Cupid and Psyche Revisited

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Starsky is provided with an unusual means of acquiring a spouse, but will he be able to accept the reality of that life-mate’s identity and handle the consequences when he breaks the rules to find out who has been entrusted with his love?

 

This story was first posted on December 10, 2001 at the Love of Me and Thee list.

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Part One: The Search

December 11, 1979
5:30 PM

David Starsky walked aimlessly through the seaside park and allowed memories and feelings to gently wash through him, caressing his mind with glimpses of love that faded in curls of soft, gray smoke. Other memories assaulted his senses, blocking out the sounds of children’s laughter as an impromptu kick ball game intensified. For five minutes a friendly Golden Retriever nipped at his heels, nuzzling the backs of his legs as he turned down the path that led to the shore. A woman’s shrill voice commanded the attention of her pet, and the dog, largely ignored by its newfound friend, woofed a farewell and turned to obey its mistress.

Starsky had hardly noticed the dog’s approach; he paid little attention to its departure. The ocean called him, and Starsky chose to ignore the faint hint of Minnesotan drawl in the sound. He felt consumed with a throbbing ache. Fitful sleeping characterized his nights of late, his nightmares punctuated with the waking sensation that he would die alone. Alone, because he would never find true love of the kind that had given his mother’s life meaning. Death had tragically wrenched her great love from her, but the loss hadn’t changed the meaning in her life.

 Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all….

Where had Starsky first heard those words that now haunted his mornings and returned to deepen the ache when he stretched out, alone, in bed at night? He couldn’t remember.

 

December 12, 1979

Hutch had abandoned all hope of communicating with his partner. Christmas spirit spread like brushfire through Bay City, but Starsky’s usual holiday-festive spirit lay dormant under a malaise that showed itself in a strange vow of silence.

This morning Hutch had taken the drastic step of wearing a Santa hat to work, only to watch Starsky’s moderately depressed expression sink into dejection. With a mumbled apology that sounded nothing like him, Starsky left the squad room ostensibly to run an errand for Minnie.

Hutch only had minutes to ponder the situation before Dobey’s door opened, slamming into the wall and silencing all activity in the outer room. Hutch glanced up from his study of the squad room doors and stared into concerned brown eyes. Dobey scanned the room and crooked his finger at Hutch. Knowing he’d feel ridiculous walking into his superior’s office wearing the Santa hat, Hutch quickly removed the holiday fashion statement, flinging it over his shoulder in the direction of his chair as he followed Dobey into the inner sanctum.

~*~

Dobey gestured wordlessly at the chair, shut the door and, deviating from his normal pattern, leaned against it as if determined to protect their privacy with his very bulk.

“I want to know what the hell is wrong with Starsky. He hasn’t spoken three words together in a sentence–except regarding strictly police business–to any of us in days. No putting his feet on my desk. No stealing my food. No hassling Harper about the coffee. Suddenly I can actually get a candy bar out of the machine. Yesterday I walked in on Minnie teasing him about lovesickness, and Starsky turned whiter than a sugar-donut. I thought it was about time I consulted the expert.”

He watched Hutch forget about posture and appearances. His body demanding the full support of the chair, Hutch extended his legs, let his head hang back wearily, and shaded his eyes with his hand. The actions provided Dobey with more information than a detailed case study from a psychoanalyst, and he took the rare opportunity to study this half of his star team.

Starsky had successfully completed a month of full-time active duty without incident. Hutch had participated in, overseen, arranged, and coached every aspect of his partner’s recovery process following the shooting that could have permanently ended the partnership. As Starsky grew stronger, healed, and miraculously reclaimed many of the attributes he exhibited at twenty-five years old and fresh out of the Academy, Hutch drank from the same elixir, and one by one the effects materialized in his appearance. His leaner, clean-shaven face was bright with a rosy hue absent, some would have said, since his forced encounter with a highly addictive drug. The physical therapist responsible for Starsky’s amazing recovery of mobility, range of motion, and muscular tone had also helped Hutch with exercises that strengthened his quirky back.

Dobey smiled, remembering the day his detectives, as always a team, showed up to face the reinstatement committee. The stunned silence when Starsky and Hutch walked in the room exploded quickly into loud and lengthy applause, and their captain had known the ovation was directed at both of his men. No one on the committee doubted the abilities of the two vigorous men anxiously awaiting the panel’s approval. The meeting lasted ten minutes. Within half an hour, Starsky had his badge and holster and the blessing of the Bay City PD to protect and serve.

Hutch had worn the face of a brand-new father, the smile of a soul promised eternal life, and the spring in his step for once exceeded Starsky’s bounce.

Then, the last two weeks ushered in a change. Starsky arrived at work each morning increasingly worn and distracted, and Hutch seemed to age a little more with each decrease in Starsky smiles on any given day. At first Dobey had followed the phenomena as an interested but uninvolved observer. Their work performance and partnership hadn’t suffered, so he found no justification for prying into their affairs.

However lenient he was with unorthodoxy when it produced results, Dobey didn’t sit quietly when gears slipped in the well-oiled machine that comprised the men under his command. Though he would never admit it under electric shock or water torture, Dobey had always suspected that Metro Division owed its reputation for enthusiasm and camaraderie to the snap-and-spark Starsky-Hutchinson partnership. The last few days of icy darkness permeating the entire squad room gave him evidence in support of that theory.

“I–I think,” Hutch finally spoke, too softly, his voice a pale imitation of the usually confident tone, “Oh, hell. We’ve been so focused on his physical recovery, so intent on passing all the medical tests and blowing the doctors’ diagnoses out of the water that we haven’t paid attention to his internal scars. I could be way off base here, but I think now they’re exacting their due. Somehow…he’s just not h-happy.” The final break in Hutch’s voice spoke of emotion threatening the rigid control he’d developed since that horrific morning in May.

“You talk to him about it?” Dobey decided his damn desk might be able to pose more insightful questions than the one that now hung in the air ashamed of its own stupidity. Hutch merely offered one uplifted eyebrow and a barely noticeable shrug that packed more force than a backhanded slap. Dobey sucked in sharply. “You haven’t?”

“I’ve tried,” Hutch snapped, the throaty baritone revived by irritation and despair, his abrupt return to a professional posture in the chair indicative of desire to wall-in his private worries. “We haven’t had a multiple-sentence, meaningful conversation in ten days. I haven’t seen him like this since his third week out of the hospital when we hit a rough patch in the recovery. Even then he didn’t go ‘all quiet on the western front’. No matter how severe the bronchitis, he managed to croak paragraphs of speech at me whenever I was in the room.”

“You think it might have a physical cause? You’ve been on the streets with him. Any hesitation, pain, or difficulty keeping pace? Psychological? Signs of shellshock? After…what he went through, that would be understandable–”

“Geez, Captain, that’s a more stringent interrogation than the reinstatement committee gave us. And I can answer all your questions in the negative. He endured a recovery from the lower pit of Hell, but he acts like he shed ten years. Physically, he’s in great shape. On the surface, everything is normal except for that damn silence. Hell, he’s even gone running with me several times this past week, but he talked as much as my socks. Came over to my place last night hauling all the fixings for a homemade spaghetti dinner. I can list for you the words out of his mouth. He said, ‘You out of oregano?’; ‘Pass the salt.’; ‘Need more sauce?’ and ‘How about we catch some of that Jimmy Stewart Western marathon on channel 6?’ in that order. Didn’t even whisper anything else the entire evening. Does that answer your questions, Captain?”

Dobey shifted his eyes from the pain and fear screaming at him in appallingly calm shades of light blue. “You think he’s talked to anyone else?”

Hutch laughed out loud, the sound devoid of amusement: the kind of laughter usually succeeded by racking sobs in a weaker person than Hutchinson. “Someone professional, you mean?”

“Yes; why not?”

~*~

Hutch sank forward and rested his elbows on his knees, hanging his head and staring into his corduroy lap. The grass stain from a recent pick-up football game in the park didn’t whisper any words of wisdom to him.

 I held him in my arms and rocked him when his joints reacted to the aggressive physical therapy and made him feel like a rheumatic eighty-year old. We wrote this stupid little song together that we sang whenever he felt the overwhelming need to cry, so he wouldn’t have to shed tears he couldn’t handle. This time he won’t let me breach the inner circle of his pain. Do you think if I can’t get a full sentence out of him, some stranger with a damn wall full of diplomas that don’t mean shit to Starsky will crack the code?

Aloud, he said, “Come on, Captain, you know Starsky.” He looked up from the grass stain and saw Dobey’s repetitive swallowing, strained jaw, and hands folded tight over his expansive girth. The subtle signals of deep concern in his superior officer induced a lump in Hutch’s throat. He turned his eyes to the window behind the captain’s desk.

“I’d better get back out there. Starsky won’t be too fond of us having a private chat about his personal problems.”

“Hutchinson, you let me know the minute you get anything concrete out of him. So far the two of you are working as efficiently together as you did five years ago. No slip in your performance. Until that changes I can’t force his hand or sideline him to see that he gets his issues straightened out. But I know something is wrong and I don’t like sending one of my men into the field with unresolved personal problems. Emotional handicaps can be as deadly as decreased speed and reaction time. Do you catch my meaning?”

Hutch filled the silence with another uneasy sigh and rose to his feet in stages, sitting up in the chair, brushing the hair out of his eyes, rubbing his knees as if to ask their permission to unfold and stretch. “Since when have you been anything but straight-forward, Captain? If I have any flashes of inspiration, or he does me the honor of opening up, I’ll type you a damn report, okay?”

“Hutch, I just want to help.”

“And I just want him happy again!” Hutch winced when his shout emerged strangled, hoarse.

Dobey stepped aside; opened the door. Hutch shook his head, smiled a sheepish apology in passing, and returned to his desk, feeling the eyes of his captain on his back for a full minute until the door closed with a snick. After that, he felt sympathetic stares from the uniformed officers working on their reports. Oh, for God’s sake. He knew he might as well offer his head to a dragon for lunch, but he couldn’t talk himself out of going in search of Starsky in R&I.

To Hutch’s wary, sputtering amazement, he didn’t get a reprimand for hovering or caustic remarks about leashes. Starsky greeted his worried partner in the hall with a smile pitiful in its lack of life and suggested they stop for lunch before patrolling their territory. Hutch patted Starsky’s sweater-soft stomach in a gesture of old times, overwhelmed by the healing heat that rushed through his veins when Starsky seemed to lean into the friendly touch, the corners of the lifeless smile lifting slightly and matched by an answering grin on Hutch’s face.

Lunch was comfortably peaceful if not a laugh riot, but the rest of their shift offered no distractions, and the unusual silence nearly mutated into quiet hostility on the ride to Starsky’s apartment. Hutch tapped the steering wheel in a relentless cadence until Starsky’s hand hovered just above the fingers, warning of a rap on the knuckles if the annoying activity didn’t stop.

When Hutch pulled in front of Starsky’s place, the passenger mumbled a request that they drive in separately the next morning and departed the car with the speed of escaping a timed explosion. Hutch’s grip on the steering wheel gave way. He slipped forward without bothering to check his movement, pressing his forehead into the upper curve of wheel, turning his head for a view of the apartment. During his customary wait for the lights to go on in Starsky’s apartment, he released a string of curses that didn’t really vent any of his anger. The apartment lights had flashed on and stayed on for at least five solid minutes before he drove away.

On the way to Venice, a route he could have driven blindfolded and wearing earmuffs, he considered the one possibility that he could not offer Dobey by way of explanation for his partner’s metamorphosis. Had Starsky noticed an alteration in Hutch’s behavior pattern over the last couple of months and finally interpreted the cause with his unerring instinct?

Hutch’s social calendar had followed his physical appearance in time travel to 1975, filled with dates in a quantity unheard of for him in the last several years, but the women who occupied his nights and weekends had nothing to do with a desire for female company. Their presence in his life stemmed from one evening sharing kitchen chores with Starsky.

His fast-food loving partner had actually tackled a recipe book and wrestled it into submission, producing a lamb dish that shocked Hutch speechless through most of the meal. His stunned appreciation lingered while he and Starsky washed and dried the dishes side by side, but that sensation got blasted into nonexistence by his desperate need to adjust his jeans. He’d boned up at the sight of his fully clothed, whistling partner engaged in a commonplace domestic activity! That slammed home the import of his feelings with the impact of a train collision. Fiercely repressing his instinct to shove Starsky against the sink, run sudsy hands through his curly hair, and bend him backward in a kiss, Hutch had complained of a headache and left Starsky with the rest of the cleanup.

The very next evening Hutch called the first of his “celibate” one night stands: women he wined, dined, took to plays or movies, met for drinks in a bar, but did not bed. They provided him with a safety shield while he worked feverishly to self-lobotomize the erotic feelings for Starsky. But he was no lying lover. He would not take love–even casual affection–when he couldn’t return it. He would not take advantage of women beyond asking them to share otherwise empty hours.

Hutch arrived at Venice Place and parked in his usual spot, sitting in the still twilight and analyzing Starsky’s recent behavior. Starsky’s wits were both sharp and quick. Quite possibly, he’d seen through the whole sham and had picked apart Hutch’s motives.

Was Starsky’s reaction to the discovery of Hutch’s hidden feelings this unnerving combination of sadness and silence? Was Starsky digging a foxhole and waiting for the first shell blast rather than confronting his partner to discuss the subject? Letting his inability to deal with Hutch on those terms affect his treatment of everyone in the precinct?

A terrifying thought gave Hutch pause as he opened the outer door to Venice Place. Was Starsky finally listening to rumors about the blond half of the famous partnership that had nipped at Hutch’s heels throughout his career as a cop? Rumors that were now, ironically, well founded? Hutch climbed the stairs in the amount of time he could normally run a mile and let himself into his apartment. The stone weight in his chest teetered dangerously close to crushing his heart.

 

December 12, 1979
9:00 PM

Starsky sat in front of a model ship in progress and drained the can of beer, lost in the waking, nightmare-grip of a spirit that had been his roommate for over a week. A filmy, tulle veil always obscured her features, and the style of gown she wore, an off-the-shoulder candlelight satin affair with cream velvet piping, never varied. Only the color and length of her hair shifted along with the method of her disappearance.

The bride with straight, honey-brown hair flung a bottle of liquor against the wall and collapsed in a heap of satin as shattered glass rained to the floor. The woman with soft, chestnut curls sank to her knees and disappeared to the backdrop sound of a gunshot. A tall, thin blonde merely waved repeatedly, backing slowly away into nothingness. A fourth, ridiculously, wore sunglasses over the tulle veil. She laughed and removed the glasses, instantly vanishing. Sometimes one came to visit. Other nights he watched the disappearing acts of all four.

Like tonight.

As the blonde lifted her hand in the final wave, Starsky destroyed the tedious work of three weeks’ spare time in one howling arm brush across the table, cracking the delicate woodwork of the nineteenth-century clipper’s masts. He walked away, leaving the entire project in ruins on the floor to keep company with the empty beer cans.

The bedroom offered him no comfort because someone had maliciously erected a tombstone at the foot of his bed. Here Lies David Starsky: Beloved of None, Mourned by None, Forgotten. He kicked viciously at the monument only to have his foot connect painfully with the bed frame.

His first impulse was to call Hutch, but he gave the bedside phone the same consideration he would offer a coiled, hissing rattler. No, his new-and-improved, healthy partner would only scold him for demolishing a six-pack in solitude and hallucinating phantom brides and intangible grave markers. Starsky stripped down to boxers and curled up on top of the covers, hugging his abdomen with intensity more common to preventing blood loss from a gaping wound.

The night hours crawled past mercilessly, providing him no escape in sleep, and by morning the forces at war inside his head poised for nuclear attack. He called Dobey, his voice so raw and raspy that the captain ordered him to take a sick-day before he got the request out of his mouth.

Stumbling through to the kitchen with the vague notion of coffee’s soothing warmth, Starsky noticed the telephone directory on the table. Too heavy to go the way of the ship, the book had remained open, askew, pages fluttering in a breeze of unknown origin. Approaching the book, he trolled his memory for the purpose in its presence. Oh, yeah: he’d needed to look up the number for that new hobby shop, after he came up short on two ship pieces the kit neglected to include.

The page that greeted him when he reached for the book to return it to its proper location said nothing of hobby shops. One multicolored ad attracted his attention solely because it dwarfed the other black-and-white entries. “Drs. A. and E. Romano, Relationship Therapists. Miramar Square, Pacific View Boulevard, Bay City. For a free introductory consultation, call 555-8976.”

He laughed out loud, a grating, bitter sound that would’ve shocked the hell out of Hutch. Relationship Therapists! Relationships. Wasn’t that his problem? No. His problem was lack thereof.  His real problem? He couldn’t form a lasting bond with any of four veiled females who died, walked away, or laughed at him every night.

 

December 13, 1979
9:30 AM

Starsky watched the flight of mated sea gulls over the white-capped waves and catalogued the inventory of his internal resources. His supply of patience wouldn’t fill a teacup, but his determination remained virtually untapped. He’d made the phone call just an hour ago. He had an appointment with Dr. E. Romano at eleven a.m.

The sea breeze carried the calls of the gulls to him, their screeches seemingly forming words just on the edge of his hearing.

 You know I love you… but our tastes in wheels don’t exactly match.

 You know I love you, I understand what you’re going through, I love your caring, but man, I just think it’s a bum rap to wash your life down the drain on a guilt trip.

 You know I love you, but I’m not going to let you weasel out of this P.T. session.

 You know I love you, but….

 I love you BUT….

Starsky clenched his fists, shoved his fisted hands into his pockets despite the characteristic tightness of his jeans, and kicked a spray of sand for the hell of it, turning back for the walk to his car. Maybe Dr. Eros could point him in the direction of a love relationship that didn’t require conjunctive qualifiers.

 

December 13, 1979
9:45 AM

“Hutchinson!”

Hutch winced and set down the empty coffee mug, his taste and need for coffee less important than preventing another bellow reverberating around his weary head. He poked his head in the doorway and said, “Yeah, Captain?”

“You’re late!”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, I called it in. My car broke down on Fifth. Had to tow and wait on an officer to pick me up.”

Dobey’s expression gentled. “Get yourself some reliable wheels, Hutch. Why don’t you buy a new car for a change? There are some really nice 1980 models out.”

Hutch smiled, aiming for wry. “Yes, sir, Captain, I’ll let you know when I win the lottery.”

Dobey’s exasperated frown reappeared. “Hutch, the city does pay you.”

“Right. I’ll, uh, look into the matter, Captain, and meanwhile my current car will be fixed by tomorrow. Just talked to Merle on the phone and he promised.” Hutch gestured behind him at the squad room. “Where’s Starsky?”

“Called in sick this morning.”

“Funny: he didn’t call me.”

“Asked me to tell you when you got in,” Dobey said, not quite looking him in the eye. Hutch stared, mouth slightly open. Dobey sighed. “Take a squad car or an unmarked job out of the motor pool and go check on him if you want. Then get back here ready for work!”

Hutch saluted with finger tap against his temple. “Aye, aye, Captain. See you in a few.”

He decided he liked the late-model Buick he signed out of the motor pool, and enjoyed the drive over to Starsky’s apartment. His mood hit the skids when he noticed the absence of the indestructible Torino. Taking the outdoor steps in two full-length strides, Hutch banged on the door out of courtesy before he pulled out his spare key.

The emptiness had a morbid overtone, Hutch reflected, then called himself a melodramatic idiot. So Starsky wasn’t here. So what? He might have developed a cold. He could easily have driven to the nearby drugstore for a basketful of over-the-counter remedies and a large supply of chocolate. Wouldn’t be the first time Starsky called in sick just to have some time to himself. He did it only in the most pressing of circumstances, but that didn’t mean he was in danger.

Calming his drive to track down and protect his partner, Hutch wandered farther into the living room and noticed a completed, painted ship on the floor. He scratched his chin. A trireme? He hadn’t known Starsky was interested in ancient Greek ships. Hadn’t Starsky just recently bought the kit for an impressive clipper? He lifted the small vessel from the floor and carefully set it on the table by the closed phone book. With a lonely sigh, he told himself in two languages to avoid the bedroom, but his feet carried him in that direction of their own accord.

The bed sucked him in like a whirlpool. He satisfied his craving by sitting on the side where he knew Starsky slept. For a minute that sufficed, and then he found himself clutching Starsky’s pillow, face buried in the material, breathing in the scents his dick, brain, and heart all agreed signified passion and devotion.

“Oh, God,” he breathed raggedly. “Oh, Starsk. Starsky.”

Ten minutes later he left the apartment and returned to work. Not two minutes after Hutch burst through the squad room doors, Dobey shouted, “Hutchinson!”

He rolled his eyes, repeated a mantra of patience, and walked over to Dobey’s open door, “Yeah, Captain?”

“How is he?”

Hutch looked over Dobey’s head at the window blinds for inspiration. Finally, he crossed his fingers behind his back. “Ah, you know, Captain. Big baby as usual when he’s only got a little head cold. He’ll be up and around by nightfall, just wait and see.”

Dobey nodded. “Good. Maybe that means I’ll actually get some work out of you today.”

 

December 13, 1979
11:00 AM

Starsky stood in the marble and crystal foyer of the therapists’ office and whistled in appreciation. Whoever these docs were, Starsky probably couldn’t afford more than the free initial consultation. Actually, come to think of it, he hadn’t realized that therapists offered free first consultations. Wasn’t that a legal practice?

A tall, slender redhead dressed in layers of white velvet offered a perfectly manicured hand and brilliant smile. “You must be Detective Starsky. Dr. Eros’s eleven o’clock?”

“Dr. Eros?”

“Yes. Dr. Eros Romano?”

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky said, feeling his head spin with the music in her voice, his lips curving instinctively in a come-on smile. She met his eyes squarely, caressing his hand with her fingertips before withdrawing to lead him across the empty waiting room to a closed door.

“I’m his only patient this morning?” Starsky glanced at the vacant, lushly upholstered seats.

She smiled. “Yes. Dr. Eros is alone in the office today, and his next appointment isn’t until two this afternoon. You’ll have plenty of privacy and no distractions.”

Starsky looked away from her knowing eyes, flushing at the implication that he was here to discuss intensely personal topics. What else does a guy discuss with a therapist but personal issues, Starsky laughed at himself. “Terrific.”

The redheaded beauty left him in a large, airy room divided in the middle by Grecian columns. Starsky rejected the feminine cream velvet fainting couch in favor of a white leather armchair with ottoman. The massive carved marble desk caught and held his attention until the door opened. Starsky thought his jaw might actually connect with the tops of his sneakers.

Tall, willow slim, and golden-haired, the doctor had the clearest blue eyes Starsky had ever seen except in one very familiar face. The resemblance grew fuzzy from there, but Starsky unzipped his windbreaker to combat an inexplicable stuffiness in the room. The therapist removed his dark blue suit jacket, draped it over the fainting couch, and sat casually behind the desk, kicking back in the chair and propping his feet up on his desk planner with a bright smile.

“Detective Starsky, good morning,” he said, his tone clipped, regal, yet strangely inviting.
Starsky sat up straighter in the chair. He opened his mouth to ask a question but decided against it. Dr. Romano smiled. “Now, Detective, you have to feel comfortable in here. That is our primary objective. Why don’t we begin by calling each other by our first names? I’m Eros.”

“David,” Starsky answered.

“Well, David, I’d like you to ask me anything on your mind.”

Starsky decided those eyes were hypnotic blue lasers targeting the depth of his soul. “I–you look too young–” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t shrink back against the chair or turn his eyes. He assumed his interrogation posture and folded his arms across his midsection, tapping his wrist with the rings on his opposite pinky finger.

Eros’s smile changed, and Starsky’s mind flashed briefly on climbing vines and prosperous fields, the strains of blues by moonlight, and the scent bottled sunshine might have. “I got an early start, but I’d venture a guess that I’m not nearly as young as you think. Any other questions before we start our talk?”

“The other Dr. Romano is a relative?”

“You certainly do your profession credit, David,” Eros answered without a hint of sarcasm in his kind expression. “Yes; my mother and I share this practice.”

“Why do you only list your last name in the directory?” Starsky raised his eyebrows with that question, his detective’s nose eager to sniff out any hint of something shady.

Eros laughed out loud. “You’ll find this hilarious, I’m sure. We simply couldn’t advertise our full names. My mother’s parents were antiquarians and named her Aphrodite. In a fit of familial spirit, my mother decided to continue the tradition when I was born. Could you imagine people taking seriously two relationship therapists who advertise themselves as Aphrodite and Eros…especially a mother and son pair?”

Starsky flipped through his mental rolodex of trivia and little-known facts until he came to the Greco-Roman mythology section. He chuckled. “Yeah. I get your point.”

“Now that we’ve laid your concerns to rest, would you like to tell me what prompted you to seek relationship counseling? Are you currently involved with someone? Or is this a non-romantic, family issue? We do deal with more than just battles between the sexes.” Eros’s soft laugh at his own joke floated through the room, swirling around Starsky, who caught a whiff of granola and fresh fruit.

He kicked back in the armchair and crossed his legs, right ankle propped on his left knee. “No, this is the whole love thing. Been on a few dates over the last few months, but nothing promising. I guess that’s my problem.”

“I see. I believe you’re the detective who has returned to the police force after an extended medical leave?” At Starsky’s incredulous expression, Eros nodded. “I try to stay abreast of important current events. One never knows when such knowledge might prove useful.”

“Yeah, I was shot back in May. Touch and go for a couple months. Long recovery. Been on active duty a month now. I’ve had the time of my life being back at work…and then, I dunno…I just started feeling like there’s a big hole somewhere. Looking back and analyzing everything I’ve done or said in my relationships…which isn’t like me. I’m wondering if something isn’t wrong with me, keeping me from…having someone serious and steady in my life.”

“Was there a special person in your life during that time following your attack?”

Starsky smiled. “Yeah, my partner. Hutch. He practically sewed himself to me. If he weren’t a couple inches taller, I’da sworn I grew a second shadow.”

Eros’s expression resumed its probing intensity as he leaned forward. “Let me rephrase my question. Was there someone of a romantically special nature in your life before or after the shooting?”

Starsky felt his smile sag. He looked at the columns for guidance, but they stood cold and aloof. The suit coat on the fainting couch refused to help. “No one special after. Someone before. Not important.”

“David. If you hide pieces of yourself, I won’t be able to help you make sense of the whole puzzle. Are you able to solve cases effectively when witnesses leave out important details?”

