Blue-Eyed Fantasy

239

David Starsky has had a dream of someone just for him for a long time.  Too bad he can’t let that someone know.

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He woke up panting, hot, drenched in sweat, with his hand wrapped around his cock, and feeling he would die if he didn’t soon have release. He stumbled to the bathroom, got in the shower, turned the water on full blast, and hoped to hell his Aunt Rose and Uncle Al didn’t hear his grunts as he pumped himself to completion.

He cleaned himself and the shower and tossed the towel on the porch roof right outside his bedroom window. Then he lay back and thought of the dream.

The boy must have been close to his own age—sixteen—he had hair more blond than any David had ever seen—the color of a sunshine lit cloud. His eyes were the blue of the Pacific Ocean on a calm summer day, and his smile—oh, his smile was all white and open and David thought he would melt in its power.

His stomach turned all twisty when he thought of the dream, and the boy, and what that meant. He couldn’t tell anyone. Certainly not his aunt and uncle. Most certainly not John Blaine who David confided most everything in, even the stuff about his dad’s death and his mom’s sending him away as if he was too much bother.

He punched his pillow, pulled the sheet over his head, and hoped he wouldn’t dream anymore.

“What’s going on?” Huggy asked him two days later as they sat behind old man Decker’s bar where Huggy washed dishes on Saturdays and after school. David took a long drag on his cigarette and a swig of the beer Huggy had swiped from behind the bar when Decker wasn’t looking.

“Nothing.”

Huggy snorted with laughter and then made a face when the beer went up his nose. “Sure.”

David ground the cigarette on the cement, thinking. He looked at Huggy, thought some more, and then nodded. “You ever dream of…you know.”

Huggy leaned back and blew out a long stream of smoke. David didn’t have his skill at that.

“Sex? Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“What about…” David looked around, made sure no one could hear even though they were alone in the alley. He still moved closer to whisper. “You ever get turned on by a…” He could feel his cheeks redden. “A guy?”

Huggy passed David the rest of his beer. “Sure. Who hasn’t?”

David blew out his breath in a long sigh. “Okay. Okay.”

He finished the beer and walked home in the dark, wondering when and if he’d ever dream of the blue-eyed boy with sunshine hair again.

*****

Army life bored him. He opted for that because what other choices did he have? Not smart enough or rich enough for college, too restless to work in a factory or the docks. The blue-eyed boy was now a man, just like Starsky. He knew because sometimes when he felt lonely and homesick, he dreamed of him. The blue-eyed man went to college, of course. Starsky didn’t know how he knew that; he just did. He smiled the same brilliant smile, and his hair had lost most of the white cloud and was now just sunshine and gold. At least those were Starsky’s dreams.

He didn’t get letters from girls like the other guys. All the girls he’d known in high school found men who could give them something more than David Starsky would ever be able to. But his mom and aunts and uncles and Huggy sent him notes and sometimes, when he was lucky, care packages. He even got a few letters from John Blaine talking about his life as a cop. His mother’s long letters were full of Nicky this and Nicky that—mostly not good news. She never asked him about his life—was he happy? What was he doing?

In the dark of the barracks, in the rustles and coughs and snores, Starsky lay awake and thought of the blue-eyed man and pretended someone really loved him. When he got leave, he went into town, found a whorehouse, and pretended it was only women he loved and wanted and fantasized about. Like every other guy did. Like normal guys. The blue-eyed man always smiled at him as he came. Then he went back to base, drove generals and VIPs around, and wondered just what the hell he could do with the rest of his life.

When he left the Army after his stint, he took any job he could find in Bay City—cab driver, bartender at a dive Huggy worked at, a few days on the docks before he knew he never wanted to do that again.

He never had trouble getting a date with a woman for a movie or a day at the beach. There was plenty of sex, but nothing ever felt quite right. He wouldn’t have said he ever fell in love. Lust had to be good enough.

