A Failure to Communicate

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Just when their present is at its rosiest, Hutch allows a terrible worry about what might be best for Starsky’s future to take hold of him.

 

This story was first published in the zine Hidden Secrets, Broken Hearts, published by Lucy.

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Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Wrapping the damp towel around his waist, Hutch exited the bathroom, stalked across the living room and snatched away the hard orange ball in mid-dribble.

“Starsky, don’t play with the basketball in the house,” he admonished.

With a dexterous move, Starsky slithered around behind Hutch and gave a tug to the precariously secured towel, retrieving the ball when Hutch dropped it in the scramble to ensure his modesty.

“So hurry up then,” Starsky urged while grinning ear to ear in appreciation. “It’s too nice to be inside.”

“Why don’t you go ahead to the park and I’ll join you,” Hutch suggested, tucking his towel more securely around his middle. Not that he was excessively modest around Starsky; he just did not want to give any of their new neighbors a thrill. There was also the fact that being naked around a Starsky who was barely clad in cut off shorts and threadbare t-shirt wasn’t likely to get them to the park any time soon. The bedroom, perhaps, but never the park.

“Okay,” Starsky agreed, tucking the ball against his waist and moving in on his partner.

Hutch held the advancing body at bay by catching the hand that was once again reaching for his towel. “Do you want to play, or do you want to play?” he asked.

Starsky twisted his hand free, then stroked up Hutch’s arm from wrist to shoulder, making him shiver. “Decisions, decisions,” he murmured, moving in closer.

All thoughts of parks and basketballs and nosy neighbors disappeared from Hutch’s mind as his body responded to the caressing touch. A second later, he realized he had been conned when, quick as a wink, his arm was abandoned and grasping fingers caught the edge of his towel and yanked it away.

Starsky was halfway to the door, the white terry cloth draped around his neck, before Hutch could decide whether to pursue or retreat. Seeing that the imp fully intended to open the front door within the next five seconds, Hutch chose the better part of valor. “You’re such a big kid,” he complained as he ducked into the bedroom and was rewarded with the delight of Starsky’s full-bodied laughter and the slamming of the front door.

***

Hutch arrived at the park twenty minutes later to find his proposed basketball adversary otherwise engaged.

“Hey, mister. Me, too,” demanded a grubby boy of about six who sat on a swing next to the one that Starsky was already pushing.

“Legs out straight,” Starsky instructed the pushee, and Hutch suppressed a grin as his partner waited until the short but sturdy legs were held rigidly to the front. Even appendages so small could deliver a nasty kick, and Starsky, a full two years after the Gunther hit, still had delicate areas that would always be just a bit more susceptible to injury.

Leaning back against a convenient tree, Hutch crossed his arms over his chest and wondered how long it would be before Starsky noticed he was there.

“Now me, mister,” came the high-pitched demand from the occupant of the swing Starsky had been pushing originally. Hutch thought this one might be a girl, but couldn’t be 100% sure because of the short cut hair and accumulated grime.

Hutch watched as Starsky went back and forth between the two swings for a while and then provided a pair of catching arms for a little tyrant who sat at the top of the slide. Obligingly, Starsky caught the girl and then swung her around in a circle. Hutch knew the exact moment that Starsky first spotted him, felt that intent regard Starsky always fixed on him for the first few seconds when they came together after any time apart. The child hung forgotten in Starsky’s hands as his eyes sought, and apparently found, whatever they needed from Hutch. His attention returning to his temporary charge, Starsky set the girl on her feet and took a step in Hutch’s direction.

“Me, too,” demanded a second child from the top of the slide.

Starsky’s glance went from Hutch to the child and back again. Hutch shook his head and smiled to indicate there was no hurry.

“Be with you in a minute , Blintz,” Starsky called as he turned back to the slide.

It was more like thirty minutes before Starsky broke away from the demand of ‘one more time’ and by then Hutch had become introspective, his mind on a subject that he and Starsky had, so far, managed not to discuss too seriously.

“Ready to get your butt beat?” Starsky challenged when he finally left behind the demanding little rugrats and joined Hutch at the tree.

“You sure you’ve got enough energy left after all that?” Hutch challenged right back.

“Always got plenty of energy for you, Blondie,” Starsky assured him, his dark blue eyes scanning Hutch from freshly dried blond hair to well-worn sneakers and, seemingly, not missing a feature in between.

“Basketball,” Hutch reminded him, pushing away from the tree and catching the ball Starsky tossed his way.

“You know, Starsk, you’d make a good father,” he observed as he followed Starsky to the basketball court.

Starsky glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze once again tracking the long body, but this time pausing at the slim middle. “Something you need to tell me, Hutch?” he teased.

Hutch aimed a lazy swat at the sweat-damp curls, not surprised when Starsky easily danced clear of it.

“Seriously, Starsky.”

“Me? A father? Poor kid would never get to play with his own toys,” Starsky dismissed his own parental fitness. “Loser makes dinner,” he challenged as they reached the edge of the court and he stole the ball out of Hutch’s grasp.