“Point taken.” Starsky took a deep breath and related the events involving Kira. Eros listened, drumming fingertips on his sculpted chin.

When Starsky’s narration faded into silence, Eros smiled his approval. “Very good, David. I can tell that wasn’t easy for you. So, you feel this Kira hurt you? Would you say, in the vernacular, that she ‘broke your heart’?”

“No. Wounded my pride, yeah. Made me mad. She didn’t hurt me. He hurt me. What we had between the two of us was so much bigger’n what me and Kira–”

“Yet you told him you loved her.”

Starsky shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Yeah. That was kinda stupid, I’ve realized. Actually, Doc–I mean, Eros, I think this was already going on back then.”

“This? I’m not following you.”

“This throbbing ache inside that makes me want to find someone–almost anyone–who can be the one, you know? Fill up that big hole. I thought I could make Kira into that person.”

“By the one, I’m assuming that you mean a life-mate. A spouse.”

“Yeah.”

“David, have you and your partner ever been romantically involved?”

Heat flooded Starsky’s face, until he knew his cheeks had to match the red chevrons on his green Christmas sweater, his only concession so far to the holiday season. “No, ‘course not.”

“Why do you say, of course not?” In contrast to the blunt question, Eros had a kind, gentle voice, open, questioning face, relaxed body posture.

Starsky’s discomfort eased somewhat, but he frowned nevertheless. “Just don’t go that route.” He’d said it before; the words should work again.

Eros smiled. “Haven’t ever, don’t, or won’t?”

Starsky’s frown deepened into a wary scowl. “Look, Doc, is this really normal? Asking me about my sexual preferences?”

“Normal for a relationship therapist, yes. Wouldn’t you say your sexual identity has a lot to do with building relationships, contributing to trouble within relationships, et cetera?”

Starsky sighed. “Yeah, right. This is your turf. You know the lay of the land. Look, I’ve tried stuff, okay? Way back. You don’t go the places I’ve been and come away without experimenting. Hell, ‘Nam was just one great big jungle laboratory, all right, and us grunts were the rats. Sexual exploration wasn’t the only thing going down over there. So, yeah, I’ve walked that side of the street a coupla times. When I landed back in the real world, I went back to just women and I’ve been happy to stay there. Plan on staying there. Does that answer your question?”

“Based on your body language and tone of voice, I’d say that experimentation was a traumatic experience for you. Perhaps we should discuss that.”

“No! Look, I knew this was a mistake. Thanks for the appointment, but I’m leaving now.” Starsky rose quickly, but Eros coaxed him back into the chair with a smile that soothed him beyond words, a smile he was certain he’d seen before.

“My professional instinct is to probe a part of your life that resulted in such unresolved pain, but I think continuing our discussion is far more important. We’ll work into the more difficult areas later. Right now I’d like to know how you would describe your current relationship with your partner. Have you resolved your differences?”

“Can I ask what this has to do with me finding a…what word did you use…life-mate?”

Eros nodded. “Unresolved interpersonal relationship issues can impede your ability to offer someone romantic love, David. I find it fascinating that you like the word ‘life-mate’. Interesting that you don’t say ‘wife.'”

Starsky laughed. “Hey, I can be a liberated man. Women might even dig that ‘life-mate’ terminology with all these new ideas about marriage floating around.”

“You still haven’t answered my question about Hutch, David.”

Starsky stared down at his shoes and contemplated the benefits of purchasing a new pair of sneakers. The silence in the room turned into a living entity and stalked him. He looked up into a crystal blue gaze. He knew that look. Suddenly he was sitting in the chair in his apartment.

 How’s it going?

What you been doing?

Starsky, what’s going on?

You know, I’ve had more intelligent conversations with a turtle.

“Hutch is my best friend, but that’s an understatement. Sometimes I think there’s more of him in me now than me in me. Yeah, we got over the Kira crap. He’s the reason I’m a cop again. Wouldn’t have made it without him. I haven’t been talkin’ to him–or anyone–lately ’cause I got all this junk in my head about dying alone, and I can’t shake this chill I’ve been walking around in for days. But there’s nothing else wrong between us.”

“Dying alone? A chill? Would you explain what you mean by that?”

Starsky launched into a description of his sleepless nights, nightmares, waking visions, and overall depression, while Eros scribbled notes on a legal pad.

“These women, the bride figures? Do you recognize them? Are they women you were seriously committed to at some point?”

“You could say that for at least two of them. The other two–if they’re who I think they are–might have turned into something special, but, uh, circumstances kept us from even getting off the ground.”

“Why don’t you outline your history with each of these women for me? Starting with the most serious relationship and continuing in order of declining importance.”

Once again Eros scribbled while Starsky stammered his way through a choked-up monologue on his time with Terry, pounded fists rhythmically on his knees as he described his abandonment by Rosey Malone, and concluded with information about Sharman and Emily.

Eros’s next question caught Starsky off guard. “David, what would you say is more important to you: happiness or convention?”

“I don’t follow you,” Starsky said, brow furrowed.

“Are you looking for someone to complete you as a person, or are you more interested in fulfilling an ideal, a conventional relationship you may have been told to seek, or may have decided on your own is the only option?”

“You mean…do I want a woman who matches me, or am I just lookin’ for someone to plug into the wife, house, kids, and household pets equation?”

Eros laughed. “In essence.”

“Before this year, I might’ve said–no, I probably would’ve said I just wanted a perfect fit and screw the conventional scenario, but I’da been lying. Now, I mean it when I say I just want that person in my life regardless of how unusual our relationship might turn out. Like kids, for instance. I’m not as hung up on that. If I met someone and she didn’t want kids, I could handle that. Not a problem. The kind of cop I am doesn’t leave much time for fatherhood. Not real, dedicated fatherhood. I know that now. My pop did a good job, but even he had trouble at times before he died, and he wasn’t even an undercover cop. I’ll be lucky enough if I can find an adult who’ll want to put up with my lifestyle. I don’t have to force kids to live with it.”

Over the next half hour, Eros probed Starsky’s childhood, his relationships with his parents and brother, and questioned his beliefs regarding love. Finally, Eros stood and stretched, adjusted his colorful tie, and leaned against one of the columns, focusing intent, determined eyes on Starsky.

“David, let me ask you something vital. Just how much does all this mean to you? How crucial is finding this one person above all others? Where does it rank on your list of priorities?”

Starsky briefly covered his face with his hands, blew into his palms, and pushed the hands back through his hair. “I feel like I’m on a collision course with something beyond me. I can’t go on much longer feeling like this. It’s gonna affect my work. Even worse, it’ll put distance between Hutch and me. I can’t…I can’t afford that. You understand?”

“Perfectly.” Eros had a smile for him. “You, David Starsky, have reached the point at which you are concerned about your quality of life. Next question. Do you trust me?”

Starsky coughed and tugged on his earlobe. Eros’s words transformed in his brain, the voice whispering them no longer the psychologist’s. Who do we trust? His own inner voice answered: Same as always. Me and thee. 

“Yes.”

“Do you trust me enough that, if I give you simple instructions and promise that if you follow them, you’ll have the life-mate you so desperately need, you’ll believe me and accept my help?”

“Who are you?”

Eros grinned. “You know, David, your being here today tells me you don’t really care who I am. You’re interested in results, not the origin of those results. At any rate, what’s so amazing about my proposition? Men place personal ads all the time or go out on blind dates set up by buddies who have no idea what they really need in a life-long relationship. Why is what I propose so difficult to swallow compared to that?”

“Well, when you put it that way….”

“Third question. Do you believe that in a lifelong couple there exist one soul and one heart…and while they are apart, until they’ve found each other, one carries the soul and one carries the heart and neither are complete?”

Starsky smiled. “God, I’d love to believe in that. Used to be, I’da laughed at you. But now, after where I’ve been and what I’ve seen? God, yeah, I wanna believe you.”

The soft answering smile on Eros’s face made room for the piercing gaze. “Do you trust me to find that heart, that love, to go with the soul you carry?”

Who do we trust? Like always. Me and thee. “Yeah.” Starsky paused. “Look, why don’t you tell me what I’m gonna owe for this? Any papers I have to sign in my own blood?”

Eros laughed out loud. “Remember that advertisement, David? Free initial consultation. If our experiment is successful, you won’t need to see me again. And, no, I’ll be drawing no blood. You must accept that some things in this world are done out of innocent benevolence.”

“Okay. Sign me up. What do I have to do?”

“I’ll give you an address. Starting tonight, I want you to spend your nights there for one week. You can be anywhere you need to be during the day, but when you’re ready for sleep, you should go to this address without fail for seven nights. Is that clear so far?”

“Um, look, you know I’m a cop. I got people who need to know how to reach me.”

“You can give a contact number to your superior, but your partner can know nothing of this.”

“Wait a minute. I can’t keep this from Hutch. It’ll drive him crazy if he needs to get hold of me and can’t find me.”

“David, I asked you where this need ranks on your priority list. Has your answer changed?”

“No,” Starsky said grudgingly, scuffing his feet on the floor.

“Good. Once you’re at this address, you go straight to the bedroom and sleep, read, or play Solitaire. Amuse yourself any way you like, but you cannot under any circumstances leave the room until daylight. If your captain calls with a police emergency, there is an outside exit in your bedroom. Use it. Do not return to the living room once you’ve shut yourself away, understand?”

“Crystal clear. But why?”

“Your heart, your life-mate, will come to you each night. You’ll feel the presence, feel wrapped up in the love, but you cannot look on the physical form of your spouse-to-be during those special hours until a week has passed. The physical form will rest on the sofa in the living room, keeping guard over your soul. Don’t question the instructions. Accept them at face value.”

“Man, she must be something else!” Starsky grinned, anticipation quickening his blood flow and warming him, eating at the inner chill.

“You’ll know in a week. Do you accept the terms of our agreement?”

“Cops deal with rules all the time, and we know what happens when they get broken. What’s gonna happen if I break your rules?”

“Simple. If you look upon the physical form of your life-mate during those night hours before the week is up, you’ll lose that heart forever.”

“Jesus. So we’re dealing with a capital offense here?”

“Basically.”

 

Part Two: Discovery

December 13, 1979
12:30 PM

Starsky left Miramar Square feeling like he’d won a tax-free, ten-million-dollar super lotto. Without analyzing the accompanying urge to be in his partner’s company, he turned the Torino toward Metro. Spending the day with Hutch would ease the bite of his curiosity and impatience to see what changes the night could make in his life. The brilliant afternoon sun, warm even in the middle of December, couldn’t match the fire of hope igniting every inch of his body. Grateful for the beautiful weather, he rolled his window down, turning the radio on and singing along to the most upbeat song he could find.

The street-wise and nearly impossible to con part of his brain yelled at him to pull over and rethink his acceptance of the crazy scheme. Yeah, blind dates. He’d gone on a few to please his sense of adventure in the romance arena. But personal ads? That was a completely different and less appetizing taco. He’d always felt deep pity for people reduced to laying their hearts on the line in a newspaper column or the back pages of a tabloid. Yet, here he was, going out even farther on a limb than that. The limb he clung to now had a crack at the other end over a freefall into a swamp alive with alligators. He finally listened to the howling of his conscience. Why had he linked Eros’s offer with such violent danger? The whole idea was to promote love: innocent benevolence, Eros had said in no uncertain terms.

 If you look upon the physical form of your life-mate during those night hours before the week is up, you’ll lose that heart forever.

Starsky shook off the nagging discomfort like a dog frustrated with bath water and lounged in the seat, driving with one hand flat-palmed against the lower curve of the steering wheel. This is gonna be great!

~*~

Starsky blew into the squad room, a fresh spring breeze after a long winter, and the officers involved in their various tasks glanced up with shared expressions that told him his cold silences had been the subject of station gossip.

The door to Dobey’s office opened. Starsky inhaled jerkily at the joy and relief on Hutch’s face. He cocked his head in his best speculative stare. “Where’s your Santa hat, partner? Suited you.”

He expected a snide remark and a semi-nasty look, but Hutch merely ducked back into Dobey’s office, reaching, Starsky could tell, in the general vicinity of Dobey’s coat and hat rack, and when he emerged from the office, he brought to life L. Frank Baum’s idea of a young, svelte Claus. Starsky covered his mouth and bit back a snort of laughter.

Hutch lifted one index finger and shook his head. “You wanted it. You got it. No comments from the peanut gallery. Can’t believe I’m wearing this damn thing.”

“Don’t worry, Hutch. Wearin’ a Santa hat two days in a row won’t make you part of the overall diseased consumerist lifestyle of post-modern America.”

“Not used to those big words are you, Starsk?”

“Starsky!” Dobey bellowed. Starsky cringed.

Hutch whistled, twiddling his thumbs, but when Starsky walked by, glaring, Hutch snagged his elbow and whispered, “Head cold.”

Starsky flashed him a neon smile and dashed into the office.

“I see you’ve decided to join the other honest, hardworking souls around here,” Dobey commented with his mouth a few inches removed from a dripping roast beef sandwich.

Starsky tried not to ogle the sandwich and ignored the reference to honesty. “Yeah, Cap’n. Not dying or anything drastic. Figured I could come and get some real police work done around here for a change.”

Dobey coughed and lowered his sandwich. “What’d you recover from so quickly?”

He met Dobey’s gaze head-on. “Aw, you know…one of those head things.” He sniffled and stroked his forehead. “But I got bored hanging out in bed.”

“So you’re going to give it to all of us, thanks, Starsky. When one of my men is sick, I expect him to stay home and fully recover before he puts himself out on the street.”

“Don’t worry, Cap’n. I’ll try not to get too close to Hutch’s face–”

“Heard that!” yelled Hutch with indignation from the squad room.

Starsky didn’t miss a beat, “–and we’ll be out on our rounds, so I won’t leave the station full of germs.  Okay?”

Dobey seemed to decide his sandwich required his full attention. Waving one plump hand, he growled, “Yeah. Get on out there.”

Starsky backed away from the desk and swiveled when he reached the door. Words halted him. “Glad you’re feeling better, Starsky.”

Knowing Dobey meant more than a cold, he smiled over his shoulder. “Thanks, Cap’n.”

~*~

Hutch lowered the file he was reading for a good look at Starsky’s pleased smirk. “I don’t know how you get away with half the things–” he began when Dobey’s door closed.

“Couldn’t without you,” Starsky said brightly, and Hutch had to fight to keep his eyes open under the rush of affection sweeping over him. Starsky edged closer and lowered his voice, “‘Sides, how do you know I’m not really sick with something?”

“You don’t have that adorable little ‘Why me?’ pout.”

Starsky laughed, eyes teasing. “Adorable, huh?”

“Just how did you miss the sarcasm in that sentence?” Hutch deadpanned. Starsky slapped him on the back. “Also because I went by your place and you weren’t there.” He gave Starsky a hard look that asked questions he couldn’t voice out loud within a mile radius of Dobey.

Starsky flushed under the scrutiny. “Just out clearing the air. What’s on the agenda?”

With a slight nod to acknowledge his partner’s reticence, Hutch shoved the file folder against Starsky’s chest. “Guess we should try tracking down Luis and see what he’s willing to give us on Cheatham.”

“Do you really think Cheatham’s the one behind that tainted shipment?” Starsky thumbed through the file.

“Best guess we’ve got right now. One way or another, I’d place all bets on Luis knowing more about the shipment’s origin than we do.”

Starsky stuck the folder neatly under Hutch’s arm. “Can’t argue with that logic. All right. Shouldn’t be too hard to find Luis. Let’s go reel him in, Blondie.”

He walked away, scrounging in his pocket for his keys, but paused a few feet away when he didn’t hear the distinctive sound of Hutch’s boots following him. He turned. Hutch stood still, staring into space, folder unnoticed. Starsky clapped his hands. “Hutch? Doors are this way.”

Hutch moved, letting the folder fall to the floor, papers scattering. Starsky observed the humorous stares of their fellow officers and said pointedly, “Hutch, you forget breakfast this morning?” The men laughed and returned to their work and Starsky sidled up to Hutch, kneeling down to help him gather the papers. “What’s up?”

“First time you called me that in eleven days,” Hutch muttered under his breath and snatched the papers out of Starsky’s helpful hands, shoving them into the file with needless force.

“Huh?”

“Blondie,” Hutch clarified, face reddening as he rose and dropped the file on his desk.

Starsky stared.

Hutch shifted his stance with a wince of discomfort and then rushed from the room.

They didn’t catch a glimpse of Luis, but they interrupted an armed robbery in progress at Morty’s Girl-O-Rama and hauled in a stoned vagrant who’d been stalking homeless girls behind one of the auto-parts warehouses in the old industrial district. All in all, a good day’s work, Starsky gloated, feeling at least seven years younger and giving his foot extra leeway on the gas pedal in reward. Hutch accepted the increased speed with indulgent silence and cast a sideways glance at him at every turn.

“Say what’s on your mind, Hutch.”

“You seem in better spirits.”

“Noticed that, huh?” Starsky grinned over at him, knowing he should apologize to Hutch for walking around in the doldrums but uncertain how to proceed.

Hutch looked out the window. “You’ve met someone,” he said flatly. “When? Last night after I dropped you off, or this morning while you were playing hooky?”

Starsky’s head jerked around, the Torino swerving despite his expert instinctive handling. Trust Hutch to grasp the heart of the matter if not the precise reason for his lift in mood. “Why do you say that?” He knew immediately the evasion was a mistake.

“Come on, Starsky. You’re a book I’ve read cover to cover twenty times. You’ve got a classic case of your patented infatuation-itis. Gonna tell me about her?”

Starsky swallowed and mentally cursed Eros. How could the good doc expect him to keep things under his hat for an entire week around the Wizard of Oz? Starsky decided on shy hedging. “Uh…well, I ain’t exactly snagged her yet. Working on it, though. And, man, Hutch, when it all comes together, I think this is gonna be the end of the line. No more one-night stands, near misses.” He offered Hutch a bashful smile.

Hutch’s eyes widened. He gripped his hands in his lap, turning to stare at the road ahead. “Oh? That serious? Do I get a front seat at the nuptials?”

Beyond skilled at one-handed steering, Starsky reached over and tousled Hutch’s hair before grabbing the Santa hat off the seat between them and throwing it in his partner’s lap. “Trust me, when she gives in to my irresistible charms, you’ll have a chance to give her your seal of approval. And you know you’re the only person who’d ever be my best man, Santa.”

Hutch’s gaze moved again from windshield to his window.

“Feeling okay, babe?” Starsky couldn’t see the expression on Hutch’s partially averted face, but he could tell that his eyes were closed.

“Of course,” Hutch answered too quickly, words pushed through tight lips. “I’m fine. Helene’s hosted this endless bash last night. Kept me awake half the night.”

Starsky laughed. “Damn. I should’ve been over at your place. We could’ve crashed the party. Free food. Some Christmas music. Dancing, probably.” Never mind I was battling some freak visions in my apartment last night. That’s all over now. Got to be. This thing with Eros is going to work.

“Sure, Starsky. We would’ve had a blast. The Bay City Gay and Lesbian Association’s holiday banquet would’ve been right up your alley.” Sarcasm sharpened by some emotion Starsky couldn’t identify turned Hutch’s voice into a snarl.

Starsky’s hand faltered on the steering wheel.

The rest of the drive to the station passed in silence.

 

December 13, 1979
8:00 PM

Hutch curled up on his sofa and covered his face with his arms, unable to resist the trembling that spread from his shoulders to his knees and down his legs. He would not call some willing lady tonight and lose himself in meaningless conversation and food he wouldn’t even taste. He was beyond that now. When hearing one of his nicknames for the first time in days could painfully tighten his pants, he should just admit defeat.

He sat up too quickly and swayed with the resulting dizziness, informing his coffee table and the ridiculous cherub statue, “I’m in love with him. So help me God, I’m really in love with him. Haven’t ever even kissed the guy and I’m–”

Damn. Hadn’t courtly love slipped out of vogue with the fall of Arthur and the advent of the Middle Ages? Hutch pictured Starsky in Guinevere’s role opposite his own Lancelot and reveled in a cathartic chuckle when the analogy splintered. The humor subsided as truth ascended. Love. Oh, God. Lust he could combat. Misplaced desire, no problem. Love? He didn’t stand a chance. He preferred another bout of the plague to standing in front of a crowd of people and watching Starsky give his heart…to someone else.

He was amazed by the change in his attitude. Several years ago he’d have given his right kidney and spleen for a chance to watch Starsky’s eyes light up as Terry walked down the aisle. Now the thought of some other woman, however wonderful, replacing her in Starsky’s life left him shuddering. Hutch stretched out again on the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

He wouldn’t survive this.

 

December 13, 1979
9:00 PM

Starsky collected the newspaper, comic book, and novel off the passenger seat and marveled at the seaside house in front of him. What the structure lacked in size, it compensated for with elegance: grey stone with accents of half-timbering and diamond-paned windows, unusual architecture for this geographic location. Well, if he had to be visited by an anonymous lover he couldn’t even see, then he could at least enjoy the comforts of class.

The interior of the house matched the outside level of sophistication. The sofa he should avoid at all costs could comfortably sit five adults. The living room furniture set included wing chairs framing a fireplace suitable for a country estate in Sussex. Starsky wandered around the house to orient himself, ending up in the kitchen where he found a stocked refrigerator and quickly fixed a sandwich and snatched a bag of potato chips from the pantry. He juggled the food, two cans of soda–unwilling to let his guard down with alcoholic consumption–and his reading material as he went in search of the bedroom.

The room made “confinement” a pleasure: expansive, decorated in lovely shades of cream and blue, boasting a bed larger than some efficiency apartments, an arm chair with an afghan throw…and yes, the outdoor exit. Starsky checked out Eros’s claim, reassured when he poked his head into the cooling night air, catching a whiff of salt from the departing tide. With a contented sigh, he returned to his sandwich and ripped open the bag of chips with one hand and his teeth as he spread out the newspaper on the comforter.

One empty bag of chips and cleaned plate later, Starsky yawned and glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. Way too early for sleep, but he’d experienced an unusual warmth and comfort for the last half hour that seemed to be lulling his body into slumber. He dumped his personal possessions in the armchair and turned out the light. The warmth was so complete that he decided to sleep in the nude. He waved away the twinge of uneasiness at the vulnerability of his position and hushed his cop’s instincts. Wrapped in the sheets, a soft blue cotton cocoon, Starsky closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he woke with the sensation of warm lips traveling the curve of his shoulder and descending his left arm. He rolled over as best he could in his cocoon and strained his eyes in the darkness. He saw no one. His heart beat rapidly but his entire body hummed with…joy. Sheer jump-up-and-down joy.

For a moment, the cop in him took over again, leaving him with a sour taste in his mouth and the concern that the food had been spiked somehow with a euphoria-inducing agent. Flinging the covers back, he stayed still, his nudity proudly exposed to whatever phantom shared his room. The lips returned. He could feel them just behind his knee. A whispery voice, unrecognizable in its muted distortion, surrounded him, but the words ran together and though he could pick out one or two, the overall meaning eluded him.

Takeiteasy…easyeasy…yeah,babe,righthere…I’mhererighthere…

Starsky reached out to the emptiness. “I wanna see you. I can feel you, sweetheart.”

A soft chuckle penetrated the darkness, rich in timbre but too distant for Starsky to conjure up a mental image of the woman who produced the sound. Starsky thrilled to the whispery laughter, but thought it odd that his mind’s eye saw only the Venice Canal house and a table spread with blank business cards and stamp pads. Shaking his head slightly, he turned all the way over onto his back and rested his head on his clasped hands. Fingertips danced across his chest….

 YouknowIloveyou….

“I want to know you,” Starsky said in mid-yawn.

 Whoyouknowwhatyouknowandhowyouknowit….

His eyes popped open. Sunlight streamed through the room’s window casting prisms on the wall. Starsky experienced a sense of exhilaration he’d never known, but along with the joy in his refreshed spirit he also knew that he was alone. The presence responsible for his uplift had vacated the premises. That meant it was safe for him to do so as well. He noted the early hour, grateful for a chance to go by his own place for a shower and change of clothing before reporting to work.

 

December 14, 1979
8:00 AM

“Damn, Starsky. You look like you won a trip to Hawaii, met the girl of your dreams, and got an income tax refund in December,” Sergeant Gregory said when Starsky sat down at his desk.

Starsky beamed. “What can I say? Some people just have all the luck.”

Hutch glanced up from his phone call and controlled the urge to cringe at the blatant elation on his partner’s face. If she can take him from the pits of silent Hell into this state of walking sunshine, who am I to wish her out of his life? “Hey, Smiley Face, ready to hit the streets? If we don’t find Luis today, I’m going to pull my hair out.”

“Can’t let that happen,” Starsky laughed, winking. Hutch glared at the implied joke about his fine hair, finer in some hidden spots than others.

Hutch tugged on his lengthy blond strands. “I’ve got plenty to spare, wise guy. You, on the other hand, won’t have, if you keep annoying me. Now get up and let’s go.”

Starsky jumped to his feet, slapped his hands on his hips, and said in a mocking falsetto, batting his generous eyelashes, “Oh, Hutch, I just love it when you boss me around.”

The squad room erupted in laughter. Hutch heard the quick death of the laughter when he flushed and shot out of the squad room. For the second day in a row, he’d left Starsky staring, but that wasn’t the half of it. He had to watch those new knee-jerk reactions. Starsky wouldn’t need linear algebra to figure out why the essentially hard-skinned Hutch, who normally put on a show of being ruffled by Starsky’s teasing but would retaliate by throwing a wad of paper or tapping Starsky on the back of the head, suddenly couldn’t take a joke.

Outside, Hutch sat in the passenger seat of the Torino, fiddling with the tiny moon and stars on his necklace, and avoided looking at the doors Starsky would come through on his way to the car. He didn’t want to see Starsky’s puzzled approach. He didn’t want to hear questions he didn’t have answers for…or answers Starsky couldn’t possibly want. God, if he couldn’t even handle their usual playing around–! Should he cut his losses? Bow out like a man and have Starsky hate him for abandoning their partnership instead of allowing him to endure the pain of discovering that his best friend could want….

His hands all over me, but especially there, gripping me, pumping me, until I have nowhere to go, nothing to do but scream his name. But that’s not all I want. I want to fix him breakfast in bed, sing him to sleep, walk hand in hand with him on the beach and kick at the lapping waves, go to a Dodgers’ game with him and stay seated while everyone’s up during the seventh inning stretch so I can put my hand on his knee without anyone noticing….

“Hey, partner, wanna drive my car?”