Once, Uncle Al sent him up to San Francisco to deliver a Thunderbird and bring back an old Studebaker one of his clients wanted. Driving made him happy—air blowing through his hair, the road ribboning ahead. The Studebaker wasn’t ready, so he spent two nights in a city he’d never been in. Somehow—at least he told himself that lie—he wound up drinking beer in The Missouri Mule. He went to the home of a blond-haired, brown-eyed man who introduced him to sex he never knew he needed or wanted until he had it. He snuck out early in the morning while the nameless man slept—and told himself he wouldn’t ever do it again. It was wrong—perverted, dirty—but he couldn’t forget how great it felt. How he felt more alive than he had for years. How it hadn’t felt wrong at all despite everything he’d heard.

*****

John Blaine took him out for lunch one day not too long after San Francisco, handed him an application for the Bay City Police Department Academy’s next class and told him to fill it out.

“I don’t know, John,” Starsky said, turning the paper over and over with restless hands.

“You’ll be a great cop, Davy,” John said and put his hand over Starsky’s. “It’ll help.”

“Help?” Starsky asked.

“Help,” John said.

He motioned for another beer and waited until the waitress left them alone. “Sometimes men have certain tendencies. Being around men who don’t… where it’s not accepted—trust me, Davy.”

He knew. Somehow John knew. Starsky ducked his head, unable to look John in the eyes and stayed silent. He didn’t know how being around men all the time would make him crave the touch of a man any less, but John said it, and he wanted to believe it. He nodded in his shame, filled out the application and mailed it in the morning.

*****

Starsky walked into the auditorium with the newest class of future officers of the BCPD. He tugged at his uniform and wished he could throw away the tie. No one smiled at him or said a word—everyone caught up in their own thoughts and excitement.

He couldn’t find a seat at first. Some cadets appeared to know each other by the way they chatted—maybe their fathers were cops in the police department.

“Someone sitting here?” he asked a cadet who had his back turned to him.

“No. Go ahead.”

The man turned, and Starsky caught his breath. It couldn’t be. Sunshine and gold, blond hair, ocean blue eyes.

“Is there a problem?” The man raised his perfect blond eyebrows in question.

“No. Thanks.” Starsky plopped down in the seat and held out his hand. “Dave Starsky.”

“Ken Hutchinson,” the other man said as he shook his hand.

Starsky tried to calm his wildly beating heart and nodded. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. Thankfully, the police commissioner came in along with all the instructors and from then on, there wasn’t time for idle chitchat.

Hutch, that was what Hutchinson told all the other cadets to call him, was a stuck-up snob, Starsky decided, after that first day. He mostly ignored Starsky’s overtures at friendship and besides, the man from his fantasies wore a slim gold wedding band. How could Starsky ever hope to compete with a woman? Maybe John’s idea had been the right one after all.

He plastered a smile on his face—the one he used to charm everyone—when he discovered Hutch would be his roommate. They continued to ignore each other that first week.

Hutch came back from their day off of classes—the sunny smile Starsky looked forward to, gone. The wedding ring no longer graced his finger.

Late that night, Starsky heard a low shuddering sigh from Hutch’s bunk.

“Hutch?” He got out of his own bed, walked to Hutch’s. “You sick?”

He didn’t dare turn on a light, didn’t reach out even though his fingers ached to touch Hutch’s shoulder.

“No.”

“Can I help?” Starsky whispered. “What can I do?”

A quick intake of breath and then another hitching sound answered him.

The hell with it, Starsky thought. He reached out in the dark, his fingers seeking Hutch’s shoulder. It shuddered underneath his touch.

Hutch was… crying? No, not crying, but breathing hard. Starsky sat down on the edge of the bed, his hip touching Hutch’s.

“What’s wrong?”

“She…Van… she told me she doesn’t want to be married to a cop.”

Starsky sat silent for a long time. He kept his hand on Hutch’s shoulder, the only thing he could do.

He listened to the ticking clock, Hutch’s breath as he got himself under control, someone snoring in the next room.

“Hey,” Hutch finally said. He twisted under Starsky’s hand. Starsky pulled back, put his hand in his lap.

Hutch’s face appeared as he turned over, pale in the moonlight. “Starsk.”

Starsky coughed, unsure of what to say.