Laughingly protesting, Hutch followed. The thought, however, had been introduced and Hutch knew himself far too well to think it would go away on its own.

***

“Somethin’ bothering you, Hutch.”

Hutch came back to the here and now with a mental thud at the touch of Starsky’s hand upon his shoulder and the sound of the familiar voice close to his ear. Recognizing that he had once again been gazing off into space as his mind worried at what was certainly bothering him but which he had no desire, at this point, to reveal, Hutch did his best to appear innocently questioning.

“You did that look better before you grew the cookie duster,” Starsky informed him, settling his butt more firmly on the back of the couch where Hutch was sitting contemplating the blank screen of the television. “You wanna talk about it?”

Hutch shrugged and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Not really,” he replied and watched the flickers of emotion that crossed Starsky’s face reveal the internal debate going on inside the curly head.

“Okay,” Starsky finally said and, swinging his legs up and over, slid his butt down the back of the couch onto the cushion. “Anything good on?”

Hutch tossed the TV guide into his partner’s lap, both relieved and disappointed by Starsky’s response. When they had made the decision to buy a house and live together, one of the first things they had had to acknowledge was that, as they now spent 100% of their time together, they were going to have to learn to give each other some space. With no private place to retreat to, respecting each other’s rights to the privacy of their own thoughts was essential to keeping their relationship on an even keel. And Hutch had to admit that, though the struggle to honor the agreement was often apparent on Starsky’s face, so far his partner had a better track record than Hutch himself. Unfortunately, this was not necessarily a good thing since Hutch sometimes needed to be poked and prodded and ‘concerned’ to death in order to get his own mouse-on-a-treadmill thoughts in order.

“Your turn to wash the dishes,” Starsky reminded as, in his turn, he tossed the magazine aside and got up to dial through the channels. “I cooked dinner. Which you hardly touched, I might add.”

Warmed through to his toes by this evidence that Starsky could not completely smother his concern, Hutch ruffled the silky curls as he passed. “Make something I can be sure isn’t going to bite back and I’ll eat it,” he quipped.

Having located a baseball game on the TV, Starsky’s only response was a half-hearted swat at the hand in his hair.

Hutch wandered into the kitchen and surveyed the disaster zone that was the usual result of Starsky’s dinner preparations. He had gathered up the dirty dishes and pots and was elbow deep in soapy water when the sound of high-pitched voices from outside the window caught his attention. Widening his stance for balance and leaning over the sink, Hutch was able to look through the window into the next yard where two of the neighbor’s children were involved in some sort of game. Hands braced on the windowsill, he watched as the brothers, following what appeared to be a complicated set of give and take rules, gamboled around the yard while his mind supplied him with an inner vision of two curly-haired, blue-eyed, mini Starskys at play.

For the second time that evening, Hutch was brought back from his mental tail chasing by the touch of Starsky’s hands and the sound of his voice.

“I was only looking for a beer,” Starsky murmured huskily in Hutch’s ear while two bold hands cupped his buttocks through his cut-off shorts. “But if you’re gonna flaunt your sexy ass like this, ya gotta expect that I’m gonna want it.”

Hutch shivered as both of Starsky’s thumbs eased their way beneath the ragged edge of his shorts and stroked over the sensitive under curves of the cheeks of his ass.

“Thought you were watching the game,” Hutch replied, his voice every bit as husky as Starsky’s as his cock vainly sought room to grow in his tight shorts.

“What game?” Starsky asked, his fingers finding their way around to investigate the reason behind the depth of Hutch’s tone.

“Game?” Hutch echoed, straightening and pressing back into Starsky. While busy fingers released the snap and zipper of his shorts then delved inside to grasp his growing erection, the other hand found its way through the leg opening to fondle his balls. A warm, open mouth pressed against the back of his neck and a wet tongue lapped at the salty flesh.

“What game ya got in mind, Blondie?” Starsky teased between nibbles and licks.

“Coming in the sink if you keep that up,” Hutch warned, and found himself instantly released, Starsky’s hands turning him until he and his partner were face to face and the impudent mouth discovered a new place to play in the hollow of his throat.

“That’d be wasteful,” Starsky scolded as he pushed up Hutch’s t-shirt and began to slowly ease his way down the long body, kissing whatever flesh came under his lips along the way.

No more able to resist temptation than Starsky, Hutch looked down, watching as Starsky’s mouth drew ever closer to where Hutch’s exposed cock waited. The sight of his dark-haired lover on his knees before him was almost enough to propel Hutch to the very edge of climax all on its own. He saw Starsky’s tongue emerge, reaching for the tip of his cock and slid his wet fingers into the tangled curls, tugging urgently.

Starsky eased back onto his heels, his head tipping back until Hutch was drowning in hazy, lapis blue. Involuntarily, his fingers tightened to draw the promise of the hot mouth closer when, through the open window behind him, came a peal of childish laughter. The sound washed over Hutch like a cold shower, cooling his ardor instantly. He pushed Starsky away so hard that the kneeling man nearly toppled over.