Hutch jumped so violently that he nearly banged his head on the roof. He glanced down at the keys now resting in his lap and then up at Starsky, who leaned halfway in the driver’s door and grinned at him.

“Why?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe I’d like bein’ chauffeured around today.”

He decided driving the Torino would at least provide a distraction from Starsky’s nearness, and a reason to concentrate, holding the fantasies at bay. If he hoped to survive the shift, those fantasies had to stay behind closed doors. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Once on the road, Hutch focused on traffic and ideas for tracking down the small-time drug dealer Luis.

“Why don’t we swing by Huggy’s? He might’ve been able to scrounge some info from that friend of his–”

“Yeah.” Hutch turned the steering wheel obediently, swinging through the left turn.

“Hutch? I know I’m kind of a hypocrite asking you this after I acted like a weirdo, but…is something bothering you, buddy?”

“No.” Great. Now I’m lying to him. What next?

“Right. Like there wasn’t anything botherin’ me.”

“Fine. Tell me the secret behind your madness and I’ll tell you mine.”

Peripherally he saw Starsky relax into a more comfortable position, ankle crossed over knee. Starsky idly toyed with the laces on his right sneaker. “I was just lonely, I think. Hey, don’t look like that. You were there for me just like always, much as I let you be, anyway. Don’t think I didn’t notice. It was just a funk. Nothing to do with you.”

The emphasis on the “you” demanded a reciprocal explanation. Hutch cursed himself for counting on Starsky’s continued reluctance to come clean on emotional problems. “I–”

He’d never been so glad to hear the telltale crackling of the radio.

“Zebra-three. Come in, Zebra-three.”

“Zebra-three, over,” Starsky responded.

“Possible sighting of suspect Jose Luis, Monty’s Bar, 5th Street. Informant says to use front entrance.”

“Ten-four. Responding.”

Hutch grimaced. “You know, Starsky, we should’ve closed that joint down years ago when we had a chance.”

“And blow our rep on the street for playing fair?  We ‘forgot’ the address, remember?”

“Yeah,” Hutch sighed. “But if it’s starting to attract really classy specimens like Luis….”

“We’ll close the doors with a padlock,” Starsky finished.

With precision even Starsky could appreciate, Hutch pulled the Torino into the last available parallel spot between a Camaro and a camper-covered pickup truck. He killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and looked up at the sign that still proclaimed in big red letters: Monty’s Girls Cocktails Games. “You think they could have changed their sign in over four years.”

Starsky smiled. “Why fix what ain’t broken?”

“Such a winning combination.” Hutch laughed, falling into stride with Starsky.

Hands resting on their concealed holsters, they sauntered past the nearly empty bar where only the hardcore alcoholics whiled away the early morning hours, and approached the same imposing black man who seemed to never tire of guarding the back room’s privacy for illicit activities.

“We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” Starsky said, flexing his arms. Hutch remained silent, his stony expression a threat that wasn’t lost on the hired muscle.

“Be my guest,” the man said with a sneer, waving a hand in a gesture that said he’d learned his lesson during their previous tussles.

Even before nine a.m., the back room gambling operation buzzed. At the entrance of the recognizable cops, patrons dashed to and fro in the room, scattering papers and hastily turning off radios, hanging up phones. One tall, heavyset man jumped from his seat and swung around, his eyes and mannerisms proof that some dealers did sample their goods. Both quick on the draw when it came to emptying their holsters, Starsky and Hutch still weren’t in time to prevent the dealer from pulling his own piece.

Luis waved the gun ominously, screeching at the two bookies behind the main desk. “You finked me out! I heard a rumor this place was in the pigs’ pockets, but I didn’t believe it. You’re gonna pay, man, both’a you, gonna pay!”

“Luis, you’ve got two guns on you,” Hutch said in his cold, frightening voice. “The only way you’re walking out of this one alive is to drop that piece and take a ride with us.”

Dangerously agitated, Luis scanned the room like a cornered rat. “You can drive me to Guadala-fuckin’-jara, you still ain’t getting nothing out of me.”

In contrast to Hutch’s hard face and icy voice, Starsky played good cop, softening his tone, faking a smile. “Aw come on, Luis. I know you’re swinging by a thin thread, but use your last remaining brain cell, willya? Right now you got something to bargain with. You put holes in somebody, and we won’t be able to help you. What’s it gonna be, huh?”

They watched, both tense, both steadying their aim. Under their concentrated stares, Luis’s instinct for self-preservation kicked in, his mind not yet fried too crispy to get nerve signals to his gun arm. The gun dropped to the floor; Luis shot both hands toward the ceiling, parting his legs until he looked like one half of a jumping-jack. Hutch finally allowed himself to swallow as they took charge of Luis and made their exit.

Back at the Torino, Starsky glanced in the backseat at their cuffed suspect and then smiled at Hutch. “I’d say we’re the winning combination, partner.”

“Every day of the week and twice on Sunday,” Hutch agreed, pulling into traffic. Oh, yeah, Starsk. We are…and we could be in more ways than one. God, Starsky. I’d wrap you in friendship all during the day and then make you sing at night with love.

 

December 14, 1979
9:00 PM

Hutch collapsed on the sofa and danced around with the idea of getting plastered. The rest of their day had worn him slap out, Luis having tap-danced for hours in the interrogation room until they were forced to ship him off to the holding cell and let him cool his heels.

Starsky’s good mood remained undaunted. “You knew he wasn’t gonna roll over on somebody like Cheatham right off the bat. Don’t worry, Hutch. We’ll turn him. Just takes time.” He’d rubbed Hutch’s back between his shoulder blades with strokes just on the safe side of a caress. They still prompted a hasty trip to the john where Hutch flung cold water in his face and counted to a hundred backwards slowly in Spanish.

After shift, Starsky had insisted they pay Huggy a visit and unwind. Hutch was wary of the prolonged contact but couldn’t think of a reasonable and convincing excuse for declining that didn’t involve telling the truth. Truth, something he’d always held in high esteem. They had enjoyed the relaxing hours, ganged up on Huggy in teasing banter, and parted with mutual wishes for a good night. Hutch had watched Starsky bounce and swagger to the Torino and flashed on a mental image that rocked him to his soul….

He waited until Starsky was occupied in unlocking the driver’s side door. Using every ounce of stealth he could muster, he crept up behind Starsky and pushed him against the car, forcing his arms onto the roof. “Spread ’em.”

Starsky laughed with heat and spread his arms out on the roof, assuming “the position.” Instead of patting him down, Hutch leaned in close, wrapped arms around Starsky’s chest and erased the distance between his groin and the body quivering in front of him. Starsky glanced back over his shoulder. “You gonna pull that piece, officer?”

“No,” Hutch whispered, kissing Starsky’s neck. “Not here. Just didn’t want you to leave without kissing me good-bye.”

The roar of the Torino’s departure from the curb had shocked Hutch out of his daydream and, tumbling back to reality, he’d felt a complete fool. Worse, an adolescent fool. Now he sat on his sofa wondering what destination he should put on his plane ticket.  Eventually, he stretched out in exhaustion and closed his eyes.

 

December 14, 1979
9:30 PM

 Starsky found a spaghetti dinner waiting for him in the fridge when he hunted for a snack to take to the bedroom. Once again he declined the chilled wine no doubt intended to top off the Italian feast. No matter how much he might trust Dr. Romano, he couldn’t surrender his control. A third of his brain still berated him for investing his time in this ridiculous enterprise. The other two-thirds, totally freaked and unwilling to go through any more bride and tombstone hallucinations, held the majority vote. He carted his steaming plate into the bedroom and locked the door.

An hour later he decided on a nice, warm shower, thankful that the bedroom contained an ensuite bathroom. When he emerged, not bothering with the robe he found hanging behind the bathroom door, he felt the indescribable warmth and comfort from the previous night suffusing the room.

“You’re here,” he whispered, feeling silly talking to an empty room in the lamp glare.

I’mhere…righthere…yeah,babe,righthere….

“I don’t mind so much not bein’ able to see you, but I feel you got me at kind of a disadvantage, with me like this.” Starsky looked down at his bare skin and shook his head when heat singed his cheeks. “This is nuts. I’m standing here blushing ’cause I’m naked in a room by myself. Sorry, not completely by myself. Jesus.”

 Whodowetrust….

“Just wish I could…I dunno…get to know you, learn something about you. That’s even more important to me right now than what you look like, believe it or not.”

He staggered under a rush of memories: a warm hand on his shoulder while federal agents questioned his brother’s presence in the bar of a known gangster, a blur of brown and navy rushing into danger to push him out of the path of a truck, guitar duets and basketball games, dueling sandcastles on the beach, arms holding him while he wept at a gravesite.

Starsky gripped his forehead and frowned in apology at the bed. “Sorry. Know a guy for ten years, work with him for over seven, and you think about him at the strangest times. Can you put any scenes of you in my head? I mean, I don’t how this scenario works and I’m not supposed to question it, but I’m used to picking away at something until I totally understand it. Seems to me if you can be here invisible to my eyes, then you’re capable of planting images in my brain.”

Another soft chuckle in the emptiness.

“You got a beautiful laugh, sweetheart. Feel like I’ve known it all my life. Just wish you’d laugh a little louder. Ma always said you could tell a lot about a person by their laugh.”

 ShealsocalledyouthePaulMunitype….

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch it.”

Cometobedgorgeous….

Starsky yawned. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Damn room puts me to sleep or something.”

SoIcanbewithyou….

Starsky pulled back the comforter and sheets and crawled beneath their softness. The minute his head hit the pillow, he felt fingertips caressing his brow, his forehead, running down the length of his nose, circling his lips.

“Such a soft touch, honey.”

 Shhhgotosleep….

The faraway sound of a lullaby, in a voice that hovered just on the edge of familiarity, soothed his last doubt. Starsky’s eyes closed and his breathing steadied with sleep.

He woke in semi-darkness. Glancing at the window, he decided dawn must be just around the corner. The warmth and comfort had not receded.

“You’re still here,” he mumbled, happy.

 Withyoualways….

“Do you like what you see so far?” Starsky hated the slightly self-conscious question once it left his lips. This strange method of courtship opened the door to insecurities he didn’t know he had.

YouknowIloveyou….

The light increased, the pool of sunlight under the window growing.

“Looks like morning’s arrived.”

 HeybuddyIhavetogonow….

The warmth evaporated; Starsky shivered in the sudden chill. “God, I’m addicted to her already and I haven’t seen her, can’t touch her, and don’t even really understand a word she says. What the hell’s gonna happen to me when all’s revealed?”

 

December 15, 1979
7:00 AM

Discordia stalked the streets of Bay City and fumed. Damn Eros to Hades’s worst torture chamber, if he could ever be damned. Since his syrupy reunion with Psyche and the girl’s promotion to immortality, the son of Aphrodite was determined to put together every true heart and soul in the universe. He’d made it his cause in the last few millennia. Next thing, there would be an end to warfare, a drastic drop in crime, and hatred would disappear, leaving Discordia where? Relegated to the has-been section of Mount Olympus, that was where.

Well, she wasn’t having any of that! Time to put Eros in his place. He’d managed to save Psyche when she broke the rules, but David Starsky wasn’t in love with an immortal. One little shove in the wrong direction, and Eros would have enough egg on his face to make omelets for the entire Olympian breakfast crowd. Aphrodite had already been warned by the High Throne to quit pulling her son’s chestnuts out of the fire when he went off on one of his half-cocked schemes. The trick would be convincing ethical cop and all-around good guy Starsky to kiss off the terms of his agreement. She had to go through someone who couldn’t be accused of having an ulterior motive. Someone above reproach. Discordia smiled, visited by a foolproof idea.

 

December 15, 1979
7:30 AM

Hutch rolled off the sofa and connected painfully with the floor. Why the hell had he started sleeping on his damned sofa when he had a perfectly good, comfortable bed? Another night like that one and he’d have to call Starsky’s physical therapist for a refresher on those back-strengthening exercises. He stretched, listened for telltale creaks, smiling when he heard none. All the hard work and clean living of the past seven months had paid off in sizable dividends. Now he had to shower and psyche himself into spending a day with Starsky. The thought that spending a day with Starsky required special mental and emotional preparation left a leaden weight in Hutch’s gut.

 

December 15, 1979
8:30 AM

“How did this happen, Captain?” Hutch shouted, shaking off the soothing hand that touched his side. Starsky sighed.

“One of those things, Hutchinson. From what we’ve been able to piece together, Sloane made the mistake of getting too close to the bars and Luis grabbed him, broke his neck, stripped off Sloane’s shirt, and hanged himself with it.”

“Under the watchful eye of a security camera!” Hutch didn’t bother to lower his voice.

“Apparently there was a malfunction,” Dobey said wearily, rubbing his temples.

“This is ridiculous, Cap’n. Nothing like this has ever happened in our holding area. God, Sloane had two kids.”

“Yes, thank you, Starsky, I’m aware of that. What I don’t understand is why Luis–”

Hutch didn’t let him finish. “Captain, that’s the easiest question. You can’t blame Luis for debating his options and not liking either one. He gets sent up holding the bag for the tainted drug deaths, or he can roll on Cheatham and end up dead later in any number of highly unpleasant ways.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed. “He was coming down off his high, too. His desire to live was probably down around his ankles. He saw the quick and easy route as a better alternative to years of hard time or a torturous Cheatham execution.”

“Quick and easy,” Hutch said, frowning. “I wouldn’t say hanging qualifies as…wonder why he didn’t go after Sloane’s gun?”

“Too noisy,” Starsky said. “A shot probably would’ve brought somebody running, and if he managed to botch the deal, medical attention might salvage him. No, he wanted to be sure he’d go out. With hanging, he figured nobody would find him until the deed was done. Luis wasn’t a total idiot.”

“Fine detective work, but it’s not getting us any closer to Cheatham.” Dobey pushed back from his desk.

“Luis was our only link to Cheatham,” Hutch said, arms outstretched, palms upward in a gesture of frustration.

“Well, you’ll have to get to him another way,” Dobey snapped.

“Yeah, we got that much, Cap’n.” Starsky tugged Hutch by the wrist, backing toward the door.

“Someone’s head needs to roll over this, Captain. Sloane should still be alive, damn it, getting ready to go to his daughter’s school Christmas pageant.”

“Thanks for the administrative suggestion, Hutchinson. Exactly who would you like me to fire? How about you and Starsky for not convincing Luis to roll instead of turning a shirt into a permanent necktie?”

“Point taken, Captain,” Starsky said as Hutch raised a hand and prepared to hold forth on the captain’s remarks. Hutch closed his mouth and let Starsky pull him from the office.

They had the squad room to themselves. When they reached their desks, Starsky turned to Hutch and clasped his shoulders. “Hey, buddy boy, you’re bowstring tight. What gives? I know Sloane’s death is a tough blow. For all of us. But you haven’t been sniping like that with Dobey since before…since May.”

“I–I’m fine. Just mad as hell. This whole thing should’ve been preventable.” Hutch ducked from under the comforting grasp of Starsky’s hands and sat down at his desk.

“Hutch? You holding my silent treatment against me? I’m sorry I was–”

“No.” Hutch looked up quickly with such an approving smile that Starsky’s mouth curved immediately into a responsive grin, his eyes bright and flashing.

Brushing strands of Hutch’s hair away from his upturned leather jacket collar, Starsky said, “Lettin’ your hair get awful long, Blondie.”

“You got a problem with it?” Hutch asked, and bit his lip, glancing away.

“‘Course not. We’re partners. You wanna grow it all the way down to the floor with a beard to match, I’ll stand behind you all the way.”

Hutch snorted. “I can see that going over real well with the people who cut our checks.”

“The people who cut our checks know almost nothing of what we do in a given day on the street. Who the hell cares what they think? Or are you tryin’ to be a rebel?”

Hutch grinned. “Not exactly.” Inwardly, he came to a realization that chilled him. Oh, shit. Long hair, no mustache. What’s next, Hutchinson? Trying to grow breasts for him, too? You don’t want to be his woman, for God’s sake…but you know that’s all he’d accept. That’s it. You’re getting your hair cut this evening soon as you get off work.

“So, what’s the word?”

Hutch blinked and had to think for a minute to get back on track. “Hit the streets. Scare up a few snitches and see if we can’t get a line on Cheatham. Somebody has to be whispering in corners.”

Starsky frowned. “Maybe it’s just me, but I got the feeling we’re chasing a stiff.”

“No, Cheatham’s not in cold storage. He’s just smarter than the average smack distributor. You know his rep. He’s all shadows, puffs of smoke, mirrors and optical illusions. Come on, Dobey’ll be out for our blood if we don’t turn up some results.”

 

December 15, 1979
7:00 PM

Starsky dropped down into the large rattan chair and tried to make sense of the phone call. It wasn’t that his mother never called him, and when she did, she was definitely interested in his activities outside of the job. That much was normal. But how the fuck had he managed to keep the details of the “love experiment” from Hutch, Dobey, and Huggy for over 48 hours, and during one fifteen-minute call with Ma, he’d let the whole enchilada out of the takeout bag?

Not only that, but her questions unnerved him. What would Hutch think, she had nagged him, if he found out that Starsky was involved with some woman of shady repute instead of the lovely, comforting angel he seemed to think rested on that sofa each night? Could he stand the heartbreak of going through this night after night only to find out that he’d been led blindly to the edge of a cliff? What about his sworn duty as a policeman to remain above reproach? How did he know what kind of people were really involved? Had he run any sort of background check?

Starsky ended the phone call feeling like he’d had a conversation with an Academy instructor rather than his mother. Strangest of all was her reaction to his half-hearted suggestion that he pull out of the entire project. Ma, who had taught him from childhood never to go back on his word without life-or-death cause, laughed off his impulse to bow out of the agreement, thank Dr. Romano, and move on with his life. Instead, she’d suggested one tiny peek in the living room during the restricted hours. What could it hurt? Did he really believe he’d lose everything in an instant just for acting on cop’s instincts?

He debated calling her back and questioning her take on the situation, but decided against it. He’d figure out his course of action on his own.

 

December 15, 1979
7:30 PM

Hutch slammed the door to his apartment and growled like a wounded, trapped grizzly. With his preferred barbershop closed due to a death in the family, he’d elected to give up on the haircut for the time being. He wandered into the bathroom and faced the mirror.

“Take control, Hutchinson. You did not start growing your hair for him and you are not going to start changing your appearance and normal habits now. Your life is your life. Be a damn man about this, for Christ’s sake. You were friends with him for years without letting him drive you crazy–well, at least not like this. If you can’t work with him, talk to him, be his friend, and conduct yourself in a professional, intelligent adult manner, you will leave. You will go away. Understood?”

His reflection sneered at him.

He scowled. “And what the hell’s wrong with you, anyway? You’ve been in love with him for several months now and you were managing. Okay, you weren’t happy, but you weren’t falling apart either. What’s different now?”

The answer flowed across the screen of his mind, so shocking that Hutch would not have been surprised to see his reflection’s lips move and lecture him.

“He’s happy.” Hutch informed the pale, unhappy face in the mirror. “He’s happy now and you’re not the reason. Good God. You’re jealous of someone else being able to make him smile, make him feel loved and appreciated. Well, invest in some humanity, Hutchinson, and be glad for him, you selfish prick. You’re bigger than this. Smarter. Better.”

The pep talk dulled the stinging in his heart, but the anesthetic quickly lost effect. When he failed to distract himself with music, botany, or cooking, Hutch hurled his empty plate and glass against the nearest wall and stomped over to the sleeping alcove. He located a framed picture of Starsky making an absurd face for the photographer. Starsky had given it to him as one of his famous birthday gag gifts, but Hutch stubbornly insisted on valuing that picture over any of the normal snapshots he had of his vibrant partner.

The spiked eyebrows, cockeyed protruding tongue, and laughing, purposefully bulging eyes mocked him. Hutch crushed the picture against his chest. “Go ahead and love her, Starsky. Go ahead and blessings to you both. But if she…if I get the slightest impression that she’s hurting you, I swear to God, I’m stepping in…and I’ll win you, damn it. I promise you that. Somehow.”

He felt exhaustion in body and soul. Fishing his pocket watch out of his cords, he acknowledged the passing of two hours and decided sleep was preferable to a date with something strong and fermented. After tossing and turning for an hour on the bed, he gave in to the inexplicable magnetic pull of his sofa and took Starsky’s picture with him. Stretching out, he hugged the picture close as a teddy bear. His eyes closed instantly.

 

December 15, 1979
9:30 PM

Starsky’s blood ran cold when he pulled a plate of linguine with clams out of the fridge. To a mind already besieged by doubt, that dinner entrée was anything but a good omen. Nevertheless, his appetite won the argument, but his common sense steered him well clear of the rich red wine, and he located a bottle of root beer to wash down the meal.

He couldn’t help indulging himself with a lingering look at the sofa on his way to the bedroom for another night of benevolent imprisonment. Can’t think of it like that, Starsky scolded himself as he shut the bedroom door and stood still, listening for any sound. Crashing waves attracted his attention; he deposited the food on the nearest flat surface before peeking out the exit door. The ocean was active, the scent of brine heavier in the air, and the breeze beckoning. Starsky thought favorably of shedding his sneakers and taking a walk on the sand.

Doyouwanttoleavemealready?

 The sudden arrival of the mind-numbing warmth and joy had him pushing the door closed. He turned around with a sheepish smile. “Leave you? Is that what you said, darlin’? I don’t wanna leave you. Just never been too fond of being cooped up long.”

Onedaywe’llwalkonthebeachtogether…rightnowIcouldn’tgowithyou…you’dbealone… Iwanttotakeawayyourloneliness….

He still couldn’t quite make out the meaning of the words, but the kindness in the masked voice wrapped him in peace and he smiled wider. “Glad you’re early tonight, beautiful. Normally you don’t show up until time for bed.”

Wanttobesomuchmorethanjustalover….

“Looks like I’ve got Italian again tonight,” Starsky said by way of conversation, digging into his plate of seafood linguine with gusto. “Wish you could eat with me.”

Rightnowyouaremysustenance….

“Say,” Starsky said around his mouthful. He chewed and swallowed. “Wonder if we could develop our own code? You know, I ask you a yes-or-no question and you tap something once for yes or twice for no? How about it?”

We’vealwayshadacode,babe…doyouwanttointerrogatemenow?

“Interrogate? Did I hear ya right? Don’t think of it like that. I guess you know I’m a cop, huh? Does that bother you?”

Never…never…never….

Starsky sighed in relief. “Well, that’s nice to know. Geez, I thought… Sorry, schweetheart. I won’t push you to answer a bunch’a questions. Especially when you probably feel even weirder than I do about this current arrangement.”

Neverfeelweirdaroundyou…youaremyhome…youaremysoul….mypsyche….

“Think I’m understanding you a little better tonight. That’s nice. Feels nice.”

We’reconnecting…soonyou’llbeabletolookonmeasalover….

Around ten thirty, Starsky was engrossed in his novel and enjoying the companionable presence when the room went dark. He waited patiently for the lights to flicker back on, but when the electricity failed to return, he frowned and fidgeted.

Donotfear…Iamwithyou….

“Not scared, just itchy,” Starsky reassured his invisible beloved.

He felt his way over to a closet in the room and rummaged in it, delighted when his hand connected with a candle. He had hoped for a flashlight, but he wasn’t picky under the circumstances. Now for matches. Hands out in front of him, feeling his way, he located the nightstand and rifled through the drawer. Ah, success. Within a minute, the candle flame glowed bright and Starsky glanced around.

“Listen, I know I’m supposed to stay put, but I really need to check things out, look for the breaker box.”

No…you’rebeingtested…stayherewithme….

“Honey, there’s no storm out tonight and I know all four of these lamps didn’t blow a bulb at the same time. Now, it’s probably nothing. Someone hit a transformer, most likely. But in my line of work, I can’t sit here and take chances. I’ll do my best to avoid the sofa–”

Noyouwon’t…youwon’tbeabletoresist….

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right back…and we can hit the sack together. How’s that sound?”

Beretta in his left hand, candle in the right, Starsky made it to the door with the candle leading the way when the voice, somewhat clearer, issued one more appeal.

Starsk, don’t.

Starsky turned around, almost dropping the candle. “W-what did you call me?” But only silence greeted him. Starsky shrugged and turned to the door.

In the pervasive darkness outside the bedroom, Starsky clung to his intention of finding the circuit box against an overwhelming draw toward the living room. He flashed on memories of a day at the beach with Hutch when he’d given in to an impulse to disregard his dislike for the water and join Hutch in a swim. He’d promptly fallen victim to a section of nasty undertow and without Hutch’s expert help, might have gotten a little more than waterlogged. As it was, he swam beside Hutch to the shore and delivered a diatribe on the lack of any danger signs. Hutch had smiled, ruffled through his wet hair, and squeezed his shoulders until the rant subsided.

Starsky felt the same undercurrent now, dragging on him, grasping him by the ankles until his brain surrendered. What could one tiny peek hurt? He hadn’t come out here with the purpose of breaking the rules. If he just happened to bump into the sofa in the dark, surely that wasn’t the same thing?

Eyes wide open for any indication of everyday crime-related danger, Starsky moved slowly down the hall and came close to dropping the candle again when he noticed the living room’s roaring fire, which had not been laid when he arrived earlier. The fire cast the living room in a lovely, golden glow and mesmerized Starsky, who stared at the high sofa back and swallowed hard. His eyes closing involuntarily, he stepped around the sofa, utilizing his strong internal sense of surroundings to maneuver around obstacles. When he faced the furniture, he demanded his heart stop pounding like misplaced thunder and opened his eyes.

His breath caught in something approximating a sob. Doors locked for years swung open as almost worshipful admiration sliced through chains and snapped padlocks like plastic. An ongoing internal battle concluded at an armistice table, the jungle ghosts bowing in surrender and taking their hypocrisy with them.

A man lay on the sofa clothed only in the innocence of his birth. Long, graceful lines…strong arms and shoulders relaxed in slumber…soft, golden hair fanned out over the sofa’s end cushion…a rosy flush on the pale cheeks that owed its presence to the fire.

He was without doubt the most exquisite, breathtaking creature Starsky had ever seen half a million times without this blinding sense of staring at immortal perfection. The warmth and joy of the bedroom intensified until Starsky briefly panicked that his heart wasn’t up to the challenge.

