Blue Dark Hunger

While Starsky visits his mother in New York, Hutch copes with his loneliness and a difficult situation.

First published in the zine, Lifeline: A Decade of Sweet Revenge, in May, 1989, on the 10th anniversary of that episode.

Special thanks to Donna F. for helping to digitize this story for the archive.

In the end, he threw the kid out.

Hutch stood at the window a long time, thinking. He shouldn’t have done it. This was Starsky’s place, the kid was Starsky’s guest. But he felt he had the right; the kid had invaded both their lives. He hoped Starsky would see that.

Eventually, the late afternoon sun faded to twilight and the living room grew dark. Hutch didn’t bother with the lights. He went instead to the bedroom to clean up the mess the kid had made there with his friends.

The bed was a shambles. Neighbors said the past twelve hours had been an endless party. Hutch could see that it was true, but that didn’t matter now. He stripped the bed. The dirty sheets went into a laundry bag behind the door; Hutch would wash those in the morning before Starsky returned. Then he dug out Starsky’s favorite dark blue sheets and remade the bed.

The dresser was next. It took quite a while to straighten the mess. Talc had been dumped into one of the drawers, another held the last of a pizza. Hutch fumed. There was little he could do about the top of the dresser; scratches and water marks branded the wood. He wiped the last of the smudges off the mirror and turned to face the mess on the floor.

They had gone through Starsky’s closet, pulling things out and tossing them aside. The kid had still been at it when Hutch walked in; Hutch had found him sitting naked on the floor, headphones blaring, going through a box from the back of the closet.

Hutch couldn’t speak. He watched, dumbfounded, as bits and pieces of his life with Starsky were tossed around haphazardly by a stranger. An old academy t-shirt joined photographs and get-well cards littering the floor. The piggy bank from their desks lay on its side; under it, a book lay open, several pages bent. He recognized 1000 Ways to Win at Monopoly. Terry’s last gift to Starsky. Hutch exploded. He took two quick strides and snatched the headphones from the kid.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Blue grey eyes blinked up at him, afraid. “Tim. Tim Wills. I’m housesitting for Starsky.”

“Housesitting!” Hutch took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was trembling with rage. “And that gives you the right to go through his things?”

Tim didn’t answer. He uncurled a little and then sat still, not yet sure that Hutch wouldn’t strike.

Hutch wanted to kick him. Instead, he backed away and leaned against the door. “Tim, is it? Get up and put something on.” He was calmer now, his voice steadier.

Tim got up slowly and almost stretched. He had blond hair, shoulder length, and was younger than he first appeared. Nineteen maybe, Hutch decided, slender, with a surfer’s tan. He moved as far as the end of the bed and sat down again, still nude, his confidence returning.

“You’re Hutch. Starsky’s told me a lot about you. We talk between classes at school.”

It was Hutch’s turn to say nothing.

Tim smiled faintly. “You were his partner when he used to be a cop. He got shot up didn’t he?”

Hutch’s eyes dropped to the scattered cards. He damned Gunther for the millionth time, then exhaled sharply and swallowed. “What were you looking for?”

“Nothing.”

Hutch snorted. Tim looked unconcerned. “Hey, man. I’m no thief. Look around. Everything’s here.”

“That’s for sure. Everything’s all over this place!”

“I’d’ve cleaned up. Starsky won’t be back ’til the end of the week.” Tim’s casual attitude was irritating. “I thought I’d check things out and see if he’d be interested.”

“Interested in what?” Hutch turned his attention back to the kid. He felt dirty all of a sudden, and he wasn’t sure why.

“In me…this!” Triumphantly, Tim held out his hand. In it was a tube of lubricant. It was their first–his and Starsky’s–now it was a crumpled mess, nearly empty.

Hutch took it from him. Starsky had given it to him with love. Holding it brought memories of their last time; Starsky had been aroused, impatient. Applying it had almost set him off and Hutch had been sore when Starsky finished. “Sorry, babe. I’m so sorry.” Starsky had been near tears. “This is just so damn new and I don’t seem to have any control. God, I love you.” Hutch had soothed him into sleep and held him all night.

“–maybe he’d like to party.”

Tim’s voice intruded on his reverie. “What?”

“I said, he has a great ass. Maybe he’d like to party.”

Hutch clamped his fist around the tube and turned away, disgusted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’d better leave.”

Tim shrugged. Hutch pulled a dirty tank top and running shorts from under the bed. He held them out, but Tim didn’t move. Hutch flung the clothes in his face. Smirking now, Tim dropped the clothes and slid a hand up Hutch’s thigh.

Hutch slapped him.

Tim cringed, eyes wide with fear. A bright red handprint marred one cheek.

“Starsky and I don’t ‘party.'” Hutch’s voice was low and dangerous. “Get out of here. Now.”

Tim yanked on his clothing and fumbled under the bed for shoes and a duffel bag. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.”

“It means something to me. And to him.”

Tim looked up at Hutch, finally understanding. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.” He left.

Hutch gave up on the rest of the room. He took a shower, scrubbing until the water ran cold, but he couldn’t make himself feel clean. He gave up, dried off and put on Starsky’s robe.

He wanted badly to talk to Starsk. There was no way Hutch could reach him though; Nick Starsky had been married today, and the family would still be at the reception. Maybe Hutch would try him later.

Meanwhile, he would stay here tonight. Hutch snapped off the bathroom light and carefully picked his way across the littered floor to Starsky’s bed. He left the robe on and climbed under the covers, but sleep wouldn’t come.

The room felt strange around him, filled with impressions– and none of them Starsky. Hutch lay in the dark, troubled. He’d done his best to straighten up and clear away the mess, but it occurred to him now that he’d cleared away all traces of Starsky, too, that the room was now a sanitized collection of his things.