“Hutch?” Starsky demanded an explanation for the abrupt rejection.

“S-s-sorry,” Hutch stuttered, reaching down to pull Starsky to his feet, but moving away when Starsky attempted to embrace him.

“Hutch?” The tone was a warning one now.

Hutch gestured toward the window with a jerk of his head while trying to tuck his swollen cock back into his shorts.

“You don’t think you’re gonna get that monster back in there, do ya?” Starsky wondered, and then glanced through the window. Comprehension dawned and he reached for the cord beside the window. “Lucky thing we got blinds, ain’t it?” he asked.

A moment later, Starsky was once again on his knees, both hands brushing away Hutch’s and baring the object of his desire. “Now, where was I?” he murmured.

“Right about here,” Hutch instructed, more than happy to allow Starsky to distract him. Fingers once again tangled in long curls, Hutch guided the red lips to within a hair’s breadth of his cock. He moaned softly as Starsky’s mouth engulfed him and began sucking eagerly, while the talented left hand pacified what would not fit within the heated cavern and the right sought out the hardened centers within his sac.

Fingertips now hanging onto the countertop as if his life depended on it, Hutch gave himself up to his lover’s eager mouth until once again he hung only a few exquisite touches from climax. He called out an incoherent warning and knew he had been understood when Starsky backed off until only the head of his cock remained between the sucking lips and both of Starsky’s hands wrapped tightly around the rest of his cock, offering a gripping, squeezing tunnel in compensation. Hutch arched his back and let the spasms overtake him, emptying himself into the man he loved.

The draining spasms had barely finished when Hutch’s knees gave way and he sank into Starsky’s supporting arms. He rested his head on one muscular shoulder and waited for his overloaded system to settle back into something approaching normalcy.

Still barely coherent, he heard the rasp of a strained zipper and willingly allowed his hand to be led to and wrapped around the moist heat of Starsky’s cock.

“Jerk me off, babe,” Starsky panted against his cheek. “So close. Makes me so hot suckin’ you.”

Turning his head, Hutch found the open, panting mouth and plunged his tongue inside, tasting himself as Starsky responded eagerly to his kiss. His hand tightened, moving faster and he felt the first pulse of Starsky’s climax swell the cock in his hand. Then it was his strength supporting Starsky as the other man sagged in his arms.

The echoes of their pleasure still resonating through his body, Hutch simply held his lover close, until, from the living room, he heard the sound of a muted cheer.

“Mmmmm,” Starsky hummed, face still buried in Hutch’s shoulder. “Sounds like somebody scored.”

“Yeah. Both of us,” Hutch agreed.

***

Paperwork. It was the bane of a cop’s existence and Hutch hated it no less than his fellow officers. Today, it had taken a direct threat from Dobey–not his usual bluster, but a serious ultimatum–to get his and Starsky’s butts firmly planted at their desks while they devoted their undivided attention to diminishing the mountains of unfinished reports between them. Almost undivided, Hutch admitted to himself as he stole a peek at his watch and wondered if 11:30 was too early to suggest lunch. It certainly didn’t take Hutch’s special knowledge of his partner to see that Starsky was more than ready for a break.

It was, therefore, no great surprise that when a small commotion erupted at the door to the corridor, both partners jumped to their feet. Even an obnoxious drunk would be a welcome break from the monotony of peck and type.

It wasn’t a drunk of any sort that was causing the quiet stir, however, but a friend and fellow officer. Minnie Kaplan, no Minnie Zieter, Hutch corrected himself, was at the center of a fast growing crowd of detectives who were all ooohhing and aaahing over the bundle she held in her arms.

When Minnie had announced her engagement shortly after Starsky’s return to work, there had, of course, been a great deal of good natured teasing back and forth between her and Starsky which Hutch had watched with tolerant amusement. Starsky insisted she had broken his heart by finding some other man while Minnie countered that she couldn’t wait around for him forever. When an announcement of pregnancy had followed close on the heels of the nuptials, the teasing had started up again much to the amusement of the entire squad room. In due course, a waddling Minnie had departed for maternity leave and had returned now to display her offspring.

About to join the crowd, Hutch realized that his partner was already well ahead of him, shouldering his fellow officers aside until he was eye to eye with the new mother.

“All right, you baboons, back off,” Starsky demanded, grinning proprietarily as he laid an arm around Minnie’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “Give the ladies a little room to breathe.”

There were a few good-natured complaints and a few innuendoes, but, typically male, most of the other officers weren’t all that interested anyway and wandered back to their desks.

Hutch remained where he was though the way was now clear. He leaned back against his desk, propping his butt on the edge and arms crossed over his chest as he watched Starsky with the new baby.

“Okay, let’s have a look,” Starsky said, carefully lifting the blanket wrapped bundle from the mother’s arms.