He stood immobile, lost in disgust at his own blindness. The meshed, whispered words of the last two nights ran through his mind with amazing clarity. His body relived the loving touches. How had he not noticed that the fingertips were larger than any female’s? Shouldn’t it have dawned on him that the warm joy oddly mimicked the way he’d felt when Hutch cradled him in an alley, brushed his lips over his head while Starsky clung to the lapels of a leather jacket, tied a tablecloth around his shoulder, smiled at him as he completed his first treadmill exercise after leaving the hospital in June….

Oh, God. He wasn’t ready for this…he couldn’t…he didn’t….

“Hutch?”
The man on the couch stirred lazily and then blinked flashes of blue at him, reaching for him with eager arms. Starsky let out a strangled moan and took a step forward.

A strange, thundering voice interrupted the magical moment: “If you look upon the physical form of your life-mate during those night hours before the week is up, you’ll lose that heart forever.”

The smile on Hutch’s face vanished. Starsky’s throat turned to sandpaper at the ashen, stark fear visible on the features he knew better than his own. He watched, frozen in place, as Hutch extended his arms, and his eyes closed, soft voice pleading, “Help me, Starsky,” before he disappeared from sight.

“No!” Starsky screamed, raw and painful in the deceptively cozy, fire-lit room. “HUTCH!”

A draft of chilling air whooshed by him, extinguishing the candle, and Starsky dropped his gun, crumpling to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Part Three: Consequences

December 15, 1979
11:15 PM

Starsky’s awareness grew in stages. He knew he wasn’t at home in his own apartment because he felt the fire’s warmth on his back. He remembered the seaside house next and rubbed at his side, touching hard floor instead of cushy mattress. What the–?

Remembrance brought swift agony. He looked up at the empty sofa and sprang into action, leaving the harmless candle on the floor and giving the fireplace no more thought as he grabbed his gun and raced for the front door, grateful he’d remained fully clothed.

Dizziness swept over him as he gunned the Torino out of the driveway, but he didn’t question his own health. He turned without cognizant thought toward the nearest Venice-bound route. The radio speared his troubled thoughts.

“Zebra-three. Code Three.”

Lights and sirens. Starsky snatched the mike. “Zebra-three. Code three. Go ahead.”

He knew he didn’t imagine the audible relief in the dispatcher’s voice when she said, breaking the dispatch protocol, “Finally. Respond immediately to Captain Dobey at 1027 ½ Ocean.”

Starsky’s voice trembled as he acknowledged the message and replaced the mike. With agility born of desperation, he flipped the siren, rolled down the window, and attached the mars light to his roof without swinging off the road at his crazy rate of speed.

He didn’t think about the coincidence of the radio call and the events of that evening. He couldn’t and keep his sanity. He let his practiced hands drive for him as he spun in a maelstrom of memories, despair, frightened prayers, appeals, and pleas directed at anyone who might listen. He embraced the tiniest shred of hope. Hutch wasn’t dead. The dispatch code would have been different. Not dead meant alive. Alive and salvageable.

He didn’t linger on the memory of the sofa…of Hutch’s smile, of arms outstretched and reaching for him with more than friendship sparkling in his eyes. Separation from friend, partner, and brother cop scraped painfully enough on the walls of Starsky’s heart.

Turning onto Ocean, he coughed and wrinkled his nose as the acrid haze of smoke invaded the car. Sickening gray-white plumes and the pink-orange tint in the night sky compressed his chest with terror. Venice Place seemed to shrink in the leaping, devouring flames, the sturdy stone façade disguised by billowing smoke from the roof and windows. Ignoring the shooting pain in his knuckles from his grasp on the steering wheel, Starsky drove like a man possessed until forced to pull over behind the barricade of emergency vehicles. Jumping out of the car and leaving the door swinging open behind him, he dodged through the maze of fire engines and squad cars.

“Hutch! HUTCH!”

Uniformed officers dashed to the side to avoid the human battering ram, and Starsky might have made it all the way past the struggling firefighters had Dobey not grabbed him by the shoulders, forcefully holding him back.

“Lemme go, damn you! Good God, HUTCH!”

“Starsky! Hold still!” Dobey shouted over the crackling of fire and the crashing spray of water mingled with disembodied voices delivering instructions via bullhorn. Starsky squirmed and fought the captain, ready to punch and bite his way free if necessary. “Starsky, don’t make me hit you! Martin, get over here and help me hold him! Starsky, listen to me. The interior went up like a paper dollhouse. Fire battalion chief said there was no pulling anybody out–”

“No…lemme go get him. Hutch, I’m coming, buddy! Hang on, HUTCH!”

Not strong enough to combat two grown men’s determined arms, Starsky hung limp in their protective grasp, the next thing to dead weight. Then he straightened, burying his emotions, hiding his shredded soul behind a blank-faced mask. “What happened?”

“Where have you been, Starsky?” Dobey asked. “I tried that contact number you gave me about fifteen times before dispatch relayed the message that you were on your way.”

Starsky refused to turn his eyes from the blaze. “In Heaven…until it turned to Hell.” He touched a finger to his lips. He’d spoken the words aloud! Starsky shook free of the policemen’s hold and straightened the jacket Hutch called safari-esque. “I was told I could be reached at that number, Cap’n. I had no reason to doubt it. Now–what do you know?”

Dobey nodded at Martin. “Get him a cup of water, Martin. Thanks.”

When the officer rushed away, Dobey gently but firmly turned Starsky away from the burning building. “That restaurant’s owner gave us some valuable information. He showed up about ten minutes ago. He was in the restaurant working on his ingredient inventory and came up front around 10:15, he says, when he heard a car pull up outside. Three men got out, laughing, looking friendly with each other, and headed for the entrance. Owner didn’t think anything of it at the time. He decided to call it a night and left less than ten minutes later. The car was still there. Then at approximately 10:45, a black-and-white driving by spotted the fire and called it in to the fire department and got hold of me. The place was an inferno by the time I got here. Now, Starsky…from the description we’ve got of the three men, they sound like Cheatham muscle.”

Starsky felt his knees liquefy, and he buckled. Dobey gripped his elbow. “Retaliation for Luis,” Starsky breathed. “But–but why Hutch? Why not me?” I’d rather be dead than standing here watching this.

“If it’s Cheatham, you know he has a weird sense of honor. His beef is with you and Hutch, not a lot of innocent people. A fire like this at your place could’ve resulted in numerous civilian deaths. Starsky, do you know anything about the people who lived in the second apartment?”

“It was for rent. Empty,” Starsky mumbled, experiencing a twinge of shame that he couldn’t spare a sigh of relief that no one faced a hideous death in the other apartment. Not when Hutch was…. Hope flooded him. “No! No, he wants both of us. Cheatham wouldn’t settle on Hutch alone. Cap’n, Hutch isn’t in there.”

“Starsky, we don’t even have proof that those men–”

“No, Captain! Hutch is not in that apartment.”

“Starsky, how do you–”

“I’d know! Do you understand? I don’t care if you don’t understand. Hell, I didn’t understand until tonight and–”

“Starsky,” Dobey’s voice climbed in pitch and volume. “Would you stop speaking a foreign language and make sense?”

“Chez Helene’s owner. Girard. He didn’t see the men leave? He left before they did?”

“Right.”

“All right. Ten’ll get you twenty, they had Hutch with them, ’cause Cheatham knows I’ll come looking for him. He won’t be happy until he has both of us. He’s thorough.”

Martin returned with a styrofoam cup of water; Starsky drank it down in one gulp, handing the cup back to Martin with a nod of gratitude. Dobey frowned. “Starsky, this is all conjecture. I can’t let you go running off–”

“I’m goin’ to find Hutch whether you ‘let’ me or not, Cap’n!”

“Starsky!”

“Aw, come on, Captain!” When Martin moved away again, Starsky said harshly, “No way I’m gonna stand around while Hutch is in the hands of somebody with access to truckloads of heroin. You know you agree with me. I know you don’t believe Hutch is–” Dobey shot him a questioning look. “You haven’t started calling me ‘Dave’ yet.”

That put a small smile on the captain’s face. “All right, Starsky. What’re your intentions?”

“Can you handle things at this end? I’m hitting The Pits first to get Huggy to put it on the street that I’m lookin’ for Hutch and open to bargains. Street’s been quiet on Cheatham so far, but there are mouths that’ll suddenly open when a cop’s life is in danger…’specially one that’s been square with ’em in the past. Then–”

“If Hutch is the bait to get you, won’t Cheatham contact you?”

Starsky faced the captain with a crafty, fierce, veteran smile of many years in the trenches. “Nah. Cheatham’s no fool. He won’t give me enough heads-up that I can bring the cavalry with me. I’m gonna have to work my way into this, Cap’n, and when I do, it’ll probably be a solo act.”

Dobey raised his hands with a vehement headshake. “No! How many times have I said–”

“No private parties. I know. I also know I’ll do whatever will keep Hutch alive. No questions asked.” Starsky spared another moment to imprint the sight of Venice Place alight in his mind and turned to leave. Dobey’s clasp on his shoulder stopped him.

“Starsky,” Dobey whispered, clearly mindful of the officers milling closer. “Cheatham doesn’t know about Hutch’s past.”

“Yeah? We can’t bank on that, Cap’n, and even if he doesn’t, Cheatham could get creative on his own. Ben Forest’s not the only lowlife out there who thinks it’s one big kick to string out a cop.”

Dobey’s grip tightened briefly on Starsky’s shoulder. “Good luck. You keep me abreast of what’s going down at all times, you got it?”

“Done, Cap’n,” Starsky said. He located Chez Helene’s owner long enough to get a firsthand description of the three men and left the distraught restaurateur with a few words of support. With a long, pained final look at Hutch’s decrepit car, Starsky turned his back on the scene, running back through the cluster of vehicles to the Torino.

~*~

Starsky burst into The Pits and made a beeline for the bar, deaf to the crowd, laughter, and music around him. One glimpse of his face, and Huggy abandoned the attractive Asian girl he’d been giving a lesson in flirtation Huggy-Bear style.

“Starsky, m’man. The Bear is here and all ears. I don’t know what’s got you lookin’ like that, but it ain’t good.” Huggy pulled his chartreuse silk vest closer over his lemon yellow t-shirt and shivered like a man trapped in a snowdrift.

Glancing around, Starsky leaned in close. “Hutch’s place is a giant bonfire right now.”

Huggy’s face competed with his vest for weirdest color. “And H-Hutch?”

Starsky hung his head and tightened his clutch on the bar’s edge. “Fire department couldn’t get anyone beyond a certain point. His car’s parked outside. But I’m going on the assumption that–”

“You’d know if he was still in that apartment,” Huggy said meaningfully. Starsky raised his head and offered Huggy an appreciative smile. “What can I do to help? You name it.”

“I think Cheatham’s got his filthy paws all over this one, Hug. You know what that means.”

“Damn,” Huggy whispered, crinkling his nose in a peculiar mixture of disgust and horror.

Starsky nodded. He gave Huggy a description of the three suspects. “I want it on the street that I’ll be in anybody’s debt who can help me. Emphasize that I always pay my debts. Anything from my car to my soul on this one, Huggy, you know what I mean? But the info has to be legit. I don’t have time to chase down dead ends.”

Huggy reached over the bar and patted Starsky’s forearm. “Man, you know I hear you. I’ll have the word all over the city in less than an hour. Count on it. What you gonna do meantime?”

“All I can do right now: drive by some of Cheatham’s old haunts and see if I spot any activity. I can’t just sit around and wait.”

“Been down this road before, bro, I know it’s gotta bring back some unrighteous memories.”

Starsky heaved a ragged breath and grit his teeth, turning his eyes from the warm, brown-eyed concern washing over him. “Yeah.”

“Starsky, I–I have to ask. How do you–”

“Know they’ll keep him alive?”

“Yeah.”

“Their boss wants me too, Huggy. They know I won’t put my head in a noose without some proof my partner’s still breathing. But that doesn’t mean as much in this case. I didn’t tell Dobey, but Hutch won’t go through all that again. He won’t. He’ll do something stupid and get himself killed before he bows to a needle. If they choose to play with him–”

“No, he won’t,” Huggy said, something unidentifiable in his tone.

Starsky glanced up from his study of the bar top. “What?”

“Sorry. Not the time or place. Just don’t worry about Hutch out there with some suicidal tendency.”

“Huggy, you got something on your chest about Hutch, now is the time I wanna hear it.”

“Not this, you probably don’t, unless I’ve read your tendencies wrong for years. Shouldn’t’ve opened my fool mouth. Now scram and lemme put the huge hole under my nose to use finding Blondie.” Huggy gave Starsky’s arm another reassuring pat and turned to face the telephone.

“Huggy!”

Huggy swung around at the insistent growl and frowned. “Starsky, I just meant, the man lives for you, dig?”

“We live for each other. Always have.”

“‘Less I’m much mistaken, not like this. He ain’t gonna pass on the chance to see your face again. And that’s all I’m gonna say right now, so don’t give me the cop’s stare.”

Starsky ran his free hand through his hair, around to rub at the nape of his neck, and back over his forehead. He released his death grip on the bar, feeling lost in a desert as he walked away. He stopped halfway to the door as Huggy said his name.

“You don’t think you oughta be manning your phone?”

“Cheatham knows how Hutch and me work. He knows I won’t be sitting around. If he tries to contact me at all, and I don’t think he will, he’ll use a flunky and go through dispatch–or you.”

“Gotcha. Good luck, m’man and you watch that skin of yours, you hear?”

“As always, Huggy. Thanks.”

 

December 16, 1979
2:45 AM

Exhausted and despairing, Starsky drove slowly past the port authority restricted access sign he and Hutch had honored four years ago, and cruised along the docks, his final stop in the Cheatham-real-estate tour. He didn’t want to stray beyond earshot of the radio. Besides, patrolling the waterfront solo and on foot in the middle of night could result in Dobey filing two missing officer reports. He banged his fist against his door and bit down hard on his lip.

Cheatham made Amboy look like a five-and-dime pusher. Amboy’s inherent stupidity and desire to protect his ostentatious lifestyle had been his own undoing. His successor Cheatham lacked both. He kept a low profile in California and enjoyed the high life only when tucked away at a nearly untouchable island resort in the Pacific. He left almost no paper trail. He had a taste for imported heroin and wielded enough power to smuggle it repeatedly under the port authority’s nose. He was a phantom who had made the mistake of allowing dead hypes to pile up in the back alleys of the inner city.

Starsky stopped the car just a few feet short of the dock’s edge and leaned low over the steering column, seized with a sudden idea.

The numbers didn’t add up: Cheatham didn’t make stupid mistakes. He’d sooner cut off his right leg with a dull knife than let a tainted shipment out in his territory…and to go after a pair of cops because a small fish in his pond committed suicide in a holding cell? No. What had he been thinking, damn it? Not Cheatham. Not his technique. The man had next to no heart and even less soul but he could hold his own against a Stanford rocket scientist. He wouldn’t willingly sign off on activities that risked his whole operation and made him look bad.

Made him look bad!

Starsky jerked back from the steering wheel and banged his knee as he reached for the mike. Rubbing the offended kneecap, he said breathlessly at the first human response, “Zebra-three. Patch me through to Dobey. Try the station first.”

“I’m gonna trade in my damn brain for a new model!” Starsky screamed at the empty passenger seat while he waited.

“Starsky?”

“Cap’n?” Starsky was surprised. “I thought I’d have to wake your whole house.”

“Couldn’t go home…not while Hutch–“

“Yeah,” Starsky interrupted, voice choked. “Thanks.”

“What you got, Starsky?”

“Cheatham’s not behind this.”

“What?”

“No way. You want to tell me a smart man like Cheatham is responsible for a morgue full of non-OD drug related homicides, and then, to top off his fun, he decides to go after a high-profile cop just because someone at the bottom of his food chain chooses to swing from a shirt rather than talk to us? Doesn’t add up, Cap’n. We should’ve seen it from the start.”

“All right,” Dobey conceded. “Let’s hear your new theory.”

“Someone’s sabotaging his organization.”

“Who we got running around Bay City with the brains and clout for that little caper?”

“Uh-uh. Just hang with me here, Cap. I think–I think someone on the outside is masterminding the scheme, and the clout’s being supplied from behind bars.”

“You mean–“

“Amboy.”

“But why? Amboy’s not going to see the light of day for another–“

“What, three or four years? You and I both know he won’t serve his full sentence. I think he has someone reviving his contacts, setting up his network, and he wants the main competition out of the way. Racking up a bunch of tainted drug deaths and an attack on a cop under Cheatham’s name will do the job nicely. Plus, he’s in a position to infiltrate Cheatham’s organization, ’cause Cheatham took over the rest of Amboy’s operation. Bet you a year’s salary some men in Cheatham’s organization never lost their loyalty to Amboy. He was a stinkin’ rat, but his men seemed to really like him. Go figure.”

“Sounds nice and pat, Starsky, but why now?”

Dobey’s blatant skepticism only encouraged Starsky. “I think his handpicked head honcho might not have been ready until now. And as for coming after us now, I think Luis’s suicide provided them with a motive to pin on Cheatham. We know it’s not his style, but a jury buys into all that drug dealer revenge crap. Hell, even I did at first.”

Dobey sucked in his breath and Starsky could hear him tapping fingers on his desk. “About Amboy’s chosen manager–are you thinking–?”

“He’s old enough to have a kid fresh out of college. Wasn’t he married early on?”

“I’m on it, Starsky. Good work.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said bitterly, squeezing the mike in his fist. “I’ll call it good work if it helps me get to Hutch.”

“Starsky.” Dobey’s voice lowered into the gentle tone Starsky and Hutch both hated because it signaled bad news that required kid gloves. “You know if this wasn’t some sort of genuine revenge deal…if all they want is–“

“No, Captain! Hutch was not in that apartment!”

“Son….”

“No! If I have my way, I’ll be kicking Hutch’s ass for getting into this fix before the fire investigators even have a chance to prove me right.” A metallic, accusing whisper floated in the loneliest corridor of his mind… And when are you going to admit that you got him into this fix by breaking the rules? No! Starsky shouted back within his own head. This wasn’t some supernatural screw-up. This was about money, drugs, and power. Hutch’s sofa disappearing act had to be another one of his weird hallucinations. Yeah, and you hallucinated his lips on your body and his fingertips on your face, too?

Dobey had heard the crack in the voice behind the false bravado. After the silence dragged on, he cleared his throat. “Where are you now?”

“Had a look around the docks. Heading back over to Huggy’s now to let him try some of this new info on his sources. Odds are he’s sitting on top of the phone at The Pits.”

Dobey grunted. “I suppose there’s no use telling you to get some sleep.”

“No use.”

“Well, at least stay away from the edge of that damn dock!”

Starsky gave a half-hearted laugh at Dobey’s gruff concern. Then he grew serious. “Jumped off this dock for him once, Cap’n. Complained like a brat about it afterwards. You want the truth?” His voice broke completely; he lowered his head, his words barely recognizable, tangled in a swallowed sob. “I’d go to Hell and get him if I had to, Cap’n, and be grateful for the chance.”

Silence. A cough. Dobey’s voice shook, “Starsky, at least have Huggy make you something to eat. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve tracked down any leads on Amboy’s relatives.”

“Sounds good, Cap. Thanks.”

“Starsky? You’ve always had hope where Hutch is concerned. Think about all the times you were right and keep the hope you’ve got now.”

“Yeah.”

December 16, 1979
3:30 AM

Starsky’s hunch received swift validation when Huggy opened the door to The Pits on the second knock. “Get in here, m’man. Air’s got a bite in it tonight. Nothing wrong with your timing. I was just about to track you down.”

Starsky’s outlook brightened. “Got something for me, Huggy?”

“Get inside first,” Huggy urged, stepping back and gesturing for Starsky to follow.

Starsky frowned and lingered in the doorway, “Huggy, just–”

“No! What I’ve got to say can wait long enough for me to put a bowl of soup in front of you. Now quit being a mule.”

Giving in, Starsky followed him into the bar, but when Huggy headed for the kitchen, Starsky reached out and caught the tail of his vest, pulling him back. “Soup can wait. Just tell me–”

“Curly, it’s gonna be soup first and news later. Don’t you think if I had something you needed to rush out and take care of, I’d tell you straight off? You look five minutes away from turning into a puddle on my floor, so sit down!”

Starsky sighed and dropped down onto the nearest barstool. “I don’t know who appointed you Florence Nightingale, but–”

Huggy paused halfway into the kitchen. “Hutch, that’s who!” he called back. “You think I want him kicking my highly sensitive rear end for not takin’ care of you while he’s…out of pocket?”

“Out of pocket?” Starsky muttered to himself, doodling with fingertips on the bar top. “That’s what they’re calling it these days? Guess it’s better than MIA.”

He appreciated the steaming, hearty beef-and-bean soup when it arrived. His body knew he needed fuel, even if his appetite had abandoned him. Once Huggy watched him put away five heaping spoonfuls, the chef walked around the bar and sat down beside him.

“All right. Now what I’m about to tell you is gonna sound really out in left field.”

Starsky just stared at him.

Huggy caught the meaning. “Yeah, I know.” He nodded. “It’s gotta really be out there before I issue a disclaimer.” He patted his knees. “Good news first. You were right. Hutch wasn’t in the apartment when it went up in flames.” Starsky dropped the spoon with a loud clatter in the nearly empty bowl; Huggy steadied him with a hand on both his shoulder and knee. “You all right?”

“You–you’re sure?” Starsky whispered.

“My source is legit. Little over an hour ago, three men matching the description of our dudes showed up in the much less than respectable establishment where my source bartends. You should thank your lucky stars some places stay open later than yours truly. Anyway, these cats were in one hell of a state, jabbering to each other about what to do next. From what my source could piece together, they’d chloroformed and kidnapped a cop only to have him vanish into thin air right in front of their faces less than a mile down the road.” Huggy waved a hand at Starsky’s gaping mouth. “Wait; you ain’t heard the punch line. These dudes were trying to figure out how to save their skins. See, they had strict orders to bring the cop alive to this guy they kept calling ‘Boss.’ So they couldn’t show up empty handed. But then my source heard one of ’em say something about having to avoid Cheatham because he ‘knew by now’. Make any sense to you?”

“Yes!” Starsky shouted, gripping Huggy by the shoulders and shaking him with enthusiasm. “I knew it! Cheatham knows by now that his trusted musclemen are really working for Amboy. They’d be signing their death warrants showing up anywhere near his turf. That’s gotta be it.”

“Uh, Starsky, need I remind you that you and Hutch sent Amboy on an extended trip to the place with three squares a day and afternoon yard privileges?”

“Yeah. He’s got somebody on the outside pulling his strings. Dobey’s checking into it, but we think Amboy might have a son who fits the bill.”

Huggy pursed his lips in a prolonged whistle. “The old gut ’em from the inside routine, huh? Hang Cheatham out to dry with a slick frame-up and move in on his territory.”

Pushing the bowl aside, Starsky smiled at his friend. “Swear t’God you should’ve been a cop.”

“Nope. Not enough money and too few women. I’m satisfied being the dynamic duo’s not-so-secret weapon. But you still haven’t explained the first part of my revelation.”

Starsky grinned, joy whizzing in his veins and doing more good than the soup to warm him. “Aw, that’s just some whacked-out spiel they’ll lay on the Boss when he catches up with them. What’ve they got to lose, right? They can’t tell him the truth: that Hutch managed to get away from them. Hell, he got away from Forest’s goons when he was swinging up and down on heroin. He probably gave them the slip not long before they hit the bar. He’s safe, Huggy. Probably groggy from the chloroform, but he’s tough. He’ll be calling in soon as he can. I just need to get out there and find him.”

Huggy shook his head. “I don’t wanna burst your bubble of hope, bro, but that won’t wash. My man insisted these cats looked like they’d been presented with proof that there is a devil and he’s much nastier than the guy with the pitchfork and horns. See…uh…they didn’t set the fire. Their job was just to knock out the cop and haul him off to the Boss. I don’t know how to tell you this part, but…Venice Place turned into a bonfire the very instant Hutch vanished. Big sandy-haired dude was looking out the rear window when it happened. I mean, come on, do you think these idiots would be talking all this trash in someone’s earshot if they weren’t wet-their-pants scared?”

A fine tremor started in Starsky’s shoulders and migrated south. He closed his eyes, mumbling through chattering teeth, “Look upon the p-physical form of your life-mate during those night hours and you’ll l-lose th-that heart f-forever. Him and everything associated with him. Oh, God, Hutch. Hutch!”

“Whoa, man,” Huggy said, voice strained, and pushed his barstool closer, yanking Starsky up against his chest and rubbing warmth into the shivering back. Huggy kept up the ministrations until Starsky calmed and his body stilled. Pushing him back gently, Huggy said, “I’ll pour you something with a kick to it, and you’re gonna tell me what has one of the two toughest street cops in Bay City in hysterics, dig?”

Starsky nodded, silent. He stared into space while Huggy departed on his errand of mercy. When Huggy returned bearing a shot glass of some mystery liquid, Starsky gulped the contents back neat without asking questions. He hacked and shuddered. “Jesus, what was that stuff?”

“Never you mind. I’m all ears, Starsky.”

Starsky put the glass on the bar and rubbed his eyes with balled fists. “All started when I went to see this therapist in Miramar Square.”

“What?” Huggy was incredulous.

“Miramar Square. You know: that big office building behind the hotel.”

“I have a friend who runs a talent agency in that building. There’s no therapist’s office.”

“‘Course there is!” Starsky thundered. “I was there. They’ve got a damn ad in the phone book. That’s how I found out about them.”

“This year’s phone book?” Huggy asked, standing again.

“Yeah, dummy. This year’s.”

“Be right back.” He returned with a phone book identical to Starsky’s. “Okay. Find me their ad.”

“No problem. It was big and colorful.” Starsky flipped through the yellow pages and frowned, brow wrinkled in confusion, when his hands came to rest on the page that… “Wait a minute. I know it was this page. I remember thinking…I–”

Huggy deftly removed the phone book from Starsky’s grasp and set it on the bar beside the empty shot glass. “Starsky, why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me just what kinda craziness you done got yourself into.”

 

Part Four: The Rescue

December 16, 1979
8:00 AM

Curled up in the Torino’s passenger seat with his cup of coffee, Starsky stared at the Miramar Square office building. His cop’s heart should’ve been thrilled, pumping with feverish intensity, but he felt worse than the cement-glop coffee tasted.

He had to make sense of the last four hours.

He had to figure out what to do with the next few minutes.

Shortly after Starsky finished relaying the details of his “love experiment,” Huggy’s phone had trilled and they both scrambled off the bar stools, practically fusing by force of impact on their mutual dash behind the bar. Huggy had grabbed the phone first, shooed Starsky back with the inimitable grizzly glare, and then studiously ignored him through the remainder of the call.

