky hesitated, as if he expected Hutch to break in with a protest. “He helped me understand what was hurting you. You’ve had so much guilt and depression and confusion on you that it’s all gotten out of perspective.”

Hutch hung his head, the frank words making him feel small.

“Hey.” There was an increased pressure on the hand Starsky held. “You can’t help how you feel. We—both of us—were too close to it to know what was really going on.”

“That doesn’t excuse… everything I’ve done.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

It was painful hearing that, but the honesty didn’t take away his hope. “I want to make it right again, Starsk. I’ll do anything…”

“I know. Let’s talk about that when we get home, okay?”

Hutch nodded. “You think… there’s hope for me yet? I’d like to get out from under the black cloud that’s been following me around lately.”

Starsky gave him an encouraging smile. “We’ll try winning the tennis tournament. That seems like a good way to start.”

“Yeah.” Hutch smiled back and then for a few moments, the two of them paid overdue attention to their dinners.

“There’s just one thing,” Hutch said finally as he pushed back his empty plate. “We’re eating out tonight for two reasons, really. You’ve heard of good news and bad news?”

“Huh?” Starsky wiped his mouth and then put down his napkin.

“The good news is, we won our tennis match.”

“And the bad news?”

Hutch ran a finger along the gold border on his salad plate. “I’m no longer with Halper and Moore.”

Surprise registered, then curiosity. “Why not?”

“I quit. I’ve told you how conservative they are. Once I came out of the closet to Leslie, the news traveled pretty fast. Mr. Halper was worried about the corporate image. He didn’t want to discriminate against me, he said. I guess he was hoping I’d leave the way I did, voluntarily. The bastard. I could’ve made an issue of it, but fighting it just didn’t appeal to me.” He felt the inevitable emptiness settle over him at the admission.

“Hutch, fighting to keep a job that doesn’t suit you wouldn’t have solved anything. I think in the long run, you’ll see this happened for the best. You need to find a line of work where your creativity is challenged, where you can use your experience—where you feel you’re really doing something worth while.”

“I don’t know if that kind of job exists for me.”

“We’ll look around. You tried something as far away from police work as possible and found that it wasn’t right for you. Something will turn up.” He paused, pulling a piece of parsley into shreds with his fingers. Then he looked up. “I meant to tell you—I appreciate the fact that you told… her… about us.”

Hutch couldn’t say anything to that. He just looked down and found Starsky’s hand again and covered it with his own. “I could be a sushi chef,” he replied, trying to recapture the lightness of earlier, wanting to again feel their old days blending with the new.

“Or a go-cart mechanic. Or a ballerina.” Starsky understood what he was longing for. The teasing felt good to Hutch, especially when Starsky gave him a leer, as if visualizing him in a pair of tights.

Yet there was a serious side to the nostalgic banter. “Or that old stand-by… homicide detective.  There was a lump in Hutch’s throat. “Did you mean what you said about that the other night?”

Color rose in Starsky’s cheeks at the question. Hutch didn’t know if it had been just an angry challenge when Starsky had thrown out the statement that if he wanted to be a cop again, it would have to mean Starsky going back, too. Starsky didn’t answer, but his look made Hutch press him.

“You made me think that was what you really wanted.”

Starsky’s eyes hardened, blue sapphires bringing back all the anger of that earlier conversation. “Because you acted like it was what you wanted!”

“No. I meant it when I threw the damn badge away the first time. Do you think I’d let you risk you life every day like that again?”

“What would you rather risk, our lives or our love?”

Hutch wanted to go to him, throw his arms around him and hold him until the pounding of his heart slowed to anormal rate again. Instead, he drew the hand he held up and pressed his lips to the bandaged knuckles. His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke.

“I never want to risk our love.”

Starsky didn’t answer. His eyes just probed Hutch, looking deep into him as if gauging how much he meant that statement, how well Hutch could keep any promises he might make to him. “We’ll… uh, talk about it a little later, okay?” he said finally.

“Yeah.” Between the ache in his throat and the one in his chest, it was hard to answer. “We’ll do it any way you want, babe.”

* * * * *

Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together… The snippet of Simon and Garfunkel drifted through Starsky contented mind. Stretched out on the bed, he lay back against pillows piled at the headboard, watching Hutch finish lighting the candles. There was a group of at least a dozen of them, all sizes, shapes, and colors, and the flames flickered in the mirror over the bureau.

“How’s that?” Hutch asked the question as he poured champagne into two long-stemmed glasses.

“Beautiful.” Starsky was admiring the way the candle glow burnished the blond hair falling over Hutch’s forehead as he turned toward the bed.

“Our own fireplace would be better. I still say we should have gone back up to Brainerd.”

“We can celebrate just fine here. Besides, we couldn’t afford a trip right now.” Starsky took his glass from Hutch’s hand. “You’re not working, remember?”

The fine mouth turned down at the corner at the reminder.

“Hey, cut that out.” Starsky’s tone was admonishing. It worked. Hutch started smiling again. He sat beside Starsky on the bed, facing him, blue eyes sparkling as they hadn’t for so long. The contentment they revealed was real. Starsky beamed at him in return and their look held as they sipped the champagne.