Hutch noticed that Starsky handled the baby with the same secure delicacy as he did everything, seeming quite confident of his ability to manipulate the fragile new life without causing harm. When the baby was securely settled in the crook of his arm, Starsky studied the sleeping face intently before turning to the mother with a satisfied smile.

“Ya did good, Minnie. She’s a beauty,” Starsky declared.

To Hutch, it seemed that there was just the slightest hint of wistfulness in his partner’s voice. Being the often self-doubting man that he was, and with the paths his thoughts had already been wandering recently, Hutch, of course, chose to hear what might not even be there.

“Was there ever any doubt?” Minnie drawled in her lousy imitation of Mae West.

“Not a one, schweetheart,” Starsky countered in his equally awful Bogart.

The baby made a fussy little noise and Starsky held her closer against him, jostling her and making soft hushing sounds.

“You know, Starsky, you’d make a great father,” Minnie commented. “Even Daniel can’t settle her down like that.”

Which was when Hutch decided that he had both heard and seen enough. Mumbling some excuse, he got out of the squad room as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself, picking up his pace once he made it to the corridor.

Hutch burst through the doors of the blessedly empty men’s room where he leaned on the sink and looked into the mirror. He saw panic lurking in the eyes that gazed back at him out of the face of a man who was trying very hard to believe that the tremors he felt rocking his world were nothing more than the occasional rumbling of the San Andreas Fault.

“You are making a mountain out of a few grains of sand,” he accused his mirrored image. The haunted looking blond in the mirror did not appear to be listening, so Hutch turned his back on him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and slowly while he felt his system returning to normal, then turned to face his reflection again. The panic had disappeared, but Hutch had to admit that he was not looking at a man who knew all was well with his world.

“Okay, so maybe Starsky and I need to sit down and talk about it,” Hutch admitted.

“Hey, Peter. You seen Hutch?”

“But not yet,” Hutch mumbled when he heard his partner’s voice outside the door. He hastily flipped on the taps and thrust his hands beneath them, pulling up his professional mask of outward calm to disguise his inner turmoil.

The door opened and Starsky stuck his head through, grinning when he saw Hutch just reaching for the paper towels. “Hey, Blintz, don’t I keep telling you not to drink all that water?”

“Good for the kidneys,” Hutch retorted automatically, discarding the soggy towel into the disposal and facing his lover.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Starsky asked immediately as Hutch knew he would. He could fool the rest of the world, but never, not for five minutes, could he fool the man he had shared heart, soul and body with.

He could, however, try to smokescreen him. “Yeah, I’m starving to death. I’m hungry enough to eat one of your disgusting tacos,” Hutch declared, knowing that Starsky could never resist the lure of his favorite taco stand.

“Rosa’s?” Starsky asked, suspicion stamped all over his face.

“Anywhere. Just so long as you’re buying,” Hutch agreed, mentally counting the antacid tablets left in the bottle, which lived in his desk drawer.

“Let’s go, buddy,” Starsky demanded and spun on his heel to lead the way.

Following along behind, Hutch tried to concentrate on his lover’s delightful rear view instead of the mournful thoughts that filled his head.

***

Hutch didn’t know who it was who was having such a laugh at his expense. It could be Lady Luck or that sadistic bastard, Murphy. Whoever it was, Hutch really wished they would lay off.

When they returned from Rosa’s Heartburn Haven, Hutch had barely had time to grab a handful of antacids before Dobey was ordering them out the door. The captain must have been tired of looking at their woebegone faces over the typewriters because he told them to get their sorry butts out on the street where they belonged.

Hutch’s euphoria over their unexpected release from paperwork purgatory ended when they got their first call.

“Zebra Three.”

Hutch hooked the mike with his thumb and gave it a little flip, catching it deftly. “Zebra Three,” he acknowledged with a grin.

“It’s a 484. See the man at Ralph’s All Night Convenience.”

“10-4,” Hutch confirmed as Starsky hung a hard right and hit the gas.

The store was only four blocks away so they were on the scene in under a minute. They parked directly out front and entered the store, finding the irate owner holding two eight-year-old boys by the scruffs of their necks. The partners exchanged glances before moving in to defuse the situation. Starsky put a firm hand on each boy’s shoulder while Hutch intercepted the angry owner and ushered him down the aisle to the back of the store. A few minutes later, during which Hutch had barely made a dent in the owner’s determination to send the boys up for life, Starsky was presenting two contrite individuals with confessions and apologies on their tongues and the money to pay for the chocolate bars they had attempted to boost in their grubby little hands.

“What did you say to them?” Hutch asked when they were back in the car and had reported in.

Starsky shrugged, his eyes on the road. “Stuff,” he replied uninformatively.

“What stuff?”

“Just stuff,” Starsky repeated. “Weren’t you ever a kid, Hutch?”

To Hutch, however, it had nothing to do with ever being a kid; it was just further proof in his growing mental file of evidence that, by the relationship he and Starsky shared, he was robbing the other man of his natural role in life. Starsky should be a father and he never would be if Hutch couldn’t find the strength to let him go.