The caller had been another of Huggy’s limitless sources, who incidentally had a soft spot for the missing member of the BCPD’s well-known partnership. Hutch had talked his aging mother into seeking professional help for a broken leg that knit badly without medical supervision, and the son vowed eternal gratitude…though not to give up his fairly harmless but illicit activities. Now the source was paying old debts by fingering the three men wanted for questioning in Hutch’s disappearance. They had established residency in one of the rattiest rooms in the St. Francis Hotel, if anyone cared to remove their filth from decent society, the caller had told Huggy.

Someone did want to do just that. Within half an hour Starsky and Dobey combined with several backup units to storm the St. Francis and haul the surprised and petrified suspects away in cuffs.

Yes, Starsky should’ve been riding a police work high. Dobey, who flatly refused to allow Starsky to question the men without his direct supervision, commented afterward that his detective had conducted one of the most professional, effective, and textbook interrogations he’d ever seen…especially considering the circumstances.

Faced with Starsky’s acute guesses about their true employer, backed up against the corner of Cheatham’s wrath, the men had rolled onto their backs like cockroaches. Then they turned into stool pigeons. No going the Luis route for them. The information flowed in a steady stream through the proper channels for distributing search-and-arrest warrants.

Starsky knew Cheatham would not be caught with his pants around his ankles. The information gleaned from the “terrified trio,” as Narcotics had already dubbed them, was by now obsolete, the search warrant not worth the paper used to print it. But the cooperating divisions of the ninth precinct hoped to deliver one Ronald Wesley Amboy, a.k.a. The Boss, gift-wrapped to a family reunion with his dear old dad.

No one dared congratulate Starsky for his success. Even Minnie offered him a fresh cup of coffee, a brief side hug, and a silent, hopeful smile. He’d worn a stony mask around the station through the whole process. By the end, he’d felt the mask cracking, and he knew no one wanted to be present for the unveiling.

Dobey had cornered Starsky in his office and ordered him with a no-argument frown into a chair. “You need sleep. We’ve got an APB out on Hutch. As many men as I can possibly spare are practically crawling through every back alley and side street looking for any sign of him. What good will you be to him as a partner and a friend, when he’s found, if you crack up in the meantime?”

“Cap’n, just how much luck would you have talking Hutch into taking a break if I was out there, God knows where, hurt, alone, in who knows what shape?”

“Absolutely none,” Dobey groaned.

“Now, how much luck you think you’re gonna have with me?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Good answer.”

“This is hitting you harder than Slater’s attack or the Forest abduction.”

“Hell, yes! Those times, I didn’t know, damn it. Not until he’d been gone a lot longer than this. I thought he was with Jeannie having the time of his life… or having that home-cooked meal with what’shername instead of lying under a damn car. I didn’t know. I’ve known from the get-go this time and it’s driving me outta my friggin’ mind! Now I understand what he–what he went through when Marcus’s freaks had me.”

Dobey propped his elbows on the desk and leaned his upper body’s weight against them, head tilted to the side and eyes droopy with fatigue. “Starsky, I think the strange circumstances in this case are taking their toll. We don’t know what to make of that crazy story…and they’re sticking to it. They’ll squeal high and low about Cheatham and Amboy Jr., but they won’t tell us the truth about Hutch. Why not?”

Starsky squirmed in the chair and crossed his legs, gripping his ankle to steady the tremor in his knee. He stared down at the dark denim. In an overwhelming, almost adolescent urge to impress his mystery, phantom lover, he’d worn what Hutch teasingly called his “best pair” of jeans. Hutch had reasoned that this pair remained free of holes, bloodstains, mud stains, and taco sauce. Had Hutch ever noticed that this pair of jeans stayed in Starsky’s closet until after he’d regained enough weight and muscle tone post-shooting to do them justice? Had Hutch ever noticed the results of all that physical therapy, training, and strength conditioning with more than the eyes of a concerned coach, partner, amateur physician, and friend? Could Starsky believe any of what he experienced in that seaside house or was it as nonexistent as the office in Miramar Square?

Starsky jumped up and fled to the door where he leaned back and let its solidity strengthen him from head to crossed ankles. “Cap’n, why tell us that story at all? They don’t have Hutch. We found no proof on their persons or in the hotel room at the St. Francis to indicate any connection to Hutch. Sure, we have a witness to their arrival at Hutch’s apartment, but no one saw them leave with Hutch in their ‘custody.’ We didn’t reveal Huggy’s source or suggest that we knew anything beyond what we put together with straight police work. If they want to evade a pretty heavy rap, why not say they went looking for Hutch but he wasn’t home? His car’s there, but he could’ve gone off with someone. Why admit to knocking him out and taking him with them?”

Dobey’s eyes shifted from droopy to alert in seconds. “Are you suggesting–? People don’t vanish, Starsky! Buildings don’t suddenly erupt into flames without a trigger.”

“You were in there with me, Cap’n! Didn’t you get a good look at those men? We’re talking star prospect material for the Turbos, here, and they never stopped quivering the whole time we questioned them. You want to tell me I’m that intimidating? I don’t think so. And you weren’t exactly playing the heavy.”

Dobey harrumphed and looked away. “Well, the arson investigators will have the final say. If you’re going to believe their twisted fairy tale, we really are in trouble.”

Starsky heaved a yawn from the depths of his gut. “I don’t know what to believe. I’m just saying there’s a reason behind their terrible case of the shakes…and it has something to do with Hutch. I’m saying Hutch is still missing, damn it, and I’m standing here helpless!”

Dobey nodded at the door. “Go home. Get some rest. That’s an order, Starsky. You’ve only been on active duty for one month–”

“Don’t!” Starsky shouted. “Don’t use that against me! Especially not now. I’m the same cop I was a year ago. No, I’m a better cop than I was a year ago.” He opened the door with a quick, angry flick of the wrist and kicked it shut behind him with his foot.

He ignored the quiet, worried atmosphere in the squad room, refusing to make eye contact with the other officers, and left the room to relax in the silence of the hallway, until he heard voices just around the corner.

“…no sign of Hutch. Place is a disaster area. Supposedly he wasn’t there, though.”

“You don’t believe that. Where the hell is he if they didn’t stash him somewhere and he didn’t go up with the apartment?”

“I think he went up. I think they overdid it with the chloroform and left him there to burn and now they’ve got to cover up a murder rap. Cop killing, no less. Starsky can’t face it. He should pull himself together and come to terms. Act like a cop, for crying out loud, instead of a–”

The speaker didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence: his shoulders and neck were forced painfully against a wall and the length of a forearm connected with his Adam’s apple and shoved his chin up. “Hutch is not dead. Do you hear me? Am I getting through to that robot’s brain of yours, McCauley? Huh? How about it, Avery? How do you like having a partner who thinks I should give up on mine when he’s been missing less than twelve hours? Hutch and me have a decade of history between us. You and McCauley, you’ve known each other, what? Six months? Guess he’d give up on you in about fifteen minutes.”

“Let him go, Starsky,” Officer Avery whispered, backing away from the two men. McCauley had a reputation for facing down hardened felons with a lethal grin. Right now his expression had more in common with the quivering Cheatham musclemen. “Just take it easy, Starsky. No one wants you to give up on Hutch.”

“Yeah, well, you two better not give up on him either. You’re gonna be out on your beat today and I want you knowing there’s a cop out there you gotta find. A cop who’d put his life on the line for any one of you. You with the program? Or do I need to pound it into McCauley’s head like Morse code?”

“Yeah, St-Starsky, we hear you,” McCauley squawked, and stepped aside the second Starsky pulled his arm back even two inches.

Avery gripped his partner by the arm and escorted him firmly down the hall. Starsky caught the exasperated comment from the cooler head of the pair, “McCauley, you don’t know how close you came to getting your tonsils rearranged from the outside. Next time you decide to act on your death wish, wait until I’m out of harm’s way, all right?”

Now Starsky sat in the grayness of the morning contemplating Miramar Square and trying, oddly enough, to follow McCauley’s ill-phrased advice and “come to terms” with the knowledge that he’d been a blind, selfish idiot. Even worse, he was directly responsible for his partner’s disappearance, not so much because he’d broken some con artist’s stupid rules, but because he’d taken the greatest love of his life for granted too long, and fate had finally come collecting dues.

How long had he lied to himself about his feelings for Hutch? Starsky rolled down the window, flung the remnants of the cold coffee outside, and then squished the cup in his hands. Damn Vietnam and all its fucking psychological rape! He’d wrapped every experience, each memory, and any part of him that grew out of the war’s little school of torture into a bundle and shoved it as far back in a closet as he could. His shame at what he’d seen, what he’d been forced to do for a country he loved but in the name of a war he didn’t even understand, had destroyed his will to accept what he’d learned about himself while in-country–including his ability to form a bond with another man that crossed the border of friendship.

But there had been one time when his mind tried desperately to break through the wall.

The Cabrillo State case should have been a turning point. His dependence on Hutch as his one tie to sanity, real life, and the outside world had shown him how wrapped up in Hutch his life really was. His body had thrummed with ecstasy whenever the white-clad figure showed up in his room. He’d wanted to pull Hutch down on the hospital bed and show him just how wild “Skyler” could get. Standing face to face with Hutch in the doorway to his temporary hospital room, inches away from the comforting presence of his best friend, he’d wanted to say everything, to express all the feelings whirling inside. Suddenly that blonde reporter was no longer beautiful and worthy of pursuit. What did she have that Hutch didn’t have in twice the measure? Starsky could still remember the burning, almost physically painful joy he’d experienced holding Hutch against his side, nestled close, while training the gun on Matwick. Knowing the lengths that Hutch, even under the influence of strong medication, would go to protect him had left Starsky’s heart beat on the dangerous side of fast, and the pulse in his cock trying hard to catch up.

Doubts about Hutch reciprocating those physical and emotional urges weren’t responsible for Starsky burying the newborn truth about his love for Hutch. In the wild, raw anger of blindfold-free hindsight, Starsky pounded both fists on the steering wheel. No, he would’ve braved the potential of heterosexual fury and rejection from his partner if he hadn’t still been fighting demons within himself that had nothing to do with Bay City, California. The demons had won, and Starsky locked the desires in a maximum-security cell in the back of his heart and tried to exorcize the memory of his response to Hutch by romancing a woman with more baggage than a transcontinental flight. Rosey Malone had been the first of a string of women, culminating in Kira, whose sole purpose was to substitute for what he couldn’t admit to already having in Hutch.

Starsky’s shoulders quaked. He grabbed tufts of hair fiercely between his fingers, his mouth stretched in a silent scream. What good did all this self-reflection and clarity do him–or Hutch–now? Starsky groaned out loud and looked at his watch: 8:30 a.m. Time to quit wallowing in memories and do something constructive. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t alone in the car.

She sat calmly in the passenger seat: petite in figure, soft chestnut curls framing her face, her button nose and sweet smile unchanged. She wore crisp jeans and a sweater. As always, no frills, no pretended elegance could ever match the beauty of her spirit…just pure…Terry.

“T-Terry?”

The sweet smile turned into a loving grin. “Didn’t I say I’d always be there when you needed me? When it seemed like your world was falling apart? When you’re scared?”

Starsky’s mask crumbled; he buried his face in his hands. “You’re not real. I’m losing my mind.”

“No, you’re not.” Terry’s voice was gone, replaced by the musical voice of a stranger in Terry’s body. Starsky looked up quickly, moisture clinging to his lower lashes. “You’ve met my son.”

Starsky stared. “Your son?”

“Eros. I’m sure you remember him. Tall, blond, gorgeous creature.”

“I don’t understand. You look like–”

“We are Love, David, Eros and I. To you, true, abiding love in masculine form is a tall, golden, blue-eyed Midwesterner. True, abiding love in feminine form is–”

“Terry. Then you must be–”

“Aphrodite. Right.” She beamed at him through Terry’s eyes.

Starsky shook his head. “I’m insane. No wonder I’m thinking about Cabrillo State. You don’t exist. You’re just a part of stories I had to read in school.”

Aphrodite sighed. “Well, thank you for clearing up the tiny matter of my existence for me. I was so worried about that. So good to finally know that I don’t exist.” Starsky flushed, acutely uneasy, and turned his eyes to his window.

Aphrodite squeezed his knee gently with Terry’s tiny hand. “Look. I know I’m not a part of your belief structure, but that doesn’t mean I don’t exist. Why is it so difficult for humans to understand that there are many faces of Love, Goodness, and Benevolence? Just as there are many faces of Evil, Strife, and Hate? Take for instance, my fairly unappealing relative Discordia, which is why I’m here right now.”

“Wanna speak my language? I’m afraid I’m still hearing Greek when you talk.”

She laughed out loud. “Very funny. If that David Starsky sense of humor is still intact, we have hope.” She sobered. “You know, you have Olympus in an uproar. Some say leave you to your fate. You broke the rules. Live with it. But Love is above all things forgiving. Eros and I have pleaded your case. We didn’t count on Discordia showing her ugly face and toying with our plans. You can’t be blamed for her mayhem.”

“I’m not following….”

“David, your mother hasn’t called you for two weeks.”

“No, she called just–Oh.”

“Has anyone ever told you how incredibly sexy you are when the light bulb comes on over those luscious curls?”

Starsky gulped. The raw verbal seduction emerging from Terry’s lips threatened to overload his strained circuits. Aphrodite must have realized he couldn’t handle one more incongruity, because her smile softened. “The problem is, Zeus warned Eros the next foul-up would result in Hades getting his hands on his pick of the mortals involved…and Hades’s tastes…well, let’s just say he thought all that golden virtue would brighten up the Underworld immensely. I think he’s bored with Persephone, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Starsky’s eyes widened and his fists clenched of their own accord. “Do you mean he’ll–”

Aphrodite gasped. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to give you the impression that…no, he won’t physically approach Hutch. No, no. He’s just enjoying something bright, a soul that is so aesthetically pleasing. Like an original Monet. Or a personal sculpture by Michelangelo.”

Starsky visibly relaxed at her reassurance, but the import of Aphrodite’s other words churned in his stomach. “Are you saying H-Hutch is–?” He couldn’t say the word.

“You told your captain just hours ago that you’d be grateful for the chance to fetch Hutch out of Hell. How serious were you?”

Starsky glared, found he couldn’t glare at Terry’s face, whoever inhabited her body, and turned his gaze away again. “You’re supposed to be immortal. You tell me.”

“Oh, I apologize. I was off fooling around somewhere with some unsuspecting mortal when Zeus gave the lesson on omniscience. Now will you answer the question, Detective? This isn’t child’s play we’re dealing with here.”

“I’d go to the deepest pit of Hell for him. Gladly.”

Aphrodite smiled. “All right, Mr. Starsky. You’re going to have your chance. Not Hell, of course, but my uncle’s domain. Before we start, let me ask you another question. Would you still face any torture the Underworld might subject you to for Hutch even if you knew that once the two of you reach Bay City again–if you’re able to get back–you will be separated forever?”

“What!” Starsky shot up straight in his seat and turned to completely face his companion. Surely he’d heard wrong. No one wearing Terry’s smile could talk about separating Hutch and him forever. But there was a mournful light in her eyes now.

“You broke the rules. Some are having a hard time seeing past that. Olympus is in turmoil worse than when a certain golden apple rolled into a wedding feast, and you know what that little fiasco brought about! This time everybody’s in on the voting. You and Hutch are far too interesting to leave in the hands of some mortal’s judgment. The choice is simple: wipe your slate clean and let you and Hutch decide where to take your relationship, or break the two of you apart for the rest of your lives here on earth and throughout eternity. So far, despite Eros’s eloquent arguments on your behalf–which is where he is right now, by the way, filibustering for the two of you–we have a tie straight down the middle. I can’t promise the remaining vote will fall on your side.”

“Um…I’m not up on all the theology and stuff, but if you’re not in my–er–belief structure, how the hell do you have jurisdiction over Hutch and me?”

Aphrodite laughed. “Once a cop; always a cop. Jurisdiction. That’s cute. We have jurisdiction over you, dear heart, because you sought Eros’s counsel and agreed voluntarily to his offer.”

Starsky opened his mouth, but seconds passed before he could form speech. “Who’s the last vote?”

Aphrodite glanced away from his cutting grief, but she lifted an unerring hand and wiped the moisture away from his lashes with a gentle sweep of her fingers. “Why don’t you just answer my question and let us get started…or I can let you go back to your regularly scheduled life with the BCPD?”

“Who has the final vote?”

“Persistent mortal, aren’t you? Just turn that interrogation tone off, Detective. I’m not your enemy. The final vote belongs to Ares. He’s far more interested in war than love and though he and I were once lovers, I cannot guarantee his support. So, is it worth the pain and anguish you may endure to bring Hutch back to the land of the living when you may lose him the moment you set foot on mortal ground?”

Starsky didn’t hesitate. He opened the car door. “Let’s go. Now. Tell me what to do.”

Aphrodite halted his movement with a soft touch on his jacket sleeve. “You really do love him.”

“I’ve always loved him.”

“No,” Aphrodite said knowingly. “I speak of a love above all loves. Above all others. Above the woman whose form I have taken.”

Starsky turned around and traced the cheekbone, the dainty nose on the face that had represented lasting love and marriage for him in the past. “I had feelings for Terry, but I’ve never loved anyone the way I love Hutch. That’s the raw truth. Can we go now?”

“I’m reluctant to send you on a mission that may well have no happy ending.” Aphrodite’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears, reminding Starsky of his vigil at Terry’s death bed.

He felt a responding lump in his own throat and choked it down. “A happy ending for me is having Hutch safe and back where he belongs. Got that?”

“Hutch is a lucky man,” Aphrodite said, breathless, sliding her fingertips along the curve of Starsky’s shoulder. “I’ve watched you for years…visited you in the hospital, though not visibly. Oh, well, even the goddess of love can’t always get what she wants. Come on, Detective, before I break into a Rolling Stones medley.”

In spite of his overwhelming anxiety for Hutch, Starsky laughed and felt the bands around his heart loosen. He exited the car and followed her across the parking lot to the office building.

They entered the same office suite Starsky remembered from his appointment with Eros, but someone had remodeled, clearing the space of the expensive lobby furniture and other doctor’s office trappings, and no lovely redhead greeted them. Aphrodite led him into the room where his adventure had begun, and Starsky quickly catalogued the differences: the fainting couch he’d consciously avoided was now the only piece of furniture in the room.

“Lie down, Detective,” Aphrodite commanded; Starsky complied without question. The goddess knelt and lifted him against her shoulder, and with some cooperation from Starsky removed his jacket, which she draped over his upper body like a blanket. “This is what will happen. I’m going to put you into a special and quite deep trance, because this is a battle only your soul may fight. Placing you in the trance will cause you no pain…that is, unless you absolutely can’t bear my kissing you.” Starsky discovered he could still grin, and for a moment Aphrodite looked dazzled.

“I’ll guide your soul’s flight to a special cave. Directly outside the cave, Charon waits by the River Styx. I’m placing a coin in your jeans’ front left pocket. You must have a coin for Charon to ferry you across the river. If you please Charon, he will help you pass safely by Cerberus. From there, you are on your own and have only the strength of your wits and soul to fight your way to Hutch. I cannot advise you on what you’ll encounter or what you must do when you reach Hutch. If your love for him is sufficiently strong, you’ll find him and you will know how to plead for his return.”

Starsky opened his arms in an offered embrace. “Pucker up, schweetheart, I’m ready to go.”

“Must you be so tempting? I have the desires of a human, you know. One more thing: I cannot remain while you lie in trance. I must return to Olympus and fight for your cause. You should not be left alone. Is there someone you trust, who will believe in what we are doing?”

“My friend Huggy.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Bear. Lovely gentleman. All right. I’ll collect him, explain the trance to him, and send him here. He’ll arrive alone as I’ll have already left for the Mount. Time is wasting. Once Hutch has been in the Underworld for twelve earthly hours, securing his return will be virtually impossible.”

“You’re gonna show up at Huggy’s looking like Terry? That might not be such a good idea.” Starsky could only imagine Huggy dropping to the floor in a dead faint.

“Oh, no. I’ll appear to him as his idea of true, pure love in feminine form.”

Starsky laughed. “Huggy has an idea of–”

“Don’t be a love snob, Detective!” Aphrodite interrupted with a snap. “You think you’re the only person capable of deep feeling? Poor Huggy has carried a torch for over a year.”

“Sorry,” Starsky mumbled, chagrined.

Aphrodite smiled. “Ready for your kiss, Detective? It won’t take effect until Huggy is here to sit with you.” At the lift of her hand, the leather armchair complete with ottoman appeared at the foot of the fainting couch.

Starsky raised his arms again. “Gimme all you got.”

Aphrodite leaned close and covered his mouth with her own. Swept away in sensation, Starsky maneuvered his arms around the blanketing jacket and crushed her tight against his chest. She pulled back, sniffling, voice wet with tears. “Haven’t felt this way about a mortal since Adonis.”

“That was…damn,” Starsky breathed, blinking his eyes open.

“I’m glad you appreciate my gifts, but I must tell you the truth. If you ever experience true love’s first kiss, you’ll forget all about this one. Nothing in the world compares, and even I can’t imitate the sensation.”

“With Terry–”

“No, Detective. You spoke the truth yourself. You had feelings for her, and you would have made her happy, but she is not the heart that matches your soul.” Aphrodite stood and spread her arms wide, palms upward. “Time for me to fetch Huggy.”

Starsky stared, open mouthed, as Terry gave way to another familiar female. Detective Joan Meredith blinked at him. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“I thought he was kidding when he said he’d just met the future Mrs. Bear.”

“No.” Aphrodite laughed. “If he could drum up the courage to offer her his companionship, he would find he could make her very happy. But that’s a project I’ll have to reserve for another day. Best wishes, Detective. Love is counting on you to succeed.”

She vanished from sight. Starsky lowered his head to the couch, closing his eyes and resting his hands over his jacket-covered chest.

“Starsky?”

Starsky blinked then stared down the length of the fainting couch at Huggy, who lounged in the armchair. “You jush ge’ere? Didn’ hear ya come in.”

“You’re about to go under, m’man. Words all slurry. Yeah, just got here. It’s nine o’clock. Not much time left, but Aphrodite said that time slows in the Underworld so you should be able to reach Hutch during the twelve-hour window. You ready?”

“Hell, yesh. I’m bringin’ him home, Hug.”

Huggy nodded solemnly. “Yeah. She said for you to pat your left pocket. Feel the coin?”

Starsky rubbed over his pocket and smiled. “Yep.”

“Bon voyage, brother. I’m gonna be here the whole time.”

Starsky didn’t have a chance to say good-bye before the trance took him.

~*~

Nothing had prepared Starsky for the bone-deep chill that settled over him in the dank, dark cave. He looked down at himself and stumbled backward in amazement at the thick, golden fleece draped over his shoulders and chest in odd combination with his jeans and faded denim shirt. Grateful for the cloak’s warmth, he pulled it close around him, shuddering, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the oppressive darkness. He then spotted a shaft of light up ahead. Trying not to think about what the cave’s dim light might hide, Starsky steadfastly rushed forward, eager to be in the open, wherever that might lead him.

The minute he set foot outside the cave, he wished himself back in again. Hunched, emaciated old men tore at each other with teeth and lengthy fingernails over a piece of crusty, molded bread. A young woman with empty eye sockets stood in a pool of blood and screamed. Two warriors danced around each other like boxers, gaping wounds and nearly severed limbs proclaiming the ferocity of their battle. And on an ancient couch upholstered in silk reposed a frightful woman, hair of Vipers tied back with bloody lace. She rose from the couch and approached Starsky, her smile revealing blackened teeth.

Sliding her hands over his chest and back she cooed, “Age, Hunger, Fear, and Hate: my eternal companions, Detective. Welcome to the realm of Hades. I am Discordia.” She slipped her fingers into Starsky’s left pocket. “Charon waits for you. Never mind my beauties. They won’t harm you. Your path has been cleared beyond this point.”

Starsky gulped and maneuvered free of her prying hands. Discordia: the main reason behind his presence here, behind Hutch’s falling into Hades’s hands! He snarled a few choice words for her.

Discordia only smiled again. “My, my, a spunky human. Even the great Aeneas passed by here without daring to show his distaste for me. I should reward you for your courage.” With that pronouncement, she raised her hands, and hissing serpents coiled around Starsky’s legs. He jumped and yelped. “Oh, don’t worry, Detective. Charon will rid you of them. Do enjoy your stay with us.” She turned and slithered back to the couch.

Starsky walked cautiously, staring straight ahead and desperately fighting images of a peeved rattlesnake in a country cabin. He approached the bank of a large, black river, the waters incredibly calm except for the soul-crushing howls emanating from beneath the surface. A sturdy old man wearing a ragged tunic and tattered cloak turned away from pleading, shrieking ethereal shades that resembled human beings, and gazed at Starsky. He ominously waved his gnarled hardwood staff.

“Charon, sir?” Starsky asked.

The old man didn’t speak, but he extended a cupped hand. Knowing Charon wanted the coin, Starsky thrust his hand into his pocket, searching for the token. Emptiness greeted him. With a sharp cry, he patted the outside of the pocket but only felt his fingers. “I–”

Charon’s face suffused with dark fury. He raised the staff and held it above Starsky’s head. Starsky closed his eyes, expecting a fatal blow. Inspiration saved him. He gripped his leather necklace and dangled the coins for Charon’s inspection. The old man nodded and lowered the staff, stretching out the cupped hand instead. Starsky pulled the necklace over his head and dropped it onto Charon’s palm.

The ferryman gestured with the staff at the waiting boat. Starsky surveyed the shallow, tri-masted vessel with some trepidation. He glanced down at his legs and the persistent reptiles and grimaced. Lesser of two evils. “Uh, Charon, sir, could you do something about my anklets?”

Moving his lips in the approximation of a smile, Charon stretched out the staff, tapping Starsky’s legs. The serpents vanished; Starsky let out a long breath of relief. “Thank you, sir,” he said on the way to the boat. “I really hate snakes.”

Charon climbed in behind him and waved the staff at the human shades that tried to press their way forward. When the boat pushed away from the shore, Starsky said, awed, “A solo trip? I’m honored, sir.”