Starsky set his glass on the bedside table, took Hutch’s and put it next to his own. “Come here.” His hand on the back of Hutch’s neck pulled his lover near.

The touching of their mouths was like a celebration, starting little fires that echoed the dancing candle flames. Starsky savored every nuance, warmth, pressure, the moist softness of opening lips.

Could have lost all of this. The fragmented thought slipped away as their tongues, sliding together, brought more moistness. The duel was brief, lapping, circling, wet, eager contact. Starsky pulled Hutch in with strong sucking. He was possessive and Hutch seemed to understand, acquiescing to his need. You’re mine. Nobody else but me will ever touch you.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment his hurt had dissolved into forgiveness. It had come with understanding, backed up with love. Hutch had come to him, told him, been willing to suffer his anger. That meant something that—if not at first—helped to balance out the pain.

For a long time, he’d been telling Hutch that love could help them win all their battles. Hutch was a man who had been hurt by those kinds of promises too often in the past. Starsky wanted the chance to prove, once and for all, that love could last. Always, like I told him at the lodge. For better or worse…

They both had come a long way in the last month. The willingness to work things out had been on both their sides.

Starsky had demanded one thing, that Hutch see Peter as a patient. Afraid, Hutch had hedged, asking to wait until the tournament was over. He and Starsky ended up coming in second in their division and every night they played, he had seemed to get a bigger charge out of the competition. For Starsky, it had been like getting back the Hutch of four or five years ago, the one who jumped into every new altercation with zeal. Yet this Hutch also had the strength and maturity of the man Starsky was in love with, along with the charm of the boy who had been his partner in those early days.

Peter had taken them out to dinner following their success and Hutch had agreed to see him at his office. There, Peter had made him feel at ease, and Hutch confessed to Starsky that he was more comfortable with Peter than any doctor he’d ever known. The visits, charged with emotional catharsis, seemed to have alleviated many of his self-doubts and to release the guilt and depression he’d been carrying so long. He had declined medication, so Peter’s recommended therapy was more exercise and removing as much stress from his life as possible. That meant putting off job hunting until he was ready. Instead, Hutch was training to participate in a local marathon. Starsky could see his old confidence beginning to come back as Hutch ran, racing against himself, learning to trust himself again.

They still played tennis together at the club. Doubles fulfilled one need for both of them; to be partners again. When Hutch was ready, he would go job hunting. Starsky had agreed that if an occupation presented itself where they would be partners full time again, he’d leave Pop’s and come work with Hutch. It wouldn’t be dangerous work, though. They wouldn’t be risking their lives anymore. Or their love.

Starsky knew that Hutch would find a career where his experience and caring could be put to good use. You’ve got so much to give, so much in that tender heart of yours… Starsky pulled Hutch to him even tighter. The mouth he sucked on gave a soft, desperate moan and the needful sound drove Starsky to grind his lips against Hutch’s, trying to consume and quench the flame beginning to burn deep in his heart and catch fire in his loins.

His hand stroked down Hutch’s side pushing the velour robe out of his way as he found the firm skin of a long, muscled thigh. Hutch twisted against him when Starsky’s fingers found his hardness as they circled, pulled, and teased.

Their mouths separated with a moist parting sound and Starsky pushed Hutch backwards on the bed, asserting his need for the man he loved. Still grasping the rigid cock, he bent over Hutch, his free hand pulling open the loose-knotted tie on his robe. His fingertips skimmed the soft skin of belly and chest, pinched at nipples that instantly hardened. He bent his mouth to them. The pinches had made them feel hot; he bathed them with a cool tongue, then blew on them. Hutch’s body jerked at the stimulation.

Kneeling, Starsky sat back a moment to yank off his own robe. Hutch was watching him, eyes hot, mouth open, chest heaving. Starsky fell back over him, wanting his mouth again, running his tongue in rapid strokes over the clinging, perfect lips. His grasp took handfuls of flesh, squeezing biceps, rubbing a sweaty side, massaging the tender belly. Hutch moaned again as Starsky took his cock, using his hand like a pump, drawing a gasp from him with each tightening stroke.

Hutch’s hips arched in need and Starsky knew he was close. Don’t want to go too fast, he thought, releasing the organ. He turned to find the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand, hearing Hutch’s harsh breathing as he opened the lid.

He smoothed the liquid over himself and stroked some over his lover, his touch gentle, designed to tantalize and tease. Kneeling, he positioned Hutch, grasping his waist so that he rolled just his lower body to one side, bending the leg on top to help expose his anus. Starsky stroked the hard, muscular thigh and squeezed the firm buttocks, then let his fingers drift down to tickle the balls. Hutch shifted, pulling his leg up further, moving to lie more on his side. Getting comfortable, giving Starsky access to him…

His fingers sought the entrance to Hutch’s body, thumb rubbing along the cleft. Growing anxious, he sighed brokenly. He wanted to be inside Hutch, no barriers between them. The thought of them together completely was as compelling as the first time. He liked it either way. Hutch could take him flying when he fucked him—that had been a surprise to Starsky when he’d first tried it. He had done it for Hutch, to give him pleasure, but having his lover inside him had become a sensation he loved. But him fucking Hutch, tonight he wanted that. Not just for the possessiveness of the act, but because it meant he was making love to Hutch, filling him with all the love he had. He was so proud of the progress Hutch had made. He didn’t look depressed now, or desperate, or domineering. He wasn’t urgently taking. He was ready to give love, this way, to Starsky.