***

Hutch knew he was dreaming. Or at least he prayed he was. There was no other way to explain how he could be standing in the middle of his own living room when he knew for a fact he was in bed. Only it wasn’t his living room, except it was. It was his furniture and Starsky’s stereo and there was the television they had bought themselves as a housewarming gift.

But who were these people? A beautiful, dark-haired woman sat on the floor playing with a chubby faced baby girl, while a toddler climbed up on the couch, a book clutched in one little hand. Who were they, and why couldn’t they seem to see him?

“Daaaddyyyy,” sang the toddler, waving his book. “Come and read to meeeee.”

“Comin’, Manny,” called a familiar voice that seemed to freeze the blood in Hutch’s veins.

And then Starsky was there, scooping up the child and swinging him in the air, while the woman gathered up the baby and came to nestle close. It was a picture of familial perfection that made Hutch feel like he was going to puke. Because he knew he had no place here. No place at all.

“Hutch, babe, wake up. Come on, open those baby blues.”

Hutch obeyed the voice gratefully, opening his eyes to find his lover leaning over him, curls a tangled mass and sleepy confusion fast giving away to concern on the beloved face.

“Gonna be sick,” Hutch mumbled, belly heaving as the horror of his non-existence in the dream refused to leave him.

Starsky released him and backed off, leaving Hutch a clear path to the bathroom. Once inside, Hutch knelt before the toilet, both hands gripping the sides as he rested his forehead against the cool porcelain. He fought the cramps that were nothing more than dream-induced panic, trying to convince himself that he really was awake; that Starsky waited just outside the door; that the Starsky who waited was his lover and not the husband of some phantom woman or the father of imaginary children. At least, not yet, he wasn’t.

Slowly, reality reasserted itself and his stomach calmed enough for him to get up and splash cold water on his face. He had to pull himself together because he knew Starsky wasn’t going to wait outside that door forever.

As if summoned, there was a hesitant knock and Starsky’s muffled voice asked if he was all right.

Hutch forced himself to open the door and face his lover. “Okay,” he reassured him.

“Guess we shouldn’ta gone to Rosa’s, huh?” Starsky asked hesitantly.

“Mmmm,” Hutch agreed, making his way to the bed and sitting down on its firm surface. “Maybe we’d better stick to places that have four walls and a roof,” he suggested, hoping to calm himself and his still anxious lover with a bit of banter.

“I’ve known a few of those places that have been pretty lethal,” Starsky reminded him.

Hutch mumbled a second agreement and lay down. After a moment, he felt the bed jostle as Starsky lay down beside him.

“Starsk?” Hutch whispered when the silence had settled down between them like an uninvited guest.

“Yeah?” Starsky replied in the same soft tone.

“Let me hold you?” Hutch asked as if he really expected to be refused, a small portion of him still locked into that place where Starsky belonged to someone else.

“My pleasure,” Starsky murmured and rolled himself into Hutch’s arms. “You ever gonna tell me what’s on your mind, Hutch?”

Hutch tightened his embrace, already feeling as if Starsky were slipping away even though the sturdy body was wrapped around him like a human comforter. He knew what he had to do; he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. He needed just a little more time.

“Soon,” he promised.

“Gonna hold ya to that, Blintz,” Starsky murmured sleepily.

“Okay. But right now, just hold me to you.”

***

“I really think I need one of these.”

For one stunned moment after Starsky shoved the magazine under his nose, Hutch thought he meant the little boy in the picture. He went straight from stunned to horrified when he realized he had blurted out his thoughts.

“You want a son?”

“A son?” Starsky echoed. “No, you dope, the remote control airplane.”

Hutch rubbed both hands over his face, waiting for his tenacious terrier to latch onto his lapse. For the past few days, Starsky had been incredibly patient with him, but Hutch knew his ever-loving partner had not been gifted with an abundance of that particular trait.

Starsky laid the magazine on the seat between them, and then wriggled to settle his butt more comfortably in the driver’s seat. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Hutch saw his partner grip the steering wheel with both hands and braced himself, wishing they were any place but the front seat of the Torino parked in a dirty, but relatively private, alley. Vainly, he also wished that the tardy Huggy Bear, already fifteen minutes late for their meet, would miraculously appear.

“How much longer is it gonna be before you tell me what’s on your alleged mind?” Starsky asked.

The tone was so mild, the expression so neutral, and Starsky’s attention so firmly fixed on the view beyond the windshield that it took Hutch several seconds to realize that the axe had indeed fallen. Biting the inside of his lip, Hutch turned his head to look out the side window at the cluttered view whose only saving grace was that it was not Starsky’s face.

“You said soon, Hutch. And that was days ago,” Starsky reminded him.

“I know,” Hutch admitted.

“I’m your partner, ain’t I, Hutch?” Starsky asked softly.

Hutch cringed, knowing exactly where this was going. “Of course you are,” he answered nevertheless.

“And I’m your friend?”

Hutch closed his eyes to block out the view, wishing he could close his ears as easily. “Yes.”