Silently Charon guided the boat’s crossing. Starsky looked over the side into the water below and experienced a shot of adrenaline straight to his heart…or at least the heart that rested securely in the body on the fainting couch in Miramar Square. He was on his way to see Hutch! His gorgeous, priceless, bossy, sarcastic, irritating, quirky, and damn near perfect Hutch.

When the boat docked on the shore of Hades-proper, Starsky regarded Charon thoughtfully. “I guess I’m on my own now, sir?”

Charon shook his head and clasped Starsky’s shoulder. “Cerberus,” he said, gesturing.

Starsky turned in the direction of Charon’s gaze and quailed. “Oh, God. Dogs and snakes. Terrific.” The massive dog had three heads, all snarling, drooling, and vibrating with deep-throated barking, their necks alive and wriggling with venomous reptiles.

Charon gave a bark of his own that probably translated as laughter, and pushed Starsky ashore. The old man debarked and approached the enraged beast, waving his staff and murmuring something incomprehensible to Starsky. The dog whimpered, whined, and went down on his haunches, lowering the heads. Charon nodded at Starsky.

“Thanks for everything.” Starsky saluted and tiptoed warily past the now docile dog.

He had to bend low to walk beneath the dipped, knotted branches of bare trees, and shivered in the blast of arctic air that swirled around him. The howls and moans of tormented souls clung to him as tightly as the fleece cloak. Just as he reached a forked path, frigid arms grasped his shoulders and turned him to look into the sunken blue eyes of self-inflicted death.

“Rosey?”

She clung to him, wrapped herself around his body, and he grabbed hold of her wrists, gaping with horror at the jagged slashes. “You should have come for me, David.”

“No!”

“I waited…so lonely…missed you…you should have come for me.”

“No! No, this isn’t real!”

“You’ll come for Hutch, but you wouldn’t come for me.”

“No, you’re not real. You’re not Rosey. She wouldn’t–you’re a distraction.”

He must have nailed the truth, because the specter disappeared and he was left staring at the forked path. Which one? He took one step toward the right path and felt nothing but cold. He changed course and started down the left path, suddenly wrapped in warmth.

“Hutch, babe! I’m coming! Hear me, Hutch?”

The path seemed to stretch for miles, surrounded by mists and glimpses of atrocities Starsky couldn’t even name. He regretted his lack of weapon, though he doubted even Hutch’s Magnum capable of dealing with these threats. He decided he preferred being the path’s only traffic when another traveler appeared ahead of him. The situation only deteriorated when the traveler turned to face him.

At least eight-feet tall, with an arm span to rival a bald eagle, the headless man wore a torn, bloody tunic and wielded shredded flesh beyond the wrist instead of hands. He stretched those mangled arms out and said, in perfect English, “You will not pass. You who have not suffered death’s agony.”

Starsky frowned. He had no time for this. Hand-to-“hand” combat with this freak-show could take hours. He heard a whisper in the chilling breeze….

Brain not brawn, Starsk.

Ignoring the mauled human’s lack of eyes, Starsky pulled the cloak open and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his scars. “Been there, done that, asshole, and did better than you! Now get the hell out of my way if you don’t want to lose the rest of your arms.”

To his shock, the mountainous man went down on one knee and bowed his head. “You bear the mark of a victorious warrior. Death-cheater, I acknowledge your superiority. Pass unharmed.”

“That’s more like it.” Starsky smirked, not bothering to button his shirt as he sidestepped the monstrosity. Scars might buy him more than one free pass in a place like this.

The path abruptly ended at a large pond, harmless at first glance. Three hooded hags appeared at his side and squawked with laughter.

“Tartarus’s pit. Deep. You fall in, you stay forever,” rasped one crone.

“No other way to Hades’s palace. Your journey ends here,” gloated the second hag.

“Doomed to stay and never to see him,” chimed the third.

Starsky rolled his eyes. “Lemme get this straight: I’ve got to cross that damn pond to get to Hades’s pad, and if I sink, I end up in this Tartarus place? Forever.”

“He has heard our warning,” the three moaned in unison.

The warmth curled around Starsky’s shoulders; he felt the whispery brush of soft, fine hair against his cheek. Starsky stared at the ground, caught in the grasp of memories. The morning Rosey discovered his true occupation: Hutch barking at him, demanding Starsky’s professionalism as a cop, and winking his approval when Starsky rose to the challenge. Encouragement, support, understanding. Starsky wanted to shout with happiness.

He grinned at the hags. “Guess what, glamour girls? Love’s unsinkable. Adios and have fun at the beauty parlor.” Amid their groans and shrieks, Starsky stepped over the edge and laughed at them when he failed to fall beneath the water’s surface.

He strode calmly across the water like a sidewalk. “Hutch! I’m almost there, partner, I promise! Hang on, Hutch.”

“Damn,” Starsky said when he reached the shore. “Wet sneakers, yuck.” He squished across a field strewn with bones and sculls and stopped in front of three caves, their mouths yawning, dark and silent. “Choices, choices,” he muttered.

The silence shattered. A child’s voice screamed in pain. “Help me…please! Please help me!”

“Ah, man, what now?”

“Help! Oh, please!” The little girl cried again, the sound tearing at Starsky’s soul.

“No, this is another distraction. She’s speaking English!” He covered his ears and tried to think.

“Help me, hurry!”

Instinct took over. “Damn, damn. Hang on, little one, I’m coming.”

He dived into the middle cave and right up against a monstrous creature that in no way resembled a small child. The dragon-like beast had nine heads, each one determined to take a bite out of Starsky. “Oh, this is fabulous,” he grumped, knees weak and body trembling. “You’re no Shirley Temple, that’s for sure.” He stared down the monster and held up his hands. “Look, ugly. You want me and I want Hutch. One of us has got to give. What’s it gonna be, huh?”

Three of the heads swung down on the long curved necks and lashed out at him. Starsky jumped back, biting down on a yell. He swiveled to retreat, but the mouth of the cave closed behind him in a landslide of rock. As the dust and noise settled, Starsky heard Aphrodite’s voice: If your love for him is sufficiently strong, you’ll find him and you will know how to plead for his return.

How strong was his love? Starsky closed his eyes and breathed deeply, transported to a hospital room where he sat, masked, on the side of a bed, and gripped pale, trembling, clammy hands. Hutch’s sweat-soaked face twisted his heart, and that beloved voice, pleading with him to take care of the nasty organism tying his chest in knots, burned his soul. In his mind, Starsky gripped harder, babbling encouragement, and experienced a rush of relief when Hutch’s face relaxed.

You did it….  

Starsky opened his eyes to the truth, his chest swelling as he faced the hissing, lashing creature. He balled his fists and shouted, “I love him, you deformed sci-fi reject! I love him! If I can battle a practically invisible virus, you think I can’t take your sorry ass? Huh? Come and get me!” Squaring his shoulders, he braced for battle.

He watched in amazement as the creature gave a prolonged deafening cry and burst into flame. Starsky had just begun to figure a way around the leaping flames when they were doused in a rush of water. He craned his neck and spotted the water’s source. She was beautiful. Long, sun-gold hair, a figure supermodels could only strive for, and the face of an angel whose sole duty is safeguarding newborns. She walked across the steaming pool of water where the monster had been and smiled at Starsky, offering him her hand.

“You have earned guidance to my Lord Hades’s palace. I am Queen of the Underworld. My name is Persephone.”

Starsky clasped the hand and in an instinctive gesture, brought it to his lips. She laughed. “Does this mean I don’t have to face more monsters?” Starsky asked, hopeful.

“Right, Detective. No more monsters. Hold my hand. I will lead you the rest of the way.”

“Oh, goody,” Starsky said with feeling.

The rest of the way turned out to be a short walk. Starsky vibrated, excitement at fever pitch, sensing the nearness of his partner. “Is he all right?”

Persephone smiled again. “He has not been harmed, Detective. My Lord Hades never had any intention of wounding such a beautiful creature. He appreciates beauty.”

“I can see that,” Starsky said, pointedly, favoring her with a wink.

She blushed and twittered. “Oh…oh, thank you. Yes, Aphrodite said you were a charmer. But a fresh drink of water only one person may sip.”

“Yes,” Starsky agreed, climbing the numerous marbled stairs at her side. “My heart beats for only one person now.” Never one for soap or sap, he was astonished he could vocalize that intense emotion without discomfort. Maybe it had something to do with being in a place that had only existed for him in storybooks.

“Your heart beat has always been for that one person, Detective. Your mind had to wrestle with truth before you could act on that feeling. Now is your chance to show him.”

Starsky pushed thoughts of the future to the back of his mind. Separation. An eternity without Hutch. He’d cross those bridges later. For now his soul wanted to dance at the opportunity to look on his best friend again.

Hades’s throne room had the Underworld’s chill, but was elaborately appointed and suitable for divine royalty. The Olympian lounged on a throne fashioned of ivory, gold, and mother-of-pearl. Innumerable creatures, some with almost human form, filled the room, bearing homage to the Underworld’s crown ruler.

Starsky’s attention locked on a cage of crystal beside the throne, and its inhabitant.

Hutch!

“Why you got him in chains in a damned crystal case?” Starsky shouted, and the entire throne room fell silent. Persephone winced.

“Come forward, insolent human!” thundered Hades, pounding his jeweled scepter on the marble floor. “Persephone, my own, let go his hand. He must face this without help.”

She squeezed his hand one final time and then let go, rushing over to the second, smaller throne and curling her shapely legs in a childish posture. She sat with bowed head.

Starsky approached the main throne and repeated his question. “Pardon me, sir, Your Majesty… uh whatever. I don’t understand the need for chains and a cage.”

Hades looked at the crystalline case. Nude, Hutch hung suspended, arms and legs bound with shackles, and so far he’d given no indication that he knew what took place around him, including the presence of his partner. “His heart is powerful, human. If I did not bind him, that heart would flee immediately to your side. Without question.”

Starsky snorted. “That’s my Hutch: more powerful than all your mumbo-jumbo. Gotta use old-fashioned chains on him.” He ignored Hades’s indignant growl and headed for the case, spreading his hands against the cold surface and pressing his lips to the side of the cage. “Hutch. Babe? Can you hear me? I’ve come for you.”

Slowly the blond veil of hair moved as Hutch raised his head, his face ruddy with hope.

“Starsk?”

“Oh, yeah, buddy. It’s me. I’m here.”

“Shouldn’t have…come…” Hutch’s breathing sounded labored, shallow.

“Got kinda bored up there without ya. Decided I’d come see what you were up to.” His voice wavered. When Hutch’s head drooped again, Starsky turned, glaring at Persephone. “Why’s he sound like that? Act like that? You said he was okay.”

“His link to his body is weakening,” Hades explained. “Fairly soon he will be a permanent resident here.”

“No, he won’t! I’ve come to take him home.”

“And just why should I agree? I, Hades, Olympian, Lord of the Underworld?” Hades’s lengthy gray locks quivered in his rage.

“Because I love him, damn it! Because the world needs him. People up there depend on him. He’s too good to be trapped in some cage for your selfish enjoyment.”

“Oh, really? And just what do you propose to do with him, Detective, but the same thing? Lock him away in a closet of your own making, hiding your feelings, your love for him, from the rest of the world. Taking your pleasure from him but not acknowledging the gift of his affection in public. How is that any different?”

“You’re wrong!” Starsky roared. “I may not even have the chance. Odds are we’ll be separated the moment we hit terra firma. I’m here to set him free. You get it?”

Hades rubbed his chin. “I just might believe you, but I must have something in return. Let me see your chest, Detective.”

Starsky shuddered at the tone of voice and opened his unbuttoned shirt. Ohs and ahs from the gallery of Underworld subjects nearly drowned out Hades’s approving grunt.

“The blood of a battle wound shed here will tie your soul to me forever once you’ve passed through the veil. You shed that blood, and I will set him free to return with you.”

Hutch lifted his head and croaked, “No! No, Starsky. Not–not worth it!”

“Gladly,” Starsky said firmly. “Got something nice and sharp?”

“No!” Hutch shouted, struggling against his chains.

One of the loyal subjects emerged from the crowd and produced a marble-hilted dagger on a platter of gold. Hades nodded solemnly, and Starsky took the knife, turning it in his hands.

“No, Starsk, please. Please, don’t!” Hutch cried, gasping for breath, eyes cold and determined.

Staring directly into Hutch’s eyes, Starsky brought the knife to his chest and sliced a gash directly over one of the scars. He was not surprised that he felt the searing pain despite a supposed separation from his real, physical form. The pain was nothing compared to his rush of joy when the crystalline case shattered, shards vanishing, and the chains fell from Hutch’s body. Hutch fell to his knees on the marble floor. Starsky dropped the knife, oblivious to the blood seeping from his new chest wound, and surged forward, pulling Hutch up into his arms, petting his hair and murmuring soothing words.

Hades waved his hands. “Very well, Detective. Take him home. Your bravery and sacrifice will light the halls of Hades one day and make up for the loss of this trophy.”

“He’s not a trophy!” Starsky shouted, enraged. “He was willing to stay here forever trapped like an animal instead of watching me cut myself. Didn’t you hear him? What’s wrong with you people?”

“Persephone, my own? You know what to do.”

The beautiful lady of the Underworld vacated her throne and removed her diaphanous cloak, spreading it over the pair of men. Bowing her head, she touched both their bodies and whispered a phrase Starsky didn’t understand.

~*~

“HUTCH!” Starsky shot forward on the fainting couch, violently coughing.

Huggy was leaning over him, gripping his shoulders. “Starsky! You back with me? Man, your shirt’s bloody. What the hell–”

“HUTCH!”

“Uh, yeah, I got that much. Did you get him?”

Starsky leapt off the couch and struggled into his jacket. “Come on, Huggy, I know where he is.”

“I thought you’d be bringing him back with you.”

“I did. But they’ve left his body where we can find it and explain all this away in our police report. Not stupid, those Olympians.”

Starsky wobbled and threatened to pitch forward; Huggy grabbed his shoulders again. “You may know where he is, but you in no shape to drive.”

“You’re right.” Starsky clutched his forehead, nodded. “Huggy, believe it or not, I’m gonna let you drive the Torino.”

It was Huggy’s turn to wobble. “You gonna…? That the Bear should live to see the day. Oh, hell, come on, Starsky. I’ll drive her like she’s got nitro on her dashboard.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll gun her for all she’s worth. That’s why we’re taking my car instead of yours. I’m not leaving Hutch in that alley any longer’n I have to.”

With Starsky navigating, Huggy drove with consummate skill. As they neared the garment district, Starsky directed Huggy to an alley between two of the more dilapidated sewing factories. Huggy’s eyes widened at the sight of the crumpled figure by a green garbage dumpster. Starsky opened the door before Huggy could cut the engine, and fell out of the passenger seat. He scrambled up, brushed off his knees, and ran the length of the alley to the body.

“Oh, God. Oh, God, please. Hutch!”

Hutch wore sweat pants and a long jersey, the clothes he was wearing when abducted, based on the statement of his abductors. Both articles of clothing were filthy, and their wearer looked like a man surfacing from a decade-long drunk. “St-Starshsk?”

“Oh, yeah, babe, I’ve got you.” Starsky ran searching hands over his partner, trying to recall every police first aid course he’d ever taken, making sure he could safely move Hutch. Reassured when he felt no broken bones, he pulled Hutch into a crushing embrace, nestling Hutch’s head between his own shoulder and neck.

“Call it in, Huggy,” he called over his shoulder to their friend. “Get us an ambulance.”

“Right-o, daddy-o,” Huggy said, turning back to the Torino.

“No,” Hutch murmured, shaking in Starsky’s supporting arms. “No hospital.”

“Sorry, buddy-boy, you’re in no condition to fight me on this one.” I just hope they leave me with you long enough to know you’re okay.

“Starsky?”

“Shh, Hutch. Save your energy. Your spirit may have been in Hades, but your body’s been out in this alley all night.”

“Why–why’d you have to go and cut yourself?” Hutch asked before his eyes closed and his body went limp against Starsky’s.

“Because I love you,” Starsky murmured into Hutch’s hair.

 

December 16, 1979
1:00 PM

Hutch rolled over in the hospital bed and smiled weakly at the dark-haired man who kept vigil in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “Starsky?”

“Not quite,” said a stranger’s voice.

Hutch tried valiantly to move, but gave in to the tug of the IV and rested still. “Who are you… you look like….”

“I’m true love in masculine form as you see it. My name is Eros. Otherwise known as Cupid, as Love.”

“What the hell kind of drugs do they have me on?” Hutch demanded, reaching for the call-button. Eros lifted a finger and paralyzed Hutch’s hand.

“No, no, Detective. You’re not hallucinating. No drugs: you’re only on fluids. Or do you believe all that you experienced in the Underworld was a hallucination, too?”

“Some damn nightmare. There–there was a fire, Starsky said. I was taken from my home by force…chloroformed. No telling what–”

Eros reached into his jeans pocket and withdrew a leather-and-coin necklace and waved the index finger of his other hand, releasing Hutch’s partial paralysis. “Look familiar?”

“Where the–! What have you done to him? Where’s Starsky?”

“Easy, easy, Detective. He’s just fine. He thinks he’s having his chest stitched by an ER doctor who won’t report to Captain Dobey, but in actuality our own lovely Athena is tending to his needs. She flatly refused to let us have all the fun. Your beloved Starsky gave this to Charon in return for passage across the River of Souls. Charon was so impressed by your partner’s respect and calm under pressure that he wished to return the treasure as token of his esteem. I thought you might like to give it to him.”

Hutch accepted the necklace and lifted his hand to his lips, kissing the coins reverently. “Thank you. Starsky without this necklace is like…” His weary brain couldn’t quite manage an analogy.

Eros laughed. “Like Starsky without you?”

“Starsky manages without me. Made it all the way through Hades without me, didn’t he? If all this is real.”

“Oh, he fought the battle, but you were his weapon. Hasn’t that been the reality of your partnership all along? You may fight alone at times, but never without the power of the other within you. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I owe him my life. I’ve been down that road before. He’d always be willing to die for me, but that–” Hutch turned his face away from the beautiful sight of his partner and stared instead at the IV stand and monitors. “That doesn’t mean he’ll ever return the kind of love I feel for him. He should never have risked himself. He has this lady he loves. Now that he knows I’m safe, I should clear out and make my own way somewhere. Give him space so he can focus on her.”

Eros cleared his throat. “I’m strictly forbidden to interfere from this point onward. I can’t say anything except that your heart has been campaigning for your cause more than you know.”

“What?”

Eros grinned, that brilliant Starsky flash of teeth that brought a flush of desire to Hutch’s cheeks. “Is it your custom to sleep on your sofa, Detective?”

“No. What does that have to do with–”

“Someday you’ll understand. I must go now. Let me leave you with this thought: if you leave and remove your presence from his life, that’s your choice. The two of you won’t be separated by forces beyond your control.”

Hutch rubbed his eyes and frowned. “I–I don’t understand.”

“The last vote came down on your side. Ares has great sympathy for men who can stand face-to-face with a Hydra and call it a deformed sci-fi reject. Starsky will know what I mean when you give him the message.”

Hutch shook his head and relaxed back against the fluffed hospital pillows. Starsky had ranted and raved until the nurse brought three of them and stacked them to perfection. “I seem to remember something about Starsky spending eternity with Hades.”

Eros smiled. “Those aren’t just any stitches Athena’s sewing into your partner’s chest. Hades will have to find another pet. No, where you and Starsky go from here is up to the two of you. As it should have been all along. I wanted to help, but I should have left you to find your own truth. I apologize for causing both of you pain.”

“You’re not the Cupid I’ve read about in Bulfinch and Hamilton,” Hutch said groggily.

“Well, I was: mischievous, trouble-making, spoiled little brat with arrows, who flew around messing up people’s lives with misplaced lust. Certainly. That was my bag of tricks…until Psyche came along. Even the god of erotic love can be reformed by finding a true love of his own. You’ll be amazed at what true love can do for you, too, Detective.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hutch said bitterly, averting his gaze to the window. When he turned his face back to the visitor’s chair, he found himself alone.

Moments later, his room door opened a crack and another curly head peeked in with a smile. “Partner? You awake?”

“Starsk?”

“Yeah.” Starsky slipped into the room and bounced over to sit on the edge of Hutch’s bed. “How you feeling? Dobey’s down in the waiting area, but I told him you were resting.”

“Yeah, I’d like…a few minutes with you first.”

Starsky grinned and leaned over to ruffle Hutch’s hair. “No problem. Just you and me.”

“Why are you wearing a yellow t-shirt?”

Starsky looked down. “Doesn’t even fit. It’s Huggy’s. I couldn’t go walking around in a bloody shirt without having to answer some awkward questions. You should see Huggy. He’s hanging out in the lobby with that green silk vest over his bare skin, and my jacket makes him look even more ridiculous.”

Hutch laughed, triggering another cough. “You two make a good team.”

“He’s a champ, but he’s no substitute for you. I only got one partner in this world. God, it’s good to see you. I don’t know how long…I was scared to leave you to go get these stitches, but…” Starsky went silent, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Hutch reached out, patting Starsky’s knee. “Don’t worry. Had a visitor while you were gone. He said to tell you Ares has sympathy for men who can call a Hydra a deformed sci-fi reject. We won’t be separated.” He held out the leather-and-coin necklace with a bright smile.

Starsky ignored the necklace, gave a funny little cry, and gathered Hutch into a loose embrace, stroking his back, hands finding the bare skin through the hospital gown slit. “Ah, Hutch. Jesus. I don’t know what to say. I’ve been scared outta my mind since we got back to the real world.”

“Hey, easy,” Hutch soothed, trying not to respond too strongly to the comforting circle of arms.

“I’m so sorry about your place.”

“No. Don’t. You’re alive; I’m alive; we’re together. You had to slice open your chest for me. I think I can replace some furniture, plants, and junk without complaining.”

“I could have lost you! Forever. End of story. Would’ve been all my fault.”

“No!” Hutch cried out harshly, pushing back from the hug he never wanted to end.

“Hutch, I need to tell you–”

“Not right now. No blaming yourself until I have the strength and wits to argue with you. All right?”

Starsky moved his arms to clutch his partner’s shoulders, looking over Hutch with concern. “Are you–okay? I mean, really…all right?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Starsky, I’m fine. You heard the doctor. They just need to rehydrate me and keep me one night for observation. Really, I could go home right now if we hadn’t gotten Dr. Andrews, who’d admit someone with a hangnail. By tomorrow I won’t even know that I spent a night in an alley. You came out of this far worse than I did.” He touched Starsky’s t-shirt over the approximate location of the knife wound, and his jaw tightened against repressed emotion.

“Nah. It’s not deep. I don’t even feel it now.”

Hutch smiled. “You wouldn’t. Probably those special stitches. But then you’ve never needed special stitches to be a tough guy.”

“Special stitches?” Starsky asked, flushing.

“Your doc wasn’t just any ER sawbones. Your soul is your own again, partner.”

“You mean–?”

“No date with Hades, pal. Happy ending all around,” Hutch said, stumbling over the last sentence and lowering his eyes to stare at the bed.

“Hutch, you say you’re fine, but you sure don’t act like it. What’s wrong?”

Hutch winced at the potent combination of sympathy and concern. “You know how I feel about hospitals. I’m fine. Really. Hey, would I lie to you?”

Starsky swallowed hard and let go of Hutch’s right shoulder, shifting his hand to hover just to the side of Hutch’s face. Hutch wanted that caress of his cheek, wanted Starsky to run fingertips over his lips, but in a gesture of old times Starsky pushed Hutch’s forehead playfully with two fingers. “How about I get Dobey up here so you can get some sleep?”

“Only if you promise to go home and rest yourself.”

“Trying to get rid of me already?”

Hutch bit his lip and talked himself into a smirk. “Don’t want the nurses fighting over you.”

Starsky shot him a serious look. “Who the hell cares about the nurses?”

Hutch frowned. Yeah, right, Hutchinson. He’s been pursuing the end of the line, remember? How many times do you have to get that pounded into your head before it sticks? “Right. Uh…partner, better not keep the captain waiting.”

Mirroring his frown, Starsky left the bed. He stopped at the door and glanced back at Hutch, who rolled over on his side, facing the window until he heard the door shut.

 

Part Five: Lovers

December 17, 1979
6:00 PM

Huggy left the kitchen, pausing to straighten his fancy dress shirt and adjust the matching tie. Special occasions called for a slight deviation in wardrobe: no loud vests and clashing t-shirts tonight. He was distracted from his preening by the sight of the man at his bar. A beautiful and scantily clad brunette approached the solitary man, who waved her off with barely a polite smile.

Grabbing a beer glass, Huggy filled it to the brim with the perfect amount of foam to satisfy the lonely patron. “What are you doing in here? And alone, for crying out loud? Where’s Hutch?”

“At home,” Starsky said, forlornly sipping the beer. “Went out this afternoon after he was discharged and bought some clothes. I think he’s trying to figure out what he needs to replace and what he can just forget he ever owned. He’s planning on looking for a new place tomorrow.”

“And you don’t want him doing that,” Huggy guessed, lowering his voice in deference to the intimate subject matter. During the evening, post-happy-hour and pre-party time, most patrons were settled at tables, happily dining and chatting too loudly to overhear their conversation, but Huggy respected Starsky’s privacy in this above all else.

“God, yeah, a new place is fine. Long as it’s big enough for both of us. You know?”

“You tell him that?”

“I can’t get any personal conversation to last more than a few sentences with him! It’s like he’s holding me at arms’ length for his own self-preservation. Like he’s scared. Yesterday at the hospital I got nothing but back-off signals, and like a dumbass, that’s what I did. Backed off. What if it was all a stupid dream, Huggy? His part in it, I mean. Some figment of my imagination Eros and Aphrodite toyed with for their own pleasure?”

“You don’t believe that.”

Starsky slammed the beer glass down and bent low over the bar. “I don’t know what to believe. Christ, how many times have I said that lately? Look, I’m not hiding from you. You know by now how I feel about him. Okay? I want him; need him so bad my gut’s in knots. Tonight I gotta spend a night with him in my apartment and I feel like I need to lock him away in the bedroom while I crash on the couch.”

Huggy grinned and slapped Starsky on the shoulder. “Time for the Bear to start,” he twirled around and waved his hands, “healing your heart.” His expression went from teasing to serious in a flash as he yanked a barstool close, plopping down on it with a sigh. “When you first came in here to tell me what happened to Venice Place, I started to spill some insight into our Golden Boy’s character that I didn’t think your ears could handle. Now I know I misjudged you big time, but hey, even the Bear ain’t perfect but ninety-nine percent of the time. What can I say? All right. Listen up. Now that I’ve had to reevaluate my givens, I’m go’n tell you a cold, hard fact. Hutch has been in love with you for at least…oh, I’d say a couple months. Much longer than that, you ask me, but he’s been aware of it for a couple months.”