Hutch panicked. He rubbed his nose against the pillow, seeking some trace of Starsky, but the only scent he got was an April-fresh perfume. In sudden desperation, he pulled off the case and buried his face in the pillow.

There it was. Starsky’s scent. His shampoo, his cologne, a faint tang of sweat– Hutch breathed deeply, reassured. He watched the moon rise for a time, and eventually fell asleep.

Sometime later, he realized the phone was ringing. He fumbled for the receiver and mumbled a hello.

“Hutch? Is that you?”

Even half asleep, Hutch smiled. “Yeah, Starsk. It’s me. What time is it?”

“I dunno. Almost four, I guess. Why aren’t you at Mike and Sally’s? I’ve been callin’ all over lookin’ for ya.” Starsky sounded peeved.

“Mike’s brother showed up at the cabin with his wife and three kids, so I decided to make it another time.” Hutch could sense something was wrong, but Starsky seemed in no hurry to tell him. He asked a question of his own. “Why aren’t you coming home tomorrow? Tim said you told him the end of the week.”

“Yeah, well, after you took off, Mom called. Seems they decided to have a neighborhood party since so many of the old families were gathering for the wedding. I was thinkin’ about staying, but I’ve changed my mind. Hey! Where’s Tim? Why didn’t he answer the phone?”

“He had to leave.” Hutch let it go. There’d be time enough later to discuss the kid. “I stopped by and decided to stay over. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Stupid question, babe.” Starsky sounded depressed.

“What’s wrong, Starsk?” All of Hutch’s love was in that question.

“Ya wouldn’t believe it, Hutch. I still don’t believe it.” Starsky’s voice took on a note of outrage and the words poured out. “I’m at the reception and I run into Tom O’Malley’s kid sister, Moira. I went to school with Tom; Moira was this snot-nosed brat who followed us around and whined. Anyway, she’s grown up now, a big-shot lady executive at some Manhattan bank. She gets me out on the dance floor and says she overheard my mom tell hers about you and me. Then she invites me back to her place for a night in bed with her. Tells me a night of good sex with a woman will ‘cure’ me and make my mother happy. Cure me! Like I’ve got some kind of damned disease!” Starsky was furious now.

“What did you do?” Hutch’s quiet voice cooled Starsky down a little.

“I left. I wanted to smack her. Hutch, I really did. ‘Cure me.’ I still can’t believe she said that.”

Hutch’s palm tingled with guilty pain. “It’ll be okay, Starsk. When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow. I want to talk to my mom first, then I’m outta here. Pick me up?”

“Sure. Let me know what time.” Hutch sighed, relieved. He only had to wait until tomorrow after all. “I love you, Starsk.”

“Love you too, babe. God, I miss you.” The loneliness in Starsky’s voice tore at Hutch.

“I’m here, love. Tell me what you’re doing right now.” Hutch didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

“I’m standing at the window, lookin’ at the moon… thinkin’ about you.” Starsky’s voice was low, tender– and three thousand miles away.

“Are you ready for bed yet?” Hutch closed his eyes and listened.

“No. I’m still in the monkey suit. I woke you up though, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but it was worth it, I’m glad you called.” Hutch smiled at the image of Starsky in a tux. “I’m wearing your robe and sleeping on clean sheets.”

“The dark blue ones?” Starsky’s voice was breathless, eager.

“Yeah.”

“Ahhh…Hutch…”

It was lover’s talk, silly, whispered across a continent, and it made Hutch want more than just his lover’s voice. He pretended Starsky lay beside him.

Starsky seemed to read his mind.

“Babe? Do me a favor,” Starsky whispered shyly in his ear.

“Name it.”

“Touch yourself for me.” The whisper was demanding now, not to be denied.

Hutch’s body throbbed in answer. “Tell me what to do.”

“Be my hands for me. Open the robe.”

Hutch drew the cover aside and settled on his back, eyes still closed. His hands– Starsky’s hands– untied the knot on the belt.

“God, I love your legs.” The hands moved along his thighs, above his groin, across the pubic hair. “They seem to go on forever. Did I ever tell ya that?” the whisper dared him to answer.

“–no–” the word died in Hutch’s throat.

“And did I ever tell you– I love to cup your balls?” One hand caressed, then cupped the sac, the other slid along the inner thigh.

“Spread your legs, babe. Are you hard for me yet?” the whispered voice made it hard to breathe. Hutch moaned deep in his throat.

Starsky chuckled low. “Your heart must be pounding like crazy, babe. Stroke yourself, Hutch. Pump it hard.”

A hand slid up his leg to obey, the other one squeezed his balls. Hutch dug his heels in and arched off the bed, thrusting deep into the hand that milked his cock. Starsky said no more, his breathing ragged in Hutch’s ear, as though he were there, with Hutch, watching him climb toward orgasm.

Hutch came. Heat spurted across hands that continued to milk him, then soothe him as the spasms died away. The spell broke. The hands became his again, and Starsky’s voice retreated into the phone.

“I’ll call ya in the morning, Hutch, as soon as I know what flight.” Starsky sounded awed, yet thoroughly pleased with himself. “Did I tell ya that I love ya?”

“Always,” Hutch answered, completely at peace. “Hurry home to me, Starsk, as soon as you can.”

“As soon as I can.” Starsky’s promise echoed in his ear. “‘Night, Hutch.”

“‘Night.”

The phone went dead, and he hung it up. Moonlight filtered into the room as Hutch pulled the robe shut. He felt as though Starsky surrounded him now, and he snuggled back under the covers.

“He’ll be home tomorrow,” Hutch told himself, and he drifted off to sleep.