“And I’m your lover?”

“Starsk, we agreed…” Hutch tried to head off the inevitable.

Hutch heard the other man shift in his seat and felt the questioning gaze boring into the back of his head.

“What’d I do, Hutch?”

“Aw, shit,” Hutch spat. He should have known how Starsky would take such a long period of moodiness and distraction. He swung around and brought his hand up to squeeze the back of Starsky’s neck. “Nothing. You haven’t done anything.”

“You’re not happy,” Starsky insisted softly, although he made no attempt to break free of Hutch’s grip.

“I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, Starsk,” Hutch swore. It had the sound of a vow, and it was the absolute, unvarnished truth. It was also the reason he did not want to voice his thoughts. A loser at love far too often in the past, Hutch was anything but secure in this, the most important love of his life. If he revealed his thoughts, and Starsky agreed with them, then where did that leave him? Hutch had long ago admitted that there was nothing within his power that he would not willingly do for his lover. Giving Starsky a child, however, never was and never would be within his power.

“Then how come you’re always a million miles away with a look on your face like your rich aunt died and left all her money to the cat?” Starsky wondered.

Hutch laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was so typical of Starsky’s caring that he would attempt to cheer Hutch and ease the tension. “Starsk, I….”

“Zebra Three. Zebra Three.”

Both men jumped as the dispatcher’s voice filled the car.

“Saved by the bell?” Starsky muttered as Hutch reached for the mike. “Tonight,” he added as he turned the key in the ignition.

***

“I’m starved, babe. How about you?” Hutch asked as they walked through their front door. Avoiding Starsky’s probing gaze, he headed straight for the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Why don’t you grab a shower while I start dinner,” he suggested, pausing only long enough to drape his jacket and holster over the back of the couch.

“Hutch,” Starsky said in a warning tone that revealed how close he was to the end of his patience.

Hutch paused in mid-stride, then continued on into the open kitchen. “Gotta eat, don’t we?”

Opening the refrigerator door, as much to hide behind as to see what he could cook for dinner, Hutch heard Starsky moving heavily up the stairs and nearly sagged with relief. He knew the inevitable was coming and wished with all his heart that he could think of some way to avoid it. In his mind, he had built up such a convincing case for the rightness of Starsky and fatherhood that he could picture the for sale sign going up on their lawn tomorrow morning. He had never even had a chance to plant the garden he had planned.

Hutch finally retreated from the refrigerator with an armload of ingredients once he had heard the bathroom door upstairs close a little more loudly than normal. Not a slam, just a bit more firmness than was strictly necessary. Dumping his load onto the counter, Hutch tried to shut out his worries and concentrate on putting together a prize-winning casserole. Slowly. As slowly as possible. Use up a bit more of the evening and hold off the inevitable just a little while longer.

Starsky, scrubbed, damp and wearing nothing but baggy gym shorts, turned up in the kitchen well before the casserole was ready for the oven. Hutch tried not to look at the freshly washed curls that clung tightly to Starsky’s head. Tried not to notice the droplets of water still caught in the hair on Starsky’s naked chest. Tried to completely ignore the muscular, bowed legs that he loved to feel wrapped around his waist. Tried and failed so miserably that he almost cut off the end of his baby finger.

Hutch shuddered as Starsky’s hand wrapped around his and pulled it from the stream of cold water.

“Christ, Hutch. You can be such a klutz. Let me look at it,” Starsky demanded.

Hutch yanked his hand away, sending water and blood flying. “Back off, dammit. It’s just a little cut,” he countered. “I’m not a baby.”

Starsky’s doubtful gaze went from Hutch’s angry face to the wounded digit, but he backed off as ordered. He lifted his hands as if to display his unarmed state. “Whatever you say, babe.”

Yanking a couple of paper towels off the roll, Hutch wrapped his still sluggishly bleeding finger and hurriedly finished putting the casserole together. Beneath Starsky’s unwavering gaze, he nearly dropped the pan, but managed to get it into the oven and began cleaning up after himself. He felt like a particularly interesting sort of bug in a jar as Starsky watched every move he made.

“Why don’t you get a beer and go watch TV until dinner’s ready?” he finally suggested in the most reasonable tone he could manage given the state of his nerves.

“You said we’d talk tonight,” Starsky reminded him relentlessly.

“Yeah, sure. We will. Night’s young. Let’s at least have dinner first,” Hutch evaded.

“That’s gotta take at least an hour to cook,” Starsky pointed out.

“I want a shower too, you know,” Hutch protested. He was obsessively wiping the already spotless counter, his eyes resting anywhere but on Starsky.

And because he wasn’t watching, he was caught completely by surprise when Starsky’s hand encircled his wrist and halted the compulsive movement.

“Sooner or later, Hutch, ya gotta talk to me,” Starsky murmured.

Hutch let their eyes meet, let his own reflect some of the fear he felt. “Later, babe. Please,” he begged.

“You’re driving me crazy with all this. You know that, Blondie?” Starsky accused very softly and without heat.