Gulping down some beer with his gasp, Starsky immediately coughed, clearing his throat, and Huggy leaned over to slap him on the back, but got a never-mind wave-off. “In love? How the hell do you know?”

Huggy raised his eyes to the ceiling in a plea for divine patience. “How long I known you two white boys? The answer? Long enough to know when one of you stops lookin’ at the other one like a bud and starts lookin’ at him like he’s champagne.”

“Nice one, Huggy.”

Huggy slapped a hand across Starsky’s mouth; Starsky batted him away. “Lemme finish, big mouth. Now, I admit I was thrown when Hutch’s little black book suddenly turned into the Bay City phone directory, but then Dianne confided in me that her friend Lena went out with Hutch and man, you’ve seen Lena. Elegant, curves in all the right places, intelligence to go with the good looks. Right up Hutch’s alley, wouldn’t you say? Dianne says Lena was baffled. They got along great, seemed like the perfect date, but Hutch didn’t lay a hand on her the whole damn time. Not a brush on her shoulder when they sat down at the restaurant table, no holding hands, no arm around her at the play, no kiss goodnight. Nothing. Might as well have been two first cousins out on a date. Now does that sound like the standard Hutchinson seduction scheme to you? Even Dianne knows it ain’t. She whispered it to me because she was worried he might be–I dunno–sick, coming down with something.”

Starsky shrugged and pushed Huggy’s hand away. “Maybe he wasn’t in the mood that night. He’s not a sex addict. He’s the one always telling me there’s more to life than that.”

Huggy groaned and lifted his hands to heaven. “Will you see the forest, Starsky, and not the trees? I may not be a member of Mensa, but even I added up the right numbers. Smoke screen, Romeo. To keep his strictly straight–or so he thinks–partner from figuring out the truth before Mr. Self-Sacrifice can cure himself somehow of this ‘unwelcome’ little love bug. You dig?”

“Fine. Okay. Maybe that makes sense. But ever since yesterday…Jesus, Huggy, I’ve dropped enough damn hints. I might as well be talking to my clothes hamper!”

Huggy shook his head and extended his palm. “Badge please.”

Looking shocked, Starsky fished the desired item out of his pocket and placed it on Huggy’s waiting palm. “What–”

“I’m keepin’ this in my possession until you’re thinking clearly enough to wield this kind of power again. Listen, dude, you ever think Blondie probably doesn’t have conscious recollection of being with you in that beach cottage? As far as he’s concerned, what the hell’s changed to give him the idea that you’re any different…any more willing to swing that way…than you were a month ago?”

“I went down into the fucking Underworld for him! Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Uh, Starsky, might wanna moderate that Brooklyn growl. Most people who patronize my establishment don’t worship Greco-Roman deities.” At Starsky’s wary glance over his shoulder and rosy flush, Huggy took pity. “Look, Starsky. You and Hutch have been willing to throw yourselves in front of trains, bullets, and psychos for each other long before there was ever anything–um–erotic in the relationship. You going on a rescue mission for him won’t spell hearts, flowers, and romance to Hutch. You told me he was out of it most of the time you were haggling with Hades. In fact, if I know Mr. America, he’s probably wallowing in a pool of guilt for having these unwanted feelings for his good old, loyal, brave, unselfish, straight–”

“Yeah, I get you, Huggy,” Starsky interrupted. “Hints won’t work. Gotta go spell it all out to him. Give me my damn badge back, willya?”

Huggy handed over the badge. “Well done, Detective. Now scram. I’ve got a hot date tonight.” He eyed the bar’s entrance.

“Oh, really?” Starsky’s eyebrows lifted.

“And she’s here,” Huggy said out of the side of his mouth.

“Oh, re–” Starsky turned around and smiled at the lovely woman whose ruffled silk shirt and faded denim skirt accentuated her figure. “How you doing, Meredith?”

~*~

Joan Meredith beamed at Starsky and sat down on the barstool next to him, but her face brightened when she caught a glimpse of Huggy, and she winked at her date before she turned her attention back to Starsky. “How’s Hutch doing?”

“He’s fine. You know Hutch. Modest as he is tough. To hear him talk, he’s been on vacation the last forty-odd hours instead of in an alley, a hospital bed, and trying to replace all his personal belongings. Fact is, I’ve gotta get going. He’s back at my place and probably putting my plants on some weird kinda fertilizer concoction.”

Starsky tipped the glass at Huggy by way of thanks and patted Meredith on the shoulder as he walked past. She stopped him with his name. He thrust his hand in his pocket for his keys and turned around.

She tilted her head to the side and grinned at him. “You may never speak to me again for asking you this, but…are you going home to Hutch or are you going home to Hutch?”

His first instinct was to make a cocky joking remark and brush off the loaded question. Hades’s voice rang in his ears. And just what do you propose to do with him, Detective, but the same thing? Lock him away in a closet of your own making, hiding your feelings, your love for him from the rest of the world. Taking your pleasure from him but not acknowledging the gift of his affection in public. How is that any different?

He caught her kind, patient stare and held it fast with his own. She knew. She’d known all along, he realized, why their budding romance had fizzled with Hutch’s return to active duty as Starsky’s partner. She’d known even when he couldn’t accept the truth himself. He returned Meredith’s grin with a sultry wink. “I’m going home to Hutch.”

She slapped the bar top, laughed, and waved him toward the door. “About damn time! Get going.”

 

December 17, 1979
8:00 PM

Starsky kicked the door shut and regarded his living room like the colonizer of a new world. Set the stage, his brain ordered. Stack the decks. Use all your advantages. Where was Hutch? Shedding jacket and holster, emptying his pockets of badge, keys, and wallet, he then hurried into the kitchen and located a bottle of expensive fine wine he’d saved for a special occasion, along with his two best wine glasses. Those he set carefully on the coffee table before he dashed off in search of…where had he put it? The cabinet above the fridge! Starsky raced back into the kitchen and rummaged in the high cabinet until he found the eighteen-inch green candle decorated with bas-relief runes of some sort and advertising the scent, Lover’s Mist.

The candle had been a farewell present from a lady of Celtic descent, the second girl he’d dated after the drought of companionship following Terry’s death. He’d really liked the petite, warm and giving redhead, but their brief affair ended when she moved back to the UK to care for an elderly relative. “Dave,” she’d said at the airport, holding the candle forth, her green eyes wistful. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make a go of it, but you’ll find someone special, and I’d like to leave you with this to light your way.” She’d made him promise never to use the candle until he was ready to settle down.

Tonight the candle would burn for the first time. Now all he needed….

“Hutch?”

No answer. Starsky’s smile wavered. “Hutch?”

Silence. A chill descending over him, he dropped the match he’d used to light the candle when the stinging burn registered on his fingers.

“Hutch!”

His car was outside. Where–? The sound of running water returned his heart to its proper location, and he headed into the bedroom where he stopped cold in the doorway, staring with disbelief at the nearly packed suitcase on the bed. Hutch’s new clothes. Starsky lost all capacity for rational thought. He toed off his sneakers and fled to the bathroom, expecting a room full of shower steam. No steam. No condensation on the mirror.

Without questioning his actions, or sparing more than a thought for Hutch’s past history with shower assailants, he strode fully clothed to the tub and jerked back the shower curtain. Hutch jumped as though shot in the back and whirled.

“Starsky, what are you–!”

Starsky held an experimental hand under the shower spray and then he stepped into the tub, wagging his hands frantically as the water drenched him. “You’re not leaving! Hear me? With my suitcase? And why the hell are you taking a cold shower in the middle of the evening?”

Hutch gaped at his partner with concern for Starsky’s sanity clearly showing in his expression. He and Starsky looked down simultaneously at a part of Hutch’s anatomy that had ideas of its own despite the chilled water.

~*~

Hutch put a trembling hand over his eyes. Starsky took his wrist and pulled Hutch tight against him. Before Hutch could utter a word, Starsky fitted his lips to Hutch’s, almost a hovering touch with a hair’s breadth of air between them. The hesitancy didn’t last. With a harsh sigh, Starsky pressed his mouth to Hutch’s in a kiss of amazing gentleness for such blinding passion. At first Hutch was too stunned to respond to the lips he thought never to taste. Then with a cry, he opened his mouth and pleaded wordlessly his desire to take as much of Starsky in as possible, and to give as much of himself in return. Readily deepening their kiss, Starsky held him fiercely, lending warmth to his naked, shivering body.

Hutch slid his arms around Starsky’s neck, hands seeking purchase in wet curls. He snarled, “Yes, please,” and offered Starsky complete possession of his mouth, pushing back against Starsky’s, sucking Starsky’s tongue, petting it lovingly with his own tongue-tip. Bumping his nose against Starsky’s he moved his mouth slowly on the lips that offered life-breath to him. Starsky growled hungrily into Hutch’s mouth and pushed them both back until he had Hutch pinned against the tiled shower wall. Hutch lifted his left leg and curled it behind Starsky’s knees, dragging him closer, enjoying the slide of his bare calf against the wet denim. Starsky was making a meal off his lower lip, nibbling, tasting, and Hutch gasped under the erotic attack.

Starsky pulled away, leaving Hutch’s lips with a kiss-raw, tingling puffiness, and said softly, breathlessly, “God, Aphrodite was right! Nothing compares to it. Jesus, I feel like I’m drowning.”

Hutch gulped in air as his body threatened to slide down the tiled wall into the tub. “Starsky, we are drowning. You’re drenched–what are you–” Starsky had purposefully lowered himself to his knees in the tub with his intent all too obvious in his parted lips and starving eyes. Hutch tried to back farther against the wall. “Starsky, you’re–”

“Gonna love doin’ this for you, Hutch.”

“You’re still wearing soaked clothes; that can’t be comf–”

“Don’t care,” Starsky cut him off, inching forward.

“The–the water’s fr-fr-freezing.”

“That I can fix.” Starsky relented, standing and reaching up to turn the lever and add hot water to the mix. “No more cold showers in this apartment,” he said firmly to Hutch when he turned around again, going down once more on bended knee.

“W-whatever you say.” Hutch eyed his partner’s approach, feeling trapped by invisible chains. “You don’t–”

“Relax,” Starsky said, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Hutch couldn’t argue with that revelation. Starsky’s eyes had turned into parallel orbiting, blue planets and Hutch felt trapped between them like a pitiful little moon–no, not pitiful, or little, because the look in Starsky’s eyes was absolute worship. He banged his head painfully against the tile and strained against his body’s desire to lurch forward when Starsky’s mouth descended over his cock, and Starsky petted Hutch’s thighs, soothing him. Hutch relaxed his splayed-fingered grip on the tile wall and brought his fingers down to clasp tufts of dark, dripping ringlets. He bit his tongue and commanded his body to remain still, passive, relaxed.

Starsky let go of his mouthful long enough to say, panting, “Babe, join in the fun if you want.”

Hutch banged his head yet again, but he gave in to his impulse to thrust, repeatedly, matching the rhythm Starsky established. It was explosive, watching his fully clothed lover kneel beneath a cascade of water and willingly suck the most intimate part of his body. The sight, and smell, and sound, and feel of Starsky going down on him overloaded Hutch’s senses. With a shout that burned his throat, stung his ears, and bounced off the shower walls, he offered himself up to that perfect moment, shuddering in ecstasy. His body threatened immediate collapse, but he had Starsky to consider.

Starsky was staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a bright, loving grin. Hutch fell to his knees, ignoring the impact of his cartilage against the solidity of the tub bottom, and reached clumsily for Starsky’s belt-buckle.

Starsky pulled back. “No. We’re gonna slow this party down. Got lots to talk about.”

Hutch blinked at him. “You–David Starsky–want talk first and pleasure later? You sure you’re not Eros taking advantage of Starsky’s body to seduce me in the shower?”

“Eros wishes he could kiss like me. And if I ever catch you near that–”

Hutch laughed out loud. “Yeah. You’re my Starsky.”

“That’s right,” Starsky said in all seriousness. “And don’t you forget it.”

Hutch grinned and stroked Starsky’s jaw with two fingertips. “Lover, after what you just did to me, you think I ever could?” He took Starsky by the forearms and pulled them both to their feet. “Got to get you out of these wet clothes.”

“Admit it,” Starsky said, laughing, “you just want me naked.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, but at the moment I just don’t want you shaking like a wet puppy while we’re trying to have an important discussion.”

“Oh, all right, Mr. Practical.” Starsky climbed out of the tub, dragging Hutch with him, and stood still on the bath mat, holding Hutch’s hand. “I’m all yours.”

“Huh?”

“You want me out of these clothes; you’re in charge of peeling them off.”

Hutch gawked at him. “You want me to undress you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hutch agreed, devoting himself with pleasure to the task.

A good ten minutes later, both men reluctantly agreeing to wear robes until they could hash through some important issues, Hutch followed Starsky into the living room and paused thoughtfully on spotting the burning candle and special occasion wine. He fingered the runes on the candle, couldn’t seem to lose his fond smile, and looked up to meet Starsky’s surprisingly bashful eyes. “Looks like you were planning a hot date.”

“I was…with you. Then I saw the suitcase and I lost it. Sorry about the cave man routine.”

Hutch leaned over the back of the sofa to kiss the side of Starsky’s nose. “Shh. Reason I was packing that suitcase is I thought we’d never be able to take this step with each other. Do you think I’ll gripe about how we took it?”

“Is that the only reason you were clearing out? And just where were you going?”

Hutch sighed, turned his back, and sat down. Starsky shot around the couch to lounge beside his partner, sliding with a contented murmur into the inviting circle of Hutch’s arm around his shoulder. “I’ve always been connected to you more than to anyone else, but no one warned me what falling in love with you would do to me. It’s like being on fire and chilled at the same time. Suddenly it’s painful for me when your happiness comes from someone else. And then, when I woke up in the real world yesterday and realized what you did for me in the Underworld wasn’t some damn nightmare–! I thought, Christ, if some special lady made you as happy as you were before things went to hell–no pun intended–then she deserved better than ending up without you because of me…because you’ve risked your life for me yet again and the coin doesn’t come up heads this time. So, I planned to exit stage left…only I wasn’t sure where I should go. I couldn’t even finish packing; couldn’t get you out of my mind. It’s a cliché, but I thought a cold shower might actually work.”

Starsky stroked Hutch’s chest through the robe’s thick material. “Ah, Hutch. So, you remember some of what happened in Hades, but you don’t remember the beach house?” He pulled free of their loose embrace to un-cork the wine, and partially filled both glasses, but with a glance at Hutch, he abandoned doling out refreshment and turned without moving the glasses from their place beside the candle.

“What beach house? And Starsky…what happened to her? I’m feeling lost.”

Starsky smiled, sitting back, this time slipping his arm around Hutch’s shoulders, and in between brushes of his lips across Hutch’s cheek, he whispered, “There was someone special. You were right when you accused me of infatuation-itis. You. It was you.”

Hutch leaned away, holding his gentle seducer at arms’ length. “Me? But that day you said…Starsky, for God’s sake, start speaking in a language recognizable by the human ear.”

Snickering, Starsky playfully wrestled the restraining arms until Hutch acquiesced and pulled him close, gasping when Starsky’s lips found something decidedly interesting just beneath his earlobe. Investigating the entire length of Hutch’s neck, Starsky shared with him in spurts the story of Eros and the beach house. The playful nipping kisses came to a halt when Starsky reached the part involving Hutch’s disappearance from the sofa.

“Hutch, truth is: I screwed up. And my screw-up could’ve killed you. But the other truth is that seeing you there on the sofa…you were…ah, this is gonna sound corny, but I think I got a glimpse of your heart–your soul–you know, the real you inside…and you were so amazing I couldn’t breathe. That’s when I stopped lying to myself about how much I loved you.”

Hutch pulled Starsky down against his chest and rested his cheek against still-damp curls, running his hands up and down Starsky’s arms and back. “Then I’m glad you broke the rules. I’m so glad. Eros said something about my heart campaigning for me. I’m grateful my heart knew what to do when I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other one on a conscious level.”

“No! If I hadn’t been such a stubborn, macho jerk, I wouldn’t have needed some scheme like that to realize what you mean to me. Huggy’s right: I should have my badge confiscated. Some detective! I should’ve seen through Eros’s plot right away when he kept asking questions about you, probing my sexual tendencies, talking life-mate versus ‘wife,’ telling me I couldn’t let you in on the secret. But I was damned and determined my special someone had to be female. So busy fighting ghosts I couldn’t see what I had living and breathing in front of me. You oughta be kicking my ass instead of holding me like this.”

“I’ll hold you like this as long as you’ll let me, and just can the guilt act. I’ve watched you beat your head in over things you can’t control, but I won’t stand by while you indulge in self-recrimination on my account. And Starsk, I have to know. Have you resolved what’s been making you fight this kind of relationship or do we still have that ahead of us? I would never have believed you could…after we lost John Blaine….”

Ahead of us. The core philosophy of their partnership: The doc was pretty straight about our chances…Partner, we made it…No, partner, this is ours.

Starsky’s heart skipped a beat at the implication that Hutch would willingly face the battle with him if necessary. He pushed Hutch against the sofa back and with lightning agility straddled him, taking Hutch’s face in his hands and kissing one feature at a time: feathered touches to Hutch’s eyelids, nips at the tip of his nose, and a moist, hot drag of lips down Hutch’s cheeks. He finally matched Hutch’s parted lips with his own, and the fire in that kiss should have answered Hutch’s question, but when they separated, chests heaving in synchronicity, Starsky cupped his jaw line with both hands and stared into his eyes.

“I have two lives, Hutch. Pre-Academy and Post-Academy. All right? And I was determined never to bring certain parts of that first life into the second. Talked myself into bein’ straight as a ruler. Really. Self-inflicted propaganda. I started out that way so I didn’t see any reason I couldn’t return to it. The stuff I said after Johnny died? I’d drilled it into my own head for years. ‘It’s not normal. It’s not right. It’s no small issue.’ Say it enough; you believe it. I was a coward. Yeah, I’ll admit that to you. That oughta show you what you really mean to me. Can’t say that to anyone else. I wouldn’t let myself love you because I was still afraid of some junk that went down on the other side of the world. I’ll drag those ghosts out if you want me to, but can you just accept me saying it’s no longer an issue?”

Hutch licked his lips and graced the skin between Starsky’s eyebrows with a lingering kiss. Pulling back, he said softly, “This is Hutch holding you. Your best pal. You don’t have to drag out the ghosts. I don’t ever intend to put your past on trial.”

Starsky couldn’t answer in coherent sentences, so he opened Hutch’s lips with the force of his kiss, rocking against the body beneath his.

~*~

Hutch felt tossed in a storm. He didn’t have a chance to enjoy the caresses on his neck and cheeks before Starsky applied pressure to his arms in squeezes that took on so much more meaning than the touch of a buddy. Pinned by Starsky’s physical dominance, he knew he could turn the tables and leave Starsky equally helpless if he chose, but he relaxed under the beautifully forceful loving because it apparently filled a need that Starsky couldn’t even verbalize. Then the touching, rocking, kissing reached a heady crescendo, and Hutch knew for his own sanity’s sake he needed an important question answered before they reached the point of no return.

“Starsky…buddy…stop. Easy, back off a second. Oh, God. Starsky!”

Starsky moved from the patch of skin on Hutch’s breastbone he’d kissed into a wet redness and glanced up, blinking rapidly. “What? Am I doin’ something you don’t like?”

“No, man. No. I–I just…. Look, I know this may sound ridiculous after what went down in the shower, and we’re both guys who’ve tended to jump into bed first and ask questions later, but this…this is different for me. When I go into that bedroom with you, I’m going to come out a totally different person in some fundamental ways. So tell me now. Are you happy with what Eros set up for you? Is that what you want from me? A life-mate?”

Starsky again cupped Hutch’s face and forced direct eye contact. “Yes. But it’s not about want, Hutch. It’s undeniable fact. That’s what you are to me.”

~*~

After a shared glass of wine and a heated make-out session that rumpled both partners and the couch cushions, Starsky snatched the candle from the coffee table and led Hutch procession-like into the bedroom. The candle’s scent wafted through the room; Starsky breathed in, deeply, savoring the aroma, and found a place of honor for the candle so its flame could temper the room’s darkness. He had never been to Ireland, but he imagined that Lover’s Mist lived up to its billing as authentic scents of the Emerald Isle. Hutch stood transfixed in the doorway, watching Starsky’s every move, until Starsky stopped beside the bed and smiled an invitation, letting his robe slip to the floor.

Thirty seconds passed in dramatic silence. Then Hutch laughed out loud, shed his robe, and knocked Starsky back onto the bed with a running tackle and a cry of unchecked desperation. Sensing he’d too quickly taken charge on the sofa, Starsky lay still and allowed Hutch to satisfy his desire for exploration. In no time at all, Starsky could count on one hand the number of places on his body untouched by Hutch’s gentle, wet kisses. He’d always had the sneaking suspicion that Hutch was a man who could take his own sweet time: a connoisseur who appreciated every object or event of fine quality in slow motion. What amazed Starsky was his ability to enjoy Hutch’s thorough oral mapping without reenacting Vesuvius. The migrating kisses ceased without warning when Hutch found the repaired scar tissue on Starsky’s chest.

“S-Starsk.”

“Umm…yeah, gorgeous?”

“Those stitches really are special,” Hutch said in a tone that mingled awe, disbelief, and joy.

“Wha’?”  Starsky lifted himself on his elbows and stared down at his chest. The new railroad track of stitches had faded from existence, leaving his chest in the same shape as the hour before his descent into Hades. “What’d you do?”

“Just kissed you. The second my lips touched your skin there…they…it… Starsky?”

“Shhh.” Starsky pulled Hutch down into his arms and kissed his lover’s neck. “Blows me away too. What we’ve got between us is…sheesh, I dunno. Just make my head spin, okay? You were doin’ a pretty good job of it already.”

“What do you want me to do for you? With you? I mean…right now.”

Starsky smiled, playing with several locks of Hutch’s overly long hair, braiding them together in his fingers. “Why not walk instead of run? You’re a beginner?”

The rosy flush of desire on Hutch’s face darkened to crimson embarrassment, and he turned his face against Starsky’s neck. “Yeah. You’re dealing with a total virgin when it comes to this kind of sex.” At Starsky’s lack of reaction to the admission, Hutch raised his head. “You’re one of the few people who wouldn’t be shocked by that.”

“Huh?” Starsky’s ardor cooled as his brain worked to catch Hutch’s train of thought.

Hutch rose up on his arms and stared down into his partner’s blank face. “Oh, come on, Starsky, over half the guys in our precinct think I swing both ways.”

“Hutch, are you saying the guys at Metro think–”

“Yeah. Don’t you know stereotypes thrive in police stations? God forbid they question the sexual orientation of David Starsky, the hyper-masculine love machine, the car-and-football guy’s guy, but sensitive, artistic, ‘pretty-boy’ Hutchinson is fair game. I admit I fell into the same thought pattern as far as you’re concerned: I would never have expected you to have experience in this.”

“You never bothered to–” Starsky couldn’t find the words, but Hutch had always had a knack for figuring out Starsky’s half-formed thoughts.

“No, I never bothered to contradict them. Narrow, suspicious minds only take denials and turn them into admissions of guilt. None of them had an ounce of proof to cause me trouble, so I let it slide. They’ll think what they want no matter what I say or how I act. I also have the luxury of my own personal shield against the grief. People tend to be fond of their teeth, and dental work’s expensive: nobody wants to tangle with you for giving me flak. Not that I can’t take care of myself, but you’ve always seen fit to step in and–”

Starsky laughed, reaching up to stroke fingertips across Hutch’s forehead. “You’ve been known to get in people’s faces and shove ‘em up against walls on my account too, buddy-boy.” At Hutch’s expressive snort, Starsky grinned. “Okay, so I admit I’m a little protective but–”

“You always have had the gift of understatement at the oddest times. You think I haven’t heard through the grapevine about your little stunt in the hall with McCauley?”

Starsky’s laughter subsided. “A few days ago in the squad room when I teased you–”

Hutch flushed and seemed to stare at the concentration of hair beneath Starsky’s sternum. “Yeah. My feelings were really close to the surface that day. I knew exactly why some of them were laughing at me, but I was concerned for your sake. Ironically, now their suspicions are grounded in fact, and I was afraid any reaction on my part might reveal too much and come back to bite you. So I got out of there. Probably drew more attention to myself than if I’d hung around and tossed your teasing back in your face, but I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time.”

Starsky rubbed his thumb against Hutch’s lower lip and said, voice husky, “Is there ever a time when you’re not thinking about what’s best for me?”

Hutch frowned and moved his mouth from the loving finger. “Don’t make me out to be a saint. Do you want me to list a few examples?”

“No. Why don’t we stop talking?”

“Why don’t we forget walking and run instead?” Hutch smiled, and the heat burned through Starsky’s carefully constructed self-control.

“Hutch–”

And then Hutch crawled backwards toward the foot of the bed and paused with his upper body tantalizingly close to Starsky’s middle. In an echo of a past demand but with startlingly different meaning, Hutch smiled and said, “My party.”

Starsky bid his lungs bon voyage and felt he’d stopped breathing on his own, his breath now Hutch’s. He could only stare as Hutch lowered his head in an attempt to reenact the passionate encounter in the shower, reversing the roles with skill. Starsky curled his fingers and clawed at empty air, his face straining with the urge to slip into a different, euphoric dimension. Hutch freed his lips to mumble, “Hey, partner, join in the fun if you want.”

Starsky’s first thought as his hips responded to Hutch’s invitation was self-scolding for teasing Hutch about clumsiness. His second was that he had never before truly understood the meaning of the word devour. By his third rational thought he managed to focus on Hutch. “Hey, lover, hey….oh, geez…oh, Hutch, slow down, buddy.”

Hutch lifted his head, surveyed the object of his attentions, and then glanced up at Starsky, for the first time showing uncertainty. “Am I not doing something right?”

“No. Man, no way should you be so good at that…but this should be a party for more than one person, y’know?”

Hutch leaned over to circle Starsky’s belly button with kisses. “I don’t recall your being concerned with your own pleasure in the shower.”

“Hutch,” Starsky began, but Hutch shook his head.

“I said my party, and I meant it. You can think you’re king of the lovers around here, but guess again. I may be a rookie, but I’ve got one hell of an imagination and a rocket-booster for a sex drive, and I intend to use both. Right now.”