Hutch reached out, caught Starsky’s hand, and rubbed it with his thumb. “Thanks for listening.”

Starsky nodded in the dark and walked back to his bed where he lay awake and thought he might explode with need.

It became the turning point in their relationship—and Starsky discovered in Hutch a friendship deeper than any he’d ever had. The rivalry turned to partnership, and he found Hutch’s sometimes stand-offishness only a cover to hide insecurity.

“Me and thee,” Hutch said the day they dressed for graduation. “A pact, Starsk. Me and thee. It’s who we trust. It’s who we are.”

Starsky grinned and knocked Hutch’s carefully placed hat off his head. “Whatever you say, dummy.”

*****

Life went on. Uniforms gave way to detectives—another pact they made soon after they were on the streets.

Starsky dated, so did Hutch. But John Blaine had been wrong. The desire never left Starsky—and on nights he spent alone, he dreamed of Hutch, stroked his cock, and imagined Hutch’s blunt, strong fingers in place of his own. He wondered if Hutch knew, if Hutch could see it in him. If Hutch did, he never said.

They loved and lost women they thought would be with them forever—Helen, Abby, Terry, Gillian. Some nights when he couldn’t sleep, Starsky held Terry’s framed picture to his chest. He blinked hard enough so no tears would fall, and re-read the letter she’d tucked into the 100 Ways to Win at Monopoly book, way back at the end because she’d been that sure he’d read it all.

Don’t be afraid of loving again, David. He’s there for you—he always has been; he always will be. I see the way he looks at you. Don’t shut him out. Don’t be afraid of love.

But Starsky was scared—terrified. When John died, he felt a betrayal unlike any other. How dare Blaine accuse Starsky of something he was guilty of himself? He stuffed his feelings even deeper and never spoke of John again. And he dreamed—oh how he dreamed—Hutch kissing him, him showing Hutch just what a fantastic kisser he could be. He sat in his wicker chair imagining Hutch behind him, his hands over Starsky’s—guiding, stroking, squeezing, sending him to an explosion of pleasure and release.

He didn’t know what drove them apart. He only knew he felt Hutch drifting out of reach. There were still moments when everything felt right, when they were the Starsky and Hutch they’d always been—Hutch’s hand resting oh so gently on the small of his back as they went through a door, him putting his arm behind Hutch as he drove, his fingers just skimming the fine silky hair. Times he only had to glance at Hutch while they questioned a perp and knew exactly what Hutch thought or the way Hutch split away from him on a chase, knowing where and when Starsky would appear next.

But the wrong moments outweighed the right ones. Hutch beat up and bleeding, seeking comfort from Marianne instead of him. Starsky didn’t miss the hurt in Hutch’s eyes when he referred to Meredith as his partner. Terrified that Hutch wouldn’t find him in time when Monique drugged him.

Maybe it was fear. Fear as they saw cops they knew and respected follow crooked paths. Lieutenant Slate, loving and devoted father, heartbroken over his daughter’s rape, allowing another cop to shoot the unarmed rapist. Luke Huntley, Hutch’s mentor, much as John Blaine had been his, resorting to blackmail and allowing a witness to be murdered, to save his reputation.

Starsky sat by Hutch as he called Doris, watched his jaw tighten, his fingers curl around a pencil, and listened as Hutch used his gentle voice—the one Starsky remembered from a back room in an Italian restaurant—to break the news of Luke’s arrest.

He curled his fingers tight against his palm, resisted the urge to reach out and hold on to Hutch’s shoulder. There would have been a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated, would have touched without a second thought.

Hutch hung up the phone and sat still and silent.

“How’d she take it?” Starsky finally said when he couldn’t stand the hollow look on Hutch’s face.

“How do you think?” Hutch looked at him, the color leached out of his eyes making them appear dull and gray.

Starsky wanted nothing more than to put the sky back into Hutch’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t make the decision, Starsk,” Hutch said. The pencil that remained forgotten suddenly snapped from the force of Hutch’s fingers. “What a mess.”

“How about we go to Huggy’s? Or tell you what—come to my place and I’ll order us a pizza.”