“I-I-I kn-n-n-ow,” Hutch stammered.

Starsky released him immediately and backed off again. “Okay. We’ll do this your way. You go ahead and shower.”

Hutch retreated with shameful relief.

***

Hutch stood under the spray until the water ran cold and his fingers pruned. He might have remained there until his blood froze in his veins or he caught pneumonia if Starsky had not rapped sharply on the bathroom door and ordered him out.

Fingers numb and focus shattered, it took what seemed to be forever to get through the simple tasks of drying and dressing. He might have remained at it far longer if Starsky’s voice, this time coming up the stairs at him, had not prodded him along again.

“Hutch, get down here. I think whatever that was you put in the oven wants out before it burns.”

Venturing back down to the main floor, Hutch brought dinner to the table that Starsky had set and both men sat down in the strained silence. Attention devoted wholeheartedly to his meal, Hutch kept his eyes down and his fork moving steadily even though he could hardly taste what he was putting in his mouth. Looking at his plate kept his eyes off Starsky, and eating kept his mouth from blurting out what was on his mind. Every minute he remained silent was one minute more that Starsky was still his.

“You know, Hutch, you’re ruining a perfectly good meal here,” Starsky accused in such a mild tone he could as easily have been commenting on the weather.

To Hutch, every mouthful had tasted like so much sawdust and had been every bit as hard to swallow. He reached for his beer, but Starsky’s fingers encircled his wrist, stopping him from raising the bottle. He had to look up then and found Starsky watching him with a mixture of concern and exasperation.

“It’s been more than a week, Hutch. Whatever you’ve been talking yourself into in that thick skull of yours, it’s been making you sadder every day. You look at me like I’m gonna disappear off the planet one minute and the next you won’t look at me at all. I’ve stuck to the deal.” A sheepish half smile lightened the seriousness of Starsky’s expression for a moment. “Well, mostly. But enough’s enough, buddy. Don’t make me start playing bad cop here.”

Hutch pushed his plate away, the sight and smell of the food making him sick, and leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh that spoke as much of relief as defeat.

“I’ve been thinking…” he began softly.

“No kidding,” Starsky cut in, but gently, one hand covering Hutch’s.

Hutch watched the way their fingers seemed to intertwine automatically, as easily and naturally as their personalities and their lives. “I think we’ve made a mistake.”

“Buying the house, you mean?” Starsky asked. “I thought you loved this place. You said you knew it was the place for us the first time you laid eyes on it.”

“I do. I do love the house, but….”

“Is it the neighbors? Did somebody say something about us living together?”

“For Chris’sake, Starsky, you’ve been after me to talk for a week. So will you just shut up and let me,” Hutch very nearly shouted.

“Okay. Okay. I’m shutting up,” Starsky soothed.

“Shit!” Hutch cursed and jumped up from the table. He stalked as far as the kitchen doorway and, finding the words he needed still lodged in his throat behind the giant lump that seemed to have suddenly grown there, continued on into the living room. He went on retreating right up to the big bay window that was such a perfect place for his plants, reached out and pulled open the drape to stare into the streetlight-spotted darkness beyond. He dropped the material when he heard Starsky come in behind him and turned to face his soon to be former lover.

“When’d I get so hard to talk to, Hutch? How’d I get to be one of them instead of one of me and thee?” Starsky asked.

Hutch crossed the distance between them and enclosed Starsky in a fierce embrace. It was meant to offer reassurance but Hutch knew his desperate grip was only making matters worse, twigging Starsky’s unease up until it almost matched his own fight or flight instinct.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice came hesitant and muffled from where his face was buried in Hutch’s neck. “Are you trying to tell me that the house ain’t the mistake? That we are?”

From the look on Starsky’s face when he pulled back, Hutch could only imagine the courage it took for Starsky to voice the next sentence.

“Are you trying to tell me goodbye?”

Unconsciously, Hutch held on even harder, forcing a grunt from Starsky, as he tried to bring a simple yes to his lips or even force his neck muscles to unbend so that he could nod his head. Every muscle, every nerve, every thought screamed denial and small black dots suddenly swam before his eyes.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the sofa with Starsky down on one knee beside him.

“Start talking, Hutchinson, or I swear to God I’m gonna pump you full of sodium pentathol,” Starsky threatened.

And before he could stop it, the words tumbled out of him. “You should be a father.”

Starsky’s mouth opened as if to automatically counter whatever he had expected Hutch to say, and then closed very slowly as the words that had actually been voiced penetrated. “Say what?” he asked uncertainly.

Now that he had said it once, the repetition wasn’t as hard to voice. “You should be a father,” Hutch echoed himself.

Starsky slumped down onto his heels, his hands, which had been gripping Hutch’s thighs, slipping away. “Is that what this has all been about?”