His eyes were wide in need. Starsky rubbed the opening, feeling it relax, ready for him. He guided his penis toward his goal, just touching with it, and watched Hutch’s eyes close, his mouth opening in a soundless sigh Starsky pushed, sinking himself in one smooth stroke into the hot tightness of Hutch surrounding him. He held still for an instant, feeling anal muscles conform to his shape. He was caressed by a flutter of muscles contracting and he drew in a breath sharply, beginning to thrust.

* * * * *

Hutch opened his eyes, taking in the wild look in Starsky’s. He felt himself impaled by slick steel, his hips held in a grip of iron. He craved the strength, delighted in the sensation of being taken, beloved. He drew his top leg up higher, needing more of Starsky. The hardness sliding in and out of him created a pleasant friction, urgent heat that ignited deep in his stomach and shot through his thighs and ass and cock.

He longed for more, Starsky deeper inside him, totally his. Deep enough and it would touch the most secret recess of his being, making them one. Never anybody else for me but you… His thought throbbed to the insistent beat of Starsky’s thrusting and he gave himself up completely to the sensation of the cock that was inflaming him. possessing him. You’re all I want.

“Starsk… more… ” It was hard to talk, to communicate his need.

But Starsky understood. He pulled out, depriving Hutch for a moment while he shifted him to his back, pressed his open thighs apart, bent his knees. Then he was back where Hutch wanted him to be. It felt good, like the way making the final commitment had felt emotionally. Hutch had said the words, now he wanted to show Starsky with his body.

Deeper intimacy, deepest love for all their lives. Starsky seemed to want more, too. He pulled back, allowing Hutch to lift his ankles to his shoulders, interrupting the rhythm again to find a still better position. Starsky lay above him, rising up on his toes, balancing on hands placed on either side of Hutch’s shoulders. Hutch felt his own weight settle on the top of his spine and neck, with his knees pressing into his chest.

Starsky was moving, groaning, sliding easily in the tight encasement. Hutch felt him penetrate deeper with every thrust, and he gasped as the stroking found his prostate, as sensation surged through every nerve.

“More, David. Give me more.” He was begging, desperate. Starsky gave him what he craved, harder rhythm, exquisite pressure.

He was being caressed from the inside, needed no other stimulation. His balls drew tight, his cock strained. His ass lifted higher, greedy.

“I love you. Love you!”

The words were a passionate cry from from Starsky’s lips and Hutch’s body gave its answer. The power ripped through him. Hutch could feel twin explosions. Starsky was liquid heat, jetting deep into him; he was incandescence, bursting in an unending stream.

He was shaking, covered by loving strength, treasured, sheltered. It was so good to be loved this way, as good to receive as to give. Sweet to share. All his life, it seemed, he had wanted to protect Starsky, see him live and thrive. Now his joy redoubled, being protected in his turn.

A seeking mouth captured his, lips firm, hungry. His arms drew up and around sweaty shoulders, fingers tangling in a mass of deep curls.

It was a long time before either spoke. Starsky started smiling, lips curving against Hutch’s cheek. A rich chuckle started under his breastbone. “What love?” Hutch wondered, rumpling curls that felt like silk.

“Just thinkin’… I’m glad we played tennis.”

“I didn’t think it was called ‘tennis.'” Hutch’s inflection was lewd as he pretended to be obtuse.

“You know what I mean.” Starsky nipped his chin. “That first game—you talked Peter into letting you be my partner.” He was accusing, a teasing note in his voice.

“I’m always your partner.” Hutch hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Aren’t I?”

His lower lip was nipped this time. “You know your are.”

Smug now, sure of himself, making another double entendre. “But that was my serve, that time.”

Starsky humped against him, stressing their positions. “And this was my serve, baby. You liked it that way, too.”

“Sure did.” Hutch squeezed Starsky between his open thighs. Protect… and serve… This time, he was the one who giggled.

“What?” Starsky sounded sleepy, his head moving to rest on Hutch’s left shoulder.

“Never mind. Go to sleep for awhile, then wake up and love me again.”

One arm slipped down to embrace Starsky around the waist, with the other he reached for lover’s left hand.

Hutch lifted it, interlacing the fingers with his own. It didn’t matter that they had not gone to Brainerd to celebrate their commitment to each other. There were better ways to spend money.

He kissed the knuckles of the hand he held, admiring the glint of gold on the third finger. He brought his own left hand around Starsky’s neck, wanting to see how his matching ring looked in the flickering candlelight behind him. Classic gold bands, wide enough to be seen. To show the world how they loved.

Looks perfect, Hutch thought in deep content. Holding Starsky, he sank into a sleep where the only dreams were sweet.