Hutch shook his head. “I should go see Doris. Ask her what I can do.”

“I’ll drive you over there.” Starsky got to his feet, pulled out his keys.

“No offense, buddy, but she doesn’t know you that well,” Hutch said. He winced as he stood. Starsky wondered whether it was pain from his body or from his soul.

“Okay.” Starsky averted his eyes, hid the hurt of Hutch not allowing him in.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Hutch said. He left without a look back.

Starsky sank back into his chair and stared a long while at Hutch’s desk. How long do we have left, Hutch? How long til it all falls apart?

He got up and left the squad room, fully aware of everyone’s eyes on him.

He stood in the shower, imagined Hutch’s hands on his cock, not his own, imagined Hutch’s lips caressing his shoulder instead of the spray of warm water, imagined Hutch whispering I love you in his ear instead of only the dream.

He turned the tap to cold, stood shivering and angry at his inability to give up his dream of Hutch. He got out of the shower, dried himself off ruthlessly until his skin reddened and ached.

“You’re a first-class idiot, David Michael,” he said to the reflection in the mirror. “Give it up. Let him go.”

He left his bathroom with a new resolve. His mom always wanted a daughter-in-law, and for her Davey to give her grandchildren. John Blaine had been married to Doris for years. Surely he could do the same. As for his feelings for Hutch, well, he’d just have to bury them so deep they could never be excavated. Whoever he found to marry would never know. He wouldn’t do to her what Blaine had done to Doris.

Kira fell into his life like a message from above. When the Golden Lady Ballroom assignment got thrown in their laps along with Kira, he pursued her with grim determination. And she responded to all the charm he poured on. Oh, how she responded. Problem was, so did Hutch. The more he wooed Kira, the more Hutch did. If he spoke to Kira for ten minutes on the job, Hutch made sure it was eleven. If he danced one dance, Hutch danced two.

In the night, in the depressing hall filled with desperate lonely men, Starsky felt more alone than ever—even on the nights he went home with Kira and they made passionate love. Kira told him she loved him, and he whispered love into her ear, smelled the sweet perfume she wore, and told himself marrying her was his last chance at normality.

He helped Kira cook and rearranged the furniture, and told Hutch he was going to ask Kira to marry him. He didn’t miss the flash in Hutch’s blue eyes. Years ago, he’d told Hutch his eyes were beautiful when he was angry. He meant it then, and the passage of time hadn’t changed his thoughts. Hutch was and always would be beautiful to him.

This time, though, he pushed the emotion down and took a cold shower to scrub away the burning of desire. He fell into his bed and told the blue-eyed man he was no longer welcome to haunt his dreams. He woke tangled in his sheets, sweaty, his gut burning that way it did when he felt something was about to change forever. Maybe today they’d finally catch the break they needed on the case. He could take Kira away for a few days—and he’d pop the question.

Everything did change the moment he opened the door and saw Hutch coming out of Kira’s bedroom. The minutes that followed seemed to take place alternately in seconds and hours. He heard Kira’s yelling, felt his punches hit Hutch, Hutch’s punches hit him. What words were said, he would never quite recall. But the sense of betrayal, of Me and Thee suddenly becoming Me alone, Thee alone, remained with him as they went through the rest of the day and into the night.

At the precinct, no one knew the ice water running through Starsky’s veins. No one could know anything was amiss between them as they filled out paperwork after Joey’s arrest. They treated each other as the professionals they were while Kira spoke to the psychiatrist and argued for Joey to get the mental help he needed. The one time Starsky ate a candy bar to get some nourishment, he wound up in the bathroom throwing it up a half hour later.

The anger stayed there—a burning ember he kept feeding the fuel of betrayal. He tossed and turned through the night, unable to rest, unable to stop thoughts of Hutch plunging his cock into Kira, unable to blot out the vision of Hutch’s hands on Kira’s skin. He gave up on sleep and stood in the shower a long time, letting the cool water beat onto his skin as if he was in a downpour. It didn’t put out the flame, and when he emerged, he felt no cleaner than when he first got in.