Hutch nodded mutely. Any minute now, he knew, the truth of what he had said was going to hit Starsky. The half-stunned, disbelieving expression would clear away from the beloved features, the knowledge would settle there, and then Starsky would begin looking for some gentle way to tell him they were through. When it didn’t happen, Hutch, who had a masochistic streak that was sometimes a little too wide, felt compelled to help it along.

“You’re so good with kids, Starsk. And they love you.”

Starsky shook his head, not in denial, but with the air of a man who couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He levered up from the floor and slouched down into the corner of the couch. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then ran both hands back through his still damp hair.

“You see? You know I’m right. You can’t even think of anything to say to me.”

Grimacing, Starsky again shook his head disbelievingly. “Oh, I can think of plenty of things to say to you, Hutch. But since they all begin with ‘you moron’, I was thinking about just belting you one instead.”

Now it was Hutch’s turn to stare in stunned disbelief.

“What the fuck made you think I wanted kids?”

“The, the kids in the p-park, and Minnie’s b-baby, and…” Hutch stuttered to a halt.

Starsky’s head dropped into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Hutch,” Starsky finally admitted. “You’ve been driving both of us nuts here when all you hadta do was talk to me. We’ve always said what’s on our minds. Now, suddenly, you can’t talk to me?”

Hutch winced at the edge that had crept into Starsky’s voice.

“I’m pushing forty, Hutch,” Starsky reminded him. “Don’t you think that if I’d wanted kids I’d have done something serious about it before now? God knows, my ma’s been singing the same one note song since I was twenty-one.”

“But you’re so damned good with kids,” Hutch objected weakly, beginning to feel like an idiot and quite certain he deserved the feeling.

“Sure I am. That’s ’cause I only about half grew up myself,” Starsky countered immediately. “And,” he added. “What about you? Who’s the Big Brother here? Who took Molly in? Who knew just what to say to Rosie Dobey? Me? No, Hutch, it was you. Maybe what you’re tryin’ to tell me is that you want kids and as long as you’re with me, you can’t have ’em.”

Hutch’s mouth dropped open, and for the life of him he couldn’t think of one damned thing to say to refute such a ridiculous allegation. Hadn’t he just about grown himself an ulcer worrying he was going to lose Starsky?

Starsky shuffled out of the corner of the sofa, put a finger under Hutch’s chin and gently closed his mouth for him.

“The problem here, Hutch, ain’t kids or whether one, both or neither of us wants them, it’s about communication. Maybe we’ve been relying on telepathy for too long. Too many years of knowing each other so well that we can finish each other’s sentences.” Starsky paused, but not long enough to give Hutch a chance to comment. “Or maybe we both feel like we got so much more to lose now.”

Hutch wrapped his hand around Starsky’s and brought it down from where it had been resting against his face to lie between them on the cushion. He held onto it and felt the answering pressure.

“And it isn’t just about kids,” Starsky added softly.

Hutch sighed, feeling as if it came up from the soles of his bare feet. “If only I could be sure….”

“Ah, babe. Nobody can ever be sure, but I know it’s worse for you. People love ya, Hutch. They flock to you like flies to dog shit.”

“Thanks a lot, lover,” Hutch grimaced.

“Hey, you’re smilin’, aren’t you?” Starsky pointed out with an impish grin that faded to sobriety quickly. “But it’s the truth. They see this beautiful, charming, intelligent package and they all wanna own a piece of it. Right up to the moment they find out that, just like the rest of us human beings, ya got warts.”

“But you love me despite the warts,” Hutch concluded, but the idea wasn’t comforting as his mind jumped ahead to a time when maybe Starsky could no longer overlook his flaws.

Starsky lifted their joined hands, brought them to his mouth and pressed his lips hard against Hutch’s scarred knuckles. “Sometimes, I love you because of the warts, babe. You came into my life at a time when I didn’t even notice how beautiful you were. Seeing beauty in a man just wasn’t something I could do then. And neither could you. What we have took ten years to grow into what it is now. And since it’s just got stronger every year, I think the next ten years and the ten years after that will only make it better.”

Hutch knew he was smiling, as Starsky’s own unique brand of logic worked the magic on his convoluted, self-doubting reasoning as it so often had in the past. The release of tension was making him feel just a bit giddy, but Starsky’s next words sobered him abruptly.

“But if you’re looking for a guarantee, Hutch, I’m sorry, I can’t give you one. You can’t give me one either. All we can be absolutely, 100% sure of is right now.” Starsky grip tightened until Hutch thought that the smaller bones in his hand just might give way. “Right here, right now, I only got one regret.”

The fierce pressure on his hand and the smile on Starsky’s face gave Hutch the confidence to prompt the confession. “What’s that?”

“That I ever agreed to this privacy of the mind deal,” Starsky admitted. “The only time things go wrong between us is when we don’t communicate.”

Starsky leaned back, half sprawling into the corner of the sofa, and Hutch, still anchored by the firm grip on his hand, went with it, allowing himself to be drawn down into his favorite place to be– Starsky’s embrace.

“From now on, lover,” Starsky decreed. “When you feel the need for a little personal space, lock yourself in the bathroom.”