“Oh, dear God,” Starsky had a chance to murmur before the flaxen veil of hair obscured his view of a strategically important location on his body. He relaxed against the pillow with his eyes closed, unable to watch himself physically adored by this man so beautiful the Ruler of the Underworld chose to keep him in a state of crystalline preservation.

Starsky’s ears were happy to enjoy what his eyes couldn’t. Hutch’s soft sighs, humming, and smothered cries combined in a melody that threatened to push him over the edge without the aid of physical sensation. He’d wanted desperately for them to love each other gently across the threshold the first time, but he had no more lucidity to voice his needs. He needn’t have worried: their silent communication had never been more effective, and at the precise moment prior to Starsky’s shattering, Hutch moved, surged forward, and blanketed Starsky with stunning grace, covering Starsky’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Their bodies moved together and against each other with sudden force and desperation.

Starsky battled the image of Hutch fading away in a cold, heartless palace, and he could see too-long-repressed hunger flaring in Hutch’s eyes when they surfaced for air between kisses. Starsky’s lungs reminded him that he now “required” Hutch’s breath to survive, and he tangled his hands in Hutch’s hair to pull his face close, refusing to set those kiss-moistened lips free once he had them under his control. Hutch’s heartbreakingly joyful shout into his mouth pushed Starsky into the same state of intense satisfaction.

“Hutch!” Anything but orgasmic, the sound was pained, forlorn, bordering on fearful.

~*~

“Hey, easy,” Hutch soothed, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to replenish the air Starsky had stolen. “I’m here. Right here. And all over you, actually…in more ways than one.”

“Just seeing you disappear right in front of my eyes…and then the fire…they said…and God, Hutch.” Starsky wrenched free and rolled over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Hutch stretched out on his side next to Starsky and, propped on his right elbow, gave the visibly tense muscles in Starsky’s back a slightly awkward, left-handed massage. His left foot got into the act, rubbing softly against Starsky’s calf, straying down to tease Starsky’s heels.

“Starsky. The last few days have been traumatic for both of us. Hell, the last several weeks haven’t been a walk on the beach. But we’re together, and I’m safe. I’m in one piece. I’m deliriously happy despite having lost everything I own. That’s all because of you. You saved the day, all right? Swept in like you have so many times and changed all the darkness to light.”

No response from Starsky, just a deathly stillness.

Hutch lowered himself partially over his lover’s back, attempting to comfort him with the warmth of his warm, living body. “Starsky, please,” he pleaded, voice harsh but not from anger. “Please. Don’t go silent on me again. That’s–that’s my gig, okay? Not yours.”

Starsky said nothing, but his neck twitched and shoulders trembled. Hutch expelled a shaky breath and whispered, “I’m–I’m not enough, am I? Not enough to break through all that loneliness. Caring about someone to the point that you’d risk your life for him doesn’t equate to being in love with him. I understand.”

Starsky’s body jerked; he bowled Hutch over and sprawled on top of him, mouthing the part of Hutch’s body his lips found first, and then responded to Hutch’s squirming, shifting to meet the kiss Hutch offered him. When Hutch would have wound his arms around Starsky’s back, the kiss ended, Starsky bracing himself, hands on Hutch’s chest.

“I am in love with you, Hutch. So in love right now I feel like the damn room’s spinning. I’m also pissed off because that smartass Hades knew what we’d face here in the real world, and taunted me with it. And for the most part, he’s right. God, Hutch, if you were a woman, I’d go into work day after tomorrow with a bunch of pictures and flash ’em around the squad room. I’d probably buy one of those tacky t-shirts with the special iron-on patch of our names in an arrow-pierced heart and wear it to work. Can’t do any of that, damn it. Just because you’re a man.”

Hutch laughed, happiness coursing through him. “You can buy the tacky t-shirt and wear it when we’re alone together.”

Starsky glared at him. “Are you even really listening to me, Hutch? Normally you’re the one yapping at me for not thinking about consequences.”

“Babe, I hear you. I’d love to just float in this beautiful afterglow, but if you want to face reality right away, I’ll go along for the ride. I’ve also known what it’s like to love you and not have you. I’ll take you gladly and face whatever comes. Yeah, we’ll have to be circumspect. Beyond telling a few special people, we can’t afford to give anyone concrete proof of what we have together.”

“Huggy and Joan Meredith know,” Starsky breathed into Hutch’s shoulder blade, nipping at the still-flushed skin. Hutch squirmed, this time not requesting a kiss.

“Joan Meredith?” He felt the curve of Starsky’s lips in a smile against his shoulder.

“Yeah. Impulsive slip on my part. No, I guess I was being defiant. I remembered what Hades said and I– Don’t worry about her, though. She’s apparently hung up on one certain bar-owner with a wardrobe to rival Liberace’s, and hurting us would hurt him. She won’t tell tales.”

“Meredith and Huggy?” Hutch said, incredulous.

“Ain’t love grand,” Starsky crooned. Then, somewhat subdued, “But that’s what I’m worried about. It came too easy to me to just blurt it out to her. How do I–how do we act at work–how–”

“We handle it the same way I’ve managed with all the rumors about me. We walk softly, give no one real cause to question us, and we’ll be fine. I promise.”

“You can’t–”

“Oh, hell yes, I can. I don’t make promises unless I fully intend to keep them.”

“Got all this beautiful love and have to hide it in the dark,” Starsky grumped, settling more comfortably against Hutch’s chest.

“Hey, some of the most famous couples in literature have had to hide and face obstacles, and not even because they were same-sex unions.”

“Uh-huh,” Starsky said skeptically.

“I’m serious. Tristan and Isolde, Othello and Desdemona, Count Vronsky and Anna Karenina. Just a couple of nights ago I was thinking about Lancelot and Guinevere.”

“Good, really good.  You think you’ve pulled the wool over my eyes, don’tcha?”

“What?” Hutch’s voice rang with offended innocence.

“I read, dummy. All of those lovers ended up dead or separated, or dead and separated, or dead, tortured, and separated.”

Hutch laughed, softly at first and then louder and longer. Finally he subsided in a snort.  “Yeah, well, I remember a time when you couldn’t think of any battles that the good guys won, and we still managed to get out of the burning barn alive.”

Starsky yawned. “Yeah. Umm…I don’t wanna move.”

“Don’t.”

“‘M too heavy.”

“Never.”

 

December 18, 1979
Bay City Time: 1:00 AM

“Where are we?”

Hutch thought of wrapping an arm around the sturdy wooden mast nearby but decided against it when he noticed the open slot in the deck from which the mast emerged. Instead, he pulled Starsky close and balanced them both, spreading the gap between his feet. “We’re naked and on a ship under sail. Beyond that, your guess is good as mine.”

“Hutch, I’m no sailor, but I know my fair share about ships. I’ve never seen one like this.”

Hutch frowned, looking around. “You ought to recognize her. You’ve been putting together a model just like this.”

“Wha’?”

“A trireme, partner. We’re standing on what I think they call the deck canopy of a trireme.”

“Hutch, I wouldn’t be caught dead putting together a model of a ship this weird. It’s too narrow and flat, at least up here. Geez, if I step one foot to the side–”

“Well, don’t move then, Detective.”

Hutch and Starsky whirled in unison. A woman swept toward them, “floating” above the deck canopy. Her radiance choked Hutch, and Starsky looked like he’d forgotten how to swallow. Swathed in some unrecognizable, shimmering material, her figure was the curvy epitome of feminine allure, and her hair, tied loosely with ribbons of silver, flowed alive and in waves to below her knees.

“Why…what…who?”

Hutch found his voice next and laughed, nudging Starsky. “You sound like a freshman in Journalism 101.”

Starsky shot him a wise-ass glare. “I suppose you have all the answers now, genius?”

“Now, children,” the woman gently reprimanded. “Can’t have you squabbling before the ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” Starsky queried, staring at the aura of light around the woman. “Are you–?”

“Oh, Starsky, you don’t remember me even after I tongued your tonsils?”

“You did what?” Hutch shouted, almost stumbling backward into the deck slot. Starsky glanced askance at the edge of the deck canopy just a few feet away and clutched at Hutch’s arm, pulling him forward toward the woman.

She clucked her tongue. “My, my, Starsky. He’s going to be quite the possessive one. Can you handle that?”

Hutch knew his acute embarrassment had to show on his face.

Starsky smiled. “Aphrodite?”

“The one and only. Since we couldn’t invite you to Olympus, we’re providing what I consider the next best thing. Ares crafted this warship for me with his own two hands and had it blessed by Poseidon. Surely a suitable venue for your ceremony.”

“Ceremony?” Hutch echoed Starsky.

At the clap of Aphrodite’s hands, the ship’s appearance dramatically transformed: the fore and mainsails sparkled with golden and silver threads, garlands of laurel leaves encircled the entire length of both fore and mainmasts, and decorative flags flew proudly from bow and stern. The deck slot was covered over with glass that Hutch experimentally prodded with his foot.

Aphrodite nodded. “It will hold, Detective Hutchinson. We required more space for our guests.”

“Guests?” Starsky whispered.

“You were certainly more talkative in my office,” said a masculine voice.

Tall, slender, with elegant aquiline features and snapping eyes, the young man casually leaned, arms across his shimmering tunic, against the main mast and spread his wings as he smiled.

“Eros?”

“To borrow your basketball vernacular: two points, David.”

~*~

“And I,” came a soft voice behind them, “am his wife, Psyche.”

Starsky immediately recognized the redheaded goddess from the therapists’ office lobby, but the lady before him was even more beautiful, and her hair, now rich obsidian, coiled around her head in a complex crown of braids. She smiled, bowed her head slightly in passing, and joined her husband. Eros wrapped an arm around her. Starsky flushed, remembering how he had lingered over her hand in the foyer.

Eros grinned at him. “Yes, I know how you greeted my beloved that day, David. You have astonishing courage, going about charming the wives of Deities. Persephone still hasn’t recovered, and Hades is livid.”

Hutch clasped his hands above Starsky’s heart and pulled his partner back against him. “I plan on taking charge of that charm now, Eros.”

The touch of Hutch’s hands on his chest reminded Starsky of their nudity. “Uh, now might not be the best time to mention this, but could we borrow some clothes?”

Aphrodite sighed. “As lovely as you both are in your current state, I suppose we should prepare you for the ceremony.” She lifted her hands in a sweeping motion above their heads, and Starsky jumped at the sudden sensation of lamb’s fleece, soft against his skin. Glancing down, he jerked away from Hutch’s hands and waved his hands in agitation at Aphrodite.

“No! No way am I wearing a damn skirt!”

Psyche and Eros broke into a matching fit of giggles. Aphrodite rested her hands on her hips and smirked. Hutch rolled his eyes. “Starsk, it’s not a skirt, it’s a–”

“I don’t care! Looks like a skirt, feels like a skirt…dress…whatever. In love with a man? Hell, yeah, and then some. I’m over those hang-ups. Doesn’t mean I’m ready to try cross-dress–”

“I’m wearing the same thing,” Hutch interrupted before Starsky could insert his foot fully into his mouth. “It’s not like they’re trying to turn you into my–”

“You just stay out of this!” Starsky demanded.

Eros stopped laughing and said softly, “David, if the god of love can be satisfied with traditional ancient Grecian dress, don’t you feel in good company?”

Starsky shut his mouth with a snap and shot Hutch a quick look. The amused, loving smile on his lover’s face settled the question. “Got to admit,” he said appraisingly, “the outfit looks pretty damn good on you, Blondie.”

Hutch’s smiled widened, the look in his eyes warm with admiration. “Thanks, pal, but you should see yourself. You’re a masterpiece of sculpture come to life.”

“I think that’s his way of calling you a Greek god, Starsky.” Aphrodite laughed at Starsky’s flustered expression.

“The ship is ready, our celebrants are prepared; shouldn’t we invite our other guests to join us?” Eros asked.

“At once.” Aphrodite began to sing. The words were unintelligible but the melody superb and thrilling. Hutch reached out and grabbed Starsky’s hand, and Starsky returned the grip.

Slowly the deck canopy grew crowded with people who were strangers to Starsky and Hutch. Aphrodite’s song ended. She cupped her hand over her mouth, whispering to the detectives, “You can’t visit Olympus, so Olympus comes to you.”

She turned to the congregation of men and women and said with loud solemnity, “Olympians, my gratitude is yours for answering my call. We are here to celebrate the joining of a matched heart and soul. The beginning of a love true and eternal that must, as yet, remain hidden from the eyes of mortal men. We who are above prejudice and who recognize the rarity of pure, self-sacrificial love welcome them and seal their bond.”

The applause masked the sounds of the sea. Aphrodite held out her palms. A whispered word rustled through the crowd and a crown of laurel graced each open palm. She turned to the detectives and placed the crowns ceremoniously on one dark head and one blond. Another crash of applause nearly deafened the two mortals.

“What can we give these men as token of our esteem for their union?” Aphrodite asked.

A young man and woman, their resemblance that of fraternal twins, emerged from the crowd and bowed low together before Starsky and Hutch. Rising, they extended a jeweled goblet, his left hand on one side and her right on the other. “Your brotherhood, your friendship, is as important as your love. May you always be twin in thought, deed, and values. Closer than brothers.” They held the goblet to Starsky’s lips, and after he’d obediently drunk from it, they transferred the goblet to Hutch.

“Our celebrants thank you, Phoebus Apollo and Artemis.” Aphrodite nodded with a smile.

As the divine siblings returned to the crowd, a tall and regal woman broke ranks and approached. A shimmering rainbow and peacock followed in her wake. Aphrodite went down on one knee and lowered her eyes. “Lady Hera, Queen of Olympians.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch as if to ask, “hey, should we follow her lead,” but Hutch was too busy staring to notice his lover’s uncertainty.

Hera stopped about six feet from the detectives and lifted her hand, blowing them a kiss. “You have risked injury, illness, and death for the cause of justice and goodness. My gift is health and vitality. May you be strong in body and long-lived.”

“Our celebrants are deeply honored, Lady Hera,” Aphrodite murmured, standing.

Only when Hera resumed her place in the congregation did another young woman come forth. An owl flew around her playfully before landing on her shoulder. Once in front of Starsky and Hutch, the young woman stretched out an olive branch and tapped it against both men’s shoulders. “I offer you the wisdom to see through the schemes of evil, to know each other’s needs, and to make wise choices.”

“Our celebrants will be blessed by your gift, Pallas Athena.”

The ceremony seemed as eternal as the Olympians. Hermes, winged of foot and cap, offered them speed and agility. Ares marched forward, gazing longingly at Aphrodite, to bestow on the detectives the courage of warriors to face any trials their union might encounter in the realm of mortals, and the Graces and Muses had their say.

Finally, Aphrodite raised her hands and said, voice strong and rich, “Olympians, we have given much to these mortals whose love is strong and beautiful. What do we ask of them in return?”

The murmur rolled like waves through the crowd until Aphrodite quieted them with a wave of her hand. She turned to the detectives and smiled. “They demand your fidelity, gentlemen. Your faithfulness to each other. Fulfill your needs in each other’s arms and do not mar this divine approval by straying from each other’s side.”

Starsky half-turned and lifted his hand to Hutch’s cheek. “I love you. Only you. I promise.”

Hutch turned his face to kiss Starsky’s warm palm. “No one else. Ever. I give you my word.”

The applause simply must have been heard on Earth in the form of thunder.

 

December 18, 1979
Bay City Time: 6:00 AM

Starsky jolted upright in bed and inhaled sharply at the sensation of skin touching his, limbs tangled with his. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, studying the body sharing his hopelessly twisted sheets. Long legs, smooth skin dusted with barely noticeable, fine flaxen hair, the face that had symbolized safety, security, and friendship for ten years. Good, very good. Better than good. Terrific. Starsky grinned.

He scrunched down in the bed and rolled over on his side so his lips were level with his lover’s peaceful face. Those eyes, that nose, those cheeks all cried out for kisses. Starsky locked his self-control in the basement of his mind and set upon the feast before him with a snarl of desire.

“Hey–what the–who–Starsk?”

Starsky pecked the bridge of Hutch’s nose then his forehead. “Um. Oh yeah. Me, babe.”

“What are you–”

“Breakfast in bed. You taste better than French toast smothered in caramel syrup, buddy.”

“Wha’ time is it?”

“Who the hell cares?” Starsky said, lipping Hutch’s chin.

“Since when are you a morning person?” Hutch asked despite the insistent mouth.

“We gotta get busy. Lots to do. No decorations up. Need to get out the stuff for both holidays. Hey, if you can think of a third world holiday for this time of year, we’ll celebrate that, too.”

“And I suppose you want to set up a temple for Aphrodite here in the bedroom?”

“Hutch, right now I’d put one of those Easter Island monoliths in my kitchen if it’d fit.”

“What, you’ve gone polytheistic on me, babe?”

“No-o,” Starsky said thoughtfully, abandoning Hutch’s eyebrow. “I just think we can’t overdo it in the gratitude department, you know? I had this incredible dream–”

“Me, too. We were on this trireme and–”

“Wait a minute: that’s my dream! Olympians and gifts and you in this sexy Grecian outfit–”

“Damn,” Hutch laughed. “The sex must have been even better than I thought: we’re sharing each other’s dreams now.”

“Hutch, what–what if it wasn’t a dream?”

“Oh, come on, Starsky.”

“How else do you explain us having the same exact dream?”

“Well, we haven’t exactly compared notes. Might not be identical.”

“Close enough.”

“Starsky–”

“Hutch, debating you is fun and all, but why don’t we move on to better things?”

“Man, when you wake up in the morning, you really wake up.”

“Hutchinson humor. Gotta love it. Takin’ you for a ride, baby.”

“Speeding’s allowed.”

“Zero to sixty in three seconds.” Starsky covered Hutch’s welcoming body with his own. Hutch lay quiescent, his left arm over his head, his right holding Starsky firmly against him.

Halfway down the freeway to euphoria, Starsky clutched at Hutch’s left hand with his and brushed the dampened strands of hair from Hutch’s forehead with his right, murmuring soothing words because the man matching his frenzied motions looked poised for implosion. Then Hutch was the only one moving, thrusting upward into stillness.

“Uh…Starsky? Lover? Works better when it’s a team effort.”

“Hutch…when did we get tattoos?”

“Huh?”

Starsky pulled their interlocked left hands forward for Hutch’s inspection. Around the base of both ring fingers wound a circle of tiny laurel leaves.

“Uh–” was all Hutch could manage.

Starsky released his hand and massaged his forehead. “Yeah, how do we explain this little addition at–”

“Starsky, it’s gone.”

“What?”

“Your hand. No more ring.” Hutch looked down at his own left hand. “Mine’s gone too.”

“Give me your hand.”

Hutch held out his hand. The second their left hands joined, the laurel leaves reappeared. Starsky shouted exultantly. “Explain this one, Skeptic.”

“I’d rather not waste breath and energy. Can we get back to what we were doing, please?”

~*~

Two hours and a post-passion nap later, Hutch flung a searching arm across the mound of tangled bedclothes and unconsciously patted the mattress and the pillow before one slightly puffy eye opened and confirmed the emptiness where his lover should be. Yawning, he cast a one-eyed gaze around the room while commanding the other eye to open. Finally, both eyes functioning but not quite in synch, Hutch sat up and rubbed a hand over his unruly morning hair, frowned when his fingers encountered more scalp in one place than he would like, and forced himself to leave the bed.

He slipped into his robe on his way out of the bedroom and smiled when the sounds of human activity drifted from the kitchen. Tempted by an unusually strong playfulness, Hutch inched his way soundlessly around the living room furniture with the same stealth he applied to getting the drop on a deadly felon, his brain so involved in the sneaking that Hutch’s right hand movements mimicked those of keeping the Magnum prepped for action.

The prey was blissfully unaware of the hunter’s approach, keen concentration focused instead on making something edible of crushed bacon, sliced process cheese, and eggs. The sound of percolating coffee blended perfectly with the hissing and crackling of the breakfast mixture in the skillet and the cook’s off-key whistling of some pop Christmas song that had only recently made its radio debut.

“Gotcha!” Hutch barked, arms suddenly full of terry-robed chef.

Starsky jumped in the embrace and poured almost half of the spice bottle’s contents onto the sizzling cholesterol delight. “Hutch! Well, you’re eating this one, buddy. Hope you like paprika. I mean really like it.” The last comment came with a hearty snort indicating Starsky’s knowledge that Hutch was indeed no particular fan of the spice in question.

Hutch replied by sinking his teeth in a section of dark, tangled curls, tugging on the hair.

“Hey, what’s gotten into you? That’s supposed to stay where it is.” A developing chuckle ruined Starsky’s attempt to sound annoyed.

“Last night…this morning…you….I…that was–”

“Wow, Hutch. That good, huh?”

“That good,” Hutch confirmed. “I feel…I feel like I’ve shed fifteen years. Easy.”

“Well, just make sure it isn’t more than fifteen years, pally, or what we did would make me guilty of statutory rape.”

Always prepared to take a joke literally, Hutch made a meal off a convenient earlobe and turned on his mental calculator. “I’m not that young.”

Starsky grinned. “Oh, no, you’re seventy if you’re a day. I forgot how your joints creaked when we–” His sentence gave way to a funny yelp of commingled desire and surprise when a hand found its way to a sensitive location.

“Want me to show you what this ‘seventy-year old’ can do, partner?”

“You’re gonna think I’m nuts, but I’d actually like to serve you whatever I can salvage of this breakfast. So take those distracting hands and that other very large and happy part of you–yes, I can feel you through the robe, damn it–and go sit down. Grab a plate.”

“Man, if good loving makes you this bossy,” Hutch grumped, plodding over to the table after he snagged a plate from the cabinet. Starsky laughed, certainly able to hear the joke Hutch’s words only thinly concealed by the gruffness.

Hutch dropped the plate onto the table with an overly loud clatter that tore Starsky’s attention away from the stove. “Hutch?”

“I think we’ve solved once and for all our mystery about the dream,” Hutch said. He held up the model trireme he’d first found the day of Starsky’s imaginary head cold.

“What’s that?” Starsky left the sizzling egg concoction to its devices and joined Hutch at the table. Hutch frowned.

“The model you’ve been putting together. Where’s your brain? Only, someone decided to decorate it. Someone privy to the details of my dream.”

“Hutch, I’ve never seen that model until just now.”

“Are you nuts? I found it on the floor the day I came over when you called in sick. Put it back up on the table for you.”

“I haven’t exactly been paying attention to my table lately, Hutch. Kinda distracted. But I’ve been working on a clipper ship.”

“Well, tell that to Aphrodite’s little warship of love here.”

The phone jangled, cutting short the debate. Starsky gestured frantically at the stove while he rushed for the phone. Hutch took over the cooking by instinct, keeping his eyes on Starsky.

“Yeah, Cap’n? Yeah…he’s fine…What? You sure? That sounds good. Hutch’ll be glad of that…uh huh. Still got ’em on kidnapping charges…yeah, I knew Cheatham would slither away. We’ll get him someday, Captain. Right. Thanks. Yeah, see you tomorrow.” Starsky hung up the phone and left his hand resting on the receiver, face blank, eyes shifting side-to-side. Hutch cleared his throat. Starsky glanced up with a peculiar smile. “That was Dobey.”

“Oh, gee, I’d have never guessed considering you only called him ‘captain’ twice. Any other ground shaking information to share?”

“The arson report is in. They’re ruling the fire accidental. Something about the wiring in your kitchen. Unusual that the fire started so quickly and turned into that kind of blaze, but they can find no evidence of accelerant or anything to point to arson. Kinda hard to believe, but Chez Helene’s suffered only minimal damage–”

“Oh, that’s good. When I had a look at the place yesterday afternoon, I was more worried that Girard would have to pack up and relocate than I was about my own place getting wiped.” Hutch noticed Starsky’s thoughtful expression. “Starsk, what’s bugging you?”

“They were telling the truth. Somehow, I never let myself believe it–”

“I’m hearing you but the words make no sense.”

Starsky ambled over to wrap his arms around Hutch’s waist, burying his face against Hutch’s shoulder blade. He mumbled the story of the three goons into Hutch’s robe. Hutch turned off the stove and moved the skillet to an unheated burner, then swiveled and embraced his lover.

“Starsky, none of that really matters now. You and I know the truth, and it’s hard enough for me to accept even having been a participant. Would you really want a lot of loose ends that could only be explained by supernatural phenomena? I’d really hate to face Dobey with a story about Hades and Discordia and Aphrodite.”

“Yeah.”

Hutch tilted Starsky’s chin with his forefinger and said, voice husky and loving, “Hey… the important thing to remember out of all this is that some pretty powerful entities want us together for a long, long time.”

Starsky smiled and lifted his face in silent encouragement. Hutch lowered his and their lips met, softly at first and then harder, faster. Starsky pulled away first. “Hutch…if you really think we need two places to keep up appearances, I can live with that. I know you were planning to look around today, but do you have to find another apartment so fast?”

Hutch grinned. “I was thinking…I probably won’t get much done with the holidays right around the corner, and I can imagine better ways to spend our last day off.”

“Starting with breakfast?” Starsky smiled.

“Screw breakfast,” Hutch laughed, pulling Starsky tighter against him.

“Oh, in that case, can I be breakfast?”

THE END

---

Chapter End Notes:

Final Note:

If you’re a Greco-Roman mythology expert, you’ll notice I’ve taken a few liberties, if I may be forgiven. I’m not the first person to do so. Many scholars assert that Eros and Cupid, Venus and Aphrodite, are not the same gods/goddesses, and the Grecian and Roman names should not be considered synonymous. However, Thomas Bulfinch and Edith Hamilton tend to use them interchangeably. As do others. I have done the same, although I tend to agree with the scholarly distinctions between the myths of these ancient cultures. The Cupid and Psyche myth primarily appears in “Roman” mythology, using the Roman forms of the deities’ names. I wanted to focus more on the Grecian names and identities, so I used Eros and Aphrodite throughout most of the story. Also, in the original ancient fable, Aphrodite/Venus is anything but helpful in securing the union between her son Cupid and the mortal maiden, Psyche. Venus is a downright witch in her role as the archetypal mother-in-law. I wanted a kinder, more loving Aphrodite for my story, primarily because so few women in slash stories are given a good role to play. I deviated from the Greek pattern by referring to the goddess of discord as Discordia, which is her Roman identity. In Greek, she is Eris. I used Discordia because that is more recognizable.