By the afternoon, he knew he had to have it out with Kira and with Hutch. None of their homes would do—he didn’t want his place polluted with more anger, and he feared what he and Hutch might get into if he ventured to Venice Place. As for Kira, her place now held only lost dreams and visions of pretending what he wasn’t. He simply had to accept the truth—the truth John Blaine had known and seen in him long ago. Maybe it was time Hutch knew it too. If it meant the end of everything they’d ever been to each other, then he’d pick up stakes and move somewhere else. Maybe San Francisco, where he had a chance of fitting in. He’d take his broken heart along and hope it would mend even if it would never be the same as it once was.

He held his breath when the phone rang. Maybe it was Hutch. Maybe there was something left of what they once had.

“Starsky.”

“David.” The soft voice felt like a blow to his heart.

“What do you want?”

“Meet me at The Pits in an hour. We need to talk. Work things out.”

His mouth went dry, and he had to swallow twice before he answered. “Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

“David, I…”

“I’ll see you, Kira.”

He dressed carefully—his intimidation outfit—black turtleneck, black leather jacket. He even put on his best cologne, and then wondered why he was dressing as if he was going on a date.

He left the house with time to spare, but not before calling Hutch and leaving a message for him to meet him at Huggy’s. At least if they were in public, Hutch and Kira probably wouldn’t cause a scene.

Starsky felt his heart sink when he walked into The Pits and sat down at the bar. No Hutch. No Kira. Maybe it was all over. Maybe it had just been another joke on him.

He wished he could throw all the blame for everything happening on Hutch, but deep down he knew. He knew it had been both of them at odds over the long, long months—a spiral of despair, eagles tumbling earthward, wings useless, unable to catch an updraft to soar to the heights again.

Huggy put the beer in front of him, made that little sound that meant Huggy suspected something was up. Starsky opened his mouth to say it wasn’t what it looked like, it wasn’t what he meant, when a voice as familiar as his own spoke from bar stools away.

Not ready to give up yet, Starsky nursed the beer and the anger as he and Hutch made Huggy their go-between. He wondered if Kira would even show up. He didn’t enjoy being played a fool, but somehow being played a fool by Hutch hurt far, far worse.

He knew the moment Kira walked in, the smell of her lilac perfume bringing back memories of lying in bed with her, stroking her soft skin, and then just as quickly flashes of Hutch tucking in his shirt, rumpled from his own liaison.

He didn’t know how they clicked—only that he looked at Hutch and a familiar twinkle caught his eye. They fell into a routine, slipped into roles as comfortable as his oldest pair of shoes.

Kira looked at them perplexed and Starsky felt as though he could breathe again the moment Hutch’s arm came over his shoulders.

The comfortable feeling lasted until they walked out into the light. He dropped his arm from Hutch’s shoulders, pulled away. He wasn’t about to guess if that was hurt he saw in Hutch’s eyes or anger.

“My place,” he snapped as he got out his keys. “If you don’t show up, I’ll know it’s over.”

“Starsk…” Hutch reached towards him with one hand and then let it fall to his side. He nodded and swallowed so hard Starsky heard it. “I’ll follow you.”

Starsky got in the Torino without another word. He drove the familiar streets with not a glance to see if Hutch followed. All the same, he let out a breath of relief when he pulled up to his apartment and noticed Hutch pull up right behind him.

He said nothing as he went up the steps and opened the door, Hutch so close he could smell his aftershave. Starsky carefully hung up his jacket, not surprised in the least when he heard the thump of Hutch’s jacket hitting a chair.

“Starsky.” Hutch followed him as he went to the kitchen, started a pot of coffee. “You gonna talk to me or what?”

Starsky stared at his hands, splayed on the counter, counted to ten to quell the anger that rested just beneath the surface.

He finally turned and pointed a finger at Hutch. “Sit down. Now.”

Hutch backed up, stumbled a bit in that awkward way he had, but settled on the sofa without a word.

“Why?” Starsky didn’t sit down. He couldn’t—the urge to pace, to move, to do something other than sit down next to Hutch and feel the warmth of Hutch’s thigh against his own. The world as he knew it was crumbling before him and he feared it would be the end. He didn’t want it to be. Didn’t want to lose Hutch, didn’t want to pretend any longer.

“I don’t know.” Hutch wouldn’t look at him, and that was another hurt piled on top of all the others. “Maybe I… I don’t know, Starsk. She asked. I answered.”

“You knew I loved…” Starsky hated the sound of his own voice, of his lie. “I told you, Hutch.”

“I know. I guess I’m sorry isn’t enough. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“You’re damn right you shouldn’t have. Did you try to fuck Helen too? Terry?” For a second, Starsky felt fear as he watched the way Hutch’s eyes narrowed, the way Hutch pulled in breath and carefully stood.

Hutch jabbed a finger into Starsky’s chest. Starsky thought he was lucky it hadn’t been a fist. “You know damn well I never did that. How can you think of saying that about Helen or Terry? Don’t act all high and mighty, Mr. Perfect.”

“Mr. Perfect? I thought that was you. Always acting superior. Always knowing everything. Me covering your ass.” The force of his hidden secret bubbled over—coming out as fury.

“You covering my ass? Emily? Sharman? Those names mean anything to you, buddy? And when was Kira ever your type?” The finger jabbed again, harder this time, rocking Starsky back on his feet.

“Who are you to decide who my type is?” Starsky raised his hands, surprised to see them balled into fists.

“Well then, why don’t you tell me? Why don’t you tell me who I can and can not go to bed with so I never step on your toes again?” Hutch yelled. “Tell me your type, so I don’t ever get messed up in your love life again.”

“You.” Starsky drew in his breath as soon as the word came out of his mouth. “You, you idiot. You’re my type. I wasn’t mad because you fucked Kira—I was mad because it wasn’t me.”

Starsky turned away, went back to the kitchen. Silence, but for the drip of the coffee pot, reigned. He tensed his shoulders against an expected door slam and blinked hard over and over to make sure the wetness in his eyes didn’t go any farther than his eyelashes.

“Starsk.”

He couldn’t turn around. He just couldn’t. Hutch’s voice had gone soft and sad, the way it did when he told someone their loved one had been murdered.

“Starsk.”

Big hands settled on his shoulders. Hands he remembered holding him in the backroom of an Italian restaurant.

“Just go,” he finally said when he knew his voice wouldn’t crack. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

Hutch’s breath huffed through his nose. “Damn it, Starsky.”

Starsky slammed his hand down on the counter before he turned. “Stop making it harder. I’m sorry, okay. I can’t help how I feel, but I’m sorry. I thought I wanted you to know, but now I wish you didn’t. I’ll tell Dobey I need a new partner, or you do. Whatever. I won’t ever ment…”

And then Hutch pulled him closer and kissed him. Starsky opened his mouth, invited Hutch in. He tugged at the hem of Hutch’s shirt even as Hutch tugged at his.

“God, Starsk. God,” Hutch murmured against his skin.

They broke apart as they pulled shirts over heads and tossed aside. Starsky worked frantically at Hutch’s jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, and slid them down over long, strong, solid thighs. The fine blond hairs on Hutch’s legs tickled his fingers. He held his breath when Hutch slowly undid his jeans and took his sweet time sliding Starsky’s jeans down to the floor.

Hutch pressed kisses along the length of one leg—ankle, calf, knee, thigh, and then the crease where thigh joined torso. Starsky gripped the counter—unable to hold back a grunt as Hutch slipped fingers inside his briefs and gently pushed them down.

When Hutch pulled away to push down his own briefs, Starsky couldn’t wait until Hutch’s hands, Hutch’s lips—oh God, Hutch’s skin touched his again.

The imagined fantasy over the years evaporated in the trail of Hutch’s fingers burning against his hip—hands so different, but yet as familiar as his own. He could feel the calluses on Hutch’s right palm, the little knot on Hutch’s left pinky, the scrape of blunt nails, and the spread of warm, gentle, large hands on his lower belly.

Hutch bent low, and when Starsky looked down at himself, he saw shining gold against his dark pubic hair. His cock jutted up, and Hutch smiled up at him before bending his head to lick him thoroughly from root to tip.

Starsky shivered at the sensation and thought he’d float away but for Hutch’s hands holding him steady.

“Let me, babe, let me.” Starsky barely heard the whispered words, although the vibration of them against his cock zinged through every nerve ending of his body.

“Please. Hutch, please.” Starsky closed his eyes and tilted his head back as Hutch took the length of him into his mouth. He panted as the edge of the counter dug into the small of his back, his toes curled on the cool floor.

Hutch’s tongue lapped against sensitive skin, his fingers gripped Starsky’s hips so tightly, Starsky was sure there would be bruises when he showered. But still… still, the pain, the sensation, was exquisite torture as Hutch took his time exploring.

“I can’t. Can’t hold on.” Starsky let loose a husky cry as Hutch began a methodical rhythm—out, in, out, in, and then finally took him even deeper. Starsky felt his release and Hutch’s swallowing of his semen. His eyes prickled with tears, although he held them back. Now they were irrevocably linked, Starsky thought. Part of him part of Hutch.

He felt Hutch pull back and heard Hutch grunt and moan. He looked down to see Hutch bringing himself to his own completion. Starsky couldn’t look away from the veins of Hutch’s long neck, the sweat in his hair, the sheer elation on his face. Hutch’s semen spattered against Starsky’s legs when he came. As Hutch looked up at him, Starsky gathered some of Hutch’s essence on his hand and brought it to his mouth. He sucked each individual finger slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving Hutch’s. Now Hutch had become a part of him.

“Starsk.” When Hutch finally spoke, when the silence had grown so immense Starsky thought they might never find words again, all the feeling rushed back so quickly that Starsky thought his legs would no longer hold him.

Hutch’s eyes were bright blue. Starsky thought he might take flight into the sky of Hutch’s eyes.

“Hutch.” It hit him then—Hutch still knelt on the kitchen floor. Suddenly it became very important that Hutch stand beside him, in front of him, anywhere but kneeling on the floor as if Starsky were a god to be worshipped. “Stand up. Hutch, stand up.” He held out a hand, pulled Hutch to his feet.

Hutch tilted his head. “What’s wrong?” He traced his finger along Starsky’s jaw.

“I didn’t like it.” Starsky quickly shook his head when Hutch drew in his breath. “No. Not that, dummy. I loved that. I love you. But don’t kneel. Hutch, I don’t want you ever to kneel.”

“Okay,” Hutch agreed, but Starsky could hear the question in the two syllables.

“It doesn’t feel right. Not you lower than me, not me higher than you. We’re partners, equals, friends…”

“Lovers.” Hutch tangled his fingers in Starsky’s curls. “We’re lovers, Starsk.”

Starsky felt his toes curl again.

Later, much later, that night, they lay side by side in Starsky’s bed in the quiet dark. And in the quiet, Starsky spoke. He told Hutch about the vision, about the years of fantasy. He talked about John Blaine and the betrayal he felt and his own shame. Starsky told Hutch that Terry knew, and he wept at that. He spoke of the trip to San Francisco and the blond-haired, brown-eyed man.

And then when he couldn’t find any more to say, he snuggled next to Hutch, fit his body along Hutch’s, wrapped an arm over Hutch’s waist. It felt right—nothing had ever felt more right in his life.

“We’d better get to sleep sometime,” Hutch finally said.

“The fun never ends,” Starsky said. “Dobey really think we’re gonna get anything on that Vegas-Bay City pipeline tomorrow?”

Hutch blew out a breath. “Don’t know.”

“One good thing,” Starsky whispered into Hutch’s ear, “we’re gonna be out in the middle of nowhere with plenty of time to ourselves.”

Hutch laughed. So did Starsky. And then Starsky fell asleep with his dream safe in his arms.

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Chapter End Notes: This fic was inspired by Nicoltyler’s Not Safe for Work picture called Ghosting found here:

https://ia902608.us.archive.org/2/items/ghosting_202304/ghosting.jpeg